Fuck me.
I nearly passed out.
Skylar fretted,
“Mr. Taylor, are you all right? You look... not too well.”
I brushed that away, asked,
“Why?”
She sat back in her leather swivel chair, a fine smile creeping from her eyes, said,
“You saved his life, I believe.”
Before I could even answer, she added,
“He had no relatives but he was a shrewd man, bought shares over the years. He told me he learned shrewd financial caution from Mick Jagger!”
She obviously didn’t believe this, so I said,
“Jagger went to the London School of Economics.”
I signed papers, gave my bank details, told her to put the ranch up for sale. Took the keys to the pickup. Thanked her profusely, headed out.
I stood on the pavement, trying to take this in. All the furious events, fierce changes that were hurling at me from every brand of karma. A guy stopped. I knew him from my days working security. If I was not fit to guard anything, he was worse and he got promoted.
He was one miserable fucker. He always, and I mean without fail, had bad news. He did not disappoint now, said,
“Your friend is dead.”
More freaking karma but I asked, confused,
“You knew Keefer?”
He near spat.
“Who’s he? I mean the dodgy priest you hung out with.”
Malachy?
How did this asshole know? I asked him that. He sneered, said,
“It was on the news because he was in the running for bishop once.”
I took a Vike, dry swallowed, stood at the top of the square, thought,
“Be powerful dope that could make me feel better.”
Then along the very end of the square I saw the Madonna — the Virgin Mary — float before my eyes. I muttered,
“God almighty, how great is this Vicodin?”
Focused and saw it was a party of four men carrying a small statue of Our Lady. They were from an offshoot of the Marian Society.
I wasn’t entirely sure if I was sorry or relieved that it wasn’t real.
A family went on holiday to a remote part of the Malaysian rain forest for a holiday: three children, Irish mother, and French father. A girl, Nora, fourteen years old, with severe learning difficulties, shared a room with her siblings, aged twelve and nine. When the father went to check her room in the morning she was gone.
A massive search ensued with huge media coverage, wild speculation, and conspiracy theories. On the tenth day, Nora’s body was found; she was naked, less than two kilometers from the hotel. A postmortem revealed, stated, she had died
From starvation and stress.
Photos of the little girl on the front pages of the papers, Nora looked so tiny, so vulnerable. You forced your mind away from the terror the poor mite must have endured.
I went to the Abbey church to light some candles for the child.
The doors were shut.
They were out of the church business.
I had no words for the impact of those locked doors. It was like a loud clanging shut of whole periods of my childhood.
An
Epiphany
Is
Frequently
Mistaken
for
a
Blessing
I was due to be picked up from Eyre Square to be driven to the Haven.
I’d packed a pile of books.
Pairs of 501s.
T-shirts.
Two pairs of Doc Martens.
The OxyContin.
Underwear.
My hurley.
Two dozen old tennis balls.
My all-weather Garda coat.
And
Two bottles of Jameson.
Good to go.
I’m a child of generations of
Superstition.
Pishogs (unreliable sayings).
Belief in seers, omens, signs, second sight, seven sons of seven sons.
I know how pathetic this is but when you are hardwired to this shite, it’s difficult to shake. Now I saw a magpie, picking at some shiny object under a tree, and I begged some deity.
“Let there be two, two for joy”
And phew-oh, a second arrived, thank God.
A car beeped me, my ride, as the Americans say, and we Irish think it is rude, to put it mildly, and just before I turned to get in the car a cat plunged from the branches, tore one of the magpies to shreds.
Monsignor Rael was at the wheel. I said,
“I’m surprised you’re actually driving. Surely some lackey could have been used.”
He gave a tight smile, said,
“We don’t want the location to be known to mere mortals, and it’s good for me to be out and about, among the plebes.”
It was hard to tell how much of this he truly believed, but a hint of pisstake was in there.
He said,
“The Haven has currently five guests, all priests, and it’s deemed diplomatic not to ask about the reasons for their, um, stay.”
As we turned onto the Headford Road, he chanced a look at me, continued,
“The matron, Sister Martha, is a tough old bird, but she has agreed to your unusual requests, bizarre though they are. You’ll be left to your own devices and how much you interact with the folk there is entirely up to you. She will deliver your daily dose of Valium every morning. She did stipulate that one week is as much as she can — how do I say this — tolerate your presence. It appears your rep is not unknown to her.”
I weighed this, then asked,
“Bit of a cunt, is she?”
The Haven was situated near Lough Cong. Beautiful grounds, imposing front, like a grand hotel or holiday camp. We got out of the car. I said,
“Pretty big for only five clients.”
Rael gave a sardonic laugh, said,
“We expect more, lots more, and more’s the Irish pity.”
We went inside and a tall nun in a severe black habit was waiting. She did a little curtsy before the monsignor, gave me a witchy look. Rael said,
“Martha, good to see you. This is Jack Taylor.”
I was raised half right so I put out my hand. She looked at it like it was withered, kept her hands hidden in that cowl gig they use to intimidate. She said,
“Would the monsignor care for some refreshment?”
He wouldn’t, said he had pressing business. I said,
“I could kill a gin and tonic.”
Ice was her expression.
The monsignor turned to me, said,
“You’ll be collected in a week and we expect an answer to our request.”
He blessed us and fucked off.
Martha, without looking at me, said,
“Your quarters are ready: Follow me.”
We went down a long corridor, passed two men playing chess. They didn’t acknowledge us.
Just fucking fine with me, the rude bastards.
Martha opened the door to a bright large room, large bed, thick fluffy towels on the side, a scent of roses in the air. Martha said,
“This is en suite. There is a program on the table, times of meals, Mass...”
Pause.
“If desired.”
Implying, the likes of me were far from Mass removed.
I decided to fuck with her a bit, said,
“Not exactly a Thomas Merton cell, is it?”
She turned her full razor vision on me, said,
“I don’t like you, Taylor. I object vehemently to the likes of you being here, sullying our air. You keep out of my way, we’ll get through this.”
I asked,
“How will I know which of the men are the kiddie fiddlers?”
Being as crude as I could.
She took it like a lash. Her face steamed up and she moved forward as if to strike me. I warned,
“Touch me and the likes of me will knock you on your pious hypocritical arse.”