“What do you say to that, shithead?”
I said,
“I don’t have a car.”
A very large man came rushing down the street, screamed,
“Who the fuck did that?”
I nodded at Gerry, still brandishing the keys.
I strolled away to the sound of a severe beating and I couldn’t swear to it but it did seem as if Gerry might actually be eating said keys.
I had bought the paper in Holland’s, with the English team on the front pages. They beat Sweden to get a place in the World Cup semis, to face Croatia.
Their captain, with the solid name of Kane, was the new English hero.
He scored six goals in the tournament.
A pub in Connemara claimed a connection to his ancestors and the landlady promised a pint free to her customers for every goal he scored.
To her relief, he didn’t score in the quarterfinal, but one Seamas Kane, who admitted to never having heard of the guy, now declared,
“He’s my first cousin.”
Of course he is.
Fourteen young children were trapped in a cave in Thailand for two weeks despite numerous rescue attempts. Finally, on the ninth of July, five were rescued.
A Thai navy diver lost his life as he tried to bring oxygen to the trapped group through the narrow passage, full of water.
Trump declared war on Harley-Davidson, over export taxes.
I was outside Supermac’s, contemplating a bacon burger, when a black BMW pulled up before me. For a moment I thought it was the keyed car but it was mark free. The window rolled down, a young priest in the driver’s seat.
And I mean young.
More altar boy than full-blown cleric and yet he had that air of a wannabe FBI.
Right down to the earpiece. He said,
“Please get in the car, Mr. Taylor.”
I said,
“No.”
That confused him and he was absolutely still for a moment, then,
“You will be well recompensed.”
Mmm.
I asked,
“Will that be in the form of a blessing or something more tangible, because I have to say I’m all done with blessings, in disguise or indeed any form.”
A trace of a smile.
It seemed to almost hurt his face, so alien was it to him.
He confirmed,
“Financial.”
I got into the back, said,
“Let’s bounce, time is money.”
As I lay back in the car I thought of the shock, awe, of a TV program I’d watched the night before.
Atlanta.
Brainchild of Donald Glover, it was in its second series and so wickedly off-kilter you just went with the flow.
I’d just finished episode five, “Barbershop,” which in essence was about an almost haircut, droll but nothing too wild, so I went into episode six, “Teddy Perkins,” cold, as in knowing absolutely nothing about it.
Phew.
Blew me to hell and gone.
A forty-five-minute genius horror movie with nods to
Get Out
What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?
Michael Jackson
Child abuse
And an air of menace from the off that kept you completely off balance.
Creativity at its finest.
When I learned who played Teddy, I was, if possible, even more impressed.
Nice to know that the arts can still totally fuck with your head.
The car pulled up in Taylor’s Hill, outside a mini mansion.
The driver explained,
“It’s the residence for the bishop-in-waiting.”
Malachy.
I decided to fuck a bit with the guy, asked,
“And will he be, like, waiting long?”
He took me seriously but, then, I imagined he took most things thus, said,
“We expect the announcement during His Holiness’s visit.”
The pope.
Who was going to cover the country in twenty-four hours, then leg it, much like Harry and Meghan’s visit. These whizzing day visits were all the rage.
Expensive too.
Forty million for the pope.
I asked,
“What is your gig?”
“Excuse me?”
He let a whine into that.
I said,
“It’s not a difficult question. Are you
Driver? Messenger?
Hatchet man?
Arm candy?
He had to bite down his anger, said,
“His preeminence is waiting.”
I got out, said,
“So, so fuck off, then.”
I was greeted at the front door by a housekeeper who seemed familiar but not in a good way.
One of those women who seem to have been born fifty, bitter, and vicious.
She snarled,
“You.”
I mustered my best fake pleasant tone, said,
“Terribly sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.”
“I remember you, Taylor, you’re nothing but trouble.”
Thing is, I mostly agreed with her, said,
“The good father is, I believe, expecting me.”
See, nice note of piety and servitude.
She moved aside to let me in, said,
“More’s the Irish pity.”
Added,
“Wipe your feet.”
Malachy came at me almost in a gallop.
I thought he was going to assault me but, worse, a hug.
He gushed,
“You hero, Jack.”
He was dressed in white sweatpants, jet black T-shirt with the logo
V.A.T.I.C.A.N.
Into my head came the words of Tammy Wynette’s
“D.I.V.O.R.C.E.”
You could do a lot with the alteration of Tammy’s lyrics:
... the V.A.T.I.C.A.N.
Took my child away.
Releasing me from the hug, he said,
“You are a wonder. I asked you to solve the problem of the girl leeching off my sister and what did you do?”
In truth, not a whole lot, but he near shouted,
“You had her arrested. Just genius.”
I tried to look suitably modest but that usually translates as slightly deranged. Malachy reached behind him, grabbed an envelope, a thick one, handed it over, said,
“You’ll find we’ve been more than generous.”
Would it be, as I once heard on BBC4, churlish to count it?
Fuck, I can do churlish.
It was a lot.
Malachy continued to beam at me and, in truth, it was getting a tiny bit creepy.
A priest smiles that much at you, run.
Malachy asked,
“Did you get your invitation?”
“What?”
His delight was now edged with a wee touch of impatience. He snapped,
“To the mayor’s gala.”
“Uh-huh.”
Took him a minute, then he emitted a mocking laugh.
“Sweet Lord, you thought you were invited.”
Paused,
Searching for the most ludicrous term he could land on, took
“On your own, what? Merit?”
I thought it was only in books that people rocked with laughter.
Malachy rocked with laughter.
I took a deep breath, asked,
“What’s the deal?”
He was still suffused with delight, said,
“You’ll be my sister’s escort. We have a tux ordered for you and a car will pick you up. Your job is to try to look dignified but stay fucking silent and sober.”
I asked,
“What’s not to love?”
26
“Whether it’s true or not, who cares?
The truth is for teenagers and hippies.
We’re too old and ugly for that crap.
Wake me up, make me think, or buy me a drink.