“When someone walks on your grave.”
She stared at me and, oh sweet Jesus, fear and terror in her eyes.
She said, as if she was channeling something,
“You have recently been in a dark place.”
Recently!
Like the last twenty years of my banjaxed life. But she was right.
I’d met the devil, up close and way too personal.
I said,
“It’s true. I got to glimpse into the very mouth of hell.”
Tad dramatic but close to the truth.
She shook her head, nigh screamed,
“No… no Mr. Taylor, you have it wrong, Hell looked into you.”
For fuck’s sake.
I tried again,
“Will you tell me where Father Loyola is?”
She was in some kind of trance. When she did speak, it was in a flat dull monotone,
“The rains are coming; it will rain for nigh forty days and nights.”
Welcome to Galway.
Then she stood, physically shook herself, and fled from the room.
I sat for a moment, the box of chocolates like a severe reprimand, muttered,
“Great, scaring the bejaysus out of a nun.”
I got to me feet, trying to make sense of her words. Whatever else, she sure as shooting was right about the weather. Outside, I looked at the skies, dull gray and with the darkness tinge that speaks of worse to come. A wino was perched on the small wall, close to the Salmon Weir Bridge. I thought,
“Precarious the pose.”
He stared at me with bloodshot hopeless eyes, asked,
“Got anything?”
I gave him the chocolates. He snarled, muttered,
“Fucking chocolate.” and tossed the box in the river. Asked,
“Got anything else?”
I gave him twenty euros and said,
“Some advice.”
He grasped the money in a dirty fist, looked up, asked,
“And what’s the freaking advice?”
I was already moving on, said,
“Steal a raincoat.”
A win doesn’t feel as good as a loss feels bad.
– Andre Agassi, from his memoir, Open
And true indeed, it rained for nigh on forty days.
Downright biblical.
But despite flood devastation, the tabloids continued feeding on Tiger Woods. A fallout being that a nine iron was becoming the weapon of choice. The Guards had issued a strike notice, creating a fascinating conundrum: if it was illegal for them to strike, who was going to arrest them?
The army?
The nurses were again threatening industrial action. Sean O’Casey, our finest playwright, had written nearly fifty years ago,
“The world is in a state of chassis.”
I. e… fucked.
I had a priest to find. He’d been parish priest at the small church in Bohermore where I made my First Communion. It was my last resort. I stopped in at Richardson’s Pub, holding point at the right wing of Eyre Square. It was that rarity, a family pub.
Got a stool at the counter, ordered a pint.
The U.K. had recently introduced the Pour Your Own. The deal being, you were given a meter that clocked every time you poured your own. At evening’s end, you paid your bill.
Sweet fuck, was nothing sacred?
The whole buzz of a pub was watching a competent barman take his sweet time nourishing your pint and creaming off the head. If I wanted to pour my own, I’d stay home. The pint came, splendid in all its black music. John, the barman, said,
“Haven’t seen you for a bit, Jack.”
This was a subtle lash, meaning,
“You’ve been taking your business elsewhere, yah bollix.”
I was saved from a lame defense by a customer who said,
“Liam Clancy is dead.”
The end of an era indeed. Bob Dylan had called them the finest ballad singers ever.
What the fuck was he smoking back then?
Still, I raised my glass, said,
“Codladh samh leat”
… Safe sleep.
I asked John,
“You ever see Father Loyola?”
His church was less than a brief rosary away. John gave a warm smile, said,
“Oh yeah, he’d stop in for a small Paddy once a week.”
In the current climate, that could be hugely misconstrued. John meant Paddy’s, regarded by many as the true Irish whiskey. Above John’s head was a large flat-screen TV. The top story was whether a children’s toy, “Go-Go Hamster,” was safe. Literally as a footnote, the irritating bottom line script announced that the hundredth British soldier had been killed in Afghanistan. I pulled myself back to John, ran a scam, asked,
“He sure relied on that housekeeper of his.”
Did he have one? The fuck I knew. But some things thankfully don’t change. John said,
“Ah, Maura, the poor creature, the salt of the earth, she loves her port but she’s been devastated since he left.”
Gotcha.
You don’t tip Irish barman. I do.
And did.
John nodded, said,
“Much appreciated Jack.”
I headed for St. Patrick’s church, stopping at a new off -license to buy a bottle of port. My mobile shrilled.
Stewart.
He said Father Malachy was still in a coma. I ran the encounter, meeting with Ronan Wall’s sister, by him, he said,
“The swan killer. You caught him, yeah?”
Added,
“You were a local hero for a while.”
I said,
“It didn’t last.”
He countered with,
“Jack, with you, what does?”
I bit down on my temper, said,
“I think the headstone, Ronan Wall, and his sister are somehow all connected.”
“Why?”
“The fuck do I know why; call it a former hero’s hunch.”
I knew he was laughing. He said,
“Lemme guess, you want me to track down the sister and maybe even the bold Ronan himself?”
I counted to ten, said,
“What do you think I pay you for?”
Feigning indignation, he said,
“You’ve never paid me a single euro.”
Now, I nearly smiled, said,
“Money is not the only currency. Zen that.”
And clicked off.
The priest’s house was a neat bungalow to the side of the new church.
The bungalow had been freshly painted and looked welcoming.
Maybe spent the stolen cash on that.
I knocked on the door. It opened to a tiny robust woman, late sixties with her gray hair scraped back to a severe bun. How do women do that and more importantly….why?
I literally rushed her.
“Maura, just great to see you.”
Offering the port in the same frenzied tone. She was taken aback but I was already inside and I knew she wasn’t sure how the hell that happened. I upped the bullshite.
“You look great alanna.”
Paused to let the flattery sink in, then rushed,
“I’m so sorry it’s been a while but I promised Loyola I’d call the minute I got back.”
Still perplexed, she led me into the sitting room. A large portrait of the Sacred Heart was perched above a roaring turf fire. Is there a finer sight? I saw some framed photos of a benign smiling priest, thought,
“I’ll be having me one of those.” I said,
“God, I’m perished.”
Meaning….frozen.
She took the hint and went to make hot ports. I followed her into the kitchen. It was spotless and I startled her all over again.
Good.
I wanted her to be on the precipice continuously.
I said,
“In you go and sit by the fire, I’ll make the hot port.”
She left reluctantly, her look saying,
“Should I call the Guards now….or call… after… the port?”
The port won.
The kettle was boiled and I added lethal amounts of port to her mug, then pulled out the Jameson in me other pocket and added a serious dollop to hers and just the Jay for me own self.
Found the sugar, ladled in three spoons to hers.
Brought out the two mugs, she was sitting on the edge of the armchair, ready to flee.
I handed her the mug, said,