“I’m an ugly cunt,”
He told a victim.
But never charged.
Never.
The luck of the very wicked devil.
He gazed at the mound of trophies on his bed.
Red baby socks.
A small Lakers T-shirt.
Tiny hurdle.
Barney the dinosaur.
Teletubbies; he could name them all.
Laa-Laa, Dipsy, and had a way to incorporate then into a song, right before he used the chloroform.
And photos.
Hundreds.
He swooned with the joy of vivid remembrance.
Now.
He had his sights fixed on a new boy.
He’d learned his name, of course, and toned that with an orgasmic slowness:
J-o-f-f-r-e-y.
I don’t know what love is.
I hated my mother so not a great beginning.
I cared for my little dog as if my life depended on it and in a bizarre way it did.
I think I loved my dead friends.
Ridge,
Stewart.
But I certainly never showed it to them.
Not so they’d notice.
And a woman named Ann Henderson; I was truly obsessed with her. She did the big thing and, in Galway, by that we mean
Suicide.
Not a great record then.
Along came Marion.
Phew-oh.
She looked like Kate Mara, whose part in House of Cards was compelling. She was the sister of the more glamorous, successful Romola Garai. In common with the actress, Marion combined that blend of sheer spirit with vulnerability.
I’m a sucker for that shit.
Let me digress as a Booker novelist might do.
Eamon Casey, our former bishop, died.
In the same time frame as
Chuck Berry
Jimmy Breslin
Martin McGuinness. (Norman Tebbit said he hoped McGuinness would rot in hell for all eternity, adding he was a coward.)
Nice.
Eamon had been our most popular cleric, and if the Church ever seemed to be part of the people it was due to the likes of him.
Until,
Like the fallible human being he was, he fell in love.
No harm there.
But
He covered it up — and the birth of a child.
Until
The dame went on The Late Late Show and blew him out of the ecclesial water.
He resigned, despite the pope asking him not to.
He went into exile in South America and eventually came home to live a life of quiet desperation. Much like De Niro’s priest in True Confessions.
Marion went to his funeral and, in a bizarre move, the Church that had effectively banished him declared he would be buried in the crypt under Galway Cathedral.
Marion attended the funeral Mass in the cathedral. It was officiated by the archbishop. Eamon Casey had stood up to gun-wielding thugs when Archbishop Romero was assassinated.
As a young priest in London he had performed Trojan work among the poor.
So
What did the arch say in his speech on Eamon?
You guessed it.
Focused only on the sin.
Yup, lambasted the poor man, and spoke about how he had humiliated the people closest to him.
No fragging mention of the Church’s own record on child abuse.
Marion was spitting iron. Very nearly stood up and shouted at the arch.
Not doing so was one of the great regrets of her life.
So she wrote to him.
Like this:
“Dear Reverence / Irreverence,
I have been a regular attendant at Mass all my life.
I raised my son Catholic.
I pay my tithes.
I do the Nine Friday novenas.
I went to the funeral Mass of our beloved Bishop Eamon Casey.
You may have disbarred him but he will always be Our Bishop.
I was not expecting you to actually praise the man.
God forbid the Church would ever demonstrate such grace.
But
to castigate him,
Literally denounce him
All over again,
To the exclusion of the other shining deeds of his life, before his assembled family.
How dare you.
In our cathedral?
Yes, our money, alms, built it.
Shame on you.
The young people of Ireland don’t even know who you are. But to us who do, you owed at the very least a tiny hint of balance.
I know you won’t have the grit to answer me unless some lackey sends me the standard corn.
... your comments have been noted etc.
I expect you will do what the Church has excelled in:
Nothing.
God mind you better than you minded your brave bishop.
Yours in disappointment,
Marion R. Coyle.”
The Church did as she predicted.
Nothing.
Hotel
on
the corner
of
Bitter
and
Sweet.
8
The first outing I took Joffrey on left a lot to be desired.
I tried not to stare at his Little Lord Fauntleroy outfit.
I mean, fuck, really?
White pants, navy blue shirt, and, I kid thee not, a knitted wool tie, with a blazer, complete with crest.
I was wearing battered 501s, scuffed Doc Martens, my way beat-up leather jacket. I was determined to try and bond with this little gobshite, but seriously?
I said,
“We’re not planning on the opera, are we?”
He sneered, turned his mean little mouth down.
“I doubt you’d be too familiar with that scenario.”
Scenario.
I was determined to be upbeat, began,
“Thought we’d swing by Supermac’s, grab us some bad boy burgers.”
He stopped, literally in his tracks, asked,
“You are serious?”
Okay, now we were cruising.
I said with gusto,
“Oh, yeah, and you can add curried chips if the fancy takes you.”
He said with venom,
“I don’t do carbs.”
Oh.
I hung on to the fading gusto, asked,
“What would you like? Italian, Cajun?”
He seemed to actually focus. Then,
“They have any sushi bars in this burg?”
His accent was a horror blend of clipped Brit with sprinkled American. I echoed,
“Raw fish? You want raw fish?”
I’ll admit my energy was flagging but, fuck, I persisted.
Said,
“Kid like you, you need to get some spuds, bacon, and cabbage in you.”
He put two fingers to his mouth, made the gagging sound.
I sighed, said,
“I’ll take that as a no.”
He began to stare at his phone, as the whole nation currently does.
I’d have sold his miserable hide for one shot of Jameson.
I said,
“We can swing by my flat, I’ll rustle up something and, hey...”
My voice had risen in nigh panic.
“I have some games there.”
He lit up, asked,
“You’re a gamer?”
Modesty be damned, I said,
“It has been suggested in the not so recent past that I do indeed have game.”
He gave me a blank look, which did not add to his overall charm, shook his head as if it clear it of nonsense, asked,
“Whatcha got? Like Assassins Creed, Warcraft Three, Mafiosi Four?”
I was lost, tried,
“I’ve got Monopoly and, well, that’s it.”
He mimicked spitting, said,
“Board games.” (His voice rising on the end bit.) “You can’t be serious, I mean it’s so...”