“The cemetery.”
Odd, he didn’t ask me anything after that.
The funeral was bare, like the poor bastard’s life. Me, the priest, and two gravediggers. It rained.
I phoned Pierre Renaud but he was unavailable. I even went to his home but the house looked dead, like his sons, I guess. I wasn’t sure what exactly to do about him. Crossed my mind to set the Silence on him. How poetic would that be? If I did find him, how to begin?
“Did you have your sons killed?”
There’s a showstopper.
Tell the Guards?
Oh, yeah, like they had such a high opinion of me to begin with.
But
I could tell one Guard.
Arranged to meet Owen Daglish. He was not happy, asked,
“What do you want now?”
Not encouraging.
I said,
“In fact, I might have some information that would further your career.”
“Yeah, that will be the day.”
We met in Garavan’s. He yet again looked the very worst for wear, said,
“I can’t talk until I get behind two drinks.”
So we did that.
The change was near miraculous. Years seemed to drop from his face, his eyes opened, and his whole physical stature improved. He grinned, said,
“That is the biz.”
Looked at me, asked,
“How is that new lady of yours?”
“In America.”
He seemed to think about that, then,
“Will she come back?”
I acted like I was offended, which I was a little, asked,
“Why wouldn’t she?”
He gave a low whistle, said,
“Because you’re Jack!”
Not really an area I wished to pursue so I laid out the whole story of the guy named Silence and the murder of the twins.
He asked,
“The father had his sons killed?”
I nodded.
He took a long swig of his drink, then,
“That is bollocks.”
I pushed.
“But what if it’s not?”
He took a long hard look at me, said,
“Whatever it is, you need to leave it alone. The Guards think you’re the worst kind of trouble. If you tell them one of the town’s alumni is a killer, a guy who golfs with the superintendent, I mean, they’re going to kick your arse.”
I went to protest but he said,
“Leave it alone, Jack, and leave me alone.”
He stood up, a look of resignation on his face. I asked,
“Don’t you want another drink?”
He said,
“Oh, yeah, just not with you.”
The BBC showed the fourth and final series of Luther,
starring Idris Elba. Luther is living in a house that is
on the edge of a cliff and daily sliding
toward doom. A cop asks him how he is.
“Tickety boo,” he answered.
“Totally disco.”
12
I was sitting in Eyre Square, on a bench close to the garden plaque for JFK.
As a child, I’d sat on my father’s shoulders watching the presidential car
Go by.
We sure loved JFK.
Not a whole lot of heroes since.
The Guards were in a whole load of shite. It was alleged they had tried to smear and destroy the career of a noted whistle-blower. Now, it seemed that over half a million breath tests had the figures inflated. The Garda commissioner refused to explain or resign.
Theresa May in the UK called a snap election.
I wondered how I got out of bed and, indeed, how the commissioner got out.
Trump was trying to cut the income tax rate for multinationals by fifteen percent to lure companies back to America.
I was watching the Meyrick Hotel when a slew of black SUVs pulled up.
Rock stars, I wondered?
Out hopped Father Malachy.
A longtime enemy, he had been my mother’s lapdog back in the days when vitreous women had a tame priest in tow to demonstrate their piety. Noting my mother was one cold bitch, you can guess what her priest was like.
Time back, I came into possession of The Red Book, a book of heresy that the Church was anxious to suppress. Bad publicity was the last thing it wanted.
Malachy inveigled me into parting with the book.
He had instantly become the Church darling. Of course, any attempts to reach him after were shunned. I headed for the hotel. The doorman was about to block me when he recognized me, said,
“Howyah, Jack?”
I asked,
“What’s the occasion?”
He raised his eyes to heaven, said,
“The Rotary Club are honoring some priest.”
Some priest indeed.
I spotted Malachy in the midst of a group of people. Least, I thought it was him but changed — changed utterly. A stunning new black suit, tiny hint of purple at the neck collar. I’d seen that on trainee bishops.
Bishop?
Surely not.
But then, in a Trump world, who knew? His hair was what I can only call coiffed. I’m not entirely sure what that means save that it’s not on the card of any barber I ever frequented.
More, he wasn’t smoking.
Him, the ultimate diehard nicotine fiend. I approached and two young priests with, I swear, earpieces like sub — special agents blocked my path. Malachy saw me, said,
“Allow.”
Imperious.
I asked,
“What the fuck happened?”
One of the young priests pushed me, warned,
“Watch the tone.”
Malachy smiled, benevolently, as in suffer the little children. He said,
“My dear, wild, uncouth Jack.”
What the hell was he taking?
He sounded benign.
I knew then that even his name was indeed Malachi, no more Malachy.
He said,
“I have been the unworthy recipient of many blessings.”
I was near speechless. I tried,
“The Red Book, it made you a star.”
He smiled, touch of the old Malachy seeping through, though the yellow teeth of yore were now glorious white. He said,
“We are aware of your own tiny contribution to the miracle.”
Tiny.
I asked,
“Do you actually believe your own bullshit?”
Got another dig from one of the minders. Malachi said,
“We’ll try and fit you in, to have afternoon tea at the Residence.”
He raised his hand in blessing and, I swear, if he patted my head I’d have taken his blessed arm from the elbow. A hint of the old priest peered through the smoke screen and he withdrew his hand. He intoned,
“God mind you well, my son.”
And he was gone.
I headed out, the door guy waited, his eyes dancing with curiosity. He asked,
“How’d it go?”
I gave the answer that offered me the only chance to use the expression. I said,
“Totally disco.”
A young man, four times with his license suspended, got behind the wheel of a Toyota Corolla. He had been on a marathon drinking session, downing fourteen pints of lager, followed by three shots of tequila. The now standard kill rate for young motorists. At over 100 mph, he plowed into a Mini Cooper, killing a young mother and her daughter.
His defense cited his depression and deep remorse. His life, said the defense, was ruined.
Yeah.
He got eighteen months suspended and a year’s probation.
He celebrated in the nearest pub.
He wouldn’t, he said,
“Drink tequila anymore.”
A week later, in a field near a bus stop, he was found with his suspended license shoved down his throat, the word silence written in red marker across his forehead.