He gave a tentative smile, wanted to look back to gauge the distance to the door. He said,
“You’re Catholic.”
Infuriating me. I snapped,
“What gave that away, the guilt, the fucked-up look?”
Staggered him, the venom almost tangible in the very air. He rallied, as they do, centuries of making this shit up as you go training kicking in. He said,
“The miraculous medal might have been a clue?”
I nearly smiled, said,
“Madonna has seven of them and not even her taste could be described as catholic.”
He went with,
“Touché.”
He held out his hand, said,
“I’m Paul.”
He near recoiled at the sight of my mutilated fingers. Normally I keep them well disguised but lately I was real bad at hiding anything. I shook his hand and felt a slight tremor, and thought,
“Ah, a drinker.”
Explained the high color. I said,
“Jack Taylor.”
Then I began to get out of bed, said,
“Jesus, don’t just stand there, help me.”
He didn’t, asked,
“You want to go to the bathroom?”
“Fuck no. I want to get a few pints in before they start the rigmarole of discharging me.”
Took me a time to get dressed and he asked,
“Is it wise? I mean, to leave the hospital?”
I gave my bitter laugh, more in use these days, said,
“Wise? Fuck, if I were wise I’d have bought shares in Irish Water.”
I felt a spasm of weakness and leaned on the jamb of the door to get right, said,
“I might for the first time in my life have to lean on the clergy.”
He took my arm and asked,
“You want me to assist you to a pub?”
“I want you to buy me a few drinks and tell me the nature of evil.”
I am sure we made a bizarre pair, a wounded beaten man, being aided reluctantly by a priest. Like all Irish hospitals, it was but a rosary away from the pub.
There’s a different vibe from Galway pubs. You feel they don’t want you but a sly cunning keeps them from saying so. No wonder the poet Patrick Kavanagh felt so comfortable in them. We got seated, near the back, at my choosing, the priest observing,
“You need to watch your back?”
I snarled,
“If I did I wouldn’t be with you.”
Landed.
He said,
“You are a very bitter, cynical man.”
“Thank you.”
I ordered a pint and Jay, him a Britvic orange. I said,
“Man up, have a fucking drink. You’re paying, might as well get a blast out of it.”
He took a gin and tonic and seemed relieved to have the decision made for him, judging by the way he gulped it. I didn’t comment, asked,
“So you’re on the hospital beat?”
He did the only exist to serve gig, half slit eyes and sad smile, or it could simply have been the gin. He said,
“Any small comfort we can provide.”
I drained my glass, asked,
“Where is the Church on evil these days? Still proclaiming that God’s ways are too mysterious to fathom?”
He made a show of checking his watch, a nice Tissot — not much poverty there — then,
“I see all of human weakness, foibles, cruelty, greed played out on a smaller stage every day.”
Deep.
I pushed, disbelief leaking over my words,
“In the hospital?”
He nearly smiled, said,
“Judge Judy.”
I kind of liked him a bit better for that. He checked his watch again. I said,
“Hey, don’t let me keep you from anything.”
He sighed, sounding a lot like my dead mother who had, dare I say,
... the mother of sighs.
She had that fake world-weary sucker nailed. He said,
“I have confessions and need to prepare.”
I gave him my concrete stare, said,
“I was under the impression it was now the sacrament of reconciliation, but maybe you’re not into that whole reconciliation shite?”
He took a rosary out of his pocket, a fine object, heavy silver cross, blue beads that caught the light. He said,
“This was blessed in Guadalupe.”
I sneered. Blame the fast Jay, said,
“Ah, the Madonna of the cartels.”
He shook his head, muttered,
“You really are the most trying man.”
Then he handed me the beads, I didn’t do the dance of...
Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly,
I put them around my neck figuring I could use all the help I could get, Mexican or otherwise. I asked,
“I look like Bono?”
“You mean spiritual?”
“No, asshole.”
“She’s so beautiful. If there weren’t a junkie in my room, shitting and retching and hurling, it’d be just like Pride and Prejudice.”
(Joshua Braff, Peep Show)
Park Wilson was yet again being interviewed by the Guards. They knew they had no concrete evidence but no harm in trying. The rattle-the-cage method. The only one rattled was Park’s aunt, Sarah. She had immediately called the lawyer, who quite crossly snapped,
“Say nothing, keep saying nothing.”
Then, practicing his own advice, hung up.
Sarah, getting right in Sergeant Ridge’s face, implored,
“Can you please stop this harassment?”
Ridge gave a vaguely tolerant smile.
“Inquiries must be followed.”
Sarah, throwing up her hands, turned to Park, who was sitting peacefully in an armchair, demanded,
“Park, say something!”
He looked at Ridge, said,
“Beware of heard and sounds like bird
... And dead; it’s said like bed, not bead.”
Ridge, dressed in full sergeant’s regalia and with two brutes of Garda, had decided she was going to get a result. She got right in Park’s face. He seemed to be actually looking at a point beyond her head. She pushed,
“Do you get the effect you’re having on your poor aunt?”
His head snapped back and he near spat,
“Effect?”
... long withering pause.
“Affect?”
“Affect is a verb, effect is a noun, and you would do well to remember that, woman.”
Ridge was near speechless, tried,
“What?”
Park gave her a blissful smile, said,
“A cat has claws at the end of its paws.
... A comma’s a pause at the end of a clause.”
Ridge threw up her hands in exasperation, said,
“You are required to report to the Guards station every Thursday morning. Failure to do so will entail immediate revocation of your bail.”
He continued to smile at her, muttering now about dropped subjunctives. She gave the aunt a hard look and signaled to the Guards they were done.
For now.
Outside she let loose a string of obscenities. The Guard nearest her observed,
“The guy is a raving lunatic.”
She agreed that might be so but he was a particularly sly one. The other Guard asked,
“So how are we going to catch him?”
Ridge told the truth.
“I have no fucking idea.”
The Guard thought that was choice language for a lady but kept that thought to himself.
“The Detective thinks he is investigating a murder. But truly he is investigating something else, something he cannot grasp hold of directly. Satisfaction will be rare. Uncertainty will be your natural state. Sources will always elude you. The detective will always circle around what he wants, never seeing it whole. We go on NOT despite this. We go on because of it.”