“You should be dead, the way you have treated your system. You are one lucky man.”
I smiled, said,
“Oh, yeah, lucky, that’s me.”
They used to say that any day you can wake up and eat a boiled egg you are ahead of the game. I hate fucking eggs. On my way back from the hospital, I stopped at the cathedral, looked in vain for a list of confession times. In my youth, Saturday night, the whole town lined up for the ordeal of weekly confession. Everyone tried to avoid Father Healy. He was one biblical bastard and you never got out without the very wrath of God in your ears. And he was loud. You’d hear, as some poor bollix withered in his box,
“You beat your wife, you neglected your children, you disgrace the very faith you profess.”
Then there was Father Neill, a soft touch. He let you off with a quiet penance of six Hail Marys. You could see the lines outside his box, no one at Healy’s. I was staring at a confessional when a priest approached. In his late fifties, he looked cowed. Most did nowadays. The lynch mob wasn’t exactly at the gate but hovering. He asked,
“May I be of some service?”
This new gentle diplomacy was hard to stomach. When you’d grown up with Gestapo-like fucks ruling the parish, it was difficult to turn on sixpence. I said,
“Don’t they post times of confession anymore?”
He gave a sad smile, said,
“It’s called the sacrament of reconciliation now.”
I shook my head, asked,
“And does it, you know, reconcile?”
He nearly smiled but bit down on it, put out his hand, said,
“I’m Father Thomas.”
“Jack, Jack Taylor.”
A light in his eyes, then,
“Weren’t you recently in the paper?”
Fame.
Or if a priest recognizes you, perhaps infamy. I nodded, and he indicated I could sit... or maybe kneel because those days were long over. He said,
“Perhaps I could help you?”
I was already planning how to get the fuck out of there without fuss, said,
“Thank you for your time...” (I just couldn’t use Father) “Tom.”
“Thomas.”
I nearly laughed, snapped,
“Still with the corrections I see.”
He caught himself, tried,
“I didn’t mean... what I wanted to offer was if you wished me to hear your...”
Now he didn’t know what to call it. I let him off, said,
“Naw, I figure I’ll live with the gig I’m playing.”
I reached into my wallet, handed over a rash of notes. He made a feeble gesture of protest, said,
“There’s no need, I haven’t done anything.”
I was at the door when I said,
“And right there is the reason you guys are hiding out.”
I dipped my hand in the holy water font but it was empty. Seemed apt.
I’d barely got to Salmon Weir Bridge where all the fish had long since ceased jumping, poisoned like the country, when a homeless guy approached, with, I have to say, attitude, thinking,
“This shuck came out of the church, got to be good for piety.”
Figured wrong.
He pushed,
“Gimme something for a meal.”
“Why?”
Stymied him but he rallied.
“Because I’m suffering.”
“Me, too,” I said.
“This is the sort of English up with which I will not put.” (Winston Churchill)
I was having a breakfast of sorts in the GBC. Still the only oldstyle restaurant in the city and with prices that were reasonable. The cook, Frank Casserly, came out to say hello and asked,
“Fry-up?”
Indeed.
This was
Two sausages
Two fried eggs
Two rashers
And thick-cut slices of bread.
No black pudding or beans.
My doctor would have had a coronary. Sometimes you just have to fuck with a diagnosis. My food arrived as a man approached my table. He asked,
“May I join you?”
Looked at my food, said,
“Not really.”
He sat, said,
“I won’t need long.”
I had just started on the bacon when he slid a manila envelope across the table. I snapped,
“Hey, if I wanted company I’d have brought my dog.”
He was in his late fifties, good suit, remnants of a tan, groomed silver hair, but an air of pain, as if he’d been recently bereaved. That look I know. I finished the food, began on the tea, than picked up the envelope, asked,
“Is this going to piss me off?”
An expression lit across his eyes, fleeting but I saw it, utter horror. He said,
“It’s my daughter, Karen.”
A beautiful girl in a graduation mortarboard and gown, had that classic Irish look, the dark eyes, dark hair, and bold expression. I said,
“She’s a beauty; is she missing?”
I kept my tone neutral, as if it mattered not a jot.
He said,
“My name is Tom Shea, I run the accountant firm near the courthouse.”
I knew them, players.
Then he reached into his jacket, produced a sheaf of photos, said,
“This is her...”
A beat.
“After.”
I did not want to see. I knew it would be bad and I knew even more that I did not want any part of it. I had enough money not to have to worry for a time and I was so wrecked by the last years of
Utter devastation
That I had no energy for anything but walking the dog. He whispered,
“Please.”
Fuck.
I took the photos and scanned them, my breakfast rebelled, tried to repeat, I said,
“Holy Jesus.”
They were bad; no, awful in the biblical sense. I had seen mutilations, batterings, torture, but this was new.
New in its complete
Butchery
Savagery, black dark evil.
He nodded.
I had no words. What can you possibly say when you are faced with the very worst that humanity has served up? A long tense minute passed and I stood, said,
“I’m going to need a drink and to throw up, just not sure what the sequence is going to be.” I paid, in a sort of numbed shell, left a decent tip for Frank and Cecily, and headed out into bright sunlight. It should have been dark, with all the theatrical attendants. He was right behind me. I stopped, asked,
“Have you got a cigarette?”
Ridiculous. He had all the look of a health guy, leastways before the photos. He shook his head so we crossed the road to Hollands. Mary, God bless her, was still working there. She beamed.
“Jack.”
I muttered some lame hello, nearly asked for her mother but had heard somewhere that the poor woman had recently passed. I said,
“Pack of Major, love”
We went to Garavan’s. I ordered a pint and chaser. Shea said he’d have a sparkling water, adding,
“I start to drink, I’m gone.”
Looked pretty gone as it was. We didn’t talk until I got on the heavy side of the drinks and finally let a breath out, said,
“Tell me.”
He was staring at the bubbles in the water, watching them dance, then,
“She was final year in NUIG. Like a lot of girls, she worked at various jobs for pocket money. She was told about a company doing videos for companies, supposed to be some sort of inspirational shit, like training videos. And hey, maybe some TV work.”
Sighed deeply, said,
“And everybody wants to be a star, right?”
He had to bite down, then,
“Real Time Inc., that’s the name, cover for torture porn. East European crew, led by a smart-mouth Yank name of Fletcher.”
I had to ask,
“The Guards?”
“Nothing they could do, no proof.”