The voice on the other end was beyond supercilious, sneered,
“I am hardly in a position to judge that.”
The sarcasm was loud and meant. Woody was enraged, said,
“Before I get forgiven, I’ll add you to my list of wrongdoing.”
Slammed down the phone. Eventually got times for the Cathedral. Headed up there.
Nervous now so stopped at the pub off Mary Street. A place where if you knew even one name of the Kardashians you were barred. Sunk two large Jamesons and, thus fortified, headed for reconciliation.
At the church, business was brisk. Post-Christmas blues providing a steady stream of folk keen to get something free, like forgiveness. Saw a young priest head into the confessional and thought,
Young is more likely to be accessible. The old codgers were holy terrors.
Got in there and began,
“Forgive me Father.”
Which was a bad start as he was at least twenty years older than the priest.
Then the booze hit and he amended.
“Whoa, hold the bloody phones, I forgive God.”
The young priest had been schooled in most situations but not this, he tried,
“I beg your pardon?”
Woody was having none of it, the Jameson flowing mad through his system. He echoed and mimicked.
“You beg my pardon? Too bloody right, mate, and you know what, I ain’t giving it.”
And then stormed out of the confessional, banged the door in as far as is possible in a church, ranted at the assembled penitents,
“Get up off your knees, have some fucking backbone.”
He was gone by the time the Guards arrived.
“Now that he was no longer subject to institutional rules governing brutality he felt free to hit people at will.”
11
Back she came.
Emily.
Waiting in my apartment when I returned from walking the pup. The pup went apeshit with delight on seeing her so, no matter how I felt about her, it would always be tempered by the affection he felt for her. She was dressed like Jennifer Lawrence in American Hustle, all bad-ass grunge. I said,
“Nice to see you have no compunction about breaking into my place.”
Was she fazed?
Was she fuck.
Said,
“Mi cassia es su cassia”
She delighted in mangling language, any language. Then,
“Your neighbor is climbing Everest?”
She and Doc had had a brief, insane fling, which was a touchy subject for all of us. I asked,
“You guys are talking again?”
“Fuck no, I broke into his place.”
The last thing you ever did was ask her why, ever. She said,
“He might have to change them plans of glory.”
Now I had to ask,
“Why?”
She gave that smile of utter mischief, said,
“His tickets, itinerary?”
Made a whoosh with her hands, said in child’s voice,
“All gone.”
I shook my head, said,
“But you have to know he will have everything backed up on his laptop?”
The smile widened.
“No laptop, not no more, things we lost in the fire.”
“You set a fire?”
Wonderment now on her face, she said,
“No, you think I should?”
Man, she would exhaust a pope, and an infallible one at that. She said,
“The ghosts of Galway?”
“What?”
“Would be political shakers, tossers and losers really, I fucked one of ’em.”
“Where the hell is this going?”
Ignoring my question, she continued,
“That red book they think is some sort of magical oracle, I borrowed it from them.”
I said,
“I have not been so completely lost since the last episode of The Sopranos.”
She sighed dramatically, asked,
“You want the short version?”
“Please.”
The pup had given up and was snoring not so quietly in her lap. She said,
“The Red Book is supposed to be some sort of ecclesial time bomb. It isn’t, just a rip-off version of The Book of Kells. So a rogue cleric steals it, gets snuffed by the ghosts, and I relieve those idiots of it but they now have a new plan.”
I said,
“Let’s pretend I follow this. What is the ghost plan?”
She gave me the look that says
“For fuck’s sake.”
Then very patiently,
“They tried to get the attention of people by dumping animals in the square. Not a whole amount of interest so now they have devised a grand scheme.”
She rooted in her Marc Jacobs bag. I knew the bag as it said in bold letters Marc Jacobs. Produced a pack of Gauloises (they still made those?), then a chunky Zippo and fired up. In seconds we were on a Parisian boulevard and I asked,
“Thought you were into that whole new e-cig, vaping gig?”
Shook her head amid the cloud of French nicotine, said,
“That’s when I was a poseur.”
“And now?”
“I’m just a gal who got real.”
If ghosts there be
The ghosts of Galway
Are the whisper
You thought you heard
Along the wind that howls
From across the bay,
The wind that screams in the seconds
Before you wake
Touching you below
The shred of belief
You thought you had.
12
I was in the GBC, the old-style café off Eyre Square. Old-style in that they still treat you like you might matter. Frank Casserly is chef there for going on twenty years. If it is true that
Men cook to show off
And
Women cook so that people can eat
Then Frank is the exception to that. He cooks because it is his job. I had once rather foolishly asked him,
“Is it your vocation?”
Got the look and
“Don’t be a stupid bollix, Jack.”
Meaning I might be able to alter the stupidity but not the other.
I had just finished the neon nightmare of
Two fried eggs
Black pudding
Three rashers
Two fat sausages
Fried mushrooms
Thick white toast.
The carbs mutiny.
And supposedly the only real cure for a hangover. The thinking being that, if you can face that, how much were you hurting to begin with?
I came out and an outlaw shard of sunshine led me to beach on the square. Was lighting a cig, feeling if not optimistic, at least not suicidal. A young girl, fourteen at most, approached. She had that urchin look, like an escapee from a Dickens movie. The Orphan Annie vibe. Maybe Emily could adopt that for her next guise?
She marched right up to me, stated,
“Mr. Taylor.”
God only knew what she would want, so I snapped,
“Whatever it is you want or are proposing the answer is no.”
I felt almost righteous in my determination. She rocked back on her heels, said,
“How terribly rude.”
I waved her away, said,
“Whatever.”
She got right in my face, smelt vaguely of baby powder and good toothpaste, said,
“My teachers say I am advanced beyond my years and you, you, will do me the courtesy of hearing me out.”