by Ken Bruen
He was one miserable fucker. He always, and I mean without fail, had bad news. He did not disappoint now, said,
“Your friend is dead.”
More freaking karma but I asked, confused,
“You knew Keefer?”
He near spat.
“Who’s he? I mean the dodgy priest you hung out with.”
Malachy?
How did this asshole know? I asked him that. He sneered, said,
“It was on the news because he was in the running for bishop once.”
I took a Vike, dry swallowed, stood at the top of the square, thought,
“Be powerful dope that could make me feel better.”
Then along the very end of the square I saw the Madonna—the Virgin Mary—float before my eyes. I muttered,
“God almighty, how great is this Vicodin?”
Focused and saw it was a party of four men carrying a small statue of Our Lady. They were from an offshoot of the Marian Society.
I wasn’t entirely sure if I was sorry or relieved that it wasn’t real.
A family went on holiday to a remote part of the Malaysian rain forest for a holiday: three children, Irish mother, and French father. A girl, Nora, fourteen years old, with severe learning difficulties, shared a room with her siblings, aged twelve and nine. When the father went to check her room in the morning she was gone.
A massive search ensued with huge media coverage, wild speculation, and conspiracy theories. On the tenth day, Nora’s body was found; she was naked, less than two kilometers from the hotel. A postmortem revealed, stated, she had died
From starvation and stress.
Photos of the little girl on the front pages of the papers, Nora looked so tiny, so vulnerable. You forced your mind away from the terror the poor mite must have endured.
I went to the Abbey church to light some candles for the child.
The doors were shut.
They were out of the church business.
I had no words for the impact of those locked doors. It was like a loud clanging shut of whole periods of my childhood.
An
Epiphany
Is
Frequently
Mistaken
for
a
Blessing
I was due to be picked up from Eyre Square to be driven to the Haven.
I’d packed a pile of books.
Pairs of 501s.
T-shirts.
Two pairs of Doc Martens.
The OxyContin.
Underwear.
My hurley.
Two dozen old tennis balls.
My all-weather Garda coat.
And
Two bottles of Jameson.
Good to go.
I’m a child of generations of
Superstition.
Pishogs (unreliable sayings).
Belief in seers, omens, signs, second sight, seven sons of seven sons.
I know how pathetic this is but when you are hardwired to this shite, it’s difficult to shake. Now I saw a magpie, picking at some shiny object under a tree, and I begged some deity.
“Let there be two, two for joy”
And phew-oh, a second arrived, thank God.
A car beeped me, my ride, as the Americans say, and we Irish think it is rude, to put it mildly, and just before I turned to get in the car a cat plunged from the branches, tore one of the magpies to shreds.
Monsignor Rael was at the wheel. I said,
“I’m surprised you’re actually driving. Surely some lackey could have been used.”
He gave a tight smile, said,
“We don’t want the location to be known to mere mortals, and it’s good for me to be out and about, among the plebes.”
It was hard to tell how much of this he truly believed, but a hint of pisstake was in there.
He said,
“The Haven has currently five guests, all priests, and it’s deemed diplomatic not to ask about the reasons for their, um, stay.”
As we turned onto the Headford Road, he chanced a look at me, continued,
“The matron, Sister Martha, is a tough old bird, but she has agreed to your unusual requests, bizarre though they are. You’ll be left to your own devices and how much you interact with the folk there is entirely up to you. She will deliver your daily dose of Valium every morning. She did stipulate that one week is as much as she can—how do I say this—tolerate your presence. It appears your rep is not unknown to her.”
I weighed this, then asked,
“Bit of a cunt, is she?”
The Haven was situated near Lough Cong. Beautiful grounds, imposing front, like a grand hotel or holiday camp. We got out of the car. I said,
“Pretty big for only five clients.”
Rael gave a sardonic laugh, said,
“We expect more, lots more, and more’s the Irish pity.”
We went inside and a tall nun in a severe black habit was waiting. She did a little curtsy before the monsignor, gave me a witchy look. Rael said,
“Martha, good to see you. This is Jack Taylor.”
I was raised half right so I put out my hand. She looked at it like it was withered, kept her hands hidden in that cowl gig they use to intimidate. She said,
“Would the monsignor care for some refreshment?”
He wouldn’t, said he had pressing business. I said,
“I could kill a gin and tonic.”
Ice was her expression.
The monsignor turned to me, said,
“You’ll be collected in a week and we expect an answer to our request.”
He blessed us and fucked off.
Martha, without looking at me, said,
“Your quarters are ready: Follow me.”
We went down a long corridor, passed two men playing chess. They didn’t acknowledge us.
Just fucking fine with me, the rude bastards.
Martha opened the door to a bright large room, large bed, thick fluffy towels on the side, a scent of roses in the air. Martha said,
“This is en suite. There is a program on the table, times of meals, Mass . . .”
Pause.
“If desired.”
Implying, the likes of me were far from Mass removed.
I decided to fuck with her a bit, said,
“Not exactly a Thomas Merton cell, is it?”
She turned her full razor vision on me, said,
“I don’t like you, Taylor. I object vehemently to the likes of you being here, sullying our air. You keep out of my way, we’ll get through this.”
I asked,
“How will I know which of the men are the kiddie fiddlers?”
Being as crude as I could.
She took it like a lash. Her face steamed up and she moved forward as if to strike me. I warned,
“Touch me and the likes of me will knock you on your pious hypocritical arse.”
She backed off.
I took out a bottle of Jay, muttered,
“The power of positive drinking.”
The week went way too fast. I read, drank, chilled on Valium, and focused on Sara. Her preoccupation with the small village of Ballyfin. The plea from the parish priest there, for a miracle.
The village had tried to find an American politician to discover that his great-grandparents had once set foot in their village. Any politician; they weren’t fussy.
Obama’s visit to Moneygall made a fortune for that hitherto unknown place.
Trump’s visit had revitalized Doonbeg.
Kennedy in his time had put the whole country on the map.
Reagan’s visit had put another tiny village on the world stage.
Nixon, hmm, not so much
.
Ballyfin would even have accepted Boris Johnson.
What they did get were refugees.
The government was facing strong opposition by proposing to plant refugees on unsuspecting towns and it had not gone well.
Ballyfin, so anxious for notice, had accepted a refugee camp on its doorstep without protest. The small village was suddenly packed.
A day of prayer to welcome them was proposed for September 1. The Church hoped to raise funds to restore the roof that was in grave danger of collapsing.
It sounded like a day to have a miracle.
It sounded like a day for a blue light trick from Guatemala.
It sounded like the perfect place for Sara to reinvent herself.
Ballyfin did have one rather odd claim to fame.
An ancient statue of Saint Patrick, not of great note itself, but his shepherd’s crook they claimed was possibly the actual one he had used to drive the snakes out of Ireland. Fairly desperate, you’d think, but they did need that roof repaired.
I examined, recalled, every word Sara had said. She was a maestro at reinvention, and blending into a crowd was her modus operandi.
Refugees, a small village, a population desperate for a miracle. She would be in her element. But dangerous.
Always lethal.
At Haven I tried to take as much exercise as my body could endure. Long walks, sit-ups, push-ups, the plank exercise to stave off a beer belly.
I delayed drinking until the sun set, then eased into slow shots of Jay.
Control.
Control.
Control.
Read like a demented would-be writer.
Sister Martha left an envelope outside my room in the mornings with my daily dose of Valium, a pot of coffee. The meds kept the death of Malachy, Keefer, Ceola, my beautiful falcon at an artificial distance.
There was Mass each morning but I skipped that. I did eat in the dining room in the evenings. The other five “guests” kept their distance and I could hear their low conversation as if from a tunnel.
Like vague annoyance.
I caught one of the men sneaking furtive looks at me, curiosity without malice.
He was tall, with a lined face, as if he’d lived in the sun too long.
A missionary?
I was sitting outside, smoking.
My third day there, just counting the minutes until I went to my room, had the first of five Jamesons. He approached, asked,
“Mind if I borrow a cig?”
I looked at him, asked,
“When might you pay it back?”
He hesitated, considered, then,
“Tomorrow my stipend arrives.”
I gave him a cigarette, fired him up, indicated it was okay for him to sit. He did so, carefully, as if all his joints hurt. I asked,
“They give you, like, an allowance?”
He nodded, shame hitting his body like a whip.
I said,
“Fuck that.”
He gave me a long look, said,
“You’re not one of us?”
I wanted to say,
You mean a pedo?
But he seemed in enough torment, and something about him was kind of okay in a very wounded, fucked-up fashion, as if he’d been decent once.
Was I judging?
You betcha.
I said,
“No, I’m not.”
Meaning I’m not whatever “one of us” implied. He put out his hand, said,
“I’m Vincent.”
I took it. Solid grip. I said,
“Jack.”
He smoked awhile. I was not uncomfortable with that. I could do silence. He said,
“No offense but you have an aura of violence about you.”
I laughed, not amused but in there, said,
“Unwise comment to make to a man you think is violent.”
He mulled that for a time, then,
“I’m not a child molester.”
Time to stop the polite shite. I snarled,
“Isn’t that what they all plead?”
He literally sank within himself, let out a soft breath, said,
“Only two of the five here are that . . .”
Pause.
“That terrible term thing you’re thinking.”
I really could give a fuck. Few more days and I’d be on my merry way to kill a girl-child. He asked,
“Might I share some of that fine whiskey you have stashed?”
I thought about it, then stood up, went to my room, brought the bottle and a glass, one mug with Snoopy on it, sat, poured strong clerical measures, said,
“Sláinte.”
We drank. I asked,
“Won’t Nurse Ratched be on your case for this?”
A thin smile, then,
“She’s a nun. Nuns don’t really chastise priests, least not openly.”
I said,
“She’s a nasty bit of work.”
He laughed a little, said,
“Spite is her business.”
I indicated the bottle and he nodded gratefully, said,
“I’m not sure I can recompense you.”
Hah.
I said,
“When did priests ever recompense?”
Low blow.
Very.
He noticed my marble bracelet, asked,
“What’s going on there?”
I told him about Brigit, her prophecy/foretelling of my impending doom. He was intrigued, asked,
“You seem an unlikely type to believe in pishogs.”
I felt a flash of anger, a priest telling me not to believe in the very stuff his church relied on, even if they disguised it with Latin and pomp. I snapped,
“Did I say I believed it? Did I say that?”
He reeled back, the ferocity taking him from left field, tried,
“Whoa, sorr-y, obviously hit a nerve there.”
The shithead.
“Sorry” was said in that passive aggressive tone that means sorry is the last thing they are. I was close to walloping him and he sensed that.
He was staring now at my recent tattoo, asked,
“Is that a dove?”
I dialed down the rage, said tightly,
“Yes, that’s me, all about peace.”
Sister Martha appeared like a banshee, like the worst of news. You didn’t hear or see her coming. She glared at the Jameson bottle, ignored me, said to Vincent.
“Your meds and milk are waiting.”
I held up the bottle, said,
“If you’re expecting a shot of this, baby, you need to bring your own glass.”
Fair dues, she didn’t blink. Vincent stood, said,
“You shouldn’t rile her.”
I waved that nonsense away, asked,
“Your story, you owe me for the drinks, so spill.”
He looked longingly back at the house, as if escape might still be open, but no, I’d stood up, so he sighed, asked,
“A last drink for the road, perhaps?”
I poured, was a wee bit shocked to see how the level of the Jameson had fallen, lit us the remaining cigs, waited.
He said,
“I listen to Joan Armatrading. Dates me, I guess, but her song ‘Guilt’ is the tune of my life. There was one of my parishioners . . .”
Paused.
“Maria Brady Nicoletta.”
What a great name. Fuck, I’d date her my own self just for her name. I rolled it round my mouth. It fit, like fake joy. He gave a slight smile, knowing the power of the name, said,
“She deserved the name in that she was gorgeous, lovely in spirit, great heart, and . . .”
Longer pause.
“Married.”
He looked at his empty glass then to me but we were all out of booze. He continued,
“I drank a fierce amount in those days. There was unease in my parish and, of course, with my affaire, lots of rumblings, but I was arrogant. I gave great sermons, not the usual dreary shite”—the Jameson kicking way into play here—“but real witty, uplifting material.
He stared at me, almost shouted,
“Get this. I wrote a weekly column for the local newsletter.”
He blessed himself, shuddered at his recall, went on,
“God almighty, the shame. I titled it ‘Clerical Errors’ and used it to take shots at local businessmen. Then Valentine’s Day, the fucking karma of it, I was driving Maria’s Bentley, smashed it into a tree.”
I guessed the rest, said,
“So Maria was in the passenger seat?”
He stopped, irritation in his eyes, said,
“No. No, she wasn’t.”
I could wait. He finally staggered out the ending, said,
“I never even noticed I’d hit a small boy before the tree. He died two days later.”
Maybe in better stories, better people, I’d have given him a manly hug, muttered some inane bullshit, but I went with my gut, said,
“Your milk will be cold.”
After he’d gone, I took the empty bottle, threw it in a wide arc, saw it disappear into the tree line. I shouted,
“Score one for Sister Martha.”
In the morning Martha left me the paper, Valium, coffee. My hangover was about to kick in.
Hard.
But I stunned that sucker with the V, hint of Oxy, and the coffee. I wasn’t kidding myself. These meds, hard-core as they were, would only postpone the inevitable crash. It would be a muthafuckah, as the brothers say.
I’d take enough of the Seconal I’d gotten for poor Malachy, sleep through the worst of it.
I hoped.
If I didn’t wake,
Fuck it.
Mornings, I headed out to the large playing field with my hurley, the tennis balls. Whacked those fuckers out of the park. A scrappy terrier who belonged to the Haven watched me hit the first two. On the third I shouted,
“Go get it!”
He took off like the hound of heaven, a streak of utter speed and focus. Then he trotted back, delighted with his own little self, and dropped the ball at my feet. I had saved some strips of bacon from the kitchen, fed him one.
Then in perfect harmony I hit the balls and he hurled after them. A joy to watch a dog in full canine run. I didn’t pet him, as I’d lost two dogs, and
