Bad Catholics

BAD CATHOLICS

JAMES GREEN

CONTENTS

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

EPILOGUE

James Green: The Road to Redemption Series

James Green: Agents of Independence Series

ONE

Kilburn, December 1994

The weather, as usual, was trying its best to fit in with the general mood, cold and overcast, the rain driven by a sharp east wind. Traffic moved sullenly on the wet road and people huddled into their coats and averted their eyes from the shop windows. They were the unlucky ones who hadn't been able to flee the season of goodwill and enjoy warmth and winter sun.

The man on the pavement of Kilburn High Road had seen some of the lucky ones arriving at Malaga Airport that morning as he waited to board his flight for Heathrow. Now he stood in the rain looking across at a large Edwardian pub on the opposite side of the road. It was a beautiful façade, elaborate but not fussy or overdone, a London classic in its way, and fortunately never ‘improved'.

But the name was wrong.

No one would have called a pub The Liffey Lad when that pub was built. If Kilburn was Irish in those days it wouldn't have wanted to advertise the fact. You might as well have come straight out with it and called it The Fenian Bastard.

He was middle-aged and carried a black holdall. An anonymous man, wearing a grey, lightweight suit. He held the collar of his jacket tight around his throat, a useless gesture given the thinness of the material.

Suddenly he stopped looking at the pub and seemed to become aware he was getting wet. He looked up and down the street. Three doors up was a charity shop. He walked towards it and stopped, the display in the window told him there was a considerable choice of ill-matched crockery, hideous ornaments, and improbable items of glass and kitchenware, but he went in.

It wasn't much warmer inside but at least the wind wasn't blowing and there was no rain, that was something. An elderly black woman was sitting reading a book behind the counter. She didn't look up as he went to the men's rail and put down his holdall. There were shirts, lots of shirts, a few cheap suits, and a concise history of the polyester tie. The rail had three coats but they didn't look promising. He took the only overcoat and held it up. It had belonged to someone who had been seven feet tall, weighed twenty-five stone and had worn it every day for fifteen years. He put it back and took the next one, an imitation sheepskin, which he tried on over his damp jacket. It had belonged to a human pipe-cleaner and the buttons wouldn't touch, never mind fasten. He took it off and put it back. The only remaining coat was a blue anorak with a fur-fringed hood. He hoped for the best but when he tried it, it fitted. He kept it on, picked up his holdall and walked to the counter. The woman looked up.

‘You really want that?' It was a genuine enquiry. ‘Man, you must really need a coat.'

The man smiled.

‘You don't have much to choose from and it's cold and wet out there. It was warm and sunny where I started from this morning. What's the price tag say?'

‘One pound. You goin' to wear it or shall I put it in a bag for you?'

‘I'll wear it.'

He handed over a ten-pound note from his wallet. The woman gave him nine pound coins.

‘We ain't got no fives.'

She took up her book again and continued with her reading,
The Christian Doctrine of God
by Emil Brunner.

The man pulled up the zipper on the anorak. ‘Is it any good, your book?'

‘I don't know, I just read it to keep warm.'

He went and looked out of the window across the street.

The rain on the glass blurred the people and traffic.

‘That pub across the street, when did it change its name?'

‘What pub?'

‘The one across the road, The Liffey Lad.'

‘I'm from Antigua. Ask somebody else.'

It was the way she turned the page that told him their conversation was over.

The nine coins in his hand would be a real pain in the pocket of a lightweight suit. He thought about it. A couple of pints at London prices would lighten the load. It was just past twelve o'clock.

Outside he pulled up the hood of his anorak and crossed the road.

The pub was warmer than the charity shop had been. He pulled down the hood of his anorak. Why was it so empty? It always used to be a busy place. He stood just inside the door, feeling nervous. Kilburn was a bad place for him to be, and maybe the worst place in the whole of Kilburn was inside this pub.

He looked round. It was different, it had all been changed. They had knocked the old lounge and public bar into one big room that was set up for eating rather than drinking. And it was Irish, not the cheap comic Irish of the theme pubs, but as if you were in a good class Dublin pub. It had been very well done.

A voice called from the far end of the bar. ‘Clear off, we're not open.'

The barman was young and big and as well done out as the lounge but his voice wasn't Irish, it was London, south of the river. The man looked at his watch, then he realised he hadn't re-set it for English time. It wasn't just past twelve, it was just past eleven.

‘The door was open.'

The barman looked up from his paper, gave the visitor a steady, hostile look, and then grinned.

‘What are you supposed to be then, a fucking trainspotter?' Then the grin was switched off. ‘Now fuck off, we're closed,' and he returned to his paper.

The man moved towards the bar, looking around him. ‘This used to be The Hind, didn't it?' He carried on talking as he approached the bar. ‘I liked it better as it was.'

The barman leaned forward with his hands on the bar. ‘You fucking deaf or something, didn't you hear me? I said fuck off, we're closed.'

The man reached the bar, he put his holdall down and looked towards the range of beers and lagers which all came from a fancy continental-style set of taps, except for one black beer handle which was labelled Courage Directors. The man went and looked at the shiny brass array of taps then came back.

‘What's Callaghan's Shamrock Ale? I've never heard of it. Is it any good?'

There was no reply; the barman was thinking, you could tell by the strain in his eyes.

‘Anyway, I'll stick with Directors. A pint of Directors please.'

The man pulled the nine pound coins from his pocket and looked at them cupped in his right hand, when a new voice cut in from the end of the bar.

‘Something the matter, Billy? Got a problem?'

A heavy-set man had come through the staff door behind the bar.

‘Only I've told you before about your language, Billy, so I thought there must be a problem.'

‘This bloke's making a nuisance of himself, Mr Doyle.'

‘Well, if he's a nuisance throw him out.'

The man's hand closed tightly on the coins. ‘No need, I'll go.'

‘No you won't, you'll get thrown out, I want to see you fucking well bounce.'

The barman moved fast for his size and vaulted onto the bar, but the man stepped back and ducked low and his fist came up hard between the barman's legs as he jumped down and there was a howl of pain as they collapsed together onto the carpet. The man pushed the barman off him, got to his feet, and dusted off his anorak. The barman struggled to his knees, bent forward clutching himself, barely able to breathe because of the pain. It was a simple matter to finish it by kicking him hard in the face.

Doyle looked over the bar to where Billy was lying on his back, bleeding heavily from his mouth and nose. He turned to the man.

‘Have you killed him, Jimmy?'

‘No, George, he'll live.'

Jimmy opened his fist, tipped the nine heavy coins into his left hand, and flexed his fingers.

‘Pint of Directors.'

Doyle pulled the pint and put it on the bar. ‘On the house.'

‘No thanks, I'll pay.'

‘Come on, just to say welcome back.'

Jimmy paused for a moment and then poured the coins

back into his right hand, slipped them into his pocket, and picked up the pint.

Doyle waited until he had taken a drink. ‘Been back long?'

‘Arrived today.'

‘Back for any special reason?'

‘Just a short visit to see a man about a dog.'

‘You're not here to cause trouble, are you? We wouldn't want any trouble.'

‘You know me, George, I never cause any trouble.'

‘No, Jimmy, what gave me that idea? We all stood and waved you goodbye with tears in our eyes, as I remember, all so sad to see you go.'

‘That was different.'

‘Too true it was different. Everyone had to run for cover, no one wants that sort of trouble again, no one.'

They paused as the young man sat up, blood from his mouth and nose spreading across the lower part of his face, staining his white shirt.

‘You were right, Jimmy, he'll live. I'd have got rid of him anyway though, even if you hadn't given me a good reason. He couldn't control his fucking language, always fucking swearing in front of the punters. It's not the sort of image we want.'

Doyle looked over the bar.

‘And look at that carpet. I can't have blood about the place, can I, not real blood anyway? You're not back five minutes, and you're already costing me money.'

‘This place yours then?'

‘It's in my name.'

‘It said Eamon Doyle over the door when I came in.'

‘That's right, Eamon Doyle, that's me.'

‘Suit yourself, it's a free country. What trade do you get in here now?'

‘Tourists mostly, American, Oriental, all sorts. They bus them here to drink Guinness in a genuine London Irish pub. The Guinness and the others are all two pounds fifty a pint but they love it.'

‘No local would pay two pounds fifty a pint in my time for Guinness or anything else. Isn't there any ordinary trade any more? This was always a busy pub.'

‘There's a special rate for some of the locals, one pound fifty a pint.'

‘I'll drink here for one pound fifty a pint, that's the cheapest beer in London.'

Doyle's accent changed. ‘Can you do the accent, boyo?'

‘Only North London, George. Pure Kilburn.'

‘Do you know any Shaw, Yeats, or Wilde?' Jimmy shook his head.

‘Can you look a bit literary? Can you be local colour?'

‘No, George. I'm no colour at all.'

The voice was North London again. ‘Then you'll pay two pound fifty a pint like the other punters. We have a string of local talent who come and argue literature, the Troubles, and religion. They know how to talk and dress. It's all very well done.'

‘Religion and politics? Does it ever come to blows?'

‘Nearly.' Doyle's London accent gave way again to the stage brogue. ‘Ah God, Jimmy, doesn't myself put a stop to that? It's me, Eamon Doyle, you'll have to reckon with if you can't sort out your differences like gintl'min.'

They both laughed.

‘I like the accent, very Victor McClaglen. And Eamon's a nice touch.'

‘You know how it is, Nat always likes to give value for money.'

‘Nat's still in charge is he?'

‘Oh yes, Nat's still very much in charge. Hang on.'

The young man was now on his feet.

Doyle spoke with genuine concern in his voice. ‘All right, Billy?'

Billy wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘Yes Mr Doyle.'

‘Right, then fuck off and don't let me see you near here again.'

The ex-barman looked as if he might do something but then thought better of it. He didn't look back as he left.

‘You know, for a moment I really thought you were going to leave when I told Billy to throw you out.'

‘I told you, I don't cause trouble.'

‘Come off it, Jimmy, you wouldn't leave for the likes of him, I've seen you at work too often.'

‘Suit yourself. Maybe people change.'

‘People don't change, except maybe their underwear. You're the same all right, look what you did to Billy. He's not a mug but you made him look like one.'

Doyle folded away the newspaper and gave the bar a casual and unnecessary wipe. He had a question that needed an answer.

‘Does Nat know you're back?'

‘I told you, I just arrived, there's only you knows I'm here.'

‘It won't stay that way long, you know how things work.'

Jimmy took a long pull at his beer. ‘This is a private visit, I don't want trouble.'

‘If you say so. Are you staying locally?'

‘In London.' He finished his pint and put the empty glass on the bar.

‘Well, I'll know just where to come and visit you, won't I?'