Headstone (7 page)

was the time to share. He continued in a curt, no-

shite tone,

“I’ll expect more positive news on your next

report.”

Report!

I said,

“Your money, pal.”

He near shouted,

“Not
my
money, the Lord’s!”

Is there a reply to this kind of spiritual mugging?

He ended with, “You’d be wise to remember,

Taylor, that God is watching.”

“A divine accountant, no less.”

Rang off and thought,

“Pray that.”

You want to find a priest, there is one, dare I say,

infallible route,

“Ask a nun.”

I knew exactly my pigeon. My previous case, I’d

met a Sister Maeve. Like most of my relationships,

it began well. Then, per rote, came apart. I liked

her a lot but she, like so many others, had come to

despise me.

I’d say loathe, but I’m not sure nuns have that one

in their training manual. She taught at the Mercy

School in Newtownsmith, beside the Electricity

Board, what the ESB failed to electrify, the

teenage girls made up for. The name of the school

in Irish has a lovely resonance,

“Scoil an Linbh Íosa.”

Last time I’d met her, a huge construction site was

in full roar opposite. Now complete, it was a mega

retail outlet, named, I shit thee not . . . Born. I

walked down there, stopped at Holland’s shop, got

a warm hello from Mary, God bless her, bought a

large box of Dairy Milk.

Beware of gimps bearing gifts.

I glanced at the tabloids, all ablaze with the tragic

suicide of the German goalkeeper. I said a silent

Hail Mary for him.

A Mhuire Na Gras………………

Passed down by the Town Hall, advertising the

coming appearance of Steve Earle. I loved his

singing and even more his role in
The Wire
.

“Galway Girl” began to unreel in my head.

At the school reception desk, I asked if I might

have a moment with Sister Maeve?

“Yes.”

Was she glad to see me?

Take a wild fucking guess.

She had aged but then, apart from Donny Osmond,

who hadn’t?

She fixed me with those clear, unyielding blue

eyes, said,

“Mr. Taylor.”

In nun speak,

“Aw fuck, not you.”

I said,

“Jack . . . please.”

Her eyes gave that the disdain it deserved.

Establishing, from the get-go, you are no friend of

mine. Yet, during our brief time before, there had

been genuine affection building. The death of a

former nun had banjaxed that. I offered the

chocolates, she said,

“No thank you.”

I felt whipped.

I asked,

“If I might have five minutes of your time?”

Before, we’d gone for coffee and I remembered

her childlike joy in a slice of Danish, coupled with

a frothy cappuccino. She said, “We’ll step into the

recreation room.”

We did.

She indicated we sit at a hard wooden table.

Seemed appropriate.

She folded her hands, asked,

“How may I assist you, Mr. Taylor?”

I tried to ease the level of frigidity present,

inquired,

“How have you been, Sister?”

“The Lord provides.”

Jesus wept, the usual wall of spiritual

gobbledygook. I abandoned the ingratiation, went

with, “I’ve been employed by the Church.”

Paused.

Let that nugget hover.

Continued,

“To find a Father Loyola.”

The name hit.

She almost recoiled, actually moved physically

from the table, as if to distance herself. Deception

was not in her DNA, so I pushed,

“You know him, I guess?”

She nodded, guarded.

I went for the kill,

“Do you know where I can find him?”

Long silence. I didn’t try to fill it, then she said,

“He belonged to the Brethren.”

Past tense?

She knew, I waited.

Taking a deep breath, she said, “I imagine your

employer is less the Church than Father Gabriel.”

Her use of his name implied she was not a fan. I

asked,

“Are they not the same?”

She gave me a look of not quite disdain but in the

neighborhood, said,

“Father Gabriel is more interested in . . .
power

than pity.”

Bitterness leaked over the last words.

She fingered her rosary beads, continued,

“The Brethen started as a wonderful idea. To

reform the church from within. A return to the

teaching of Our Lord, Jesus, and the hope of

restoring the people’s trust in their church.”

I nearly laughed.

The sheer fucking naïveté of this. Every day, the

papers screamed about how the bishops continued

to hide and minimize the abuse. To such an extent

that the Guards were considering prosecuting them.

And still, the hierarchy, entrenched in arrogance,

refused to co-operate. I wanted to roar,

“Good luck with that.”

Went with,

“Didn’t work, huh?”

She sidestepped my sarcasm, said,

“In the beginning, it did so well. Later it emerged

that Father Gabriel had another agenda. A return to

the fundamentalism that would bring the people to

their knees. Father Loyola believed that if he

removed their funding, they’d be powerless.”

I said,

“Gabriel sounds like an ecclesiastical hit squad.”

She nearly smiled, said,

“That is bordering on sarcasm, Mr. Taylor, but

Father Gabriel is not a man to be crossed. They

even have a motto, Brethren Eternitas.”

The initials on his sharp briefcase.

They were sounding like the militant wing of

Dominus Deo.

Cut to the chase time. I asked,

“Do you know where I can find him?”

If she told me, my case would be wrapped right

there. I could wipe the smug look off Gabriel’s

face, pocket my fee, and look forward to Laura’s

imminent arrival. Sister Maeve was on the verge

of answering when her whole body shuddered. I

recognized the effect. It’s called in Ireland

“When someone walks on your grave.”

She stared at me and,
oh sweet Jesus,
fear and

terror in her eyes.

She said, as if she was channeling something,

“You have recently been in a dark place.”

Recently!

Like the last twenty years of my banjaxed life. But

she was right.

I’d met the devil, up close and way too personal.

I said,

“It’s true. I got to glimpse into the very mouth of

hell.”

Tad dramatic but close to the truth.

She shook her head, nigh screamed,

“No………….no Mr. Taylor, you have it wrong,

Hell looked into you.”

For fuck’s sake.

I tried again,

“Will you tell me where Father Loyola is?”

She was in some kind of trance. When she did

speak, it was in a flat dull monotone,

“The rains are coming; it will rain for nigh forty

days and nights.”

Welcome to Galway.

Then she stood, physically shook herself, and fled

from the room.

I sat for a moment, the box of chocolates like a

severe reprimand, muttered,

“Great, scaring the bejaysus out of a nun.”

I got to me feet, trying to make sense of her words.

Whatever else, she sure as shooting was right

about the weather. Outside, I looked at the skies,

dull gray and with the darkness tinge that speaks of

worse to come. A wino was perched on the small

wall, close to the Salmon Weir Bridge. I thought,

“Precarious the pose.”

He stared at me with bloodshot hopeless eyes,

asked,

“Got anything?”

I gave him the chocolates. He snarled, muttered,

“Fucking chocolate.”

and tossed the box in the river. Asked,

“Got anything else?”

I gave him twenty euros and said,

“Some advice.”

He grasped the money in a dirty fist, looked up,

asked,

“And what’s the freaking advice?”

I was already moving on, said,

“Steal a raincoat.”

A win doesn’t feel as good

as a loss

feels bad.

—Andre Agassi, from his memoir,
Open

And true indeed, it rained for nigh on forty days.

Downright biblical.

But despite flood devastation, the tabloids

continued feeding on Tiger Woods. A fallout being

that a nine iron was becoming the weapon of

choice. The Guards had issued a strike notice,

creating a fascinating conundrum: if it was illegal

for them to strike, who was going to arrest them?

The army?

The nurses were again threatening industrial

action. Sean O’Casey, our finest playwright, had

written nearly fifty years ago,

“The world is in a state of chassis.”

I.e…………………….fucked.

I had a priest to find. He’d been parish priest at the

small church in Bohermore where I made my First

Communion. It was my last resort. I stopped in at

Richardson’s Pub, holding point at the right wing

of Eyre Square. It was that rarity, a family pub.

Got a stool at the counter, ordered a pint.

The U.K. had recently introduced the Pour Your

Own. The deal being, you were given a meter that

clocked every time you poured your own. At

evening’s end, you paid your bill.

Sweet fuck, was nothing sacred?

The whole buzz of a pub was watching a

competent barman take his sweet time nourishing

your pint and creaming off the head. If I wanted to

pour my own, I’d stay home. The pint came,

splendid in all its black music. John, the barman,

said,

“Haven’t seen you for a bit, Jack.”

This was a subtle lash, meaning,

“You’ve been taking your business elsewhere, yah

bollix.”

I was saved from a lame defense by a customer

who said,

“Liam Clancy is dead.”

The end of an era indeed. Bob Dylan had called

them the finest ballad singers ever.

What the fuck was he smoking back then?

Still, I raised my glass, said,

“Codladh sámh leat”

…………….Safe sleep.

I asked John,

“You ever see Father Loyola?”

His church was less than a brief rosary away. John

gave a warm smile, said,

“Oh yeah, he’d stop in for a small Paddy once a

week.”

In the current climate, that could be hugely

misconstrued. John meant Paddy’s, regarded by

many as the true Irish whiskey. Above John’s head

was a large flat-screen TV. The top story was

whether a children’s toy, “Go-Go Hamster,” was

safe. Literally as a footnote, the irritating bottom

line script announced that the hundredth British

soldier had been killed in Afghanistan. I pulled

myself back to John, ran a scam, asked,

“He sure relied on that housekeeper of his.”

Did he have one? The fuck I knew. But some things

thankfully don’t change. John said,

“Ah, Maura, the poor creature, the salt of the earth,

she loves her port but she’s been devastated since

he left.”

Gotcha.

You don’t tip Irish barman. I do.

And did.

John nodded, said,

“Much appreciated Jack.”

I headed for St. Patrick’s church, stopping at a new

off -license to buy a bottle of port. My mobile

shrilled.

Stewart.

He said Father Malachy was still in a coma. I ran

the encounter, meeting with Ronan Wall’s sister,

by him, he said,

“The swan killer. You caught him, yeah?”

Added,

“You were a local hero for a while.”

I said,

“It didn’t last.”

He countered with,

“Jack, with you, what does?”

I bit down on my temper, said,

“I think the headstone, Ronan Wall, and his sister

are somehow all connected.”

“Why?”

“The fuck do I know why; call it a former hero’s

hunch.”

I knew he was laughing. He said,

“Lemme guess, you want me to track down the

sister and maybe even the bold Ronan himself?”

I counted to ten, said,

“What do you think I pay you for?”

Feigning indignation, he said,

“You’ve never paid me a single euro.”

Now, I nearly smiled, said,

“Money is not the only currency. Zen that.”

And clicked off.

The priest’s house was a neat bungalow to the side

of the new church.

The bungalow had been freshly painted and looked

welcoming.

Maybe spent the stolen cash on that.

I knocked on the door. It opened to a tiny robust

woman, late sixties with her gray hair scraped

back to a severe bun. How do women do that and

more importantly………..why?

I literally rushed her.