Priest (6 page)

I moved among the graves till I found a small marker with

Mrs Bailey.

A headstone, if there was to be one, wouldn't go up for a year. Withered wreaths lay in the area. I added my crushed roses – if nothing else, they brought a flash of colour. I
never knew what to do at a graveside. Do you kneel or stand, look solemn . . . what? I muttered,

‘You were a real lady of real class.'

Does that qualify as a prayer? It was at least the truth. I saw a figure in black approaching and said,

‘Priest at nine o' clock.'

As he drew near, I saw him draw deep on a cig then flick the butt into a cluster of headstones. I'd wanted a cig badly but felt you didn't smoke in a churchyard. I recognized him – Father Malachy, my mother's constant companion.

In Ireland, there's a curious . . . what am I saying? The whole country is crammed with oddities. Among them is the single woman/priest phenomenon. Females of a certain age – over fifty, usually – adopt a priest, become his constant companion and no one seems to question it. Try adopting a nun. The assumption is made that it is above board. In truth, it rarely seems to be sexual, but how the hell would I know? What I do know is that it is accepted.

Some women get pets, others opt for tame clergy. Malachy belonged to my mother, as if they were joined at the hip. They certainly agreed on one thing, that I was a

Loser

Drunkard

Ne'er-do-well

Blackguard.

Friendships have flourished on less.

I hadn't seen him since the night on the bridge and, to be honest, I don't think he'd once crossed my mind. A big man, he was again enclosed in a haze of nicotine. I've never seen such a dedicated smoker. Not that they appeared to
give him any pleasure. On the contrary, they acted like an accelerant on his already short fuse. Watching him suck a cig was horribly fascinating. He drew on it with ferocity, his cheekbones bulging, his eyes near sunk in his head. The anti-smoking lobby could put him on their posters, he'd be a powerful deterrent. He said,

‘Taylor.'

I decided to use his full title, let a little edge in it, went,

‘Father Malachy.'

Threw him. He was wearing the obligatory black, the dog collar visible above a heavy black sweater. Sweat was rolling off him. I said,

‘I didn't know this was your patch.'

We were obviously going to act as if the incident on the bridge had never occurred. Fine by me, denial was my strong suit.

‘I saw you coming in.'

‘And what, you followed me? Being tracked by a priest, I'm not sure it's a good thing, not to mention a little unusual.'

Whatever was going on with him, it was making him very nervous. He said,

‘I need your help.'

The exact same words as before.

The words near strangled him, he had to force them out between his teeth. I wasn't about to assist, said nothing. Left, as the psychologists say, the black hole, let him fill it. A plain-clothes Garda had once told me that silence is the best interrogation tool. People can't stand it, they have to fill that void.

He did.

Rooted for his cigs, fired one up, asked,

‘Can I buy you a drink?'

And saw my face. He – who'd castigated me for years on the booze – tried to recover, faltered, altered,

‘I mean, tea . . . or coffee. We can go to the Radisson, 'tis a fine hotel.'

They also had a no-smoking edict. The Services Industry was currently locked in a bitter fight with the Government. From 1 January 2004, smoking would be prohibited in pubs, restaurants, public buildings. The ban in the first two would, the industry claimed, kill tourism dead, not to mention local trade. Smokers couldn't imagine a visit to the pub without nicotine and vowed to stay home.

Malachy was still holding his cig as we sat in the pristine lounge. A waiter approached, glanced at the smoke, didn't lay down the law. Priests still carried some clout. We ordered a pot of coffee. Malachy added,

‘Put some biscuits on a plate, take the bare look off it, that's a good lad.'

The lad was at least thirty-five.

I'd never really looked at Malachy, I'd never thought about his age or his appearance. It's an awesome thought to realize you've dismissed a person in his entirety because you loathe him. Now I'd guess his age at late fifties, and from the pallor in his face, the expression in his eyes, hard years, all of them. He had a full head of hair, streaked with grey, not recently washed. He had the hands of a navvy, like a character from a Patrick McGill book. Old Galwegians would have described him as a bacon-and-cabbage man, with a truck of
spuds on the side, dripping with butter. He'd have followed that with a dish of stewed apple, gallon of thick custard. His type had built the roads of England.

The coffee came with a plate of Rich Tea biscuits. Malachy barked,

‘Hope they're fresh.'

The waiter nodded, too dumbfounded to reply. Malachy grabbed the bill, examined it, went,

‘Jaysus.'

I went to reach for my wallet but he blew that off, produced a crumpled note, handed it over. The waiter looked at him expectantly but no tip was forthcoming. I poured the coffee, the aroma was good and strong. I asked,

‘Milk?'

Malachy was shovelling biscuits into his mouth, the cig still going. I wanted to ask,

‘Missed breakfast?'

But we'd enough friction going. He asked,

‘Did you hear about Father Joyce?'

The beheaded priest. I nodded and he said,

‘'Tis an awful business.'

Which was some understatement. He stared into space, then suddenly changed tack, asked,

‘What was it like in . . . the, am . . . hospital?'

I knew the term
madhouse
had been on the tip of his tongue. I said,

‘Quiet. It was surprisingly quiet.'

He risked a look at me, then another biscuit, said,

‘I was always afraid of those places, I thought there'd be fierce screaming.'

I thought about that, said,

‘Oh, there was screaming, but it was silent. The wonders of medication. And for me, they provided what I most wanted – numbness.'

And I realized that in the current jargon, I was
sharing,
with a man I despised. Not that I'd anyone else. The past few years had annihilated near all I'd known, friends and family. You need a whole new level of numbness to wipe that slate. To my own surprise, I asked,

‘Being a priest, how's that?'

I don't know if it's pc, if you're allowed to ask such a question, but we'd entered territory new to us both. He finished the biscuits, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, said,

‘It's a job. Not one I'd have picked.'

So you have to ask, get it out there.

‘Doesn't it work the other way? You're the one who's supposed to be . . . as you put it, picked?'

Another cig going. I hadn't wanted one since meeting him, he was more effective than the patch. He gave a laugh full of malice and anger, not an easy blend. He said,

‘My mother, Lord rest her, it was her fervent wish I be a priest. She thought it was a real blessing on the family.'

The expression
black with rage
had always seemed just that – an expression. I swear his face was slate in temper. I tried to change the subject, asked,

‘How can I help you?'

He pulled himself back from whatever abyss he'd seen, touched the empty plate like a blind man, looking for crumbs or hope, I don't know. I recognized that huge hunger, the thirst that underlines the emptiness within. I'd used
booze to fill mine – it hadn't worked. Maybe nicotine was his method. He said,

‘The Archdiocese are very concerned about the ramifications of Father Joyce. There were rumours about. . . abuse.'

I sighed. The country was still reeling from five years of horror at the number of clergy who'd been accused, arrested and convicted of the most shocking child abuse. Case after case, the level of suffering inflicted was almost beyond comprehension. The most notorious, Father Brendan Smith, who was convicted and died in prison, had, on his conviction, turned to the TV cameras and showed a face devoid of any remorse. They buried him at night, which is its own verdict. Another priest, also convicted, on being bundled into the police car gave the cameras the two-finger gesture. It didn't take an expert to gauge the rage of the people.

I ran all that in my head, asked,

‘What on earth do you think I can do?'

He was nervous now, fidgeting in his seat.

‘You've had success before, cases that were closed. You found . . . solutions.'

I'd just gotten a job, maybe a real place to live, an actual inheritance. I didn't need this. I asked,

‘What about the Guards?'

He shook his head.

‘We need this to be discreet. The last thing we want is a high-profile investigation.'

‘But surely there's already that.'

He turned to me, pleading.

‘Jack, Father Joyce was . . . accused . . . of molestation . . . some years ago. We have to keep this in house.'

What a term. The Church had protected abusers before, abused the accusers and transferred the culprit to another parish. Reassigned a suspected monster to a new and unsuspecting populace. I asked,

‘Have you the names of the accusers?'

He reached in his pocket, took out a sheet of paper, laid it on the table, said,

‘I knew you'd help, Jack.'

I snapped,

‘Didn't say I would.'

I thought I detected a rare smile, but it was gone before I could react. I took the paper, three names and addresses, asked,

‘Supposing, just supposing, I find the man, can even prove it. Then what?'

Malachy was standing.

‘We'll hand him over to the authorities.'

Nothing in his eyes led me to believe there was a scrap of truth in that.

 

We went outside and the sun was still high in the sky. I turned to him, said,

‘You're a bad liar.'

‘What?'

His face already confirming my intuition, I said,

‘This is nothing to do with the Archdiocese, that doesn't make sense. It's to do with you.'

He stared at his shoes, then,

‘I'm afraid.'

‘Why?'

It seemed he was close to hyperventilating.

‘I was accused . . . Two years ago . . . The same awful thing.'

Sweat popped out on his forehead, began to pool, then slowly ran in thin streams down his face, like the beads on a rosary and twice as significant. He was shaking.

‘Being a priest is like being crucified without a cross, you know that – raked with such longings . . .'

The word
longings
carried such heavy sexual connotations that I moved back a step, my mind grappling with him doing . . . stuff to boys.

He rushed on, desperate to get it out.

‘And sure, sometimes you'll see a boy . . . the innocence, they look like angels . . . But I swear to Christ, on the grave of me dead mother, that I never touched one, not even to tousle his hair. You see a father with his son, he tosses his kid's hair and ‘tis no big deal, but for us, to once . . . to reach out your hand, to let your fingers caress him for just a moment, oh sweet Jaysus, you can't. You do it once, you might never stop.'

A sob escaped him and I wondered if he had, maybe once, done just that. Steel in my voice, I accused him.

‘You pig, you did, didn't you? You touched some boy, didn't you?'

Grief racked his frame. The cig tumbled from his mouth, he turned to me, hell in his very eyes, and reached out his hand. I snapped,

‘Don't ever think about it. I'll take it off from the elbow – I'm not some altar boy.'

His face was all I've ever seen of pure and total suffering,
and God knows I've seen it in most guises. He said, no, pleaded,

‘Jack, by all that's holy, I might have thought about it, but I never – may I rot in damnation for all eternity if I speak a word of a lie – I never did.'

Now I lit a cig, didn't offer him, kept steel in my voice, asked,

‘And?'

‘I was cleared. The boy withdrew the allegation, but mud sticks. If the killer is after priests who . . . you know?'

It had to be said, so I said it.

‘If he's after paedophiles.'

His head pulled back, as if I'd slapped him, then,

‘Yes.'

I began to walk away. He called,

‘Will you help, Jack?'

I didn't know.

I didn't even know if I believed him.

‘“Och ocon”
. . .
that's Irish and roughly translated means, “Woe Is Me”. The song of my life.'

KB

 

 

 

The altar boy had hidden the priest's ten shillings under his mattress. His mother found it, accused him of stealing. He told her, tried to tell her about what the priest had done. She'd gotten the switch, a long cane cut at the end, and beaten him mercilessly, screaming,

‘You ever repeat that, I'll take the head off you, do you hear me?'

 

Terence Brown, solicitor.

He looked like a ferret with anorexia.

He seemed aware of this and to be daring you to mention it.

I didn't.

His office was situated on Long Walk and you could see the Atlantic from his window. The shriek of seagulls was clearly audible – always makes me want to cry or travel or both. He sat across a large desk from me and I looked round the room, my eyes resting on a wondrous sculpture of a bronze army. It was awesome in its starkness and majesty. He said,

‘John Behan.'

I nodded in appreciation. I've never craved material goods. You spend your life as a drunk, cash is the only goal and the real hangover cure. He shuffled some papers on his desk, said,