The Devil (15 page)

' M u s t be that nitwit of a girl. According to the dates, the

wreath was ordered . . . the day before the poor unfortunate

w o m a n died.'

I felt a wave of dizziness, but asked,

'What does the card say?'

'I beg your pardon?'

N o w she was getting attitude?

'The card for the first wreath?'

'But Mr Taylor, you wrote it, didn't you?'

Christ on a bike. I said,

'Please forgive me, but grief, it has me all over the place.'

She eased a notch, said,

' O f course, Mr Taylor, I empathize.'

I prompted,

'The card?'

' O h , of course, it reads . . . well, it seems a touch o d d . '

I waited.

'It reads . . . " D i d n ' t
see
this c o m i n g . ' "

I hung up.

See.

It wasn't possible, couldn't be. I tried to get my m i n d into

focus. The note could only be from one source.

I asked myself for the hundredth time,

'What does the Devil want with me?'

The old people used to say,

'The Devil can only enter your life if you invite h i m . '

H a d I?

In my darkest hours," I'd ranted and sworn at G o d .

2 0 9

KEN BRUEN

H u n c h e d over a toilet b o w l , puking me guts out, I remember

I'd cried,

'Anyone else out there?'

Never, never thinking there was a darkness waiting to be

bidden.

I'd lived in the dark so long.

H a d the darkness come to live in me?

I muttered,

'Jesus, M a r y and Joseph.'

I had to get out, walk the t o w n , dispel the shadows. The

pelting rain had eased but I grabbed my all-weather coat.

The Sig fitted neatly in the right pocket. Popped the X a n a x

and headed out. Something about the date was itching at me

subconscious.

A newspaper confirmed my unease. The tenth anniversary

of Columbine. Whatever you believed, the D e v i l had stalked

the halls of the high school that awful day.

Coincidence?

They say coincidence is when G o d wishes to appear

anonymous.

He was sure keeping one blitz of a l o w profile these days.

A n d the other gem,

'If G o d seems far away, w h o moved?'

Bollix.

I walked d o w n Shop Street. A mime artist dressed as the

Joker was performing outside Caravan's. I dropped some

coins in his box and he said,

'Joke's on you, boyo.'

2 1 0

THE DEVIL

My temper was not at its best, the X a n a x was faihng to

chill me. I snapped, asked,

'Aren't you fuckers supposed to be silent or d i d I miss

something?'

He smiled, and I hoped those yellow fangs were part of

the make-up. He said,

' Y o u missed the bigger picture.'

It wouldn't look too great if I was to be seen beating the

living be-jaysus out of a street performer.

I moved on.

At A n t h o n y Ryan's, the clothes shop, a figure emerged,

bustling w i t h bags of stuff. Stopped and lit a cigarette.

W h o else?

The nicotine czar, his o w n self. Father Malachy.

I said,

'Business must be good if you can shop in Ryan's.'

He looked terrible.

Christ, he always looked woebegone but now he had an

added air of desperation. The ubiquitous dandruff lined the

black shoulders of his suit. He hadn't shaved and the grey

stubble gave h i m the aura of a dank w i n o . H i s hair was like

a bedraggled crow.

He neither heard nor saw me. I moved closer and a

shower had been least of his priorities, it seemed. I asked,

'They give you a clerical discount there?'

H i s eyes finally registered and he stared at me . . . in

relief?

He took me completely out of left field, grabbed my arm,

said.

211

KEN BRUEN

'Let's get a jar.'

A l l the years he'd torn me limb from fragile limb over my

drinking, and now this? I was about to say,

'Never look a gift priest in the mouth.'

But he looked too close to the brink, so I said,

'Sure, you're paying, so yeah.'

We went to Feeney's, close to where Kenny's wondrous

bookshop used to be located. It was that rarity, unchanged.

N o t too far from the old p a w n shop, where my late

mother used to hock my dad's suit and his beloved pocket

watch.

She had hocked his life a long time before that.

Years ago, when I drank in Grogan's, and had my loved

friends, Jeff and Cathy, and their golden child, Serena

M a y . . .

But I can't dwell on them or the child.

T w o sentries held up either end of the bar there. T w o old

men in cloth caps, always nourishing a half-full/empty pint,

and as far as I knew they never spoke to each other.

But they were as reliable as a sincere prayer.

A l l the bad shite that had ensued over the years, I'd lost

track of them. I'd presumed, hoped, they still kept their vigil

there. A n d even though Grogan's had been sold after the

death of the child, I clung to the hope that they had found

stools in some other old G a l w a y bar.

As we entered Feeney's, right by the door was one of

them.

I realized I never knew their names. So I did the Irish

dance, asked.

2 1 2

THE DEVIL

'How^'ve y o u been?'

He looked at me and the same disinterest he'd always

shown was still alive. He said,

' M i d d l i n g . '

That's as close to 'Fuck o f f as it gets.

But I persisted, asked,

' A n d , er . . . your friend?'

' H e wasn't my friend.'

I began to move off, wasn't going to do a whole lot of

spreading the joy there, and he said,

'He died.'

I nodded, kept going.

I'd read my Russell Friedman on grief and h o w not to

express remorse/sorrow for someone you never knew.

Some books do actually help.

My sympathy w o u l d only have elicited more bitterness

and Fd enough of my o w n to be going on w i t h .

M a l a c h y had gone right d o w n to the end of the pub and

found a table, and I joined h i m . I figured he'd already put in

an order.

Sure enough, the drinks came.

T w o large Jamesons.

N o ice.

The barman said,

' O n the house. Father.'

If M a l a c h y was grateful, he was hiding it. He said, 'I don't

see you at M a s s . '

The barman gave him a look - not of respect or awe,

those days were well over - said.

2 1 3

KEN BRUEN

'I took my business elsewhere.'

A n d moved off.

Malachy, already raising his glass, muttered,

'A pup, that fellah.'

N o t a comphment. I raised my glass, toasted,

' G o o d health.'

He made a sound halfway between
hmmph
and
Is it on

meself?
Then drained most of the double Jay.

I did the same.

Waited.

The whiskey hit h i m fast, a crimson glow mounting like

sunburn up his cheeks, making his battered face almost

glow. He said,

'I don't have many friends in the priesthood.'

I was surprised he had any friends anywhere, but kept my

mouth shut. He continued,

'Over in the Claddagh, Father R a l p h was my friend. We

were in M a y n o o t h together and took our final vows on the

same day. We always stayed in touch, a card or letter, even

after he went on the Missions.'

I had no idea where this was going.

Something between a sigh and groan escaped h i m as he

said,

'I can't believe he's dead.'

Took me a moment, then I blurted,

'Ralph's dead?'

He was startled, turned to look at me.

' Y o u knew him?'

I was trying to focus, muttered,

2 1 4

THE DEVIL

'I met h i m once. I Hked him a lot.'

M a l a c h y shook his head, amazed and, I think, angry. I'd

k n o w n his friend. Then he made that condescending gesture

that serious drinkers all over the fucking w o r l d hate. He

raised his hand in a drinking gesture to his mouth, the words

conveying, in bright shame,
alkie.
Said, as if I didn't get it

already,

'Fond of it, you know, no denying that. But to do what he

did, I never realized he was so far gone.'

H a d I missed something.' I was trying so hard not to lash

h i m across his smug
non-alkie
face that rage temporarily

blinded me. I asked,

'What did he do?'

Jesus wept. N o t another child molester. That I couldn't

stomach, not now. M a l a c h y said,

'Your turn for a round, I believe.'

The bollix.

I jumped up, went to the counter, tried to rein in the

ferocious wave building, said to the barman,

'Same again, please,'

and put a twenty Euro note on the counter lest he think I

was freeloading.

If he thought neat larges that early in the day were o d d ,

he said nothing. He got the drinks, gave me the pittance

change, said, nodding to Malachy,

'Contrary bastard.'

I took the drinks, looked at the paltry change, said,

'Put it in the Missions box.'

He laughed, said.

2 1 5

KEN BRUEN

'Where have you been? We are the Missions.'

I got back to the table - no sign of Malachy. I looked

round and the barman indicated the shed beside the bar.

The smokers' room.

Beside the toilets, of course.

I sat, sipping my fresh drink, trying to keep my mind

blank and a lid on my temper.

M a l a c h y returned, reeking of cigarettes, sat, grabbed the

new drink and downed a fair portion. Then took a breath

and said,

'They've covered it up, of course, said he died of a heart

attack. If the truth came out, they'd be more banjaxed than

before.'

He emitted a long sad sigh, said,

' H e hanged himself.'

I was appalled, said,

'I'm so sorry.'

He rounded on me, spittle dribbling from the corners of

his mouth, accused,

'You?
You're sorry? I thought the likes of you w o u l d

dance a jig at the clergy being destroyed.'

I understood the blind lashing out of grief, had done it

often enough, and when you add Jameson to a simmering

fire . . . I said,

' Y o u make me sound like the D e v i l . '

He sat back, drained instantly, said,

'I met a man last week, he frightened me. Jack.'

Jack!

' G o o d - l o o k i n g fellah, lovely suit, said he wanted to make

2 1 6

THE DEVIL

a donation to the Church fund and asked me to excuse his

poor Enghsh. I think he was French, said he'd been

recommended by you! At first I was glad - we're always

happy w i t h donations and supporters of the Church - till he

began to look at me. He scared me. Jack. It was like he was

- Jesus, G o d forgive me for taking the H o l y Name in vain,

but he looked like pure badness, and as he was leaving, he

handed me a large w a d of notes - hundred notes they were.

Jack - and said with this awful smile . . .'

He had to stop. Sweat was pouring d o w n his face and he

grabbed at his glass, then continued,

' H e said, "Priests shouldn't be hanging r o u n d . " Jack, he

stressed hanging, and as he left, he stopped and said, "If

you really are a friend of our Jack, I might have to return,

make another
donation:''

I didn't like Malachy, never had, but I didn't like to see

h i m afraid. I asked,

' W h o do you think he was?'

He jumped up, his eyes mad in his head, shouted,

'You're the Devil's spawn! Even your blessed mother, G o d

rest her, she always said some day he'd come to claim y o u . '

A n d he stormed out.

I finished my drink and thought, if I was going to hell, the

worst thing w o u l d be that the bitch she'd been all her

miserable life was sure to be the first to welcome me.

Ian D u t y and the Blockheads - the cheerful face of punk,

if there was such a thing - had a big hit with 'Reasons To Be

Cheerful'.

For the life of me, I couldn't think of one.

2 1 7

KEN BRUEN

Ian Dury, badly crippled by polio as a child, never gave

anything but his best in concert.

He had passed on too.

Everybody of fucking note had.

I finished my drink, headed out and said to the lone

sentry,

' G o d mind you well.'

He never looked up from his pint, said,

' G o d , like the rest of the slick bastards, moved to a tax

haven.'

W h a t to say?

Save think of what Ronnie Scott said to Van M o r r i s o n ,

'You've made a happy man very o l d . '

2 1 8

19

'And then he assigns you his sacred fire, that you may

become sacred bread for God's sacred feast.'

K h a l i l Gibran,
The Prophet

My limp had been acting up and I figured a decent walk

might ease the ache. I took the route that leads to Grattan

R o a d . But first I went to the Dominican church, to see O u r