Facts of… Light.
Putting headstones out of my mind, I figured I’d better begin my search for the rogue priest.
Where would a renegade cleric with stolen money go?
I answered with,
“As far as possible.”
But maybe not.
Back to basics, use my feet. I trudged around the town, showing his photo. It’s a given. You do this kind of tedious work, you’re on a hiding to nothing. People will give you answers. It’s Ireland, no one is ever… ever going to simply say
“No.”
Would that they could but they can’t. Mostly they asked,
“Why?
What’s he done?
What’s in it for me?”
And of course, lots of misinformation. You had to follow that shite anyway. Mostly what you got was tired. My limp ached. I even did a Google search. Nope. He had really flown under the radar. Eventually, I had to phone Gabriel, give him my report. A very short one. I played with the idea of stringing him along, saying I had a definite lead. When I called him, his clipped sarcastic tone changed that idea.
Quick.
I hoped he’d fire me. I never wanted to have to listen to this sanctimonious gob-shite again.
I’d begun the call with,
“It’s Jack Taylor.”
He snapped,
“I know that.”
Great start but I tried,
“I’ve been tracking down every avenue of investigation.”
“And?”
Jesus, I disliked this bollix, said,
“And….” let it hang for max impact, then,
“I got nothing.”
Silence and an ominous one.
Then he ordered,
“Stay on it.”
Notice the lack of…. please. I fucking did, said,
“What?”
“Are you deaf, Taylor?”
Well actually, yes, in one ear, but didn’t feel this 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 Iosa.”
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.”
