And, yes, there are nuns.
The Poor Clares.
An enclosed community. To simply enter their grounds was to find a rare tranquility. To tread lightly on holy ground. They were currently running a campaign to pay for the restoration of the convent. Titled:
“Buy a Brick.”
You bought a brick by buying a ticket which then went forward to a lotto. Being newly flush with cash, I went to them, offered the Mother Superior fifty euros. She protested it was too much. She noticed me staring at her neck. Nuns, like cops, see everything. I thought, if you’re staring at a nun’s neck, you need a brick.
Hard, to the side of your head.
I was entranced by a necklace she wore. It appeared to be tiny beautiful stones, threaded through a silver chain. Each stone had a letter. She noticed, was delighted, said,
“It reads, Medugorje.”
I asked,
“You’ve been?”
She shook her head at such an idea, said,
“No, my sister went, and, you know, she said, ‘The sun danced in the sky.’”
Like all nuns, she had that flawless skin. Why the cosmetic companies aren’t researching them is a mystery. Her eyes were clear blue, lit with a lovely hint of devilment. She asked,
“What do you think of that?”
I had no idea, said,
“I’ve no idea.”
She pulled out a batch of cards, asked,
“Your name, please, for the draw?”
“It’s Jack but honest to God, no need to put me on the tickets.”
She seemed surprised so I tried,
“I’ve never been lucky.”
I was about to leave when she took the piece from round her neck and slipped it over my head, I began,
“I can’t…”
She said,
“Better be blessed than lucky.”
That moved me so.
Go figure.
My last encounter with a nun had resulted in murder. Outside, the sky was darkening and the deadly ice they were predicting seemed to hang, waiting. A guy was selling DVDs outside, I guess he figured even nuns watched movies.
Newly blessed, I bought:
Orphan,
Traitor,
Passengers,
District 9, and I swear to God
Sam Raimi's
Drag Me to Hell.
There is some mega-metaphysical irony in all the above but I’m fucked if I can join the dots. As I headed off, the guy said,
“Cool chain dude; Medugorje rocks.”
Bono must have played there.
A new off-license had opened, the budget had been announced and. .. the price of booze was lowered.
In a country devastated by alcohol, they were encouraging us to drink. It was state of the art premises and even offered loyalty cards! And brews you’d never see ordinarily so I stocked up on my favorite hard-to-get brands:
Shiner Bock,
Blue Moon,
Asahi,
Sam Adams.
I’m an alkie, I’m hurting, I’ll drink anything, even aftershave, and have done so.
Though I suggest you avoid Old Spice.
But as Derek Raymond said, in The Crust on Its Uppers, I can be a beer buff.
What this flashy new place showed, though, deep in recession, we were not only drinking as mad as ever, but with some discernible taste. I got back to my apartment, anticipating a blast of Blue Moon and twenty minutes of Johnny Duhan’s new album. I had a wad of cash in my jacket, new DVDs, the literal blessing of a good nun, and a new case. Laura would soon be coming from London.
How good can it get?
I don’t do happy.
But I was real close then.
Wouldn’t I just love to be the poster boy for Prozac, have a kickarse smile perpetually in place, plaster my face on those Prozac bottles, with the logo,
“We Rest Our Case.”
But my past was too littered with the wasted and the wounded. Ever hear Marc Roberts sing “Dust in the Storm”? Listen and weep.
I’m not a total eejit, I’ll grab the moments of peace, fleeting though they be, when they deign to appear. That’s how I was feeling. Opened the door of the apartment, a ton of junk.
I’d won ten million in the Nigerian Lottery, got a voucher for a free pizza from Papa Joe’s, an appeal for orphans, till I came to a small tightly wrapped parcel.
In black paper.
Uh-oh.
Neatly printed in red Gothic lettering on the front was
“Jack Taylor.”
Not good. A gut feeling, I fingered the Medugorje chain round my neck. My apartment opens up to a large room, which has the books, TV, laptop, and leads to a small kitchen. Marble-top counter from Connemara constitutes the dining area. I placed the package there and pulled back from it. Opened the fridge, pulled out a Shiner, drained half that in jig time. No shite but those Texans make good beer. I approached the package as if it were incendiary. My history of such mail was all bad.
Took a deep breath and tore it open.
Out, onto the marble top, fell a perfect miniature sculpture.
A headstone the size of a Bic lighter.
I stared at it, muttering,
“The fuck is this?”
It was exquisitely carved, polished to a high sheen.
Any other circumstances, I’d have admired the sheer artistry.
In a state of alert, I reached for the dictionary, looked up the definition, got
“A stone at the head of a grave.”
All my instincts screaming,
“Throw it out… now!”
Halloween was already gone, so I felt this was less trick or treat as more trick and threat.
No coincidence that the clocks were due to go back to winter time and when that happened, it was a long time to the light.
If the package was meant to unnerve me it did.
I felt the urge to get the hell out of there, be among people. Put on my all-weather Garda coat and, in the side pocket, the Walther PPK I’d had since the time of the devil. Just the weight of it eased my growing paranoia.
