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 naivete 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
