Priest by Ken Bruen Read Free Book Online

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 togive 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,
    â€˜Taylor.’
    I decided to use his full title, let a little edge in it, went,
    â€˜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,
    â€˜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.
    â€˜I saw you coming in.’
    â€˜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,
    â€˜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,
    â€˜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,
    â€˜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,
    â€˜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