Priest by Ken Bruen Read Free Book Online Page A

Galwegians would have described him as a bacon-and-cabbage man, with a truck ofspuds on the side, dripping with butter. He’d have followed that with a dish of stewed apple, gallon of thick custard. His type had built the roads of England.
    The coffee came with a plate of Rich Tea biscuits. Malachy barked,
    â€˜Hope they’re fresh.’
    The waiter nodded, too dumbfounded to reply. Malachy grabbed the bill, examined it, went,
    â€˜Jaysus.’
    I went to reach for my wallet but he blew that off, produced a crumpled note, handed it over. The waiter looked at him expectantly but no tip was forthcoming. I poured the coffee, the aroma was good and strong. I asked,
    â€˜Milk?’
    Malachy was shovelling biscuits into his mouth, the cig still going. I wanted to ask,
    â€˜Missed breakfast?’
    But we’d enough friction going. He asked,
    â€˜Did you hear about Father Joyce?’
    The beheaded priest. I nodded and he said,
    â€˜â€™Tis an awful business.’
    Which was some understatement. He stared into space, then suddenly changed tack, asked,
    â€˜What was it like in . . . the, am . . . hospital?’
    I knew the term
madhouse
had been on the tip of his tongue. I said,
    â€˜Quiet. It was surprisingly quiet.’
    He risked a look at me, then another biscuit, said,
    â€˜I was always afraid of those places, I thought there’d be fierce screaming.’
    I thought about that, said,
    â€˜Oh, there was screaming, but it was silent. The wonders of medication. And for me, they provided what I most wanted – numbness.’
    And I realized that in the current jargon, I was
sharing,
with a man I despised. Not that I’d anyone else. The past few years had annihilated near all I’d known, friends and family. You need a whole new level of numbness to wipe that slate. To my own surprise, I asked,
    â€˜Being a priest, how’s that?’
    I don’t know if it’s pc, if you’re allowed to ask such a question, but we’d entered territory new to us both. He finished the biscuits, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, said,
    â€˜It’s a job. Not one I’d have picked.’
    So you have to ask, get it out there.
    â€˜Doesn’t it work the other way? You’re the one who’s supposed to be . . . as you put it, picked?’
    Another cig going. I hadn’t wanted one since meeting him, he was more effective than the patch. He gave a laugh full of malice and anger, not an easy blend. He said,
    â€˜My mother, Lord rest her, it was her fervent wish I be a priest. She thought it was a real blessing on the family.’
    The expression
black with rage
had always seemed just that – an expression. I swear his face was slate in temper. I tried to change the subject, asked,
    â€˜How can I help you?’
    He pulled himself back from whatever abyss he’d seen, touched the empty plate like a blind man, looking for crumbs or hope, I don’t know. I recognized that huge hunger, the thirst that underlines the emptiness within. I’d usedbooze to fill mine – it hadn’t worked. Maybe nicotine was his method. He said,
    â€˜The Archdiocese are very concerned about the ramifications of Father Joyce. There were rumours about. . . abuse.’
    I sighed. The country was still reeling from five years of horror at the number of clergy who’d been accused, arrested and convicted of the most shocking child abuse. Case after case, the level of suffering inflicted was almost beyond comprehension. The most notorious, Father Brendan Smith, who was convicted and died in prison, had, on his conviction, turned to the TV cameras and showed a face devoid of any remorse. They buried him at night, which is its own verdict. Another priest, also convicted, on being bundled into the police car gave the cameras the two-finger gesture. It didn’t take an expert to gauge the rage of the people.
    I ran all that in my head,