Priest Read Free Page B

andownership, centred on love. I knew, in a horrible moment of clarity, no one had ever gazed upon me so. I’d muttered,
‘The awful knowledge of the wrath of God.’
Back in the pub, I had to shake myself physically, rid my mind of the demons. Must have shown in my face as Ridge’s eyes softened, a rare occurrence. She asked,
    â€˜Jack, you OK?’
    Jack!
    A rib broke in the devil. I didn’t answer and for one mad moment it seemed like she might reach out and touch me. Then she said,
    â€˜Jack, there’ve been some changes in Galway.’
    I snapped out of the maudlin mode, said,
    â€˜Yeah?’
    Like I gave a fuck.
    She took a breath, then,
    â€˜Your friends, Jack and Cathy – she’s gone back to London and he . . . Well . . . he’s drinking.’
    The parents of the dead child – my friends. Jeff had the alcohol deal, as I did. I could have asked about them, the fine hard details, but he was drinking, there was only one reply. So I let it slide, asked,
    â€˜How’s Mrs Bailey?’
    The owner of the hotel I’d been living in. Over eighty, she was a woman of true stature.
    Ridge paused, then,
    â€˜The hotel was sold . . . And she . . . died a month ago.’
    Sucker punch.
    Like a blade in my gut. Once I muttered, a long timeago, as I emerged from the DTs,
Everybody’s dead, of fucking note perhaps.
    Ridge moved on, said,
    â€˜A friend of mine, she rented an apartment in the Granary, know it?’
    Sure. I was a Galwegian, course I knew. The old Bridge Mills, like everything else, had been converted. Into luxury apartments. Looked out over the Claddagh Basin, view of the bay. What I mainly knew was they cost an arm and a leg. I asked,
    â€˜And this of interest, how?’
    Couldn’t keep the bitterness out of my tone: Mrs Bailey had been a bulwark in my life. Ridge was almost animated.
    â€˜She only stayed a week as her mother got sick and she had to go to Dublin.’
    I lit another cig, blew the smoke through my nostrils, said,
    â€˜Fascinating as that is, it would probably be more gripping if I knew her. Thing is, is there a point to this?’
    The anger crossed her face. She didn’t fight it, replied,
    â€˜You’re as insufferable as ever.’
    Â 
    I don’t know who said it but it sure seemed now to fit.
    â€˜If a person is put in his place often enough, he becomes the place.’
    I stretched and she went,
    â€˜Wait . . . okay?’
    I did.
    She continued,
    â€˜I’m trying to do you a favour here.’
    I couldn’t resist, snapped,
    â€˜And like, I asked you for a favour?’
    The guy behind the bar was eyeing us warily. The vibe of hostility had obviously reached him. Ridge stood and we left. Outside, she handed me a key ring, two brass keys and a silver relic of St Therese. I smiled, couldn’t help it. Other nations reach for weapons, we reach for relics. She smiled too.
    â€˜I got it at the Novena.’
    I juggled the keys, said,
    â€˜To the Kingdom, I’d say.’
    â€˜Not exactly . . . for the Furbo Suite, my friend’s apartment in the Granary. You have three weeks, get you sorted.’
    â€˜I’ve been months in a mental hospital. How much more sorted can I be?’
    She’d no answer.
    Â 
    The fear hit the moment we reached Bohermore, the grave-yard on my left. I kept my eyes averted. Tom Waits’ ‘Tom Traubert’s Blues’ began to unravel in my head . . . wasted and wounded.
    Jesus.
    I’d been married to a German, albeit briefly. She’d Rilke on the wall of her London apartment.
‘Do not return. If you bear to, stay
dead with the dead. The dead have their tasks.’
    I’d thought ruefully many times, yeah, their task is to haunt me.
    The poem is ‘Requiem for a Friend’.
    Ridge said,
    â€˜Galway has changed even in the short time you’ve been away.’
    It looked like it