The Emerald Lie Read Free Page A

feeding the mite. Said,
    “He’s pining for you.”
    I smiled, said,
    “He’d be the first.”
    He gave a rueful nod, then,
    “Sure that’s not so.”
    I managed to sit up despite the line of tubes and shite they had trailing out of me, said,
    “Not self-pity, it’s just that every close friend I had got burned.”
    He laughed.
    “Sounds like you’re warning me off.”
    “Fuck no, you mind my dog, you are gold, my man.”
    True that.
    I had a serious fright on my second day in hospital, the doctors saying they had to do some tests. You hear that, don’t make plans. Did I worry?
    Did I fuck.
    I had two crushed fingers, fucked hearing, a limp, and damn nigh every addiction guaranteed to shorten your days. So, no, optimistic I wasn’t. Would I go the Walter White route and undergo heavy treatment?
    Nope.
    I hadn’t the balls but I did bargain.
    You grow up Catholic, you still think you have options. I said to God,
    “Give me a reprieve and I’ll …”
    … What?
    “Go to confession.”
    Phew-oh.
    Nearly enough to wish for a bad result.
    I got the good news.
    Clear.
    Not that I didn’t get the full-on lecture: change habits; eat vegan; no booze, cigs, or indeed anything worth breathing for. Winding up, the doctor said,
    “You should be dead, the way you have treated your system. You are one lucky man.”
    I smiled, said,
    “Oh, yeah, lucky, that’s me.”
    They used to say that any day you can wake up and eat a boiled egg you are ahead of the game. I hate fucking eggs. On my way back from the hospital, I stopped at the cathedral, looked in vain for a list of confession times. In my youth, Saturday night, the whole town lined up for the ordeal of weekly confession. Everyone tried to avoid Father Healy. He was one biblical bastard and you never got out without the very wrath of God in your ears. And he was loud. You’d hear, as some poor bollix withered in his box,
    “You beat your wife, you neglected your children, you disgrace the very faith you profess.”
    Then there was Father Neill, a soft touch. He let you off with a quiet penance of six Hail Marys. You could see the lines outside his box, no one at Healy’s. I was staring at a confessional when a priest approached. In his late fifties, he looked cowed. Most did nowadays. The lynch mob wasn’t exactly at the gate but hovering. He asked,
    “May I be of some service?”
    This new gentle diplomacy was hard to stomach. When you’d grown up with Gestapo-like fucks ruling the parish, it was difficult to turn on sixpence. I said,
    “Don’t they post times of confession anymore?”
    He gave a sad smile, said,
    “It’s called the sacrament of reconciliation now.”
    I shook my head, asked,
    “And does it, you know, reconcile?”
    He nearly smiled but bit down on it, put out his hand, said,
    “I’m Father Thomas.”
    “Jack, Jack Taylor.”
    A light in his eyes, then,
    “Weren’t you recently in the paper?”
    Fame.
    Or if a priest recognizes you, perhaps infamy. I nodded, and he indicated I could sit … or maybe kneel because those days were long over. He said,
    “Perhaps I could help you?”
    I was already planning how to get the fuck out of there without fuss, said,
    “Thank you for your time …” (I just couldn’t use
Father
) “Tom.”
    “Thomas.”
    I nearly laughed, snapped,
    “Still with the corrections I see.”
    He caught himself, tried,
    “I didn’t mean … what I wanted to offer was if you wished me to hear your …”
    Now he didn’t know what to call it. I let him off, said,
    “Naw, I figure I’ll live with the gig I’m playing.”
    I reached into my wallet, handed over a rash of notes. He made a feeble gesture of protest, said,
    “There’s no need, I haven’t done anything.”
    I was at the door when I said,
    “And right there is the reason you guys are hiding out.”
    I dipped my hand in the holy water font but it was empty. Seemed apt.
    I’d barely got to Salmon Weir Bridge where all the fish had long since