Galway Confidential, page 11
I was on a roll, said,
“But I’m on the payroll, kind of.”
She stood up, dismissal time.
“Thank you for yet again agreeing to help us.”
I said,
“A nun in need is indeed?”
“Goodbye, Mr. Taylor.”
The little nun who let me out the front door said,
“Mother Superior does like you.”
I asked,
“What’s not to like?”
Outside the convent, the heat rose from the pavement like a clerical assault, fast and brutal. I walked along the canals, and a guy was fishing down near the Róisín Dubh. He greeted me,
“Taylor, heard you were dead.”
This was a familiar greeting to me and the years I’d been comatose only added to the belief. I asked,
“Catching anything?”
He answered,
“You know how many years I’ve been fishing from this exact spot?”
The fuck would I know, or care? I said,
“How would I know that?”
He spun around, snapped,
“No need to be snarky.”
This was truly one of those conversations going nowhere so I said,
“I’ll leave you to it.”
He waited until I was past him, then,
“Liked you better when I thought you were dead.”
Irish logic at its shining best.
It was believed for a long time
That
Nuns in an enclosed order
Were
Secretive until
A bishop in the north of Ireland declared
They were
Confidential.
30
______
Salman Rushdie was attacked at a literary event in New York and stabbed seventeen times. Somehow, he survived, though the diagnosis was kidney and liver damage and maybe the loss of an eye. His assailant was a young man with no apparent ties to terrorist groups.
J. K. Rowling posted her shock and sympathy on Twitter and almost immediately a post appeared, threatening,
“You’re next.”
The FBI raided the Florida home of Trump and removed boxes of documents from there. Trump, of course, expressed his outrage and his supporters vowed to reelect him in 2024.
In Ireland, the number of refugees from Ukraine hit the seventy thousand mark and little or no accommodation was available.
I continued to search for Raftery to no avail. Quinlan assured me that he would find him.
The heat wave had lasted for ten days, and the population was struck near speechless from sunburn. A day of heavy rain, thunder, lightning was almost a relief.
I went to the movies.
Jordan Peele had written, produced two major horror movies in the previous years: Get Out
And
Us.
So it was with much anticipation I went to see his third production, titled Nope.
And a major disappointment it was too.
Spending two hours at the cinema carried its own brand of guilt.
I resolved to double down on the effort to locate Raftery.
At the cinema, when I asked for a ticket to the movie, I was told,
“We don’t accept cash.”
What the fuck?
I asked,
“How am I supposed to get a ticket?”
The ticket guy could give a shit, said,
“Swipe card.”
I was livid.
Eventually, I used my credit card and asked the guy,
“What if you don’t have a credit card?”
He gave me a look like I was a complete ejit.
“Then you don’t get to see the movie.”
More and more, the cashless society was imposing its will, and older people were truly a new kind of poor. I remembered when the churches installed electronic candles and the whole beautiful ritual of getting a taper, lighting it, and the smell of wax as you lit the candle was gone.
The whole fabric of how we lived was changed but not improved.
Another nun was attacked, seriously injured, and my guilt hit DEFCON five.
The Mother Superior left me a stack of messages but I didn’t answer.
What could I say?
Sorry?
August had been a blistering month in every sense and the hope of September was the top of a prayer list.
The nuclear facility in Ukraine was teetering on the edge of leaking. The technicians were Ukraine, but the facility was Russian held. Echoes of Chernobyl were rife.
I walked the dog.
We started at Blackrock Pier, at the end of the Salthill Promenade, kicked the wall as is the Galway tradition and headed in the direction of town. The distance was estimated at about three kilometers so there and back would yield a six-kilometer hike.
Outside Seapoint Ballroom a guy stopped in front of us, asked,
“Jack Taylor?”
I said,
“Yeah.”
I held a tight grip on the dog’s leash as my instinct whispered,
“This guy is off.”
He said,
“You don’t remember me?’
I said,
“Nope.”
Sounding a little like the movie.
He moved closer.
“I used to drink in The Quays, and you got me barred.”
The fuck was this guy?
I said the only thing I could, said,
“You’re kidding, I don’t drink in The Quays, and if I did, getting someone barred is, like, just about the last thing I’d do. I can safely say you are a total stranger to me.”
The dog gave a low growl, picking up on the vibe. The guy said,
“I forgive you.”
I gave a short bitter laugh, snarled,
“Don’t forgive me, and you know what? If they barred you, they were right. Now fuck off.”
He shook his head, a tolerant smile on his face. He said,
“You’re a bitter, angry man. No wonder you drink so much.”
I brushed past him, the dog reluctant to end the gig so fast.
Ahead of me was a van with the logo:
Mike Denver and Band
There was a list of dates for the concerts on the back window. If I were the dancing kind, and perish the thought if I were, I’d have gone to see Mike. He was one of the good guys.
I looked back at where I’d met the guy who forgave me.
I said to Trip,
“Do I look forgiven?”
Down through Shop Street and the buskers were out in style. Every musical instrument was on show:
Bodhran.
Spoons.
Melodeons.
Guitars.
Fiddles.
Improvised drums, i.e.,
biscuit tins inverted.
I thought Trip might be disturbed by the cacophony of sounds, but I was beginning to realize he was a calm canine. Good that one of us wasn’t overly disturbed.
Outside Dubray bookshop, a woman asserted,
“You’re Jack Taylor.”
Indeed.
She looked at the dog, said,
“I thought at the very least you’d have a Rottweiler.”
I answered,
“These dogs were used by Chinese emperors to fight lions.”
“It’s a long time since those dogs fought anythin’.”
“You obviously haven’t been drinking in the city pubs.”
I was tying Trip to a railing outside Charlie Byrne’s bookstore when Vinny appeared. He said,
“You have a new dog?”
Where to start? Maybe just give the bold truth. I said,
“A nun bequeathed him to me.”
And yes, that sentence does sound as odd as it looks. It had a whirlwind of questions therein.
“A nun?”
“Why?”
“To you, really?”
“And why are you tying the poor creature to the railing? Are you tired of him already?”
But Vinny has run a bookshop in Galway, along with Charlie Byrne’s, for forty years so eccentric behavior is nothing remarkable, indeed it’s downright near mandatory.
I went for the brief version, said,
“I was friends with a nun, she died and willed the dog to me.”
Vinny took this in stride, said,
“Bring him, somebody might steal him.”
True enough, pedigree dogs were being snatched all over the city.
Noirin was inside the door, she went nuts for Trip, picked him up and disappeared into the children’s department.
I asked Vinny,
“Will she come back?”
“Probably not.”
I reckon if I could have lived in a bookstore, my life would have been a dream. But the devil had other plans.
Outside of Charlie’s, a guy asked me for a loan of a tenner. I gave him five and he said,
“That makes me half-grateful.”
The dog didn’t like him much either.
We got back to the flat and I set out a bowl of kibble for Trip. He loved the stuff, especially if I sprinkled some chicken bits in there.
I poured myself a large Jameson, and drained that sucker in one. The bizarre day I’d had, who could blame me.
There was an envelope on the carpet, my name on it. I recognized Mother Superior’s distinctive script.
I opened it and a slim book fell out.
The Art of War
Inside the cover she’d written,
“Bring the war to him.”
Liz Truss becomes the UK prime minister. Bad news for the Northern Ireland Protocol. Neither Sinn Féin nor the Orange Order welcome her victory.
She faces an avalanche of problems.
Ukraine.
Refugees.
Galloping inflation.
Not to mention a fractured Tory party with mumblings of Johnson in the wings in the wild hope of a return to power.
I told all this to the dog, who promptly went to sleep.
I read about the small metal capsules I’d noticed scattered on the streets.
Nitrous oxide.
The newest fad for the young, who opted for this craze instead of booze.
The medical profession already warning of brain damage and other serious side effects. Smoking seemed to pretty much be fully on the way out as vaping spread among the young.
In Tallaght in Dublin, twins, aged eight, their sister, eighteen, were stabbed to death by their twenty-four-year-old brother.
In Canada, two brothers went on a killing spree, knifed ten people to death, injuring eighteen others.
I sat back, trying to figure what would calm my mind amid the frenzy.
Nitrous oxide?
Vaping?
Settled for a plain shot of Jameson, large. The devil you know.
“Security against defeat
Implies
Defensive tactics.
Ability to defeat the enemy
Means
Taking the offensive.”
—Sun Tzu
The Art of War
31
______
I had photos of Raftery on my phone, so I downloaded a stack of those, put my mobile number on the back, and added that a hefty reward was available for any information. When all else fails, put the cash out there.
The Queen died and Prince Charles is the new king.
A ninety-six-gun salute was performed as tribute to the longevity of her reign, the longest serving monarch. When she’d come to Ireland, she seemed to instinctively know how to reach the people. Chatting to a fishmonger in Cork market, giving a speech that began in Irish.
Class.
I walked the dog in Berna woods and his joy in pursuing leaves, then rolling and wallowing in the shrubbery, made my heart soar. In my befuddled and bewildering career, I had briefly the care of a peregrine falcon, and how that bird would fly, that feeling with the dog was reminiscent of it. A short window of near happiness.
Raftery
Was
Found.
32
______
It was late in the evening. I’d made Irish stew, not like my mother made it. I put:
Carrots,
Onions,
Gravy,
Mass of spuds.
And as this came to a nice boil, I added shots of Jameson. I piled it on a plate, put some in the dog’s dish, cracked a long neck, put on Better Call Saul, and tucked in.
This is not by any means a definition of contentment, but it was lurking in that elusive neighborhood. I’d just finished and was debating a cig when the doorbell went. The dog barked, as if he was pissed our evening idyll was interrupted.
I opened the door to Father Pat, who seemed sober. He was dressed in mid-cleric garb, blue jeans but black sweater and the white collar. A mixed message indeed. He asked,
“Something smells good?”
I waved him in, and he literally jumped when he saw the dog, said,
“That’s a dog.”
Before I could snarl, he ventured,
“I’m a cat person.”
Like I gave a flying fuck.
“Want some dinner?”
He looked to the large pot on the range.
“If I’m not intruding.”
I fixed him a bowl, asked,
“To drink?”
Testing his new earned sobriety?
He asked for a glass of milk.
He ate with relish, then suddenly stopped, sat back as if scalded, roared,
“There’s booze in this.”
So?
I said with a measured tone,
“It’s Irish stew. The clue is in the name, Irish.”
He stood up, rage writ large, accused,
“You deliberately tried to sabotage me.”
I said,
“You had a taste, nothing more, don’t sweat it.”
He shook his head, near spat,
“You’re a bad person. I mean, I know that, but I thought you’d have more consideration for your friends.”
I said,
“We’re not friends. I mean, seriously, who has priest friends?”
He reached in his jacket, pulled out a sheet of paper, slapped it on the table. It was the printout I’d had made up, of Raftery. I asked,
“You know where he is?”
He glared at me, sneered,
“I’ve a good mind not to tell you.”
“Then when he attacks another nun, it will be on you.”
He seemed to struggle with this, then,
“He came to me in confession.”
Fuck.
Would we be breaking the seal of that ritual?
He read my mind, answered,
“He didn’t come for confession; he came for confrontation.”
Oh.
I echoed,
“Confrontation?”
He sighed, said,
“He had your leaflet in his hand, said to tell you it would take more than a f— piece of paper to bother him.”
I asked,
“What did you say?”
He gave a small smile, said,
“I asked him not to curse in the confessional.”
I waited, then asked,
“What happened after?”
Pat said,
“He stormed out, kicked the box.”
“And what did you do?”
“I followed him.”
I was so delighted I nearly hugged him, but hugging a priest?
Yeah.
I said,
“That is great. Where did he go?”
Pat was well pleased with himself. He took his time, then,
“There’s a house for refugees off Sheridan’s pub, on the right side of the docks, number seventeen, Raglan Road. With the number of people milling about, it’s perfect cover for hiding in plain sight.”
I admitted,
“You did good.”
He was pleased, asked,
“When will the Guards be alerted?”
“No Guards.”
He protested,
“You must call them, what? You think you can take him on your own?”
I said,
“I’ll have help.”
He wasn’t satisfied.
“I’m not convinced; you probably mean your hurly.”
He was right, I would bring that, but I also would call Quinlan.
Pat, as he headed for the door, asked,
“You won’t do vigilante stuff?”
I gave him my best smile.
Quinlan arrived at my apartment, dressed for a hunt.
Black combat trousers, black T, black plimsolls, black windbreaker.
I said,
“Black is the new vengeance.”
He had a holdall that he laid gingerly on the floor. I looked at him, asked,
“Is that incendiary?”
He gave me a tight smile.
“It’s not sandwiches.”
“You have a plan?”
And he laughed, said,
“It’s Raftery, plans are redundant.”
I got my rucksack, put the hurly in, put on my all-weather Garda coat. The weather had turned cold in the second week of Sept. Quinlan glanced at the Jameson bottle, said,
“We’ll have a drink after.”
After what? I wondered, but kept that thought to myself.
We got to the house in early evening, and it was a-buzz with activity. A mass of people milling about but there was an air of desperation over everything. Quinlan nodded to three men off to the right, said,
“They’re Ukraine.”
I didn’t know how he could tell as there were so many nationalities gathered. I asked,
“How can you tell?”
He gave a bitter sigh, said,
“They seem to have a look of hope.”
Jesus.
I said,
“Fuck, that’s cynical.”
He shrugged, said,
“Naw, just Ireland today.”
We pushed our way inside, found what appeared to be some sort of reception desk with a tall thin man sorting through reams of paper, and were pointedly ignored. Quinlan slapped his large right hand hard on the papers, said,
“Bit of manners, eh.”
The man had a name tag:
Albert.
He seemed for a short moment to consider removing Quinlan’s hand, but something whispered to him,
