by Ken Bruen
“You ever coming back to the country?”
I said,
“I’d like to find those kids of the so-called miracle.”
Keefer thought about that, said,
“That leaves three cases—the abusive murdering husband, the arsonist, and the troll who caused the death of the teenager.”
“Two,”
I said.
The food came. It looked like a veritable avalanche of food. Keefer said,
“Fuck, wish we’d stayed on the rocks.”
He made a halfhearted attempt to eat but the sheer amount seemed to defeat him. He asked the waitress for a pot of strong black coffee, then to me said,
“You took care of one of them. I kind of hope it wasn’t the arsonist. I’d like to deal with him personally.”
I said,
“The troll.”
He drank some coffee, seemed restored, asked,
“How?”
I really didn’t want to relive it due to a blend of guilt and horror over the lengths I had gone to, so I said simply,
“I marked her card.”
Benjamin J. prided himself on his car, a black Bentley, over twenty years old, in pristine condition. He kept it in a garage off the Grattan Road. He rarely drove it as it did tend to draw attention. Alongside it was a very battered pickup truck, so beat-up it was hard to even gauge its color. This was, as he termed it,
“His business truck.”
If he ever got nicked, the pickup contained all the evidence necessary to convict him. The risk of that added to its faded allure. Connie stood beside him now as he put various items in the truck. He watched her as she admired the Bentley.
He handed her a set of keys, said,
“Knock yourself out.”
She looked at him, asked,
“Really?”
He gave her the wolf smile, said,
“What’s mine is yours, dear.”
She got behind the wheel, turned the ignition, and felt a stirring as the engine roared. Since meeting Benjamin J. she was in a haze of simmering heat.
She looked at the truck, asked,
“You planning on some building?”
He laughed, said,
“Exactly the opposite. This is more about destructing.”
Yet again she’d no idea what he meant but loved the way he said it. He gave her a smile of utter malevolence, asked,
“So want to burn shit down?”
She thought,
God help me, I’m up for everything, even the sacrifice of Brid.
When I was a little girl
I used to dress my Barbie in a nun’s habit
So she could beat the hell out of Skipper
And not get in trouble.
(Brynn Harris, comedian)
Tiger Woods won the Masters, staging one of the greatest comebacks of all time. On the twelfth hole of the final round, the leader board was a mess of contenders vying for the top spot. You could almost see Tiger look at it, steel himself, think,
Enough of this shit.
And an electric buzz ran through the crowd as Tiger seemed to change. The energy was almost tangible as he bit down and intimidated the wannabes, took the title to huge cheers. The trauma, pain, sordid stories all seemed to fade away as Tiger exploded with joy when he sank the winning putt.
So redemption was possible.
One of the commentators said,
“It’s a miracle.”
I was in Crowe’s pub when Tiger sank that putt and even guys who hated him rose to cheer.
It took the focus off the lead national story: the president of the FAI, Delaney, tried to get a superinjunction to prevent details getting out of his lending the football association 100,000 euros.
This opened the door to details of lavish spending, the usual rackets most often associated with the charities. In a rapidly escalating farce, Delaney resigned as president, created the position of vice executive president, and—guess what?—appointed his own good self to this position.
The tragedy of all this thievery was the grassroots clubs, struggling to pay for the most basic amenities.
The Church, meanwhile, as shocking details emerged about the beloved Bishop Casey, revealed the affable popular bishop to be one of the most horrendous child abusers.
At first, even his most ardent supporters, though reeling in horror, refused to believe it, but the landslide of evidence proved the allegations. The last folk hero of the people was a monster all along.
A very bitter pill to swallow in Galway, which had defended him all those years.
A guy beside me in Crowe’s, reading the Sunday paper, said,
“I fucking believe nothing now.”
The Church had laid down a decree that details of payouts to victims, the crimes of the perpetrators, would be sealed for—wait for it—
Seventy-five years.
You had to shout,
“How are they getting away with this shite?”
A guy sitting on my right kept sneaking looks at me. At first I didn’t take too much notice but then it began to snip at my nerves. I asked,
“Help you with something?”
He had a shifty air about him, like he knew where your wallet was and, worse, where it was headed. He said,
“I know you, just can’t quite place it.”
There are times you sit easily in a pub, the TV is off and all you hear are the muted conversations; something comforting about it. You’re only half aware of your surroundings but it’s peaceful. As you tune in and out of the chat. That was now pretty much fucked.
Then he lit up, said,
“You’re that guy, the miracle fellah. A truck walloped you and those kids brought you back to life.”
Lord above, how stories get embellished. I hadn’t the energy to tell him the facts but he was far from done, he said,
“So, if I touch you, I’ll be like blessed.”
I turned round to full face him, said,
“You touch me, blessed is the very last thing you’ll be.”
If you ever walk past a nun
Immediately
Touch a piece of iron
Or say
“Your nun”
To a passerby
Passing
The bad luck
To them.
(Italian superstition)
Connie still considered herself a nun but whether official religions would recognize her as such was open to debate. Back in her days as a prison chaplain, she had viewed nuns as basically lesser than her own profession but being stripped of her chaplainship had cut deep. Sure, she had violated some rules of the correctional facility, but she felt they overreacted by insisting she not be sacked but relieved of her profession.
She felt it was humility to reinvent herself as a nun—plus the scrutiny was less rigorous. You had to love California; you were a nun if you said so.
Now, she was deep in the affair with Benjamin J. Cullen. Piece by slow piece he had revealed his hobby.
Arson.
Shocked? She was less horrified than she might have expected. You had a man who treated you like a queen. So what if he indulged in a little mischief.
Brid. Ah, Brid, becoming more and more of a problem, whining on an hourly basis.
Benjamin disappeared frequently, on business he said, offering,
“How else can I continue to treat you like a princess, huh?”
He’d come back from a trip to France. If you’ll excuse the dreadful pun, he was all lit up, said to her in a tone of huge excitement,
“Damn near achieved a masterpiece.”
She’d no idea what he was on about. He said,
“Turn on the TV.”
She did.
Notre-Dame was on fire.
One of the investigators of the Notre-Dame fire, a veteran of global infernos, had once worked with Red Adair. The official verdict was, perhaps, an electrical spark. This investigator, named O’Rourke, decided to walk the surrounding perimeter and stopped as he noticed a small bundle of long-stem matches, picked one up, saw it was the nonsafety kind, pondered it for a moment, then shrugged, dropped the match, moved on.
Ireland was in shock; a young journalist, Lyra, aged twenty-eight, covering an event, was shot dead. Huge crowds turned out declaring they would not tolerate a return to the old days of violence.
I was watching a documentary titled Moving Statues: The Summer of 1985.
For fifteen mad weeks, the country was gripped by reports of life-size statues that moved, wobbled, wept, and swayed. Small villages, reporting a movement of Our Lady, would suddenly be engulfed by up to twenty thousand pilgrims, then a sighting in another village and the crowds moved on. Perhaps the most telling aspect of all this was the Church’s reaction: condemned it as manipulating the most vulnerable of the people. That, of course, was its province. Not to mention that the official shrines, the real money earners like Knock, might have a dip in revenue.
Mass hysteria was cited as the cause and one bishop termed it contagion.
The current miracle in Galway hadn’t really mushroomed. The absence of the children was one factor and the crowds began to fall off.
No matter all my inquires I hadn’t found the children; they seemed to have vanished. Monsignor Rael, the Vatican guy sent to quell the phenomenon, came to see me. He appeared to be well pleased the whole matter had evaporated.
He was in my apartment, looking with slight distaste at the lack of furnishings, asked,
“Is this just a temporary home?”
I didn’t like him any better than the first time I’d met him. I said,
“Surely all of our existence is temporary.”
He didn’t rise to the bait, said,
“The fee we gave you?”
Waited.
I said nothing. He continued,
“Let’s call it a retainer: We may need your irregular services in the future.”
I asked,
“You’re done with the miracle, that’s it, end of story?”
He smiled, a very ancient one, framed from decades of Vatican chicanery, said,
“It was never really going anywhere but best to nip it in the bud.”
I pushed.
“The welfare of the children, that doesn’t concern you, even a little?”
The smile mutated into something more sinister. He said,
“When and if they show up we shall of course be very attentive.”
Then he changed direction, rubbed his finely manicured hands, said,
“Let’s have a wee drink to mark the end of this whole sorry episode. You do have libations, I’m sure. I mean, it’s what you do after all, drink?”
My turn, I snarled,
“Not if your life depended on it.”
He actually made that tut-tut sound that grinds my nerves, said,
“How small-minded of you, Taylor, but everything in your small world is thus. Tiny gestures masquerading as victories.”
Something occurred to me and I said,
“Malachy, I imagine he’s not about to be our next bishop?”
Now he laughed outright, sneered,
“That imbecile was never in the frame, good heavens, he’s the worst kind of PR.”
I really wanted to batter him into humility but that would be pretty much a lost cause. I said,
“You need to go now.”
He took a last look around, said,
“If I cared at all, I might even pity you.”
I opened the door, wanting to be shot of him and his maliciousness.
I said,
“The terrible thing is, there are some decent priests around. I’ve even met one or two, but you, you’re more than likely the new face of the future, the slick corporate asshole who never leaves prints.”
He was delighted at this, said,
“For a moment there, Taylor, you verged on actual insight. I doubt we’ll meet again but it’s been entertaining.”
Not sure if I even thought about it as my hand lashed out and slapped his face, twice, hard and fierce.
He was stunned, took a moment to focus, then warned,
“You’ll regret that.”
I finally got to smile, said,
“My whole life is a tapestry of regret but I promise you that will never, ever be something to add to the list.”
For the first time, in a very long time, I felt a tiny touch of pride in my own self.
A
MIRACLE
ENGULFED
OBLITERATED
DECIMATED
IN
FIRE
Benjamin J. was outlining the plan to Connie. Almost every aspect of it horrified her. He registered her reluctance, demanded,
“Who said those children had to die to make this miracle unique? Wasn’t that your idea?”
She didn’t answer, lost in the part where Brid had to die. He moved in front of her and, with slow measured timing, slapped her face, harsh enough to leave the track of his fingers on her cheek. He snarled,
“Either get with the game or wallow in obscurity. You want to burn with glory or be like that parasite Brid, a feeble thing that pisses and moans.”
She managed to pull herself together, said,
“I’m in.”
He gave her a second slap, keep the vibe alive as it were. Then,
“Here’s what we’re going to do. You and Brid go in the house. I’ll have dealt with the children and their minder, so no problem there. The timers will kick in and you simply need to ensure your ally joins the martyrs.”
He seemed to relish the word martyrs, continued,
“Then you stagger outside, your arm badly burned, collapse beautifully for your photo opportunity, wail, oh I tried to save them. The media will lap it up.Then you can swoon or whatever you deem appropriate.”
He paused, asked,
“You can do hysteria, right?”
She could barely think but said,
“I’m hysterical already.”
He raised his hand, warned,
“Save it. We don’t want to appear rehearsed.”
He moved to the drink cabinet, plucked out a bottle of Black Bushmills, said,
“Let’s have a wee dram to cement our grand design.”
Her mind was already in flames and a moment of insane logic had her ask,
“Isn’t Bushmills the Protestant drink?”
The best laid plans.
Connie moved through the smoking house, flames everywhere. Brid had gone upstairs to deal with the children and the carer. To her astonishment, she found one child dead, his throat cut, and the carer bedside him, also dead. No sign of the other child. She rushed down to tell Connie, who walloped her with the tire iron.
Connie hit her again, screaming,
“I’m so sorry!”
The fire was in full rage, she whispered,
“Another minute and I’m out of here.”
She did as Benjamin had instructed and put out her hand, let the fire travel up to her shoulder. The pain was beyond belief and she quickly managed to douse it but the agony . . . She could hardly see, made her way to the door, pulled the handle.
Locked.
How the fuck could that be?
She turned to see the fire speeding toward her, pulled frantically at the door, then realized, as the flames reached her, that Benjamin had locked her in.
Her last words were
“Oh, Brid.”
The fire took her.
It took two batt
alions of firefighters nearly five hours before the blaze could be contained. A fire inspector, hours later, on his first cursory inspection, hung his head in shock, said to his deputy,
“Multiple casualties, including a child.”
The deputy said,
“Sweet Jesus.”
Benjamin J. watching the inferno from a safe distance, laid out five nonsafety matches, said,
“One each.”
He prided himself on his expertise with figures, never got them wrong.
He did now.
His count of five was wrong.
It was four.
The fire and resultant deaths did not play large in the media, as you would have expected. Almost immediately it was suppressed, with a report saying,
“Tragic accident involving members of a religious community.”
No one wanted to stir up what might be a fiasco, with the death of the miracle child, a highly suspicious fire, the death of two American nuns. The term “ongoing investigation” successfully quelled awkward questions.
The miracle of Galway was officially dead.
I met with Owen Daglish, bought him the obligatory drinks, and let him talk. He seemed as shocked as anyone else, began with,
“It’s a clusterfuck of epic size.”
I waited.
Then,
“The two dodgy nuns, Yanks, only added to the potential scandal so it is felt that the whole shebang is best left alone.”
I asked,
“And the child? Where is the other one?”
He shrugged, said,
“Collateral damage, but the Church seems relieved the whole miracle business is over.”
I pushed,
“What about arson?”
He rounded on me, literally put a hand to my mouth, warned,
“Shush. Jesus, don’t even breathe the word.”
He drank a double Jameson in a gulp, said,
“The Guards would be in deep shit if arson had occurred, especially as it was suspected for some time that other dodgy fires were never fully investigated.”
I sneered,
“Case closed.”
He had no answer so I ventured,
“Ever hear of Benjamin J. Cullen?”
I could tell by his face that he had. He looked away, then said,
“No.”
I said,
“You’re a bad liar.”
That gem hovered over for us until he said,