by Peter Murphy
“And was Miriam well?” He shouldn’t have said her name again but he couldn’t help it. It felt so nice to be able to talk with somebody about her.
He knew all about their meeting; Miriam had updated him on the phone. She had called him, but it was appropriate on account of the fact that they were trying to help Danny, and besides, Fr. Brennan had taken his medicine and was sound asleep.
**
“I’m not sure,” he had ventured, unsure if he had understood. He was always having to remind Miriam that she was back in Ireland now and not off in America where you could say or do anything—where she had got herself into so much trouble. “Not to mention what might happen if her father found out. We are a bit more shy about scandals over here.”
“Don’t try pulling the priest act with me, Patrick. I’ve seen it all before. Let’s just think about what’s best for these two young people. This is just as much about Deirdre, you know?”
“How so?”
“Come on, even a priest must able to tell that they are in love.”
Her tone changed and sounded more wistful. He was never really sure what she meant by that but he knew she was trying to tell him something that she couldn’t say over the phone. There was nothing for it but that he’d be better off talking with her face-to-face. It was the only way he could be sure. And besides, he hadn’t seen her since before she left for Rome.
“You know, Miriam. We shouldn’t be talking like this over the phone. If someone was to overhear they might get the wrong impression.”
He had heard Fr. Brennan get out of bed and he’d be down any minute—and probably naked, too. “I’ll be downtown on Saturday afternoon and we could meet up and have a proper chat.”
***
“And tell me,” he asked Deirdre, after he had savored every detail of Miriam. “Do you have any news about Danny?”
“That’s the reason I’ve come to see you. I bumped into him the other day and we ended up going for coffee. I can’t be sure, Father, but I think he is really trying to change his ways.”
Fr. Reilly didn’t look directly at her. He stood to one side. He thought about resting his foot on the low part of the wall like Chuck O’Malley would have done, but it might be inappropriate, standing like a bluebeard.
“I’m of the same mind, Deirdre, and I think Danny will need all of our help.”
Danny had come to see him the day after he had gone to see the police, after he had some time alone to think about what he should do.
He had started to come back to confession, too, his bless-me-Father evoking older memories.
Until he told him about the night Scully died and how he had been tricked into leaving his fingers on the gun. He knew he had sinned but he was sorry now and wanted to ask for God’s forgiveness.
Fr. Reilly couldn’t deny him that. Nor could he ever divulge what had been revealed.
“I suppose that all we can do is trust in the power of love.”
He wasn’t sure but he thought Deirdre blushed before she smiled and thanked him. She told him that she did and excused herself—she had a few errands to do for her mother. He stood by the gate and watched her walk away. She reminded him of Miriam. She walked so purposefully, too. Though sometimes high-heels made her teeter a little.
Sometimes, with Miriam, he almost hoped she might stumble a bit so he could reach out and steady her.
*
“Are you well, Father?”
Jacinta had just come out of the church and had probably seen him watching Deirdre walk away. He’d have to be far more careful than that and not let his mind wander. They had enough of that with Fr. Brennan.
“Tell me, Father,” she asked after he had inquired after her, her husband, and Danny. And she had assured him that they were all as well as could be expected—given the circumstances. “Do you think that there could still be real miracles in the world?”
“I do indeed, Mrs. Boyle.” He was delighted that she wanted to talk about something cheery. He never knew how to deal with her when she was depressed—her having been in the hospital for all those years. He was always afraid he might say something that might send her back there.
Sometimes, when trying to deal with the day-to-day, he doubted his vocation but at least he knew how to talk about miracles. “We are surrounded by little miracles every day, only we never notice. We usually have our heads down, praying for big ones.”
He waited to see if he had said the right thing, and, after she had wrinkled her brow for a moment, she smiled like he hadn’t seen her do before.
“Good, because I think one is after happening to me. I think Nora appeared to me, by the little altar. Not that I’m surprised, mind you, I’ve felt her there a number of times and today she finally appeared to me.”
Fr. Reilly was unsure. If someone else had said it to him he would have been sure that they were speaking symbolically. Not that he doubted Heaven and those saints who could come back to visit a bit of good on those who prayed to them. He just wasn’t sure if Nora Boyle was such.
And, if Jacinta was to go around telling people, he would have to let the Bishop know and he could imagine what he might say: Apparitions of Nora Boyle by the side altar. Should we have RTE over to cover it for the six o’clock news? The Bishop didn’t have time for miracles, he was far too busy trying to carry out God’s will.
“And did you find comfort in that?” He smiled as kindly as he could.
“Of course I did, Father. She told me that Danny would be kept safe. She came back from Heaven just to tell me that.”
She looked content in that, so Fr. Reilly let it pass. “But I am sure she still wants us all to do whatever we can to help him.”
“I realize that, Father. I’m not mad, you know.”
“It’s not that, Mrs. Boyle, it’s that God works His miracles through us and we all have our part to play.”
“Sure; isn’t that what Nora just told me.”
There was no point. Jacinta must have cracked again and he couldn’t blame her. The whole thing with Danny must have been too much for her but at least she seemed happy. “Will you tell Danny? It might do him good to know that we are all pulling for him.”
“Of course I’ll tell him. I tell him how I was able to get his Granny to help, not like his father. He hasn’t even raised a finger to help.”
He tried to assure her that Jerry was probably doing all that he could, but he wasn’t convincing. He rarely saw Jerry anymore; he hadn’t been to Mass in years. He felt bad about that. Jerry was lost and there was nothing poor Patrick could do about that, but there was still time for Danny.
“And Mrs. Boyle, would you ever tell Danny that I’ll say a Mass for him this Sunday. Only I won’t announce it so as not to have people talking.”
Jacinta was grateful for that and hurried off because the shops would be closing and her without anything for their tea.
*
As everyone else settled down for the night, feeling that it had been a good day, Danny snuck out his bedroom window. He had to meet Anto at midnight and he was dreading it. Anto had told him that he had a favor to ask and then they’d be even. They were to meet up on Willbrook Road. It was darker up that way and the Watchers wouldn’t be about. Anto wasn’t afraid of them; he just wanted to have a little chat in peace.
“How are ya tonight, Boyle?” the Driller asked, surprising Danny as he climbed into the back seat. He had never spoken to him before. They were taking the road to the mountains but Danny had nothing to fear. He had kept his mouth shut just like he promised.
Except with the priest, but he wouldn’t be able to tell anybody about it.
He still wasn’t sure why he had made his confession. A part of him joked about trying to get on God’s good side, if He had one, but another part of him was really contrite. That part was the one that wanted to start over and get his life on track again, the way everyone wanted him to be—the way Deirdre would want him. He hadn’t really given a shite before, but now it was different.
> “I hear that you and your girlfriend are getting back together,” Anto smiled over his shoulder.
Danny wasn’t surprised. He knew that nothing happened that Anto didn’t get to hear about. There were plenty of little snivellers around who reported to him in the hope of currying favor.
“All kissed and made up, Boyle?” the Driller joined in.
“Ah sure, you know yourselves, lads. Am I right?”
They all agreed and relaxed as the Driller changed to a lower gear to climb the hills.
“So what’s the crack, tonight?” Danny asked when the silence became ominous and memories of Scully flitted by in the darkness.
“Not a lot. I just had something to do up this way and I thought we could have a little chat.”
As the lights of an oncoming car flashed like lightening, Anto turned instinctively and then grinned at Danny: “We are going to need you to go over to London and pick up a few things for us.
“Don’t look so shocked. It’s no big deal. We’ll send you over to watch a football match and the guy who’ll sit beside you will leave a few packages. Just stuff them inside your clothes and no one will notice. Nobody pays attention to the football crowd. It’s totally safe.”
Danny knew the score. He had gone over to see Liverpool a few times and brought packages back. No one ever bothered him. The trick was to wear the team scarf and just hope there weren’t any United fans around.
When they got to the mountains the Driller pulled over, not far from where Scully got killed. They all got out and huddled around the boot as the wet winds whirled. Inside, between the spare tire and the repair kit, lay the big black and brown dog. Its eyes were wide open and its red tongue hung from the side of its mouth. It had two holes in the top of its head and dark streaks of red ran from them.
“I had to,” Anto explained. “I caught the fucker chewing on a package. We can’t have that. We have to have trust—and loyalty. You’d think that a dog would know that.”
“C’mon,” the Driller beckoned to Danny to take hold of the dog’s legs and swing it out. “Danny and I will carry it up behind the trees and dig a hole.”
“Thanks,” Anto sniffled and Danny was sure that he saw a flash of remorse.
They kept their silences all the way back to Rathfarnham. Anto smoked while the Driller hummed softly to himself.
“By the way,” he finally said when they came to a stop outside the Yellow House. He didn’t turn around but spoke to Danny through the rearview mirror. “Someone was asking after the gun.”
“Not that you need to worry,” Anto joined in, still staring at the windshield. “Nobody’s going to find it.”
Danny wasn’t sure, but it felt like they weren’t really talking to him—that they were sending messages to each other. It wouldn’t matter. He would just do this last thing and then he’d be done with them.
CHAPTER 14
Danny laid out his guitar case and sprinkled it with a few coins—seed money to encourage those who passed to give. He raised his guitar to his chest and ducked his head beneath the strap just like the way priests did with their stoles. He turned into the doorway behind him and tried to tune to the hustle and bustle around him as he took a few quick hits. It was how he got ready for his shows.
Only this time he felt different. This time he wasn’t feeling so sarcastic about everything. In fact he was starting to feel better about how things were going to work out. He stood up straight and turned to face the passing crowds.
He took a moment and tried to sense their mood and how they would react. And, as he strummed a few defiant chords to announce that his show was starting, he thought he felt a little flutter inside. He didn’t want to go to London, and it wasn’t just because he might get caught. For the first time since he was a kid he was starting to think about the right and wrong of things.
It started on the bus, after he had a few hits around the corner from the bus stop where nobody could see him. He couldn’t hide from it anymore and just pretend that he was still a teenager doing the stuff because he was bored. It had become a full time job—buying it and selling it—and it had taken over his whole fucking life. Only he had been far too stoned to notice.
What’s worse, he was even working with the pushers and the dealers. He had wandered into Hell without even noticing it. Granny had always said that it would be like having his whole body thrown into a fire but she was wrong. It was more like he had fallen in a vat of shit and was slowly sinking.
He couldn’t get out on his own. He’d need a fucking miracle, or something.
Fr. Reilly said that they still happened—small miracles that changed lives.
Even Deirdre said that Miriam talked about stuff like that happening all the time.
Deirdre had taken him for coffee after the pictures and Danny didn’t get high the whole time. He didn’t need to—when he was with her everything was different. It was almost like the way it was in the songs he sang.
And he wouldn’t sing wistfully anymore. From now on he would sing about the bit of hope Deirdre had given him. She knew what he was like—better than anybody—and she was still willing to give him another chance. He hadn’t had that since . . . his granny got sick.
It wasn’t just Deirdre but her friend Miriam, too. She had seen right through him and yet she encouraged Deirdre to help him.
Fr. Reilly was always saying things to him, too. Stuff about doing what was right just because it was the right thing to do—the way Christ would have wanted. He had convinced Danny that what was happening to him was normal for people in his situation. He was, after all, a child of a “not-ideal” family and had to come to terms with that. And, the whole country had to come to terms with everything that happened in the North—and all the stuff that was happening in the South, too. Fr. Reilly suggested that he start looking at everything from another perspective, that instead of thinking about himself as a sinner, he might consider that he was also a victim.
Even just thinking about it as a “situation” made Danny feel better and Fr. Reilly also told him that he had been given absolution for all that had happened before.
Danny wasn’t sure how he felt about that part, but he liked when everyone said that they could see that he was really trying to change. They even started saying that he was just an “unfortunate young fella.”
His mother said that even his aunts were saying that about him, but, knowing them, they were probably also saying all the other stuff that Fr. Reilly told him he had to learn to ignore.
It was hard because he used to say the same things about himself—all the shite about it being all his fault. A lot of it was, but he had to accept that and put it aside so it wouldn’t get in his way further down the road.
He thought about having another hit but he didn’t want to risk it in case the Garda-fucking-Síochána wandered by. Besides, he had promised he would give it up—and he would, right after he got back from London.
He thought about starting with Coming into Los Angeles, the song he sang when he was trying to have a laugh with himself. Instead, he began to sing Leaving on a Jet Plane and all the passing women responded and left a good scattering of coins in his case. Even the sun poked out for a moment. When he was a kid he liked to think of it as God smiling down on him but then when it rained? What was he supposed to think then?
“That’s the problem with the way the Church tries to teach: they made you think of normal stuff as bad.” Fr. Reilly had told him. He also admitted to Danny that he often wished that people could just talk to God face-to-face so that they could really understand what was being said on His behalf. But he was still on at Danny about going to the Guards and telling them what had really happened.
He couldn’t do that. If he did he’d have to spend the rest of his life hiding in shitholes until they finally tracked him down. No matter what the cops and the priest told him, he knew he could never be free of them. Good stuff like that didn’t happen in his life.
Except Deirdre, but he�
��d fucked that up, too.
He was getting a second chance, though, he couldn`t deny that, even though he knew better than to get excited and start hoping. He used to make that mistake when he was a kid. It wasn`t really anybody`s fault; he knew that now. He was just a fuck-up, just like his father. And his mother? He hated thinking badly about her, but really . . . he had been fucked from the start.
He had to go to London and it wasn’t going to be so easy this time. Since the thing with Scully he had lost his nerve. Watching him die in his own piss brought it all home—the stakes were so much higher now but he had to do it one last time. He didn’t have a choice. They had him by the balls and would probably never let him go, no matter what Anto said.
*
“I think he’s really trying to sort his life out.”
Fr. Reilly had spent the last few days convincing himself, but he couldn’t help but wonder why Danny Boyle had confessed what he did? And what was he supposed to do with what he’d heard? God’s plan in this wasn’t clear to him. He should tell the police but he couldn’t. All he could do was show Danny God’s compassion and hope that he would be moved to do the right thing.
“I’m not sure about that.”
He looked up, into Miriam’s eyes. They were sitting in a small booth near the back, closer than they had been before and he fought the urge to reach across and touch her fingers, just for some human comfort. He envied others that could do that. Hug each other, kiss each other’s cheeks, but all of that was off limits to him. A priest had to be aloof so he could pass on God’s word free of the slants of emotions.
But sometimes he got distracted and thought about it. That was when he forced himself to remember that they were both just very concerned for their protégé. She was Deirdre’s mentor while he was stuck with Danny. Sometimes, he thought he had been given the thin end of the stick, but other times he reminded himself that he should be honored to be chosen as God’s vessel in all of this.
It also allowed him to see Miriam above board and to share his feelings, even if they were about other people.