Sanctuary (2 page)

Jesus, that was scary and I told him so.

He made a sound that carried all the implications of ‘
tell me about it
'. He said, ‘Try working in the Post Office. Lots of people who've had your experience think we are responsible. But Jack, let's lower it a notch, to ease your concern.'

I'd love to hear how he intended to achieve that.

He continued, ‘You have, let's face it, a high profile – all that stuff with the tinkers, the Magdalene Laundries, the priest, and just about everybody knows you. How hard would it be to follow you to wherever you live? You're not exactly invisible.'

This was lowering it a notch?

I said, ‘Thanks, Sean. I appreciate it.'

‘Glad to be of help. Just treat it like junk mail – dump it.'

Right.

I'd sworn I was out of the investigation business, but this was personal, or so the lunatic who wrote it implied. I had some choices.

I could just ignore it, or . . .

That
or
has been the curse of my life.

Earlier that morning, I had checked out the first guard mentioned and sure enough, a Garda Flynn had been killed in a hit and run just over a week ago. The letter-writer could be just using his death to lure me into a sick game, but my instinct told me it wasn't so. Despite Sean's reassurances,
this Benedictus knowing where I lived was like an ominous cloud.

I was still staring at the water and a guy passing said, ‘Jesus, jump or get off the frigging path.'

He wasn't working with the Samaritans, I guessed.

 

 

 

 

I decided I'd better do something about the letter, and the action I thought of filled me with dread.

My best friend, way back in my early days as a young guard, had been Clancy. I got bounced and he went all the way to the top and was now Superintendent. We shared a history. Over the years, my involvement in some cases had made him look bad and he had been determined to even the score. His early friendship with me had become a bitter enmity. He loathed me with a ferocious passion, saw me as a drunk, a loser – you get the picture. And the fact that I'd solved some cases he'd abandoned made it worse.

I was now renting a small place in Dominic Street. It was only temporary, I told myself. When Ridge got
back on her feet I'd head for America. It was tiny, just a living room and a bedroom, and cost a fortune, like everything in our new rich city. Someone had cooked a lot of curry in it at one time and the smell still lingered. I had a single bed, ten books, yeah, ten, one sofa, one kettle, and what passed for a shower, behind a cardboard alcove.

Oh, lest I forget, and a portable television, black and white, that flickered constantly, like my bloody life.

 

Next morning, I was sneezing. I suppose if you stand on a bridge for a few hours in the driving rain, you're not going to be the picture of health.

I dressed in my one suit, a shirt that was more grey than white, a Galway tie and a pair of Timberland boots I'd bought for my trip to America. I'm sure they would have been real useful in Mexico. I had a coffee – black, as I'd forgotten to buy milk. It tasted as bitter as I felt. I took a deep breath and headed out.

At least the rain had stopped and something that might have been the sun was trying to make an appearance.

It failed.

My building had six apartments and I'd only met one of the neighbours, a very camp gay who liked to play. His name, or so he said, was Albert. ‘Or you can call me Hon if you like, big guy.'

How the fuck do I find them or they me? It's like
there's a neon sign above my head that reads: ‘Gather here, you crazies of all creeds.'

They did.

He was in his very bad late thirties, emaciated to the point of anorexia, always dressed in black and with the worst comb-over I've ever seen.

He was coming out of his apartment and was, of course, dressed in black. On seeing my black suit, he screamed in mock horror, ‘Oh my God! One of us will have to change.'

I tried to get past him as quickly as I could, said, ‘It's a little late for me to become gay.'

Took him a moment, then he playfully punched my arm.

I loved that.

And he said, ‘Oh you, you are wicked.'

Is there a reply to this? I mean, seriously.

He continued, ‘Jack. Is it OK to call you Jack? I'm having a little
soirée
on Friday and I'd love you to come. Nothing fancy, just bring yourself and a lot of alcohol or drugs. Just kidding – but do bring drugs.'

I gave him the look. His accent was that new trend, quasi-American and very fucking annoying. I asked, ‘Where are you from?'

Paused a second then said, ‘Aren't we all citizens of
le monde
, dear heart? But if you must know and you swear never to tell a soul, I'm from Cork.'

I was pretty sure they didn't use
soirée
a whole lot
in Cork, but Ireland was changing so fast, maybe they did. I asked, ‘And did you play hurling?'

The finest hurlers come from Cork. They are born with a hurley in their fist.

He was not amused. ‘Hardly.'

I said, ‘Well, here's the deal. In my shitty room there, I've got a hurley and if you ever call me any of those endearments again, I'll give you a real fast lesson in the game.'

He faltered for a moment before recovering. ‘You brute, you. Must dash. Don't forget Good Friday.'

I shouted, ‘I don't do parties.'

He threw back, ‘Never too late to start, even for a man of your senior years.'

Touché.

 

 

 

 

The killer was staring at the montage on the wall.

There were photos of two guards, a nun, a judge, a young child and, heading them, a large photo of Jack Taylor. Posted above this in gothic letters was the word
Benediction
. A small table beneath the display held six candles. One had been blown out.

‘The first shall be last,' said the killer, addressing the photo of Taylor. The killer had left out that little detail from the letter, wanted it to be a surprise.

‘Sanctus.'

Kill Taylor.

The killer took a long carving knife from the table and began to cut a deep wedge along the
right arm. The pain was a moment in arriving and when it did, the killer let out a deep
aah
of agonized pleasure, whispered, ‘The blood of the innocents.'

 

 

 

 

I hadn't phoned ahead for an appointment with Superintendent Clancy – he'd have blown me off so I was going cold. I didn't have far to go. The Guards station was at the top of Dominic Street, and a sign across from it, mounted over the river, proclaimed, ‘Call the Samaritans first!'

And what?

If they didn't help, you could jump in the river?

The station was relatively quiet, and thank Christ, the young guard behind the counter didn't know me. I asked if I might see the super. He inquired as to the nature of my business and asked for my name. I gave that then said, ‘Personal.'

He told me to take a seat and picked up the phone.

His face changed as he listened and I knew he was getting an earful on who I was. He summoned me and now he'd a hard edge. ‘He's in a meeting. Won't be free for at least two hours.'

I said I'd wait.

I'd been expecting this shite and had brought along a book,
The Secular Journal of Thomas Merton
.

Merton and a pint had been my staple diet for years until I lost faith in him and the pints lost faith in me. Fair trade off, I guess. Now I was trying to reconnect with him. I cracked open the book and hit on this:

‘I read William Saroyan when I was too tired to read the hard stuff.'

Jesus, I was too tired for the hard stuff.

I became engrossed in Merton's account of Harlem and almost didn't feel the three hours go by.

Almost.

The station was getting busy, a line of non-nationals seeking driving licences, passports, help. They were cowed and defeated in their demeanour.

Welcome to the land of a thousand welcomes.

A drunk was dragged in by two burly cops, shouting, ‘Kerry will win the All Ireland!' As they tried to drag him to the cells, he spotted me, screamed, ‘I know you. You're a drunk.'

I didn't answer.

One of the guards gave him a wallop on the side of
the head and he shut up. The non-nationals pretended not to see it; they were learning the game.

Finally, the young guard called me, said, ‘He'll see you now.' Then added with a smirk, ‘Sorry to have kept you waiting.'

Right.

I was buzzed through to Clancy's office. It was even larger than I remembered and alight with awards, citations, honours. He was dressed in his full regalia, the dress blues, the stripes. He'd put on a ton of weight, he looked like a fat Buddha in a uniform, without the serenity. On his massive desk was a sheaf of files and a framed photo of him, his wife, I presume and a young boy. There was a hard chair in front of the desk and I looked at it.

‘Don't bother, you won't be here long enough to warm yer arse,' he said.

‘And good to see you too, Super.'

He snapped, ‘Boyo, don't try any of your lip, I'll have you out of here in jig time. I thought you'd fucked off to America and we were finally rid of you.'

I gave him my best smile. I have terrific teeth, cost me a bundle after a guy removed my old ones with an iron bar. I said, ‘I got sidetracked.'

He leaned back in his chair, gave me his full inspection, then said, ‘A hearing aid! Doesn't seem to have improved your ability to listen much. What do you want? And make it brief.'

I told him about the letter, showed it to him.

He laughed, not out of warmth or humour, asked, ‘You write this yourself, Taylor?'

I counted to ten, then said, ‘Garda Flynn was killed, just like it says there.'

He threw the letter back at me. ‘An unfortunate hit and run. Is this what you've wasted my time for?'

I tried to remember the time when we'd been friends, but it was too long ago. I asked, ‘Won't you at least check it out?'

He stood up. Despite his weight, he was still imposing. Oozing hostility, he said, ‘We have serious business to attend to, not this nonsense. Take my advice, Taylor. Get the fuck to America or wherever, there's nothing for you in this town, in my town.'

I stood up. ‘And if there's another death, what then?'

He shook his head. ‘Go on, get out of here. Have a drink or something, it's all you're fit for.'

At the door I said, ‘God bless you.'

He indicated my book, said, ‘It's that rubbish that has you the nobody you are.'

 

 

 

 

Judge M. Healy was the very opposite of a so-called ‘hanging judge'.

He went so far in the other direction that it had become a running joke. Defence lawyers loved him, and the prosecution loathed and despised him. His motivation was one: notoriety, and two: he'd been a defence lawyer and had been slapped down so often, he was out to make his mark another way.

It got him the headlines he craved and inflated his ego. In the previous six months, he'd had before him:

A violent rapist. Sentence: two years suspended.

A paedophile priest. Sentence: counselling.

A wife beater. Sentence: Six months' community service.

A drunk driver who killed a young woman: Sentence: rehab.

Outrage, of course, but short-lived and soon forgotten.

Removing a judge in Ireland is like trying to stop the Galway rain. Plus, he was a huge supporter of the government and, with elections due, he was secure.

And smug with it.

Very.

He'd reply, when challenged, ‘The jails are overcrowded. I'm giving these people a second chance.'

And it never cost him a moment's sleep.

He kept a luxury apartment in the city centre and used it to entertain the growing number of women who sought his
expertise
. Life was good and he knew it was only a matter of time till he got appointed to the supreme court.

That Friday evening, he finished court early. He was the judge, he could finish whenever he wished. He was anticipating an evening of fine food, some vintage cognac, a call from the government chief whip, and a young lady to blow his trumpet later.

He reached the apartment feeling as if he ruled the world, and rubbed his stomach at what the evening promised. He poured himself a cognac, swirled it
round in the glass and let out a deep
aah
of contentment. When the brandy had warmed his stomach, he went into the bedroom to change into something loose and comfortable.

He nearly dropped his snifter when he saw the noose dangling in the middle of the room, and a voice said, ‘You get to be the hanging judge after all.'

 

 

 

 

I was having a coffee in the Eyre Square Centre, listening to the various conversations round me. The main topic was the poisoning of the water system. Nearly a quarter of the town had been to the hospital with diarrhoea and vomiting, and some of the schools had been closed. The bug lasted up to two weeks and finally the powers that be had announced that the water was contaminated and instructed us not to drink it.

I thought,
Now they tell us?

They suspected a parasite in the water. Tests were being carried out and meanwhile, they suggested, we should boil all water or drink bottled water.

In other words, they hadn't a clue and were covering their arses.

The supermarkets had run out of supplies and were madly scrambling to get bottled water brought in from nearby towns.