The Ghosts of Galway

33

I went to a little-frequented pub off the docks. Not the one where I go to purchase guns but the one you go for solitude. I had a lot to be solitary about.

Emily’s friend Hayden, the young kid who literally ran me over. I had his address so did I go and punch his ticket?

And when,

Fucking when?

Did I take Emily off the board my own self?

What was it that prevented me from dealing with her? It was as if she was the one friend/enemy/ally who kept me tenuously connected to life.

Makes no sense, Christ above, I know that.

As I downed my first Black pint and Jay chaser, I muttered to myself and, oh, sweet Lord, as if invoking the wrath of the fates, said this,

“What does she have to do that finally stirs me to action?”

Be real careful what you mutter. It’s not always the force of light that is listening.

The pub was so far under the radar that you could light a cig and nobody gave a good fuck.

Too, this pub was infamous for its reputation for ghosts.

Yup, ghosts.

It was said the souls of the despaired linger on here after closing time.

To my left, wreathed in smoke, was a dark figure, putting back single brandies like time had run out.

Maybe it had.

Years ago, I had encountered an ex-exorcist in this very place and he had affected me to my very core. Peering closer, I realized with a jolt that it was the same man.

Jesus wept, and the man was staring at me, so I raised the Jameson, said,

“Slainte a match.”

His face was so lined, you could plant spuds there. Not so much lived in as squatted in.

He gave a rueful smile, asked,

“Care to join me, Jack?”

I did.

Saw he had his own bottle of booze under the table, he saw me glance at it, asked,

“You ever eat Kettle crisps?”

WTF?

I said,

“I’m old school. It’s Tayto for me.”

That seemed to trigger a memory for him and he gave a wide smile. The change made him look like a warm, compassionate human being. He said,

“Reason I ask is the owner of said crisps sold the company for a zillion dollars and then he produced his own vodka, made purely from the humble spud, and it won the best vodka of the year 2015. It is so pure you don’t get a hangover.”

I seriously doubted that but what the hell, if it worked for him!

He said,

“Called Chase.”

I said, without thinking,

“As in, cut to the?”

Again that smile.

I said,

“I’m sorry but I forgot your name.”

Dark cloud danced across his eyes. He near spat,

“Legion.”

Then he not so much smiled as grimaced. There was something way off about him. Previously, though I remembered him as deeply wounded, truly damaged, there was a warmth in him, made all the more appealing by his very shattered heart.

Now, he reeked of a sly maliciousness, a meanness that lit his mouth like a nasty knife gash.

He said,

“Here, they call me Jacob or...”

And here he tittered.

(If you have ever heard tittering, then you know it is really appalling.)

Continued,

“They call me Father Jacob when they want to borrow money or even when...”

Pause.

Then snigger.

“They want a blessing.”

The idea of blessing seemed to cause him huge mirth. What the fuck ever, I had enough, and said,

“Bhi curamach”— Be careful.

He stared right at me, said,

“I switched sides.”

I didn’t want to know, said,

“Right, good luck with that.”

He suddenly trembled, intoned,

“You have the death of the young girls on your dirty soul.”

Uttered with such ferocity that I reeled back, managed,

“One. One little girl, Serena May.”

He cackled.

I got the fuck away from him. At the door I felt a whoosh of wind and turned back to see him hold up two fingers and mouth

“Two.”

Months later, I watched the TV series based on The Exorcist. There is a scene where the embattled priest Marcus shouts at the demon in an old crone’s body,

“I compel you in the name of Our Lord to leave this woman’s body.”

There is a moment as the woman is silent then the eyes flash open and a deep voice sneers,

“Do I seem compelled?”

The voice sounded eerily like Jacob.

Or, indeed, Father Jacob.