Like he was seriously irritated now. I said,
“Lose the attitude. Don’t ever talk to me like I’m the fucking hired help. You do and I’ll break your front teeth.”
Outside the restaurant, he’d given me his card. It had his name and three phone numbers. I asked,
He was gone before I could react.
I’d walked towards Shop Street when I felt a tug on my arm. Turned to face my mother. She is your original martyr and is blessed to have me as her drunkard son. The farther down the toilet I go, the better she appears. My father was a good man, and she treated him like dirt. When he died, she did her grieving on the grand scale.
Leaped into widow’s weeds and spent every hour available at the church or graveyard, publicly displaying her loss. Her type usually has a tame cleric in tow. Fr Malachy, a prize asshole, was her escort for the previous years. I wouldn’t have liked him under the best of circumstances, but as her hostage, I out and out despised him. My last encounter, he’d shouted,
“You’ll be the death of your mother.”
I waited a beat before,
“Can I have that in writing?”
His face went purple and he gasped,
“Yah pup yah. Hell won’t be hot enough till you’re in it.”
Who says the golden age of the clergy has passed?
My mother said,
“I saw you at the Augustinian. Were you at mass?”
“Hardly.”
Her eyes had the usual granite hue. Under that scrutiny, you knew mercy was not ever on the agenda. Sometimes, though, she could whine anew. Like now, she said,
“I never see you, son.”
“Ever wonder why?”
“I pray daily for you, offer you at mass.”
“Don’t bother.”
She strived to appear hurt, didn’t carry it off and snapped,
“You’re my flesh and blood.”
My turn to sigh; it was definitely infectious.
“Was there anything else, Mother?”
“You have a hard heart, Jack. Couldn’t we have a cup of tea, talk like civilised human beings?”
I looked at my watch, said,
“I’m late for an appointment. I better go.”
“I haven’t been well.”
“I believe that.”
“Do you, son?”
“Oh, yeah, you never had a well day your whole miserable life.”
Then I was walking away. No doubt, Fr Malachy would receive an earful later. My heart was pounding and I could feel a tremor in my hands. Had to stop and take a breath outside the Imperial Hotel.
A fellah I knew was on his way in, stopped, asked,
“Fancy a pint, Jack?”
There was nothing I wanted more, but I said,
“No thanks, some other time.”
“You sure?”
“I think so.”
Next day, I ditched the suit. Went to the St Vincent de Paul shop and got a blazer, grey slacks and white shirts. Back at the hotel, I tried them on. Not bad and definitely a step up. In the lobby, Mrs Bailey said,
“My! You do look smart.”
“You think?”
“Definitely. A new woman?”
“In a way.”
“Wait a moment.”
She disappeared then returned with a dark knitted tie, said,
“It was my husband’s.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Course you could, now hold still.”
And she tied it for me, said,
“There, you are a handsome man.”
“Thank you.”
I caught a bus at the Square. It broke down before Dominic Street and I figured the hell with it, the walk will do me good.
At Nile Lodge, I checked the address Terence Boyle had given me and began the trek up Taylor’s Hill. No doubt about it, this was where the cash was. Past the Ardilaun Hotel and I came to Irish gates. A brass plate proclaimed, “St Anselm”.
Pushed them open and walked up a long, tree-lined drive. I was struck by the quiet. Like being in the country. Then the house, a three-storey mansion, ivy creeping along the windows. I stood at the front door, rang the bell.
A few minutes later, the door opened. A woman asked,
“Yes?”
English accent with an underlay of Irish. She was that indeterminate age between thirty and forty. Dark hair to her shoulders and a face that should have been pretty but didn’t quite achieve it. Maybe because of the eyes, brown with an unnerving stare. Button nose and full mouth. She had the appearance of someone who’s recently lost a lot of weight. Not gaunt but definitely stretched. I asked,
