A Fifth of Bruen: Early Fiction of Ken Bruen
- Автор: Бруен Кен
- Год: 2006
- Язык: английский
- Год: Busted Flush Press
- ISBN: 978-0-9767157-2-6
- Жанр: Триллеры
Электронная книга - «A Fifth of Bruen: Early Fiction of Ken Bruen». Краткое содержание книги:
He raced through the remainder of the mass and hoped the Bishop didn’t get to hear of this. “A lack of nicotine, if only I’d got a few drags,” he thought. In the vestry, he sent an altar boy for cigarettes.
“Hurry up,” he said.
He wasn’t facing that lot smokeless. No way.
Morgan locked himself away for the remainder of the day. He left the phone off the hook. Towards evening Mrs. Fleming came banging on the door.
“Go away,” he said.
“I’ve left a tray here, you’ll have to eat something.”
“Clear off.”
“Father Conor is back, he says he’s coming up.”
Conor was second in command. Just recently ordained, he had the gung-ho of the truly native. He looked like an Irish choirboy and hailed from the West of Ireland. Tall and stringy, he was wildly enthusiastic about everything. For the past month, he’d been on a course in “Urban Psychology.” Morgan felt “Urban Terrorism” would have been more useful. It was said he had “the ear of the Bishop.”
“Aye,” thought Morgan, “and the heart of a snake.”
Sure enough, a while later, he knocked and came in.
“Why did you knock?” asked Morgan.
“Oh, I think it’s very important to knock before entering a room.”
“But you came in anyway.”
“Ah, Father Morgan, you’re teasing me.”
“Ary, catch yerself on, little girls get teased. I’m trying to get your attention.”
“I hear you’re not well.”
“From your lips to the Bishop’s ear.”
“Isn’t that to ‘God’s ear’?”
“Not in your case, laddybuck.”
They eyed each other warily. Neither was keen on what he saw. Conor outlined the itinerary for the coming week and then came to the point.
“The Bishop will want a full report.”
“And you’re the one to do it.”
“With your guidance, of course.”
“Was there anything else, Conor?”
“The new secretary, Sera, she’s a treasure. Well done!”
Morgan looked carefully at him. Was he winding him up?
“Are you winding me up?”
“Good Lord, no... I mean it... she knew Fr. Malachy.”
“Yea, but before or after he died, that’s what worries me.”
Conor was taken aback. He’d never understood Morgan and knew only that the humour was never straightforward. This had to be a joke. So he laughed, albeit a trifle hollowly.
Morgan said,
“What’s the joke, lad?”
“Am...”
“I dunno what ye find funny in the bogs of Mayo, but it’s a different story here. Off with you now.”
A confused Conor withdrew.
On a bus bound for Kennington, Mrs. Fleming was heading home. Thoughts of the roast in her bag kept her content. She “liberated” it from the Church and was well pleased. A priest greeted her heartily as he rose to leave the bus.
“Bless you, Ma’am.”
It was a full five minutes before she realized who he was. Walter... the wino. In Fr. Morgan’s best suit. A malicious smile began at the corner of her mouth.
The next week restored Morgan to near sanity. No incidents occurred in the Church, his dreams were quiet, and Sera worked with Conor. Kate rang once but he hadn’t returned the call. He cut down on his cigarettes and the drink seemed less a necessity.
Morgan found himself whistling as he entered the Confessional for the Saturday morning session.
A list of petty sins nigh lulled him to sleep. He distributed light penance to all and word spread that a good deal was going and parishioners flocked for the cut-rate penance. Just before one, the door opened on the penitent’s side and he slid back the grille.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
A woman’s voice, but not familiar.
“How long since your last confession?”
“A very long time.”
“God will forgive you, my child.”
A chuckle from the darkness. A deep, almost masculine tone. The hairs at the base of his neck tingled. Then the woman’s voice.
“I’ve been having sex with a man.”
“In marriage, my child, that’s perfectly normal.”
“I’m not married.”
“Well... have you plans to be wed later?”
“He’s already married.”
“I see.”
“To the Church.”
A wave of patchouli oil blasted through the grille. The deeper voice said, “And will his God forgive him? Answer me, priest...”
He was too stricken to look towards the voice. The penitent’s door opened and the woman said,
“See you later, lover boy.”
Morgan was hyperventilating... he pushed open the door and staggered out. Blindly he groped his way along to the open air. He heard two old ladies whispering, “He’s drunk again... absolutely legless.”
Trying to gather his senses, he gulped in huge breaths of air. A parishioner approached.
“Fr. Morgan, I just want to say what a fine man that new priest is.”
“Well, Fr. Conor is a West of Ireland man, something in the water breeds fine clergy.”
“And,” he thought, “even finer madness.”
“No... not the young whippersnapper, the more mature man... Wally... no, Walter... Fr. Walter.”
“WALTER!”
“The very man, he has the common touch... and compassion... it pours from him. We might all take a page out of his book.”
“I’ll take more than that... I’ll have a piece of his hide.”
Priest, Part II
Demons
Morgan invited Kate to dinner. He felt woesome about his crack on her childlessness. He was going to feel worse.
Mrs. Fleming was approached for the meal preparation. She said,
“And is that all you think I have to do, prepare special meals for floosies?”
“Floosie? She’s a respectable woman.”
“Is she married?”
“Am... I’m not sure.”
“Hah... I thought so!”
Morgan was seething. Not easy when you need a favour from the seethe dispenser.
“Forget it, Fleming... I’ll make other arrangements.”
“Suit yerself.”
Sister Ben was next approached. A litre bottle of Lourdes Holy Water was all it took. He suggested something simple and she said,
“Rely on me, Father. I put the ‘C’ in clerical culinary.”
He decided not to investigate that. Some statements are best left alone. A functions room at the back of the Church he thought would do nicely. Looking at the room, he said,
“This will do nicely.”
When he invited Kate, she sounded surprised and pleased. She asked who was cooking.
“One of the sisters,” he said.
“In the feminist or religious use?”
“Now, Kate, don’t start. I’m trying to be nice.”
“Some people are nice without trying.”
“Yer fairly trying yerself... are you going to come or what?”
“Well, Morgan, I’ll show up, whether I come or not is the great magazine debate.”
It took a moment to sink in for him. His cheeks burned.
“I’m a priest,” he gasped.
“Let’s all attempt to bear that in mind,” and she hung up.
Irish stew. Sister Ben had made enough for a small country.
“Would ye like consommé to start?” she asked.
“Con-fusion is more like,” said a disappointed Morgan. He’d hoped for some dish he couldn’t pronounce. Still, he was grateful it wasn’t bacon and cabbage. Sister Ben gave him a run through where the various pots were simmering, and the fridge with red jelly in bowls. He gave her a small medal and said,
“There’s a plenary indulgence attached.”