Malachy was in intensive care, no visitors. I’d said I was a relative and was told a doctor would see me soon. The health service is so bollixed that that probably meant two days. I had a book so I didn’t mind too much.
The new John Cheever biography, by the same writer who’d done the stunning bio of Richard Wright. The book sure captured the torment, agony, guilt, and utter loneliness of the alcoholic. I didn’t really need it described; I lived it every frigging day, heard “Mr. Taylor?”
A doctor, towering above me. Pristine white coat with all the pens in the top pocket. One, to my joy, was leaking. A name tag identified him as Dr. Ravin. Not Irish then but fuck, few were these days. They’d fucked off to where the money was.
He asked,
“You are a relative?”
Yeah, brothers in animosity, bonded in hatred, and related by booze. I said,
“Yes, first cousins; we are very close.”
Close to murder mostly.
He did the sympathy dance, I nodded idiotically, then he said,
“The padre…”
“Priest.”
I snapped.
How often do you get to correct the medical profession?
Yeah.
He said,
“My apologies, he has suffered severe trauma, he is in a coma and the next twenty-four hours are critical.”
“Will he die?”
He reassessed me. Then maybe acknowledging I was in shock, soft-pedaled. He said,
“He is not a young man and, alas, he has not taken care of his body very well, so, as I said, the next day will be crucial.”
“Cigarettes,”
I said.
He nodded then asked if I had a number I could be reached at. I gave him the mobile one. We shook hands and he headed off to do doctorly stuff, or maybe, if my smell was still vaguely intact, grab a sly cig. I was preparing to leave when a tall, stern-looking priest literally marched up to me. They ever needed a poster boy for the clergy or the Gestapo, this guy was it. A shock of steel gray hair, beautifully cut. I know, as I have the other kind. The cheap bad version. His black suit was immaculate. If Armani was doing a clerical line, he’d got the best of the bunch. Shit, I mean, if the current pope was releasing a CD wearing Gucci slippers, anything was up for grabs.
His face was deep tanned and I finally understood what an aquiline nose meant.
His eyes matched his hair.
Steel.
He moved like an athlete, assured, confident, and I thought,
“A player.”
A tiny pin in his lapel, shining in its gold almost-simplicity.
Opus Dei.
Memo to myself,
“Watch your wallet.”
He extended his hand, said, not asked,
“Mr. Jack Taylor.”
I took his hand, said,
“Yes.”
His grip was like the granite workers in Connemara. He smiled.
Fucking great teeth. I had great teeth but they weren’t my own.
He said,
“I’m Father Gabriel.”
Like I should know?
I asked,
“Like the Archangel?”
Too easy, but what the hell, how often do you get a Dan Brown moment, especially when he said,
“You know your angels?”
I countered,
“And my demons.”
The smile vanished. Just folded its tent and fucked off. He asked,
“Is there somewhere… less public we might talk?”
I bit down, asked,