Priest by Ken Bruen Page A

you sure know dead ones.’
    He shrugged, said,
    â€˜It’s a job, right?’
    I made to leave, said,
    â€˜Thing is, you’re wasted. Guy like you, the caring professions are crying out for you.’
    As I was leaving, he shouted,
    â€˜Have one for me.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜You’re going for a drink, right?’
    Before I could answer, he said,
    â€˜The pub across the road? Saddest freaking place in the country. It’s where the relatives go . . . Man, not a whole lot of music there, you need a lively joint.’
    â€˜And why would I need that?’
    He gave me the look, the silent
duh,
then,
    â€˜You lucked out. The stiff – you didn’t know him.’
    Stiff.
    I seriously wanted to pound on this guy, to quote my mother:
You’d never tire beating him.
I said,
    â€˜You call that lucking out?’
    He shrugged. I’m never taken by that gesture, convinced they rehearse it, get the lift exactly so. He said,
    â€˜You’re a funny guy.’
    I couldn’t resist, said,
    â€˜You should catch me on a good day.’
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    Outside, my whole body sagged. I hadn’t realized how tight I’d been wound. That pub was almost directly across. I hoped I’d never discover which arrived first, the morgue or the pub. A whole slice of the Irish psyche in the answer. I’d made me deal with God and He’d delivered, so I couldn’t have a drink, not yet . . . Jesus, not now.
    I moved on, trying not to look over my shoulder. Passed the Age Concern shop and, to distract myself, went in. Almost in a trance, I picked up a Discman. I’d come late to CDs and iPods were forever to be a mystery. Bought it and the girl said,
    â€˜Don’t forget the headphones.’
    â€˜Oh, right.’
    She couldn’t have been twenty years old, yet she had natural compassion, an openness that stabbed at my heart. Then, to add to my consternation, she said,
    â€˜I’ll bet you haven’t batteries. You get home and isn’t it a devil, none.’
    She glanced round at the customers, then slipped two batteries across the counter. I’d swear she winked, but I think I only hoped so. I said,
    â€˜You’ve a lovely nature.’
    She wasn’t buying, said,
    â€˜Get away our that. You should see me at home, I’m a holy terror.’
    Do such brief encounters balance the daily awfulness of life? That’s too tough a measure, maybe, but for the fleeting moment you have the spur to continue.
    I hadn’t listened to music in a long, long time. You need a soul for that. Mine withered when the child went out the window. Jeff’s too, it seemed. I walked up to Shop Street, went into Zhivago. Declan McEntee was still there, went,
    â€˜Good God, it’s the resurrection.’
    Like I was in the mood for this. He read my expression, said,
    â€˜You’ll want Johnny Duhan as usual?’
    â€˜I have all of his.’
    I looked round, saw new releases, and there . . . Emmylou Harris, Warren Zevon. Took both.
    Declan said, tapping the Zevon,
    â€˜Died two weeks ago.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Yes, recorded this album knowing he’d only a brief time. Makes it real hard to listen to.’
    As he wrapped them, he said,
    â€˜Johnny Cash’s gone too.’
    Christ, I’d have to catch up, start reading the papers or watching the news or something.
    Declan gave me the change, asked,
    â€˜You all right? You’re very quiet.’
    And I said,
    â€˜At home, I’m a holy terror.’
    Robert Palmer died the next day – they were dropping like flies. He didn’t have a new album. If I wanted to seriously burn, I could always listen to Johnny Cash with ‘Hurt’.
    I was burning out.

12
    â€˜We run heedlessly into the abyss, after putting something in front of us to prevent us seeing it.’
    Pascal,
Pensées,
183

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27 July 2003, Ireland on Sunday
    â€˜If he