a gom and an innocent. Make it clear to me.’
‘Buggery,’ said Breen simply. ‘Child-abuse.’ A charge, he explained, had been made by a past pupil of Father Cronin’s,and was being investigated. There was no corroborative evidence, so detectives planned to look into the priest’s record in this parish. ‘Two are coming down this afternoon. We got a message to say they’ll want statements from men who were close to Cronin when they were boys. Such as …’ Breen’s voice wobbled, ‘yourself. Mind you,’ steadying, the voice soothed, ‘it may all fizzle out.’
*
‘You can’t prove a negative.’ Mr Lynch gave Sean a shrewd look. ‘So if rumours bother you, you’d best up sticks and move. Go to Dublin. City people have no time to waste on the past. Here …’
‘My mother …’
‘Ah, I forgot. Bedridden, isn’t she? With arthritis? So you can’t leave.’
‘No.’
*
There was probably nothing to it, concluded Breen. Cases of this sort were often either fanciful or touched off by mental trouble. But even those stirred up a stink, and no way did Father Mac or the superintendent of the local gardai want fall-out reaching this parish. ‘I suppose that cassock was Cronin’s? Best give it to me.’ Getting out of the car, Breen took a plastic bin-liner from the boot, folded the cassock into it and stowed the package away. Returning to his seat, he said he hoped he’d made it clear that Father Mac and the super wanted us all to mind what we said to outsiders. That included Dublin detectives.
‘Discretion is in everyone’s interests. Tell them as little as you can.’ The big danger, Breen warned, was the press. Sensational newspaper stories could force the hands of thegardai and maybe lead to cases for damages. Later. Down the road! ‘Then who do you think would be left with the bill? Not Dublin! Us.’ Breen’s tone was weary. His message whorled like the design on a finger print.
*
‘You weren’t serious,’ Lynch hoped, ‘just now about maybe saying “no” to the legacy.’
Sean blushed. ‘No.’
‘That’s all right so. Because if you did, people would see it as a guilty verdict. That, coming from you, would be damaging.’
*
‘There’s nothing to tell,’ Sean told Sergeant Breen. ‘Father Cronin was always an innocent.’
‘Good man. Stick to that.’
‘It’s true. He’s …’ Sean, who had been about to say ‘a lovely man’, didn’t, because just now the words did not sound innocent at all. Neither did ‘idealist’, which, he knew from Cronin himself, could be code for ‘disloyal’. ‘What are people saying?’ he thought to ask.
‘What aren’t they saying?’ Tipping his cap back on his poll, the sergeant threw up his eyes. ‘Mostly,’ he told the car ceiling, ‘they’re telling jokes about priests!’ Taking a last, red drag from his cigarette, he dropped it through the window, then opened the car door to stamp out the butt. As if ungagged, he began to talk angrily about priest-baiting. ‘It’s the new sport! People are taking revenge for the way they used to lick clerical boots. That’s how it goes! The wind changes and flocks attack their pastors. Killer sheep! Anti-clerical mice! They’ll turn on poor Cronin because they used to bow and scrape to him! They’ll have it in for you too because they used to envy your friendship with him. Nowadays if they saw you in acassock, they’d say you were in drag. Cassocks are out! Coats have been turned. Don’t look at me like that. I’m too old to turn mine, which is why I’m giving you the benefit of what I know. Steer clear of the lickspittle who gets a chance to spit! My granda told me it was the same when the English left.’
Breen raised his big, soft policeman’s palm. Wait, it signalled. ‘I know we all wore clerical gear when we were kids serving mass. I did and so did Seamus and JJ. But you kept it up.’
‘Jesus, Sergeant Breen!’
‘Sean, I’m trying to help. I know you don’t
‘Buggery,’ said Breen simply. ‘Child-abuse.’ A charge, he explained, had been made by a past pupil of Father Cronin’s,and was being investigated. There was no corroborative evidence, so detectives planned to look into the priest’s record in this parish. ‘Two are coming down this afternoon. We got a message to say they’ll want statements from men who were close to Cronin when they were boys. Such as …’ Breen’s voice wobbled, ‘yourself. Mind you,’ steadying, the voice soothed, ‘it may all fizzle out.’
*
‘You can’t prove a negative.’ Mr Lynch gave Sean a shrewd look. ‘So if rumours bother you, you’d best up sticks and move. Go to Dublin. City people have no time to waste on the past. Here …’
‘My mother …’
‘Ah, I forgot. Bedridden, isn’t she? With arthritis? So you can’t leave.’
‘No.’
*
There was probably nothing to it, concluded Breen. Cases of this sort were often either fanciful or touched off by mental trouble. But even those stirred up a stink, and no way did Father Mac or the superintendent of the local gardai want fall-out reaching this parish. ‘I suppose that cassock was Cronin’s? Best give it to me.’ Getting out of the car, Breen took a plastic bin-liner from the boot, folded the cassock into it and stowed the package away. Returning to his seat, he said he hoped he’d made it clear that Father Mac and the super wanted us all to mind what we said to outsiders. That included Dublin detectives.
‘Discretion is in everyone’s interests. Tell them as little as you can.’ The big danger, Breen warned, was the press. Sensational newspaper stories could force the hands of thegardai and maybe lead to cases for damages. Later. Down the road! ‘Then who do you think would be left with the bill? Not Dublin! Us.’ Breen’s tone was weary. His message whorled like the design on a finger print.
*
‘You weren’t serious,’ Lynch hoped, ‘just now about maybe saying “no” to the legacy.’
Sean blushed. ‘No.’
‘That’s all right so. Because if you did, people would see it as a guilty verdict. That, coming from you, would be damaging.’
*
‘There’s nothing to tell,’ Sean told Sergeant Breen. ‘Father Cronin was always an innocent.’
‘Good man. Stick to that.’
‘It’s true. He’s …’ Sean, who had been about to say ‘a lovely man’, didn’t, because just now the words did not sound innocent at all. Neither did ‘idealist’, which, he knew from Cronin himself, could be code for ‘disloyal’. ‘What are people saying?’ he thought to ask.
‘What aren’t they saying?’ Tipping his cap back on his poll, the sergeant threw up his eyes. ‘Mostly,’ he told the car ceiling, ‘they’re telling jokes about priests!’ Taking a last, red drag from his cigarette, he dropped it through the window, then opened the car door to stamp out the butt. As if ungagged, he began to talk angrily about priest-baiting. ‘It’s the new sport! People are taking revenge for the way they used to lick clerical boots. That’s how it goes! The wind changes and flocks attack their pastors. Killer sheep! Anti-clerical mice! They’ll turn on poor Cronin because they used to bow and scrape to him! They’ll have it in for you too because they used to envy your friendship with him. Nowadays if they saw you in acassock, they’d say you were in drag. Cassocks are out! Coats have been turned. Don’t look at me like that. I’m too old to turn mine, which is why I’m giving you the benefit of what I know. Steer clear of the lickspittle who gets a chance to spit! My granda told me it was the same when the English left.’
Breen raised his big, soft policeman’s palm. Wait, it signalled. ‘I know we all wore clerical gear when we were kids serving mass. I did and so did Seamus and JJ. But you kept it up.’
‘Jesus, Sergeant Breen!’
‘Sean, I’m trying to help. I know you don’t
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