reading?”
“The Assassin’s Cloak
.
”
“Crime?”
“Good Lord, no. It’s an anthology of diarists. You read one entry per day. Everyone from Pepys to Virginia Wolfe.”
“Good?”
“Brilliant. I missed a few days, so I’m treating myself to a week’s catching up.”
And then I remembered Rita Monroe. Went through my pockets and found her address. I was practically in theneighbourhood. Outside, I could feel a second wave of elation hit me. I cruised past the hospital.
Found the house without any trouble. A passing Franciscan glared at me, and I blamed the McDonald’s bag. The last Franciscan I’d spoken to had been outside the abbey. Near Cafe Con Leche. I’d gone in to light a candle. As a child I’d learnt,
“A candle is a prayer in action.”
Worked for me once.
The people I’ve loved most and treated the worst are all dead, buried in a cluster at Rahoon Cemetery. Visiting graves is a respected, honoured tradition in Ireland. I mean, do they have “Cemetery Sunday” in London?
I rest my case.
I am shocking in my duty. Rare and rarer do I go. Can’t plead I meant better ‘cause I didn’t, then or now. So I sneak compen-sate. Thus the candles, Uke ready-made reparation. One of my favourite crime writers, Lawrence Block, has written fourteen Matt Scudder novels. The hero, a hopeless drunk in the early books, becomes a St Augustine—quoting, recovering alcoholic in the later ones. I Uke the early ones best. Matt, when he gets any cash, tithes his money. To any church, though the Catholics get the Uon’s share.
I’d put some money in the donations box and was standing outside when the friar appeared. A freezing cold day. I noticed his red toes in the open sandals. He said,
“Good for the circulation.”
“I’m going to take your word on that.”
Then, he’d given me the full stare. I learnt similar in the guards. It’s not all intimidation, but it is related. He said,
“You’re not from this parish.”
“No, St Patrick’s.”
He frowned, definitely the lower end of the market, asked,
“And why are we blessed with your trade today?”
It crossed my mind to go,
“Fuck off.”
But he was sockless, so I said,
“I was passing.”
In my time, I’ve been barred from the best of pubs. Could only hope I wasn’t going to add churches. The trick to priest-conversation is simple. Don’t ever be surprised. They don’t follow the usual rules. This guy was no exception, said,
“Do you know the two men I admire most?”
For a second, I thought he was going to launch into Don McLean’s song that goes “The Father, Son and Holy Ghost”. I tried to appear interested, asked,
“Who?”
“Charles Haughey and Eamonn Dunphy.”
“Strange bedfellows. I’d have thought St Francis would have got a peek.”
A car pulled up and he said,
“That’s my taxi.”
And he was gone.
All of this went through my mind as I rang Rita Monroe’s bell. The house was neat, tidy, respectable. Two storey with fresh net curtains. From her laundry days, I thought. The door opened. A tall, thin woman with steel-grey hair, tied in a severe bun. I guessed her age at seventy, but she was very well preserved. An almost unlined face. She retained traces of an impressive beauty. Dressed all in white, she could have been a ward matron. She asked,
“Yes?”
“Rita Monroe?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Jack Taylor . . . I.”
“Are you a guard?”
“Yes.”
“Come in.”
Led me into a sparse living room. Bare, except for the books, thousands of them, neatly lined in every conceivable place. She said,
“I like to read.”
“Me, too.”
Gave me an odd look, and I said,
“Guards do read.”
She glanced at my brown paper bag, confused, asked,
“You brought your lunch?”
What the hell, I’d fly with the lie. Said,
“We have to grab a bite where we can.”
I’ve never actually met a marine drill sergeant, but I can catch the drift. She had the eyes of one, said,
“I thought
“The Assassin’s Cloak
.
”
“Crime?”
“Good Lord, no. It’s an anthology of diarists. You read one entry per day. Everyone from Pepys to Virginia Wolfe.”
“Good?”
“Brilliant. I missed a few days, so I’m treating myself to a week’s catching up.”
And then I remembered Rita Monroe. Went through my pockets and found her address. I was practically in theneighbourhood. Outside, I could feel a second wave of elation hit me. I cruised past the hospital.
Found the house without any trouble. A passing Franciscan glared at me, and I blamed the McDonald’s bag. The last Franciscan I’d spoken to had been outside the abbey. Near Cafe Con Leche. I’d gone in to light a candle. As a child I’d learnt,
“A candle is a prayer in action.”
Worked for me once.
The people I’ve loved most and treated the worst are all dead, buried in a cluster at Rahoon Cemetery. Visiting graves is a respected, honoured tradition in Ireland. I mean, do they have “Cemetery Sunday” in London?
I rest my case.
I am shocking in my duty. Rare and rarer do I go. Can’t plead I meant better ‘cause I didn’t, then or now. So I sneak compen-sate. Thus the candles, Uke ready-made reparation. One of my favourite crime writers, Lawrence Block, has written fourteen Matt Scudder novels. The hero, a hopeless drunk in the early books, becomes a St Augustine—quoting, recovering alcoholic in the later ones. I Uke the early ones best. Matt, when he gets any cash, tithes his money. To any church, though the Catholics get the Uon’s share.
I’d put some money in the donations box and was standing outside when the friar appeared. A freezing cold day. I noticed his red toes in the open sandals. He said,
“Good for the circulation.”
“I’m going to take your word on that.”
Then, he’d given me the full stare. I learnt similar in the guards. It’s not all intimidation, but it is related. He said,
“You’re not from this parish.”
“No, St Patrick’s.”
He frowned, definitely the lower end of the market, asked,
“And why are we blessed with your trade today?”
It crossed my mind to go,
“Fuck off.”
But he was sockless, so I said,
“I was passing.”
In my time, I’ve been barred from the best of pubs. Could only hope I wasn’t going to add churches. The trick to priest-conversation is simple. Don’t ever be surprised. They don’t follow the usual rules. This guy was no exception, said,
“Do you know the two men I admire most?”
For a second, I thought he was going to launch into Don McLean’s song that goes “The Father, Son and Holy Ghost”. I tried to appear interested, asked,
“Who?”
“Charles Haughey and Eamonn Dunphy.”
“Strange bedfellows. I’d have thought St Francis would have got a peek.”
A car pulled up and he said,
“That’s my taxi.”
And he was gone.
All of this went through my mind as I rang Rita Monroe’s bell. The house was neat, tidy, respectable. Two storey with fresh net curtains. From her laundry days, I thought. The door opened. A tall, thin woman with steel-grey hair, tied in a severe bun. I guessed her age at seventy, but she was very well preserved. An almost unlined face. She retained traces of an impressive beauty. Dressed all in white, she could have been a ward matron. She asked,
“Yes?”
“Rita Monroe?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Jack Taylor . . . I.”
“Are you a guard?”
“Yes.”
“Come in.”
Led me into a sparse living room. Bare, except for the books, thousands of them, neatly lined in every conceivable place. She said,
“I like to read.”
“Me, too.”
Gave me an odd look, and I said,
“Guards do read.”
She glanced at my brown paper bag, confused, asked,
“You brought your lunch?”
What the hell, I’d fly with the lie. Said,
“We have to grab a bite where we can.”
I’ve never actually met a marine drill sergeant, but I can catch the drift. She had the eyes of one, said,
“I thought
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