Ken Bruen

Fr Malachy had arrived. No sooner off his bicycle than he lit a cigarette. I said,

“You’re late.”

He smiled, answered,

“But for what?”

Malachy was like Sean Connery, minus

The tan

The golf.

You couldn’t call him a friend. Priests have other loyalties. I knew him since I was a child. He took in my injuries, said,

“You’re still drinking.”

“This was unrelated.”

He took out his cigarettes. Major. The green and white packet. As strong as a mule kick and twice as lethal. I said,

“You’re still smoking.”

“Me and Bette Davis.”

“She’s dead.”

“My point exactly.”

He watched two nuns and said,

“Great shiners.”

“What.”

“Polishing. No one can touch them for it.”

I looked round then asked,

“Where’s the Church on suicide these days?”

“Leaving us, are yah?”

“I’m serious. Is it still the ‘can’t be buried in hallowed ground’ stance?”

“Ah, you’re very out of touch, Jack.”

“That’s an answer?”

“No, that’s a sad fact.”