Free Priest by Ken Bruen Page A

of mind, but only up to a certain point.’
    Pascal,
Pensées, 225

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July 1968, Australian Catholic Record Father W. Dunphy
    It would be extremely foolish to deny that many priests, maybe even the majority of them, young and old, are greatly disturbed with regard to their position in the Church. The priest feels he is no longer in command. His one-time social pre-eminence among his flock has lost no small part of its sheen.

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    I peered closely at the envelope but it told me nothing. I asked,
    â€˜Any idea who it could be?’
    She shook her head. I was tempted to say,
    â€˜I’ll have my colleague look into it.’
    But she was too rattled for levity. I didn’t know what she thought an ex-drunk, fresh out of the loony bin, could do. I didn’t say this either, went with,
    â€˜How about if I keep an eye on your home for a few days, see who shows up?’
    She turned to look at me, asked,
    â€˜Are you up to that? It’s like returning to your old job and that’s caused you major trauma.’
    No argument there, so I tried,
    â€˜All I’ll do is watch. I get a lead on somebody, I tell you, you take it from there.’
    â€˜You fucking bet I will.’
    The ferocity stunned us both. Ridge, no stranger to temper, rarely resorted to obscenity and she put her hand to her mouth as if to staunch further outpourings, said,
    â€˜I don’t like being scared.’
    I nearly laughed but reined it in, asked,
    â€˜Come on, Ridge, who does?’
    She lifted the coffee pot, shook it, then poured some into a cup, swirled it round and put the cup back on the table.
    â€˜You have any idea how it is for me, a woman in the Guards? They give out all this positive PR about us being an integral part. The truth is, they don’t ever see us bringing a hurley into a dark alley with a suspect, solving it “the old-fashioned way”.’
    Having been both the recipient of the hurley and the one who wielded it, in alleys and elsewhere, I asked,
    â€˜That it, what you want? Get some thug in a lane, give him the lesson of the hurley?’
    She didn’t bother replying, continued,
    â€˜And being gay, don’t even go there. I have to fight that discrimination every single day – the Ban Garda are worse than the men. But it’s who I am, what I want to do. If I’m scared from outside, I’ll never be able to continue.’
    I didn’t feel a comment on her sexuality would be welcome, so asked,
    â€˜What makes you so sure the threats come from outside?’
    She looked at me with horror, said,
    â€˜Oh no, I couldn’t deal with that. It has to be from outside the force, do you hear me? It can’t be a Guard.’
    I let that go, said with a confidence I didn’t believe,
    â€˜I’il sort it.’
    When she jumped into agreeing with me, I added,
    â€˜Anyway, who else have you got?’
    Figuring it wouldn’t hurt to have a little reciprocation, I took out the sheet of paper with the three names Father Malachy had given me, laid it on the table, asked,
    â€˜Can you do background on these guys for me?’
    She picked up the list, disbelief on her face, went,
    â€˜You can’t be – you’re working something.’
    I kept my face neutral, insisted,
    â€˜No, no, I promised a friend of mine I’d have them checked out, it’s an insurance gig.’
    She wasn’t buying it, said,
    â€˜You’re in no shape for this.’
    I put out my hand for the list, snapped,
    â€˜Fine, forget it.’
    She folded the paper, said,
    â€˜I’ll see what I can do.’
    To get past the moment, I told her about Mrs Bailey, the legacy, the place on Merchant’s Road. She allowed herself a small smile, said,
    â€˜You deserve some luck.’
    Surprised me, it was as close to warmth as she’d ever come.
    â€˜I’m glad you’re pleased.’
    She was standing, ready to leave,