Free Priest by Ken Bruen Page B

and I felt our relationship might finally have inched forward. She said,
    â€˜I didn’t say I was pleased, I said you deserved it. God knows, you never earned it.’
    As I said . . .
inching
forward.
    Â 
    Ridge had a house rented in Palmyra Park, en route to Salthill. I didn’t know how I could watch the house unobserved. If I sat in a car, sooner or later someone would call the Guards. Planting myself on the street was out of the question. There was a house directly opposite with a B&B sign. Decided to take a chance, rang the doorbell. The woman who answered was in her sixties, friendly and homely. I’d dressed to impress – blazer, white shirt, tie – said I’d be in town for a week, any vacancies?
    She said,
    â€˜God sent you.’
    Which seemed an exaggeration, but definitely in my favour. I asked,
    â€˜Busy?’
    She raised her eyes to heaven, said,
    â€˜Once the races are over, we’re in quare street.’
    The Irish pronounce
queer
as
quare
and it’s not anything to do with Gay issues, it’s purely for the sound of the word, to give it a full and resounding flavour. We love to taste the vocabulary, swill it around the mouth, let it blossom out into full bloom.
    I did the smart thing, got out my wallet, laid a wedge in her hands, said,
    â€˜Would it be possible to have a room overlooking the street?’
    She was staring at the money, said,
    â€˜You can have any room you like, we haven’t had a sinner since Sunday.’
    The tricky part. I tried,
    â€˜I’ll be in my room a lot. I’m compiling a guide for the Tourist Board, so lots of paperwork. Some days I’ll be travelling and my assistant will be here, a young man, very presentable.’
    She didn’t have a problem with this, asked about meals. I said a kettle would answer all our needs. Her name was Mrs Tyrell, she was a widow, and her daughter Mary helped with the B&B in addition to attending college. Then she rolled her eyes, said Mary was studying Arts, exclaimed,
    â€˜Arts
. . . I wanted her to do Science, they’re crying out for them, but devil a bit of notice she pays. Fellas and pubs, that’s what she cares about. Pity they don’t give a degree in that.’
    I smiled and she asked,
    â€˜When can I expect you?’
    â€˜Monday, how would that be?’
    That would be fine, she agreed. We shook hands and I was out of there. I now found myself in the surreal position of having three homes, how mad does it get? Come out of the madhouse and live in three places – it made a kind of demented sense, didn’t it?
    I walked towards the prom, easing the pain from my limp as I moved. Stopped for a moment, not crediting what I was seeing. Two Guards on mountain bikes! With safety helmets, leggings, the whole outdoor kit. An elderly woman had also stopped, said,
    â€˜Will you look at the cut of them?’
    She must have been seventy, with that permed hair they provide with your pension and wide blue eyes that age had deepened. Her accent was the pure Galwegian you rarely hear any more. A blend of sense and mischief, the hard edge loosened by the speed of the vowels, she made me yearn for a childhood I never had. I asked, keeping it local,
    â€˜When did they start this crack?’
    She watched them turn at Grattan Road, zip down towards Claddagh, said,
    â€˜Ary, a few months ago. It was in the papers, how bikes would help them tackle crime better.’
    â€˜You think it’s made any difference?’
    It wasn’t a serious question, just the Irish oil to keep the conversation cooking. She looked at me as if I was stupid, said,
    â€˜Can you see them chasing joyriders? A teenager, mad on cider, in a stolen car, going over a hundred and them bright sparks in pursuit . . . on bikes?’
    It was some picture. She added,
    â€˜They don’t know their arse from their elbow.’
    Which is as low as it gets. She was looking more