Quirke 06 - Holy Orders

remember anybody of that name. And now I’d better bring His Reverence up his hot drink or he’ll start his roaring again.” He swiveled his head up sideways as far as it would go and looked at Quirke. “ Y ou’d want to take care yourself,” he said. “The old nerves can be a killer, worse than the bronicals.”
    * * *

    More tiles, pale gray like the ones in the kitchen. A window was open; he could feel cool damp air on his face. He was standing by it, by the window; it was small and square and looked out onto a concrete yard. The top half of the sash was pulled all the way down. The concrete outside, with the rain on it, was the color of wet sand.
    Porcelain, the chill smooth thick feel of porcelain. It was a bathroom he was in, no, a lavatory, with a small hand basin under the small window. How had he got here, how had he come to be standing here, with the air of outside in his face and his left hand gripping the porcelain basin to support him? He had an extraordinary sense of well-being. His heart was calm, his mind was clear. He could smell the rain in the yard, and there was the scent of wet grass, too, and of unseen trees. Beside him on the wall there was a little rectangular mirror with a crack running diagonally across it from top left to bottom right. He looked at his face reflected in the glass, severed in two from temple to chin. Faintly he heard again the blackbird whistling.
    He found Hackett in the hall, sitting on a thronelike chair next to the front door, with his hat on his knees. The chair, of age-darkened oak, had a high back topped with wooden spires and heavy, carved armrests.
    “ Y ou’d make a good bishop,” Quirke said. He thought his voice sounded very loud again; it seemed to reverberate between the walls and the high ceiling.
    “Not a cardinal?” Hackett said.
    “Scarlet wouldn’t suit you,” Quirke answered, and laughed, and his laughter also sounded strangely loud, a falsely hearty, bogus booming, a sound that not he but someone else must have produced. He carried himself carefully, still with that sense of being a large frail vessel with something frailer inside it.
    The detective rose from the chair with a grunt. “Are you all right?” he said.
    “Yes, I’m fine, I’m fine—why?”
    “ Y ou look a bit shook.”
    Quirke heard someone approaching behind him and turned. “Ah, Thady,” he said. “There you are.”
    The old man peered up at him warily. “Beg pardon, sir?” he said.
    Quirke turned to Hackett again. “Thady and I had a long chat in the kitchen—didn’t we, Thady?”
    The old man frowned. “The name is Richie, sir,” he said.
    “But…” For a moment it seemed to Quirke that the floor had tilted under his feet. “But you told me…”
    The old man stepped past him and opened the door, drawing it back with an effort. “Good day, sir,” he said, addressing Hackett.
    Quirke and the detective stepped out into the air. Scuds of rain were blowing across the shadow-skimmed lawn. Feeling suddenly cold, Quirke drew the collar of his overcoat close against his throat. His innards seemed to quiver, as if he had been struck by lightning a moment ago and were still vibrating from the shock.
    “Tell me,” he said, “how long was I gone?”
    “Oh, five minutes or so.”
    “That’s all?”
    “About that.”
    “Five minutes…”
    The policeman was watching him sidelong. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
    “Yes, yes. I felt a bit—a bit nauseous, that’s all. It’s passed, now.” They walked towards the car, the wet gravel squeaking under their shoes. “What did he say?”
    “Who?”
    “The priest, Dangerfield.”
    “Not much more than you heard. He was not”—he made a sucking sound with his teeth—“he was not forthcoming, shall we say.”
    “What about Jimmy Minor’s letter?”
    “That was not to be found. A filing error, according to the good Father Dangerfield.”
    Quirke was trying to order his thoughts. It was like wrestling with the wheel of a car that had spun out of control. “And Father Honan is gone off to Donegal, it seems,” he said.
    “Is that so? Strange—Father Dangerfield says he’s here, in Dublin.”
    Quirke was about to speak again, but said nothing, only frowned.
    Detective Sergeant Jenkins was lolling in a bored trance behind the wheel of the squad car. Seeing the two men approach, he straightened hurriedly and started up the engine. Hackett, about to climb into the back seat, stopped and turned and