Moriarty by the door.
âIâm surprised at you, Charlie Quinn, Iâd have expected better,â Stanislaus wheezed as Father Daly helped him into the street. âThere wouldâve been no problem if youâd ended proceedings when you were supposed to. If you only â¦â Stanislaus said to Father Daly, but hadnât the breath to finish.
âYou just need rest, Your Grace, youâve been overdoing it lately,â said the curate.
âIf youâd made sure it was over by eleven like you were supposed to,â Stanislaus said again as they arrived at the Parochial House, suddenly more weary than angry now that he was inside his own front door. Almost immediately, his eyelids started to droop. âVictor Lennon may be the only layman in the parish who knows how to address me correctly. Isnât that funny? Isnât that awful?â he said.
Stanislausâs last thought before he fell asleep that night was the look on Charlie Quinnâs face as heâd chastised him. The young man had seemed genuinely distraught.
People are cheering for me and shaking my hand. Benedict looked so strong and unyielding up there on stage, laying down the law, but I knew the people were with me. Thereâs a hugebanner draped from the ceiling, and yes, itâs green when it should be red, but it is a tribute to me . He looked around the packed hall, five hundred people here at least, and saw sheep in need of a shepherd. I saw comrades in need of example. The young priest with the blond hair has to drag the old bastard off the stage and out the door after the musicians and the dancing start up again. Some ruddy-faced fellow thrusts a bottle into my hand just as Benedict is passing me at the door, and I take a drink, assuming the clear liquid inside is water. Come to think of it, a stupid assumption. It tastes of nothing but pain, and my face screws up as the poteen goes down. The young priest steers Benedict to the door and heâs gone before I get my breath back. I feel like Iâve been punched in the windpipe at the very moment I should be enjoying my victory, Benedictâs defeat. He was so very white-looking! So beaten-looking. Like a prize-fighter being helped from the ring after being knocked out. I remember a couple of years ago how the audience in the Volta Picture Palace tore the place apart with excitement after the newsreel showed Jack Johnson getting his comeuppance. As they all line up to talk to me, to shake my hand, to pay tribute, I feel how Jess Willard must have felt after he knocked the big nigger out. Champion of the bloody world.
I know a lot of faces but Iâm struggling with names. âStay close to me and drop peopleâs names into conversation in case I forget,â I say quietly into Charlieâs ear. âTry and not make it too obvious.â
âHello, Colm, how are all the McDermotts this evening?â says Charlie to a man of fifty who comes up to me, and a matronly woman beside him.
âWelcome home, lad, welcome home,â says Colm McDermott, shaking my hand like heâs trying to wring something out of it.
I tell him itâs great to see him again, and take a punt on the woman beside him. âAnd how are you, Mrs McDermott?â
âAh, Victor, I see you didnât lose your manners away in Dublin. But sure you know to call me Kate.â She pushes grey wisps of hair behind her ears, grabs me and kisses me on the lips. âGod bless you, Victor Lennon, and God bless Ireland.â Sheâs drunk, like most of the men who shake my hand and the women who slobber my cheeks and lips. Charlie keeps me right with the names. The Kellys, the McCabes, the Gambles, the Murphys, the Sweeneys, the OâKanes, the other Murphys, the Vallelys, the Campbells. The music is loud, the dancing raucous. The place stinks of sweat and smoke and hooch with a thin sliver of Lifebuoy in the mix. Youngsters who should be in bed are still