With this newfound resolve spurring him on, Donovan headed for Glendunne, a small village just north of Waterford City, where he’d reserved a room at a distinguished Bed & Breakfast, known as Glendunne House. It was part of a hotel chain called Failte Eireann—Welcoming Ireland— old mansions that had been converted to upscale, but reasonably priced guest houses.
Checking in at the stately mansion, Donovan met his hostess, Mrs. Brennan—a lady in her mid to late 60s, with a warm smile and curly gray hair. He felt a restless anxiety as he asked if she could serve him a cup of tea now, and perhaps dinner later that evening.
“No problem, Professor Donovan, that’s what we’re here for. If there’s anything meself or Sheila here”—she waved toward her daughter, an athletic-looking brunette in biking shorts, in her early 30s, with a gap-toothed smile—“can do to make your stay more comfortable, don’t hesitate to ask. Just ring the bell, and we’ll be right up.” Sheila smiled shyly, nodding her affirmation as she turned toward the stairs, her elegant, athletic body on full display in her green biking shorts.
“Thank you, Mrs. Brennan,” Donovan replied, “I’ve heard great things about Failte Eireann and Glendunne House in particular. I’m delighted to be here. How far is it up to Killgarson village from here?”
“I’d say now about 40 kilometers. Isn’t that right, Sheila? Not so bad, really. Now. Brilliant. We’ll send up the tea and leave you in peace. It’s grand to grab a bit of shut-eye after coming all the way from Boston. A frightful journey.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Brennan,” Donovan said, exchanging smiles with Sheila. “It’s great to be here.” He meant it, suddenly aware of that almost forgotten feeling of longing at the sight of an attractive woman.
Later, at dinner, Donovan was surprised to find three married couples, European tourists all, on biking tours arranged by Sheila Brennan—from Sweden, Germany, and France. All sang the praises of Irish friendliness, Sheila’s tours, and Mrs. Brennan’s cuisine.
They showed no curiosity about Irish history or culture, but they did imbibe Jameson’s whiskey till midnight, then wished each other teary farewells and piper’s invitations: “Come stay with us if you ever get to: Stockholm, Heidelberg, Carcassone. Hej da; Guten Tag; Au revoir.” Donovan shook everyone’s hand and said, “Goodnight. A pleasure to meet you.”
In the morning, they had all departed by the time Donovan wandered downstairs, still at half-mast, jetlagged. Three cups of strong Sumatran coffee and a delicious breakfast later, he was ready to launch. The time had come to disturb the sleeping beast—the one that had dozed for 25 years.
He drove toward Kilgarson, still with no plan, but with a very specific goal in mind, which involved a brief detour. He remembered The Trading Mart, just past Hog’s Gap, on a little side road about two miles outside the village. It was a traditional animal market—called a “fair”—where local farmers brought their livestock to sell and barter on a set day every month. Donovan remembered it for an oddity: McCabe’s Gun and Tackle Shop just nearby, where farmers bought shotguns and hunting rifles, as well as cheap handguns, like so-called Saturday Night Specials.
Donovan pulled up in front of the ramshackle building after about a half hour’s drive. He looked up and down the road furtively, wondering if anyone would recognize him. Inside the shop, he felt a chill run down his spine at the sight of stuffed, preserved animals—foxes, badgers, weasels—decorating the walls. No one was in the shop, but a bell over the door brought an old man, probably in his late 70s, ambling from the back.
“Good afternoon,” Donovan said nervously. “I was wondering if you had any small handguns for sale?” The old man looked at him quizzically through his thick glasses and said, “Well, it depends on what you need it for. We have a small selection, .32 and .25 caliber, Ravens and Desert Eagles. Run ya around 50 euro, with tax. Five rounds. What will you be using it for?” Donovan blushed and said, “Oh, just rats and small varmints. Damn nuisance. I get tired of trying to trap ‘em.”
“In that case, I’d go with the Raven. Nice, clean gun. Cheap ammo. I can give ya a box of 50 shells for 10 euro and ye’ll be all set.” Without checking further with Donovan, he went in the back again and returned holding a snub-nosed handgun with a fine wooden handle that looked polished from use. He handed it to Donovan, who feigned a careful inspection, weighing it for comfort in his palm, spinning the chamber and fingering the trigger for comfort of fit to his hand.
“I’ll take it,” Donovan said flatly. “Also, that box of ammo you mentioned. It’s fifty, right? That’ll be fine.”
Jack McCabe nodded his approval, put the gun and ammo into a thick paper bag and made out the bill with a shaky hand. He tore off the yellow copy, gave it to Donovan with his change, and said, “Happy hunting. I’m sure those rats will soon learn ta lave ya alone. They’re real smart dat way.” He smiled for the first time, revealing a toothless set of gums, then shuffled toward the dark rear of the shop.
Outside, standing in the deserted road, Donovan shivered at the memory of the creepy shop, amazed that McCabe hadn’t even asked him for a driver’s license or passport. He slid in behind the wheel, opened the paper bag and inspected the gun again, liking the smooth feel, and surprised at the rush of excitement—strangely erotic—at the snug fit in his hand. He filled the chamber with five bullets, spun it as he’d seen it done in the movies, and pretended to fan the hammer with his right hand.
“Dirty Harry, move over!” Donovan muttered. “Go ahead, McKenzie, make my day!” He imagined the look on McKenzie’s face as he looked down the barrel of this nasty little Saturday Night Special. With that vengeful thought firmly in mind, he decided it was time to give serious attention to the rest of his plan, now that a key piece was in hand. Intent on having some time to reflect, he retraced the road up to Hogan’s Gap and sat down on his favorite rock outcropping to think the whole thing through.
It took Donovan a full two hours of intense reflection, weighing up the pros and cons of several courses of action, before he came to a decision. In the end, he got back in the Vauxhall fully resolved.
This was it. He was done with planning. After 25 years, it was time for action.
He drove into Killgarson without stopping in the village. Driving directly to the priests’ house on the other side of the river, Donovan was struck by how small everything seemed compared to his memory of it. The road seemed narrower, the shops miniature, and the priests’ house, which he’d always thought palatial, seemed small and drab.
He parked the Vauxhall on the road facing north, then knocked on the front door with its pretentious brass knocker, his breath labored and palms damp.
Moments later, a woman in her forties opened the door, smiled and asked, “How can I help you?” Donovan smiled nervously and said, “I’m Billy Donovan. I was just wondering if Father McKenzie is still the parish priest up in Rathmore?” The woman smiled, nodded her head and replied, “Hello, Mr. Donovan. I’m Mrs. Lawlor, and, yes, indeed he is. He’s been in Rathmore now, for, oh—over 20 years. It’s about an hour from here—near Curraknock. Take the N7 and get off at the second roundabout. You can’t miss it.” Donovan thanked her and left, then headed back into the village.
He parked in front of the schoolhouse and read the familiar block of granite over the front door: “Killgarson National School. Built in 1878.” He smiled as he looked up at the front steps and the laneway where he’d first reclaimed his life and his dignity that September morning so long past.
Next he walked down to the graveyard, found his parents’ tombstone, and said a few prayers—head bowed, but feeling no grief. He’d never known his da, and his mother had had no time for emotion. It started to rain, and he walked quickly toward the chapel, past the vestry where it had all happened. He entered the solemn stone building and walked slowly up to the altar, aware of the bloody crucifixion scenes—stations of the cross, as they were called— on each side of the aisle. He lit several candles for his dearly departed and knelt in the family pew, eyes closed in the dimly lit chapel, before he dared to look up.
Donovan finally opened his eyes, and there it was: the stained–glass window in the vestry door—same as ever, except no longer lurching up and down. He forced himself to relive the rape, in detail—the beating, the drowning, the nausea, the bleeding, the clammy-handed molester. He looked around the cold, austere chapel, with its statues of the Blessed Virgin and Jesus, whose eyes followed wherever you went. What would Jesus do in Donovan’s shoes? Would he show mercy? Would he forgive such evil?
Donovan dismissed this line of reasoning with a shout, “To hell with mercy and forgiveness! This is me, Billy Donovan; I’m not Jesus Christ. And this never happened to him! No, justice will be done here. Des McKenzie is going to pay the full measure of his crime, right here on earth, right now. There can be no compromise with evil.”
With that, he walked out of the chapel without a backward glance and pointed the Vauxhall north toward Rathmore.
Driving faster than the speed limit, he followed Mrs. Lawlor’s directions, which proved to be perfect, and arrived at the ancient viaduct marking the beginning of Rathmore before noon. It was his first time in the village, though it was less than an hour from Killgarson over the Blackstairs Mountains, and like dozens of villages he’d seen on the drive between Limerick and Waterford, this one seemed tiny, just a small cluster of shops on a narrow, flagstone street. Thick moss clung to the gray stone walls surrounding the town; bored merchants paced outside their shops, glancing anxiously about, making small talk with each other. No customers seemed in evidence.
Donovan had noticed the same thing all across the island. The Celtic tiger—that universally heralded economic miracle—had suddenly morphed to a kitten, a tiny, sickly caricature of its roaring, fearsome self. The signs of devastation were unmistakable: boarded up shops; clusters of men standing on around, smoking, looking pale and defeated; and “for sale” signs marking what seemed like every other colorful door of those postcard-perfect villages.
He drove to the top of the street, where the shops and houses ended, then noticed what appeared to be a secluded housing estate ahead. Curious, Donovan drove up to get a closer look. It turned out to be an opulent development, complete with a handcrafted iron gateway, showcasing a cluster of ersatz mansions, overgrown and abandoned, each fronted by gigantic Jeffersonian pillars. Surprised to find such splendor in the middle of rural Kildare, Donovan drove through the massive gates, only to find a vast array of these abandoned behemoths—selling for millions at the peak of the boom—symbols of what he would later learn were the most visible evidence of the anemic tiger: “ghost estates,” as they’d come to be known all over Ireland.
At the last house in the cul-de-sac—a brown faux Victorian—one stone pier had been erected at the end of the driveway, the second just tossed to the side, as if the builder had been forced to summarily flee the scene. No sense of symmetry, Donovan reflected.
He stopped in O’Connor’s Grey Goose Pub on Davitt Street and ordered a lemonade from the chatty bartender.
“Can you tell me how I get to Father McKenzie’s residence—you know, the parish priest?”
“About a mile out of the village on the Naas Road; he lives at Argyle House. A big white house with a blue door, right after the old schoolhouse at Clane cross—on da right. Ya can’t miss it.”
“How will I recognize Clane cross or the old schoolhouse?” Donovan asked, trying to keep a straight face.
“Oh, dat’s right. Sure, yer not from around here, are ya? Let’s see. Ah sure, like I said, ya can’t miss it. If ya get to Clane, ya’ll have gone too far, by around 5 miles.” The bartender said this without any sense of irony.
It turned out that Donovan could and did miss Argyle House, not once, but twice. He got to Clane, doubled back, missed it again on the return trip, and eventually flagged down a tractor driver who escorted him all the way to his destination. Argyle House was set back from the road by a long driveway, barely visible behind a tall box hedge. It was a modest dwelling, with two cars parked in a gravel driveway.
By the time he got out of the Vauxhall in front of McKenzie’s house, Donovan had rehearsed the plan so many times that it was grooved in his memory bank. He no longer had any sense of dread; no inkling of a panic attack. All he wanted now was to meet Desmond McKenzie face to face and begin to make the crooked places straight. He patted the gun in the right pocket of his gabardine overcoat and rang the doorbell.
Resolved and calm, he took a deep breath and waited.
A flurry of barking dogs came whipping around the side of the house, two terriers and a border collie—all showing off. They immediately turned friendly, wagging their tails, smiling. Donovan turned to face them, hand out, as he waited for someone to answer the door.
Eventually, as he expected, the housekeeper appeared. She was a white-haired woman in her late 60s, with lively, gray eyes, wiping her hands on a faded, blue apron, admonishing the dogs to quiet down.
“Sorry for the delay. I was just putting some scones in the oven for this afternoon’s tea. I’m Mrs. Griffith, Father McKenzie’s housekeeper. Please come in! Father is just finishing his dinner. Perhaps you would like to join him for dessert? It’s apple pie and custard—very good.”
“No thank you, Mrs. Griffith,” Donovan replied too quickly, “I mean, I will join him, but not for dessert. I just wanted a word.” The delicious smell of baked apples wafted across the foyer as Donovan followed the housekeeper inside.
“Yes, well, he’s only now back from Dublin,” she said. “And he’s usually very tired after the trip and will need to rest soon. He has to be up for 7 o’clock mass—every morning with the Sisters of Mercy, including hearing their confessions—of all things. It’s a lot of work for him; he’s here all by himself now, ya know. The parish is only half what it was five years ago. Emigration. It’s killing us.” The housekeeper seemed genuinely grief stricken, and Donovan was at a loss for what to say. She pressed on:
“Back to where we were in the 50s and 60s. It’s a crying shame, is what it is…losing the youth, the lifeblood of the country to foreign…. Oh, who should I say is calling?” She seemed eager to keep talking.
“Thanks, Mrs. Griffith. Tell him Billy Donovan is here—wanting a word?”
Her eyes lit up with a glow of recognition.
“Billy D., it’s you, isn’t it? I thought I recognized you. There was somethin’ familiar about yer face. Sure, I remember the name well. Legendary kick-boxer over in Killgarson, right? All the boys here picked it up; some of the girls, too. Ya were a hero to a lot of people, ya know, especially the parents. Kept their children off the street and involved in something they could burn all that energy on. As I always said to my Rory, I said…”
Donovan suddenly did feel a panic attack coming on: stomach knotting up; sweat dampening his palms. Now that the housekeeper had recognized him, things were suddenly a lot more complicated than he’d bargained for.
He took a deep breath and refocused on the task at hand. “That’s great, Mrs. Griffith. I really appreciate all this. But I do need to see Father McKenzie right away. Can you please tell him I’m here?”
Mrs. Griffith, suddenly self-conscious, wiped her hands in the blue apron reflexively and started toward the dining room. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Donovan. Sure, we’re not used to such celebrities here in Rathmore. I’ll just be a minute.”
She returned and led him into the priest’s study at the rear of the house. “May I take yer coat, Mr. Donovan?” she asked politely.
“Oh, no thanks, I’ll leave it on, if you don’t mind. I’m a bit chilled,” Donovan replied quickly, sticking his hands into his coat pocket, feeling the gun for reassurance. He remained standing as Mrs. Griffith disappeared toward the kitchen.
Des McKenzie strode in, dressed in full clerical garb, collar, and black suit. Now in his mid 50s, he still had a full head of hair, though it was turning gray, and he’d gained a lot of weight—complete with jowls and a double chin. He still had that amphibian’s air of detachment—or was it disdain?—that Donovan had feared and hated. Donovan recognized the familiar gait as he stepped forward to shake McKenzie’s hand.
(to be continued next Friday)