encounters

Sitting in Kilcullen church.
The mass begins.
After a few moments, a woman styling herself Breda McKenna stands to read the Bible to the congregation.
I have no wish to see the word of God profaned, so I turn towards my right and contemplate an image of the Lord crucified on the wall.
Presently the obscenity on the altar has ceased.
The priest resumes the mass proper.
I return my attention.
The rest of the mass is mystic, beautiful and true.
As the congregation are leaving, I remain in a little pool of stillness.
I see Breda McKenna's brother, a character who calls himself Joe McKenna, approaching.
One of Preacher David Wilkerson's old gags comes to me.
It is a quotation from the Prophet Isaiah.
Not by might nor by power but by my spirit sayeth the Lord of hosts.
I repeat it to myself.
Joe McKenna and his sister are offspring of a man styled on his tombstone Northern Division Commander Of The IRA.
This is not the reason I do not consort with them.
Joe McKenna stands by my pew.
"He can't see me," he booms in his fake American accent.
"He sees you alright," I rap out sharply without thinking and without looking up.
The son of the Northern Division of the IRA recoils as though bitten.
A minute later he gets what passes for his courage up and comes back, handing twee supposedly Christian leaflets to my cousin.
Then he's gone again.
I am taking care of an elderly man seated beside me in the church.
I've driven him to mass and will drive him home.
I'm thinking ruefully: I bet no matter how long we linger, the McKennas will be outside when we emerge.
Eventually I take the old man to my car.
The son of the Northern Division Commander of the IRA is waiting outside with a little knot of accomplices and useful idiots.
He calls me by name a few times.
The old man I'm minding says: "James  that guy wants to talk to you."
"He doesn't know me," I answer.
"I do know you," booms Joe McKenna,
I wait.
He flounders.
"I know you," he says finally, "because you look like your uncle."
I let that remark drown in its own excresence.
Beckoning the old man in my care, I leave the McKennas to their acolytes and their fate.