Gerry Galvin lived in Oughterard, Co. Galway.He was a chef and former restaurateur, author of two cookbooks, ‘The Drimcong Food Affair’ and ‘Everyday Gourmet’.
His first poetry collection, ‘No Recipe’, launched in Galway by Michael D. Higgins, was published by Doire Press in 2010.
‘Killer A La Carte’, Gerry’s debut novel was published in 2011, also by Doire Press.

Bobby’s Bowl

I’ve been in athletics a long time. Athletes in our family for generations. My old man sprinted, made the national relay team. Won a bronze at Oslo in the fifties. I had promise until the car smash – two fibulas fucked.

We’re not quitters. I went back to the track, trained as an official starter.  Ran for public office too. Politics is long distance stuff. Marathon. Kept at it, up the ladder to mayor. The new stadium was my baby, a thing of beauty in the heart of our city. Gave it everything even my name: Bobby’s Bowl. Made enemies, told necessary lies, paid off a few guys, normal stuff.  They played “My Way” for me at the opening. My proudest moment.

And now what?  This new mayor, friend of the environment but no friend of mine, what’s the little shit planning?  Rezoning. He’s full of it. Up to his fat fucking neck.  “Bobby’s Bowl is a blight on the city, it’s gotta be moved to a green field site.”

He refuses to see me, take my calls.  He thinks he can do this and get away with it. Imagine that.

Next Sunday’s the last track event at Bobby’s Bowl. He’ll be there lording it with his lackeys on the podium. Hard to miss his red whisky face. I’ll be at the starting line like I’ve been at every meeting for ten years. You’ll know me. I’m the tall guy with the straw hat, shades and white, short-sleeved shirt. It says ‘Official’ in gold on the breast pocket. I keep the gun in an old wild west holster, belted round the waist. Even close up it looks real.  If you start something, finish it.

Habemus  Papam

On the day the Pope died something snapped as if I too had received a call. Until then I had kept the sorry tale to myself, unaware that this is what victims usually do. Like an ill-treated dog cowers and hides. The call to me came clear and simple: ‘this is your chance!’ The Pope’s death opened a door. No coincidence. I was in Rome on business and His Eminence, the Cardinal, Michael Finbar O’Toole would be there too.

“God wants this.” I shivered with old terror.  “God wants this.”  These words from his malignant mouth had dictated my misery ever since he first whispered them in the sacristy of St. Malachy’s.  Whispers and wine. I was just ten years old. An altar boy.  Whispers and wine.

I know now that I had harboured intent all along, biding my time. Opportunity demanded its moment of truth.  Where and when better than a mourning Rome?

Sunshine and morning bells, a church I can’t recall, close to the Vatican. The organ loft, unused in the early morning, provided privacy and cover.

I tracked his exit from the sacristy accompanied by two boy servers, their snowy surplices catching the light from stained glass windows. On reaching the first of three stone steps he dismissed them with a shake of the head, moving upwards and about the altar with oily gravitas. I shot him and his blood seeped through laundered altar cloth, wafer-thin. Drip, drip on the white marble. Shock, becoming commotion, spread about the church, making my escape easier.

One afternoon, a few days later, “Habemus Papam” rang out over a packed St. Peter’s Square. New hope for the world. A woman, excited in the crowd, kissed me and we cheered in unison.