Julie | Fanfic | Ballykissangel

A Close Encounter
by Julie Barrett

"This is a hell of a situation for a priest to be in."

"Father!" My companion shot me a sideways glance, the bulk of his attention focused on the larger issue before us.

"Oh, I don't know: backed into a blind alley by the Korean Mafia --"

"Mr. Sun is Chinese. You see --"

"I honestly don't care if Mr. Sun is from Betelgeuse, Brian. Just get us out of this."

"You pray. I'll do the rest."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

"A little prayer never hurt, Father."

"Funny," I replied through gritted teeth, "that's what I always say when I'm staring down the barrel of an enormous gun."

So, you might well ask, what's a nice priest like me doing with his back against the wall in a dark corner of Seoul, facing three Asian men with no necks brandishing machine guns that look as though they could take down an elephant? Actually, I think those men could do the elephant in without the aid of weaponry. Not only were they large, but I suspected they worked out frequently, and had pet names for each of their massive muscles. Their biceps were certainly rippling as though they had a life of their own.

Sorry, but it's hard to think straight when your knees are buckling with terror. My brother in-law is right – in situations like this time slows down. At least he got combat training in the Air Force. That's not part of standard seminary coursework. "Turning the Other Cheek 101" and "Advanced Beating Of Swords Into Ploughshares" weren't exactly designed to prepare me for this sort of situation.

It's best to begin at the beginning, as I heard once in a film. I'll make it fast. I have an incentive.

I left my post as a youth minister in Manchester because I was, in a word, stale – mentally, physically, spiritually. I'd faced down my personal demons and won for the most part. Yes, I still wear Assumpta's crucifix around my neck next to my own. Over the years the pain of her loss has receded to a dull ache, albeit one that never goes away. That's part of the grieving process. I suppose that I needed a challenge, and after Father Covington spoke to our youth group about mission work in Korea, it just seemed so right.

I suppose it must seem odd that I ended up staying with my vocation for all this time. To be perfectly honest, it was comfortable. That's a terrible thing to say about a vocation, but there you have it. Korea was a chance to find Peter Clifford again, I suppose. Certainly the idea of moving far away had its appeal, but in a different way than the first time I left Manchester. I was starting over, but this time there was no imperative to get the heck out of Dodge; this was truly a fresh start.

But I digress.

I live in a small village in the mountains about half a day's drive from Seoul – on a good day. While I was charged with serving the spiritual needs of the community, I discovered that there was plenty else to do. The physical aspect of the mission was to build both a school and a pipeline to bring clean water, and I was more than happy to muck in and help.

Two years of hard work and fresh air had done wonders for both my body and my spirit. And now the diocese had called me down to Seoul. What had I done wrong?

Nothing, as it happens – save that I'd forgotten to renew my visa. I suppose I'd pretty much managed to shove aside the mundane details of the outside world.

And that's what got me where I am now. In a manner of speaking, at least.

Since I was going to have to spend a few days in the city I volunteered to pick up supplies for the mission. I guess it's no surprise that our nurse goes through first aid materials at an astounding rate. He's given me quite a list. My work trousers have so many patches that I can't tell where the denim begins and the patches end. Replacements were in order. Fortunately, clothing is cheap in Seoul. I don't need anything stylish or perfect, and as such I had plenty of choices in the shops that sell factory seconds.

A rack of colorful postcards caught my attention and so I stopped to take a look. While I was in town it wouldn't hurt to send a few short notes back home – to Manchester and Ballykissangel. Certainly you can imagine my complete and utter shock to hear a familiar voice and see that equally familiar tweed hat on a side street in Seoul.

Brian Quigley had lost a few pounds and gained a few laugh lines around his eyes, but other than that he hadn't changed a bit. We'd barely exchanged pleasantries before he grabbed my arm and insisted on buying me a drink. There was a bar in the area where all the ex-pats gathered, and he knew a shortcut. He would. I was given no chance to protest; he pulled me through a maze of side streets, down into a shop-filled underground passageway, then back up to the surface.

I leaned against a building to catch my breath. I thought I'd gotten back in shape these last two years. Perhaps age is catching up with me. The sprint hardly seemed to faze Quigley, who watched my attempts to regain an air of dignity with a mixture of amusement and impatience.

"Are you quite ready?" I nodded, and we strolled inside the bar.

He pointed at a booth in the back, where I gratefully slid down onto the padded Naugahyde seat. Presently he returned with a whiskey for him and a Guinness for me. Beggars can't be choosers. I took a long drink and was surprised to discover that it was served at just about the correct temperature for an ale.

"Well, it's nice to see you, Brian . . . I think."

The older man leaned back against the seat to give room make an expansive gesture. "Is that any way to greet an old friend?"

"Old friend? I haven't seen you since --"

"YOU skipped town, as I recall. Missed out on some damned fine whiskey, too.” He was referring to my abrupt departure from Ballykissangel after his grandson Kieran's christening.

He had me there, but he might not know that I've been corresponding with Brendan all these years. "I heard you did a bit of a runner yourself."

"Ah." He took a sip of his whiskey, then followed it by a positively large gulp. "A man's got to do what he can for his family." More like Brian Quigley has to do what he can for Brian Quigley, I thought. He must have guessed what I was thinking. "I took care of Niamh. And Liam and Donal."

"I know. It's a small town, Brian. You don't think people wouldn't know what was going on."

"For someone who hasn't been there in – what, ten years? - you seem to be plugged in."

"Nine, but who's counting?" I still count the days, but I thought it best to change the subject before Quigley pointed that out. "So what are you doing these days?"

Brian reached into the breast pocket of his sports jacket and brought out a business card. "Quigley Investments."

I read it over. He had an office somewhere in Seoul, according to the card. The reverse side was printed in Hangul. "It's a bit late for holiday homes, isn't it? The Olympics were – what, twenty years ago? But who's counting?"

Brian looked genuinely wounded. "I offer investment advice. Businessmen here need a consultant who knows the landscape. I know investment opportunities in Ireland. I also make stock market recommendations. It isn't all happening in the Footsie 100, you know."

Investment advice. Leave it to Brian Quigley to land on his feet. "So then, what was with all the cloak and dagger? Testing new toys for MI-6?"

"See that disclaimer on the card?" Brian pointed to some almost microscopically fine print along the bottom edge. "It's the standard stuff about how all investment carries a risk and we're not responsible for sudden shifts in market conditions. Yadda, Yadda." He waved his hand with a flourish.

"Ah." I flipped the card over and saw tiny print in Hangul as well. "This says the same thing?"

Brian Quigley shrugged his shoulders. "Near enough. Not a direct translation, you understand, but it means essentially the same thing."

"I would not be too far off the target if I were to guess that perhaps one of your clients got hit by a 'sudden shift in market position?'"

"Something like that. Don't worry. I'm working on it. He'll be thanking me tomorrow." I wondered what the odds were of that happening. "So, what have you done with yourself for all these years? I'm surprised you still kept the collar."

"So am I. I guess that's one reason I'm doing missionary work here." Brian raised an eyebrow, and I felt I had to explain. "The collar means a lot less to me than the things I do with my life. And working up there in the mountains I'm far enough away from the church bureaucracy to suit me just fine. You know, Brian--"

Quigley took a darting look over one shoulder and then glanced at the front door of the bar. In one smooth motion he downed the rest of his drink and swept his hat from the table and onto his head. "Drink up."

I looked around the place. A large man leaned against the bar. He was staring directly at us – and he did not look happy. "Brian, what's going on?"

He nodded to a hallway situated a few feet behind the booth. "There's a window in the Gents. Let's go."

I thought it would look odd, the two of us going to the toilet together, but with Brian Quigley mine was not to reason why. Oh, I tried, and most of the time all I got for my efforts was a gigantic headache. As we walked in the direction of the facilities I saw the large man lumbering our way. This was not good. Brian pushed me through the door and set a little hasp lock on the inside.

"Oh, as if that's going stop Jabba the Hutt!"

"Calm down!" Brian worked at the latch on the window. The doorknob began to rattle. "Say something," he whispered.

Uh, yeah. "Just a minute," I yelled. "I'll be right out." I wondered if I should repeat the phrase in Korean, but the flimsy door began to bow inward. I could hear the wood cracking. "Brian, any time now."

"Got it." He pushed the window open and squeezed through.

"What happened to offering the clergy the courtesy of going first?" The window overlooked an alley. Apparently the dustmen hadn't been, and judging from the smell they might be on strike. I slithered out the window just as I heard the door to the toilet break in.

Quigley was already dusting himself off as though he'd just been through a minor inconvenience. "That way." He pointed to my right and I followed. "Uh-oh." Our pusruer had made it to the window and had begun shouting. Although I'd picked up quite a bit of Korean in the past two years, I couldn't understand but a few words of his tirade. He didn't look as though he'd be able to get out through that window. Jabba (for lack of a better name) wasn't going to follow us, so what was the problem?

"Oh." I skidded to a stop and nearly ran into Brian. Jabba the Hutt's larger brother stood at the end of the alley, flexing his muscles. Brian nudged me and pointed to his right. A large blue skip overflowing with trash blocked the only way out. "Aw, no!"

"Got any better ideas?" I had to admit that I hadn't. We ran to the skip and clambered over the top of the rotting garbage, Jabba and his brother cursing us (or so it seemed) the entire time. It was then that I realized that they were cursing – in Chinese. Some of the older men in the village spoke Chinese. Funny how easy it is to pick up curse words in a foreign language – only it didn't seem terribly humorous at the moment.

Brian made it to the other side first, and reached out to help me down. I got the impression that he got this sort of exercise on at least a semi-regular basis. "Get down!" he hissed. I hit the ground and rolled a couple of times. Not only was I going to feel this tomorrow, but I was not looking forward to explaining myself when I returned to the diocese. I heard a loud boom down the alley and something whiz over my head.

"Brian!"

"Keep down. This way." We crawled down a passageway and into another alley. I could hear the Hutt brothers struggle as they tried to make it over the skip. Apparently their bulk was a hindrance. I'll take small favors. I followed Brian through more passages, and for all I knew we doubled back over our own path several times. I hoped he knew where he was going. I could hear the heavy running steps of the two Jabbas growing closer. "That way." Brian pointed down a dark passage and we came face-to-face with a third Jabba. Do they grow them that large here, or what? Brian tipped his hat – I kid you not – and took off in the opposite direction. I followed, and we skidded to a halt in the blind alley.

I was wrong about Jabba the Hutt, I realized as we found ourselves face-to-no-neck with three mounds of rippling muscle – holding machine guns. These guys could each take on an enormous science fiction bad guy with no problem. I leaned against the wall and gulped. All things considered, that was a mild reaction.

"Let the priest go," Brian ordered with the same haughty air he used to hand menial work to Liam and Donal back in Ballykissangel. "He's not part of this." The muscle men stared back impassively.

That is how I ended up with my back to the wall in a filthy blind alley with Brian Quigley facing down the mafia. I gulped again. "Brian, how much money did these guys lose?"

"Them?" He shrugged, a gesture that might have been comical had we been in a different situation. "Not a won. It was their boss that made the investment."

"For the Chinese Mafia."

"I think he invested their money, but was hoping to make something on the side. Instead --"

I closed my eyes and shut him out. All I had left was a prayer, and I wasn't even sure of that. Still, I took a deep breath – quite possibly my last - and began to pray. Soon I was aware that Brian had quit talking. In fact, everything had gone eerily quiet. I opened one eye just a little bit and saw that someone had joined the muscle boys. "Amen," I whispered.

Brian grabbed my right hand as I started to cross myself. "No sudden moves," he cautioned.

With a slow outtake of breath – not my last, I hoped – I opened my eyes fully and took in the newcomer. His bespoke suit cost enough to feed our village for an entire year – with enough left over to buy Christmas gifts for the children. It was impeccably tailored. He wore a brightly-polished gold ring on the smallest finger of his right hand. When he reached his left hand to smooth his razor-cut hair I caught the glint of a very expensive watch. He glanced at Brian and then at me, and it was quite obvious that he was not amused. This must be the man who lost the money.

"Mr. Sun, this man is a Catholic priest. He's not involved with my business at all." Well, I had to give Brian some points for looking out for me.

"Perhaps he can pray that you return my money." Mr. Sun's English was as flawless as his suit.

Brian glanced at his watch. "The stock market will be closing in a few minutes. Why don't we go back to the bar and talk this over?" He took a step towards Mr. Sun and the broad-shouldered gentlemen all pointed their weapons at Brian's chest. He shrugged - a mite too casually given the circumstances - and stepped back against the wall. "Okay. Perhaps I am a bit pungent for the bar."

"Mr. Quigley, I trusted our money with you --"

"You made the investment."

"I'm growing quite impatient." Just then his mobile went off. I didn't know it was possible to have a ringer that was as expensive as the mobile itself probably was, but that's how it sounded. Very expensive, to match the rest of his ensemble. Mr. Sun pulled a small, thin mobile from his pocket. He stared at the screen, frowned, and pressed at some buttons on the keypad. "Mmm," was all he said as he slipped the device back into his pocket. "Mr. Quigley." Mr. Sun took two steps forward, getting as close to Brian as he dared without being knocked over by the smell. He extended a hand. "The investment is satisfactory."

"Glad to be of service," Brian said as he shook Mr. Sun's hand warmly. I heard a soft click and looked over to see that the three no-necks had stood down their weapons. "I told you it was just an unfortunate market fluctuation."

Mr. Sun extracted his hand from Quigley's and wiped his palm on an impossibly white handkerchief. He nodded to his men and they all melted away into the alley. Oh, I know that sounds melodramatic, but the close encounter with goldyring and his three goons hadn't exactly been prosaic.

"Well, I guess that's that." Quigley looked absolutely sanguine as he began to straighten his clothes. I stared at him incredulously.

"What do you mean, 'that's that?' You showed up literally out of nowhere, dragged me through the less-touristy parts of a strange city, nearly got me killed by those three 'gentlemen' who make American football players look malnourished – not to mention their underworld boss – and that's all you can say?"

"Oh." Quigley stuck out his hand. "Nice to see you again, Father."

"Nice? Is that all you can say? Nice?"

Brian slapped me on the back. "Of course not. Let me buy you another beer."

"I don't think we look exactly presentable."

"True enough." He patted down his coat pockets and found a mobile phone. "Let me call my driver. I'll make sure you get back to wherever it is you're staying."

I wrinkled my nose. "I'm at the diocese compound, Brian." I looked down at my suit. "This is going to be interesting to explain."

"No problem. We'll get you some clothes. I'll have those cleaned. They won't know what you've been up to. We'll eat a good meal, do some catching up."

"Perhaps you should call Niamh."

Brian glanced at his watch. "At this hour?"

"How long has it been, Brian?"

Quigley looked down at his phone. "Oh, it's been...not long."

I waited for him to glance back up from and looked him in the eye. "Don't kid a kidder, Brian."

He punched a speed dial on his mobile. "Let me at least make sure you get back safely."

I reached out and closed his phone. "I'll make my own way back. I've been doing it for long enough, I think I'll manage. Besides," I glanced down at my suit, "someone will probably take pity on a poor priest."

We walked in silence back to the street and then shook hands. "Lunch tomorrow, Brian? I'm still in the city."

He shook his head. "Sorry, I, uh, have a meeting. But call me before you leave town. You have my number."

I pointed to the jacket pocket where I'd placed his card. "Right."

I watched Brian Quigley walk slowly down the street and then stop in the shelter of a doorway. As I walked past I noticed that he was on his mobile. I didn't mean to listen, but well, I couldn't help it. I'll mention it at my next confession. "I wanted you to be the first to know about the expansion of Quigley Investments! Yes, I'm opening a new office - in the financial heart of the world! No, London! Well, I need someone to run the Seoul office . . ."

I picked up my pace and moved along to the bus stop. I was going to have to explain myself to Father Sun ... no relation, I hope.

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