Turn A Blind Eye

by Neil A. White

Aye, son. I did. But go easy with the younger days would you, I’m not that old. Unless you want me to tell your Ma about the smoking?

  The young priest smiled as, in a flash, the cigarette hit the pavement, a heel ground out all signs of life and the scrawny lad skated off to find a less conspicuous locale to while away the hours.

  Inside the church, he stood before the font of holy water and breathed in the familiar scent of votive candles intermingling with the aroma of wood polish. He gazed along the nave admiring the gothic-styled arches separating the pews from the side altars, culminating in the highest arch which framed the high altar and pipes of the church organ within the soaring cupola. He carefully dipped his fingers into the holy water, made the sign of the cross, then recited a short prayer of thanks for having been handed such a beautiful parish so shortly after being ordained.

  Of course, exceptional circumstances necessitated the change in parochial leadership. Father Crowley wasn’t privy to all the goings on here in town before he arrived, but if the gossip overheard amongst his congregants was accurate, his predecessor, Father Mason, deserved to be hung, drawn and quartered. Instead; he’d received a swift transfer to a seminary in Limerick – for further reflection on his calling. He’d asked his superior, the Monsignor of the diocese, if the circumstances were something of which he should be aware? The gruff and hurriedly mumbled response to just follow the teachings of the Bible, told him all he needed to know. He didn’t ask a second time.

  Having completed morning mass and with an hour to spare, Father Crowley had taken the opportunity to step out for a coffee before jumping headlong into morning confession. Passing the altar, he made his way towards the sacristy and noticed two of his regulars waiting patiently; Mrs McClenahan and Mrs Allen. Father Crowley smiled to himself knowing an hour of listening to town gossip lay ahead. And Mrs Coogan; she attended services like clockwork and usually wasn’t one to partake in the usual gossip, so perhaps this would be something different to spice up his day.

  Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been three weeks since my last confession, and I accuse myself of the following sin.

  This must be serious, thought Father Crowley. Mrs Coogan, Marnie, had jumped to the front of the queue.

  Except, Father, but… umm… I’m not sure exactly what to call it.

  Father Crowley was about to take a sip from his coffee but paused with the cup enticingly close to his lips.

  Perhaps it would help to give me some of the details.

  Yes, certainly. It began over a year ago, but I confessed to Father Mason back then and he gave me absolution.

  What has happened since to feel the need to be absolved again?

  Nothing has happened… yet. But I feel it will soon. Very soon.

  Mrs Coogan.

  Please. Call me Marnie, Father.

  Marnie, I can’t begin to grant you absolution unless you are more specific.

  But Father, I’m scared of the forces involved.

  Marnie, there is no force greater than our God in heaven.

  A conflicted Marnie fell silent, she wrung her hands and wound her handkerchief between her fingers in the hope of finding just the right words amongst the folds. Then, all at once it came bursting out. All the pent-up anger, the fear of the unknowing, the waiting at home alone for a key turning in the front door lock. Or just as likely, the boot of a Garda officer kicking it in.

  Bloody hell, Father, it’s the IRA. My stupid bloody husband robs banks for them, and I think he’s about to do it again.

  Marnie’s soft, lilting voice suddenly transformed into a tortured, hissing, scream. Father Crowley winced at the sudden outburst of emotion and reflexively squeezed his coffee cup, popping off the protective lid and spilling the milky liquid over his trousers and shoes.

  He gazed down at the floor and to the small trail of coffee running across the wooden boards towards the door of the confessional. The soft sobbing of Mrs Coogan in the partition beside him the only sound as he struggled to think of the appropriate words.

  Father Crowley was old enough to have recalled some of the later years of the Troubles. It was during his first year of College when the Good Friday peace accord was signed and the IRA, albeit begrudgingly, begun to disarm. For his generation, particularly among those of his calling, the IRA was a relic of the past best tucked away on a shelf and forgotten. The Sinn Fein party politicised and legitimised the movement years ago, or so he thought. Could he have been that naïve?

  Ah, Marnie? I know it has taken a huge amount of courage for you to share this with me today. But what exactly would you have me do? I’m fairly confident you would not want me to share this with the Gardaí.

  Oh, deary me, no, Father. I beg of you.

  Your confession, of course, is safe with me. However, I’m afraid I cannot grant you absolution. Can your husband be talked out of participating?

  Marnie choked back a half-hearted laugh.

  Huh! You think you can get away from these criminals that easily? My husband signed up for the cause as a young lad, and it is with them he will stay until the very end. I just pray he will be safe and nothing bad happens.

  Then I will pray for him as well, and also for the other folks he will be…

  He was about to say “robbing” but considered it a little too callous.

  … That will be involved. And to pray he will one day see the error of his ways.

  Thank you, Father. I’m sorry to have burdened you with this.

  Father Crowley studied the ceiling of the confessional thinking the same thing. With as much compassion as he could muster, he replied.

  That is what I am here for, Marnie.

  The cheerfulness returned to Marnie’s voice, expunging her conscience obviously doing her the world of good. Father Crowley wished, if only he could do the same.

  Well then, I’ll be off for today. Just to let you know, I won’t be at mass this weekend. I’m not supposed to know this, but I found ferry tickets to Holyhead for this Friday hidden in the closet when I was cleaning, so Sam and I will be off to the Continent. Can I pick you up anything from…? Well, I guess it best if I didn’t tell you where exactly.

  Thank you, but no, there is nothing I need or want. You enjoy your trip.

  Father Crowley waited a moment for Mrs Coogan to leave then slid shut the small panel over the latticework separating the two sections of the confessional. Before leaving, he flicked the switch changing the light shining above the booth from green to red, letting the waiting parishioners know, for the moment, confession was over. Father Crowley needed some reflection time of his own.

  Mrs McClenahan and Mrs Allen were deep in conversation when Mrs Coogan stepped from the confessional. Marnie, shot her two old friends a quick, wan, smile as she hurried past. A moment later they noticed the light change from green to red, which they thought strange, then caught a glimpse of the retreating figure of Father Crowley hurrying back to the sacristy. For the life of them, they could not imagine what would cause such behaviour, but couldn’t wait to begin speculating with friends over a cup of coffee.

  Both gathered their coats at the same moment and hurried up the aisle in a rush, neither lady remembering to cross themselves before exiting.

  Melbourne, Australia

  Thursday, March 17

  Dayne Wallingham sunk into the comfortable cushions covering the bench seating and leant back against the acid-etched concrete wall, he pulled his baseball cap down low to cover his eyes and began caressing the keys of his Dell laptop positioned on the polished wooden table in front of him.

  Picking up on the portly solicitor’s morning routine took no time at all. Each day, like clockwork, he ordered a large flat white from the Six Degrees Café on St Kilda Road, just a block from his office.

  Perfect.

  Dayne whispered as Garth ordered eggs on toast to go with his coffee.

  Take ya time ya fat bastard; I’ve got a little work to do here to get ready.

  For this assign
ment, he chose a simple tried and true hacking method; the waterhole attack. All he needed was for Garth to access a website on his mobile phone while in the café. Dayne finished establishing a limited range fake WAP – wireless application protector – which would capture the web pages accessed by all devices, then sat back and waited.

  Garth took a seat by the front window looking out over the tree-lined boulevard. As he sipped his coffee and waited for his order, he slipped his mobile from the breast pocket of his jacket.

  Seeing the mobile in Garth’s hand, Dayne quickly made his way to the counter situated behind Garth and retrieved a few extra packets of sugar. As he passed, he glanced over Garth’s shoulder to view the screen.

  ***

  It was still a week until the start of the new football season, but for Garth, it couldn’t come soon enough. After an interminable six months of waiting, the protracted build-up to the first round of games was driving him insane. The team he supported, North Melbourne, had been on a lean streak since their last premiership in 1999, but all signs pointed to a strong 2016.

  As he perused the team’s website, he remembered back to when he was a young child and his dad taking him to games at the venerable old Arden Street ground. He lived for those Saturdays standing on the outer terraces with his father. Unfortunately, successful seasons for the ’Roos were few and far between.

  Garth paused his reading to allow the waitress to place his breakfast plate before him. After adding copious amounts of salt and pepper to his eggs, he attacked them voraciously.

  He could still vividly recall their first two premierships in 1975 and 1977. He was in his early twenties, a recent graduate from Melbourne University, and working as an intern for his father while waiting on acceptance into law school.

  Then nothing to crow about for his beloved Kangaroos until almost 20 years later when two more titles in 1996 and 1999 materialised. As he stared out of the front window of the café and watched the morning commuters pass by, Garth thought it strangely funny his team’s ultimate successes only seemed to arrive in bunches. And then only after long barren stretches of looking forward in hopeful anticipation – much like waiting for a Melbourne bus.

  ***

  Dayne stole a quick glance and immediately recognised the Kangaroo emblem against the blue and white backdrop, he hurried back to his seat and captured the desired website.

  Within minutes he’d implanted the required line of code thereby poisoning the webpage on Garth’s mobile with a JavaScript redirect. The command implanting malware gave Dayne the ability to access any workstation Garth used when he next visited the same site.

  He watched the pudgy solicitor wipe the corners of his mouth with a serviette, toss it onto the empty plate and rise from his chair.

  Now all there was to do was sit, wait, and hope Garth accessed the same website on his work computer.

  Dublin, Ireland

  Thursday, March 17

  It is such a pleasure to see you again, Father James. So how goes the new appointment? I trust the good folks of Bray are treating you well.

  Aye, Father William, they are at that. And I thank you for making time for me on such short notice.

  For Father James Crowley, it was a short drive up the motorway; no more than 15 kilometres to Clondalkin. His destination a stone’s throw from the village green.

  Think nothing of it, James. I’m just glad a former curate of mine thinks fondly enough of his old mentor, now you’ve been blessed with a Parish of your own, to still value his opinion. It is not always the case, you know. What troubles you so?

  Father James took a moment before answering. He sipped his tea then peered at the leaves on the bottom of his cup as if searching for the right words.

  The home of Father William Moynihan, a small one-bedroom cottage, snuggled in amongst the trees on the grounds of the Immaculate Conception Church. A library-cum-sitting room occupied the majority of the ground floor. Dusty tomes lined the walls on three sides, an old stone hearth featuring a magnificently carved oak mantel the other. A small kitchen at the back of the cottage completed the downstairs, an austere bedroom aloft.

  A small fire in the hearth took the edge off a brisk spring morning. Both men sat angled towards the fireplace. A teapot, two cups and a sugar bowl sat on a small side-table between them.

  It is a question of confession, Father.

  Father William drew in his breath. Oh dear, he thought. Tell me he hasn’t strayed already.

  Your confession, of course, is sacrosanct, James. So please tell me what troubles you so?

  You misunderstand, Father. It is not I who wishes to confess. It is a confession I heard, and need guidance with how best to counsel one of my congregants.

  ‘Thank the Lord,’ Father William intoned under his breath. Feeling somewhat more at ease, he asked the young priest of his concerns.

  A parishioner just yesterday shared with me an awful story. It involves criminal activity, Father.

  Well, of course we cannot condone such activity, but do go on.

  Father James placed the cup and saucer back onto the small table at his side and continued.

  It is not just that, Father. It also involves parties I long presumed a relic of the past in this country.

  The feeling of unease Father William only just dispelled reversed course. His stomach began to flip and knot in anticipation of what was to come.

  Of whom do you speak?

  The IRA, Father. If my congregant is to be believed, her husband has been robbing banks for them. And is soon to rob another.

  Oh! Well… James, you have done the right thing in coming to me for further reflection on this troubling matter. Tell me, is this person… This, Mrs… her name was, you said?

  I’d best keep that confidential if you don’t mind, Father. Unless of course, you feel it necessary…

  Father William instantly drew back; he needed to be careful and not give the young priest cause for alarm.

  No, no. You’re correct. I was going to ask if she is liable to flights of fancy. It does seem to be a rather absurd tale.

  I agree, Father. But up until today she has appeared to be very stable of mind.

  Father William rose from his chair and paced towards the library’s window overlooking the green fields beyond. To his right, two squirrels searched frenetically under the boughs for their morning meal.

  Many different thoughts were swirling around in his mind. Not the least of which was the threat of exposure. How best to placate Father James and get him pointed in a different direction? What about the stupid cow in Bray and her big mouth? If she’s already told Father James, how long until she confides in a neighbour? Or worse, the Gardaí!

  Well, James, what I can tell you is that I’ve not heard a word of any activity involving the IRA in years. Some of the old guard, and this may be the case here, feel the need to embellish past glories to still feel relevant. Am I making myself clear?

  Yes, Father. That’s good to know. But about her husband. She seems pretty adamant he is going to rob another bank. Should I go to the Gardaí then?

  Father William felt a slight trembling in his knees; he gripped the side of his chair to steady himself and hoped the young priest hadn’t noticed his moment of weakness.

  No, no, dear boy. That would be betraying the sanctity of confession. Best to recommend her to pray on the matter, and to pray for her husband, for him to see the error of his ways. Also, best to recommend she does not go to the Gardaí herself. She may think it the right thing to do, but does she want to spend the rest of her days alone?

  Yes, Father. I understand.

  Excellent, James, excellent. I’m sure this little matter will all work itself out in the end. Our God works in mysterious ways.

  Thank you for your counsel, Father William. You have been a great help. I won’t trouble you further. Enjoy the rest of your day.

  Father William Moynihan waved from the front doorstep at the retreating figure of Father James Crowley as he
backed his sedan out of the driveway for the return trip to Bray.

  As the small blue Ford containing Father James disappeared from sight, he closed the front door to block out the cold and hurried back inside to the library. Before sitting at his desk, he reached for the bottle of Teeling from the sideboard and poured himself a larger than usual tumbler of whiskey.

  He gulped down a good measure in one long draught, to tamp down the panic he felt rising from within, then picked up the phone. It seemed to ring for an eternity, an echo reverberating back into his ear, before being picked up.

  Well if it isn’t my old brother calling me from chilly old Dublin. How are you doing, William, on this glorious day?

  William, not in the mood for niceties, got right to the point.

  I have an important matter to discuss, Thomas. Can you talk freely on this line?

  Thomas hesitated a moment before answering.

  I’ll call you back. Give me five minutes.

  Father Thomas Moynihan grabbed his jacket, hat and mobile phone before leaving his office. Two minutes later he passed the Swiss Guards manning the gates of the Via di Porta Angelica and turned left following the sidewalk running alongside the Leonine Wall.