by Daniel Kemp
“We want a list of all who knew of the Sarin and the time it was coming ashore. The only good thing that came out of all this planning was the bomb in the centre of Westport. He's a good and clever man, that Percy Crow. Have you seen him since that night, Charlie?” they asked.
“I haven't set eyes on him for a couple of weeks. I thought it best to keep out of his way, what with all that he had going on,” he replied.
“You and he have done well,” collectively they announced.
“Was he in the know about the boat landing, Charlie?”
“No,” answered Charlie. “I was told to say nothing to anyone outside the brigade.”
“You told no one other than us about its availability then?” looking quizzically, the army chief of staff asked.
“Only our political brothers. I had to, in order to get their permission to load it in Tripoli.” Charlie looked at them and they return his gaze without comment.
“We can't say that we weren't a little put out by that explosion you two manufactured at Grange Manor, because it ended our supply of gossip from that English bent Lord. Never had a whisper from him after that. But we forgave you, as you have far too many valuable assets that serve the cause we all follow. The Lord pervert was expendable. Plus, it showed us just how good that Percy was. Neat operation he pulled off. Next time you see your English friend tell him how much we appreciate his loyalty to the Republic. You're lucky to have a man close to you like him, Charlie.”
If Percy had been there they would probably have drowned him in Irish whiskey that night to celebrate his convictions but they didn't know that Charlie Reilly was a liar and Percy had found God in an unmarked crate.
“It must have been one of those waiting on the hilltops who's the informant. But it's a mystery how any of them knew its importance. God won't be able to help whoever it is when he's discovered.” They cheered in unison, reminding themselves to confess the sins of pleasure next time they visited a church.
“Right then, let's have all your thoughts about the Maze.”
How the bloody hell didn't I know that Montague worked for them? It's clear now why he was left alone.
Charlie made a hasty overnight dash to London to see if it was a forthcoming heart attack he was suffering from, or if he was unnaturally anxious about his health. At around nine am he discovered he wasn't a hypochondriac at all.
“I just couldn't allow it, Charlie. It's one thing to kill those who treat you like shit and a completely different one to poison innocent mothers and children on tube trains. That's just barbaric! There's beauty in the savagery that we've done, but there's none in gassing innocent people.”
“But you've killed civilians, including nuns, before in this war. You have enough blood on your hands, Percy Crow, to send you to hell four times over.”
“I do and I will go to hell, Charlie. But none of what I've done was mass slaughter on any scale. I saw enough of that in the wars in Europe.”
Charlie reasoned that if Percy was ever interrogated about Tralee it would not only be Percy's life at risk but also his own. He also worried if Montague would haunt him.
“I told the council that I never told you of the Wayside Flower. If they ever find out that I've lied; I'm a dead man, Percy.”
“They won't find out from me,” he replied, reaching from his bed towards his lover. Charlie never took that hand. He backed away from it.
“Maybe not, but it could have come from whoever you told about the Maze. Don't lie to me, Percy. I know you grassed on that. Have you shared our secrets before?”
“A few, Charlie, but I never mentioned your name. The British gave me licence to kill all those that had abused us and my sister in exchange for information. It was the only way I could think of to find them all.”
“You've done what! They're not fools, these British, Pingo. You and I easy to shunt towards the Republicans in return for favours. You've betrayed me, Percy, and now there's no going back. The British will spit you out when they've done with you. I found out from the Irish council that Montague worked for the IRA. No wonder the Brits let you kill him. We're done for Percy. We ain't got a prayer!” Charlie began to cry, continuing in his state of distress.
“Wasn't my love enough? I've killed for you. I've waited for you. What else did you want from me? Neither the IRA nor the British forget easily. They both kill for the fun of it. I'm a target if any of this gets out and yours will be the signature on my death certificate.”
“The British haven't split on me up to now so what's changed, Charlie? Nothing that I can see.”
“This is different. This was their biggest secret. Those six IRA who were waiting at Tralee, to unload the boat, may be locked up but that won't stop the army council questioning them. When they find not one of them betrayed the secret, they'll come looking at who else knew what was on that ship, which incidentally none of those six did, but I did, though. I arranged the whole bloody thing! The go ahead came from Simmons directly to me. I was the first to know after him and before the politicians, Percy. I'm the first in the chain. They won't believe what I told them for long.”
Something inside Percy just went snap, as if the spring of a clock had been over-wound and he could take no more. When they had met on the day after the Grange Manor retribution, Charlie had burst out crying with joy, but here in his bedroom, where they had often shared love, the tears were for the barrenness in his heart on hearing the admission of duplicity and cunning.
“I'm so sorry, Charlie, I'm a weak man.”
“That's for sure, Percy. You've dropped the only person that's ever loved you right in it. We can never see each again, you do know that, don't you? As for the army council, I haven't a clue how I'm going stop their suspicions about me. But somehow I've got to find a way out of this. You've ruined me, Percy. I might as well be dead!”
“Don't say that, Charlie, you're frightening me.”
“Well, what else is there? I suppose I could just walk up to them and say, sorry, lads but I thought I could trust him, then plead for mercy. That might work, I don't think. If I don't see you Percy, they will be suspicious, but if I do, and they find out you were working with the British….” He couldn't finish that, but Percy knew where he was heading. He finally accepted that the truth can hide in unmarked crates alongside death.
Charlie was pacing up and down the bedroom, as Percy was putting on the orange silk dressing gown, one of two that Charlie had brought from his last visit to America. He hugged his shorter friend, kissing him on his forehead as he did.
“You're a good man, Charlie Reilly. I don't deserve you. Now go downstairs and put the kettle on. I'll be down in a minute and we'll think of something. There's always a way out.”
When Charlie left, Percy took the belt from the remaining gown, hanging behind the bedroom door, and tied it strongly to an end of his own. The other end he coiled around his neck and then tied it off. He climbed over the landing banister, double knotting the loose end of the belts to the handrail. Taking up the slack, he silently lowered himself until he could feel the silk belt tighten around his throat. He then let go of his once strong, determined grip on life. He strangled, rather than broke his neck, never uttering a murmur in the time it took him to die.
Charlie screamed on seeing his lover's body swinging beside the staircase, but not even his cries of 'no, Percy, no,' disturbed the sleeping Lily next door nor brought returning life to his lover. Her rat woke and sniffed the air, then finished the cheese that Lily had left in his cage. Life travels around a spinning wheel for rats.
Screams now forgotten, but not the pain in his heart nor the prospect of discovery, Charlie poured away the tea he'd made, putting back the two cups that he cleaned, then carefully wiped anything else he may have touched in the last twenty minutes. He then made to leave, but before he did he kissed the dangling feet of his lifetime friend and swore never to forget the sacrifice he'd made.
* * *
Conscience kills many people. The cu
rse of sensing what's right or wrong is a plague on those with morals that are sensitive and compassionate. Those who had moulded Percy and Charlie into the monsters they subsequently became, were impervious to the pain they caused pursuing brutish amusement for themselves. Rodents don't have morals, whether they have four legs, or the variety who have only two. For some two-legged rats, life can also travel inside a spinning wheel. For others, the wheel has a habit of stopping when they least expect it to.
* * *
The exact copy of the written words on that headstone in Drogheda, that Joseph had copied was;
#
Смерть произнесла голос моего поэта
Но я нашел другой выбор
Где ангелы прислушиваются к словам, которые я говорю
В Винчине мы будем лечить.
#
Which I translated to mean;
#
Death did take my poet's voice
But I have found another choice
Where angels heed the words I speak
In Vincin is where we will treat.
#
Katherine mentioned the name of Beatrice and a 'divine comedy' when we met in her New York apartment. I believed that the comedy she referred to was the Divine Comedy by Dante Alighieri, and Beatrice, who was Dante's lover, was the guide who lead the poet to Paradise in the last book of the Comedy. Paulo was the guide, but needed my help to reach his own Paradise across the bridge of the fords. He wanted to cross over. If my hunch was right that cemetery plaque must have been put there in the last month or so, and there was only one person, other than Serena and I, who knew of the show in Milan; Franco. Had friends of Paulo been at work? All I had was the fact that if the 'n' was omitted from Vincin you had the most famous man who came from Milan; Leonardo Da Vinci. I hoped that Katherine's words of 'follow my convictions,' was leading me to Paulo.
* * *
When Serena met me in Milan that Friday night it was the last few hours of Harry Paterson running away from love. I loved this woman passionately, without any thought of family continuance affecting that judgement. It was love in the purest sense. Her father's involvement with Appendia had troubled me, as still did his suicide, but I had reconciled those doubts within my mind along with the fear of a lifetime commitment to a single woman. Prior to George's wedding I had approached a fellow King's Scholar of mine, who'd been bullied at Eton, and had taken Holy Orders as his vocational calling. He had helped me to arrange an event that George had finalised on his arrival in Milan.
Serena had renounced her Jewish faith whilst in Portugal, opening the way for our marriage in All Saints' Anglican Church two miles from the Milan Fashion Show exhibition hall. We were married thirty minutes before midnight beneath the splendour and glory personified by Christ in that Italian church, with only George and Sophie as witnesses. Both were sworn to absolute secrecy. I told Joseph of our marriage on the day Seri and I arrived back at Harrogate, the day before the phone call from Clive Townsend, Prince Charles's aide at Highgrove House, Tetbury, Gloucestershire.
That visit to Highgrove of mine was, of course, yet to come, but as the four of us quietly celebrated in our hotel my attention was focused on visits of a different nature. I had no doubts about the love I shared with Serena nor George's of Sophie, but was I right about Paulo and Katherine?
Chapter Forty-One: Glitz and Glitter
Serena and Tanta had stayed near the show venue throughout their time in Milan, coordinating all the deliveries and bossing the whole team. He was waiting for us outside on the red carpet when we arrived very early that Saturday morning. Although we both had concerns to worry over, nothing could take away the fact that Serena was back in her element, and loving it. I had told nobody about the plaque, and my suspicions of Franco's involvement, nor was I going to. It would remain my secret whichever way the day unfolded.
“My nerves are grating, Harry. This is my fifth year in the fashion industry and God only knows how many displays I've figured in during that time showing my label, but this one is like giving birth. I'm so edgy! There's a lot riding on this. It's not only my reputation at stake, but Tanta's as well. It's his colour that will either elevate us passed Venus or sentence us to remain as an also-ran for another year.”
“I didn't know you'd experienced childbirth, Seri. If you'd told me that before we'd married I might have demanded a pre-nuptial agreement. I only did it for your money.” I laughed loudly as she bowed her head towards me.
“I bow before your generosity, Lord Paterson. I'll pawn the ring tomorrow. Then you can bank the pound it cost you.” I joined her in laughter.
We had exchanged rings at the altar but taken them off after registering the marriage. Neither of us now wore one. The one she'd given me was her father's ring. A thick yellow gold band with a small ruby stone mounted between two diamonds of a similar size. Some might say it was only the thickness of the band that made it look masculine, but I adored it for the emotion it represented. The one I gave to Serena had been my mother's. The same one I had deposited with a jeweller in New York for sizing and altering. I had added three diamonds to it, taken from Alice's engagement ring. The mounting and cluster was sublime in detail and design. I believed that my mother would not only approve of the alteration, but also the woman who would wear it.
“How's Franco?” I asked.
“He's another one I can't let down, H. You don't realise just what a chance he's taking in giving me the opening and closure. Not only did he squeeze us in, but he put us ahead of the bigger names! Whichever way it goes I'll be pleased to get away later tonight.” She took a deep breath before continuing. “We'll meet him soon, Harry, and whatever you do don't crack any English jokes. He's Italian, so he won't understand them. I'm so happy that I made you change your wardrobe. At least now you look presentable. Did Lady Katherine approve of the new you, Harry? No! Do not answer that. I do not want to know. Let's get backstage and get our hands dirty. My whole team is here. I hope you remember them, Bao, Fiona and Macee the hairstylist. I have some others here too.”
Tanta had hired a nearby studio and had been there for the last two days working with two other stylists on 'combinations' of colours for the show. Making minor adjustments to proposed outfits that would be paraded down the catwalk, or runway, as she described it. The runout, the bit that's seen by the buyers and guests would only last for a few minutes, but the preparation backstage took days overall and blood on the day, or so I was told. I wasn't expecting what I saw! The week-long event was taking place inside, and on the courtyard, of Castello Sforzesco, with its grand sweeping facade of stately pillars, statues and sweeping staircases. On the worn cobblestones outside people had gathered hoping to catch sight of celebrity models and designers, and judging by the flashing cameras, some had already arrived.
Both Serena and Tanta looked magnificent, although in Tanta's case, somewhat bizarre. His crimple-coloured hair was in seven braids; apparently his lucky number, two over each shoulder and three down his back with thin glittering threads of black woven in that matched his full-length black kaftan. The silk gown had crimple embroidered edging to its cuffs with a wide band of similar decorated colour around the lowest part, inches above his sandalled feet, showing his crimple-coloured toenails. The cameras never stopped being directed in his and Serena's direction.
Serena was also showcasing his colour. Yesterday's short yellow hair colouring had been changed not only in length but also in colouring. Now a lion's golden mane of hair with crimple tips, sat on her head. A heavily crimple beaded choker topped the silk figure-hugging diagonally striped gold and crimple dress, that finished in a handkerchief cut at the side. At the end of her open-toed gold shoes her toenails matched Tanta's, but her fingernails were also varnished in that colour whereas his were not. It was this detail that she now worried about as we walked towards the chaotic backstage area.
“Don't you
think your nails should be in coordination with mine, Tanta? I think they look rather odd if not.”
“Not as odd as yours, dearie! Two are chipped,” he scornfully replied, giving a serious disapproving glare. “I'll find one of the girls for you and then find one for me.”
Zabreno was not one of the major fashion houses, nor even graded just below them, but Serena's brand had been awarded the prestigious accolade of newest Up and Coming House, at last year's New York Fashion Week. Obviously Franco was expecting great things from her and she was eager not to disappoint.
* * *
Backstage was a collapsing scrum in urgent need of undergoing a frantic disassemble with Serena's allocated space slap bang in the middle of it. Each of her models, all sixteen of them, had yet to arrive but the space was full. On a board, with photographs of their individual outfits, were pinned sixteen cards showing each one the dresses, coats and accessories that went with each design. A team of machinists were making minuscule adjustments to these as we dived in the midst. On flimsy trestle tables, pushed solidly against walls, were waiting lighted boxes of make-up, brushes and hairdryers of all shapes and sizes. Girls and boys were chatting wildly. There was a game of cards next to us, with two dishevelled, scantily dressed zero-sized girls playing. Dozens of photographers were forcing their way through the maze trying to document the event for magazines upcoming coverage. Then there were the rattling rails upon rails of clothes.
As soon as her lion's mane was seen by her specialist team, Serena was surrounded, the wig was off to be groomed as her gown was removed to be pressed and cleaned. With a dressing robe covering her naked body she started to take control, beginning with a clap of her hands.