The Silence

by Linda Tweedie

  “Okay, I had to ask. Don’t apologise. As you can see, it wasn’t an option for me either.”

  “Are you on your own with Amy?” Erin asked, quite surprised. “How do you manage?”

  “With great difficulty, let me tell you. It’s hard work, make no mistake, and your life is never the same.”

  “But you get by?”

  “Oh, I get by okay. Working for the minimum wage, a bit of jiggery pokery, a fake season ticket and living in a hellish bedsit. Yes, I get by, but it’s not what I want for my child. Nor is it how I envisaged my life.”

  “But do you regret it?”

  “Don’t be bloody stupid, of course I regret it, and what would I do if I could turn the clock back? Well, I would be a fully qualified stylist and I wouldn’t get pregnant, that’s for sure, but it doesn’t mean I would give her up. No, not for all the money in the world. Just don’t think it’s easy.”

  “I don’t and I’m terrified. I don’t think he’ll want to know, but I have to try.”

  “Okay, let’s decide what the best way forward is. What about family?”

  “My auntie Marie would definitely help, but she’s off in the Caribbean and won’t be back for a couple of weeks, so she’s no good. My granny Lizzie, well, she’s already dealt with this before with Marie and Errol, but somehow it would be different for me.”

  “What about your mum? Surely she’d stand by you?”

  “She’d do exactly what my dad told her to do.”

  “Well, what about your dad then?”

  “Nope.”

  “Are you sure? You seem like a close family. Things happen in life and that’s when the family comes together. I just think there’s more to this, and I hope that it’s the baby you’re putting first, and you’re not just using it to get him back, ‘cause trust me, that won’t work. If Bobby had any real feelings for you, he would never have let you leave at the end of the holiday. You wouldn’t be sitting here wondering what his reaction is going to be. I know this is harsh, but you have to face facts. Chances are, he’ll be on his toes as soon as he sees you, and then where will you be?”

  Carol, having spent nearly all her early years in the care system, knew only too well how easily kids were dumped, but hey, Erin wasn’t a kid − she was eighteen and should be able to fend for herself. But Carol knew full well this young girl would be lucky to last a couple of weeks on her own, so they had to have a plan.

  “Should we phone him?” Erin asked.

  “I’m worried that if we do that, it’s a case of forewarned is forearmed,” said Carol.

  “Why?”

  “Well, what reason would you have to contact him? It wouldn’t take a genius to put two and two together and he’d be up and away before the dialling tone ended.”

  “That wouldn’t surprise me. So what do you suggest?”

  “Under normal circumstances, I’d say jump on the next flight and go back to face him. But that’s not so easy for you.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Carol, I’ve got all my faculties bar one, and it’s no different than getting on a bus. I’ll show the driver my ticket. Look, I’m not retarded. I can travel on my own.”

  “Hey, calm down. Remember, I’m on your side. My worry is the language, what if something happens? You have difficulty in communicating here, so it’s going to be twice as hard in another country.”

  “It’s Spain, most people speak English,” wrote Erin.

  “Yeah, if it’s two beers, but not, ‘Please can you take me to the hospital, my baby’s coming early.’ You need someone to travel with you, Erin. What about one of the girls you went on holiday with? Surely one of them could be trusted?”

  “No, it would get round like wildfire.”

  “Look, if you’re going to get hell from your parents, why not just front it out now and get it over and done with? I think you might be surprised. I can’t see them throwing you out to fend for yourself. It’s 1994, no big deal.”

  “Listen, where I’m concerned it’s 1894, and always will be.”

  “Okay, then who are we going to get to go with you?”

  “You could come with me.”

  “Don’t be daft. First of all, I’ve got Amy to think about. Secondly, I’ll get the sack, and anyway, I couldn’t afford to go to Saltcoats never mind Spain. And I don’t have a passport, so that rules me out.”

  “Number one, we take Amy with us. Two, I’ll pay for us all. Three, so what if you get the sack − I’ll get you a better job with the family and Portcullis House is just round the corner so we could have your passports by lunchtime.”

  “Look Erin, you don’t know me, I could be

  anything − a serial killer, a con-artist, anything.”

  “Christ, Carol, you’re dealing with a Coyle. Any of those would be a normal day at the office.”

  At that precise moment a flushed, excited little girl came running over to her mum and her mum’s friend.

  “I’m fursty mummy, I need a drink.”

  “Just think, a few days in the sun would do her the world of good.”

  “There must be someone else who could go.”

  “Nope, or at least no-one I could trust. Say you’ll come, please Carol, please?”

  By the end of the day the passports had been acquired, flights to Alicante had been booked, together with a family room at the Marbella Riu, a very smart four star hotel, right in the centre of the resort and only five minutes’ walk from the Marbella Princess nightclub, Bobby Mack’s favourite night spot.

  What to tell the parents was the next hurdle. She’d come up with something, the trick was to make it simple.

  Evidence

  First stop, the Allied Irish bank. The two men walked up to the customer service desk to be greeted by the same youngster Father Jack had dealt with on his previous visit.

  “Back again, Father? Oh hello, Mr Coyle, how’s Erin? I’ve not seen her for ages,” chatted Linda.

  “She’s fine, just started her first year at university, studying law.”

  “Good, tell her I’m asking after her. Can I get either of you gentlemen anything? Tea, coffee?”

  “No, we’re fine Linda. I’ll ring the bell when we’re ready to go.” Father Jack turned and motioned to Paddy to sit down.

  “Jesus wept,” said Paddy “between the cash and the bearer bonds, there’s enough here to buy a small country.”

  “I didn’t even know what they were,” Father Jack replied stacking the bonds on the table. “Each one is worth fifty thousand.”

  A quick glance at the ledgers and documents was enough for Paddy. The photographs were as the priest had described and Paddy sussed right away what the old fucker had been involved in. Adoption my arse, he thought. But what to do next?

  “Look, Father, if we leave this here the bastard could come back, empty the lot and be away on his toes. And where is our proof then?”

  “But he’s going to miss it at some point.”

  “So? He can hardly go to the police and report three quarters of a million in bearer bonds, cash and a whole load of dodgy holiday snaps missing, can he?”

  “True, but what’ll we do with all this? What if we get caught with it?”

  “Well, what do you want to happen? Surely you don’t think he can come back and continue his life as a priest, tending to the sick and needy? Christ, he’s looking at twenty years minimum, and that’s not counting the poor fuckers that are holding up the flyovers on the M8.”

  “God Almighty, it’s a hundred times worse than I thought. What are we going to do, Paddy?”

  “First of all, we are going to empty this lot and hand the key back to that wee lassie and get ourselves right out of here, pronto.”

  Always prepared, Paddy produced a black holdall and within minutes had packed the contents of the box. Signing for the return of the key, they headed back to the car.

  Their next call was to Queen Street station, round to the left luggage area. No luck, the key to number 83 was firmly in pla
ce. They made a quick trip to Central Station where they struck lucky.

  Donning a pair of leather gloves Paddy discreetly opened the bag jammed in the narrow space.

  “Fuck!” exclaimed the big man.

  “What’s wrong? What’s in it?” the priest asked, craning to view the contents.

  “Don’t touch anything,” Paddy commanded, pushing the priest aside.

  “It’s full of clothes, stained clothes, and going by the size, I would say they’re young childrens’ clothes.”

  Paddy stuffed everything back into the bag, closed the locker and hustled the priest quickly out on to the concourse to the waiting car.

  “There are cameras all over the place in here, so put your head down and just keep walking,” he instructed.

  “But we’ve not done anything,” said Father Jack indignantly.

  “Try telling that to the judge when he asks if you know anything about a bag full of blood-stained kids’ clothes, now keep going.”

  Back in the sanctity of Paddy’s Jaguar, the priest looked on the verge of breaking down.

  “Hey, chin up, Father, we’ll get through this.”

  “What are we going to do, Paddy? This is big stuff for me.”

  “Fuck, you don’t think this is big for me too?”

  “Well, this is a lot more your style than mine. I can’t stop thinking about the shame it’s going to bring on my church.”

  “You know, I’ve hated that old bastard since I was twelve years old. He thrashed me and then my brothers. I vowed one day I’d pay him back. But I want you to believe me I never ever thought he would be involved in something like this.”

  “Nor I, my boy, nor I.”

  “My mother confesses her sins to him for fuck’s sake!”

  “Maybe he’s just holding the keys for somebody? He might not be involved.”

  “C’mon, Father, would you risk the consequences for this little lot? Would you put yourself and St Jude’s at risk for this kind of favour? No, I didn’t think so. That’s what we have to remember. He is involved, he’s not the Lone Ranger and it’s very likely that Tonto and the rest of the Indians are going to come looking.”

  “Surely they won’t come after us, we know too much?”

  “That’s all the more reason for them to shut us up. Don’t you worry about that, I’ve got enough troops to guard the Vatican, just stay calm.”

  The two men drove on in silence, the priest praying like he’d never prayed before and Paddy busy formulating a plan to get them out of this mess and make sure those responsible got their just desserts.

  Plan of Action

  “First things first,” said Paddy. “I need to get our Michael, he’s the man for the computer, there’s nothing our boy doesn’t know about them.”

  “Can you trust him?”

  “I can trust him a bloody sight more than you can trust your partner, Father. For fuck’s sake, he’s my brother. Of course I can trust him. Not that it would matter either way. We have to get access to that machine and I don’t know anyone else who could do the job.”

  They pulled up outside his mother’s house and the smell of cooking came wafting out. Lizzie almost fell over backwards seeing her eldest son with Father Jack, obviously the best of pals. “Come away in, Father, I’ve just made a batch of scones. You’ll stay and have a cuppa?” she prattled on.

  “Sorry, Lizzie, but we’re in a bit of a rush, another time,” said Father Jack, much to Lizzie’s disappointment.

  She was old school and a visit from the priest was either a great accolade or great trouble. She knew her boys wouldn’t bring trouble to her door.

  Michael was on his third scone, butter and homemade jam oozing out, making the priest’s mouth water while his insides were going like the clappers and it was taking all his might to keep him from roaring out to them to get moving.

  “It’s Michael we’re after,” said Paddy to his mother.

  “And what, pray, would our Michael be able to do for Father Jack? Him that’s not been inside the church for God alone knows how long.”

  “He doesn’t want him to be an altar boy, if that’s what you’re getting at, Ma.” quipped Paddy.

  “Now, you wouldn’t want me to break someone’s confidence, would you?” Father Jack addressed Lizzie.

  “Are you ready?” Paddy asked as Michael wiped jam from the corner of his mouth.

  “What about me?” piped up Sean, “Is my soul not worth saving?”

  “Of course it is, but for a different reason,” said Paddy to the two intrigued men.

  The church was a few minutes walk from Lizzie’s front door, but all four piled into the Jaguar and drove the short distance to shield them from prying eyes. Too late, the jungle drums were already beating.

  “We’ll need to get rid of Mrs Gavin, Father. Can you send her on an errand or something?”

  “God, she’d never take orders from me,” said the surprised priest.

  “Well, you’ll have to get rid of her somehow. We can’t have her hovering about.”

  “Oh, you’re back, Father, and with visitors too,” said the smarmy housekeeper. Will you be wanting something to eat? Maybe a late lunch or early afternoon tea?” she asked in the broadest of Irish brogues.

  “Not at the moment, Mrs Gavin, but the bishop will be calling at around four. Could you rustle up something then? There’ll be us four, himself and his assistant.”

  “Father Jack, you can’t spring functions like this on me at such short notice.”

  “Will I be telling him he must have a fish supper from across the road, or that St. Jude’s housekeeper can’t provide him with a bite to eat? Imagine what the other housekeepers would make of that, you’d never raise your head again. Away with you, woman!” Father Jack handed her a twenty pound note and chased her off to the shops.

  “If things weren’t so serious I’d be dancing round the room. That’s the first time she’s every taken any kind of order from me,” he said.

  “Well, forget her for the moment, let’s get on. Where’s the key, Father?”

  Unlocking the door, the four men entered Canon O’Farrell’s inner sanctum. It was obvious the twins were surprised at the quality of the furnishings.

  “It looks like a five star hotel,” said Sean.

  “Aye, and with all the mod cons. That computer cost a few bob,” from Michael.

  “That’s where we need your help. We need to know for definite what the old bugger’s been up to and I’m pretty damned sure it’s all in there.” Paddy was still somewhat distrustful of the technology, but his brothers, both of them, were a different generation altogether.

  “Okay,” said Michael switching the computer on. With a gentle hum the screen lit up. “Most folks have a password to keep others out of their business. I’m assuming the canon has one too. Yes, it’s asking for one. Now, most people use one which is familiar and easy to remember. Let’s try his date of birth. No, it’s not that. Let’s try . . .” and he began typing, “St. Jude’s, no, it’s not that.”

  “What about his mother’s maiden name? Can you think of anything significant, Father Jack?”

  “The only thing I’ve ever known him to talk about was the dog he had when he was a lad.”

  “Okay, what was the dog’s name?” asked Michael.

  “Rebel, as much for the cause as for the dog,” answered Father Jack.

  “Bingo!” exclaimed Michael as the screen sprang to life.

  There were hundreds of ambiguous emails, but without knowing exactly what the merchandise was that was referred to, there was little incriminating evidence. Michael trawled through hundreds of sites, checking the computer’s history which was bizarre, to say the least.

  It was beginning to seem unlikely that Michael would find any answers when Paddy, fascinated by the unlikely sites that the man had visited, posed the question.

  “Could there be a link between these sites that he’s been visiting? There has to be something, you can’t imagine him
in here sitting at a screen looking at chemists, shoe shops, interior designers and so on. So there has to be something.”

  “Wait a minute,” exclaimed Michael, clicking on a symbol at the bottom of the screen.

  “Fuck sake,” from Sean.

  “Oh my God, what have we opened up?” cried Father Jack.

  Paddy Coyle said nothing. He had suspected all along what Canon O’Farrell seemed to be heavily involved in, but to actually see images on a screen were more than Paddy could stomach. Page after page of the most depraved, horrendous, sickening images filled the screen and also the minds of the four men in the room.

  Canon O’Farrell had just signed his own death warrant.

  The Housekeeper

  The bishop calling round for a bite to eat, how stupid did they think she was? In the twenty years she had been housekeeper at St. Jude’s, the bishop had never ‘just called round’. Nor was he ever likely to, especially when the senior clergyman was not in residence. So what the devil was going on and why was Father Jack as thick as thieves with those rag-tags, the Coyle brothers?

  From the vantage point of her scullery Imelda Gavin could observe most of the goings-on in the house, and right now, through the back window, she could see the four men in what should be a locked room, gathered around her brother’s computer. And from the expressions on their faces, it looked serious.

  She’d come to work in St. Jude’s not long after her younger brother Francis, the newly appointed parish priest, had taken up residence. She, having recently been widowed, her husband the victim of a bombing raid that had gone wrong, was now a martyr to ‘The Cause’.

  She was a vicious and vindictive woman who cared only for the fight for freedom, as it was known, and her brothers. She would gladly give her life for any of them. Few, if any, knew that Mrs Gavin and Canon O’Farrell were even related, much less brother and sister and both did everything to maintain the status quo. It more than suited their purposes for both parishioners and the hierarchy to believe that they merely came from the same village, but that was where the connection ended.

  Imelda cared not a jot for anyone’s opinion of her and any deed, no matter how dreadful, was acceptable if it served her beloved Ireland. Over the years, to lighten her brother’s load, she had taken on the responsibilities for the movement and safekeeping of what they called the soldiers of war. What had to be done was done with no remorse or guilt and it was she who had first persuaded her brother to become involved with Pete McClelland to expand his ‘Procurement Business’, never envisaging the sums of money involved.