by Pat Mullan
Father Flaherty blessed himself and sank to his knees. He couldn’t reach the boy so he recited the Act of Contrition where he knelt and asked God for forgiveness.
Then he got up, turned and ran towards the College.
He bounded through the front door, almost colliding with a group of students emerging from their breakfast in the refectory. He took the stairs two at a time, catching President McCafferty as he was about to enter his office. Sliding to a halt, he startled the President who turned around to see a red-faced Father Flaherty gasping for breath with sweat trickling down his cheeks.
“Father, what’s wrong?”
“It’s terrible, the boy … he’s dead!”
“Come in, come in …” President McCafferty, now alarmed, gripped Father Flaherty by the arm, pulled him inside the office, and closed the door.
“What’re you talking about? Who’s dead?”
“John Carty. He’s hanging – from that tree – look out your window!”
Father Flaherty had gained control again. His face was still red but now from anger. He steered the President to the large office window the overlooked the front portico and commanded a view of the lawns that swept down to the main gate and the line of oak trees, now majestic in the morning sun.
“He’s hanging from that tree! And we’re responsible. We took that boy’s life.”
President McCafferty stood transfixed before the window. He couldn’t see the boy. His eyes were blurry with emotion. Somewhere deep inside he managed to get a grip on himself and turned to face Father Flaherty.
“Bernard, I’m as shocked as you. But I reject your accusation that we’re to blame.” With that, he strode to his desk, sat down and pulled the phone towards him.
But Father Bernard Flaherty would not be dissuaded, “I warned you! I knew this would happen. First that Joyce boy, now young Carty. Somebody has to pay. We have to take responsibility for this!”
“Bernard, Bernard, I’ve listened to you rant and rave like this so many times. You’ve alienated most of our faculty with your wild accusations.”
“Wild accusations! Have you not been reading the newspapers? People have spat on me as I walked down the street. Spat on me! Do you hear me? Me, a priest, and they spat on me! I warned all of you that we must do something about this. Now it’s too late!”
“Father Bernard, you’re not helping. I do not want you charging around the school like this. Go to your room and pray for the soul of this unfortunate boy. I’m going to call the Gardai now. Then I’m going to call an assembly. I want the faculty and the students to hear this news from me. And I want the impact contained. Contained! Do you understand?”
But Father Bernard Flaherty was already on his way out, banging the large oak door behind him as he left.
A different Father Bernard Flaherty emerged from President McCafferty’s office. He was no longer the light-hearted person who’d been out for his morning run. With the loose easy-going stride gone, the body had stiffened, the arms swung threateningly, the gait now one of an automaton, even the open face now closed into a bleak impenetrable visage. His hair, naturally tousled, sleeked back with sweat, now seemed designed for more serious purpose.
Once inside his own room, he put down his breviary and went to his bureau, pulled out the top drawer, retrieved a bottle of pills prescribed to him and clearly marked prozac. He opened the bottle and tipped one into the palm of his hand. Then he reached into the drawer again and squeezed two paracetamol tablets from a sheet of tinfoil. At the sink, he filled a glass with water and washed all three down his throat.
He sat down on the floor, in the lotus position, and started to chant in Latin …
At twelve noon exactly Father Bernard Flaherty stepped onto the handball court. A tall three-sided concrete built court, it served as a whipping boy for him. On evenings and weekends, when he wasn’t jogging, he was on the court, usually with an attentive, hypnotized audience. Boys would silently line both sides of the court, hands in pockets, watching every move he made, every time his hand whacked the ball with definite malice up against that wall. Every time he hit the ball, the boys’ hands would strike in unison, punching inside the pockets of their trousers. This action was called hinching. Seemingly unaware of their involuntary complicity they would stand transfixed until he finished, hinching every time he struck the ball. But today he had no audience. He held the ball firmly in his hand, bounced it off the ground, and struck it hard with his right hand.
He kept this up until he collapsed, red-faced and breathless.
16
Father Michael Nugent had swapped his clerical attire for civilian clothes. He sat sipping a diet coke at a small table in the Italian restaurant where he’d chosen to meet Ed Burke for dinner.
Ed walked right past him.
“Ed, Ed ! “ Father Nugent called after him and Ed turned back as Father Nugent rose to greet him.
“Michael! I didn’t recognize you.”
“It’s been twenty-five years, you know! You don’t look a day older but time hasn’t been as kind to me.” He ran his hand over his completely bald head in emphasis.
Ed laughed and, thinking that Michael Nugent was indeed a very different person from the testosterone fuelled young man who had pursued every girl in that last year in High school, said, “I never thought you’d become a priest, Michael!”
“Yeah, I’ll bet you thought I’d be married with a bunch of kids, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, I did.”
“You never knew it but I was always drawn to the priesthood. I think I chased girls to try and find out if my vocation could stand the test.”
“Obviously, it did.”
“Yes, it did. But it’s still a struggle every day.”
“Well, I’ll be honest with you. I think the Church should let people like yourself marry. Many of you are walking away from it all. And the Church is losing some of their best people.”
The waitress arrived, ready to take their order.
“I know what I want. The pasta with pesto sauce. And some Ballygowan, not sparkling. But you haven’t had time to examine the menu.”
“No problem. Eating Italian is an easy decision for me. Spaghetti bolognese! I love it. And a glass of your best Chianti, please.”
As the waitress left, Father Michael added, “I became addicted to Italian food during the three years I spent in Rome.”
“Something else I didn’t know about you. But why would I? We’ve lived in such different worlds.”
“I suppose I know more about you. Couldn’t help it after the events of a year ago. And the shooting at Shannon. Everybody thought you’d died. They did! They really did!”
“Do I look dead to you?”
Father Michael started to laugh, almost convulsively, totally disconcerting the waitress who’d arrived at the table with their orders. He recovered and, looking at her concerned face, said, “I’m sorry. I’m OK. Shouldn’t laugh and drink at the same time.”
“You went to Rome, you said?”
“Oh yes, after Maynooth I went on to College in Rome for further study. It was a prized assignment. There were only a couple of positions and I was one of the lucky ones. I loved Rome. And being so close to St. Peters. Life couldn’t get any better.”
They said nothing for a while, enjoying their food, but the silence of the unspoken became awkward. Until Ed broke it, “I’m sure you know why I wanted to see you.”
“About your nephew, I suppose.”
“That’s right. What really happened to him?”
“He fell out of the old tower.”
“Look, we – his mother and father and me. We don’t believe it!”
“What do you mean?”
“Come on! We don’t believe it was an accident. He wouldn’t have been out there climbing up that tower even on a good night. Didn’t you know that he feared heights? Did you know him?”
“I knew him.”
“And …?”
Father Michael had s
topped eating entirely when Ed had started to talk about Terry Joyce. Now he sat with his head in his hands. He started to massage his baldness before speaking again. Clearing his throat, he looked up at Ed, “You’re right. He wouldn’t have been out there on any night.”
“If you know something, you’ve got to tell me.”
“St. Curnan’s is my life.”
“You do know something and you can’t tell me. Is that it?”
“Yes.”
“Well, if I ask you some questions, can you answer them?”
“Alright, I’ll try.”
“Was somebody with Terry when he fell?”
“Yes.”
“Another boy?”
“No. There was another boy but they got separated earlier.”
“One of your fellow priests?”
“Yes.”
“And you saw this?”
“Yes.”
“You were there too! And you let this happen!”
“You have to believe me! I only tried to help. I wanted to protect Terry. I tried to prevent it! I’ve been in agony ever since.”
“Did you tell this to the police?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t.”
“What do you mean, you can’t?”
“The pontifical secret. It prevents me from talking to anyone, even law enforcement. The Church must conduct its own investigation before anyone else. I can be excommunicated if I don’t obey.”
“You have got to be kidding!”
“No. Believe me, I am not.”
“So where did this come from?”
“From the Vatican. From Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger, prefect for the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith.”
“You mean Pope Benedict!”
“Yes.”
“When did he issue this?”
“Not very long ago. 2001, I think.”
“Has this got anything to do with the scandals in the Church? The child sex abuse?”
“Yes.”
“Oh my God! Was Terry being abused?”
“No, no, no!”
“How can you say that? How would you know?”
“I know.”
“So why did he die?”
“It was really an accident.”
“I’d like to believe you. But I can’t. You say there was a priest there the night he fell out of that tower. And you were there too. Why? What did Terry know? What threat did he pose?”
Father Michael sunk his head into his hands and Ed could see that he was trying hard to hold back the sobs.
“Was Terry running away from something that night? Did that other priest climb up into that tower after him? That’s what happened, isn’t it? And, if that’s not murder, then it’s manslaughter. Who was that other priest?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“You mean you won’t! Is the school investigating any of this?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m sorry. We have to know what happened that night. Terry deserves justice. You’re a priest. Surely to God, you must see that. Otherwise what do you stand for?”
Ed Burke’s anger got the best of him. He stood up, without saying goodbye, and stormed out of the restaurant.
17
George O’Hara had returned home from England and made money collecting people’s garbage. Waste disposal he called it. With the money he made he started Hara Homes, a new construction company. Soon he had put the Hara Homes stamp on many of the new residential housing developments. He then branched into hotels and banking and insurance. A prominent backer of Irish charities, a weekly mass goer, and a major contributor to the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Dublin, George O’Hara had become a pillar of the community.
He was in the middle of a meeting with three close colleagues, T.P. McGrady, Jack Simpson, and Shane Braddock when his secretary interrupted. She had strict instructions to hold all calls. Unless it was an urgent family matter or … He looked around the table at his two colleagues, “I’ll have to see what this is. Hopefully I’ll be right back.”
T.P McGrady looked irritated, Jack Simpson shrugged, and Shane Braddock sat impassively. These four men accounted for a major percentage of Ireland’s GDP and significantly influenced the rest. From industrial conglomerates in five continents to prize racehorses, five-star hotels and prestigious country clubs, billions sat at this table today. They had built their empire on an equal measure of shrewdness and ruthlessness.
Twenty-five years earlier, TP McGrady had been an IRA prisoner, on hunger strike, in the notorious Long Kesh prison. Rumour had it that it was IRA money, the ill gotten gains of criminal activity, that McGrady had used to fund his first business venture. But no-one doubted that it had been McGrady’s innate acumen and brilliance that was behind the phenomenal growth of his empire. An empire that stretched, nationally and internationally, from agriculture to food, from pubs to hotels, and from real estate to banking. Wealth and good living hadn’t softened him. He remained as ruthless as he’d been in his early days with the IRA.
Shane Braddock, a geologist, and the youngest member of the group at forty-three, had leveraged his knowledge of the oil industry, and of greedy dictators in oil-rich third world nations, into lucrative drilling rights around the world. He had amassed an immense personal fortune along the way. He knew that control of governments and politicians was the key to power.
Jack Simpson was the odd man out. Born in the extreme loyalist Shankill in Belfast, he should not be here. Instead he should still be living in the north, a stalwart Unionist and an ardent member of his local LOL, Loyal Orange Lodge; a Brit to the core, to whom it would be anathema to sit at the table with these Catholic Irish. But Simpson, at only twelve years of age, had already rejected the entire Protestant vs. Catholic sectarian climate that he was growing up in. He couldn’t believe in a God that Christians fought over so he rejected it and became an atheist. At fifteen he discovered that his only God was money. And when he looked south across the border he saw the new energy and the new money. So he crossed the border to a new birth, a new future. With his Scots-Irish genes and his Presbyterian work ethic, it didn’t take him long to make his first million.
At about the time that Jack Simpson made his first million,
As George O’Hara suspected, his secretary would only interrupt him for family or the Archbishop, “Yes, your Eminence, I can be there in twenty minutes.”
Archbishop McCready paced up and down in front of the window, stopping frequently to look out at the rain as it pelted the glass. He barely acknowledged O’Hara’s presence, seemed totally preoccupied, far away in some bleak world of his own.
Finally O’Hara said, “You wanted to see me?”
The Archbishop stopped pacing, turned around and walked slowly past his desk until he reached O’Hara. He took a seat facing him. His fingers drummed on his knees as he spoke, “The Church is in a lot of trouble again.”
“What do you mean?”
“You helped us close that deal with the government. The one that capped our liability at €140 million. The child abuse.”
“I did. And I think it was a good deal. It’ll cost the Irish taxpayers a lot more than that. You got away lightly.”
“I know. We’re in your debt. And, now, just when the matter was fading with the public, we have that death at St. Curnan’s.”
“Death at St. Curnan’s?”
“The boy who fell out of that old round tower – and died …”
“But I don’t see the connection …”
“There’s a lot more to it than what you read in the papers. President McCafferty spent an hour with me on the phone last night. We’re headed for a lot of trouble if we don’t do something about it.”
“What happened?”
“It seems that boy wasn’t alone when he died. And it may not have been an accident. Two of St. Curnan’s priests were there. One of them’s in Rome. Until this blows over. But I’m afraid it ma
y not blow over.”
“There’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there?”
“Yes, there is. President McCafferty believes that some of his priests may have been involved with the boys, the boarders …”
“When you say ‘involved’, do you mean …”
“Yes, yes …I mean exactly that! There’ve been rumours for some time, he says. But he could never prove anything.”
“And do you mean that now he can?”
“No! But he knows the names of the two priests who were with that Joyce boy on the night he died. And one of them was Father Roland Cormack!”
“You don’t mean of ‘The Cormacks’?”
“The same. And it was Monsignor Fallon, a first cousin of Lord Desmond Cormack, who got Father Roland out of there, sent him off to Rome. Without even consulting President McCafferty!”
“I thought the monsignor had retired. And that his family had taken care of him a long time ago.”
“No, they didn’t. I think they’d rather not acknowledge that the monsignor is a member of their family.”
“Wasn’t the Vatican prepared to laicise him one time? Over his extreme views. On sex, on everything.”
“Yes, indeed. But, blood’s thicker than water, or in this case ‘thicker than the Holy See’. Lord Desmond Cormack intervened and the monsignor was quietly moved out of the limelight. And they’ve done the same this time by sending Father Roland off to Rome. ”
“But that’s good, isn’t it? He’ll be out of here till this blows over.”
“But will it blow over? The church is already in trouble. Mass attendance is falling. Young men are not coming into the priesthood. We are reorganizing parishes into clusters because we don’t have enough priests. One priest will have to serve more than one parish. He’ll have to cover a cluster. If this matter at St. Colamn’s gets any more publicity it can only make things worse.”