Creatures of Habit

by Pat Mullan

  “But what can we do?”

  “I can’t do anything. But you can.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “The second priest there when that boy died is Father Michael Nugent. He’s sworn to say nothing and he understands that the matter is being investigated by the church. But President McCafferty is worried about him.”

  “Worried that he won’t keep quiet, you mean?”

  “Exactly. I think he needs some encouragement, some reassurance. And it would be better if it didn’t come from the church. It would be better if it came from someone respected by the community. Someone like yourself. You’re an alumnus of St. Curnan’s. You could talk with him. Empathize with him. Show him how much we need to protect the church from this.”

  “I think there’s an alumni event coming up. Maybe that could provide me with an opportunity to talk with him.”

  “And, George, our understanding as usual. We never had this conversation.”

  George O’Hara thought that he’d never seen the Archbishop so unsure of himself. He looked like the Chairman of a company under threat from so much risk that it was afraid it might have to seek protection from its creditors. Well, at least he’d capped the financial risk at €140 million. The risk to goodwill was another matter entirely. Not to mention the risk of a very visible blemish on the Archbishop’s image, especially with the rumour mill having his name on the next list of cardinals. And what if this Father Nugent failed to cooperate. He might be forced to use more than empathy.

  18

  The St. Curnan’s alumni association dinner was a grand affair, much more ostentatious than previous dinners, because the college was publishing a history volume to celebrate its one hundredth birthday. Many famous alumni attended; neurosurgeons to writers to politicians returned from Chicago, Sydney, Toronto, Paris and elsewhere. Bios of former presidents and memories of illustrious alumni alleviated the regimented photographs and academic descriptions of life at St. Curnan’s.

  George O’Hara, being one of the Alumni Illustrissimi, had his own bio page in the book and, being an excellent after-dinner speaker, entertained everyone over dessert. Mingling later after the dinner had ended, photographs taken, and formal events over, he singled out Father Nugent. Father Michael, feeling privileged to have been approached by George O’Hara, easily agreed to follow him to a quiet corner of the bar. Not a drinker himself, he could see that George’s tongue had been loosened by the amount of wine he’d consumed. Dispensing with any preamble, O’Hara went directly to the reason he wanted to talk. Very soon, Father Michael could see the political pressure that was being applied. If George O’Hara had singled him out to ensure that he kept his mouth shut, how could O’Hara have known.

  “Mr. O’Hara …”

  “Call me George, Father Michael.”

  “How do you know all this? The only person I confided in was President McCafferty.”

  “Oh, you must know how worried President McCafferty has been about all of this. And I am family here. Who do you talk with when you have a problem? Your family, of course. He wasn’t breaking a confidence with you. And I am not breaking a confidence either. Can’t you understand that?”

  “All I know is that this is an inappropriate conversation. You’ve laid out your position. Very eloquently, I’ll admit.”

  “We are concerned, that’s all. You realize the damage this can cause the church if it’s not handled properly.”

  “And it’s obvious that you consider me a risk.”

  “No, no. I felt that it couldn’t hurt to have this little conversation, if you know what I mean.”

  “You’re wrong. It hurts. I’m disappointed. And this little conversation is over.”

  Father Michael got up from the table and walked away, leaving no doubt at all in George O’Hara’s mind that he had failed.

  19

  Every Saturday night, Father Michael Nugent celebrated midnight mass at the local parish church. With young men no longer choosing the priesthood, the ranks were becoming thin. Older priests predominated, many infirm, most unable to carry the demanding work-load. So Father Michael helped out every Saturday. He often thought that the shortage could be solved easily by permitting a married priesthood, and by allowing women priests as well.

  The night sky was pitch black, no moon and no stars, and the streets were empty as he crossed the roundabout half-way between the college and the church.

  Engrossed in his own thoughts, he failed to see the car, lights off, engine purring, sitting at the corner of the intersection.

  Until dazzled by the high beams. Startled like a rabbit caught in the headlights, he stood transfixed. Too late, he tried to jump to safety. The car hit him head-on, flung him up against the windscreen, and dumped him on the road. Brakes screeching, it sped away.

  Porch lights in two nearby homes illuminated Father Michael as people rushed out to see what had happened. They knew that he was unconscious, maybe even dead. They didn’t move or touch him. Some stood guard while one called for the police and an ambulance.

  On the critical list for twenty-four hours, Father Michael was moved to the serious but stable list: broken leg, broken arm, fractured collarbone, broken ribs, concussion. Painful but not life-threatening. No fractured skull, no punctured lungs, no internal injury or bleeding.

  “Your guardian angel must have been looking after you.”

  Father Michael opened his eyes and saw Ed Burke standing over him. He tried a weak smile.

  “Well, I suppose the Lord wasn’t ready for me. Or, more likely, I’m not ready for the Lord.”

  “I’m glad. You could have been killed.”

  “I know.”

  “That was the intent, don’t you think?”

  Father Michael’s face now looked deeply troubled.

  “The police think it was deliberate.”

  “They’re right. The car was found, burnt out, the next morning.”

  ”But why would anyone want to kill me. I don’t have any enemies.”

  “Ah, but you have secrets.”

  Father Michael looked alarmed. That thought had never crossed his mind. Until now. Yes, he had secrets.

  “You don’t think …”

  “Yes, I do. You were there the night that Terry died. There was another priest with you. You wouldn’t tell me who that was. Said your lips were sealed by some ridiculous pontifical secret! You’re the only one who knows. If you had died, that knowledge would have died with you. No secret, no scandal! Isn’t that a tidy solution?”

  “Oh, my God!”

  “I’m afraid he won’t help you. He almost let you get killed!”

  “But surely they wouldn’t commit murder?”

  “But their friends would!”

  Father Michael’s right arm and leg were in casts and he was immobilized in the bed. But he still had his left arm and now he sank his head into the crook of that arm and stifled a sob. Ed waited until he had composed himself again.

  “You said there was another boy with Terry the night he died. You lost that boy, didn’t you?”

  “We never discovered who he was. ”

  “Why were you chasing them?”

  “Terry had a phone that he’d taken photos with. We didn’t find it. He might have given it to the other boy.”

  “And the priest with you wanted those photos badly! Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes, yes, yes!”

  “Can’t you see? You can’t protect these kids. You can’t stop these people. You must give them up!”

  “How can it get any worse?”

  “It’s already worse. You must know that another boy is dead. Hanged himself. From one of your precious oak trees. Young man called John Carty.”

  “Dear God! Yes I know.”

  “Lamenting it won’t help. Neither will your prayers. I know you mean well. But you have to open your eyes. These people are evil.”

  Tears flowed freely down Father Michael’s cheeks. Ed reached for a face cloth
from the side table and gently dried the tears away. Afterwards, Father Michael seemed to have made a decision.

  “Sit down. I have a story to tell you. It’ll take a while. I have to start back in the Penal Days in Ireland. Back in 1772.”

  Ed Burke knew all about the Penal Days in Ireland. His illustrious namesake, Edmund Burke, described the laws as ‘a machine of wise and elaborate contrivance, as well fitted for the oppression, impoverishment, and degradation of a people, and the debasement in them of human nature itself, as ever proceeded from the perverted ingenuity of man’. Under these laws, Irish Catholics were forbidden the right to exercise their religion, the right to receive education, the right to enter a profession, the right to hold public office, the right to engage in trade or commerce, the right to live in a corporate town or within five miles thereof, the right to own a horse of greater value than five pounds, the right to purchase land, the right to lease land, the right to vote, the right to keep arms, the right to educate their children. Priests and school teachers were banned and hunted with bloodhounds. Schoolteachers hid and taught behind a hedge on a remote mountain while someone kept a lookout for the English soldiers. These were known as the ‘hedge schools’. On Sundays, the hunted priests celebrated mass in open fields or on the mountains, using altars of earth and stone, while people watched for the English soldiers. Ed recalled that the French jurist Montesquieu said that this Penal code was ‘conceived by demons, written in blood, and registered in Hell.’

  “One family played on both sides back then. The Cormacks of Castle Cormack,” and seeing the look on Burke’s face, exclaimed, “You look surprised!”

  “Yes, I am! But I suppose I shouldn’t be!”

  “The Cormacks switched religion to save their lands. They became Protestants and the Crown gave them the titles that they have until this very day. But it was a clever ruse. In secret they remained Catholic. The Archbishop was a Cormack. He dressed in rough homespun clothes, walked among the people, and hid and slept in holes in the ground. He organized hedge schools, said mass in secret places, and kept education and religion alive. The Cormacks publicly disowned him and privately supported him.”

  “All this history is very interesting but what has it got to do with the deaths of these boys?”

  “The priest with me the night that Terry Joyce died was Father Roland Cormack!”

  “Jesus!”

  “That’s why I have to tell you the history of the Cormacks. You need to know what you are up against. The Cormacks have been the staunchest supporters of Rome through the past 700 years. They can trace their influence back to the great Irish saints and scholars of the Middle Ages. They believe they have a right to the throne of St. Peters. Oh yes, they firmly believe there should have been a Cormack Pope. And they still believe that. Father Ted’s path through the hierarchy was already bought and paid for. That’s why you need to know all of this. You need to know who you are up against.”

  “Would they kill you to protect him?”

  “The Cormacks? No, I doubt they’d go that far.”

  “Well, somebody wants you silenced! Where is Father Roland now? I want to talk with him.”

  “Then you’ll have to go to Rome! He was reassigned there a few days after Terry’s death. Part of his career path.”

  “That’s far too convenient for me!”

  Father Michael’s face had turned ashen and he seemed short of breath. Burke could see that this had taken a heavy toll so he stood up, “I think you’ve told me enough. You need to relax and get some rest.”

  “Agh! I’ll be alright.”

  “You know I’m going to have to follow up on all of this. And I’ll have to name you.”

  “I know, I know. I did go to see to President McCafferty in the beginning. I thought it was in confidence. Then George O’Hara came after me. Said they were concerned about the church’s reputation. Worried about me! ”

  “The George O’Hara?”

  “The very same …”

  “Ah, God, now all the pieces of this jigsaw are beginning to fall into place.”

  “You don’t mean he had something to do with the attempt on my life. I can’t believe that.”

  “I’m not saying he did. But he has a lot of power and a lot of unscrupulous friends. His friends were behind the attempt on my life a year ago. But I can’t prove that.”

  Father Michael’s face had drained of what little colour it had. He summoned up his last ounce of energy and indignation, “I don’t want to be part of any cover-up, any pontifical secret. No more!”

  Ed handed him a glass of water from the side-table and told him to get well. He left as the nurse approached.

  20

  The Irish Daily News,

  Dublin

  “Jesus Christ! Look at you! There’s no fire in your gut anymore. Ever since you went back to live with your mother …”

  “Come on, that’s a low blow. If my mother didn’t have Alzheimer’s… I’m always on time. Never miss a deadline. You don’t have to go around, in a blind rage, wanting to know where the hell I am …”

  “OK! OK! But maybe I liked the fire in the old Sean Coyne. I don’t see that these days.”

  “That’s because you give me rotten assignments. Ambulance chasing. Petty crime …”

  “That’s not my fault. It’s quiet out there. Too quiet. Not even a good rumour. Until now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When did you last see your friend, Ed Burke?”

  “Hell, you know the answer to that yourself! After he was almost killed, he left the country. Went back to the States. I doubt if you’ll ever see him on this side of the pond again!”

  Sam McDevitt’s burly look was topped by an ungainly mop of white hair that seemed to be in constant battle with itself, as indeed McDevitt seemed to be with himself. He had to admit to himself that he missed the verbal jousting that he used to engage in with Sean Coyne.

  Sean had been, was, is the best investigative reporter in Dublin, he had to remind himself. But he’d lost it lately. Ever since he and Burke took on that corrupt Tanaiste and his gang a year ago. He used to be a free spirit, another girl every month, until his mother came down with Alzheimers and he had to move back to the family home. A blue-eyed, dark haired, good lookin’ kid that all the girls went for and everybody wanted to tell him their secrets. But now he looked bedraggled, tired, worn out.

  Maybe I can resurrect him, he thought, as he said, “Well, that’s where you’re wrong! He’s back!”

  “You’re kidding! I don’t believe it!”

  “You remember the story about that boy who got killed in St. Curnan’s. Fell out of an old round tower. It didn’t make page one. Maybe you missed it.”

  “Naw, I read it. A terrible accident? What’s that got to do with Ed Burke?”

  “The kid was his cousin.”

  As Sean tried to digest this information, Sam McDevitt followed with, “There’s more. Another kid, at the same school, hanged himself.”

  “Jesus! I never heard about that.”

  “It’s been well buried. Lost among all the other young people who are killing themselves these days. Didn’t you read about the two who met over the internet and made a pact to kill themselves? Met a week or two later and did it. So it’s not surprising that this boy’s suicide never surfaced.”

  “You think there’s something going on at the school?”

  “You’re damn right! Two boys dead. Ed Burke nosing around. Don’t you think that’s very odd?”

  “But it might be a coincidence. And if that boy’s Ed’s nephew, there’s nothing odd about him being there.”

  “Ah, but there’s more. One of the priests at the school got run over by a car. He’s lucky, he’s still alive.”

  “Yeah, but a car accident. What’s that …”

  “It was no damn accident! The car was found, burnt out, a couple of hours later. It’d been stolen. That’s a planned ‘hit and run’, if you ask me!”

&nb
sp; “But why would anyone want to knock off a priest?”

  “Damn good question! And you’re going to find the answer for me. As of right now, you’re on the case. I want you in Galway as soon as you can get your ass over there!”

  “I’ll have to contact Social Services. My mother …”

  “You take care of that. But I want you on the case now. I’ll keep page one of the weekend edition open for you.”

  As Sean turned to leave, Sam McDevitt yelled after him, “And I want to see that fire in your gut again!”

  21

  President McCafferty answered the phone himself when Ed Burke called. After the introductions, the President said, “Mr. Burke, we are very saddened by the death of Terry Joyce. He was a good student and his conduct was excellent. We are praying for him and his family. And our family here too. All our boys are family to us, Mr. Burke.”

  “That’s what makes it so hard to understand. May I come and see you?”

  “Of course, Mr. Burke. My door is always open to family. How about this afternoon? Would three be suitable?”

  “Yes, that’s fine, thank you. I’ll be there.”

  Without wheels, Ed Burke was lost. He blamed it on his years in America. But, as he looked around Galway, it seemed to him that people here would also be lost without wheels. The Americanisation of Ireland. Blame it all on the Celtic Tiger. He went to Budget car rentals and got a brand new shiny black car, a Toyota RAV4. Perfect for the Irish roads, the good ones and the bad ones.

  At noon, he negotiated the roundabout from hell at the Galway Shopping Centre. Mid-day traffic was building and soon this roundabout would indeed be hell. Some smart planner had installed a series of traffic lights at each entry and exit point in the roundabout, in an attempt to prevent gridlock. Most people didn’t have a clue about how to use these lights. Tourists who normally drove on the right side of the road in their own countries not only had to re-orient themselves to driving on the left but they had to contend with the mystery of this roundabout with lights. Put simply, the problem was traffic congestion. Galway had become the fastest growing town of its size in Europe and had outgrown its infrastructure. A bypass was the only solution for this roundabout from hell, thought Ed as he exited the roundabout and headed for the Dublin motorway.