by Pat Mullan
He’d been there for two months. Seemed like two years to him. Every other morning he had one boiled egg and one slice of toast for breakfast. On the in-between mornings, he enjoyed a bowl of porridge, the kind his mother used to make. Pinhead oatmeal soaked overnight and boiled the next morning. None of those tasteless oat flakes for him. This morning was a porridge day. He had lifted a large spoon of hot porridge to his mouth when the phone rang, startling him. He lost control of the spoon and the porridge fell onto the front of his woolen sweater, seeping into the threads. Angry at himself and alarmed at the phone which continued to ring, he got up and answered it.
“Hello.”
“Father Aloysius Smith?”
“Yes?”
“My name is Ed Burke. You don’t know me but I need to talk to you.”
Unaccustomed to the phone and wary of everyone, he hesitated for some time, so Ed decided to speak again.
“Father Smith. This is very important. To you and to me. Some terrible things have happened here in Ireland. My cousin’s little boy, Terry, was killed at his boarding school, St. Curnan’s and then another boy there committed suicide. Since then, the school President has been murdered and now a monsignor too. I want to stop all of this. And I want to get justice for my cousin. I know all about you and the charges against you in the States. That’s why I need to talk with you. I think you have information that could help.”
“I know very little about anything you’ve said. I’ve been in isolation up here for most of the past two months. No TV, no radio, no news of any kind. And you’re the first human being I’ve spoken to in weeks. So I don’t know if you’re telling me the truth – or if this is some kind of a trick.”
“Believe me Father, it’s no trick. It’s very serious. And I think your life may be in danger.”
“I think you’re testing my patience.”
“No, Father, listen to me! Please! The person who killed President McCafferty and Monsignor Fallon …”
“Did you say Monsignor Fallon?”
“Yes. Did you know him?”
“Oh, God, he was a mentor at the seminary. A wonderful person. I loved him. He can’t be dead!”
“Well, he is! Murdered by the same man who murdered President McCafferty. And your monsignor was murdered because he loved. Loved the wrong people. The same love that brought you to where you are today. They haven’t caught this murderer. You must be on his list. For the same crimes as the monsignor. I need to talk to you. And you need protection.”
Father Aloysius Smith felt as though he was suffocating. His heart was racing and his breathing came in short gasps. He sat down and tried to breathe deeply and regularly. He rubbed his carotid artery to try and override the tachycardia he was experiencing. Ed could sense, with the irregular breathing and gasps that came across the phone, that Father Smith was experiencing some difficulty. So he waited.
Finally, Ed heard Father Smith’s voice, distant and low, “Alright, Mr. Burke. I’ll see you. Let me give you directions.”
Father Smith’s laborious breathing and halting speech meant that Ed had to ask him to repeat some of the directions more than once. Finally he thought he’d got enough to help him find his way. He thanked Father Smith and told him to expect him tomorrow.
Father Bernard Flaherty’s Lough Swilly bus was running a little late and he didn’t reach Fanad until 7:30 pm. He had a good sense of where the house was located. After all, he’d spent many summer holidays, when he was a young boy, in Buncrana and Moville. Donegal held a special place in his memory.
It was a fine evening and, once off the bus, he relished the walk. He reckoned that he’d have about four or five miles to cover so he picked up the pace, estimating that he could cover it in forty-five minutes.
He was right. Exactly forty-five minutes later he saw the outline of the cottage up ahead. The road was bordered by a dry stone wall on one side and clumps of untended hedgerows on the other side. Finding a break in the wall, he stepped behind it, took off his backpack and opened it. A few minutes later he emerged, in full clerical uniform, as Father Bernard Flaherty.
Father Aloysius Smith had fallen asleep, with his book open on his lap, in front of the turf fire that blazed in the open hearth, when he opened his eyes to a sound he thought he’d heard. There was only silence here so he told himself that he’d imagined it, as usual. Then he heard it again. Unmistakeable this time. Definitely a knock on the door. Somebody lost, he thought. Nobody visits me. He forced himself to his feet, went to the front door, and opened it. To his amazement, a priest stood there.
“Father Smith?”
“Yes,” he answered, tentatively.
“I’m Father Bernard Flaherty. Archbishop McCready asked me to see you. May I come in?”
Father Smith hesitated. Then, knowing that he had little choice and now curious, he stood aside and let his visitor enter. Father Flaherty crossed the floor to the fireplace and looked up at the two very prominent wrought-iron hooks over the mantle, hooks that had once held a shotgun. Then he turned around and stood with his back to the fire. Father Smith looked lost in his own house. Finally he pulled out one of the wooded chairs from the small table in the corner and sat down.
“I can’t imagine what the Archbishop wants with me.”
“So you think he abandoned you up here. And forgot about you.”
“He hoped I’d go away. Disappear for ever. That’s the message I got when I returned. I never saw him myself. But there’s no doubt that he made all the decisions about me.”
“And now he’s faced with a multi-million dollar lawsuit from the boys in California that you defiled.” Father Flaherty’s voice had changed, become deeper and harsher. His face now seemed transformed into something that almost seemed non-human. A fire had commenced in his eyes.
Father Smith saw this transformation illuminated in the flames from the fire and a shiver ran through him. There’s something wrong here, he sensed. He stood, prepared to ask this Father Flaherty to leave when it happened. An arm swung out in a wide arc, holding the poker it had lifted from the fireplace, and connected with the side of Father Smith’s head. He fell, unconscious, to the flagstone floor.
Father Aloysius Smith felt the pain first. Still semi-conscious, he tried to move his hands and couldn’t. Something cut into his shoulder blades sending shafts of pain through him. He tried to scream but only choked. His head had fallen forward onto his chest and he realized that he was standing up. No, hanging up! His feet barely touched the ground and he couldn’t move his legs. Something that cut into his ankles held them together. As he became more conscious he could feel great burning pain in the soles of his feet. Finally forcing his eyes open, he saw the flames leap around his legs. He was hanging directly over the fire. Forcing his head up, he looked across the room and saw the figure of Father Flaherty silhouetted in the light of the flames and the paraffin-oil lamps behind him.
“Came in handy, those shot-gun hooks. The Lord moves in mysterious ways. Preparing the ground ahead of me. Do you know who I am?”
Father Smith couldn’t speak. He tried but the words got lost in the pain. Only a growl of pain escaped.
“The Archbishop didn’t send me. The Lord sent me to avenge him, to cleanse his temple of the defilers. And you are a defiler! You will die here tonight. You can burn to death, slowly and painfully. Or you can go quickly.”
As he said that, he held a large carving knife over his head. The only one in the cottage, one that Father Smith had never used. Light glinted off the edge.
“Tell me who heads your secret society of defilers in the church. Give me a name!”
But Father Smith’s head had sunk into his chest again. It wasn’t certain that he even heard the demand. In fact, he seemed to once again be in a state of semi-consciousness.
“Ah, ha! Suit yourself! Be a martyr then!” screamed Father Bernard Flaherty as he piled more and more turf and logs on the fire that now raged well beyond the fireplace. He opened a large can of par
affin and threw the contents over the fire, igniting it into a massive bonfire whose flames now licked the face of Father Smith.
Laughing maniacally, he fled the cottage, shouting, “You’ll burn in hell! Burn in hell! Forever!”
It was easy hitching a ride into Letterkenny. Even though he hadn’t done anything like it since his college days, Father Bernard Flaherty knew that the fear of strangers had not reached Irish shores. People were still open, some still left their cars unlocked in the parking lots, and some would even leave the keys in their door to make it easy for someone to enter the house. That was especially true in very rural areas like this part of Donegal.
Traffic was sparse but he got lucky almost immediately. The second car he thumbed down stopped at the roadside and waited for him. Driven by a friendly middle-aged local man who only talked about the weather and the price of petrol, he reached Letterkenny without incident, in time to catch the last Lough Swilly bus into Derry where he checked into a Bed and Breakfast near the train station.
Ed Burke reached Letterkenny by noontime next day, unaware that Father Bernard Flaherty was at that very moment sitting on a train on its way from Derry to Belfast.
Ed had had a pleasant and uneventful drive up from Dublin. The weather’d been good, the traffic sparse, and the scenery magnificent, especially when he got to Donegal. He stopped at the edge of town, picked up a coffee and a copy of The Irish News. No surprise there. The death of Monsignor Fallon and the hunt for his killer still dominated. Sean Coyne had full command of page one. No international event or crisis had occurred to deflect attention. So Sean had a captive readership. And he was using his platform to turn it all into a wider story: the authority of the church and its moral decline. He had started a whole new dialogue on separation of church and state. It’s an ill wind that blows no good, thought Ed, remembering those as words often used by his mother.
He finished his coffee, put aside the newspaper, glanced again at the directions he’d scribbled in his phone conversation with Father Aloysius Smith, started his car and headed for Fanad. Forty minutes later, as he rounded a bend on the narrow winding road, he could see the cottage straight ahead. But as he neared it, something didn’t seem right. It now looked like an abandoned, derelict place. The window glass was broken as though it had been blown out in places, dark streaks discoloured walls that used to be white. Parts of the roof seemed to have been burned at some time. Maybe I’ve got the wrong place, he thought. He pulled his car into the verge of the road and got out. Immediately a strong burnt smell, almost putrid, hit his nostrils. He could now see that wisps of smoke still emanated from the roof space. The outside of the front door seemed untouched and he lifted the latch and pulled. The door had stuck but it wasn’t locked. He pulled and jerked it open. Covering his mouth and nose with a handkerchief, he eased himself inside. The putrid smell forced its way though the handerchief as his eyes took in the carnage. The entire interior had been burned. Walls were blackened, ceiling and rafters gone, the sky showing through near the chimney, debris all over the floor. But it wasn’t that that held him transfixed. It was the grotesque remains of something that had once been human hanging, like a horror film scarecrow, from the hooks that protruded from the chimney wall.
Ed Burke sat in a trance-like state in his car with the windows closed to keep out the stench. He’d been sitting like that for at least twenty minutes. Ever since he saw the burned remains of Father Aloysius Smith. At least he assumed that it was Father Smith.
Finally he got a grip on himself and picked up his mobile phone. Realizing that it was off, he turned it on, saw that he had messages waiting, bypassed that and dialled Tom Buckey.
Tom answered immediately, “Where are you? I’ve been trying to reach you all day. I need to see you.”
“Sorry, I forgot to turn on my mobile. I really shouldn’t own one of these things. I’m in Donegal.”
“What’re you doin’ up there?”
“I came to see Father Aloysius Smith, you know, the priest who was deported from California a couple of months ago.”
“Are you never going to learn? You’re going to get yourself killed. And you won’t make it back this time!”
“He’s dead!”
“What?”
“Well, if you’d stop your rant and listen. Father Smith is dead. Murdered. Burned at the stake, you might say!”
“Holy Christ! Not another one!”
“Nothing holy about it. A real mess. The cottage is gutted and Father Smith – or what remains of him – hangs from hooks over the fireplace.”
“He’s done it again!”
“That’s a good guess, I’d say.”
“Well, you better get your people here as soon as you can. And you’ll need to notify Dr. Mona Kennedy.”
“You’d better stay there till we take a statement.”
“No bloody way! I’m not hanging around. Right now I need a stiff whiskey. Or two. Or three. What did you want to see me about?”
“Oh, hell, it can wait. Where are you going to be? You’re not driving back to Dublin tonight, are you? Where can I find you?”
“I’ll be up in Derry. Probably book into DaVinci’s for the night. I’ve stayed there before. They take good care of me.”
“Maybe I’ll see you there.”
An hour and a half later, Ed Burke drove across the border separating the Irish Republic from Northern Ireland although there was absolutely no evidence of any border. Since the peace process had commenced and the IRA had given up its armed resistance, the border posts and armed patrols had gradually disappeared. The army had been taken off the streets and moved to barracks. Now they were gone entirely and all evidence had been pulled down. At least one of the intimidating presences in the island had been neutralized, he thought, if only we could get the church to ‘withdraw within its own barracks.’ Twenty minutes later he left the Strand road and pulled into the parking lot at The DaVinci hotel. He checked in at reception and, even though he had no reservation, they found a room for him. Minutes later he exited off the elevator on the third floor, walked down the aisle, found his room number, inserted the electronic key, and entered. As usual, the room was spacious, two double beds American style and the nice touch of tea, coffee, biscuits, a kettle and cups all ready. Something stronger I need tonight, he said out loud, to no-one but himself. He looked at his watch. Five o’clock. Time to soak in a hot shower and then pop downstairs for dinner in the pub and those whiskeys. But, damnit, you’re losing it, he said to himself, you almost forgot, you must call Maria! He called her immediately, told her about Father Smith, and said he was staying over in Derry for the night. When he hung up, he could still feel the worry in her voice running through his head like a tuning fork.
Father Bernard Flaherty stood on the upper deck of the ferry as it pulled out of Larne and headed into the Irish Sea, bound for Cairnryan in Scotland. The sea was calm with a gentle breeze. The ferry was filled with people; truck drivers who commuted regularly between Ireland and Scotland; and families with young children crowded the lounges, their accents neither Irish nor Scottish and yet containing both. Young continental backpackers and a few ubiquitous Americans made up the rest of Father Flaherty’s fellow travellers.
Alone with the seagulls on the upper deck, he watched the Irish coastline disappear and imagined that that was exactly what Columba would have seen as he left Ireland to establish his mission on Iona and commence a ministry that would bring his Celtic Christianity to Britain and the Continent. A Prince of the O’Neills who never ran away from a physical fight, Father Flaherty felt sure that St. Columba would understand his mission to purge the Church of the defilers.
51
No sooner had Maria Lane put down the phone after the call from Ed in Derry when it rang again. Assuming it to be Ed, she picked it up and said, “OK, I know you miss me but …”
“I’ll always miss you.”
She stood transfixed and embarrassed. It wasn’t Ed on the phone and, although s
he hadn’t spoken to him in a year, she couldn’t mistake the voice, “Oh, my God, Tom! I thought it was Ed calling again. I’d just got off the phone with him.”
Tom Flanagan’s name was synonymous with FlanAir, the aggressive and highly successful young airline he owned, one that, in its first three years of existence, had captured twenty-five percent of the market of its competitor, RyanAir. FlanAir’s headquarters sat in Custom House Docks, adjacent to the IFSC, the International Financial Services Centre, the hub of international banking and finance in Ireland.
“Don’t be embarrassed. And I do miss you. I wanted you in FlanAir . But you had to run off to the States and play nursemaid to Burke!”
Maria remembered. At the time she’d been the Administrative Assistant to TP McGrady and had been working closely with Tom and Ed to bring down a very corrupt Minister and his powerful cronies. But that’s all in the past, I’ve got to leave it there.
She was brought back to consciousness by the sound of a voice calling her name. She realized it was coming from the phone in her hand.
“I’m sorry. I got lost for a minute.”
“I’m worried about you. And about Ed. A year and a half ago we knew what the game was and we knew who the players were. Even then Ed almost got himself killed and the country lost you too.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Ed’s up to his ears in this whole scandal. The boys who died at St. Curnan’s and now these killings.”