Creatures of Habit

by Pat Mullan

  Ed followed. As he passed through the gate he noticed the sign warning people of the danger and telling them to stay off the path. But he rushed ahead because this part of the path was not steep. He could see that he was gaining and he kept up the pace.

  Soon the path turned and meandered straight up the face of the mountain. No place for vertigo. The ground beneath, filled with gravel and stones, made the footing unsafe. He stumbled and fell and picked himself up again. As the path became steeper and he became breathless, he began to slow. But Father Flaherty was slowing down too.

  He could hear Father Flaherty somewhere close ahead of him. Looking up, he could see that they were nearing the statue of Christ. As he turned a corner, grabbing the metal railing for support, a large rock missed him by inches and a second one grazed his shoulder. Father Flaherty had taken a stand directly in front of him.

  He had no choice. He had to rush him. The skilled moves of karate wouldn’t help him here on this rubble strewn path. As more rocks rained down on him, he rushed Father Flaherty and head butted him in the midriff. But Flaherty was still stronger and withstood the attack. Catching Ed off-balance he shoved him over the side, turned and headed upward towards the statue.

  Ed struggled to climb back onto the path. He hung on to the metal railing, feeling it sway and bend. Worried that it would give way and send him tumbling down the mountain to be either gravely injured or killed, he tried to gain traction with his feet.

  Suddenly the sound of a rifle shot shattered the stillness and then a second came in quick succession. Spurring himself on, Ed climbed over the railing as a third shot hit the side of the mountain only feet away from him. He threw himself flat to the ground as another shot hit the exact spot where he’d been. Realizing that he was a target, he crawled upward, now afraid.

  But the shooting had stopped as quickly as it had started. Maybe they think they got me, he thought and then immediately thought, Flaherty! Oh, my God!

  He crept to his knees, looked up and saw the statue of Christ, a few yards ahead. Head down, he clambered up the rest of the path until he reached the statue. Convinced that the sniper had gone, he stood up and saw a slumped figure on the bench in front of the statue. Knowing that it could only be Father Flaherty, he braced himself and walked over.

  Then he saw it. Blood and brains splattered the foot of the statue and dripped to the ground. Flaherty was dead.

  He heard people on the path below him. He couldn’t see who if they were enemies or friends. Nowhere to hide, he’d reached the end of the road and prepared to fight to the end, if necessary.

  Then he saw them: three gardai. Friends, not enemies. He let the air out of his lungs and slumped down, now feeling every ache in his body. His trousers were torn and he could see the abrasions on both knees, bloody and pockmarked with tiny bits of gravel.

  64

  At 10.30 pm Maria Lane caught Aer Arann’s Flight 239 from Dublin to Galway, arriving on time at 11.15 pm. Fifteen minutes after landing at Galway Airport she sat in a taxi on her way to Ed’s cottage at Claddaghduff. Tom Buckley had called to tell her what happened at Dunfergal Abbey and to assure her that Ed was fine. A little bruised, that’s all, he had said. But she had failed to take comfort in that. The nightmare of a year ago had never gone away.

  At one am she stepped out of the taxi and walked into Ed’s arms in the doorway of his cottage. Smiling and happy, she suddenly turned to tears.

  “But I’m OK,” Ed said as he hugged her close.

  “But I’m not. I can’t take this.”

  “Well, you won’t have to any more,” said Ed, holding her hand as he closed the door behind them, and offering her a hot whiskey, already waiting, “For medicinal purposes. Slainte!”

  “Just what the doctor ordered. Let me look at you. Tom said that you were a little bruised, that’s all.”

  “Tom’s right. Some scratched knees. Maybe some bruises but that’ll show up later and I’ll be expecting some tender loving care.”

  The combination of the hot whiskey and Ed’s comforting words made Maria relax and she asked, “What do you mean, I won’t have to take this any more?”

  “We’re leaving. Back to the States. I don’t want to live here any more.”

  “But Ireland owes you.”

  “Oh, yeah! The powers-that-be in this country would love to see the back of me. And I want nothing more to do with them.”

  He walked to the window and looked out over the beach to Omey Island, feeling the hypnotic pull of the place. But I won’t let it capture me again.

  Maria didn’t press him on the matter. She knew when Ed went into one of these deep moods that he was inaccessible. So she waited and sipped her whiskey. Finally, he turned around, walked across the room, reached up and took a brown paper bag down from a shelf. He looked inside and then tossed the bag into the blazing peat fire.

  “Destroying the evidence?”

  “Very perceptive. You’re right. That’s Terry’s phone, the thing that started all of this. Patrick Clarke, the boy who had it, finally gave it to me. I didn’t know what to do with it until now. I never even looked at the photos.”

  She said nothing. He refilled his whiskey glass and turned towards her.

  “They got them. Did Tom Buckley tell you?”

  “He may have said something but it went in one ear and out the other.”

  “They shot one of them dead. Wounded and captured another. And he’s talking. They’ve already arrested Hugh Rogan.”

  “So you were right. O’Hara’s behind this killing.”

  “But they’ll never prove it. Rogan won’t talk and they have absolutely no evidence against O’Hara.”

  “So he’ll get away with it?”

  “Yes. And everybody, from the Garda Commissioner to the Taoiseach, will be happy about that.”

  “So they think it all ends with one crazy priest and some assassin.”

  “Right! And they won’t find a jury in this country to convict Rogan. The people will think he’s a hero for killing Flaherty. They’ll treat him the same way as that man who shot an intruder in the back as he left his house. Another hero!”

  “So it’s over then.”

  “Oh, no! There’s a time bomb ticking. And it’ll go off slowly.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Father Roland Cormack.”

  “Didn’t you save his life at Dunfergal?”

  “Yes. That’s ironic, isn’t it? I saved the life of the man responsible for the death of young Terry Joyce. But he’s going to tell his story to Sean Coyne and it’ll be serialized for weeks to come. Cardinal McCready will wish he’d chosen another vocation!”

  “So that’s why you’re in a hurry to leave.”

  “Right. I’m leaving anyway. But that’s a big motivator. I do not plan to be around when, as the man says, ‘the shit hits the fan’!”

  By now the hot whiskeys had mellowed them and the tiredness had fully overcome Ed. So Maria took his hand and led him to the bedroom.

  65

  The flowers were still fresh on Terry’s grave and his name, etched on his new headstone, looked sharp and clean. Emmet and Claire knelt down beside the grave. They prayed and Claire fidgeted with the small stones that adorned the gravesite. Ed Burke knelt too. But he did not pray. He hadn’t prayed in years and realized that he’d lost the habit. And the belief. He stared at the headstone and down at the grave and saw no sense in the death, saw no continuation. Only the end. What a waste, is all that he could think. But he knew that it was comforting to believe as he looked at the solace it brought to Emmet and Claire. Especially Claire.

  66

  Miami, Florida, USA.

  Ed Burke jerked awake, in alarm. Disoriented, he sat up in the midday sun to find that he’d been lying on his lounger on the patio of his Miami home. He’d fallen asleep and had been reliving the nightmare of his shooting in Ireland.

  Almost two years ago now, he reminded himself, I guess this latest madness in Ireland ha
s resurrected it again.

  The events of recent days seem to have happened in some other parallel universe, he thought. The last two editions of The Irish Daily News lay on the ground beside him. He’d received them by special delivery that morning from Sean Coyne.

  He got up, adjusted the lounger to the sitting position, picked up the papers and sorted them back in order.

  The front page stared back at him: Creatures of Habit. A Story of a dark world, centuries old. As told to Sean Coyne by Father Roland Cormack. A note from the editor stated that the story would be serialized weekly and that he expected it to run for the next four to five months. That means anywhere from sixteen to twenty episodes, Ed calculated. In the middle page of the second edition, letters to the editor divided into two groups: those who praised it and those who damned it. Strangely, there was no comment from the Archdiocese. Ireland’s new Cardinal McCready was unavailable for comment. But not Lord Desmond Cormack. He had exploded in anger across all media, dominating RTE’s evening television news programmes.

  Ed had started to read when he heard the front door open. The sliding glass doors to the patio parted and he looked up to see Maria standing there, face glowing from the Florida sunshine.

  “I love Publix! Supermarket shopping is worth it to have one of their young men carry everything out to my car. And then refuse to take a tip!”

  “So you agree. We did the right thing to come back.”

  “But I suppose I’ll always be a bit homesick.”

  “That’s a small price to pay for spending summers in New York and winters here.”

  Maria laughed happily and, as she turned back inside, she said over her shoulder:

  “Strawberry daiquiris coming up!

  67

  Dublin, Ireland

  Father Roland Cormack pulled the collar of his coat up around his neck and stepped out of his residence. He looked at his watch. Seven pm. In half an hour’s time he was due at the offices of The Irish Daily News for another session with Sean Coyne. This would be the third episode in his story and he’d already set Ireland on fire with the first two episodes.

  He had underestimated the consequence. He’d become famous. The Paparazzi had begun to follow him. So he’d changed his residence again only two days ago. The gardai weren’t interested in the matter so he was seriously considering hiring his own security. But that would be a last resort.

  He walked down the front path to the little black-iron gate set in the low wall bordering the front of the property. He leaned over the wall and looked up and down the street. Seeing nothing unusual, he opened the gate, stepped out onto the sidewalk, closed the gate behind him, and walked down the street to the place where he’d parked his car.

  When he reached his car, his heart sank. The front right wheel, the one close to the kerb, was flat as a pancake. Being a priest failed to prevent him from swearing under his breath. Must have picked up a nail somewhere, he thought. Had he examined the tyre more closely, he might have seen the neat hole left by the very sharp implement that had been used to puncture it.

  He opened the car, threw his overcoat and jacket inside, and rolled up his sleeves. Then he unbolted the spare wheel inside the boot and hoisted it onto the ground. Next he started to loosen the nuts on the right front wheel. That done, he placed the jack under the side of the car and knelt down to lever it upwards.

  As he did so, he glanced sideways, in time to see a man walk straight towards him.

  He swore under his breath again. Damn them, they’ve found me again! He rose to confront the man, now only feet away from him. Startled, he could see no face, only a black balaclava. Well, he’s picked the wrong person to rob! I’ve only a few pounds on me. He decided to try and talk his way out of it.

  “I’m a priest. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

  But the man said nothing. Instead he moved fast. Too late, Father Roland tried to dodge the assault and failed. The man struck him and he suddenly felt a sharp pain in his left arm. Looking down, he saw the gash that ran from his wrist to his elbow and his blood flowing feeely.

  In total shock, he fell back against the car, unable to defend himself. His attacker moved swiftly, shoving the blade under Father Roland’s ribcage and forcing it directly upwards into the heart.

  Father Roland Cormack died on the ground beside his car.

  AUTHOR’S NOTES

  This novel draws much from the recent headlines of abuse, especially in Ireland and the USA. According to Fred Martinez ,a widely published Catholic writer and former TV broadcaster , the existence of a gay culture in the priesthood has been well documented and the Lavender Mafia is a term coined by novelist and Catholic priest Andrew Greeley which refers to a purported underground faction within the leadership and clergy of the Roman Catholic Church that protects and advocates rights for homosexuals. The Lavender Mafia has been blamed by some members of the Church's orthodoxy as enabling or exacerbating the recent sex-abuse scandal in the United States. These critics allege that the Lavender Mafia has managed to dominate many of the Church's seminaries, and that whistleblowers are treated as criminals, while active homosexual priests are protected and promoted by their allies. Father Donald B. Cozzens' book, 'The Changing Face of the Priesthood,' alleges that there has been "a heterosexual exodus from the priesthood" because of the unabashed gay subcultures in some seminaries, and that potential heterosexual candidates for the priesthood are intimidated from joining an institution that fosters a gay culture.

  The crisis between Ireland and the Vatican over the protection of children saw it’s zenith in the words of the Prime Minister of Ireland, Taoiseach Enda Kenny , in his speech on the Cloyne Report, on 20 July 2011 where he said “the Cloyne Report excavates the dysfunction, disconnection, elitism....the narcissism that dominate the culture of the Vatican to this day.”

  Extracts from that speech follow as well as links to the CLOYNE, MURPHY, RYAN, FERNS reports into clerical sex abuse in Ireland.

  The town of Dunfergal, Dunfergal Abbey and Dunfergal Mountain do not exist. I must reiterate: this book is a work of fiction. Any reference to historical events, real people, or real locales is used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  St. Curnan’s is completely fictional. I know of no school, current or historical, that housed within it a Lavender Mafia subculure or such exploitation of students. But the sense of order and discipline is real. It comes from my own experience as a boarder at such a school in the days when corporal punishment was de rigeur, where priests carried leather straps under their soutanes, and where some seemed to get a sadistic pleasure out of their use. However, those days have ended. No corporal punishment is used today to force students to learn.

  I think that this excerpt from a previous work of mine describes my experience best:

  He'd won a scholarship to college when he was eleven and spent four years there as a boarding student. The college was run by priests although half the teachers were lay. It was there that MacDara's reverence for priests and awe for the institution they represented had ended. Maybe it was there that the seeds of agnosticism, or even atheism, had been sown. MacDara preferred to think of himself as a secular humanist these days. Eccentric priests had dominated the classrooms. Father Toner, who taught mathematics, would often pick up the heavy bound Hall's algebra and whack an unsuspecting student across the side of the head. MacDara remembered one of many incidents.

  "MacDara, where's Doolan today?"

  Father Toner purposely mispronounced Dolan's name. Dolan was not a boarder. He was a day boy and lived at home in the city.

  "He's sick, Father."

  "How do you know that, MacDara?"

  "Well, he said he wasn't feeling well in class yesterday, Father. So I assumed he was sick today."

  "You assumed, MacDara! You have no proof!"
/>   "No, Father."

  "Q.E.D., quod erat demonstrandum. Proof, MacDara! In other words, you don't know and you lied to me."

  "Isn't that correct, MacDara?"

  "No, Father!"

  "I said, isn't that correct, MacDara?"

  "Yes, Father."

  "Come up here!"

  MacDara could still feel the sting in the palm of his hands from the six slaps that he received for lying from the leather strap that always hung threateningly inside the side pocket of Father Toner's long, dark soutane. The college was Catholic to the core. Its original role had been to prepare boys for the priesthood and that was still a principal mission. The church controlled the education system. Newspapers and radios were banned at the College. Outside influences and distractions were to be avoided at all costs. All evidence of civil authority was absent. The authority of the Church was paramount. Small rebellions preserved the sanity of the few who refused to become brainwashed by the system. MacDara was one of those few. They used to draw lots to choose a volunteer who would risk scaling the high walls that surrounded the grounds and making it to a local shot to buy a packet of Woodbine cigarettes, the cheapest available. They had a special hideout behind the walls where they smoked while someone kept a lookout for the prefects. They also made radio receivers, crystal sets they called them, MacDara recalled. He remembered the night that the Dean had entered his dormitory after lights out and tripped over a crystal set earthing wire he had tied to the metal leg of the adjoining bed. That got him twelve, six on each hand with a leather strap, outside the Dean's office the next morning. His hands had swollen to double their size after that; couldn't hold a pencil in class that day.