Helter Skelter

by Des Sheridan

  Chapter 3

  Sligo, Ireland, 26 September 2014

  Mac was pissed off. Robert and he were having a coffee in one of the backrooms in the stables. It was a small space, which suited Mac fine. He wanted to corner Robert.

  ‘What do you expect me to say?’ he shouted. ‘You go fucking AWOL with some broad, without any warning, and come back up to your neck in a murder! What exactly is going on, Robert? This is not what we normally do. This could blow us out of the water, man, destroy our reputation.’

  He trailed off, his open arms waving to indicate all that was left unsaid.

  Robert’s face was set and Mac could sense anger behind it. He was right.

  ‘Mac, this is not a normal situation, so normal rules don’t apply. And don’t load it all onto me. I am not a fucking computer. I didn’t contact you yesterday because there was no signal. I stayed with Tara because I was learning about Carrowkeel, the lie of the land and the history of the area. It was a perfectly valid way to get contextual intelligence. I couldn’t reach you so I took a decision. I know you are pissed off and you are right, we do have to handle this carefully from now on. But no one was to know some fucking homicidal maniac was going to arrive on the scene – not me, not Tara – so don’t you dare blame me and her again!’

  Robert was pacing the tiny room, his return volley hitting Mac at full verbal blast. Contextual intelligence my ass, thought the American. He also noted the protective reference to Tara: it told him they were in new territory in more ways than one.

  ‘OK, OK, man. Keep your hair on. It was events, I can see that. But what do you expect me to say? There is something bloody strange going on here. Bad karma, that Tríona woman, everything happening so quick – too damned quick - then Tara starts doing her psychic bit and now a fucking beheading! I’m spooked, it’s like fucking voodoo! No sooner does one odd thing happen than other one pops up. And it could damage our reputation if it goes on, ARAD could become a laughing stock. We can’t afford a cock-up on a project this big!’

  He stopped. He had said it now. Robert was silent a moment.

  ‘Well gee, Mac, that about captures it. Thanks for the heads up. So who you gonna call, Ghostbusters?’

  The two men looked at each other, Mac not crediting what Robert had just said, then both of them creased up. The tension in the air was released.

  ‘Get us a fucking beer, will you, Mac?’

  Mac rose up out of the chair and his fist bumped Robert’s as he passed.

  ‘Now, you’re talking, boss,’ he said, heading for the fridge in the main artefact room. It was intended to hold curatorial materials but Mac had collared a shelf for beers on day one.

  ‘So....’ said Mac, when each of them had a Bud in his hand. ‘Where do we start?’

  ‘Well, for starters, we have got to protect ARAD. As a suspect in murder investigation, you are right, I am compromised. I don’t expect to be on the police list for long but that’s not the point. Mud sticks. So, I reckon I need to step aside, for a while at least, and someone else has got to lead for ARAD. Do we bring in Felix?’

  Mac nodded vigorously. Felix Caddel was an associate partner in ARAD. His background was civil service, with academic links to Edinburgh University. A gregarious Scot, he would get on with the Irish and was a safe pair of hands. Mac’s respect for Robert was strengthened. He knew Robert would have preferred to front the ARAD presence at Rosnaree as it carried a lot of personal kudos. He admired his friend for recognising the necessity of doing what was best for the company.

  ‘Now for the voodoo bit,’ Robert carried on. ‘Like it or not something off the wall is going on here and I have no reason to think it is going to stop any time soon. Now we either back off entirely or roll with it. What do you think?’

  Mac thought a while before replying.

  ‘Well, I hate to say it, ‘cos I don’t like the fact, but the wacky bit seems pretty central to what is going on. You’re right, there will be more curveballs. And if we don’t follow the trail others will. Tara found the tomb, Tara found the wheel thing, whatever it is, and the poem looks like setting us off on a right magical mystery tour. If you are officially off the team, then you can follow your nose but with ARAD providing discreet backup of course.’

  ‘Makes sense, I agree,’ Robert replied.

  Mac smiled to himself, recognising in Robert’s handling of the matter a key reason that why he, Mac, had agreed to join ARAD. When they had been in tight corners, Robert was the man to sit down with and talk it through. It also reminded him that there was another issue to air.

  ‘Robert, there is more, something you ought to know.’

  He could see from Robert’s puzzled expression that his boss was wondering what other surprise could be in store. Mac continued.

  ‘The last few days, I’ve been scouting around. Something in my blood I guess. The house is being watched, from the crags over near the high tombs. I caught a glimpse of reflected sunlight, binoculars I supposed. So I started watching. There is a regular pattern although I don’t suppose they will get much joy in this weather. But you know what it means; it means someone with bucks and techno. And that could mean electronic surveillance as well. I may be jumping ahead but we need to be careful, especially in view of what happened to Shay.’

  Robert, dumbstruck, just nodded.

  A writer would be hard pressed to make this up, Mac thought.

  Chapter 4

  Limerick, Ireland, 28 September 2014

  Following Shay’s killing, Pascal had relocated to Limerick, where he and Kirsten accepted the hospitality of an Irish MEP whom Jean knew well from the Brussels circuit. It meant that they were clear of the scene of the crime ahead of the body being discovered. The MEP owned an extensive stud farm south of the city and it was a good place to keep a low profile. It also meant that Pascal and Kirsten could enjoy horse riding which was a shared passion. Moreover the visit gave Pascal the space to think about other matters that needed his attention.

  The first of these was Kirsten. The media were full of the discovery of Shay Healey’s body. Pascal always kept Kirsten at one remove from his most private affairs but she knew he had been in contact with Shay, and was pestering him with questions. She had asked repeatedly if he was responsible for Shay’s death and then screeched at him for lying when he said he wasn’t. She also nagged at him to return to Rosnaree so that they could directly view the treasures emerging from the tomb. Pascal felt exactly the same but knew that would be pushing their luck too far. But he struggled to offer Kirsten a convincing reason why and that simply fuelled her suspicions.

  As a result Kirsten’s sense of being excluded from his affairs became conjoined with her innate tendency, at the best of times, towards paranoia. The neglected child of a rich but feckless German film star and an American mother who had abandoned her when she was six, Pascal understood the well of her insecurity. She would add two and two to make six and become increasingly difficult and he knew where that would end. Eventually, provoked sufficiently, he would hurt her. The pain he inflicted would, in her eyes, prove his love for her and turn her on. They would fuck violently and all would be well. But right now she was acting jealous and suspicious and it was proving wearing.

  His father was another problem. Pascal had received a very insistent e-mail this morning from him demanding that Pascal return to Brussels on the grounds that the climate change conference they were planning was looming closer and they needed to review arrangements. Pascal knew it was a lame excuse; the plans were advancing perfectly well. The real reason would be that his father had heard the news on television about Shay’s murder and guessed that Pascal had a hand in the matter. Evrard would want to grill him about it face to face. Truth was Pascal was wrong-footed by the speed at which the body had been found. He had not expected it to be found for at least a week.

  All this was irritating as Pascal was keen to stay on the trail of the Triskell. But he recognised the hostile undertone in his father’s note. The req
uest was not one he could ignore for long.

  Chapter 5

  Sligo, Ireland, 27 September 2014

  It was two days since the discovery of Shay’s body. The excavation at the tomb continued apace so Malachy was busy curating trove material until mid-afternoon.

  ‘How is it going?’ Tara’s voice made him jump as she appeared unexpectedly by his side.

  ‘I thought you were under doctor’s orders to stay in bed? Are you OK?’

  ‘Thanks Malachy, I am a lot better,’ she replied with understatement. She saw him steal a look at her. She knew she didn’t look brilliant and just hoped she didn’t she look obviously ill. Catching his glance, she pleaded.

  ‘Please Malachy. The sedative has worn off, so I need to be active. I also need to be distracted. How is it going? Have you found the Bishop?’

  ‘No, I have not tried. I was waiting for you.’

  This irritated her. Two days had passed and he had done nothing! She bit her tongue.

  ‘OK, but can you help me now? I don’t know how to go about it. History is not my patch exactly.’

  ‘Sure, give me five minutes to clean up.’ His hands and clothes were covered in dust.

  Once he had fired up his laptop and placed her in front of it, it didn’t take them long to track down Archbishop Cornelius Walshe. Born in 1581, during the latter part of the reign of Elizabeth the First, he came from a wealthy Galway family and, being the second son, was destined for a life of the cloth. After joining the Franciscan Order, he rose to become Archbishop of Cashel in 1627 at the age of forty-six. So Tara was proved right on that score, there was a link to Cashel.

  Piecing together information from various Google links they found that Cornelius had survived the sacking of Cashel in 1647 by evading capture, although it was not clear how he had accomplished such a feat. His enemy, Murrough O’Brien, took pleasure in killing any priests who fell into his hands, so the Bishop had been lucky. He died in his bed two years later, in 1649 at the good old age of sixty-nine at Ormond Castle. Quite an achievement for the turbulent times, thought Tara, who had just read online that over two hundred thousand Irish men and women had perished in the wars of the sixteen forties.

  Malachy then directed Tara into three early sources, that as an academic he had access to, in search of more detailed information. First was the Wadding Papers, a compendium of seventeenth century papers on Irish Franciscans, held in the College of St Isidore in Rome. The available online material provided a lot of detail on Walshe’s official activities and movements but cast little light on the man. Next was a short biography of the Bishop written eighty-six years later, in 1735, by a Franciscan admirer, which emphasised his catholicity and political influence as a participant in the Confederation of Kilkenny. It also waxed strong on his personal acts of charity and piety. In the manner of the time this account was, Malachy advised, uncritical and reverential.

  By this point Tara was getting tired and irritated that Malachy wouldn’t take over the search. He was totally at home with the material but made it clear that he thought she should do it. When she pointed out her frustration he simply observed, ‘I have told you Tara, this is about you not me. And you need to learn your way about.’

  She was not convinced but it was pointless to argue further. He could be quite stubborn, she noted. The third source was a Walshe family chronicle from the seventeen-eighties, in which Cornelius figured only briefly. This was the sole source to record a sentiment for what it called the ‘old rite practices’ of the Gaelic tradition.

  Yet still Cornelius the man escaped Tara. Malachy suggested she might find something of interest in the extensive nineteenth century Catholic studies of seventeenth century Ireland, but admitted that it could take months. She needed a shortcut. Skipping down a list of sources she zoomed in on recent studies that mentioned Cornelius Walshe. Most were written by an academic called Andre Keane, a Jesuit based at St Patrick’s College Maynooth. Tara Googled the name on the College directory and noted down the telephone number.

  At that moment Malachy leant over her shoulder and hit one of the document tabs at the right of the screen. A woodcut portrait from the frontispiece of the biography filled the laptop screen. Tara’s right hand shot out, touching his elbow, as she responded suspiciously.

  ‘How did you know where to find that?’

  ‘I didn’t. I just know that the frontispieces of old biographies often carry an image of the subject.’

  She was silent a moment then blurted out, ‘That’s him!’

  ‘I know it’s him, I’ve just told ...’

  ‘No, no, I don’t mean that it’s your Bishop. I mean it is him, the man in the garden in the second dream. Jesus Christ, what does all this mean?’

  Malachy pulled a chair over quickly and sat down, taking hold of her hand. She could see he was anxious for her.

  ‘What it means is... well. It means that an Archbishop is talking to you, Tara, from the seventeenth century.’

  This was blunter then she was expecting or could handle. She put her head in her hands.

  ‘Oh God, no, the others are going to love that. I am going to come across as a right fruit cake! I mean, am I going mad? This is so bloody insane! Why are you saying these stupid things? Do you want me to go mad?’

  Her voice must have sounded was shrill because he tightened his clutch on her wrist and spoke to her in firmly.

  ‘Tara, stay calm. You’re not mad. This is not just in your head - the evidence speaks for itself. Strange things happen sometimes that we can’t explain. You are the medium, the communication channel. That is what this is all about.’

  Chapter 6

  Bay of Biscay, 1660

  It started again, a commotion arising from the Captain’s cabin. For the third time since he retired Donovan’s repose was disturbed. The din was quite alarming, Rodriguez’ voice bellowing in Spanish and the sound of furniture and belongings falling or perhaps being thrown about. It was even louder than before and with a new element, a voice crying out in pain or terror, which compelled Donovan up and out of his bed.

  Fumbling in the dark he used his hands to find his way into the adjacent short corridor that led to the Captain’s door. Before he reached it a chink of light drew his attention. Moving up close he saw it came from a v-shaped narrow crack in the walling where two slats of thin mahogany-stained panelling had moved apart. Intuition told him to gain the lie of the land before intruding upon the Captain’s privacy, although the continuing ruction told him he had no other option. Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw through the slanting gap in the wainscoting.

  In the shifting light, cast from a swaying oil lamp that hung from the ceiling, Donovan saw that the room was good-sized as befitted a captain’s cabin. This was the space where formal visitors or guests were received so a certain standard was maintained. He had visited it briefly the day he had boarded. A heavy-bodied four-poster bed stood in one corner with a large table, affixed to the floor, and heavy wooden chairs occupying the centre of the space. Attached to one wall was a cabinet with glass-windowed doors, two of which were open and the floor nearby was strewn with crockery and cutlery, some of it made from brass or pewter, other bits from heavy glass. Along the far wall stood a large solid wood cabinet and Donovan supposed the Captain’s costly maritime charts would be stored there in brass rolls.

  Taking in the room with a glance, Donovan began to comprehend the human drama unfolding within it. Rodriguez was stripped to the waist, his enormous hirsute chest descending into folds of stomach fat that further cascaded over his belt. He held a spilling tankard of beer in one hand while his free hand clutched the throat of the fair-locked cabin boy. He was roaring invective at the lad who Donovan saw was stark naked, save for some clothing which he was desperately clutching over his privates. Throwing aside the glass the Captain lashed the boy viciously with his free hand, pummelling the skinny body with blows which were already erupting into grey and blue bruises.

  ‘I am your m
aster while we are at sea, you shit! I can kill you quite legally and throw you to the sharks if I am so minded. Damn you, you Cockney bastard, your mouth job was a poor stab. Too uppity for such work are you? Perhaps I should knock some teeth out to make it easier for you? Anyways I need a whore now and as there is none on board your crack will do fine. You will be my peg boy and learn to like it, as many have before you.’

  Rodriguez dragged the boy to the bed and shoved his naked body face down over the end, pinioning him down with one massive hand while loosening his own belt at the same time with the other. The man’s trousers fell to the ground exposing his large fat hairy arse scarcely four feet from where Donovan watched. An anguished scream from the boy testified to the start of the assault upon his rear and the cheeks of the Captain’s backside began to heave in Donovan’s view. The sodomised boy screamed with each lunge. In horror the priest recoiled from the viewing point and slumped to the floor. Aghast at the violence unfolding he was in two minds what to do. The moral imperative was to intervene yet he could not, for fear of jeopardising his prime duty to safeguard the Triskell. What’s more, he was ill-prepared for combat, having neither knife nor musket to hand. To intervene would invite the violence to recoil upon himself. Fear took command of the priest and he scuttled back into his room, pulling the bolt across in protection. But there was no escaping the horrible sounds, albeit more muffled, that were carried through the wall.

  Chapter 7

  Sligo, Ireland, 28 September 2014

  The following day, under renewed pressure from Malachy, Tara finally agreed to tell Robert the news about the Archbishop. She couldn’t see why she needed to. Robert had looked after her at the Caves of Kesh, but this information was very personal and she hardly knew the man. But Malachy was adamant.