Helter Skelter

by Des Sheridan

  Malachy began to speak, but Robert signalled him and Tara to be silent. Father Keane continued to read the letter. Finally, after about two minutes, he looked up and resumed eye contact. The eyes were dark and indifferent.

  ‘I don’t believe I caught your response?’

  ‘We understand that you are an expert on the life and work of Archbishop Cornelius Walshe, and hope you can help us with some inquiries,’ Malachy stated.

  ‘Gentlemen and madam, I am a busy man and my time is precious, so I wouldn’t count on that. What exactly in the nature of your business?’

  This time Robert spoke.

  ‘We are seeking information on a particular phase of the Archbishop’s life and acquaintances.’

  ‘Ah! A voice from across the water, I detect,’ Father Keane fixed Robert with a steady stare. ‘It’s not often that I meet an Englishman with an interest in the Ireland of the sixteen-forties. Although I do recall the last one clearly. I spent quite a time briefing him as best I could, even gave him access to my unpublished papers. He ended up publishing a book on how Cromwell did Ireland a favour by dragging it out of the dark ages. The book was a rehabilitation job that went to great lengths to prove that the massacres at Drogheda and Wexford never happened. They were the invention of disgruntled Catholics it seems. Bad loser syndrome on the part of the Irish, you might say. Never mind the fact that this gentleman shamelessly doctored the data I had given him. Mind you, the Oxbridge crowd loved it and he became a don on the back of it.’

  Robert was tempted to just hit the supercilious lecturer. Keane seemed to specialise in caustic comments that implied much but never quite came out openly as the insult they were intended to be. Robert could imagine him subjecting his poor students to patronising put-downs if they dared ask him a question.

  ‘I quite understand,’ said Robert evenly. ‘I have only been in Ireland two weeks, but already I feel I have a keen insight into the seven hundred years of misery and oppression that we Brits subjected you poor bastards to.’

  To his surprise Keane laughed with what seemed genuine mirth.

  ‘Well said sir! Fair dues! The real irony is that the principal lesson of the sixteen-forties is actually how awful the Irish were to each other. Fear not, Mr Grainger I am no simple Brit hater. I have just learned not to trust wayfaring visitors keen to tap into the deep pool of my knowledge. You never know how they will use or abuse it. But you still haven’t said what your query relates to.’

  ‘We have come across a poem written by Cornelius Walshe and it is largely by way of a riddle. We think we know what it is hinting at but hope that an examination of his papers might throw up corroborating evidence.’

  Malachy had summed up the situation succinctly without giving too much away. Father Keane gave him a keen look and asked.

  ‘And the provenance of this document?’

  Malachy chose his words carefully.

  ‘Father, we would rather not say at present, there may be ramifications.’

  ‘Ramifications? Well goodness me, I imagine there might well be. The ramifications wouldn’t originate in County Sligo would they by any chance? A place called Rosnaree? People do watch the news, you know.’

  He switched a quizzical look towards Robert, who re-joined the exchange.

  ‘Reverend Keane, you seem well informed about us. And that should make it all the more obvious why we have to be discreet in what we say.’

  ‘Well gentlemen, I am sorry. Since you don’t trust me, I think my best course of action is not to trust you. Do unto others and all that.’ He swung slightly in the swivel chair and rose to his feet. ‘Now, will that be all?’

  ‘No, it’s bloody not all,’ said Roger angrily rising to his feet and advancing on the priest. ‘One life has been lost and others are at stake and I expect more understanding and co-operation from a man of the cloth.’

  ‘Robert, calm down.’ Malachy interposed himself between the two men. ‘This won’t help!’

  The priest eyed Robert with renewed interest.

  ‘Passion from an Englishman! Well, that’s one for the books. Lives at stake? This is strong stuff. I hope you can justify that remark. OK, I tell you what.’ The priest looked at his watch. ‘I am due to play handball at two o’clock. Turn up, Mr Grainger, and maybe I can show you something of the mettle of the Celts. You will find it educational and, you never know, I might help you with your quest. And don’t worry - I will bring the kit you need.’

  Robert thought quickly. His challenge had opened a door. It was better than being shown the door even if it sounded like a sure route to mortification at the man’s hands.

  ‘I would be delighted, Reverend Keane,’ he replied, his tongue still balking at the thought of calling the man “father”.

  Chapter 22

  Fermanagh, Ireland, September 1657

  Abraham Wainwright sat still on the edge of the woodland pool, his line cast out over the still waters. It was a warm evening in August and he was comfortably nestled in the crook of a tree whose large stem roots curled over the edge of the bank and disappeared into the water like giant fingers. Now and then he would languidly move the rod to shift the bait a little over the surface. He had chosen his location carefully. A thicket of holly guarded his back so that he would know if anyone approached unannounced.

  Of late he had taken to frequenting the spot, telling the others simply that he needed to get away, to make some time to unwind. They tutted and fretted, warning him to be careful, reminding him that tories - dangerous Irish bandits - were known to dwell in the deep wood. Some had been there for generations, since the first Protestant settlements under Elizabeth, but their numbers had been swollen in the last four years by the newly-dispossessed Irish. Rejecting Cromwell’s angry curse to get to Hell or to Connaught, they had taken to the woods to bide their time and nurse their grievances against men such as he. But Bram would just laugh and tap his musket, saying ‘Fear not, Ireton will protect me.’ He had named the weapon after his late Colonel, Henry Ireton, Cromwell’s son-in law, who had died six years back, and the others laughed at the witticism. They knew that Bram would be no easy prey for any comer, for he was a tough ex-soldier, a few inches short of six feet and broadly built at the shoulder. But the tories were desperate men, fired by implacable hatred of the settlers and quite capable of murdering one. So his companions wondered at his foolishness for the risk he took was real. They were not to know that it wasn’t bravado that enticed him into the woods, rather desperation of his own that more than matched that of the sylvan fugitives.

  He had been at the pool perhaps half an hour when the anticipated sensation arrived and Bram felt the hair on his neck rise. During the campaigns he used to boast to his fellow soldiers of this sixth sense that enabled him to recognise when he was being observed but in truth he knew well enough that it was not infallible. At times he would discomfort and alarm himself when there was in fact nothing there but he knew today was not one of those instances. He had noted the man’s presence on three previous occasions, each time alerted in the same way. Keeping his eyes peeled he eventually located the observer in the bushes at the far end of the pool, motionless in contemplation of the fisherman. It was a curious thing, Bram reflected, for the two of them were paying mute respect one to the other. They were getting acquainted like a hesitant courting couple, from a very proper distance and a safe remove. This was not a bad analogy as a vast gulf of race, religious belief, language and custom did indeed separate them and each knew it. And what they shared – mutual distrust, fear and hatred – offered scant basis for friendship. Yet here they were because each, for his own reasons, desperately needed to bridge the gap and initiate discourse. That was why they enacted this strange mute tableau at the woodland pond. Each could have returned with murderous intent and laid a trap for the other but neither had. And so in silence the two men, warily and dumbly, set about establishing trust.

  At that precise moment, while Bram’s thought were thus occupied, a fish pulle
d on the end of the line and all but yanked him off his feet and into the water. Wobbling hazardously he heard the woodsman quietly laugh. Recovering his posture Bram reeled in the line and grabbed hold of the wriggling trout. Looking toward his onlooker he made an ironic mocking bow. Then the man spoke, shockingly breaking the silence that had become part of their bond.

  “Well done sir, a fine piece of sport,’ the voice intoned evenly.

  Bram was surprised for the second time in as many minutes. Not by the language for there was no reason for the dispossessed man not to speak English. Many of the native Irish did. No, it was the man’s accent that took him aback. It was the voice of an English gentleman, and one much better born than he. His composure was thrown by this unexpected development and he tried unsuccessfully to fathom what it might import.

  ‘Easier to catch than raparees,’ he called out impetuously and loudly. Too loudly. His voice boomed like a desecration in the quiet woodland.

  ‘Maybe so, sir. What is your name, settler?’ The man’s voice carried steadily across the water. Unlike Bram he had not raised his voice.

  ‘Abraham, and yours?’

  The man inclined his head back over his shoulder. ‘They call me the Sassanach. You may call me William.’

  Bram knew that Sassenach meant Englishman. After a pause he said.

  ‘This war traps men in different ways.’

  ‘How right you are my friend, stay safe.’ And with that remark the woodsman disappeared from view.

  Chapter 23

  Brussels, Belgium, 4 October 2014

  That night dinner was being served in a restaurant near to the Grand Place. The lighting in the private dining room was subdued, falling softly on the highly polished wood and reflecting brightly off the silver service and candelabras. Contemporary the ambience was not, but discreet it certainly was. That was why Evrard de Waverin-Looz had chosen it.

  The men sitting around the three circular tables were middle-aged or older, dressed expensively but conservatively in bespoke suits. This was their sort of habitat, plush but old-fashioned and unadventurous. Like many businessmen, thought Evrard, their faces were quite undistinguished. It was almost as though, by cultivating a blank expression over many years, they could blend more effectively into the background. Chameleons representing an ascendency of apparent blandness, he thought to himself. Who would guess that the men in this room were some of the richest and most powerful in the Low Countries? And yet they were.

  Evrard moved around the tables and conversed with his guests, making them feel at ease. He cut a tall, somewhat gaunt figure in his late sixties with a bald head fringed by a curtain of remaining hair that was neatly trimmed. Evrard had a benign cast to his face but underneath his suave demeanour a ruthless operator resided. He was a good host, a relaxed raconteur and the restaurant, one of the best in Brussels, had done them proud. Waterzooi, a rich chicken cream soup, was followed by an exquisite lapin a la gueuze. The dining group, which Evrard had founded thirty years previously, sported the name the Wallonian Circle of the Holy Roman Empire, a playful reference to the region’s once great past. It existed ostensibly for charitable purposes and was a generous and well-publicised patron of worthy causes across Belgium, the Netherlands, Luxembourg, the Rhineland and Westphalia.

  But it also had another raison d’être. It was a forum where the businessman could talk frankly about their vital interests unencumbered by the political correctness of the modern board room. Deals were done over coffee and personal favours exchanged. It was a club for rich businessmen of a certain unconventional frame of mind. Later they would get down to more serious business. Right now he spotted the arrival of Pascal, his long, straight, blond-streaked hair swept straight back off his forehead. It irritated Evrard every time he saw it. The blonde streaks were a natural quirk but that stupid, affected hairstyle! His only child was leaning at the bar in the corner conversing with the barmaid.

  Leaving one of the tables roaring at a parting witticism, Evrard approached the younger man, laying a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Pascal, it is so good of you to come. I wasn’t sure that you would’. Evrard’s tone was smooth as silk.

  ‘Well here I am, mon père, duty beckoned and I came,’ the younger man replied. Dramatically he placed a forearm across his chest in mock obeisance.

  ‘But I won’t stay too long if you don’t mind,’ Pascal continued, ‘I prefer my parties slightly racier and your friends are a bit old for me. And I have promised to join Kirsten.’

  ‘You know perfectly well that they are not my friends. They are business associates, our business associates,’ his father replied evenly. ‘All I ask is that you stay a while, move around and make yourself agreeable. And talk up the Climate Change Conference. We need a good turnout. They love your youth and your risqué stories, so go on and entertain them. Remember, the day will come when you will need them and believe me they can move mountains. Now go have fun! Tomorrow we can talk.’

  Pascal nodded assent to his father’s wishes and watched him leave the room. Although he could verbally challenge the old man he knew better than to cross him openly. Pascal had learnt this the hard way over the years. For behind his father’s polished manner lay an unsentimental disposition and a cruel streak. Pascal should know. He was his father’s son.

  Pascal moved over to one of the tables and a circle of smiling faces turned to greet him. His father was right he thought. Old people are fascinated by young people or, more correctly, by the youth, beauty and inexperience they possess. Pascal didn’t doubt that they thought him inexperienced. The idea amused him. All these things the old men had long since left behind. But that didn’t stop them being fascinated by youth and the opportunity to corrupt it. He could see the lust in old Gunther’s eyes as he ogled the waitress with the low cleavage. Power, greed, carnality were the things that made these old codgers tick, he thought. He knew he was driven by the same lusts but he despised the way they hid them behind their petit bourgeois manners.

  A waiter appeared suddenly at his side with post-prandial drinks. Now that is well-timed, thought Pascal. If he had to stay with these creeps he might as well enjoy himself. Later he would ring Erik and hear what he had found out about the lecturer in Maynooth.

  Chapter 24

  Maynooth, Ireland, 3 October 2014

  Robert and Malachy were walking through the Seminary heading back into the town centre. St Patrick’s College Maynooth was set behind the enormous Tower and Gatehouse of the FitzGeralds, one of Ireland’s leading Norman families. The scale of the buildings spoke of the importance of the place. It was as though history was tumbling out around every corner. The College itself was an impressive assembly of Georgian-style buildings, built in grey limestone quads that were linked by arched passages. Malachy was in full flow.

  ‘Isn’t it spectacular? The College is Victorian after a design by Pugin, dating to 1846, although his original intentions were trimmed due to cost and the Church was in the end designed by another architect. Think of it! We almost had a full-blown Pugin masterpiece here in County Kildare. Such a shame!’

  Robert was getting used to Malachy as a walking encyclopaedia. Was there no end to his erudition? A handy man to have about in my line of work, he thought. Perhaps ARAD could use him sometime. As they walked through the first quad the Virginia Creeper-clad walls, rich green lawns and spreading trees created a stunning display of green, brown, red and gold in the early autumn sunshine.

  The campus was however quite deserted. As though reading Robert’s mind, Malachy commented.

  ‘Vocations are down sharply, the demands of celibacy are too much for modern youth. And on top of that there has been the paedophile priest scandal, not the best of recruiting sergeants. Fifty years ago we had an annual intake of over one hundred men. Now we are lucky to get more than ten. We are hoping to rely on overseas seminarians in future to keep the place going, but who knows? The new college is quite a different story,’ he added, pointing ahead.


  Robert noticed his companion’s reflective tone. Although in his thirties Malachy sometimes sounded older , much older, as though fed by a perspective whose span far exceeded his own years. Must be the benefit of joining a very exclusive club with a strong sense of history, Robert mused. Two thousand years’ worth in fact. He realised that he hadn’t hitherto mentally associated Malachy with the Catholic Church because the Deacon wore ordinary clothes and came across more as an academic. But today he was speaking as an insider, so Robert decided to probe him.

  ‘I suppose that, as a ‘Believer’, you are comfortable with Tara’s experience? Prophetic dreams and all that?’

  ‘You know what they say, there are more things in heaven and earth...’

  ‘...Than are dreamt of in your philosophy?’

  ‘Yes, exactly. We live in a reductionist world, Robert. People nowadays blindly believe scientists just as two hundred years ago they unquestioningly accepted what their priests said. Is that progress? Take electricity for example. Can you explain it? Something about electrons running along wires? Is that really it? If you ask me, electricity is just as magical as it always was but we have stripped it of its awe. The modern world tames things, puts them in a box and discourages people from asking questions. Take religious belief. It is increasingly characterised as delusional in the media. That is the only perspective which is allowed.’

  ‘Well, isn’t it delusional?’ Robert challenged rudely.

  ‘Maybe, maybe not’, Malachy responded, unfazed. ‘It depends how you look at it. Is it crazy to believe that Christ rose from the dead? Is it just a conjuring trick with bones, to use the famous phrase? But what if you have met Christ? If you have actually encountered Him? Once that happens, the Resurrection is less mystery, more a simple fact. You accept it and move on. You see, Robert, it is all about ways of seeing things.’