The Bells of Scotland Road

by Ruth Hamilton

  Maureen, who had been loved by all and sundry since birth, could not imagine how any man could fail to become enamoured of her. ‘I think so,’ she answered. ‘But I’m too young . . . I think he went away because I’m too young and because of . . .’ Oh dear, she had stepped into muddy waters without thinking. ‘Somebody he didn’t like came to live round here. But when I’m old enough, he’ll come back for me, I know he will. I’m lonely now, though. I used to go to dancing class, but I can’t be bothered any more.’

  Liam took a chance. ‘The person he does not like is Father Bell. Am I right?’

  This was confession. This was the place for truth. ‘I think so.’ She felt a stab of fear. This man would know Father Bell, surely? And he would tell Father Bell what she had said . . . No. The relief that flooded into her was almost painful. Father Bell would not be told, because priests had to keep the secrets of the confessional. Anyway, nobody in the parish of St Aloysius Gonzaga liked their new priest, because he was all doom, gloom and black looks. Perhaps the other priests didn’t like him either.

  ‘Say one Our Father and five Hail Marys,’ he told her, his tone still soft. ‘And I shall pray for you.’

  Maureen Costigan blessed herself before going into the body of the church where others waited for a hearing or made their way through the apportioned penance. She said her prayers inwardly, then asked the Immaculate Conception to intercede on her behalf. After all, Mary was a woman, so she should know all about Maureen’s sufferings.

  In his secret cubby-hole, Father Liam Bell made the right noises while penitents told their sins. He suddenly felt rather ill and light-headed, attributed these symptoms to a rise in body temperature. The weather had been unpredictable, so perhaps he was coming down with a chill.

  But he had no time to be ill, no time to take to his bed. On this occasion, brother Anthony had been clever, far too clever for his own spiritual good. He had left the area in order to shield the loose child who had pledged undying love.

  ‘Te absolvo . . .’ he murmured automatically to some invisible man. He must save Anthony from himself, must prevent his brother from making a terrible mistake. A Bell to marry a Costigan? No, that would never do. Maureen was cheap, common, a little street urchin with a pretty face. A very pretty face . . .

  The confessional door opened, closed, opened again. Another man offloaded his list of wrongdoings, laid bare his weaknesses. Anthony was a damned fool—

  ‘Father?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Will you absolve my sins, please?’

  Liam apologized, explained that he did not feel well.

  ‘I’ll pray for you,’ said the invisible sinner.

  ‘You do that,’ replied Liam. And he meant it.

  It was almost time to go. At any minute, Edith Spencer’s car would appear outside Bell’s Pledges, then Bridie, Cathy, Shauna and Noel would be off on holiday.

  Bridie sat upstairs with Theresa Bell. ‘You will get up and go downstairs every day?’

  Theresa shrugged. ‘I suppose so. But it won’t be the same, not without you and the girls.’ She loved Bridie’s daughters, spent hours knitting and sewing for them. They and their mother had become the centre of her universe, her reason for struggling her way out of bed each day. ‘Don’t forget to talk to our Anthony,’ she said. ‘And get down to Bolton Market, you’ll like it. And have a look round the shops. One of these days, I’ll get back home for a visit. But for now, I’m depending on you to tell me all about Bolton.’

  ‘I’ll telephone Sam,’ suggested Bridie.

  Theresa grinned broadly. ‘What? And you’re the one who won’t even answer the damn thing when it rings in the shop. All right, get yourself gone and I’ll see you in two weeks. Tell Anthony I’m thinking about him.’

  Bridie bent down and kissed the top of Muth’s head. This old woman was special and precious. She was also easier to understand than some of the born and bred Liverpudlians. So perhaps Bridie would manage Bolton very well if they all spoke in this accent.

  ‘Look after yourself,’ called Theresa as her daughter-in-law left the bedroom. She leaned back on her mound of pillows. Things had bucked up no end, but she was becoming very tired. The Grim Reaper hovered, especially at night when she was alone. How much longer did she have before the spectre called Death led her onward? A month, a year, a day? Still, she had enjoyed the last few months.

  ‘Grandmuth,’ sang a young voice from the road outside.

  She left the bed and walked across the room stiffly. Cathy was below in all her new clothes. Theresa waved, then sat down by the window. They would be back in a matter of days, she told herself. Her bones creaked with arthritis these days and, sometimes, a pain visited her chest. She hoped with all her frail heart that Bridie would see Anthony and cheer him up. He liked Bridie. Well, everybody liked Bridie – except Liam, of course. Liam loved God and himself, not necessarily in that order.

  Theresa watched the scenes on the road below, waved again at Sam’s stepdaughters. She didn’t like brooding about Liam, wished that she could wipe him out of her mind altogether. He wasn’t akin to other people, had never been like other children. A broody, silent boy, he had stuck to his books whenever taunting his twin had become too boring.

  How was poor Anthony getting on? she wondered. Did he like the school in Bolton, was he eating properly, was his house warm and dry? Such a good baby, he had been . . . Her head nodded as she dozed and dreamed of days when she had been mother and grandmother to Anthony. But when Liam entered the pictures in her mind, the sleeping woman moaned. Because there was something not quite right about Liam Bell.

  Big Diddy Costigan bustled along Scotland Road with a wicker basket held in front of her. A Mary Ellen across the way hailed her. ‘Diddy? Are you setting up in competition?’ The lady pointed to her own large pannier which was balanced perfectly on her head.

  Diddy laughed. ‘Yes, I am, so you’d best watch out. You all right, girl?’

  The girl in question was well over sixty. Her skin had weathered to the point where it looked as if a tanning factory might have played a part in achieving such texture and colour. ‘Second trip,’ she yelled. ‘Sold the first load by half past eight this morning. Your lot all right, are they?’

  Diddy replied in the affirmative, then carried on to Bell’s. She had to get Muth out of bed, then make sure that Amy McMahon turned up to do the cooking. She swept into the shop like a ship in full sail. ‘Sam?’ She beamed at him. He was in her good books at last, because he was looking after Bridie and the children, and because he had given Bridie the horses. So he couldn’t have been such a bad old bugger after all.

  Sam looked up from his ledger. ‘Morning, Diddy. Your Charlie’s in the back drinking a cup of tea. The girls have followed him in there. They’ve been in and out looking for Edith’s car and sending me and all the customers dizzy. Oh, and Bridie’s upstairs putting her hat on.’

  Diddy absorbed this information. ‘Yes,’ she remarked finally. ‘I think I’d put a hat on if I was going out with your Edith.’

  A corner of Sam’s mouth twitched. Edith probably did look rather forbidding until you got to know her. ‘She’s not that bad,’ he advised the visitor.

  ‘Neither are you,’ retorted Diddy before marching through to the living quarters. The little girls looked a treat decked out in all their new finery. ‘I’ve brought you some pasties and pop,’ she told them. ‘In case you get hungry on the way.’ She beamed at her older son. He was the best lad in the world, their Charlie. He’d had a rough trip as a child, what with all the other lads calling him names and imitating his strange way of walking. Diddy had banged a few heads together in her time. ‘Hello, Charlie.’

  The ungainly youth smiled at his mam. He was so happy now. The shop had livened up no end since Bridie, Cathy and Shauna had arrived. Many a time, he was left in charge of the youngsters, and he enjoyed their company and their laughter, because they seemed to treat him as if he were like everyone else.

 
Diddy smiled to herself. Many of those who had taunted their Charlie were out of work, but the one they had called ‘Cripple’ was in almost full-time gainful employment. She turned round as Bridie entered the room. ‘Bloody hell,’ she said. ‘Who got you ready, queen?’

  Bridie felt like a queen, too. She wore a tight-waisted suit of light navy with emerald green accessories. Her hat, the outfit’s crowning glory, was green with a petersham ribbon in navy round its brim.

  ‘Nobody got Mammy ready. Mammy dresses herself,’ said Shauna. ‘After she dresses me. Cathy dresses herself, too.’

  ‘What a clever family,’ exclaimed Diddy in mock-surprise. ‘Who dresses Uncle Sam?’

  ‘He does it himself,’ laughed Cathy.

  Diddy shook her head. ‘Well, he needs lessons, then. He looks like a bag of rags some days, even days when he gets married.’ She passed the basket to Bridie.

  ‘We’ll be there in an hour or so,’ said Bridie. ‘We won’t need anything to eat, surely?’

  ‘Then have them for your dinner when you get there,’ advised the guest. ‘Or give the food to Anthony. And tell him we all miss him, especially the kiddies at school.’

  Edith Spencer breezed in, greeted everyone and examined the dog, which looked far too big for the car. The girls should have worn old clothes, she thought, because the animal would probably be all over them, shedding and dribbling and indulging in all kinds of canine behaviours. ‘Are we ready?’ she asked.

  The children screamed their ‘yeses’ and dashed out of the room. Charlie struggled to his feet. ‘Mrs Bell,’ he mumbled, ‘I hope you have a good time.’

  Bridie remembered what Anthony had told her that first day. She had learned for herself that Charlie Costigan had brains to spare. It occurred to Bridie in that moment that she actually loved the Costigan family. Jimmy and Tildy-Anne were cautions, of course, but they were fine children in spite of being a bit wayward. Diddy and Billy were grand – not just the salt, but the whole seasoning of God’s earth. Nicky was plain, honest and very attached to the homely Graham Pile, and Maureen was . . . Maureen was a lost child who hid behind great beauty.

  ‘Changed your mind?’ asked Diddy.

  Bridie threw her arms as far as they would reach around the large woman. ‘You’re like my own,’ she said. ‘All of you, all the Costigans.’

  Diddy pushed her friend away and swiped at a disobedient tear that tried to travel down a rounded Costigan cheek. ‘Get gone,’ she muttered. ‘And hurry up back.’

  ‘We will.’

  Outside, a small crowd had gathered round Edith Spencer’s car. Holidays were a rarity, so everyone was pleased to know that some among them were going away for a while. Eddie ‘Razor’ Sharpe waved his neck clippers. ‘Shall I give that dog a bit of a shave?’ he asked.

  The dance teacher, commonly known as Fairy Mary, twittered about waving her hands and skipping like a five-year-old. Gob Stopper, really Peter Cavanagh, stepped out of his shop with somebody’s dentures in his grip. ‘Smile,’ he told the false teeth. He clicked the dentures, pretended to be a ventriloquist. It was this sort of thing that kept them all going, thought Bridie. Their humour was their salvation.

  Bridie got into the front passenger seat, laughed at the farewell gathering. Occasionally, at night, she missed Galway. But she could not have come to a better place. She spotted Sam in the doorway of his shop. He wasn’t smiling. ‘Back soon,’ she mouthed through the windscreen. The car lurched forward, Noel barked, and they were on their way.

  Maureen broke into a run. She had been visiting a friend down Limekiln Lane, was making her way homeward in the dark. A man had started following her when she had passed the end of a narrow street that ran between the lane and Scotland Road. She hadn’t stopped to look at him, especially while the light was so poor, but she knew that he was tall and broad. Inwardly, she cursed herself. She should have cut through to the main road earlier on, because Limekiln Lane was quiet tonight.

  The heel of her shoe gave way and threw her off-balance. He was getting nearer. She opened her mouth to scream, felt a hand on her face, struggled to breathe. He heaved her backwards, dragged her down the side of St Martin’s church and into the recreation ground. This wasn’t happening, couldn’t be happening. In a minute, she would wake. Tildy would be rolling off the bed and Nicky would have pinched all the blankets again. From behind a curtain that divided the bedroom, she would hear Charlie’s snores.

  The man threw her face downward in the grass, placed something like a narrow scarf around her neck and pulled tightly until breathing became almost impossible. She felt the pressure on her throat, saw red and green lights dancing behind closed eyelids. Was he going to kill her? Why was he hurting her like this? Everyone loved her; everyone was always kind to her.

  With a desperate surge of energy, she bent a knee and kicked upwards and backwards, made contact with a leg, felt him flinch. Mam would be waiting for her. Maureen was late, had been told to get home by nine o’clock. She flailed and kicked again, but her foot found nothing but air this time. He had moved, was tightening the scarf again.

  A tremendous agony visited her spine. He was kneeling on her body while he strangled her. Then he knelt astride her, put his face near her ear. She could hear his breath, was suddenly aware of a smell, a familiar scent that she could not place. As she sank into unconsciousness, Maureen Costigan’s last thought involved her mother. Mam would be mad about this. Mam would certainly kill the man who was killing Maureen.

  Flash Flanagan carried all his worldly goods in an unwieldy barrow fashioned from a crate and the wheels of some long deceased pram. This creaking container held his one-man band, some tattered clothes, his wooden puppets and a bottle or two of beer. He usually slept where he landed, often finishing up in somebody’s coal shed or doorway, but he had been promised a berth tonight by a widow in Blenheim Street. In exchange for the privilege of sleeping indoors on a horsehair sofa, he would be expected to do odd jobs – a bit of painting, sanding down, some scrubbing, perhaps.

  This free soul, whose life was dedicated more or less to drink and to the entertainment of children, ambled his way up from the dock road, a tambourine clattering in the cart, one foot rather damp where cardboard in his boot had failed to keep out the rain. He paused, opened the beer and took a swig, looked round for a place where he might relieve himself. Several gentlemen of the road had been arrested of late for indecent exposure, so he took himself well off the beaten track. Even in the gloom, some folk round here could see for miles, it seemed.

  He stumbled across grass and narrowed his eyes to look for a discreet spot before parking his cart. A man had to be careful these days, because things got stolen even from a poor itinerant. As he fumbled with buttons, he heard the first groan. Flash was a gentleman, so he forgot his own needs and followed the sounds. ‘Hello?’ he called softly from time to time.

  A bundle of rags lay on the ground. He bent, touched what felt like wool, allowed his hand to travel until it found flesh. With shaking fingers, he struck a match and caught a brief glimpse of the body before a skittish breeze extinguished the flame. It was a girl. He was in the middle of a field in the dark with a dead girl. No, she wasn’t dead, because she was still moaning.

  He left his cart and ran out of the recreation ground. From a torn pocket of his army greatcoat, he took a whistle and blew until he felt his lungs would burst. Doors opened and a couple of people stepped out into Sylvester Street. ‘Get the police,’ shouted Flash. ‘Somebody’s been hurt.’

  He turned round and went back to the playing field. She was very still now, but he knelt and heard her rasping inhalations. As quickly as he could manage, Flash removed his dilapidated coat and covered the girl. She had been beaten, he thought. Someone had tried to murder this poor young girl. His hand made contact with something soft and silky, so he struck a match and examined the find. It was a priest’s stole. A cross was appliqued to the centre of the vestmental piece. Someone must have pinched this from a church. E
ither that or the attack had been committed by a . . . no.

  Flash straightened, pondered for a moment. Although not a regular attender of mass, Flash had been reared Catholic. The Church must be protected. From layman to cardinal, all the Church’s members must strive not to hurt the faith. For a split second he paused, then rammed the stole down the neck of his jersey. A girl lay half-strangled, and the weapon was holy. Still, the less he told the police, the better. If they got their teeth into him, they might keep him for days answering their questions.

  A policeman arrived and dragged Flash away. ‘What happened?’

  Flash held onto his dignity. ‘I found her,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what happened.’ The police were not Flash’s favourite set of people. They were always moving him on, always going on about where he had been when things had gone missing. ‘I only found her,’ he repeated.

  A crowd gathered, then ambulance men fought their way through with a stretcher. Flash stood and watched helplessly while torches pierced the dark to reveal the true horror of what he had found. The girl had been hit about the face. A dark weal across her throat confirmed that some crazed person had tried to strangle her. ‘It wasn’t me,’ he kept saying. She had been garotted by a priest’s stole. ‘I found her.’

  A young policeman came to Flash’s side. ‘Don’t worry, Flash,’ he said. ‘Nobody will suspect you. You did all you could.’

  Flash swallowed. ‘Is she dead?’

  ‘Not far off,’ was the bald reply.

  The old tramp was taken to the station and given hot, sweet tea and some biscuits. He drank the former, gagged at the thought of food. ‘Who would do something like that?’ he asked the sergeant.

  ‘A sick man,’ answered the seasoned lawman. ‘Sick or evil – take your pick.’

  Flash Flanagan looked at his belongings which had been parked opposite the desk sergeant’s counter. He didn’t fancy the idea of going out again, was afraid that his legs might not be up to it. ‘Got a spare cell?’ he asked. ‘Because I don’t feel like walking.’