The Bells of Scotland Road

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘Sorry. If I’ve frightened you.’

  ‘I’m tougher than I look.’ She wanted to question him, to try to reassure him, but they were in a public place. Anyway, she needed time to absorb the concept of an ordained killer.

  He struggled to his feet. She reached out to help him, withdrew her hands as soon as he was upright. ‘Did I burn your fingers?’ he asked.

  Bridie hid her face by turning to retrieve her shopping. This was terrible. The shock in her fingers seemed to have transmitted itself to him. He had felt her pleasure.

  ‘Bridie?’

  She swung to face him. ‘Come on, let’s get you home,’ she said in the no-nonsense voice that was usually reserved for Cathy and Shauna. ‘We can’t have you falling down all over the place, can we? Wheel the bicycle – it will support you.’ Liam was an unpleasant fellow. Was it possible that a man of God could be a cold-blooded murderer? And what about confession? Priests went to confession just like everybody else. Was Liam receiving absolution while nursing a mortal sin? Because absolution would surely be refused in the case of a murderer. And if he did not confess the crime, Liam would be damned for ever more. All these thoughts spun around in her head while she waited for Anthony to right his bicycle.

  They walked in silence up the paved street and along the dirt track that led to Anthony’s cottage. At the gate, they stopped and looked at each other. ‘Are you going to be all right?’ she asked. Could he hear her heart pounding?

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  She placed the basket on the garden wall. ‘Will I come in and make you a cup of tea?’

  He smiled sadly. ‘That could be extremely dangerous, you know.’

  Bridie did know.

  He left his bike outside the door and went into the cottage. He would not look back. What had happened to Val and Maureen must never happen to Bridie.

  In the kitchen, Anthony pulled a shopping list from one pocket and a ten shilling note from the other. He had forgotten nothing on his recent shopping expedition. With the possible exception of his principles. He should not have told her about Liam. He should not have dragged Bridie into such murky waters.

  It was the shock, he supposed. Bridie must say nothing to Maureen or to Diddy. But she wouldn’t. He had known Bridie for just a few months, yet he realized that she would never hurt anyone, not intentionally.

  Which was more than could be said for Father Liam Bell.

  Eleven

  Anthony Bell jumped off the tram before it had stopped moving. He leapt onto the pavement and immediately looked around for Flash Flanagan. Flash Flanagan was one of those people who were always there. Like birth, death and dirty washing, Flash was one of life’s undeniable inevitabilities. But the old man, his puppets and his tambourine were neither visible nor audible today.

  Anthony glanced across the shop fronts, took in the Maypole Dairy, Razor Sharpe’s barber shop, the premises that housed a mender of false teeth who was known as Gob Stopper. He walked along, peered into Daly’s tobacconist’s, Dolly Hanson’s, the pork butcher’s. There was no sign of Flash, his cart or his gaudy marionettes.

  Alice Makin, a mountainous woman who worked on Paddy’s Market, was being ‘escorted’ from the Throstle’s Nest by two unfortunate policemen. She had one in a stranglehold under a massive arm, while the second was enduring heavy blows delivered by the man-sized boots she wore.

  ‘Mr Bell?’

  Anthony swivelled, saw Nicky Costigan. ‘Monica. How are you?’

  ‘It’s Nicky, sir.’

  ‘Sorry. Tell me, Nicky, have you seen anything of Flash Flanagan?’

  ‘I haven’t,’ she replied. ‘Not for a week or two. You live near the Spencers now, don’t you? So have you seen Mam and our Maureen?’

  ‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘I’ll visit them tomorrow, perhaps. I’m only here for the day.’

  ‘Look out,’ warned Nicky, her tone heightened by a mixture of amusement and anxiety, ‘here comes trouble – watch you don’t get knocked over.’

  Alice Makin had taken both policemen into firm custody, was holding one under each arm. ‘Mind yer backs,’ she screamed as she approached Nicky and Anthony. Her face was scarlet and running with sweat as she fought to hang on to the struggling prey.

  Anthony and Nicky stepped back. ‘Alice?’ called Anthony.

  ‘What? Can’t you see I’m busy?’ A half-strangled policeman peered at Anthony. ‘Get some help,’ he managed. He had lost his helmet. There would be trouble at Rose Hill Police Station when the sergeant found out about that. The missing headgear would be adorning some chimney pot by this evening, another trophy acquired by the youth of Scotland Road.

  ‘Have you caught sight of Flash lately?’ Anthony asked the woman. He knew better than to tangle with Alice. As well as running her stall on the market, Alice Makin had a long-established moneylending business. Which must have been doing well, thought Anthony, as Alice was usually arrested on Saturday nights only. Now, she seemed to have the cash to be drunk and disorderly on a weekday lunch-time.

  ‘He’s been moved on by these buggers.’ She nodded at her hostages. ‘Other side of Liverpool by now, poor lad. Course, with him finding your Maureen,’ she gave Nicky a smile that was meant to be sympathetic, ‘they questioned him for bloody days before kicking him off the patch. He’s a nuisance, see. Like me, old Flash is nothing but a pest. The police don’t want him frightening everybody with the tale of how he found your sister.’ She nodded at Nicky. ‘All the best, queen. Tell Maureen we’re all thinking about her.’

  Alice continued onward to deliver her prizes to Rose Hill, after which mission she would be charged and allowed to dry out in the bridewell. She knew the form well enough. Rose Hill had been her resting place on Saturday nights for as long as she could remember.

  Nicky touched Anthony’s arm. ‘When you see our Maureen, give her my love.’ She blushed, because she and Maureen had never been close enough to talk about loving one another. ‘She is my sister, so I do worry about her. And I wish they’d find who did it. Everybody’s walking about in twos and threes just in case he tries it again. We’re not used to it, Mr Bell. We’ve always been safe round here.’

  Anthony sighed, wished he could give Nicky some reassurance. He would not attempt to search the whole city for Flash – Flash probably knew little, anyway. The tramp had discovered Maureen, but he had obviously been interviewed by the police. So roaming the streets of Liverpool on the off-chance that Flash might divulge something new could be a waste of time.

  Anthony had nowhere to stay, because his house in Dryden Street had new tenants. His father would not be overjoyed to see him, so he had no intention of going to the shop. If Dad found out about Anthony’s true reason for visiting Liverpool, there would be trouble.

  He made his farewell to Nicky, then turned and strode towards the church of St Aloysius Gonzaga. With only a few hours to spare before catching his train, Anthony would have to do what he could within that time. Gone was the slight doubt that had held him back in the past. Gone was the fear of being considered foolish. He had to talk, had to speak up. Nevertheless, he experienced a degree of nervousness as he approached the priests’ house.

  Father Brennan opened the presbytery door. His housekeeper had just left to go shopping, and Father Bell was out visiting parishioners. ‘Come in, Anthony. It’s good to see you. Are you thinking of rejoining the fold here at St Aloysius? Because we’d be very glad to have you back with us.’

  ‘No, Father Brennan.’

  ‘Michael. Call me Michael.’

  They walked into the living room and placed themselves in chairs at the dining table. ‘Will you have a cup of tea?’ asked the priest.

  Anthony declined the offer. ‘Where’s my brother?’

  ‘Out on parish work. Did you want to see him?’

  ‘I never want to see him again, so it’s as well he’s not here. You are the one I need to talk to.’

  Michael Brennan sat and waited. He could see the tension in this
young man’s expression, had learned long ago to simply sit and wait when a parishioner wanted to get a load off his chest. Anthony Bell would speak when he was good and ready, not before.

  ‘Do you remember separating me and Liam when we were caught fighting outside the church?’

  The priest nodded. ‘Yes, I was new to the parish. It was quite a shock to find you and your brother brawling like that. That was the last thing I might have expected.’

  ‘I should have killed him then. I’m sure if I had killed him, God would have absolved me. Because Liam’s death would have meant the safety of others.’ Where should he begin? At the beginning, in the middle, or with Maureen’s unfortunate experience?

  Michael shifted uncomfortably.

  ‘I don’t know what you can do, what anybody can do. I suppose I’m just asking you to watch him.’ Anthony kept his voice low. There was no point in getting worked up, because he wanted this man to believe him. ‘What you think of me isn’t important. If you judge me to be hysterical, then I shall have to accept that. But I am sure that Liam killed my fiancée. I am also certain that he was the one who attacked Maureen Costigan.’

  Michael Brennan swallowed audibly. His flesh crawled slightly and he tugged at the dog collar. He knew full well that there was something unusual about Liam. He was also aware that the twins had been at loggerheads since learning to walk and talk. Their father and Diddy Costigan had told him about the boys’ mutual dislike. ‘Anthony, this is a very serious allegation. Shouldn’t you talk to the police instead of discussing the matter with me?’

  ‘I did tell the police,’ replied Anthony. ‘Over five years ago. And they sent me away with a flea in my ear. Liam was aware that I had spoken to the police. He is so cocksure of his own superiority that he feels the law will never touch him. Liam is above and beyond the law.’

  ‘Not God’s law.’

  Anthony folded his arms. ‘Liam is God’s law. Liam is on a special mission. He is here to punish all who indulge in sins of the flesh. He started his campaign in the city centre a very long time ago.’

  It was difficult to talk to a priest about sex, but it had to be done. ‘To be intimate with a girl, Liam needed to be angry. Some of those prostitutes remembered their attacker praying over them afterwards. Of course, no-one was particularly interested in what had happened to mere street women.’ He paused, drew breath. ‘To be blunt, my brother is crackers. Until some doctor discovers that fact, we’re all helpless and useless.’

  Michael cleared his throat. ‘Did Maureen Costigan mention prayers?’

  ‘I haven’t seen her yet,’ said Anthony. ‘Apparently, she is unwilling to talk at the moment.’

  ‘And she’s refusing Holy Communion,’ remarked Michael. ‘But Anthony, surely your brother could not do anything so brutal. He would have to be evil . . . or very, very sick.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Anthony suddenly felt more than tired. ‘He’s dangerous, Michael. He’s just . . . dangerous.’ What more could he say?

  The priest rose and began to pace about. ‘But if he has committed a murder, how does he manage to continue as a priest? The commandments are clear enough – so is the church’s attitude towards those who kill. Liam is always going on about the commandments – I have found him rather rigid, in fact. After murder, he would not receive absolution, Anthony—’

  ‘He doesn’t tell the sin, Father Brennan.’

  The older man stopped in his tracks. ‘Sacrilege? He carries out his ministry while he himself is past redemption?’

  Anthony closed his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘He’s different. His own rules apply, don’t you see? No matter what he reads or understands, Liam is in contact with something he imagines to be God. My brother is the most unusual person I have ever met. He has his own set of rules. I think he sees himself as a second Moses, a bringer of more rules.’

  Michael Brennan excused himself and left the room quickly. In the kitchen, he turned on the tap and dabbed cold water on his brow. He had a great deal of respect for Anthony Bell. Anthony was sensible and decent, was certainly not given to bouts of mindless hysteria. But . . . but Liam was a priest.

  Outside, a thin drizzle had started to fall. He stared into it, tried to imagine how on earth he was going to handle this problem. Liam Bell’s confessor would be pledged to silence, as were all those who heard the sins of others in the privacy of the sacrament. If Liam had confessed to murder, he would not have been absolved until or unless he had informed the guardians of justice. It was probably right to assume that Liam had not confessed the supposed crime. Therefore, by withholding a mortal sin in confession, Liam was damned. In this parish, a pastor with sacrilege on his soul was blessing and distributing Holy Communion, was saying mass, advising sinners, preaching . . .

  On the other hand, Anthony could be mistaken. Michael Brennan was sure that Anthony would not lie deliberately, but perhaps the whole business had been blown out of proportion. In which case, why did he, parish priest of St Aloysius Gonzaga, feel so uncomfortable in the presence of his assistant?

  He walked back into the living room. ‘Without concrete evidence, Anthony, I can do nothing. I am as helpless as the police were when you reported your suspicions.’

  Anthony understood completely. ‘You can know, Michael,’ he said, deliberately using the priest’s Christian name. ‘Even if you find difficulty in believing me, you can bear in mind what I have said.’ He reached out a hand and picked up an old Bible from a side table. ‘With this in my hand, I tell you that I am almost one hundred per cent sure that my brother is a very ill man who has injured several people and killed at least once.’

  Michael swallowed. ‘What would you have done had Liam been here?’

  ‘I would have asked to see you in private. Or I would have returned later.’

  The priest took the Bible from his visitor. ‘I’ll keep my eyes open,’ he promised. ‘And I’ll pray.’ He stood at the door and watched Anthony walking away. The young man’s shoulders were stooped as if he carried a great weight on his back. Of course, he did bear a heavy burden. Michael closed the door and leaned against it. Sometimes, prayer was not enough.

  Maureen Costigan gazed through the drawing room window. Outside, a sweep of lawn met the semicircular gravel driveway, and a fountain played in the centre of the grass. She found the water comforting, liked to see it pouring from the urn that sat on the shoulder of a stone cherub. Beyond the lawn there was a shrubbery and a small orchard. Soon, when she had stopped being so tired, she would go out for a walk in the grounds.

  Diddy was sewing. As Edith and Richard Spencer had refused money for keeping herself and Maureen, Diddy had appointed herself chief seamstress of the establishment. The cook-housekeeper, one Milly Cornwell, was glad of Diddy’s help. ‘Me eyes is not what they was,’ she had told the visitor.

  ‘They talk funny, don’t they?’ mused Diddy. ‘They talk so different from us, but we’re all living in the same part of the world.’

  ‘They’re nice,’ replied Maureen.

  ‘Oh, they’re nice. I’m not saying they’re not decent. It’s just how they talk.’

  Maureen knew what Mam meant. The people hereabouts had very mobile faces. Their mouths stretched and pouted when they spoke, something to do with trying to be heard above the clatter of machinery, according to Edith Spencer. She was nice, too. She had given Maureen and Mam a lovely room with yellow bedspreads and pretty wallpaper with flowers on. ‘I like it here,’ Maureen said. ‘You don’t have to think when you’re here. It’s like being asleep even though you’re awake.’

  Diddy snapped a thread between her teeth. ‘It’s called relaxation, love. Nearest I get to that at home is a good chinwag round the bagwash. I hope they’re managing all right. There’s not many can fold a double sheet as straight as me.’

  Maureen looked at her mother. Elizabeth Costigan had been a good mam, continued good. She did everything she could for her family, kept them warm and fed, kept them safe . . . ‘If I’d come home ear
ly that night like you told me,’ she began, ‘then it might never have happened.’

  Diddy was instantly alert, though she continued sewing, tried not to look startled. Maureen still hadn’t said much.

  ‘He was very big,’ the girl continued. ‘Tall. I ran, but he caught me and dragged me to the field. He leaned very hard on me, on my back, then knelt down with one knee at each side of me. It was like a scarf, the thing he used, but it wasn’t a scarf. And it wasn’t screwed up or wrinkled – it was flat and it felt shiny.’ And the smell. She could not quite define that sickly aroma that had risen from him.

  Diddy pricked her thumb, held the pad of it against her cardigan so that she would not bleed on Edith’s linen. And she didn’t want Maureen seeing blood, not now, not when she’d just begun to allow her mind to open up. No questions, Diddy told herself firmly.

  ‘I couldn’t breathe. He breathed very loud. Then I just blacked out. Another man came. He was nearly crying. Afterwards, the police told me it was Flash Flanagan who found me. I remember Flash. He used to do puppet shows for us. I used to sing with him when I was little, for pennies.’ She paused for a moment and inhaled deeply. ‘My face was sore.’ It was not easy, but she would say it here and now, while the garden fountain poured and the world was quiet. ‘And inside me, I was sore.’

  Diddy dropped the needle, saw blood appearing on Edith Spencer’s linen. It was only a pillowcase.

  ‘He did the bad thing, Mam. I never felt it, but when I woke up, I knew it had happened.’

  Tears rolled down Diddy’s face. She sat perfectly still in a beautiful room while birds twittered and fussed outside, while her daughter framed words that were terrifying.

  ‘I listened to the doctor telling Dad about it. They thought I wouldn’t hear them in the corridor, but I got out of bed and put my ear against the door. I wasn’t talking, but I noticed most things that went on while I was in the hospital. Dad was crying. He said you hadn’t to be told.’

  Diddy prayed for strength, held on to her sobs, kept them caged inside her chest.