The Bells of Scotland Road

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘Keep calm,’ she whispered. ‘It’ll be nothing, nothing at all.’

  Outside in the yard, Liam Bell squatted next to the coal shed. There was no moon. He moved forward on tiptoe, peeped through a small gap in the curtains. She was there. She was inside his house, sitting on his chair, sitting on his inheritance. A pretty woman, he supposed. But he wasn’t fooled by her, not for a moment.

  For several days, Liam’s place of abode had been a derelict warehouse on the dock road. Like a common tramp, he had rummaged in bins for food, had been forced to comb the streets during hours of darkness. He was cold, hungry and weary. He had returned to Scotland Road in order to acquire the means with which to travel towards a different and easier life. The Irishwoman was comfortable in his father’s house. Liam was shivering in the back yard, and he was furious.

  He kept his eye against the window, studied Bridie as closely as he could. The stole was in that house. A million and one things were in there, too, bits and pieces collected over the years by Bell’s Pledges. Really, the place would need ransacking.

  Someone walked down the jigger. Liam stiffened, listened while a girl giggled. ‘Stop it,’ she shouted. ‘Just you wait till I tell Mam, Graham Pile.’

  It was Monica Costigan.

  ‘I’ve done nothing wrong, Nicky,’ replied the boy.

  ‘No, but you will if you get the chance. I’ve told you, I’m risking nothing before I get a wedding ring.’

  A few more giggles reached Liam’s ears. He crept towards the gate and listened closely. ‘It’s funny without Mr Bell,’ said Nicky eventually.

  ‘Are you still selling for Bell’s?’ asked the boy.

  ‘Oh yes. Mrs Bell’s in charge now. That Liam got his eye wiped, didn’t he? Not a mention of him in the will, Mam said. It’s all gone to Mrs Bell and the little girls. Except for books and a few hundred pounds. That’s what he left Anthony. And he left some pots for us – nice cups and that with roses on.’

  ‘I wonder where Father Bell is?’ mused Graham.

  ‘Who cares?’ asked Nicky. ‘Not me, not any of us. He was a right bloody misery-guts. Even Father Brennan’s glad to see the back of him.’ She paused for a second or two. ‘Graham?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘My mam thinks Father Bell’s really bad. Not just miserable – evil, like.’

  ‘Does she?’

  ‘She says he ruined Anthony’s life when they were kids. But she reckons there’s more to it. She thinks he might have made his dad have that heart attack.’

  ‘Well, Father Bell’s gone,’ said Graham. ‘And good riddance to him. Come on, your mam’ll have the supper on.’

  Liam stood by the gate until the footsteps faded away. So Dad had found time to change his will. Stunned to the point of numbness, he leaned against the gate for several minutes. He had nothing, nothing at all.

  When a modicum of composure had returned, he swivelled silently on rubber soles, stared at the building he had expected to inherit. He could have gone a long way in the Church, could have made a massive donation to the diocese. And now, he was being denied his rights by that female intruder who sat in Dad’s chair pretending to be sad.

  Heads were going to roll, he told himself. But not yet. He had been foolish to come here, but life had been far from comfortable during recent days. The first thing he needed was money. He must get into the house and find cash or small items that would be easy to sell. Living rough in a draughty warehouse had not been easy. Tonight, he would take what he could and get away.

  He squatted in a dark corner and waited for her to go to bed. There was a place he had heard of, a monastery in Lancashire where refuge was granted to travellers. From what he had read, Liam knew that some down-and-outs stayed long-term and helped out with menial tasks. He swallowed a stab of pain. A monastery? He was almost a parish priest, not a mendicant. Care would be needed, he reminded himself. No sign of his superior education must show. Like the rest, he would have to act the part of a vagrant.

  She was riddling ashes. Liam rose and watched her. She looked every inch the grieving widow, all tangled hair and slow movements. She picked up Dad’s tobacco tin and opened it, pulled out his cigarette papers and a bit of loose tobacco. With what almost amounted to reverence, she replaced the tin on the mantelpiece. This was the usurper. Liam needed plenty of time to think. He would go as soon as possible to Lancashire, would hide himself among the brothers.

  Bridie would keep for a while. For the moment, Liam’s prime duty was to survive.

  Bridie heard him and did nothing. With her heart pounding, she sat on the edge of the bed she had shared with Sam and waited for Sam’s son to go away. There was a telephone at the foot of the stairs, but the staircase ran down the centre of the house, its small, ground floor lobby forming a natural division between shop and domestic premises. To summon help, she would have needed to put herself in danger.

  He was quiet, but not quiet enough. Bridie’s ears tuned in to the opening and closing of drawers, the lightweight complaint of a key in a lock. The safe was empty. Since Sam’s death, small items of value had been stored in the vault of a bank.

  Liam would be stealing a few bits and pieces, was possibly searching for a certain piece of evidence at the same time. Sam had believed Anthony at last. Bridie pictured that final scene between Sam and Liam, imagined what had been said. Sam had accused; Liam had denied. The heat created by these opposing poles had caused Sam’s heart attack. He must have died a broken man.

  Would Liam come upstairs? Would he search the storerooms on the top floor, would he try the roof space? If he came upstairs, she would surely die of fright. No, no, her heart was stronger than poor Sam’s. She had two children to live for, two little girls whose father and stepfather had died recently. Bridie had no intention of being scared to death.

  What about Muth? Muth had a knack of appearing to be deaf when it suited her. All too often, Muth heard things that even the sharpest of young ears might miss. If Muth went downstairs . . . Keep still, Bridie told herself severely. Just wait. If you can find some patience, Liam will clear off eventually. The locks would have to be changed. She thanked God that Cathy and Shauna were away. Had the girls been here, she might have been panicked into doing something crazy.

  A stair creaked. With her heart clamouring like a bass drum, Bridie slid between the sheets. Her teeth chattered. Slowly, she reached for the pewter candlestick on a bedside table. Hugging this chilly item, she lay on her side and tried to breathe evenly. Her pores were open and she shook like a leaf in the wind. He was across the landing, was opening the door of one of the storerooms. The door remained open. Had he shut that door, Bridie might have been tempted to come out of her bedroom, but she remained where she was for fear of being seen on the landing.

  Surely he didn’t expect to get away unnoticed? He was audible; she imagined she could hear him breathing. What was he looking for? Maureen had been strangled. Had Sam come by the rope? If so, how had Sam been so certain that this particular length of rope had been used by Liam?

  Thoughts darted about like moths looking for light, each idea fluttering away in the wake of another concept. If only Sam were here. If Sam were here, Liam would not be here. Liam would have been out doing his good deeds or murdering someone. He was becoming careless. If Muth heard him . . .

  He was on the landing again. One door closed, then another opened. He was still in the storerooms. Again, Bridie heard the movements quite clearly, could visualize Liam’s actions. She had worked hard in those two rooms, had been in the middle of sorting out all kinds of tangles.

  Suddenly, her eyes opened wide. What if he found the evidence? He would be able to return to Scotland Road with an excuse about having been driven away by grief. With the tangible proof removed, he would be able to continue his reign of holy terror.

  But what if he didn’t find it? Would he return again and again to search? Oh, she didn’t know what to hope for. And she missed Sam, missed the father figure he had become. If
only Sam could come back, she would never again complain about toenail clippings on the rug. Sam could not come home. She bit back sobs of grief and panic, forced herself to lie still.

  The door handle squeaked. Sam had talked about oiling it, had never got round to the task. Liam Bell, priest, rapist and killer, was padding his way towards the bed. He was not wearing shoes, she thought irrelevantly. And if he killed her, Cathy and Shauna would be orphans. Edith had affection for Cathy, but she seemed not to have the same feelings for Shauna.

  The quality of blackness in front of Bridie’s closed eyelids intensified. He was looming over her. She must remain completely still, must breathe slowly and evenly. Did he have a knife? Had he picked up the poker or a hammer or a second-hand cricket bat? Would it hurt, would it be quick? Were Sam and Eugene waiting to greet her on the other side of some frail curtain?

  She opened her mouth and let out a sigh that was supposed to convince him. He was completely immobile. This could not continue for much longer, because she would be unable to bear it. Was that a hand on the quilt? Was he touching her? Would he attack, rape and kill her?

  Bridie’s right hand was wrapped so tightly round the candlestick that it felt stiff, almost spastic. No feeling remained in the fingers. Surely he would leave now? He could not spend the rest of the night standing next to her bed.

  With painful slowness, she allowed her eyelids to lift just a fraction. She had seen Cathy and Shauna sleeping with their eyes not quite closed. A shadow moved across the room, pulled at a drawer. She could hear him fingering the contents, rifling through clothing. He closed the drawer, opened another. When he had finished the search, he crept out of the room and closed the door.

  A scream stuck in her throat like unchewed food. Bridie forced her face into the pillow and forbade herself to make a sound. There was the old lady to think of. If he killed once, he would kill again. Muth must not be disturbed, because her very life depended on total silence.

  He went downstairs. Bridie waited, her ears attuned to every slight sound, but she heard nothing. For the remainder of the night, she lay as stiff as a board, not daring to move until the light came. If he left, she did not hear him. If he continued to scour the place, she was not aware.

  But when morning finally came, Bridie went slowly down the stairs and found a house that showed not the slightest sign of having been entered. There were things missing from the drawers and from the storeroom, and five pounds had been taken from the caddy where coal, milk and insurance monies were kept. Apart from that, Sam’s house and shop were exactly as she had left them the night before.

  Nevertheless, the locksmith was summoned. By tea-time, Bell’s Pledges would be a fortress.

  Fifteen

  Les Frères de la Croix de Saint Pierre had settled before the Great War in a black-and-white Tudor-style mansion in the middle of nowhere. With their cows, pigs, chickens and acres of vegetables, the brothers maintained themselves as far as possible, though expeditions to Blackburn and Bolton, their nearest towns, were undertaken on a fortnightly basis.

  The Brothers of St Peter’s Cross asked few questions. Their original purpose had been to offer shelter to newly released French criminals in a refuge near the Pyrenees, and they had spread their wings throughout Europe in the hope of rescuing and reforming those who offended Christ. They believed in hard work and the inherent goodness of mankind. The long-dead founder of the order had enjoyed a great fondness for St Peter, who, ordained by Christ Himself, had gone on to deny Jesus three times. Peter had cried for days when the Lord’s prophecy had been fulfilled. It was Peter’s humanity that had made him culpable and forgivable.

  Inside the open porch, a sculpture of Peter stood on a marble pillar, his face scored deeply in accordance with descriptions from the gospels. According to the New Testament, Peter’s face had been marked by channels born of prolonged weeping. Across the porch, on another plinth, stood an image of the all-forgiving Christ, the right hand raised in an eternal blessing.

  Liam Bell placed his worldly goods on the flagged floor. He had brought with him some cheap clothing and boots, a couple of pounds and a much thumbed missal. Before him, a huge black door was studded with ancient bolts and long hinges. Above this portal, the motto of the order was painted in gold. TOUJOURS AVEC TOI, MON ENFANT, declared the flowery script. Liam sat on a bench and pondered.

  He had read about the monks, was fairly sure that they would not search him or ask for a potted history, but he wanted his account of himself to be convincing. As long as he lived a good, clean life, the brothers should allow him to stay. Because of a stringent regime, the house was not a popular place, so there should be room for one more sinner. Only the truly down-and-out or the genuinely convinced Christian could survive in this place. Liam intended to endure at all costs.

  He pulled at the collar of his jacket, hoped it looked old enough and poor enough. His new name was Martin Waring. Smith, Jones and Brown had been rejected as too obvious, so Liam had opted for a more convincing persona. In a moment, he would ring the bell. A large iron pull hung down just behind Jesus. At the other side of the door lay months – perhaps years – of punishing toil. But he had no fear of hard work. In fact, he was rather looking forward to the change and to the discipline. Father Michael Brennan had been far too easy-going for Liam’s taste. Discipline and order were essential within the calling of a priest. Each priest was a missionary, whether he toiled in Africa with the heathen or on Scotland Road with the thief.

  Of course, Liam was no longer a priest. In fact, he had decided that Martin Waring had discovered the one true faith while reading his way through a prison sentence. Here, he would be baptized and confirmed anew. God had sent him to this monastery. It was all a part of the Divine plan for Liam. The projected stay with the brothers was a mere stepping stone along the path to greatness.

  He tugged at the bell-pull, waited for admittance. The door was drawn inward and a small, round face peered up into the tall man’s eyes. ‘Do you seek refuge?’

  ‘I do.’

  Liam was guided into a cold hallway. This flagged area was being scrubbed by two brothers. They wore blue-grey habits and sacking aprons. Buckets clanged against stone, while stiff bristles scratched the flags.

  The small man stopped and beckoned. ‘Follow me, friend.’ He led the way into a tiny room that contained a table and two chairs. ‘Sit, please.’ He indicated the less ornate of the two seats.

  Liam sat, placed his belongings on the table.

  ‘I’m Brother Timothy.’ Tiny blue eyes shone like twin jewels in the weathered face. ‘Do you wish to give a name?’

  ‘Martin Waring.’

  Brother Timothy grinned broadly, causing his plump cheeks to swallow the bright eyes for a split second. ‘Brother Nicholas will be here shortly.’ He disappeared through an inner door.

  Liam waited. He had the uncanny feeling that he was being watched, so he remained still and calm. Thick stone walls seemed unlikely places for peepholes, yet he felt as if a million eyes were on him.

  The inner door creaked open and Brother Nicholas came in. He was a large man, well-muscled and with dark skin. ‘Please remain seated,’ he said before placing himself in the tall-backed chair. A beam of light crept through the high window and sat on the monk’s deliberately bald pate.

  ‘Are you the abbot?’ asked Liam.

  ‘No. We have no titles here, as we are all brothers in the true sense. But I am the senior, because I have been here for many years. We try to be democratic, though we do have a committee. Its members are drawn from the order and from the lay residents.’ He folded his hands inside the wide sleeves of his habit. ‘Are you a sinner?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you paid for your crime?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So what do you seek? Some of our gentlemen require a bed and food for a few days. Others stay indefinitely.’

  ‘I wish to stay, Brother.’

  The monk nodded thoughtfully. ‘We have litt
le to offer beyond hard work, sustenance and shelter. Feel free to leave whenever you wish.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Liam fished some notes from his pocket. ‘This is all the money I have.’

  ‘Then keep it,’ advised Brother Nicholas. ‘In a few days or weeks, you may decide to move on.’

  Liam hesitated. He must appear ‘normal’, must act like a man released from jail. ‘I have been reading about you,’ he said carefully. ‘We were given leaflets about the brothers. I also read about the Catholic church while I was away. That is why I am here.’

  ‘A convert in the making?’ Brother Nicholas beamed over his spectacles. Like Timothy, he had a happy face, though this was an altogether more personable man. His eyes were quick and clever, and he seemed to be trying to sum up his latest refugee. ‘We do have several brothers here who joined the order after prison. It takes many years to become a Catholic, Martin.’

  ‘I am prepared to wait and work.’

  ‘And to learn?’

  The ordained priest nodded. ‘I learn quickly,’ he said.

  ‘Then you must have been a successful criminal,’ replied the monk. ‘Even so, you were caught. Being caught is the best thing, you know. Many offenders take the opportunity to study themselves during confinement. Is that a missal?’ He pointed to the book on the table.

  ‘Yes, Brother.’

  ‘You know the order of the mass?’

  Liam smiled inwardly. How many masses had he said in his time? ‘Yes, I think I do.’

  ‘Good. Come to chapel whenever you wish. Except during hours of work, that is. We keep animals and grow much of our own food.’ He paused. ‘What was your job?’

  The new recruit remembered his script. ‘I was a clerk in a shipping office.’

  Brother Nicholas rose. ‘St Peter was crucified,’ he said, ‘but his biggest cross was not the one on which he died. St Peter’s sin was heavier than any gallows, Martin. He denied Our Blessed Lord. God loves sinners. The first pope was a sinner. Here, you will find peace and forgiveness.’