Anthony leaned against Razor’s painted window. A crudely printed message above his head read, ‘It’ll be all right when it’s washed.’ Children who returned home fretful after being shorn by Razor’s enthusiastic scissors were always persuaded by mothers that they might look human again after a quick scrub and a dousing. Razor, whose sense of humour was legendary, had incorporated the advice into his advertising.
‘Michael, my brother’s out there and he’s dangerous.’
The priest knew exactly what his companion meant. ‘Proof, Anthony,’ he said quietly. ‘Theory is all very well, but the police want a little more than that. And they think Liam’s gone absent because he saw his father’s death.’
‘He caused it,’ replied Anthony.
Michael Brennan shook his head before replacing his biretta. ‘You know that. I know it and God Himself definitely knows the whole truth of the matter. But the police force needs something a little more tangible than ours and the Almighty’s certainties.’
‘Do you think Liam will have heard about Dad’s new will?’
‘I doubt it. He’ll be too concerned with other matters. Staying free is probably his main goal for now.’
Anthony turned this way and that, saw no sign of Flash. ‘If and when he does hear about the will, he might well go for Bridie.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Yes.’ Anthony’s heart raced. His father was only just buried. Anthony did not love Bridie, would not love her. ‘She thinks he was in the house the other night. And he tore Dad’s solicitor’s office apart, too. Looking for something, obviously. We – Bridie and I – think Dad told Liam about some evidence. He was searching for whatever that is. Flash knows exactly what Liam was looking for. That’s why Flash must be found.’
The priest turned round and stared in the direction of his church ‘There’s another way of looking at this,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘If we can’t find one thing, we can surely look for all the others.’
Anthony repeated this sentence in his head, failed to solve the riddle. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You are absolutely sure that Liam attacked Maureen, aren’t you? And, to be perfectly honest – like every priest should be – I tend to agree with you. The man’s weird.’
Anthony nodded mutely.
‘Now, the item – if there is an item – that was discovered at the scene must be easily identifiable.’
‘But—’
‘Hear me out.’ Michael removed his hat again, as if the action would allow his brain to breathe more freely. ‘Sam saw Flash. Flash gave something to Sam. Sam changed his will, then came to the presbytery—’
‘Without the evidence?’ asked Anthony.
‘Probably.’ The cleric thought for a few seconds. ‘If Liam had retrieved the very thing that might damn him, he would have stayed here. Unless, of course, he thought your father had spoken to other people. But Liam has been searching, hasn’t he? A few nights ago, he was still looking for this article.’
‘He’s been scouring the area, certainly.’
‘Then we look at what is left,’ said Michael Brennan. ‘He ran, you know. He must have left as soon as Sam fell down. His cupboards are still full. There was no sign of packing. So, let’s look at what we have in order to find out what we haven’t.’
Anthony followed the parish priest towards St Aloysius’s. On the way, several people spoke to Father Brennan, while not a few stopped Anthony to offer their condolences.
‘Your father was a well-liked man,’ said Michael while hanging up their coats in the porch. ‘Come in while I make a pot of tea.’
They drank tea, ate a couple of biscuits, talked about the future of Bell’s Pledges. ‘You’ve a fondness for her,’ said Michael after hearing Bridie’s plans for the business.
Anthony, startled almost out of his skin, simply nodded.
‘For your stepmother.’
‘She was not my stepmother for very long,’ replied Anthony warily. ‘And I never lived in that household, so she was no mother substitute for me. Anyway, she’s younger than I am.’
Father Brennan dipped a Marie biscuit into his second cup of tea. ‘Did Sam know how you felt about his wife?’
Anthony nodded again. He didn’t know what to say or where to look.
‘Did Sam mind?’
‘No. He sounded pleased. Almost as if he knew that death was near. As if he wanted someone to look after her.’
The priest collected cups and saucers, made a pile of them, clattered teaspoons onto a tray. ‘There’s affinity, Anthony.’
‘I know.’
‘As things stand, you can never be married to her.’
‘I know, I know!’
Michael Brennan rose from his seat and walked across to the fireplace. He leaned an elbow on the mantelpiece and stared at himself in the mirror. Reflected in the glass was a painting of Jesus and Joseph at a carpenter’s bench. Next to that was a reversed view of St Peter’s in Rome. Rome would not allow this young man to express love for a woman who had been married to his father. ‘What is sin?’ he asked of himself. A fat old man stared back at him, the same question on his lips.
Anthony remained seated. ‘Sin is hurting others,’ he replied.
‘Or hurting God Himself.’
‘God is in us, or so we’re told,’ replied Anthony. ‘He is concerned that we respect one another’s needs.’
The cleric turned round. ‘Yes,’ he said eventually. ‘It’s a wonder that you weren’t ordained instead of himself.’ He walked back to the table and sat opposite his guest. ‘I’ve been in love, you know,’ he said. ‘Three or four times. Priests wear no body armour against the onslaughts of nature. Of course, I never did anything about it.’
Anthony stared at the round-faced man, waited with bated breath for the story to continue.
‘Loved a girl back home first of all. I was about sixteen, all spots and enthusiasm. Her family came over to England and I never saw her again, never heard from her.’ His eyes clouded over and he rubbed them with the heels of his hands. ‘Margaret, she was called. Hair like buttercups and a voice as sweet as heaven itself.’ He pulled himself together. ‘During my ministry, I’ve become over-fond of a couple of other ladies.’
‘Here?’ managed Anthony.
The priest smiled. ‘Here and there – ’tis no matter. So I know how difficult this is for you. Forbidden love.’ He retreated into his thoughts for a few moments. ‘There are bigger sins, Anthony.’
‘Yes, I’m sure there are. Michael,’ said Anthony slowly, ‘even the state itself would be unlikely to encourage a union between a man and his stepmother.’
‘Does Bridie care for you?’
Anthony raised his shoulders. ‘I think she does. Of course, she’s grieving for Dad, because she did become fond of him. And Cathy’s had to stay behind in Astleigh Fold. Then all this with Liam is terrifying. You know, she will need somebody once she settles back into life.’
‘Then why should that not be you?’
Stunned, the younger man stared hard at the priest who had been his confessor for years. The Catholic faith was extremely rigid with regard to matrimony, adultery and fornication. ‘But the Church,’ he began. ‘The Church would—’
‘Sometimes, we need to look past the Church and into the face of God Himself. But first, we must look into your brother’s belongings.’
Bridie placed a bunch of large white daisies on her husband’s grave. Across the sea, in Ireland, there was another grave. Eugene’s grave. She shivered and pulled her coat tightly across her chest. Slow, sad people moved about the cemetery with flowers and containers of water. Surely she was safe here in broad daylight? ‘Liam’s gone,’ she whispered under her breath. ‘He isn’t here any more. I’d know if he was still around here.’ Sam was a mere six feet below this piece of ground. ‘You were a fine man,’ she told the earth. ‘And I wish you were here now to meet Anthony and to know him.’
Anthony. She really should not think about
him. It was not right for a new widow to want to run her fingers through thick, dark hair. She needed comfort, needed someone to care for her. The people she was allowed to love – Shauna, Cathy and Muth – were her dependants. If only she could turn to that strong man. Anthony would look after her if she gave him the chance. She was cold and lonely and terribly afraid.
She walked across a narrow path of gravel and perched on a bench, her eyes still fixed to the fresh mound of earth that covered Sam. A cross of flowers wilted among smaller wreaths and bouquets. Like the poor man they covered, the flowers were fading away to nothing. He would have a stone. She would make sure that Sam and his first wife would be remembered, that their names would be carved in fine Italian marble for all to see.
Leaning further back, she closed her eyes and thought about Sam. How scared she had been when Da had first brought her to Liverpool. How terrifying those trams had been, how loud this new world had seemed. But Sam had been good to her. Sam had provided for her and the girls, had removed them all from Thomas Murphy’s field of vision. Da. He was staying at Dolly Hanson’s, Bridie supposed. Poor Dolly had fallen in love with Da long before Mammy’s death. ‘He’ll be hanging around to see what I do with the horses,’ Bridie told Sam now. ‘But he’ll not get his hands on them, so don’t you be worrying.’
She had come here to be alone with Sam. The funeral had been busy, hectic and noisy. Bridie felt as if she had not been allowed to say goodbye. She had been elsewhere when the heart attack had happened. Only Liam knew how Sam had died. ‘If I’d been there, would I have saved you?’
Edith was back at the house with Shauna. Sticky-Fingers was Great Aunt Edith’s name for Bridie’s younger child. Everything had been returned, but Edith had been tight-lipped on her return to Scotland Road. Shauna had done the rounds in Woolworths, had acquired several penny whistles and some brightly coloured rubber balls. There was something wrong with the child. She needed, so she took. Shauna’s physical requirements were well catered for, so from which part of the child’s being did her need arise? Was she starved of affection? Did she miss her daddy?
Sam would have put everything into perspective. He would have lectured Shauna for a minute or so, would have explained that stealing was wrong. Now, there was no-one to share in the guilt, the powerlessness. What was she going to do without him? He had been a father to her, a better parent than Thomas Murphy could ever have been. And she was selfish, because she was worrying about her own future when she should have been grieving for the departed.
‘Mrs Bell?’
A hand touched Bridie’s shoulder. She turned. ‘Ah. Mrs Hanson.’
The chubby little shopkeeper walked round the bench and laid a small bundle of freesia on the grave before placing herself next to the widow. ‘What must you think of me?’ she asked Bridie.
Bridie made no reply.
‘I didn’t know,’ muttered Dolly Hanson. ‘In the beginning, I didn’t know.’
‘What?’ Bridie resented the intrusion. She had come here to say goodbye and to work her way through her own thoughts and memories. At home, behind the shop, Edith and Muth were chattering and reminiscing while Shauna played. Diddy and Billy were in and out all the time with soup and cakes, and Charlie was stumbling about in the shop tidying up and doing paperwork. ‘I came here to be alone,’ said Bridie. ‘To think. I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s been difficult to find a chance to think these past few days.’
Dolly nodded. ‘I’ll not stop.’
Bridie smiled apologetically. ‘Look, I don’t blame you. Mammy was ill for a long time, and I suppose he needed someone.’
‘He won’t marry me.’ Dolly regretted the words immediately. She should not have aired her troubles in the company of this poor young woman.
‘You’re lucky,’ replied Bridie. ‘He married Mammy, and she never thrived. My father is one of the cruellest people I’ve ever known. If he did marry you, there would be a reason. If and when he does ask you, think about the shop. It would be his if you died.’
Dolly nodded. ‘My first husband was a bugger. I seem to go for the wrong sort.’ She thought about her son, an engineer with a merchant fleet. The shop was for him, she supposed. Sailors had hard lives and often needed to retire early. ‘He’ll need the business,’ she said aloud. ‘Our Stephen. My husband died at sea before Stephen was born. The shop’s for him, for my lad.’
Bridie smiled again. ‘Get rid of Da. Tell him to get back to Galway and rot.’ She straightened her shoulders and stood up. ‘I’ve changed my mind, Mrs Hanson. I’ll walk back with you and tell you all about your lucky escape.’
Bridie took one final look at Sam’s resting place. He had done a lot for her in such a very short space of time. Sam had given Bridie some confidence, some security. She didn’t need to think any more. ‘Thanks, Sam,’ she said. ‘I’ll never forget you.’
Sixteen
Anthony sat back on his heels. His knees ached after taking his full weight for ten minutes or so. He had emptied the wardrobe and was picking out the last of Liam’s belongings. ‘That’s all the shoes and boots accounted for,’ he said. He grabbed a penny from the floor of the old wardrobe, handed it to the priest. ‘Here. Put that in the collection plate.’ He got up and walked to the bed. ‘So – are all his things here?’
‘As far as I remember. We brought a couple of albs over from the vestry – they were miles too long for me, and they would never have covered my dignity.’ He patted his substantial paunch. ‘As far as I can tell, he took little or nothing with him when he left here.’
The younger man gazed round the room that had contained his brother. Mushroom-coloured walls were adorned with holy pictures of St Anthony of Padua, St Aloysius Gonzaga, John the Baptist and several prints of Our Lady. A statue of the Immaculate Conception sat on a chest of drawers, an extinct candle in a blue glass container at the figure’s feet. In front of the chest, a prie-dieu with a leather kneeler bore marks left by a series of praying priests. ‘I’ll look in the drawers,’ he said.
Underneath socks and underwear, Anthony discovered a faded photograph of his mother. He turned this over, found pencilled words on the reverse side. WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME? was printed in a childish scrawl. ‘See?’ He handed the picture to his companion. ‘Always, he resented being motherless. He blamed her, my father, me and anyone else who dared to enter his field of vision. To this day, he’s punishing mankind. Well, womankind, mostly.’
Michael looked at the photograph. ‘A bitter child who grew to be a bitter man.’
‘A sick man.’ Anthony lifted out a wooden box. He pushed at the lid, but it refused to budge. ‘Locked,’ he said. ‘Do you have a screwdriver?’
Michael Brennan smiled grimly. ‘Not about my person, no. It may seem strange to you, but I’ve never found the need for one. Are you going to break that box open?’
Anthony shook the container. It was about the same size as a canteen for cutlery, but its contents did not rattle. ‘Papers, I’d say.’ He glanced at the priest. ‘If I’m committing a crime or a sin of some sort, go out while I do it.’
Michael Brennan allowed his frustration to show. ‘Look at us,’ he said angrily, ‘we’ve jobs to get on with, and here we are doing detective work. How do I make the police listen? I keep telling them we’ve a man missing and that he’s a hazard. Twice, I’ve done that. How many more times must I do it before they take notice?’
‘What was their response?’
‘The police say he’s a grown man who can come and go just as he pleases. They’re neither worried nor interested. They seem to think we’re making up half of it – though Dr Spencer’s had a go at them, told them that Liam’s not right in the head.’ He glanced at the box in Anthony’s hands. ‘You’re Liam’s next of kin, so do what you like with the box.’
‘Right, I shall. We must investigate for ourselves. This box may contain an answer.’
Michael pondered for a second or two before leaving the room in search of a screwdriver.
&
nbsp; Anthony sat on the bed. Next to him were draped items of Liam’s vestmentry, greens and purples and golds laid out on top of the counterpane. The bed was mercilessly hard. It must have been like sleeping between the tram tracks on Scotland Road, Anthony mused. But that was typical of Liam. The sins of the flesh were to be eradicated. Warmth and comfort were probably iniquitous indulgences. Liam had a fondness for big words. Iniquitous was one of Liam’s words. He would never use a monosyllable when a longer word could be found.
Anthony placed the box on the floor and picked up a black stock. It hung limply from its dog collar, the four ties drooping from its sides. Liam had owned several of these false fronts. ‘Where are you?’ he asked the garment. ‘Where the hell have you gone?’ The clothing gave no answers. Everything was clean and folded. Not one stain lingered on Liam’s garments. He wasn’t real, wasn’t human, wasn’t reachable in any sense.
The absent priest’s cope hung on a brass peg attached to the door. This plain black cloak with its hook and chain fastening was draped over a wooden hanger, the folds neat and precise. Everything else, with the exception of several albs, lay on Liam’s bed. Maniples, chasubles and stoles made a rainbow of colour on the plain coverlet. Each piece looked new, almost unused. Liam, even during infancy, had never come home from school dirty. When his hands had been slightly soiled, he had scrubbed and scrubbed until his skin had turned almost red-raw.
Anthony got up and picked Liam’s albs from the bottom drawer. He unfolded the white, long-sleeved shifts, looked for clues, found nothing but tissue paper placed carefully so as to avoid creasing. Outward perfection had hidden so much. Never a hair out of place, never a mark on a shoe, never a straight thought in Liam Bell’s mind. Oh God, where was he?
The Bells of Scotland Road Page 36