The Arrival of Fergal Flynn

by Brian Kennedy

  'Are you considering A-levels?' Father Mac asked him.

  "They don't offer them here,' Fergal said.

  'St Bridget's doesn't offer any exams beyond O-level,' the secretary confirmed. "There wasn't enough interest from the pupils.' She handed Fergal a leaflet about an adult education course at the local girls' school.

  He shuddered as they drove out of the gates with the school in the rear-view mirror but not far enough in the past.

  That night Father Mac produced a secret bottle of champagne from the depths of the fridge and raised a toast in the front room. 'Fergal Flynn, it is no small miracle that you've done so well in your O-levels. So here's to the future whatever it brings. The only way is up, my friend.'

  Once Fergal's smile got settled, it borrowed his face for the rest of the evening. Father Mac ended the night by sneaking out the back door with the empty champagne bottle and pushing it to the bottom of the bin.

  Slowly but surely, they had started working on the music again. When the swelling in Fergal's head subsided and he had had two check-ups at the hospital, he started singing at the evening services. He loved being in the candlelit atmosphere, with the sounds of the chapel for company and, as terrifying as it always was initially, there was nothing that compared to singing in front of people. Sometimes he sang unaccompanied on the altar, if there was a song that was appropriate to the Gospel. This was when he was at his most nervous because he could see the faces of the whole congregation. He always kept a lookout for his brothers, but even when they weren't there, the congregation included fellas who'd made his life hell at school. Whenever he sang, they tried to muffle their laughter as their mortified girlfriends elbowed them in the ribs to shut them up. After Fergal's experience of humiliation at St Bridget's Secondary School, though, this was easily enough ignored.

  The living arrangements at St Bridget's House stayed the same. Father Mac moved back into his room as soon as Fergal was settled in the spare one. When night came and darkness enveloped the house, Father Mac tried to distract himself by reading or doing crosswords but, in the end, he could never help rolling over to the side of his bed where Fergal had recuperated. Only then could he sleep.

  ~

  One night there was a car bomb not far from St Bridget's and then a riot. A local child took a plastic bullet to the head and died in the arms of Father Mac, who had arrived only seconds before to administer the last rites on the side of the road. He closed the little boy's eyes and carried the limp body less than a hundred yards to the hospital where it was too late to do anything but sedate his poor mother.

  When he got back to the parish house, Father Mac sent Mrs Mooney home, locked the front door behind her and cried his eyes out. All Fergal could do was stand in the living-room doorway watching him pile too much coal on the fire until it collapsed. When he stood up, dusting his hands, he broke down again because he'd made such a mess. Fergal came closer to try and comfort him, but Father Mac turned away, putting his dirty hands over his face. 'I'm OK - I'm OK...'

  Fergal thought it might help if he went and got a box of tissues that he knew Mrs Mooney kept in the kitchen cupboard. While he was there he spotted a bottle of wine, so he found a couple of glasses and carried everything into the living room.

  Father Mac went up to the bathroom and washed the dirt from his hands and his tear-stained face. He looked at himself in the mirror, but all he could see was the dead little boy's face staring blankly at him. He threw some cold water on his eyes and scrubbed under his fingernails.

  When he saw the wine, he exhaled in appreciation. 'That's an inspired idea, Fergal. I never thought the day would come when I'd be so glad to see a drink. Pour me a large one - and I don't like drinking on my own.'

  The riot started up again, as news of the little boy's death spread like a forest fire. Outside, on the main road, they heard the army patrol cars pushing their gearboxes to the limit as they careered around corners from the nearby barracks.

  Father Mac and Fergal cautiously went up to the spare room, where they had a better view of the road. They turned the light off - the street lamp had been shot out and the road was dark -and stood at one of the sash windows trying to see what was happening. A helicopter searchlight passed right over St Bridget's, and they were blinded for a split second. Suddenly a stray bullet whistled through the other window and there were shattered splinters of glass everywhere.

  They flung themselves to the floor. Father Mac panicked. 'Fergal - oh, fuck - Fergal! Are you all right?'

  'I'm fine. Jesus, that was close, though.'

  'We should get out of here,' Father Mac whispered. 'Crawl.' They slid along the carpet like snipers until they reached the landing and Father Mac could kick the bedroom door shut.

  He knew they would have to wait until the trouble was well over before they could even board up the broken window temporarily with a sheet of cardboard - it would be the next morning at the earliest before a glazier could come to the rescue. As they got back to the parlour, he looked at Fergal. 'Well, you can't sleep in there tonight, that's for certain. It'll be too cold - and there's no telling what will happen later.'

  'Well, where then? The sofa in here?'

  'You can do that, I suppose. You're so tall, though - I hope you don't end up with a sore back.'

  'Where then? I can't go back to Noreen's, Dermot.' The old panic had returned to his voice.

  'Fergal, do you think I would let you go out the door on a night like this, never mind to Noreen's? Calm down for goodness' sake. I wasn't thinking that at all. We'll figure something out.'

  They sat in the front room, drinking the wine and watching the news on the TV. Fergal loved how the alcohol calmed him. There was a special news report about the incident - there had been 'unrest' in West Belfast and the army had been forced to 'retaliate' with anti-riot gear, tear gas and plastic bullets. There was no mention of the dead boy. Father Mac was furious, thinking about the tiny body that lay punctured and lifeless in the morgue only a short walk away. He looked at Fergal and thought how easily it could have been him, at any stage in his childhood.

  He poured the last of the bottle into the glasses. 'Fergal, when I carried that wee boy tonight, I was thinking about you.'

  'You were? Why?'

  'Well, his eyes were like yours... before I had to close them.'

  He began to cry again, and when Fergal came towards him he didn't turn away. It was the first time Fergal had seen Father Mac really upset. He was glad of the role reversal, glad that he was able to comfort him. He knew only too well how much he'd come to rely on Father Mac as the months had passed, but it was the first time it had occurred to him that Father Mac might need him just as much. The red wine softened the room and made his breath feel warm.

  'It's all right, Dermot. It's all right.'

  Fergal ran his hand through Father Mac's hair and down onto his back, rubbing in slow circles. Without meaning to, he blew against Father Mac's ear, as if trying to cool him.

  Father Mac looked up at him, and they stared deep into each other. The wine made Fergal brave; he was determined not to look away, not even to blink.

  Father Mac's eyes were full of tears. Fergal brought a finger up and collected them, then he put the wet tip of his finger in his mouth, drinking away his grief. Father Mac was startled for a moment, but he didn't get a chance to say anything. Fergal dropped two kisses on his eyelids and then one on his mouth. Father Mac exhaled and kept his eyes shut. He pictured himself taking control of the situation, telling Fergal to stop, but he knew he couldn't. He could only kiss him back, slowly at first, almost as if he was expecting to stop, but neither of them did. Outside the gunfire ripped through the sky, there was no telling how close or how far away it really was. A shop alarm bawled like a frightened ghost as Fergal began pulling at Father Mac's shirt, ripping one of the buttons off, and dropped down to smell his chest.

  Still devouring each other, they moved out of the front parlour and attempted the stairs, but they had to give u
p when Fergal tripped and they fell awkwardly on top of each other.

  'Fergal, are you—' Father Mac never got a chance to voice his worry. Fergal grabbed him between the legs for a second and then ran away up the stairs laughing, as if they were playing a game of tag. As he ran, Brother Vincent's playful voice resounded in the back of his mind, reminding him not to be afraid to be childish if he felt like it. There was no doubt in his mind where he was going to be spending the night. The broken spare-room window had been the shove they had needed.

  Father Mac checked that the front door was double-locked, looked up at the landing and then followed. When he reached his room humming nervously, Fergal was already half undressed.

  Father Mac searched his record collection nervously, buying time. 'Do you mind if I put some music on? I always fall asleep with music on, turned down low so I can still hear the phone or the doorbell—'

  'Sure. What've you got?' Fergal moved over to him and began kissing the back of his neck.

  'I don't know - let me see - Ella, Billy, Frank... Oh, I know, let's have some Joni Mitchell. Do you like Joni?'

  'I don't really know. I've never heard of her.'

  'What? Well, you're in for the biggest treat of your life, and hopefully the start of a love affair that will only get better as you get older.' Father Mac blushed as he realised what he'd said. 'Ah, no - no, I meant with Joni's music, a love affair with her music.'

  The room wasn't the warmest. Father Mac looked at Fergal in his shorts and T-shirt and told him, 'Get into the bed, I won't be long.' Even though they'd been so intimate in Sligo, he suddenly felt self-conscious enough to go to the bathroom and undress there. He came back after about ten minutes, teeth freshly cleaned, wearing blue striped pyjamas.

  'I thought you were never coming back!'

  'Sorry, fella. I'm just a bit... you know.'

  Once they were under the covers, the lights were out and the record had started, they naturally turned towards each other as Joni sang like a beautiful lonely blackbird. Father Mac had a habit of singing along when he was on his own. He forgot himself and joined in huskily, humming at first, then finding the words.

  'You're not a bad singer at all, Dermot! And I love this song.'

  'Ah, when I didn't smoke I could just about hold a tune, but I can't even do that any more.'

  Fergal shifted closer and kissed Father Mac again and he responded enthusiastically. They were both unused to sharing a bed and, although they'd started out feeling cold, it wasn't long before they were both too warm.

  'I'm roasting,' Fergal mumbled, sitting up to take off his T-shirt.

  'I'm boiling too,' Father Mac agreed. He tried to unbutton his pyjama top under the duvet, but Fergal pulled it off roughly.

  Under the cover of that riotous night, they tasted, smelled, kissed, nuzzled, licked, stroked and sucked every inch of each other with all the tenderness and recklessness they possessed, feeling more alive than ever. Outside, death was a hair's breadth away. Father Mac took Fergal in his mouth and wouldn't let go until he'd emptied every last drop of himself. Fergal had never felt anything like it in his life. Seconds later, Father Mac trembled as Fergal's hands drained him onto his waiting stomach.

  They surrendered to damp exhaustion.

  'Dermot, I don't know what I would've done if you hadn't looked after me.'

  'Fergal, sure, what else would I have done?'

  The music had finished, and the only sound left was their breathing.

  They'd only been asleep for a few hours when another bomb ripped through a shop in the centre of town, shaking them both awake. The room was cold now. Their fingers investigated each other, their hands intertwining like sea creatures in the darkest depth of the ocean.

  Father Mac was the more nervous of the two. He had promised himself and God time and time again that they would never repeat that night at the beach in Sligo. If Fergal hadn't been attacked, Father Mac might have had time to plant those promises a bit further down in the soil of his convictions, and their roots might have taken a stronger hold. But when Fergal had moved into St Bridget's House, he also had moved even further into Father Mac's heart. Father Mac had thought he had built those promises in steel. Now, with each tender, nervous kiss, they shattered as though erected from the thinnest film of ice.

  The phone rang just before six o'clock, and Father Mac had to disentangle himself to answer it. He dressed quickly and went out to give the last rites to a ninety-six-year-old man, who died about an hour later. His family were grateful to Father Mac. It was at those times that he felt most useful to the community. When he got back home, he was wracked with guilt again. He hadn't the heart to disturb Fergal, who was sleeping peacefully under the duvet, so he went into the parlour and lay on the sofa under a spare blanket still fully clothed.

  As he slipped into a deep sleep, he finally decided that he wasn't going to reject Fergal a third time - he couldn't have done it even if he'd wanted to. He blew a kiss towards the ceiling and didn't wake until he heard Mrs Mooney's key in the door.

  'Ah, Father MacManus, I heard you were called out to poor old Mr Harrison. You do too much, you look like you haven't slept at all.'

  'Well, the window in Fergal's room got shot out last night, so I gave him my room and I stayed down here. Sure, I had loads of letters to get through - and, after last night's shenanigans, I knew I'd be called out for something.'

  She picked up the empty bottle of wine and looked disapprovingly at the ceiling, as if she had X-ray vision. Then she cleared away her suspicions with the half-empty glasses.

  ~

  They settled into a routine of sorts. Fergal helped Mrs Mooney a bit around the house - he loved living somewhere so clean. When he and Father Mac were left alone, they listened to music constantly, and Fergal even started to brave the piano on his own if Father Mac was called out. Fergal had started to wear some of Father Mac's old dark clothes that no longer fitted the priest's expanding waistline - Mrs Mooney's cooking was the culprit -but were too good to throw out. It had happened first by accident. One morning Fergal had woken up in Father Mac's bed with a start thinking Mrs Mooney was at the door, and pulled on the wrong trousers on his way to hide in the toilet. When Father Mac came back to tell him it was only the coal man delivering, he had realised - 'My goodness, Fergal, they fit you perfectly.'

  They didn't sleep together every single night, nor were they intimate every time they did, but they were always loving, and Fergal adored waking up with Father Mac whenever he got the chance.

  Father Mac was worried, though, and he constantly reminded Fergal that they had to be careful. Mrs Mooney hadn't failed to notice, over the passing weeks, the way that Father Mac and Fergal sometimes looked at each other. She'd even caught Fergal lying on Father Mac's bed one day, when he was out saying mass. He'd mumbled that he was borrowing a book, but in fact he'd gone in there to see if he could smell Father Mac off the pillows.

  Mrs Mooney chose her moment. 'Father, forgive me for saying so, but do you think some people in the parish might think that it's... well... strange that Fergal lives here?'

  Father Mac swallowed and tried not to look taken aback. 'Why, Mrs Mooney? Has someone said something to you?'

  'No, no - it's just... Well, you know what people are like, especially around here. Some people might think it's... unusual for him to be here for so long without any friends of his own age, you know?'

  Father Mac stared past her head out into the yard. 'Well, there's no accounting for people, is there, Mrs Mooney? I suppose some people might think that it's normal to beat their kids till they need to go to the emergency unit. Would those be the same people, I wonder, Mrs Mooney?'

  'Well, it's not for me to say, Father.'

  She got out the Hoover and they said no more about it, but Father Mac was shaking. That night he told Fergal what had happened and insisted that they should sleep apart. Fergal understood, but he couldn't hide his disappointment. It was the first time he had resented Mrs Mooney.

>   ~

  One morning, a package addressed to 'Father D. MacManus' arrived. Father Mac was out on a visit, leaving Fergal to stare at the Sligo postmark until he got home for lunch.

  Inside there was a note from Brother Vincent and two copies of the monks' album, one on cassette and one on vinyl. The cover was a likeness of the most fragile icon that Fergal had seen illuminated in the dark chapel under the altar. They stared in wonder at their names highlighted in gold lettering under the chants they had performed.

  Father Mac put the record on the turntable, and they sat silent and breathless as the speakers hummed and the dark grooves crackled. They revisited every note and phrase, until the final cadence brought Side 1 to a close. Neither of them could speak as Father Mac picked up the vinyl circle and flipped it over.

  They listened again and again, more thrilled with each play, until Father Mac looked at the clock and realised he had to get back to his visits. As he was leaving, he turned to Fergal and said, 'I'm so proud to share this moment, Fergal Flynn. Mark my words, this is only the beginning.'

  21

  For Noreen, the beginning of the end had started a long time ago. Every time Fergal visited her - usually with Father Mac beside him - he couldn't believe how much she had deteriorated in the short time since his last visit. She couldn't get out of bed any more, so the doctor had recommended incontinence pads, which was just a polite name for adult-sized nappies. The dreaded commode was now redundant and sat in the tiny yard, rusting in the rain. Angela still delivered the gin, Noreen cried non-stop without it, and the doctor said there was little point in refusing her now.

  The last time Fergal visited his granny, he and Father Mac were bringing her a month's supply of incontinence pads - the black plastic bag was far too big for Angela to manage. Fergal still had his key and let himself in. Father Mac went out the back to the toilet, and Fergal ran upstairs calling, 'Granny, it's me!'