by Edward Toman
Joe broke the silence for him.
‘Go on up now and show them you’re here. It wouldn’t do to keep his nibs waiting on your first morning.’
He watched as the boy walked towards the cathedral gates, waited till he had his papers checked and saw him climb the hundred steps to the top of the hill, a small figure, hardly more than a child. The massive clock began to strike six. Joe turned on his heel and headed out of the city, taking the dark road that would lead him to McCoy.
He headed north-east, keeping an ear to the ground for any word of the preacher. He skirted round Dungannon at nightfall, for it was a close town where they would begrudge any information, and made his way towards Coalisland. He lay up in the town for a few days, acting on a tip from a man in a billiard hall, but it proved a red herring. For the next couple of days he tacked north-west, keeping close to the shore of the great lough. But the people of the lake, in their settlements among the reeds, were tight-lipped and suspicious; though they permitted him to pass among them unmolested, they gave nothing away. He kept the great grey expanse of water to his right until he came to Toome; here the wide river Bann tumbles out of the lough, swollen and treacherous. Early one morning, noticed only by the fishermen hauling in their nets below, he crossed the bridge. This was where the heroes of ninety-eight had been hanged, this bridge that spanned the weirs and rapids of the river as it tumbled out of the lake making for the ocean. He was leaving Tyrone. Ahead of him lay County Antrim. He unpinned the medal from his braces, kissed it and threw it over the parapet into the racing waters below. He was on his own now. Up above him rose the basalt and chalk plateau where he knew for certain he would find McCoy.
He had travelled as far as Cullybackey before he got first wind of him. He was sitting civilly in the bar, quietly addressing himself to his pint, when he spotted the picture in the paper a farmer was reading. It was a blurred photograph, of the sort common in local papers, with as many men as possible crammed before the lens and their names painstakingly recorded below. A central figure, legs akimbo, was flanked by a phalanx of pot-bellied comrades, local people by the look of them – barrel chests, low waistbands, tattooed forearms, close-set eyes. As was the custom in such photographs they wore their copious regalia. But it was the headline that caught Joe’s attention. Successful ‘Scouting’ Trip by Popular Preacher. Was it McCoy? He couldn’t make it out. Was he displaying the blessed Madonna as a hunting trophy? Or was he starting to let his imagination run away with him? At that minute the fat farmer finished his careful perusal of the small ads and methodically began to fold the paper until it was small enough to fit into his pocket. He lifted his leg, farted and got to his feet. Joe edged his way across the bench and met his stare. ‘You’ll not take offence, sir, if I inquire if you’re finished with the paper by any chance? There was a death in it I wanted to see.’ Even as he heard his own words he knew it was a mistake; he had broken the rule of a lifetime and spoken first to an Antrim man. It was a recipe for trouble.
The man looked him over for a full minute before he spoke. When he did, it was with the harsh accents of the Scottish coast. ‘I’m taking that paper home with me,’ he said, ‘and I’m going to wipe my arse with it.’
Thank you for your trouble anyhow,’ Joe said, hoping to end the matter there.
‘Waste not, want not, do you not agree?’ said the fat farmer, never for a moment taking his eye off him.
‘Fair play to you,’ Joe agreed. In a minute he’d be asking him his business, worming as much out of him as he could, and maybe the slow realization dawning on him that here was a lad who dug with the wrong foot. Beads of sweat began to form on his spine. There was a time to start trouble and a time to keep your frigging mouth shut, he told himself, and this was definitely a time for the latter. Start a fight here and it would be your last.
His accent betrayed him as an outsider, and his demeanour too. And though he had false papers to prove he was a loyal son of the crown and a fully paid up member of the Orange Order (Eugene had been able to oblige him there) he doubted if they or he would stand up to the full scrutiny. He thought of making a run for it. It would give the game away completely, but at least he could give himself a sporting chance. What chance? Even if he got unmolested to the door they would have him before he got a mile down the road. He was all too familiar with the headline, as often as not these days tucked into the inside pages of the paper, of consequence only to next of kin or those who took a prurient interest in that sort of thing: Body Found in Ditch. In the brief, unemotional passage that followed there would be the bones of the story: the unidentified body of a man in his forties, no identification, signs of torture to the face and torso, hands tied behind back before the shot through the skull. No one would ever stand trial for the deed, not unless they subsequently confessed to it and other atrocities, their consciences suddenly pricked and their tongues loosened by an unexpected feed of drink or a religious conversion experience. A fat lot of good it would do him anyway; he could hear the dry backhanded comments of the neighbours to his widow when they visited the house, see the greed in their eyes as they assessed the farm and speculated on how long herself would be able to keep it on, and how much an acre it would fetch when she had to put it up for auction. He could hear the homily the clergy would deliver over him as they lowered what was left of him into the wet clay, damning him with faint praise. He got what he deserved would be the general feeling, for what in God’s name took him into territory like that, and what game did he think he was playing? And before the year was out he would be well and truly forgotten, except perhaps by the boy. Another statistic for those who still bothered with the statistics. All these thoughts were flashing through Joe’s head as the Antrim farmer stared at him. Common sense told him he ought to be thinking of a story, or at the very least saying a prayer, instead of daydreaming about his funeral.
‘You’re not from round these parts,’ said the man with the paper, right on cue. His voice had gone quiet, almost deferentially off-hand. Joe recognized the danger signs. When they were gouldering at you or threatening to fight you, you might be safe enough. But once the voices dropped you were in trouble. He glanced quickly at the door, but between it and himself there stood a couple of bulky men, feigning disinterest, but with their ears cocked. He would never make it to the street if he lost the head and bolted. There was nothing for it but to put his trust in God and try and talk his way out of it. Behind the bar the barman stood polishing glasses and looking neutral. There would be no blood spilled on the premises; his licence would be in no danger. Joe knew he was cornered. He cursed himself for opening his mouth in the first place, drawing attention to himself, standing out like a sore thumb, with his ridiculous beard and his carefully rehearsed story and a face that might as well have ‘popehead’ tattooed across it. His mouth was dry, but he forced himself to lift the glass of stout, though his hand trembled, and take a swig before answering his inquisitor.
‘I’m not indeed,’ he said with an attempt at a laugh. ‘In fact I’m from the county Armagh.’
The farmer said nothing for a while till he had digested this piece of information. ‘County Armagh?’ he said softly. ‘Tell me this, why would a man from Armagh be interested in a death in the paper up this way? Now answer me that?’
Joe had no answer for that. He cursed himself for mentioning the deaths page. A boy like this would know the seed, breed and generation of everyone for five parishes around. There was no way he could bluff his way out of it.
‘Sure hold on to your paper,’ he said, attempting to rise. ‘I’m sure I’ll pick up one for myself next door if they’re not sold out.’
A massive hand clamped itself to his shoulder, pinning him back on to the bench. The two men from the door had now joined their mate. ‘I think you’re a fucking popehead!’ one of them said in that direct, no-nonsense way that endears Antrim men to us all. ‘I think you’re a fucking popehead spy!’
‘Fuck off will you!’ said Joe. ‘Do I look l
ike a fucking taig?’ As he said it he was all too aware how papist he must have appeared. They could smell the fear on him, he knew they could.
‘Tell me, mister,’ his companion asked, quietly, reasonably, ready to back down and apologize if there were some mistake in his original prognosis, ‘tell me what brings you round here asking questions?’
‘Questions? I never asked no questions. It’s you lads is asking all the questions.’
‘And you still haven’t answered them. I’m saying you’re a papist.’
‘“And the angel poured out of his vial upon the earth, and there fell a noisome and grievous sore upon the men which had the mark of the beast!”’ said the fat farmer. The others took the text in their stride.
‘Maybe we’ll be reading about a death in the papers soon enough,’ one of them said.
‘Let go of me for the love of fuck!’ Joe pleaded. ‘And let me get a word in edgeways. I swear to God what they say about you lads in Antrim is every word true!’
‘What’s your business here?’ asked the farmer. He relaxed his grip of Joe’s shoulder, but kept him transfixed with his eyes.
Joe took a sip of his pint. His hand was trembling uncontrollably now, but he tried to laugh it off. To tell you the truth I’m looking for someone. A preacher man in fact.’
‘There’s no shortage of preachers round here,’ said the farmer, who dabbled in the Word himself on the Sabbath. ‘What preacher in particular were you looking for?’
Joe decided to take a risk. It was all or nothing. ‘I might as well tell you, sure what’s the harm in knowing. It’s the Reverend McCoy I’m looking for. I was told he might be in these parts.’
‘And what business might you have with the Reverend McCoy?’
‘Just a wee private matter.’ Joe tapped the side of his nose with a shaking finger.
The farmer reached over, and, taking hold of his shirt collar, twisted him to his feet. ‘What business?’ he repeated.
These Antrim boys gave nothing away. They were so close he had no way of knowing how they viewed McCoy. Should he claim to be one of his flock, following him from afar to draw comfort from his teaching? And what if they took him at his word and brought him straight to McCoy? Fare thee well Killeavey. ‘It’s a matter of a few pounds, I might as well tell you, between the gentleman and myself.’
Suddenly the tension broke. The three of them sat back and laughed, and the fat farmer brought his hand down on the table with a crash that sent the glasses flying. ‘A few pounds!’ he laughed. ‘You’re not the only one.’
‘I dare say I’m not,’ said Joe, joining in the merriment. He had obviously hit the right note, but he was far from in the clear. There was still the little matter of his religious allegiance to clear up to the complete satisfaction of the company.
‘What wee services does he owe you for?’ asked one of them, still keeping a suspicious eye on the stranger.
‘The Reverend McCoy is God’s man in Ulster,’ said the farmer suddenly. Would you agree with that?’
‘I’d agree with you surely,’ Joe said, unsure of the direction the conversation was now taking.
‘We could bring you to him, and hear his side of the story,’ he threatened.
‘You could indeed. But to be fair, lads, it’s rather a personal matter.’
‘Anyone who lifted a finger against the Lord’s anointed would never leave here in one piece.’
‘Amen,’ said one of the men.
‘Bollocks,’ said the other. It seemed that McCoy’s charm was not universally recognized, even on the plateau.
‘Just point me in his direction and I’ll see him when he has a minute,’ Joe said.
‘We’ll do better than that. We’ll take you to him ourselves. Then if you’re here to pester Mister McCoy or to threaten him, we can have our wee chat afterwards. How does that sound to you, boys?’
The boys liked the sound of it and said as much. Joe didn’t like the sound of it at all, but kept his opinions to himself. Holy Mary, Mother of God, if ever I needed you it’s now. I’m doing this on your behalf, look down on me in my hour of greatest need. Get me out of this one and I’ll devote the rest of my life unstintingly to your service. Get me out of this one and I’ll forswear for evermore all alcoholic beverages for thy Son’s greater glory. Saint Jude, patron saint of lost causes, don’t let them parade me in front of McCoy.
There was a sudden commotion from the street. With a crash the frosted glass of the window behind them caved in. The shite-encrusted hindquarters of a heifer poked into the pub, scattering glass before it. It began to bellow. ‘Who’s been interfering with those beasts?’ shouted the farmer, leaping up. He grabbed his cudgel and set about the buttocks of the animal through the window, raining down blow after blow on it. His two companions were on their feet also, arguing with someone outside. The heifer stood uncertain and terrified, half in and half out of the bar. Joe got to his feet in the general commotion, and lifting a stick, joined the men in their labours. When he was satisfied they had enough on their plates to be going on with, he made his way over the broken glass and got to the door.
‘Someone’s going to have to clean that up!’ wailed the barman, coming from behind the bar. For a moment Joe thought he was going to detain him, but he had other priorities.
‘Sure it could have been worse,’ he said, taking his leave, ‘someone could have been killed!’
As he journeyed further into the heart of Presbyterian territory, licensed premises were becoming more scarce, and even to go about with the smell of porter on your breath was to invite adverse attention. Forced on to the wagon, he found himself one wet afternoon in the Temperance Tea Rooms in Ahoghill, trying to order double egg and chips from a surly, suspicious serving girl. It was here that he got his first real lead. The only other customer in the Tea Rooms was an earnest-faced, beede-browed youth, resplendent with badges and tattoos, who sat in the far corner talking loudly to himself. No stranger to this sort of behaviour, Joe tried to avoid the lad’s eye. Occasionally the boy would rise to his feet and begin to shout, smatterings of holy writ interspersed with paranoid ramblings. Joe and the surly girl ignored him; it was only when he tried to get on to the table and start evangelizing that she told him smartly to put a sock in it. He subsided meekly back into his chair, muttering against some private injustice. A moment later the Lord moved in him again, and he was back on the table, perspiring and shouting to the empty café. This time the girl was more assertive; despite her bulk she was across the lino like a Jack Russell and had the offending simpleton by the scruff of the neck and halfway to the door before he realized it. As the hapless youth was escorted past Joe’s table he reached into his satchel and slapped down a handbill on the formica.
Joe didn’t look at it till the trouble had passed. The serving girl returned to the counter where she continued to eye him suspiciously. He thought about reminding her of his order, for there was no smell of frying from the kitchen behind, but he was reluctant to start anything he couldn’t handle. He’d wait; she’d get round to serving him in her own good time. All such encounters on the plateau were fraught with tensions, and he avoided them now until hunger drove him indoors. Who knew what brothers or boyfriends she might have lurking in the back, waiting for a spot of trouble to brighten their dull lives? There didn’t seem to be any rule about smoking, though, so he lit a roll-up and furtively picked up the grubby sheet of foolscap that the lad had left him. Staring back at him were the tortured features of Patrick Pearse McGuffin.
It was an invitation, to anyone who might read it, to attend in person the grand opening of the Reverend O.C. McCoy’s New Travelling Protestant Chamber of Horrors!! For a modest inclusive entrance fee, the visitor would have the opportunity to hear ‘Hellfire preaching from the Big Man Himself!!’ internationally recognized as the only true exponent of the real old-tyme religion in Ulster, just returned from ‘An International Engagement spreading the Lord’s word among the Hungry Heathen’.
; WITNESS LIVE ON STAGE (for the FIRST TIME in Ulster) a FORMER FALLS ROAD ROMANIST renounce his past and EMBRACE JOYFULLY the way of TRUE BIBLE BASED PROTESTANTISM!!! BUT MORE – the modest entrance fee would also include a visit to the Reverend McCoy’s Personal Collection of Protestant RELICS!! It promised delights never witnessed before – an actual shoe from KING WILLIAM’S HORSE, lost crossing the BOYNE; a leg from JOHN KNOX’S CHAIR; plaster death masks from the English Martyrs. And MORE!! For those who could stomach it (this part of the exhibition was not for the fainthearted or those unsure of their place in the Lord) - a VISIT to the CHAMBER OF ROMANIST HORRORS! would round off the evening’s entertainment. All the excrement of the Great Whore of Babylon, gathered under one roof for the first time, as a terrible warning to Protestants to be ever-vigilant to the encroaching wiles of the Vatican.
The prose was at its most flamboyant when outlining the array of horrors McCoy had in store, but for Joe the picture which went with it was all he needed. The handbill had been crudely lithographed, and the picture was inky and smudged. It showed McCoy standing proudly beside a collection of exhibits – bones in jars, ancient skulls in boxes, framed photographs of crowded shrines. He held in one hand a vial of congealed blood from some so-called papist saint. The caption below assured the reader that there would be something for every Protestant. Behind the burly figure of the preacher, almost obscured by him, stood the pathetic figure of the Silent Madonna. Her face, once so proud and haughty, now stared out in fear and supplication, pleading for deliverance.
He memorized the details of the forthcoming event. Could he get close enough? he wondered. McCoy would know what was up the minute he set eyes on him. Even if by some miracle he managed to steer clear of him, could he rely on McGuffin not to give the game away, hailing him as a long-lost drinking mate and fellow taig? But Magee was the bastard to look out for; he would recognize him, beard or no beard. He looked again at the eyes that stared out from the smudged page. Patrick Pearse, he decided, was on his own. His duty was to the Madonna.