For My Brother’s Sins

by For My Brother's Sins (retail) (epub)

  Thomasin said that it varied, but Dickie was normally in for his evening meal. ‘He’s never been one to miss a feed hasn’t Dickie,’ she answered, making herself all the more anxious. If Dickie did not appear at the table they would know that something had definitely befallen him.

  ‘These young fellows are a bit unpredictable,’ soothed the officer kindly. ‘I’ve sons of my own, I know they can be a handful at times. Leave it with me. I’ll ask around, see if anyone’s seen anything. I’m sure he’ll turn up, but if he doesn’t you might get in touch with me at the station. Ask for Police Constable Darley. I can’t treat him as a Missing Person officially ’cause he’s not been gone but a few hours – we don’t even know if he has gone, anyway. I think he’ll turn up myself.’ He folded his notepad into his breast-pocket and retrieved his helmet. ‘If you would be so good as to send someone along for the horse and cart?’ Thomasin nodded and rang for Josie to show him out. When he had left she gave way to her feelings. ‘God … what are we going to do now?’

  ‘You heard the policeman,’ he replied, abnormally harsh with her. ‘He’ll probably turn up like the unwelcome visitor. Well, when he comes – I go.’

  ‘Aw, Sonny.’ She sank down next to him and tried to draw him out. ‘I know it was a dreadful thing for him to do to you, and I know how you felt about Peggy. But surely it was better for you to find out what she is before you married her?’

  ‘What she is!’ said Sonny venomously. ‘It’s my brother that’s the villain in this, Mother. I won’t have you shifting the blame onto Peggy. You know his morals. No woman is safe when he’s around. God! I was so complacent; thinking that now he’d found his own girl Peggy would be safe. I never learn, do I?’

  ‘I know, I know, love,’ sighed his mother. ‘But do try to see things sensibly. He’s not a brute for all his failings. If she hadn’t been willing he would never have forced her, I’m sure. She must have been agreeable.’

  ‘Please, be quiet.’ He became sullen. ‘I don’t wish to listen to any more.’

  ‘I wish you’d try to see …’

  ‘No!’ He sat bolt upright, facing her. ‘I wish you would try to see. This wasn’t just another tart whom my brother has been tupping. She was almost my wife; the girl I loved; still love … oh, Christ, help me!’ He dropped his head to his hands and began to sob noisily. Coming from one who had always contained his tears as a child his grief horrified her. She laid her hand on his brilliant hair and stroked it. His own came up to knock it away. ‘Get away from me! Leave me alone!’ He leapt up, still sobbing and ran from the room, at the same instant that Patrick came in from work. They collided with each other. Sonny recovered first and ran on.

  ‘Let him go!’ cried Thomasin as her husband made to go after him. ‘Pat, please sit down, there’s something I have to tell you: it’s about Dickie.’

  ‘Jazers, not again,’ muttered Patrick.

  * * *

  The church was empty, the way thought Liam with not a little shame, he liked it best. Maybe he was being a bit rough on himself, for the pleasure he experienced when the undercurrent of two hundred supplications wafted up to his pulpit was certainly very real. It was just different, this emptiness. Silent –no, more pronounced than silence, and in this quietude the presence of the Lord seemed all the more acute. At this time of day Liam felt able to talk with the Lord not as the Deity, but on a friendlier basis. Man to man. He was sure that his Maker would forgive this blasphemous familiarity, for in this instance it bred not contempt but a joy that deepened with each passing year.

  After genuflecting he sat in his usual place – the altar steps – and stared pensively at the great crucifix. ‘Ah, Lord,’ he began, rubbing a wrinkled, blue-veined hand up and down his shin. ‘I don’t want to sound ungrateful for it’s taken us twenty years to achieve it, but this grand new house o’ Yours is a terrible cold hole. Ye know what a decrepit old eejit I’ve become, could Ye not persuade some of our parishioners to donate a new stove?’ He bent his grizzled head and was silent for a time, still rubbing his aged limbs. Then, as a humorous thought came to him his shoulders began to shake and when he looked up once more to the rood he was smiling broadly. ‘What did Ye make of Fanny Dolan’s confession today? Strange? I’ll say it was. ’Tis enough to make a man give up the drink, er, always supposing he’s that way inclined o’ course. Did I do right to give her the penance I did? Were Ye satisfied with it? Ah, I can hear Ye. A bit on the steep side, Ye say. Getting hard in me old age, You’re thinkin’. Ah well, Ye could be right. I was only sayin’ to meself the other day …’ His gaze fell on the ranks of pews. The church was not empty as he had previously surmised; there was a solitary figure sitting not four rows away from Liam, forehead pressed to the pew in front. An’ that’s another thing, Lord thought Liam – the old eyes aren’t what they used to be. What must he be thinking, that lone worshipper? ’Tis the first sign, they said: talking to yourself.

  His joints groaned as he levered himself from the altar steps to pad along the aisle. The bowed head did not rise at the sound of the approaching footsteps. Only when Liam recognised the auburn thatch and spoke its owner’s name did Sonny heed the priest.

  Liam, perturbed by the lack of animation on this usually friendly face, slid into the pew and sat beside him. Gazing for a moment into the dough-like features with the red band across its forehead – the imprint of the pew – he said, ‘Am I right about this place, or is it only me that feels the cold? Me an’ my poor crackling bones.’

  ‘You’re not wrong, Father,’ mumbled Sonny. ‘I feel it too.’ A deathly, numbing cold. But in my case the cold stems from within. He blinked at Liam who had spoken again. ‘Sorry, Father?’

  ‘I said is there any way I can help?’

  ‘Do I look as if I need help?’ asked Sonny.

  Liam did not give an answer, knowing that Sonny did not expect one.

  ‘I’m beyond help, Father,’ whispered the young man. ‘No one is beyond help,’ said Liam. ‘Not in this place.’

  Sonny straightened and said spontaneously, ‘Will you hear my confession?’

  Liam studied the tight mask and sensed the pain beneath it. He leaned towards Sonny conspiratorhilly, ‘Official or unofficial?’

  The lozenge of comfort was lost on Sonny who shook his head apathetically. Something awesome had happened to this boy. Liam patted him kindly on the shoulder. ‘Come, my young friend. I don’t suppose it matters where I take your confession for God will hear it, an’ ’tis a darned sight warmer in my study.’ He led the youth from the church and into his welcoming, book-lined study where a blazing log fire licked the chimneyback. ‘Will ye look at that? Warmer than Beelzebub’s backside.’

  Sonny sat in the chair which Liam indicated and watched the old priest with his shaking hands pour out two measures of whiskey. ‘I suppose I’ll be in trouble with your mother for encouraging ye in the evils of drink.’ Liam handed over the glass. ‘But by the look on your face a wee drop wouldn’t go amiss.’

  ‘I wanted to kill my brother,’ said Sonny, as simply as if he were confessing to stealing the last cake off the plate.

  Liam contemplated his whiskey, waiting for the outpouring he knew would follow. It came in a jerky, incoherent deluge, the tale of his brother’s treachery, verbalising the rage he had felt, the murder, but worst of all the pain. Only when he had exhausted the flow did he drink from the glass, pouring the whole measure down his throat like a veteran. And here was I, thought Liam, imagining I was corrupting the boy. He set down his own glass and went to refurbish Sonny’s. He glanced at the well-built young man whose maturing frame overtaxed the strength of the old easy chair. The chair in which, fifteen years ago, a minute, red-headed toddler had sat leafing through one of Liam’s picture books, his grubby, bare toes dangling a good nine inches from the carpet.

  Having refilled his young friend’s glass he sank back into his chair and took a sip of his own whiskey. ‘I remember once,’ he initiated, ‘oh, a good few years ago it wou
ld be, a rather strange confession. Strange, because it was totally out of character with the person who delivered it. Oh, ’tis a fact I’m not supposed to know the identity of the sinner shoved away at the other side of the box, but when a man knows an’ loves every one of his children ’tis hard for him not to recognise the voices. I recall being terribly saddened at the time, for the loss of a childhood, and even more surprised that it was this young fella that was confessing and not his brother. But then an old picture formed itself in my mind: that of two boys, one dark an’ beautiful, with a smile that’d put Lucifer to shame, the other smaller boy following him about like a sheepdog. Then I realised that ye’d rather take the lot on your own shoulders than implicate your brother who was probably the main culprit in the deed. ’Tis my betting ye carried the blame a lot more times than that.’

  ‘You’re right,’ snorted Sonny. ‘Many’s the time I swore I’d kill him. But don’t think I’m a saint. I was mad as anything that it was me who had to confess while he was committing more sins.’

  ‘An’ what happened after ye’d cooled down? I’ll bet ye forgave him, didn’t ye?’

  ‘Look, I know where all this is leading, Father – and I won’t do it.’

  ‘Did I ask ye to do anything?’

  ‘You didn’t need to. You want me to forgive him.’

  ‘’Tis you who’s saying those words, not me,’ said Liam, then leaned forward earnestly. ‘Sonny, he’s still that same brother ye forgave all the other times. I’ll wager ye could’ve killed him a hundred times over yet he’s still walkin’ the earth.’

  ‘No! This time he’s gone too far. He knew I loved her – worshipped her – yet he deliberately ruined everything we had. How could he do it to me, Father? Me, his brother, who looked after him, loved him more than I loved anyone I think till Peggy…’

  ‘Ah, I know what you’re going through, son,’ groaned Liam, then noted the look of scorn. ‘An’ I know what you’re thinkin’ too: how can this woodwormed old codger with his brewer’s belly, this priest with no knowledge of women, begin to know how I feel. An’ ye’d be right in part – I never had a woman’s love, saving my mother’s which I fully realise is not the same thing at all. But I do understand your pain, because that same pain affects me. An’ ’tis my thinkin’ Dickie’s hurtin’ too.’

  Sonny exhaled bitterly. ‘Oh, now that is taking understanding a shade too far. Him, feel pain? He’s insensible to anything except his own lecherous appetite.’

  ‘I disagree. I believe if you reject him it’ll affect him more than you imagine. Despite his apparent selfishness he’s not a boy without emotions; they’re just slow in coming to the surface. Did you ever consider why he does these things to ye?’

  ‘It doesn’t take very much considering. It’s simply that he can’t bear the thought of me being happy with a woman.’

  ‘Could it not be that he loves ye so much that he can’t bear the thought o’ sharing that love? Well, ’tis a point to consider,’ he added to Sonny’s derision. ‘He still has a lot of growing up to do, Sonny. In a lot o’ ways you’re more mature than him; in fact I think ye were born old.’

  ‘If that were true I’d have the wisdom that goes with age and I’d’ve seen all this coming.’

  ‘So … now that it has come, what’s to happen next?’ sighed Liam.

  Sonny retreated into his depression like a morose hornet. ‘There’s talk of the wedding being brought forward with a slight alteration to the name of one of the participants.’

  ‘I was referring more to your feelings. D’ye still feel ye want to kill him?’

  Sonny stared into the fire and shook his head. ‘I don’t feel anything. Just empty. Besides,’ he smiled unpleasantly, ‘I forgot to tell you: even if I still had that inclination I’d not be able to purge it. He’s gone missing.’ He related the facts that the policeman had told him. ‘And if he’s not turned up by the time I get home I know what’ll happen – Mother is going to ask me to join the search party.’

  ‘An’ will ye?’ asked Liam softly.

  Sonny shrugged. ‘Can you give me one good reason why I should?’

  ‘I’ll give ye the one your mother will give ye: he’s your brother.’

  ‘Ah,’ nodded Sonny, ‘and that’s supposed to make everything all right, is it? I’m meant to fling my arms around him and smother him with kisses. Oh, welcome home, Dickie, all your sins are forgiven! Have you got a best man yet? No? Oh, well we can’t have that, can we? Me? Oh, I’d be honoured to stand beside you while you wed the girl who was supposed to wed me. Me, hold it against you? Why, whatever for? Just because you’ve successfully ruined my life that’s no reason for me to feel any bitterness, is it? After all, you are my brother. That makes everything just perfect. Ask Father Kelly, he’ll tell you.’

  ‘You’re quite in order to vent your spleen on me if ye’re so disposed,’ said Liam quietly when the verbal flaying had ceased.

  Sonny moved his head wearily and stood. ‘I’m sorry, Father. I came here to offer my confession and end up giving you the battering that Dickie should have had.’

  ‘Forget about me,’ replied Liam, rising with him. ‘What’re ye going to do about your brother?’

  ‘Well, Father.’ Sonny was at the door now. ‘If you’re asking me if I’ll join the search, then yes I’ll probably go, if only to please Mam and Dad. But if you’re asking if I’ll forgive him when we do find him, then the answer is an emphatic No. I’ll never forgive him for this, Father. Never.’

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  They knew that the tinkers’ camp must be very near by the mixed odours of boiled cabbage and woodsmoke that drifted down the lane to meet them. It was a bitterly cold and forbidding night, the blackness of the sky rent only by an insipid slick of moon. They had much difficulty in negotiating their path but had not dared to bring a lantern with them, unwilling to forewarn the tinkers of their coming.

  Soon, though, they saw the campfire crackling and shooting sparks into the murk, throwing dancing shadows over the cluster of caravans that surrounded it. Over the fire, suspended on a tripod of branches, was a steaming cauldron, but there was no sign of life.

  Patrick froze, laying his hand on his son’s forearm, and squinted into the shadows for signs of danger. He whispered into Sonny’s ear, his lips almost touching the skin and irritating the youth. It was very easy to vex Sonny these days. ‘You take the two at that side,’ he indicated the wagons, ‘I’ll take those three. Look out for dogs.’ He sidled into the encampment, feeling his way along the edge of the first caravan, assisted by the soft light that spilled from within. The iron wheel was icy cold to his touch as he hoisted himself up to snatch a glimpse over the halfdoor.

  The interior took him by surprise; it was like a miniature palace, with fine porcelain jugs and ornaments, shining brasses and copper sparkling under the lantern that hung from the ceiling, and luxurious scarlet hangings as rich as could be found in any stately home. His astonished eyes raked along the walls taking in the finery, and then the hairs at the nape of his neck relayed the feeling that there was someone in there. He ducked down involuntarily, only rising again slowly when there was no shout of alarm. Snug in the let-down bed with its needlepoint coverlet lay a child asleep. A slumbering angel with dark, tousled locks, its parted lips producing a soft snore.

  No sign of his son here. Patrick climbed down and felt his way to the next caravan, trying his best not to tread on any frost-brittled twigs. He squatted to peer under the caravan before he chanced to view the inside. During this action someone came slowly down the caravan steps and Patrick hurriedly rolled under the wagon. He watched the legs make their way to the campfire, accompanied by four more. The old man stooped to pull a lighted stick from the fire and applied it to his pipe. The face illuminated by the flare must have faced the elements for many a year for it was the colour of tanned hide, the chin stubbled with silver. His hair was grey, but apart from this gave no intimation of his age for it was thick and wavy, curling u
p over his collar.

  The tinker threw the stick back into the fire, gave a cursory stir of the cauldron, then sat down with his back towards Patrick, pulling a blanket around himself. The dog lay beside him, its grizzled head on its paws. Its coat bore the same signs of age as did the man’s hair. Patrick remained beneath the caravan, watching, wondering if he dare move. He peered to his left to see if he could spot Sonny.

  Sonny was watching the scene too; the old man and his dog huddled by the campfire, with the transient light playing over their mellow features. His mind automatically transferred the scene to canvas.

  ‘If ’tis murder ye have in mind ye’d do well to get on with it!’ Both Patrick and his son jumped as the tinker’s throaty observation reverberated off the iron cartwheels and shattered the silence. The man had not turned his head. The movement he made now was only to fondle the dog at his side. ‘We may be old but we’re not stupid. There’s one of ye under the yellow wagon an’ another skulking behind the midden pile. Ye’d best come out an’ show yourselves.’

  Patrick and his son guiltily emerged from their supposed hiding places to slowly approach the fire.

  ‘Come closer an’ let’s see your faces. Don’t worry, the others are away for the time, there’s only me an’ the child here.’

  They dropped to their hunkers beside him, grateful for the warmth of his fire and the patch of frost-free grass. ‘Now, would ye like to explain why you’re creepin’ around pokin’ your noses into other people’s homes?’ The man turned and fixed cloudy blue eyes to Patrick’s face.

  ‘We had no harmful intentions,’ mumbled Patrick, juggling with a twig that had escaped the fire. ‘We came to speak to the Fallons.’

  ‘An d’ye always approach someone’s front door between the cartwheels?’ countered the man. ‘Can I be after askin’ ye if the Fallons are friends o’ yours?’

  Patrick smiled tightly. ‘I could hardly lay claim to that.’ He snapped the twig over his middle finger and tossed the pieces onto the fire.