by Maureen Lee
‘It was a day I thought about sometimes,’ she said to Marie, ‘but I couldn’t for the life of me imagine what it would be like. Still, I’ll know soon. But then, won’t I still have eleven of me kids living no more than a few miles away from their mammy and dropping in to see her every other day?’
‘I wish I could, Mam,’ Marie sobbed. ‘I really wish I could. I miss you desperately. I miss everyone.’
‘It can’t be helped, me darlin’. You’ve got a fine feller in Mickey Harrison. A woman has to follow her husband wherever he goes. You’re happy with him, aren’t you?’
‘More than happy, Mam.’
‘Well then, that’s all that matters.’
A ceasefire was called but, although the fighting lessened, it didn’t go away altogether. The peace was accompanied by an influx of hard drugs: heroin and crack cocaine and the men of violence found something else to fight over. By then Patrick and Danny were in their teens and Marie breathed half a sigh of relief. All she’d ever wanted was to live with her husband and raise her family in an atmosphere free from danger, a very limited ambition to have, but one that had proved hard to achieve. She was working in a shop again, a jewellers, only part-time. The extra money paid for holidays and things for the boys that normally they couldn’t have afforded, like a computer between them and a guitar for Patrick, who had decided he wanted to become a pop star.
A new priest had arrived at St Joseph’s, the parish church. His name was Father O’Mara and he was even better looking than Father Murphy, who Marie had swooned over back in Donegal eighteen years ago. She was glad Mickey wasn’t home when the father called at the house: she felt as tongue-tied as a teenager when the slightly built, brown-eyed priest, who had the aura of a film star with his thatch of thick dark hair and the faintest suggestion of a moustache, came to ask if Danny would play in the under-sixteen football team.
‘Do you feel all right, Mam?’ Danny asked after the priest had gone.
‘I’m fine, son,’ Marie replied. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘You looked awful sick while Father O’Mara was here and you hardly opened your mouth.’
‘I’m fine,’ Marie repeated, although her knees felt like jelly and she could hardly breathe, as if she’d just had Brad Pitt or Tom Cruise in her front room, shaking her hand and sitting on the Dralon velvet settee. She could understand why all the women, from the very young to the very old, were madly in love with the new priest.
It wasn’t long after this that Mickey flew to London for his sister’s fiftieth birthday. Patsy had never married and he thought it would be a nice surprise if her brother made an unexpected appearance on the day. Marie had met Patsy a few times over the years and grown to like her. She would have loved a trip to London where she’d never been, but wasn’t prepared to leave the boys – that weekend, Patrick was playing the guitar with the group he belonged to and Danny had a football match.
‘Give Patsy my love and insist she come and stay with us for a wee while,’ she said to Mickey. ‘And behave yourself,’ she admonished. ‘If any girls chase after you, tell them you’re a happily married man.’
‘And you tell Father O’Mara you’re a happily married women if he comes calling while I’m away.’ Mickey roared with laughter. All the men considered the way the women had a crush on the priest a huge joke.
Mickey was only gone two nights, but it felt like for ever. The bed seemed desperately strange without him: cold, although the weather was warm, and as big as a desert. He rang from London on the first night and she rang him on the second: there was a party going on and someone was singing ‘Danny Boy’ in a beautiful tenor voice. Mickey was flying home the next afternoon. In the morning, Patsy was going to show him round the hotel in Mayfair where she worked.
‘I can’t wait to see you, darlin’,’ Marie breathed.
‘I’ve missed you, Marie, me luv. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
In the hours before he was due home, she made as much effort with her appearance as she’d done on the day of Brigid Kelly’s wedding, washing her hair and winding it on to giant rollers, taking extra care making up her face, and putting on the green top and tiered skirt she’d bought in Marks & Spencer only the day before. Mickey liked her best in green. It went with her eyes.
It was a lovely June evening, a Sunday, when Patrick and Danny stood by the window to watch for their father. Patrick, being the tallest, spied him first. ‘He’s just turned the corner,’ he shouted, so they spilled outside, Marie with them, to welcome home their daddy and the dearest husband a woman could ever have.
Micky grinned as he came nearer. ‘Where’s your mammy?’ he shouted. ‘Is that a new girlfriend you’ve got there, Patrick? She looks much too young to be the wife I left behind.’
He came inside. The boys fussed over him as if he’d been gone a year. Marie made tea. They sat in the front room while he told them about London. Patsy had pointed out a cheap hotel, very clean, where they could stay for a few days and she’d show them around the sights.
‘Perhaps we could go in the summer holidays,’ he suggested.
Marie, sitting on the arm of his chair, squeezed his shoulder. She could never remember feeling quite so happy as she did at that moment: that peerless, sublime moment when the world seemed perfectly balanced and she couldn’t imagine anything going wrong.
‘How did the concert go, Patrick?’ Mickey asked.
‘Great, Dad. Someone took a photo, I’ve got a copy upstairs. It’s going in the paper on Monday. Would you like to see it?’
‘Of course, son. Is there another cup of tea, luv?’ he said to Marie. ‘I’m parched.’
‘You’ve hardly been home a minute, Mickey Harrison,’ she smiled, ‘and you’ve already got me running round after you like a slave. Here, give us your cup. There’s still half a pot out there.’
Patrick went to fetch the photo and Marie was in the kitchen, pouring the tea and, at first, couldn’t quite make out the source of the terrific banging. It must be coming from next door. It sounded as if someone was trying to kick in the door. Then there was a crash in the hall and she realized it was her own door that was being attacked. When she looked, the door was swinging on its hinges and there were noises in the front room, a series of subdued bangs, and two men, dressed from head to toe in black, came rushing out and Marie went rushing in to find Danny staring, horrified and unbelieving, at the chair where his daddy had been sitting, now drenched in blood. There was a pool on the floor and splashes on the walls, and her darling Mickey’s face was a mess of blood and brains because half of his face had been blown away.
People came: neighbours, friends, two members of the Royal Ulster Constabulary. Who did she think had done it, they wanted to know? What organizations had Mickey belonged to? Why had he been to London? Who had he gone to see there?
Marie couldn’t take the questions in. She was too traumatized, frozen in a state of shock, nursing Danny, who was crying like a baby in her arms, so Patrick took over, not quite seventeen, but already as fine a man as his father.
‘Me dad didn’t belong to any organizations,’ he said bluntly while fighting back his own tears. ‘He’d been to London for me Auntie Patsy’s birthday. There’s no reason on earth why anyone’d want to kill him.’
The police sergeant looked dubious. ‘There’s always a reason for this sort of thing, son. Was your daddy dealing drugs, do you know?’
‘Indeed he was not. Whoever did this had the wrong name or the wrong address. It must be a mistake – they’ve been made before.’
A mistake! Mickey had been murdered by mistake! To lose him was tragedy enough, but for him to go so brutally, so incomprehensibly, was a tragedy with which Marie didn’t think she would ever come to terms, never understand, and never forgive.
An old priest, Father McNarmara, presided over Mickey’s Requiem Mass. The funeral was a day of quiet footsteps and subdued sobs as the hearse drove to the church followed by hundreds of mourners, Marie at the head holding Danny�
�s hand and Patrick’s arm around her shoulders, her family behind.
Mickey had lain in his coffin in the front room for five days, his face miraculously mended, a rosary threaded through the long fingers that had touched his wife so tenderly and passionately over the years. The front door had been repaired and put back on its hinges, the stains on the walls painted over, the carpet cleaned, and Mickey’s chair was in Marie’s bedroom, the red blood dried to black.
Enda Kelly came to the house late the same night. Enda had started at Harland & Wolff at the same time as Mickey and they’d been best mates ever since. He was shattered by his death and looked as if he’d aged twenty years since he’d come round to watch a football video the night before Mickey had gone away. Now he’d come to talk about old times, reminding Marie of the night he’d brought his friend up to their Rita’s bedroom and he and Marie had clicked straight away.
‘No we didn’t, Enda. He clicked with Marguerite Kelly first, he didn’t even notice me for a good half hour.’
‘He liked you, though. He told me afterwards how much he liked you.’ Enda sighed. ‘Now I suppose you’ll be going back to Donegal to live with your mam?’
‘We will indeed. As soon as the lads finish school this summer.’ She thought how much she’d always wanted to go back, but never under such heart-breaking circumstances.
‘There’re no Kellys left in Donegal any more. Most of them have moved to Birmingham.’
‘I know, Enda. I still write to your Rita sometimes and she told me.’
‘Of course you do. I’d forgotten for the moment. Me and Peggy and the kids might go there ourselves when all this is over.’
‘When all what’s over?’ There was something about his face, usually so open, now threatening and dark, that worried her.
‘Never you mind, Marie.’ He looked at the carpet, refusing to meet her eyes.
‘When all what’s over, Enda?’
He shook his head. ‘It’s nothing to do with you, Marie. You go back to Donegal with your lads. You’ll be nice and safe there. Forget about Belfast.’
Marie’s heart began to thump and the pounding spread rapidly through her entire body. She hardly recognized her own voice when she said, ‘You know who killed my Mickey, don’t you?’
‘Mickey rang from the airport on the way home from London and gave me the name of the boyo who must have given the orders, even if he didn’t do the deed himself.’
She was losing her mind. Nothing was making sense any more. ‘Tell me who it is,’ she whispered. ‘Tell me who it was, then give me a gun, and I’ll put a bullet through his evil heart meself, so I will.’
‘There’s half a dozen fellers who can’t wait to do that themselves, Marie, and I’m the first in the queue.’ The pale eyes burned with hatred. ‘Patrick and Danny have seen enough of murder to last a lifetime. Leave the bastard to me and Mickey’s mates. As soon as you and the lads have gone, we’ll see to him.’
Father O’Mara came even later, long after Enda had gone. He’d been twice before to say prayers over Mickey’s body, but this was the first time Marie had spoken to him on her own.
‘Where are the boys?’ he asked.
‘Asleep in their beds.’
‘And your family?’
‘All home by now. They came from Donegal in a hired coach.’
The priest nodded. His handsome face was set in an expression of the utmost gravity. ‘Did Mickey say anything when he got back from London that might give a clue to who killed him?’ he asked gently.
‘No, Father. We only talked about holidays and things.’ Patsy had told him about a cheap hotel in London where they could all stay for a few days.
The priest sighed. ‘I suppose there’s a chance we’ll never know who did it.’
‘Enda Kelly knows who’s behind it, Father: him and a lot of other men. They’re only waiting for us to leave before they sort him out.’
‘I see.’ The priest nodded and fell silent. ‘I see,’ he said again and there was another silence. ‘The reason I came is that I have some bad news for you, Marie,’ he said eventually.
She laughed bitterly. ‘Things are already bad, they can’t get any worse.’
‘Yes, they can, girl.’ He paused and looked at her pityingly. ‘The men who murdered Mickey are out to get your Patrick too.’
‘Don’t talk daft, Father,’ she said disparagingly. She didn’t give a damn that he was a priest, although his words, said so flatly, sent a chill through her weary bones. ‘Have you been drinking or something? Why should anyone want to kill our Patrick? He’s only sixteen.’
‘Age doesn’t come into it, Marie. They think, these men, that Patrick was mixed up in whatever it was Mickey was involved in.’
‘Mickey wasn’t involved in anything, so how could our Patrick be? It was all a mistake. They killed the wrong man.’
‘We both know that, child,’ the priest said in a soft voice. She could tell he was trying to convey his terrible message in the gentlest possible way. ‘But these are the sort of men who don’t listen to reason. Now the funeral’s over, everything will go quiet and they’ll strike again.’ He leaned forward and said urgently, ‘They would have got Patrick at the same time as Mickey, except he was upstairs and when you appeared they panicked and ran.’
Marie shivered. ‘How do you know all this, Father?’
‘I’m a priest. People tell me things. I hear confessions.’
‘Tell me what you’ve heard,’ she commanded.
‘You know I can’t, Marie.’ He jumped when a noise came from upstairs: one of the boys was using the bathroom. ‘To tell the truth, I don’t feel safe myself. I know too much.’
‘We’re going back to Donegal shortly to live with me mam,’ she said resolutely. ‘We’ll be safe there.’
‘I don’t think you will, Marie. Everyone knows where you come from.’
‘Enda Kelly said we’d be all right,’ she protested.
Father O’Mara shook his head. ‘Enda Kelly doesn’t know the half of it. He might have got the odd name, but not the whole story. He can kill one man in revenge for Mickey, but that’ll only start a war and Patrick will be in even greater danger.’
Marie’s hands went to her head, as if she was trying to hold herself together. She had lost her husband and now, according to Father O’Mara, was about to lose a son. Life had become the worst of nightmares. ‘Then what am I supposed to do?’ she asked helplessly.
‘Pack your bags,’ the priest said urgently, ‘be ready to leave first thing in the morning. I’ll take you to Dun Laoghaire and you can catch the ferry to England. I’ll arrange somewhere for you to stay in London. A big city’s the best place to hide out.’
Hide out. ‘Will it be for ever, Father?’ Her voice trembled.
‘I don’t know how long it will be for, Marie.’ He stood and she stood with him. ‘You mustn’t tell anyone about this: not your family, not Enda. The fewer people know, the safer you will be.’
He arrived at the crack of dawn wearing jeans, an open-neck checked shirt, and a tan anorak. The car was a big eight-seater thing that she’d often seen him use to take kids to football matches. She went outside to speak to him.
‘Danny wants to know if he can bring the computer,’ she said.
‘Tell Danny he can bring anything he wants except the furniture.’ He looked very tired, as if he’d been up all night: it turned out that he had. ‘A gang broke into the Presbytery last night. They were looking for me, but I was out giving the Last Rites, thank the Lord.’ He crossed himself. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I’m coming with you, Marie. We’ll be protection for each other. No one’ll be looking for Mr and Mrs Liam Jordan and their two boys. I’ve a brother called Liam and me mother’s maiden name was Jordan,’ he explained in response to her look of bemusement. ‘How did Patrick and Danny take the idea of going away?’
‘They’re very confused and frightened and just a tiny bit excited at the idea of going to London. I told them it would be da
ngerous to go back to Donegal and we had to leave for a while till all the fuss died down.’ She hadn’t mentioned it was Patrick who was specifically at risk. ‘They’re just packing the last of their things.’ She shrugged, feeling incredibly sad. ‘I’ll just go and tell Danny it’s all right about the computer.’
She sighed. Gulls were squawking angrily on the roofs and there was merely a suggestion of silvery light in the east where the sun would eventually rise. The curtains on the rest of the houses in the street were closed: there was no one awake to see them go and wish them goodbye.
No one spoke as the luggage was carried out. No one smiled. When everything was done and they climbed into the car – Patrick hugging his precious guitar as if he got some sort of comfort from it – Father O’Mara turned and said gravely, ‘I’ll be looking after you from now on. I owe it to Mickey. He was a fine man.’
‘You’ve never spoken a truer word, Father,’ Marie murmured.
‘Liam,’ the priest said. ‘From now on, you must call me Liam.’
Thursday
12 JULY 2001
Chapter 11
It can’t be raining!
When Marie woke, the room was flooded with sunlight, the sky a pale morning blue and the bit she could see was completely cloudless.
Yet she could hear rain. She got out of bed, padded across to the open window, and saw that Rachel Williams was watering the communal lawn with a hosepipe. The water made a sizzling sound when it hit the dry earth.
She stood for a moment looking at the houses. They looked perfect in their newness, like the Lego buildings the boys used to build when they were small. Some of the roofs were red-tiled, the others green. She hadn’t noticed that before, although must have done and just not taken it in. All the curtains were closed, including those in the bungalow to her left that she could just about see and where, according to Rachel, a Mrs Moon was about to move in.