by Nina Dreyer
A ledger, bound in swine leather. A fountain pen with gilt coming off it in thin flakes. An ancient black telephone.
A painted plaster statuette of a braying deer.
Three obsidian pendulums in velvet-lined pewter boxes.
The hand of a small child in plaster of Paris, another supposed ectoplasmic imprint.
Four framed lithographs of stern-faced matrons in cumbersome dresses, posing with a succession of unconvincing spectral figures. One of them was Sid himself dressed up in a sheet.
He considered throwing it all in the bin. It all seemed so childish now.
Sighing, he opened Sid’s ledger. Ruled pages, with three columns. One for the names of the mediums, one for the particular speciality of each of them, and one with the date of their most recent submission of publishable material. John left his cigarette in the ashtray and leafed through them. He frowned and rubbed his eyes. Sid had never exhibited much interest in the managerial side of things. His idea of leadership was to regularly entertain his favourites with rambling anecdotes in a snug in Kehoe’s. Scrawled down the columns were his personal observations of each of the mediums. John flicked through the ledger until he found Marion’s name.
‘Feckless. Morbid tendencies. Suggestion of murky or criminal past. Very pretty hands and v. good skin, but do not put before an audience of general public.’ Do not was underlined three times in red ink.
John smacked the ledger shut. If only the old man could have seen Marion in the execution chamber last night, deep in trance, blindfolded, clawing her pale little hands into the rough surface of the table with the strain, her head thrust back, a thin trickle of blood from her left nostril as she wrenched every last secret from the hanged man and forced his dead voice through her throat. Oh, Sid would change his tune, then.
He smiled to himself. She’d surprised him last night at the hanging. He hadn’t been sure she would really dare go through with it. Of course, he reflected, the execution had been very clean and orderly. Less than thirty seconds from the convict had been led to the scaffold until his neck had snapped. A good job, all round.
The telephone erupted in a shrill metallic wail. John snapped up the receiver. ‘Yes?’
‘John? What the hell am I looking at here,’ Brock’s voice boomed over the crackle on the line, ‘is this real, this report of yours, is this true? Rothman’s just handed it to me, I’ve never seen such a look in his face, like he’d witnesses Beelzebub himself, or whatever Jewish people call-’
‘It’s true, alright.’
‘But how can this be, how can that woman of yours know all these things, how in the world-’
‘I told you, Brock. She’s a natural. An adept.’
‘How do we know this is not some trick,’ Brock raised his voice and shouted a command to someone in the background, ‘how do we know that this lady doesn’t know all these secrets because she’s an IRA sympathiser-’
‘Marion is not an IRA sympathiser.’ John tightened his grip on the receiver.
‘Oh, so you keep insisting, but I’ve just made further discrete enquiries to G Division, and they assure me that this lady of yours was not only certainly implicit in that shooting in Crow Street, but that she’s a known and regular frequenter at that gunman’s residence, what was his name, Hurlihy-’
‘Do you think for a minute that I’d employ Marion if I thought she was a Shinner sympathiser,’ John leaned forward on the desk, ‘do you think I’d even speak to her? Do you think I’d hesitate for one second in handing you her head on a platter if I thought she was-’
‘Well no, John, when you put it in those terms.’
‘Grand. Then we’re clear. Marion was sitting quietly in her room in Crow Street when Liam Hurlihy and his cronies burst in on her and threatened her, and now Liam Hurlihy is dead, and Marion has used her exceptional skills to provide you with solid intelligence. You said you wanted something solid, remember? Not just some mumbo-jumbo, if I recall?’
‘Well yes, but John, how can this be true, how can I believe that she was speaking to this gunman after he’d been hanged, how-’
‘Look, Brock.’ John lit a cigarette and leaned back. ‘I’ll bring her along tonight. You can meet her then, see for yourself.’
‘I’m not entirely sure that’s wise.’
‘I’ll tell you this. When you meet her, she’ll change your mind. She’s the genuine article, Brock, she’s the most talented medium I’ve ever met. And she’s trying to help. Give her a chance. She wants to help stomp out the gunmen. You’ll see.’
‘Well…’
‘But if you still think she’s a Shinner and a fraud after you’ve inspected her, then I’ll let you arrest her, right then and there. How about it?’
Brock sighed moistly into his receiver. ‘You’d better not let me down.’
John smiled.
A knock at the door, hesitant.
‘I’ll see you tonight, Brock.’ John hung up the phone. ‘Enter.’
Charlie poked his head through a crack in the door, like a turtle out of his shell. ‘Sorry, John, am I interrupting something?’
John gestured to the empty room. ‘Evidently not. What can I do for you.’
Charlie closed the door behind him, touching the bronze handle reverently with his damp little fingers.
‘I just wanted to say, John, on behalf of everyone, how mortally impressed we all are.’ He was clutching a stack of newspapers as though they were scrolls of elder lore. ‘Really. It’s in all the morning editions, both the Times and the Freeman’s Journal and the Independent, did you see? I brought you some extra copies, just in case you’d not seen it. If you’d not had the time yet.’ He approached the desk and laid the newspapers out, then stepped back.
‘Thanks, Charlie. No, I’d not read them yet.’
‘And Miss Horn is mentioned also.’
‘Hahn,’ corrected John. ‘You can call her Marion. And I’d advise you all to be on friendlier terms with her from now on. She’s my second in command now, as it were.’ He exhaled smoke. ‘Watch your step, or she might fire you.’
‘Oh yes indeed, oh to be sure, everyone is so interested, so keen.’ Charlie fidgeted with his cuff links.
John narrowed his eyes. ‘In fact, I’ve been dismayed to see how you’ve all been treating her this past year and more. Like a leper.’
‘Well,’ Charlie fluttered, his face reddening, ‘it was only, you see, with the work she was doing… you see, it… Well I for one always intended to ask her out to tea, but well, Sid always intimated to us that it wasn’t quite right, you understand, for a lady to be flouncing around like that, alone at night…’
‘Do you also think all actresses are whores?’
Charlie blinked.
‘She’s not doing that kind of work anymore, Charlie, but for your further edification, I’d invite you to consider that she was performing a professional duty on behalf of this Salon, a duty which requires a lot more physical courage than your experiments in automatic writing.’ John watched him squirm to think of an answer. For a moment he considered sending Charlie out to visitations to haunted houses from now on, but no. He’d only die of fright, which would be a little excessive. And unhelpful to the image of the Salon.
‘Well to be sure we’re all very impressed with her,’ flustered Charlie. A thin film of sweat gleamed on his high, pink forehead. ‘The way she made contact immediately after the hanging, very skilled work.’
‘I’ll be sure to tell her you said so, Charlie,’ said John, intending not to. ‘Is there anything else I can do for you?’
Charlie blinked miserably and clasped his hands, crouching in the solicitous manner of a hotel concierge. ‘Um, there’s a priest here to see you.’
‘What?’
‘From the Star of the Sea in Sandymount. I doubt you’d know it, the parish is out by Eilis…’
‘What does he want?’
‘I don’t know, he said he’d only speak to you now in person. He’s waiting in the oth
er room. Brigid gave him a cup of tea, you know how she is with priests. I didn’t know if you wanted to see him, you see, what with you being of the other, uh, persuasion, as it were…’
‘I’m not a vampire, Charlie.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Encountering a Catholic priest won’t turn me to dust,’ said John. ‘Send him in.’
Charlie backed out of the room.
John sighed. Of course their seance in the execution chamber wouldn’t have been necessary if those Roman priests would just do their duty as citizens and tell the authorities what the condemned man had said in his final confession.
He turned in his chair to catch the afternoon sunlight on his face. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the warm, blinding red glow on the inside of his eyelids. In that brief moment, he fondly imagined a world where nobody spoke in a constant stream of splutter, ellipses, accusation and apology. A world of perfect harmony and light. Like on the other side of the outer darkness.
Moments later, the door opened and Charlie returned, followed by the priest. John stubbed out his cigarette and turned to them. Charlie stepped softly towards him on the thick rug, hands still clasped. ‘This is Father… uh…’
‘Father McSorley.’ The priest stepped past Charlie and held out his hand.
John rose and took it, briefly. He was young, thought John, much younger than he’d expected. Not much older than himself. He regarded John with a look of quiet determination, like an earnest student. His hair was thick and curly, and he’d tried to press it down with wax, but it bristled and rose in odd angles, giving him a vaguely rumpled air.
‘You’ve had tea, then,’ said John, seating himself again. ‘You won’t be wanting more, I imagine. What can I do for you?’
‘If I could speak in private to Mr. Kilcoyne,’ said the priest, turning to Charlie. ‘Thanks so much.’ He spoke in that low, heartfelt tone, intended to convey sincerity. They must teach that tone in seminary, thought John. He’d heart it often from clergy of all denominations, from chaplains. It always made his teeth grate.
Charlie retreated.
The priest seated himself on a green leather chair. He folded his hands and seemed to be composing in his mind what he wanted to say. ‘It’s not that I disapprove of what you do, per se,’ he said after a long pause.
John raised his eyebrows. He’d expected more of a preface.
‘In fact, I’ve written a series of articles on the subject of spiritualism. The editor of Studies has been kind enough to encourage me in this, and to publish my productions, modest as they may be. I’ve brought you copies, if you’d like to read them.’ Fr. McSorley laid three thin paper journals on the desk. ‘It’s not to brag or to challenge you, Mr. Kilcoyne. I only mean to open by showing you that I’ve devoted considerable time to studying the subject.’
‘Marvellous,’ said John. ‘I will be certain to read these.’ Studies was a quarterly publication of the Irish Jesuits. For a moment, he wondered if the priest was there to share some inane metaphysical occurrence from the life of his parish. A statue with a nosebleed, maybe. Or perhaps he wanted to ask that John channel the Virgin Mary or Francis Loyola for him. Stranger things had happened. He folded his hands and tried to smile patiently.
‘Of course, I do have theological objections to some of the conclusions drawn by the eminent practitioners in your field, Mr. Kilcoyne. Including your own.’
John sighed inwardly.
‘But that is not why I’ve come. In the main, I say each man to his own.’
‘That’s tremendously progressive of you, Father. Does your cardinal know?’
Fr. McSorley shifted inside his stiff black suit, as though the uniform was still new and uncomfortable for him. ‘I understand that you’ve recently taken over the directorship of this organisation?’
‘Correct.’
‘It’s only fitting that we should be introduced, then,’ said Fr. McSorley, ‘my parish priest, Father Benedict, he fought a decades-long war against your old boss, I think. Letters to the editor and such. Journal articles. Speechifying. No prisoners taken.’ He smiled weakly, as though this little joke would bring them together in conspiracy against their elders.
John pressed his lips together.
‘I’ve come on behalf of a parishioner of mine, Mr. Kilcoyne. I believe you know her well. Mrs. Eilis Hurlihy.’
‘How odd.’ John cocked his head. ‘I’d have never thought our Eilis would need another to speak for her. She always used to do all her own talking. At very great length.’
‘She is a… strong-willed woman, certainly. But her judgement is normally sound, and she is not given to frighten people idly with dark predictions.’
‘You’ve clearly never sat for one of her famous Tarot readings then, Father.’
The priest blushed slightly.
‘And yet she’s frightened you now, I see?’ John smiled.
The priest turned his pale eyes this ways and that, looking everywhere, John thought, except at the little plaster imprint of a child’s hand. He picked it up and turned it around in his fingers, gazing at the priest.
The priest looked down at his hands. ‘I’ve come to ask you to stop,’ he said, dropping his voice. ‘Not just on her behalf. On behalf of all of us. This business with the, with the execution,’ he indicated Charlie’s stack of newspapers on the desk, ‘it’s upsetting people. Liam Hurlihy’s confessor, the chaplain at Mountjoy, he telephoned me in the hours after the execution. He’s a good, quiet kind of man. I’ve never heard him so angry. He was in tears and fits. Dyspeptic.’
‘He shouldn’t be. If you would all take a deep breath and listen, then you’d realise that Miss Hahn and I have achieved more for the advancement of mankind than you lot ever did.’
‘I don’t what you’re attempting to do, Mr. Kilcoyne, and I don’t much care. I’m trying desperately to keep tempers calm,’ said McSorley through clenched teeth, ‘desperately. You don’t have a congregation to care for, but I do, and I’m telling you, this stunt of yours at the hanging is throwing petrol on the fire-’
‘Really? I never did envisage Sandymount as a place prone to revolutionary bonfires. A little too comfortably well-off for all that nonsense, wouldn’t you say? Then again, the revolutionary fever seems to have gripped our Eilis, so you never can tell anymore.’
The remark seemed to sting.
John smiled and lit another cigarette. ‘Do you ever consider that you’ve failed, Father?’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘Not you, personally, granted. But the Church as an institution. All the churches, really. Look at those hand-wringing Presbyterians down the road. No denomination has succeeded in bringing genuine solace to the millions of bereaved by the recent war.’ He watched with interest as a marbled pattern of blushes spread over the priest’s pale face.
‘Solace? You’re not bringing solace to anybody,’ Fr. McSorley raised his voice, ‘not with this. Not with what you did at the hanging this morning. You’re just angering everyone, causing disturbance and fear, with this, this necromancy of yours.’
‘Necromancy?’ John narrowed his eyes. ‘Be careful now, Father. You’re accusing us of a prosecutable offence. Did you know that the Witchcraft Act of 1735 is still in effect?’ He smiled a humourless smile. ‘I’m sure you wouldn’t want to have anybody tried as a witch. I don’t think that’s a requisite for your sort anymore, career-wise.’
‘Please don’t be facetious.’
John picked up the little porcelain deer figurine. He toyed with it for a moment, turning it this way and that, feeling the roughness of the unglazed bottom with the inside of his thumb. Then he snapped its head off.
Clink.
Cleanly.
He raised his eyes to the priest. ‘All these parishioners of yours who have been so discomfited by our execution seance, let me just ask you this, would they be just as upset if we’d made contact with the spirit of one of the young British soldiers that Liam Hurlihy murdered? Do you think?’
‘They’re peop
le, not candidates for sainthood. Cardinal Logue has led the way in appealing tirelessly for earnest prayers for peace, but you can’t judge people if they…’
‘If they’re hypocritical in their prayers?’
The priest drew himself back a little in his seat, as if he was speaking to a dangerous drunk.
John rose and leaned over the desk on his knuckles. ‘You say we should have left Hurlihy alone after his hanging, and then you’d invoke pious prayers for him from your congregation, but do you think he can hear those prayers? Do you honestly? Do you really think that he, or any of the millions of other dead men are ever comforted by your prayers?’
‘I believe the Almighty guides us all home. The blood of the Lamb redeems the world.’
John threw up his hands. ‘That sounds like something an old woman would embroider on a cushion. And you’re calling us morbid.’
‘It is what I believe.’
‘Well, you’re wrong. They can’t hear you. Trust me, I’ve asked.’ John watched the priest closely as he absorbed these words. Hardly anything, a flutter of the left eyelid. The priest sat as still as a statue. ‘Unlike you,’ continued John, ‘we are bringing tangible evidence of the survival of memory and identity after death. And eventually, we are going to provide evidence that the afterlife is a place of solace and light, for everyone.’ His throat tightened at the thought.
The priest folded and unfolded his hands. ‘So why choose Liam Hurlihy for that, see, I don’t for an instant believe you were trying to-’
‘Because we are trying to prevent any more shootings from happening, of course. You’re right. We do have more immediate goals than obtaining evidence of heaven.’
The priest paled. ‘What do you mean by that?’ His knuckles whitened. ‘What are going to do?’
John just smiled.
The priest rose. ‘I’d hoped to find you a reasonable man. You’re well-educated, I can clearly see that, but there are finer virtues than a polished mind.’