by Nina Dreyer
‘Your Limerick runt,’ said John.
‘Yes indeed. Odious little twerp, lurking in a bicycle shop in Phibsborough that these malcontents were using as a front, just as you predicted! Yes indeed! He’s to be hanged on Monday, but don’t worry,’ he playfully jabbed Marion with an elbow, ‘there won’t be any need for a seance then, since he doesn’t have any more secrets to impart.’ Brock laughed, his doe-brown eyes moist with joy. ‘My boys beat them all right out of him, and as a result, you’ll be pleased to know that we’ve unravelled a nest of several gunman and their collaborators.’
‘Don’t hang him,’ Marion burst out.
Brock raised his eyebrows. ‘But, Miss Hahn-’
‘Frightful,’ said Hettie, scowling at her husband, ‘look how beastly you are, you’ve upset my dear friend now, Cecil, with your ghastly talk of hangings and beatings!’ Her small eyes glittered.
Brock just smiled and patted his wife’s head.
‘I’m serious,’ said Marion, her heart thumping, looking around wildly for support, ‘you have to stop hanging all these people, it’s-’
‘My friend and I are going to take a turn about the room now,’ said Hettie archly, snaking her arm into Marion’s, ‘and you menfolk can stay there with your horrors and your ghoulish nonsense.’
‘No, Marion,’ John gazed at her with a strangely melancholy look, ‘stay with me.’ He reached out to her, but Hettie dragged her away, her diamond bracelets cold against Marion’s arm, and Brock stepped in front of John, talking urgently to him.
She felt John’s eyes following her.
‘Never mind the men,’ Hettie whispered giddily, ‘they’re no fun at all, especially when they insist on talking about work incessantly. Although it is rather exciting, what with all these gunmen. One hears they burst into people’s bedrooms and loom over them by moonlight,’ she scrunched up her lips as if she was sucking on a plump cherry, ‘deliciously frightening.’
Marion’s skin ran cold as she followed along, taking turns about the room as Hettie smirked and nodded at the officers who crowded around the bar, laughing and sloshing their glasses under the bright lights, shouting over the hysterically cheerful music.
‘Oh,’ Hettie fluttered her fingers at a tall man in suit the colour of coal dust, ‘have you met my friend, Mr. Thomas Fornwood?’ She leaned closer to whisper. Her breath smelt of lemon and expensive gin. ‘He’s something frightfully important to do with the Government, very hush-hush. Fiercely secret and thrilling!’
The man walked towards them, nodding at Hettie.
Everything about him was the shade of soot and shadows. ‘Mrs. Brock,’ he said, ‘you look marvellous. A vision, as always.’ He smiled a thin smile. ‘Who’s your friend?’
‘Oh, Tom, always such a flatterer,’ said Hettie, smiling broadly and tilting her head at him, ‘how delightful to see you. Let me present Miss Marion Hahn.’
He bowed slightly. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said. His eyes were as dull and unshining as black beetles.
Marion took his outstretched hand.
The instant she touched his fingers, a cold stab of pain sliced through her face, just behind her left eye. She flung a hand to the side of her head and blinked rapidly.
Glints of gunmetal in the darkness, the rushing sound of blood gurgling into the gutter, over the slick cobblestone. The young man with the missing face. The young man from the trance seance.
This man, Fornwood, he was the murderer. Gun smoke curling around his fingers. She’d seen him.
‘Is something the matter,’ asked Mr. Fornwood.
‘Gott im Himmel,’ Marion croaked, stumbling back. The glass slipped from her fingers and shattered on the marble floor in a glinting burst of shards and splinters. Whiskey splattered her fingers and the hem of her gown in black stains.
‘My word,’ said Hettie, turning around in search of a waiter.
‘Is something the matter,’ asked Mr. Fornwood again.
Marion looked around wildly. Officers slouched on leather sofas, their teeth glinting in gaping laughter, their swaying bodies and jabbing hands reflected a thousand times in the swirling mirrors.
‘I have to leave now,’ Marion took a step back, then another.
‘No,’ said Hettie, pouting, ‘don’t leave already, tell me more about Paulie? Has he made contact with you again? Have you seen him again?’
Marion spun around and glimpsed John, leaning against the bar, surrounded by strangers in uniforms, gazing silently at her, following her every move with his black eyes.
Above him, a light bulb went out with a short crackle.
Someone began laughing hysterically.
Marion covered her mouth and ran towards the cloakroom. From the dark streets outside came the ripping sound of an explosion, then another.
An exploding tyre track, Marion thought desperately, nothing more.
The crowds of officers seemed to have barely noticed the sound of the explosions. Nobody looked up. One jumped up, lurching drunkenly, and began to flail his arms and scream obscenities, pierced with screaming laughter. When he pulled a pistol and began waving it around, his comrades dragged him back to his seat.
Marion ran for the door.
‘Wait, Marion,’ she heard Hettie call, her voice thin behind the tinny music.
She stopped in the cloakroom, leaning against the wall and gasping for breath. Something moved in the edge of her vision. In the dim light by the cloak counter stood young woman dressed in a gown the colour of bricks.
Marion felt the breath sucked from her lungs.
It was Liz. Winifred’s friend. Eilis’ friend. Pale as washed-out water colour. In one hand, a dance card. In the other, a camera.
Liz narrowed her eyes and bowed her head very slightly, as if to say, I see you. Here, with these men. I see you.
‘Don’t go in there,’ Marion whispered, pressing a hand to her thumping heart, ‘don’t go in there, Liz. Tell Eilis-’
‘Run and hide,’ said Liz. ‘Alley cats have nine lives. You’re after using eight of yours now.’
Marion ran down the dark streets, away from the bright lights of the bar, the sounds of shouting and laughter and wailing music fading behind her. Rounding a corner, she slowed, panting, and steadied herself against the black cast iron railing of a park. She glanced around. The streets were deserted. Her breath hung in the pale moonlight in puffs of mist. Cold stars glittered over shale roofs and rows of chimneys.
Marion clutched the collar of her coat tightly in her fist and tried to still her breathing. She shouldn’t have run. She should go back and warn John. Bring him away from Liz with her cold camera lens, from the murderer in the soot-grey suit, from the barking, lurching officers.
She turned.
A chilled mist was rising among the broad oaks of the park. Leaves trembled and fell onto the gleaming pavement. Pale moonlight shimmered in the fog.
In the shifting shadows under the naked branches, a figure approached. Liz perhaps, with her camera pressed to her chest. Winifred with a gun in her pocket. Dead Liam Hurlihy, come to spit cold heart’s blood in her face.
Marion staggered back, twisting her ankle on the broken stone curb.
A man emerged from the shadows, eyes fixed on her, hands thrust deep in his pockets. ‘Marion? Marion Hahn? Is that you?’
Marion hunched her shoulders and hurried away, her heartbeat thundering in her ears. This was her end, then. Shot dead in the street. She could already feel it. A cold spot between her shoulder blades, the size of a coin, where the bullet would enter. She wondered what the last image in her mind would be when her blood gurgled into the gutter. John’s face. The memory of his smile.
‘Marion, stop,’ the man’s voice rang out.
She pressed her hands to the side of her face and shook her head, whimpering.
The man caught up and stepped in front of her. ‘It is you, Marion?’ The man prodded her arm. She kept her head down and stared at his shoes. Black, polished to perfection. Gun
men never wore shoes like that. Did they?
She looked up at his face.
Blinked.
He wore a roman collar. A priest. He was young, with a serious expression on his narrow face. His hair was thick and curly and held back ineffectively with wax.
For a second, Marion thought she might be imagining him. Or perhaps he was dead. She wondered distantly if priests ever became ghosts. No reason they wouldn’t. Gunmen could be disguised as priests, and priests could be ghosts.
‘I need to speak to you,’ he said, ‘immediately.’
Marion opened her mouth to reply. Her tongue felt dry, her jaws clenched. Her fingertips began to tingle.
‘I’m Father McSorley,’ he continued, ‘Eilis Hurlihy sent me. She’s a parishioner of mine. You need to listen to me.’
Marion stared at him, his moving lips, his eyes earnestly fixed on her. Sent by Eilis. You’d better watch yourself from now on, Marion. I’m in no bloody mood to protect you any longer.
She wrenched her arm free, spun around and ran.
‘Stop,’ he heard him shout, ‘you can’t run, it’s no use, I know where you live!’
She ran, splashing through puddles, her coat flapping around her and her heels clattering over the wet pavement. Dodging the sweeping headlights of an armoured car, she sprang up the steps, tore open her front door and slammed it shut behind her. Her heart was pounding, her legs boneless.
Pulling out her hat pins and flinging off her coat, she stumbled into the parlour.
Domed lamps of misty glass glowed, casting dull shadows over the walls. A fire spluttered in the grate, sparks rising in the gloom like fireflies. On the coffee table lay the small green book with the delicate gold lettering. Eilis’ book of poetry. Verses for the god of the Irish dead. Marion leaned her head back, breathing the hushed stillness of the house.
A sharp knocking.
A creak, a suck of cold draft from the front door.
Ethel emerged on the doorstep, dressed in her crumpled night gown and a shawl. ‘Someone to see you, Miss Marion.’ She suppressed a yawn.
‘No, no visitors tonight. Bolt the door.’
The floorboards creaked. Marion spun around and saw the priest emerge in the tall white door, his reddish hair glinting wet. Ethel took his black coat, gazing up at him with wide eyes.
Marion inhaled sharply. ‘I said no visitors!’
The priest seated himself on the horsehair divan by the fire, resting his elbows on his knees and pressing his fingertips to his lips. ‘I’m sorry about just now. I shouldn’t have shouted at you like that in the street. I just,’ he ran a hand over his face, ‘I really need you to listen to me.’
Marion narrowed her eyes. He spoke as if he’d known her for years and years. Priests did that. She’d always hated it. ‘I haven’t invited you into my home.’
‘I sometimes have to go where I’m not wanted.’
Ethel still hovered on the doorstep. ‘Will I fetch some mulled wine to take the chill out of your bones, Father?’
‘Go to the kitchen,’ said Marion, her eyes fixed on the priest, ‘and lock the door behind you.’
‘But why?’ Ethel looked bewildered.
‘Do not come out until I call you. Leave now.’
The girl shut the door behind her.
Fr. McSorley leaned back, folding his arms and then unfolding them again. ‘You think I’m here to shoot you. Sure fair enough.’
‘What do you want?’ Marion clenched her fist in her lap.
‘I saw you in the newspapers,’ he said. ‘Front page. The morning after the execution of Liam Hurlihy. And you know, something caught my eye. In the photograph, you weren’t looking into the lens. You seemed to look down, away into the middle distance. I took this to signify that you weren’t there of your own free will. As though you were… pressured. Is that it? Were you pressured? If you were, you can tell me.’ He gazed at her with practiced earnestness. The transparent skin under his eyes had a bluish tinge.
For a long moment, Marion said nothing.
McSorley crossed his legs and began jittering his foot. Nerves. ‘Mrs. Hurlihy tells me you’ve recently moved here. That you used to live in a shabby rooming house, and now find yourself in the lap of luxury. You don’t have to do it for the money, you don’t have to stay in this place.’ He leaned closer, lowering his voice. ‘The archdiocese has a hostel. A women’s hostel. No, it’s not what you think, this one is not for women of ill repute. It’s a good place. Clean. You’d be safe there.’
‘Am I not safe here?’
The priest wouldn’t quite meet her eye. ‘So as I was saying. If you were pressured to do what you did… you can tell me about it.’ He clasped his hands. ‘I want to help you, Marion.’
‘I haven’t asked for your help.’ She felt a tic of anger that he presumed to use her first name. As if he knew her.
‘Marion, dabbling in spiritualism is one thing, but you attended an execution.’ He ran a hand over his hair. ‘Do you not think that was an extreme turn of events?’
‘We do not dabble. We know what we are doing.’
‘Do you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Because I don’t think you do. I don’t think either of you have the faintest clue what you’re doing, yourself and John Kilcoyne. I wanted to ask you about him. Do you think he’s a well-intentioned man, Marion? Do you think he means well?’
‘Yes.’ Marion frowned and plucked at her lip. She wondered where John was now. If he was still in that bar, smiling darkly under extinguished lights, surrounded by drunken British officers.
‘He brought you to attend a hanging,’ the priest cried out. ‘A hanging! God only knows how he got access! How can that possibly seem right and good to you?’ He got up and began pacing the room, pressing a hand to his forehead as if to feel for a fever. ‘God, neither of you will give an inch, will you? We can all see that he has great powers of persuasion when he wants to. But I’m curious, Marion.’ McSorley leaned against the mantelpiece, crossing his arms tightly. ‘I want you to tell me about it. What you heard, what you saw. Convince me that this execution business of yours was wholesome and right.’
‘At the hanging?’ Marion looked at him incredulously.
He nodded. His expression was perfectly sincere.
Marion hugged herself tightly. The memory slithered through her, the thump of Liam’s body creaking on the rope, the sharp, sucking crack of his neck breaking, his hands twisting in death, his legs kicking. ‘There is an outer darkness. We call it that. The outer darkness. Some people say it’s just the temporary blindness of death, before the deceased reaches the afterlife. Death always comes as a shock, you see. Like being suddenly very drunk, everything is unreal. Many are frightened by it. They curl in on themselves, or they struggle and lash out. It was the same with Liam.’ She lowered her head. ‘I wanted to help. Because I’ve seen that happen, even when there was a good death, surrounded by relatives.’ She did not say, and priests.
McSorley wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘See now, just hearing that, it gives me that creepy-crawley feeling. I’ve had that feeling before. Can I tell you a story?’
Marion pursed her lips and glanced at the door. Maybe she should telephone John. At the bar. Warn him. But then, Liz would be taking photographs of the British officers, not John. Liz wouldn’t have any reason at all to stalk after John-
‘It happened in the winter and early spring of 1915,’ said McSorley. ‘Before all this trouble began.’ He tightened his shoulders. ‘I’d just been assigned to my parish, my first post as a curate. There was a spiritualist circle there, up Newgrove Avenue. Of course my parish priest was dead set against it, but I was curious. So I went to call on them, expecting all sorts of wizardry. I must admit, I was a little disappointed.’ He chuckled sadly. ‘A nice elderly couple lead the outfit. A retired doctor and his wife. They served tea and ham sandwiches and introduced me to their circle. There was a student living with them, although what he was studying
none could say. There was a young girl professing herself a poet, and she did have the finest speaking voice. Like one of those old sean-nós singers, you know? Timorous and gentle-like. And there was a veteran from the Boer campaign, with an arm missing. They all seemed delighted to see me. Sat me down in the front room and told me all about their work, quite uninhibited, they were almost,’ he searched for the word, ‘almost child-like in their excitement. It was the most curious thing I ever did hear. They told me that they were in contact with spirits. That they had, what was the term, spirit masters.’
Marion crossed her arms. The notion struck her that Fr. McSorley hadn’t told anybody else this story, but had nestled it, secretly, keeping it warm under his stiff black suit. ‘I have never heard of this circle?’
He sighed. ‘No, you wouldn’t have, would you? I called on them again, thinking they were pleasant company and harming nobody, but that they might benefit from my instruction as a priest. I was naive, you see. Very naive. They seemed so happy. Serene, almost. In truth, I was a little envious. They seemed illuminated from within by this great, this great joy. And they related some messages from their purported spirit masters. They said the war was going to end soon, and with it, the old world would end, too. They said all the men who’d died in the war were going to come back as angels of light. To rebuild the world.’
Marion felt the back of her neck grow cold.
‘See, I’d no idea. I didn’t tell my parish priest about it, because… well. God, I should have.’ His eyes looked raw. ‘I was called to the scene. Early March, a bleak afternoon. A postman doing his rounds had found something amiss.’
Marion raised a hand on her throat.
‘I found them all in the back parlour. All laid out, dressed in the same costume, a sort of robe, and do you know, my first thought was, how embarrassing. How embarrassing to be found dressed in such a bizarre costume. That was my first thought. The mind is a very strange organ. It didn’t occur to me until hours later that they’d all arranged themselves like that. They’d all sat there, dressed in their robes, sharing, God knows, sharing around the bottle of Prussic acid like some sort of perversion of the Mass. The bottle was found, rolled behind a sofa. They’d been trying to hold hands through death, but they’d contorted in seizures when the final moments came. They’d died within an hour of each other, said the coroner. Not the young girl, though. She’d not swallowed as much as the others. She died two days later in hospital.’ He wiped his face with a shaking hand, over and over, as if trying to rub something off.