by Paul Reid
He’d been like this for weeks, ever since he saw Adam encounter that wicked brat Clarence on the street outside. He’d even seen Clarence pass a card into Adam’s pocket. Adam would know everything, he must do. It had been a sickening weight on Allister ever since. What on earth was he going to do? Adam would crush him.
With a burst of anger he hit the table. The whiskey glass jumped.
Throughout their childhood Adam had always humiliated him, merely by being himself. Always stronger, always faster, always more loved and popular. Adam had gone off to join the war against his family’s wishes, gleefully abandoning his exams, and now he’d sauntered back into their lives, heedless of the old wounds he had caused, eager to open new ones.
Damn him. He’ll beat me all over again.
He swallowed a gulp of whiskey and felt the fire brace his resolve. Enough was enough. He would lie down no more. He would fight back. Adam had to be stopped, whatever was required. Allister’s reputation and livelihood, his very being, was at stake now. By God, he owed it to himself to take a stand.
The cocky swine, he thought. I’ll destroy him. I’ll find his weakness. He has to have a weakness.
And like that, he had an idea. There was a turning in this business, he realised with relief. Yes. Yes. It gave him a shiver of anticipation, the ironic genius of it, and he smiled.
And he even felt his appetite return.
Turning his back on the sombre flat, he took a ride over to meet the fellows at the Wellington, ate a meal, drank, and had one of the most enjoyable nights of his life.
Tara knew she had incurred the wrath of a powerful enemy.
It was Saturday morning. She was sweeping dead leaves from her garden path when a pair of judgemental eyes appeared over the boundary hedge. Mrs. Agnes Clohessy, her next-door neighbour, fixed her a cold look and sniffed.
“Miss Reilly, if you have a minute?”
“Good morning, Mrs. Clohessy,” Tara said. The woman was in her seventies, sharp of eye and tongue, and a minister of the Holy Communion in the local Catholic church of St. Michael’s. She enjoyed a prominent profile in the area through her various charitable endeavours. She organised cake sales in aid of the homeless, collected people’s unwanted clothes to donate to the destitute, and took her regular gaggle of like-minded, piously intentioned ladies on door-to-door visits to elicit donations for the hardworking missionaries in Africa. The hardworking Catholic ones, that is.
She now had one of her lily-white hands resting on the top of the hedgerow as she scrutinised Tara. The look was something that a frustrated gardener might give to a mole that constantly burrowed up through his otherwise pristine lawn.
“Miss Reilly, I shan’t detain you. But if I might have a word.”
“Of course, Mrs. Clohessy. Is anything the matter?”
“Hmm,” she murmured. “Now I don’t want to meddle, my dear, for it’s not in my nature. But I’ve noticed certain, how shall I put it, unsavoury habits occurring hereabouts with an increasing frequency. I’ll trust that you know what I speak of.”
Tara gazed at her. “I’m not sure that I do, Mrs. Clohessy.”
“I don’t wish to be indelicate, my dear. But my husband mentioned something about a visitor to your house in recent times. None of my business, to be sure, but I would be failing in my Christian duty if I didn’t at least express my concern.” Her husband, whose name was Joseph, spent almost the entirety of every day sitting in his garden shed, even in winter. Tara had never even heard him speak. He seemed a rather pathetic excuse to be using for Mrs. Clohessy’s nosiness. “That’s right, my dear. A gentleman caller, if I may be so bold.”
“Ah. That would be Mr. Bowen, who is a good friend of mine.”
“I see. Well, my dear, I’m sure you know that this is a very respectable neighbourhood. It has been for generations, and it’s always nice to welcome visiting friends. However, and I hope I’m mistaken, but has this Mr. Bowen ever visited and not left until the following morning?”
Curtain twitchers. They dwelt in every city suburb. The godly, self-appointed guardians of propriety. Tara wasn’t sure what to say. “Mr. Bowen might be alarmed to know that he is being watched.”
“Watched?” Mrs. Clohessy’s face flushed with indignation. “Goodness me, certainly not. What do you think, that I would put my nose into other people’s business?”
“I don’t think that for a second, Mrs. Clohessy. But I thank you for your concern. I will relay it to Mr. Bowen, who will no doubt be mortified at being the subject of your disapproval.”
But Mrs. Clohessy wasn’t appeased just yet. “You hardly think such a casual dalliance to be appropriate, though, do you, Miss Reilly? You’re an unmarried woman. Why, the Lord himself taught us that—”
“Mrs. Clohessy, I am a good Christian. My parents were good Christians. I can assure you of that.”
The older woman watched her closely for several seconds. “Oh, I know you attend the Mass, Tara. I’ve seen you there. But Father Barclay is a good steward of his flock. And a good judge too, I might add. I wonder what his advice might be in this regard?”
With that, and a smug crinkle of her mouth, she turned and marched inside. Tara stood as she was on the garden pathway, feeling herself wilt with embarrassment. She swept away the rest of the leaves and went back into the house.
In spite of it all, she yearned for Adam now. Their last parting had been on the day of the violence. Yes, she’d been upset that night, but she shouldn’t have gone to bed without even a word of farewell. Adam was a good man who deserved better. He’d taken her for a meal and was instead treated to her outbursts about the IRA, things that he couldn’t know anything about, and not surprisingly he hadn’t returned since. She began to fear that she had driven him off for good. She needed him now, she realised. So very badly. The prospect of his loss left her emotions in turmoil.
For she knew she was falling in love with him.
Come soon, Adam. Please. Once we’re together, everything will be all right.
Adam was trying to keep busy at work.
He brought his conveyancing files up to date, registered his clients’ titles with the Land Registry, and submitted his hours to Lydia so that she could calculate the invoices. But on Sunday morning, after another week had passed by, he knew he could avoid it no longer. Tara had no telephone, so he climbed on a tram and made his way out to Kilmainham, rehearsing in his head the things he should say. This recoupling could be difficult. Tara had made evident her antipathy towards the IRA—and towards Adam by association, if only she knew. He had to see her.
He walked up along Wilton Row, along its suburban tranquil of clipped gardens and big bay windows. He shouldn’t have left her for so long. What if something had happened in the meantime? She relied on him to protect her, yet Adam had stayed away simply because the thought of facing her was too uncomfortable.
But when she opened her door to his knock, he knew all his fears were groundless. And he knew, right then, that he loved her.
An irresistible smile lit up her face as she threw her arms around his neck and wept tears of bliss into his shoulder. He laughed in relief.
“Goodness, girl, you’re going to suffocate me.”
And just as abruptly, her smiled dropped. She glanced outside. “My God. Come inside. Quickly.”
“What is it?” He frowned as she bundled him into the hallway. Taking a breath, she fixed him with an earnest expression.
“We’ve become a scandal, Adam. For the entire neighbourhood. I know, because Mrs. Clohessy next door was kind enough to tell me of it.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Oh, we’re a scandal now, are we? And how so?”
“You’ve been seen. Your visits have been noted.” She bit her lip. “I am a good Christian, you know. Despite what she says.”
“Hell, so am I.”
“I’m serious, Adam. I don’t like them looking at me, judging me.”
“You should know better than to worry about it.”
“What?” he asked carefully.
When she made her request, he groaned. “Oh, Tara, you can’t be serious. Whatever for?”
“Please.”
“But I’m not even a Catholic. My family’s Protestant but I’m agnostic at best.”
“You’re a good Christian like me, I know it. Please, Adam. It would make me feel better.”
“But Mass? Good God, my mother would faint at the thought of me stepping into the papists’ lair.” He sighed. “Oh, very well then. For you, I’ll do it. But it seems like a whole lot of rot.”
She rose on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek and smiled. “Thank you. At least this will soften the old dame’s cough a little.”
“When?”
“Give me five minutes to get ready.”
The teak pews in St Michael’s usually filled at the back first, though the prouder churchgoers always strode purposely to the front, smug mothers and fathers with pomade-slicked sons and pigtailed daughters decked out in their Sunday finest.
Tara and Adam sat midway up, Adam grunting at the narrow leg room. Tara spotted Mrs. Clohessy a few pews ahead; the latter turned round every few seconds to monitor the arrivals and sniffed. When her eyes met Tara’s, Tara gave her a smile. Mrs. Clohessy’s gaze slid to Adam and her lips tightened in disapproval, though Adam didn’t even notice.
“When will they start?” he complained, wedged against the seat in front. “That thing’s going to pare my bloody kneecaps off.”
“Shh. In a few moments. You’re supposed to kneel while you’re waiting, you know. And pray.”
“Oh, I’m praying.”
Presently the priest and a troupe of altar boys appeared through a door from the sacristy. Schoolgirls up on the balcony commenced a hymn and the Mass began.
“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti . . . ”
Adam fidgeted throughout the Epistle and Gospel. Tara had to tap her shoe against his to get him to stop.
After the Gospel had finished—a verse from the Book of Galatians about following the desires of one’s sinful nature—the priest assumed his place at the pulpit, and the congregation settled themselves for the imminent delivery of judgement upon them.
Father Barclay was in his seventies with hoarfrost hair and a chin like a snow shovel, almost druid-like in solemnity. He turned his gaze across the shuffling flock and cleared his throat.
“Brothers and sisters, I am grieved. We live in times that would grieve any Christian. Our homes, our streets, our parks and gardens—they are not safe anymore. There is a new breed of evil upon us, and a man’s life has become a cheap thing. Last night, as some of you will know, two policemen were murdered as they left their station in Inchicore. Gunned down in broad daylight by those who would have us believe that such evil is in our interest, that such evil is in the service of our blessed isle and our hearth and kin. And they live amongst you, these so-called warriors, these so-called freedom fighters. They are, I fear, your neighbours, your work colleagues, even your own family. They call themselves the Irish Republican Army, and their cause is that of the fallen angel, of chaos and darkness and pain.”
Tara watched him, her eyes unblinking.
“The Lord said, thou shalt not kill. That commandment is not a guideline, to be applied loosely as a circumstance dictates. It is what it is—a commandment. The men—and women—of the IRA seek to strip away every saintly virtue that the Irish people have always possessed. They rob, shoot, and kill in blasphemous defiance of everything that Jesus taught us. They will say that they, too, have been wronged, that they, too, are oppressed, that their actions are righteous and justified. But no, my friends. Jesus told us, in his Sermon on the Mount, that violence shall not be answered by violence.”
Adam nudged Tara’s shoulder and whispered, “I thought Jesus said an eye for an eye.” She shot him a dagger look, wishing he would stay quiet.
But it was as though Father Barclay had heard him.
“In Jesus’s own words, my friends: You have heard that it was said, an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. But I say to you, do not resist an evildoer. If anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also.”
“Ah, the cleverness of it all,” Adam murmured.
“And not that either side is without blame, for I do happen to know that certain unscrupulous members of the British Army have been selling guns to the IRA for as little as a pound a pop. Aye, a splendid bargain, a pound a pop and the Devil on top. However,” Father Barclay’s voice rose now, “who are we, as people, to condemn the low morals of others, when we have not even addressed our own?” His eyes widened with quick fierceness. “We are all sinners. But there are sins being committed in our midst that any Christian should be ashamed to abide. I speak not now of gunmen. I speak of baser instincts. Sins of the flesh that defile the community as a whole. When such wickedness is pursued as casually as any other lifestyle, is it a wonder that armed killers, boys with guns, stalk our streets to murder and maim? Answer me!” He roared suddenly and the crowd shook.
“Whoa, this is getting good.” Adam straightened up.
“Lust!” Barclay thundered, his forehead starting to glisten. “Lust and fornication. Unmarried men and women, sharing beds as though it were natural. Beastly depravity upon our very doorsteps.”
Tara felt every vessel of blood in her body go dry. Her hands began to shake, and she pressed them against her lap.
“How can our children ever hope to grow in the light of Christ,” Barclay demanded, “when the adults they follow comport themselves like wild animals?” He thumped the pulpit and a fleck of spittle escaped his lips.
Tara couldn’t watch him anymore. She bowed her head, and when Adam’s hand reached for hers, she pushed it away.
“You know who you are,” Barclay warned. After a few moments’ ominous silence, his voice calmed and he continued. “You cannot hide from God’s judgement. It is your very sins that have poisoned our neighbourhoods. It is your very sins that have brought the murderous IRA to our doors.”
When the Mass ended, she walked unsteadily to the exit, keeping a gap away from Adam. Outside, he tried a joke or two, which only irritated her, and so he kept silent for the rest of the walk home.
Outside her door, he coughed impatiently. “You’re annoyed, Tara. Is it because of me? Is it because of that Bible-spitting hypocrite?”
She flinched, appalled. “Adam, how can you speak of him like that? He’s a man of God. He worries about his flock, and I’ve let him down so badly.”
“How?”
“Because of us, Adam. And I know exactly what he means. Sins breed other sins. He blames people like me for the IRA.”
“He doesn’t know a damn thing about the IRA.” Adam laughed. “The bishops and priests just want to look the other way. They did the same during the Famine. They couldn’t bear anybody to fight back. Why upset the order when you live in a well-warmed parochial house, your taste for finer food spreading round your belly?”
“You don’t mean that, Adam.”
“But I do. What does Father Barclay know about war? About fighting back? He doesn’t have to fight back, you see. So it’s easy to sermonise.”
This was a cynicism she hadn’t encountered in him before, and it was too much. She turned and unlocked her door.
“Tara, where are you going?”
“You’re not yourself, Adam. You’re not talking like yourself. You’re talking in . . . in such a cold way.” For the first time, she wondered whether she really knew him as well as she thought.
He kicked in frustration at a loose stone on the path, paced towards the gate, and then turned back to her again. He let out a sigh. “I wish—I wish I could explain myself better, Tara. I really wish I could.”
She stopped. “Oh, Adam. There’s something wrong, isn’t there? I knew there must be, the way you’re acting. Come in,
come inside with me.”
“No. God, no. What if Mrs. Clohessy sees? Am I not after bringing every evil to your door already?”
He marched away without waiting for an answer. She watched him shove aside the gate, anger in his every motion. There was something going on, she realised, something she had been missing all along. But what? When he had disappeared up the street, she went inside, closed the door, and looked for a hanky to wipe her tears.
Allister walked to work at dawn. The city streets were deserted, and only a faint glimmer of light to the east betrayed the coming day. He lit a desk lamp and carried his briefcase up to Adam’s office. Today was the day he must put wheels on his plans. Today was the beginning of Adam’s end.
Duncan would be the one to “discover” the scandal, of course. And he’d be furious. Mother too. Adam would be condemned as the black sheep and banished, if Duncan didn’t shoot him first.
He opened the single cabinet. As he searched through it, looking for the ideal file, it became evident that Adam didn’t actually do much work. There were dozens of contracts awaiting signature, unanswered correspondence from impatient clients, rejected applications from the Land Registry. Everything had a mark of shoddiness about it. Even the alphabetical listings were not alphabetical.
He disgraces us, Allister fumed.
He needed a file that Duncan was likely to see himself very soon. Something he might have been managing in Adam’s absence. Allister had a card from Clarence in his back pocket. Ornately designed and shockingly lewd, it contained a handwritten message on the back—purportedly from Clarence but written by Allister—that expressed how much Clarence had enjoyed those afternoons in Adam’s flat, how he treasured the memory of their naked bodies together, how they must not hide their love any longer, and so forth.