by Paul Cuddihy
‘Going home with some … some harlot you barely know.’
‘Now wait a minute, Thomas. I’ll not have you speak like that about her.’
‘What’s her name then?’
‘Kate.’
‘Kate who?’
Mick shrugged. ‘She’s a good girl,’ he muttered.
‘You’re a bloody eejit,’ Thomas said, this time with no accompanying grin. ‘This isn’t a game, Mick. After what happened back home, you’re a wanted man. When someone’s offering six guineas just for an address, then it’s serious business.’
‘Six guineas?’
‘I’m just surprised you’re still here. I’d be tempted myself with a sum as fine as that.’
Mick whistled as his brother flicked his cigarette stub away.
‘Now will you take a telling, Mick?’
Mick shrugged.
‘It’s maybe better that you get out of Glasgow for a while.’
‘But where will I go? I’ve already run away here and he’s found me.’
Thomas stopped and plunged his hands into his pockets. He glanced up and down the street.
‘I’ve got a friend in Liverpool. I’m sure he would help.’
‘But he’ll find me there, Thomas. He’s not stupid. I’d rather stay here and take my chances.’
Thomas shook his head and started walking away. Mick watched him for a few seconds but knew he’d catch his brother up soon enough. He ran along the street until they were shoulder to shoulder, and they continued walking in silence.
Mick understood Thomas meant well. Hadn’t he helped him when he’d first arrived in Glasgow, giving him a bed and some food for a few days until he’d managed to find work that would pay for a room of his own? Mick suspected his brother’s influence even there. A priest’s recommendation was a powerful incentive and if he’d also let it be known that Mick was his brother it would have set the seal on Mick’s success. Mind you, he still had to turn up every morning and wait to be picked out as one of the chosen few from the hundreds who scurried to the gates of whatever building site or factory was hiring that day, pushing his way past resentful mutterings when the foreman’s finger pointed to him.
He wasn’t afraid of hard work, which was just as well, since most of the time it was working on the roads. With a shovel in hand, they dug every day, shovelling dirt from one spot to another without ever seeming to get very far, but he could see from what others had done before them that progress would be made, that someone, somewhere, was in control, in possession of the plan they were all apparently following. Not that any of them particularly cared. As long as there were five shillings in a dirty brown envelope with his name scrawled on the front waiting for him every Friday lunchtime, then he’d dig from here to Timbuktu if necessary.
‘Mammy’s fine, if you’re thinking of asking,’ Thomas said.
‘You’ve heard from her?’
‘I got a letter from John McDonagh.’
‘So they’re safe?’
‘He wouldn’t say where, didn’t even mention their names, just in case the letter fell into the wrong hands, but they’re fine.’
‘He’s a good man.’
‘He is that.’
Thomas stopped at a corner and Mick realised they were back at his own street.
‘I need to be getting back,’ Thomas said, holding out his hand. Mick took it and the brothers shook firmly but affectionately.
‘So why did they come for you in the first place?’ Thomas asked. Mick smiled.
‘I knew it was killing you, wanting to ask again.’
‘Well, God loves a trier.’
‘It’s best you don’t know, Thomas.’
‘You keep saying that, but maybe I could help?’
Mick shook his head and pulled his hand away.
‘Look after yourself, Thomas.’
‘You, too. I mean it.’
Mick watched his brother cross the road, taking the deferential salute from a driver guiding his horse and cart along the road towards Glasgow Cross, and then he broke into a run towards the close, suddenly remembering Kate and hoping that, even if she was now dressed, her mind wouldn’t be fixed on staying that way.
A cluster of people huddled just inside the close, their murmurings instantly silenced when they saw Mick. Something was wrong. He bounded up the stairs two at a time until he was on the third-floor landing and then sprinted to his room where he saw that the door had been knocked clean off its hinges. The room was empty, the blanket sprawled across the floor. Mick picked it up and threw it back on the bed, then snatched it up again and tossed it over his shoulder as he noticed the stain on the mattress.
He dabbed his fingertip on it and held it up to his eye. It was blood. He spun round at the creak of a floorboard from the doorway. A woman stood, gripping her shawl tightly across her chest and peering nervously into the room.
‘There was a racket fit to wake the dead,’ she said. ‘Poor girl was screaming like a lunatic … well, until he knocked her senseless.’
‘Who? Did you see him?’
‘I kept my door locked, mister. I’ve got children. They were terrified. But I heard him. A voice like the devil himself,’ she said, making the sign of the cross.
Mick slumped down onto the bed and buried his head in his hands.
‘Kate,’ he muttered.
4
DOUBTING THOMAS
Thomas Costello traced a familiar route back towards the chapel house but it was not with the same purposeful stride that he had set out with an hour earlier. It made him smile to think of Mick still up to no good, though he could feel his face tingling with guilt as he thought of the naked woman in his brother’s bed. He was glad the darkness of the room had concealed his embarrassment, and he avoided the candlelight for much the same reason.
If truth be told, and he knew it would have to be when he made a full confession to Monsignor Dolan later in the day, he’d had to suppress the feeling of curiosity which surged through his body. No, it wasn’t curiosity, but he could hardly bring himself to acknowledge the truth. He was a priest, after all, a man of God, and impure thoughts were the sins of mere mortals.
He was never sure whether he ever really believed that, even back at seminary in Maynooth, when they had been warned of the temptations of the flesh. ‘The ways of the evil one are many and varied,’ Canon Barclay, their theology master had hissed. ‘He is a cunning adversary and you will have to be on your guard at all times.’
The old man would peer over the top of his spectacles, looking to catch the eye of the curious or spot the disinterested, the latter quickly brought back into line by a silver crucifix he always kept on his desk that would be thrown venomously and accurately at the temple. Blood was often spilt in his classroom.
‘A woman’s body is the vessel of the devil,’ Canon Barclay would declare in a harsh Cork brogue, running his tongue hungrily across coarse lips like he was remembering the taste of female flesh from the distant past, though Thomas would immediately ask God silently to forgive him for having doubted such an esteemed priest as Canon Barclay.
Thomas thought of his own mother. She was a good woman, devoted to the Church and her children, while enduring the penance of an alcoholic husband. He knew in his heart, even if it could not be said of any other woman in the world, that she was not the vessel of the devil. He knew better than to say it aloud, however. If there was one thing that vexed Canon Barclay more than a lack of concentration, it was dissent, disagreement or even curiosity.
They were there to become good priests of Holy Mother Church and that meant listening to him, not questioning him. Doubt was not a Catholic virtue, Canon Barclay believed. Obedience was, and that’s what he demanded of his students.
He thought of his former teacher again as he pulled his jacket lapels tightly together to shield against the early morning chill. God rest his angry soul, he thought, shuddering as he pictured the old man looking down on him with a shake of the head and a sharp ad
monition for the impure thoughts he no doubt knew Thomas was harbouring. Or maybe he is looking up at me, Thomas thought. ‘God forgive me,’ he muttered, but he still allowed a tiny smile to escape from the edges of his mouth.
He knew his eyes betrayed his true feelings back in the bedroom. He avoided looking directly at the woman, fearing she would guess right away. Perhaps she did anyway, but as he paced up and down the room, asking questions that he felt his position entitled him to, he’d snatch surreptitious glances at her bare shoulders that peeked out provocatively from underneath the blanket. He imagined what the rest of her looked like. If she simply dropped the cover or if he was so bold as to snatch it from her grasp he could have satisfied his curiosity. More likely, he would have struck a match to his simmering desire.
Thomas guessed Mick would have done just that, but he was not his brother. He fingered the collar round his neck, reminding himself of what he was, and always would be. The poor girl would probably have died of shock, he thought, and God knows what Mick would have done if he’d burst in on such a scene.
He had sought out his brother for a reason and the girl had merely been a distraction. O’Connor informed him about her last night. Thomas had hoped Mick would at least have shown a little bit more care and sense of self-preservation especially after the warning, but after O’Connor, who’d waited in the shadows until closing time at Haggerty’s, reported back to him that Michael hadn’t left the pub alone, Thomas realised he needed to speak to his brother face-to-face.
O’Connor could be an intimidating presence when he wanted to be. Certainly, Thomas was always uneasy when he met him although he’d never shown anything but the utmost respect for the priest, but whatever talents he had in that particular field were lost on Mick.
Thomas still wasn’t sure, even after his early morning visit to his brother, whether it had left the desired impact. He had exaggerated the sum being offered for information on Mick. The real amount had only been told to him second-hand in any case, but he guessed the larger figure might appeal to his brother’s vanity. And while he still didn’t know what had brought the soldiers to their mother’s cottage, Thomas knew from what Mick had told him that he’d made powerful enemies that day. His brother would be safer away from Glasgow. Hiding in a city as small as this, and with a fondness – or a weakness – for drink and women, was a recipe for disaster.
Thomas shook his head despairingly. He’d visit Mick again, maybe even as soon as this afternoon, though he realised it was probably better to let the younger man sober up a bit. The message might have a bit more resonance to a clear mind.
Up ahead a crowd of people, five or six-strong, huddled round the front of a building. Thomas started to cross the road to avoid them but one man noticed his presence, nudging another bystander who turned round. Someone else shouted, ‘Father! Father! Over here!’ and he had no choice but to continue on his path until he reached them. As he did so, they parted like the Red Sea to reveal an old man slumped against the tenement wall. He was rocking side to side but somehow managed to retain enough balance to avoid toppling over completely. A walking stick cut a lonely figure on the pavement, just out of reach of the old man, whose trousers wore the dark stain of an overflowing bladder. Thomas screwed his face up at the stench seeping from the frail body.
The old man coughed and spat out a mouthful of blood that turned the ground black. A wayward trail of red liquid that hadn’t managed to escape trickled down the side of his mouth but he appeared oblivious to its presence. Thomas crouched down, swallowing hard to settle his stomach, suddenly thrown into turmoil by the old man’s odour. He removed a snowy white handkerchief and ran it gently down the side of the old man’s face.
Thomas couldn’t help glancing at the hankie and then wished he hadn’t. He looked round, wanting to throw it away, but the old man coughed again and Thomas sprung to his feet, stepping back to avoid being hit by any of the debris. He leant over and thrust the small piece of cloth into the old man’s hand. He clutched it, moving his fingers over its surface like a blind man and the faintest flicker of gratefulness broke out across his lips. Either that or it was simply another glimpse of his pain.
He obviously realised what was in his palm as he moved his shaky hand up to his face and dragged the stained hankie across his mouth. Thomas noticed the old man’s hands were pale and bony, like death had already set in. He’d probably been lying in the street all night, though any sympathy was tempered by the smell of alcohol, which cloaked the old man like a dirty rag.
‘Bless me, Father…’ the old man mumbled and Thomas leant in closer to try and decipher what was being said. Another deathly cough escaped as the priest rummaged in his jacket pocket for his stole, draping the regal purple sash round his neck.
‘In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen,’ he said, making the sign of the cross over the old man, to which everyone else followed suit, with some going down on one knee beside him. As he muttered the prayers of the confessional, Thomas was aware of shuffling feet behind him and glancing over his shoulder he saw that the crowd had expanded. It was mostly men who had stopped on their way to work. Many of them had removed their caps and they stood, heads bowed; a few lips moved in silent prayer.
‘Is he dead?’ one man near the back of the crowd asked.
‘Not yet,’ another said, blessing himself, an action automatically imitated by those standing either side of him.
Thomas frowned and turned back to the old man, his wizened face now the same colour as his hands. The priest grasped one of those hands, surprised by the strength of the grip in response, but it was a short-lived burst of spirit and Thomas could feel the life draining out of the old man until his hand rested limply in his palm while the other still held the stained handkerchief.
‘Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum,’ Thomas began praying and the crowd, suddenly transformed into dawn mourners, silently listened as the mysterious Latin words which they would hear at Mass every Sunday without knowing what they meant, floated out across the cold Glasgow street.
‘Adveniat regnum tuum,’ murmured Thomas. ‘Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra. Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie, et dimitte nobis debita nostra sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris. Et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo. Amen.’
With a final sign of the cross over the old man’s body, Thomas stood up, his knees cracking in the sombre silence, a hand at his elbow to steady him. Thomas accepted the nods of the crowd as he slowly walked through them. His work was done here now, for what it was worth. If there was a soul to have been saved there, then he had done all he could have. Now the practicalities of death would take over and someone would be along with a horse and cart to scoop the old man off the street and away to a pauper’s grave unless a relative appeared to claim him, in which case Thomas might well get a knock on the chapel house door later, enquiring as to the availability of his professional services. He suspected, however, that the man had died unknown and all alone.
Now he was aware of a hunger rumbling in his stomach and he hastened his stride until the tip of St Alphonsus’ Church could be seen, licking his lips as he thought of the breakfast Mrs Breslin would prepare for him.
He sat nursing a mug of tea in his hands, staring into the dancing flames of the fire that Mrs Breslin had built up on his return. She had fussed like a devoted mother when he’d stepped back into the house, offering promises of food and warmth in one breath and then words of chastisement in the next for having been out on such a cold morning without his heavy coat.
Thomas could only smile and allow the housekeeper her say. She’d hung up his hat and jacket for him, insisting that he put on a jumper which she retrieved from his room, before ushering him into the front room and setting him down in the armchair nearest the fire, which was soon sparked into life.
As Mrs Breslin bent over the fire lighting the coals, Thomas had sneaked out to the bathroom without a word. He wan
ted to scrub the stench of death from his hands but even as he held them in the bowl he wasn’t convinced that the cold water was doing the job. He’d ask Mrs Breslin for some hot water later on, though he’d tell her it was to heat his flesh. The mention of death would arouse her curiosity and she’d plague him for details that she’d carry back to her own house later on. She might even know the old man and he didn’t want to take the chance in case she insisted on talking about it longer than would feel comfortable for him.
Mrs Breslin had a husband and several children of her own – five, he thought – yet she was at the chapel house every morning before seven and sometimes it felt like she never left. It was a labour of love for the church, he knew, but the wage redeemed from the weekly collection, meagre as it was, was probably just as appealing.
‘Are you looking for answers in the flames, Thomas?’
Thomas looked up as Monsignor Dolan stood in the doorway.
‘I was dreaming, Peter. I think I’d have been sleeping in another five minutes.’
‘Well, I’m sorry to have disturbed you then,’ Monsignor Dolan said, sitting down on the armchair opposite Thomas’s and holding his hands out in front of the fire, rubbing them together appreciatively.
‘Quite the early bird today?’
‘It’s been a rough morning,’ Thomas said. He explained about the old man, but mentioned nothing of his brother, while in the back of his mind he wondered how he could possibly unburden the sin of his impure thoughts to his fellow priest. He knew that the seal of secrecy in the confessional box would not be broken but he couldn’t see how it would do anything other than alter their relationship. What would the older man think of him? He couldn’t bear the thought of disdain or disgust creeping into the building, an unwelcome houseguest.
Peter was his boss, in this house and chapel at any rate. He was the parish priest of St Alphonsus’, as well as having the elevated title of ‘Monsignor’, so a modicum of deference was required. Thomas didn’t mind. He’d served under fiercer priests than Peter and, though never admitting it out loud, he actually liked his colleague.