Saints and Sinners

by Paul Cuddihy

  Peter was in his sixties, he guessed. They never spoke about such specifics as age, but Thomas has made an educated guess from what the parish priest had said regarding his studies, his contemporaries and when he arrived in Glasgow. He was a Wexford man, though he was just as fiercely proud of his adopted city as he was of his homeland. He’d been at St Alphonsus’ for as long as anyone could remember and though he could be a fierce orator, particularly when attacking the scourge of alcohol – despite his fondness for a late-night dram himself – and the evils of Protestantism, his parishioners had a fondness for the priest that Thomas envied.

  The older man sat back in his chair and crossed his legs, slipping a hand inside his jacket to retrieve a long, white envelope.

  ‘So what have you been up to?’ he asked as he handed the letter over. Thomas studied it, turning it back and forth, reading his own name on the front of it above the name of the church. When he flipped it over, he recognised the seal immediately. He stared up at Peter.

  ‘I know,’ said the parish priest. ‘And I’m not moving until I know what’s in that envelope.’

  Thomas studied the envelope nestling in his palm. He wasn’t sure if the handwriting was Archbishop Eyre’s. Probably not, he thought. It was more likely to be one of his staff, who would also have sealed it. He ran his fingertips over the seal, half expecting it to burn his flesh and then smiling at his own stupidity.

  ‘Are you not going to open it then?’ Peter asked impatiently.

  Thomas tugged at the envelope but, realising it needed a bit more coaxing to open, went over to the writing table in the corner and retrieved a paper knife. Its sharp blade slid effortlessly through the paper, leaving the seal intact. He took the letter out, discarding the envelope, and scanned it quickly. Peter sat where he was, ostensibly calm and disinterested, but Thomas knew that curiosity had gripped the older priest.

  To receive any correspondence from the Archbishop of Glasgow was rare and when it did arrive, it was always addressed to the parish priest. Indeed, there were times when Peter had examined the contents of a letter and not disclosed them to Thomas, and he was tempted to torment Peter in the same way.

  Now he re-read the letter more closely, ignoring the exaggerated coughs behind him. It was a short letter, only one sentence, and after reading it a few times, Thomas felt confident that he’d memorised it. The signature was Archbishop Eyre’s. He was sure of that. He vaguely recognised it from the letters that Peter had deigned to show him and it was different from the writing on the envelope.

  ‘He wants to see me,’ Thomas said, looking up.

  ‘When?’

  ‘This morning. Eleven o’clock.’

  ‘Today?’ Peter said, standing up with a frown. ‘Whatever can it be about?’

  Thomas shrugged. Peter was probably wondering if his assistant was about to get a promotion but Thomas was less sure. Such news was normally announced by letter or a visit from one of the Archbishop’s minions, but he was being summoned to the Cathedral. The prospect filled him with an instinctive sense of dread, though he would happily suppress it until it came time for the meeting, not least because it meant he could enjoy Peter tormenting himself as he imagined what rewards awaited the younger man. Thomas tried to smile but he was sure it looked more like a smirk. He had less than three hours until the meeting.

  5

  PENNIES FROM HEAVEN

  Mick Costello had a problem. How was he to find a man with ‘a voice like the devil himself’ in a city like Glasgow when it was full to the brim with wretched and damned souls round every corner, up every tenement close or propping up every bar between the Gallowgate and the Broomielaw? He would have liked time to quiz a few more people, perhaps uncover an eyewitness able to offer more than a terrified and exaggerated description of the man’s voice, but he didn’t want to stick around in case the police showed up. Someone was bound to have sent for them or word would have travelled fast to the London Road station, with a couple of officers perhaps already dispatched to investigate.

  The last thing Mick needed was any contact with the police. It might be all the man in black was waiting for and he’d find himself heading back to Ireland quicker than you could say a prayer to St Michael the Archangel, asking for his help to defeat Satan.

  Reluctantly, but with an urgency born out of necessity, Mick gathered up what few belongings were his and clambered over the broken door, heading quickly back down the three flights of stairs. Whoever had demolished the door was strong as an ox. It was a solid wooden structure that Kate had locked as well but it had been battered to the ground without ceremony, an impressive if intimidating feat of strength that gave Mick cause for real concern for probably the first time since he’d arrived in Glasgow.

  His brother had sent a warning the previous night and when that had been ignored, he delivered another one in person, but it was only with Kate’s abduction that Mick realised the danger he was in. What would have happened if he’d not been out with Thomas, if he’d still been lying in bed on top of Kate’s naked, sweating, warm body? Would he still be alive now to think of such a marvel?

  The man in black had obviously brought reinforcements with him, or acquired them on his arrival in Glasgow. He remembered the thin, spindly body who’d produced pathetic tears at the sight of his own blood on his hands, and he knew his pursuer had neither the physical nor mental strength to knock down the door.

  Mick was suddenly aware of the cold as he stepped out from the mouth of the close, looking up and down the street to see if anyone – the police – was approaching. He shivered and remembered his mother’s words from when he was much younger. ‘That’s someone walking over your grave, son,’ she would say with a nod of the head and the sign of the cross. He would always follow suit even though he never knew what she meant. He’d always been too afraid to ask but he knew now.

  He kept picturing Kate, the way her mouth wore a lop-sided grin as he lowered himself on top of her like it was his first time and she was going to give him the benefit of her vast experience; the sweet taste of her nipples, still lingering on his lips which he licked automatically. His fingertips tingled as they remembered running up and down her spine as she arched her back with every one of his hungry thrusts, the smooth texture interrupted by the callous scar she wore without complaint; gentle caressing of her wound only served to heighten her eagerness and her nails dug deep into his own flesh, urging him on.

  He wanted to go back to just one hour ago, when he had stood vigil over her, smoking, while she enjoyed a peaceful sleep. Or he could go further back to the pub and the warning his brother had sent him, which he would now have heeded. It might have deprived him of his night with Kate, but it would have saved her from a fate he did not even want to begin to imagine.

  Mick was momentarily paralysed, not knowing where to move, or even how to. The dawn wind, silent but deadly, snapped at his flesh, and he lit a cigarette with trembling fingers in the futile hope that some stray ripples of heat would wash over him. There was still a cluster of people on the pavement and one or two of the women eyed him suspiciously. He held their gaze until they looked away.

  ‘Did any of you see anything?’ he asked, blowing smoke in their direction.

  No one answered. One man began to edge closer to the entrance of the building and the rest seemed to be drawn along in his undertow.

  ‘I’ll make it worth your while if you did.’

  One of the women snorted, immediately taken aback at a noise she had hoped would have remained silent.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Mick said.

  The woman shook her head, refusing to speak even after Mick’s demands had become more insistent.

  ‘Talk is cheap, mister,’ the man nearest to the close said. ‘There’s only one thing loosens the tongue other than the drink round here and I haven’t seen any sparkling in your hand.’

  Mick’s free hand fumbled in his pockets but he knew he had nothing that would impress them enough to spe
ak, even though he had no idea whether anything he paid for would be at all useful in helping him start his search for Kate.

  ‘You’d have my thanks,’ he said. ‘And many would be glad to have Mick Costello’s gratitude to call on.’

  Now the man snorted and scratched his grey beard with scrawny, black fingers.

  ‘That’ll not put bread on the table,’ he said. ‘You’ll excuse me now for I’ve had enough of your blethering.’ And with that, he disappeared into the close. Mick finished his cigarette angrily, fighting the temptation to pursue the man and knock the insolence out of him.

  He was uncharacteristically restrained but at least it snapped him out of his inertia. Flicking the dying embers of his cigarette into the gutter, he turned and strode away from the group still standing in front of him. He had almost reached the end of the building when he heard urgent footsteps approaching. Balling his fists, he turned the corner and, once out of sight, spun round and planted himself firmly in the middle of the pavement, ready to punch whoever was in pursuit. And he was in the mood for a fight.

  When the young woman appeared round the side of the building, Mick was glad he wasn’t already swinging his arm because he would probably have killed her had he connected. She was no more than fourteen years old, probably the same age as his sister, Bridget. A dirty shawl was wrapped round her head but it couldn’t hide the ghostly pallor of her skin, stretched taut across her face. Dark eyes were sunk deep in their sockets, blinking furiously like they were adjusting to the daylight. Her cracked lips were covered with weeping sores and they moved slowly as she spoke, as if every word was a painful effort.

  ‘I saw him, mister,’ she mumbled.

  Mick had to lean in close to hear and she recoiled slightly.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, taking a step back.

  ‘He was big, so he was,’ she said, stretching her right arm up as high as it could go.

  ‘As tall as me?’

  ‘Bigger. He had to bend to go through the door.’

  ‘You saw him go into the room?’

  The girl nodded, glancing over either shoulder to check that the man wasn’t lurking nearby.

  ‘So where were you?’ said Mick.

  ‘On the landing above. He didn’t see me. I was on my way to work when I heard him stomping up the stairs so I stopped and waited.’

  The girl started coughing, the effort of so many words obviously a shock to a throat not used to so much exertion at the one time. Mick hesitated, not sure whether he should offer any help and ignorant as to what that help would be should she say yes. More likely, if he moved towards her again, she’d take fright and run away, so he waited until the coughing subsided.

  There were so many questions floating around his mind he didn’t know which one to blurt out first, but while he was still wrestling with his words, the girl started speaking again.

  ‘He pushed the door down like it was made of straw,’ she said with an awestruck shake of the head. ‘You should have heard the noise when it crashed onto the floor. Then the girl started screaming.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘I don’t know. I couldn’t see inside the room and I was too scared to go any closer in case he saw me. But I heard him, mister…’ she shivered and blessed herself.

  ‘What did he say?’

  The girl blessed herself again. ‘All he said was, “You can run but you can’t hide.”’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I don’t know, mister, but it was the way he said it. Honest to God, I nearly fainted when I heard that voice. I’ll never forget it,’ and she made another sign of the cross.

  Mick was no longer concentrating on the girl, his frown now focused on the words the man had said to Kate. He had no idea what it meant, if anything at all, but he knew that Kate was in danger, and it was all his fault. He didn’t even want to think about how much worse it might already be for her if they’d figured out how little she knew about him. Her potential usefulness was probably her only chance of survival, and he hoped without too much optimism that she realised this.

  The girl coughed again, a short, sharp burst to get his attention.

  ‘I better be getting back, mister. I’ll probably be late for work now.’

  ‘Oh, right. Thanks,’ Mick said, taking two penny coins from his pocket, the only money he had left in the world. He held them out to the girl who snatched them from his hand with the deftness of a fairground magician, the coins disappearing somewhere into the depths of her frugal clothing. She began to scurry away.

  ‘What colour was his hair?’ Mick shouted after her, desperate for one final piece of information.

  The girl stopped and looked back at him, shaking her head. ‘He didn’t have any.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘His head was bald and shiny like a freshly laid egg,’ she said, almost managing to push out a smile at the thought. She turned and disappeared round the corner, leaving Mick puzzled and penniless.

  He was too late to find work. He knew that even as he headed to familiar haunts, only to be greeted by locked gates, empty offices and the occasional apologetic shrug from foremen who were normally helpful. He needed money, that much was for sure, though having the day might help in the search for Kate, if only he knew where to begin. And being able to cross a few palms with even a penny or two might well provide the vital fragment of information that would lead him to her.

  Standing in the mouth of a random tenement, Mick lit another cigarette. He briefly considered asking his brother for help, but it was something he was reluctant to do. He knew that he’d get another lecture for free along with whatever money Thomas might be able to muster up for him and he’d had his fill of lectures, for one day at least.

  Still, thinking of his brother had given him an idea and he strode off in the direction of the Calton, briskly sprinting across the road ahead of an oncoming carriage, the driver’s abusive shouts as he reined in his horse only serving to make Mick smile.

  On another day there would have been cross words, flying fists, bloody noses; on another day he might have been flat on his back while a panting beast, the sweat steaming off its glistening coat, looked down at its handiwork with a disinterested air, just another dead body to be scooped up off Glasgow’s streets and deposited in a pauper’s grave without a single mourning tear to feed the mound of soil piled up on top of the cheap, wooden coffin.

  But Mick was now a man with a plan and the sooner he could hear his pockets jingle, the sooner he could begin asking questions.

  The door of St Mary’s Church was already slightly ajar when he pushed on it, the oak barrier creaking with the effort of swinging open. He shut it behind him and stood perfectly still, waiting to see whether the door had announced his presence to anyone already in the church. After a couple of minutes, when the only sound that could be heard was his own breathing, Mick ventured further into the building, walking gingerly and gently, eyes and ears alert for any sign of another presence.

  He’d snatched off his cap as he stepped into the church, dipping his finger in the holy water font and blessing himself as he passed it, like he was shuffling in to attend a long overdue Sunday morning Mass. But it was Thursday, the church was empty and he wasn’t here to say his prayers or listen to the incoherent, incomprehensible Latin mutterings of the priest.

  His boots seemed to land heavily on the wooden floor, each step sending a noise out ahead of him, bouncing off the walls and high roof like an endless echo, heralding his imminent arrival. He began walking on his toes, which succeeded in dulling the noise slightly, but he remained on edge, ready to drop to one knee at any moment like he was only here for quiet contemplation should he encounter anyone.

  A black box rested in the back row, the letters ‘SVDP’ scrawled across the front of it in white paint. Mick’s eyes quickly scanned round the rest of the church before he picked up the box and shook it. Silence. He cursed under his breath and put the box back down. Standing still, arms fold
ed, he tried to work out where the money would be kept, even as a thought nagged away at the back of the mind that the priests wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave such temptation lying around for any weak soul to succumb to. Certainly, they would know better than to hope in the good nature of man, not when there were so many hungry mouths and empty stomachs to fill, never mind thirsts to be quenched.

  A cursory check in the sacristy at the side of the altar confirmed Mick’s fears and trudging back through the church, his mind raced with thoughts as to where else he might get some money. It looked as though he would have to go, cap in hand, to his brother after all.

  The door of the church suddenly creaked and Mick automatically searched for somewhere to hide, slipping into the priest’s side of the confessional box that nestled unobtrusively down the left-hand aisle of the church. His door clicked gently as he closed it over and he sat down slowly, eager not to make any noise that would alert whoever was coming into the church.

  It might be one of the priests, in which case he’d look pretty foolish if they found him in here. At the very least he’d have to conjure up some sort of credible explanation for whoever stumbled upon him; if he was really unlucky, the police might be called and he’d already resolved to stay well away from their prying questions. Why hadn’t he just slipped into one of the rows, knelt down, bowed his head and moved his lips in silent prayer? He shook his head at his own stupidity, his blind panic.

  Yet, if it wasn’t a priest, it could be a kindred spirit, someone else with the same eye for money and the same diabolical inspiration as to how he could get some, in which case hiding in the confessional box didn’t seem like such a daft idea. The creature, no doubt desperate in his own way, the same as Mick had his personal reasons for wanting some money, would quickly discover that the St Vincent de Paul box only offered a false hope and he’d also head for the sacristy in the forlorn hope that the priests had deposited the previous Sunday’s collections casually in a cupboard, trusting in God and the goodness of humanity. Mick almost laughed out loud at his own naivety – and desperation – that had seen him search the room not five minutes before.