Saints and Sinners

by Paul Cuddihy

  Those battered bodies would enjoy the benefit of a day of rest, tomorrow being the Lord’s Day after all, before they’d be back on Monday morning to continue where they’d left off. The thought was a daunting one, Mick realised, but he had no choice. None of them did, and he was in no mood to feel sorry for himself, even if every bone in his body felt like it had been trampled underfoot by a thousand cattle.

  He stopped when he walked out the factory gate, still of a mind to resume his search for Kate, but knowing he’d have to clean up first, when a hand touched his shoulder. He glanced round as O’Rourke walked by, muttering, ‘Flaherty’s,’ with another wink. Mick licked his lips as all thoughts of Kate disappeared, already imagining the taste of whiskey on his tongue.

  They walked towards the football ground, six of them. He’d only known O’Rourke, but after a few drinks the rest of the men had started to seem like his oldest and dearest friends. If truth be told, Mick would rather have stayed in the pub but he was in a minority of one. Still, the plan was to head back to Flaherty’s after the game.

  Two more of the group were Galway men – Gallacher and Big Dan – though Mick hadn’t recognised either of them, while there was also Gerry from Derry, who was the most anxious to leave the pub.

  ‘Lateness is a sin, as my old mother used to say, God rest her soul,’ he kept piping up every few minutes until O’Rourke vowed to kick his ‘bony Derry arse all the way back to that bloody wall of yours’ if he didn’t shut up.

  The last of the group was also the quietest. Cahal was a Cork man with the strongest handshake Mick had ever had the misfortune to experience. He had to stop himself from frowning as the grip began to crush his own hand. Cahal grunted a greeting and that was the only sound Mick heard him utter in the pub. He stood with a pint of Guinness permanently poised at his lips, listening to the conversation that continued around him, though he contributed nothing to it. After a while, Mick forgot he was there.

  They walked through the graveyard – a short-cut Gallacher suggested but which unnerved Mick – and clambered over a wall, dropping down onto the ground and finding themselves in the middle of a crowd of men queuing noisily to get in through the one gate that seemed to be open.

  ‘We’ll miss the start of the match at this rate,’ Gerry said as he bobbed anxiously in and out of the line, looking to see if there was a gap he could scurry through.

  ‘Calm yourself down, man,’ Big Dan said. ‘When does anything happen at the start of the game anyway?’

  ‘That’s not the point,’ said Gerry. ‘What if they score and it’s the only goal of the game?’

  ‘If that happens I’ll eat my hat,’ Big Dan said.

  ‘You’ve got yourself a deal,’ Gerry said, spitting on his palm and holding his hand out.

  ‘And if it doesn’t, then you have to eat yours,’ Big Dan said with a laugh that was quickly drowned out by the rest of the audience who’d been listening. Gerry hastily pulled his hand away and began bobbing in and out again, this time in silence.

  The queue was moving fairly quickly, however, and after paying his penny entrance fee to a man who snatched the coin out of his hand without a word of thanks, throwing it into a dark green biscuit tin along with the many others, Mick found himself inside the ground. He followed his companions, though he felt his body drawn towards the noise of the crowd, which he soon saw was several hundred strong. He quickly realised that the volume of the roars seemed to rise and fall in time to the action on the field that was a patchwork quilt of mud, hay and just a glimmer of green from the tiny sections of grass that hadn’t succumbed to winter’s assault.

  The game might have excited the bulk of the crowd – even Cahal could be heard shouting ‘Give it to Madden!’ – but Mick had to admit it made no sense to him. He didn’t know who Madden was; he didn’t know who any of them were and it just seemed like a bunch of men wearing strange outfits, the likes of which he’d never seen before, charging round a field after a leather ball. O’Rourke stood at his left shoulder, occasionally whispering words of explanation, but while Mick nodded gratefully it didn’t make things any clearer.

  ‘Give it to Madden,’ Cahal cried out again and Mick looked round.

  ‘Does he ever shout anything else?’ he asked O’Rourke discreetly out the side of his mouth.

  ‘He says Madden’s a Cork man,’ O’Rourke offered by way of explanation. ‘Mind you, he was born in Dumbarton so I don’t know how he figures that one out.’

  Cahal glared at O’Rourke but said nothing.

  ‘I think he maybe lay with a Cork girl one time,’ said Big Dan, ‘but I don’t know if that counts.’

  The other men laughed but Cahal’s glare switched back to the field.

  Then the ball went through one of the sets of the white sticks that were planted at either end of the field and everyone around Mick cheered. Hats flew into the air and several hands heartily slapped his back.

  ‘That’s a goal for the Celtic,’ O’Rourke said. ‘Good old Peter Dowds.’

  Mick smiled and hoped the game would finish soon. He was keen to quench his thirst and was already imagining his first pint back in Flaherty’s when a brown paper bag was thrust into his hand.

  ‘This’ll keep you warm,’ Gallacher said.

  Mick put the bag to his mouth and took a gulp from the bottle inside, almost spitting it straight back out and coughing and spluttering, much to the amusement of his companions.

  ‘Not used to the old poteen then?’ Gallacher said with a shake of the head. ‘You’re letting the county down.’

  Mick handed the drink back to Gallacher, the liquid still burning the lining of his throat and he continued coughing for a few minutes more. He wanted a smoke but was afraid his mouth would go up in flames if he stuck a lit cigarette into it. He watched as Gallacher took a healthy gulp with barely any reaction at all and he stretched out a hand.

  ‘You want more then?’ Gallacher laughed as Mick nodded. ‘Are you sure you can handle it?’

  As he snatched the brown bag from his companion’s hand, a flash caught his eye and he looked round. It wasn’t light, however, which had stopped his second battle with Gallacher’s lethal liquid. Standing not more than twenty feet away, arms folded and leaning on one of the iron railings dotted around the ground, was a man who towered above everyone around him. He stood nodding at what he was watching on the field.

  A sudden wave of nausea gripped the pit of Mick’s stomach and it had nothing to do with the poteen. It was the sight of the man running his hand across a head that was as bald and shiny as a freshly laid egg.

  10

  THE FALLING MAN

  Celtic had scored another goal. There was more cheering and backslapping and caps flying everywhere, with most people happy enough to wear whatever landed nearest to them regardless of who the previous owner had been. Someone further back in the crowd started singing The Bold Fenian Men and soon many voices were joining in.

  Mick nudged O’Rourke, gently at first but soon with an urgency that was already gripping every bone in his body.

  ‘Who’s that?’ he asked.

  ‘Which one?’ O’Rourke said, his eyes scanning the field as the players resumed their competitive pursuit of the ball.

  ‘Him,’ Mick said, nodding towards the tall, bald man.

  O’Rourke looked round and then spun his head back to face Mick.

  ‘You don’t want to know,’ he said nervously. ‘And stop staring at him, you eejit.’

  Mick looked away, his gaze stopping restlessly once more on the game, though he still tried to watch the bald man out the corner of his eye. He was smoking now, though it seemed to Mick that he’d only taken a couple of draws before he’d completely destroyed the cigarette, flicking what remained callously into the crowd in front of him, yet no one turned round to complain. An arm stretched up from one of the men who stood around him and he snatched a lit cigarette from the hand, quickly devouring it as well.

  ‘Who is he?’ Mick said, nud
ging O’Rourke, who frowned at him.

  ‘Keep it down will you? Do you want to land us all in trouble?’

  Mick shook his head, but looked past O’Rourke towards the bald man again.

  ‘Alright, alright,’ O’Rourke said, glancing over either shoulder. ‘That’s Jack Duffy,’ he whispered so quietly that Mick had to lean in to hear. ‘That’s about as much as you want to know about him and even that is too much.’

  ‘So what does he do?’

  ‘Did your mother not dig the tatties out of those big Galway ears? I told you, you don’t want to know.’

  ‘But I need to. He’s taken something – someone…’

  ‘Well, don’t tell me,’ O’Rourke said, holding up his hand to stop Mick talking. ‘And if you’ve even got the sense you were born with, you’ll forget whatever it was, or whoever it was.’

  ‘I can look after myself.’

  O’Rourke shook his head with a sigh.

  ‘There are bad men and there are evil men,’ he whispered. ‘And then there is Jack Duffy. The devil would be shaking in his boots if he had to face him. Mind you, some people say he is the devil himself, and it wouldn’t surprise me, not one little bit.’

  Mick already knew that Duffy had a voice like the devil – at least that’s what two terrified women had told him – but now O’Rourke seemed to be quaking in his boots as well and Mick was of a mind to tell the foreman to pull himself together and start acting like a Galway man. He needed more information, however, so he stopped himself from saying anything.

  ‘Jack Duffy runs District 14,’ O’Rourke said without prompting. ‘You name it, he’s involved in it. Anyone who tries to stop him or challenge him … Well, none of them live to tell the tale. So take this warning, Costello, from one Galway man to another: if you want to live to see eighteen ninety-two, then you’ll turn away right now, start watching the game and say nothing more to a living soul about Jack Duffy.’

  The game had stopped. Mick thought it was finished – he hoped it was – but Big Dan pointed out that it was only half-time, following that up with an explanation when he saw a puzzled expression break out across Mick’s face. The players disappeared slowly into the pavilion, which stood in splendid isolation across from where they were. Enthusiastic applause followed them as they trotted off the field, while the stop in play seemed to herald a frenetic burst of smoking, white clouds bursting out from the crowd all round the ground. Mick joined in too, though he declined another gulp of Gallacher’s special brew, preferring instead the soothing caress of the tobacco on his throat.

  The rest of the group were discussing the game, though Cahal once again stood on the edge of the conversation, listening intently but making no contribution and Mick wondered whether, in fact, his shout for Madden was all that the Cork man was capable of uttering. He, of course, could contribute almost nothing himself since he still didn’t really understand what he had just witnessed. As far as he was concerned it would never catch on but he thought better than to voice these doubts in the middle of such enthusiasm.

  So he nodded and laughed and groaned at the appropriate moments, taking his lead from O’Rourke, and all the while keeping a discreet vigil over Duffy. Not that there was any chance of losing him in this crowd. He must have been about seven feet tall, thought Mick, because he was near six feet himself and he knew that if they stood toe to toe he’d be straining his neck to look up at the bald man.

  After ten minutes or so, the players began to drift back onto the field, the Celtic team in their green and white striped shirts appearing first, which sparked sporadic cheers around the ground. They were followed quickly by their opponents, Kilmarnock Athletic, whose blue shirts were greeted with casual indifference and a few half-hearted jeers.

  ‘Give it to Madden,’ Cahal shouted as soon as the game started again and Mick couldn’t help but grin.

  The game was only a few minutes old when Duffy stood up to his full height – he really was a giant, thought Mick – and began bounding through the crowd, which parted fearfully before him. He was heading towards the gate, followed by three or four men who scurried in his wake, struggling to keep up with his massive strides.

  Mick tapped O’Rourke on the shoulder. ‘I’ll be away now.’

  The foreman looked round as Duffy disappeared out the gate and shook his head.

  ‘I’ll see you on Monday,’ Mick said.

  ‘I hope so, you big eejit. I hope so.’

  If it had just been Duffy’s cronies he was following, then Mick would have had no problem tracking them, but they were losing ground with every passing stride and Mick realised he’d soon be upon them if he continued at the pace he’d set off on from the football park. He sprinted across the road until he was on the other side from the group of four, all of whom had slowed down simultaneously to light cigarettes, and he quickly passed them by without any of them noticing him. Now he could focus on the bald head which remained well in front of him.

  Duffy was heading back towards the centre of Glasgow, and given what O’Rourke had told him, Mick’s guess was that he was bound for District 14. It was a name that would send a shiver down any spine. It was home to beggars and thieves, prostitutes and pickpockets; men who would steal the shirt off your back and others who would cut you open for the price of a pint. God had long since abandoned District 14 to its hellish fate and the poor, forsaken souls who couldn’t escape their terrible existence endured it all in the dirtiest, dampest and most foul buildings that ever claimed to be called houses.

  Mick knew that many of those who stumbled off the boats after dragging themselves across the Irish Sea found themselves, through no fault of their own, in District 14 and once there, there was very little chance of a happy ending or even the hint of a better life which they had fled their homeland to find. And with someone like Duffy in charge of such a place, the only guarantee was a life of terror.

  Duffy had arrived at the crossroads, but he turned left when he should have headed straight on towards his home territory and Mick stepped up his own pace, occasionally breaking into a jog so that he didn’t lost sight of his quarry. By the time he reached the corner and got round it himself, the bald man was disappearing into a doorway at the far end of the street and Mick slowed down as he headed towards the last building in the row.

  He was almost out of breath, due mainly to the exertions of trailing Duffy, though he was nervous too now that he had a moment to think about what he was going to do. The truth was, he had no idea, other than go in the building. Whether he’d come back out alive was the big question and it wasn’t one that Mick was able to answer. He’d long since left Duffy’s companions behind, though he presumed they’d know where their boss was going and he expected them to arrive eventually. It meant that he would have to be quick and also hope that he’d catch the other man by surprise. Even allowing for that, however, there was no guarantee of success.

  For one final time he hesitated outside the entrance to the close which had swallowed Duffy. This was his last chance to escape, even if it meant abandoning all hope of finding Kate again, but a blast of guilt surged through his body. Hadn’t he been to blame for her abduction in the first place? And when they’d finished with Kate, they’d be back looking for him again.

  He leant on the empty cart that lay abandoned on the road and took a deep breath before almost stumbling up the stairs. He pushed open the door and stepped into a gloomy close, though a broken window at the far end of the passage cast enough light to guide the way for him. There were two doors, one on either side but he heard the groan of floorboards above him and he decided instinctively to head up the stairs, creeping as quietly as he could, all the while trying to calm his breathing and stifle the thunderous beating of his heart which he feared would announce his approach.

  Stopping at the first door he came to, he gripped the handle with his sweaty palm. It turned easily and he pushed the door open. It creaked as it swung back, destroying any chance of surprise he may have enjoyed
. The room was surprisingly light and Mick, whose eyes had adjusted to the gloom of the passageway, now had to cope with natural sunlight and he blinked furiously.

  A bed sat in the middle of the room, the cover crumpled untidily on it. Standing at the window was a black-haired girl. Her head was pressed against the grainy glass as she stared out into the street below and he could see the window misting over as her breath caressed the pane. She wore a flimsy yellow dress which hung lazily off her left shoulder, revealing some fresh wounds on her back.

  ‘I’ll be right with you,’ she mumbled, not looking round and Mick let the door gently fall shut.

  ‘Kate,’ he said in a trembling voice. She looked round. ‘Jesus,’ Mick gasped. ‘What happened to you?’

  He moved slowly towards her while she remained rooted to the spot, watching his approach through the one eye she could fully open. He noticed her left hand was heavily bandaged and when she saw him staring at it, she swiftly hid it behind her back. They stood face to face and suddenly Mick had no idea what to say. He had imagined rescuing her but he’d never got as far as trying to figure out any conversation they might have, and with Kate unwilling to speak, Mick felt it was up to him to break the silence.

  Words which usually fell out of his mouth like raindrops on a cloudy day had suddenly dried up and instead he leant closer to her and lightly kissed her closed eye.

  ‘That was beautiful.’

  Mick spun round, his body gripped with an overwhelming fear that he hadn’t anticipated. Duffy’s voice had breathed an icy chill all over the room and Mick sensed Kate’s body tensing as well. He wanted to clutch her good hand and squeeze it tightly, to let her know that everything would be okay and that he would look after her, making sure that no more harm would come to her, but he couldn’t move his own hand. He couldn’t move any part of his body, if truth be told, and even if he could have, his assurances to Kate would have been meaningless.

  Duffy stood at the doorway with his arms folded, not blinking as he kept the two of them in his gaze. Mick had to look away before glancing back at the bald man but only for a few seconds. He was aware of Kate brushing past him but he still couldn’t stop her.