Saints and Sinners

by Paul Cuddihy

  ‘Kate.’

  ‘Miss Kate,’ the priest said, holding out a hand, which she took and let him guide her down from the cart. He stood aside and gestured for her to head into the house and he followed behind her as she moved unsteadily into the building.

  Mick was in a small room on the ground floor at the back of the chapel house. The men had put him down on the bed and when Kate and Thomas walked in, O’Connor was slicing his shirt open with a small knife. Thomas closed the curtains and lit the two candles on the table opposite the bed. An oppressive gloominess enveloped the room despite the feverish efforts of the candles to shed some light on proceedings.

  With an impressive delicacy and steady hand, O’Connor had cut Mick’s clothes away and was now pulling them off until the unconscious man was lying on the bed wearing only his underwear. There was blood and bruises and lumps where there shouldn’t have been and one of the men who’d carried Mick into the house draped a thin cover over him.

  When O’Connor and his two assistants left the room, Thomas followed them and Kate could hear the deep voices talking outside. After a few minutes, the priest reappeared and walked over to his brother. He stood studying the unconscious man for a few minutes before leaning over and gently pushing a stray strand of Mick’s brown hair off his forehead. It took all of Kate’s best efforts not to cry when she saw the gesture.

  Thomas asked her what had happened and she told him as best as she could, apologising for the gaps in her tale and aware of trying to speak properly to the priest. Slowly, and not without confusion, she managed to get him to understand that Mick hadn’t rescued her from his own pursuers, but from her demonic nightmare. When she explained about Mick’s miraculous survival after tumbling out of the window, she began laughing nervously.

  ‘It’s just as well I had O’Connor following him,’ Thomas said. ‘I knew that brother of mine wouldn’t be able to stay out of trouble, even after I warned him. We should thank God that both of you managed to escape. It’s that bloody guardian angel of his,’ Thomas said, and she’d looked up, startled.

  ‘Sorry,’ he muttered almost immediately, red flashes of embarrassment creeping out across his cheeks, and he looked away towards his brother. She followed his gaze and couldn’t help but think that the priest was telling the truth. Either that or he was just the luckiest man in the world. Whatever the reason, Mick was alive when he should have been dead.

  He was still sleeping, though she knew it was not a peaceful rest. He would groan suddenly and without warning but to Kate it sounded like the most beautiful song of a nightingale because it meant that he was breathing. His body would be aching, and it was as if tremors of pain were shaking it every few minutes. She wanted to do something – anything – to help, but didn’t know what that could be. A sense of helplessness was beginning to replace her relief and she stood up, groaning as a pain shot up her left arm.

  ‘I’ve sent for a doctor,’ Thomas said as Kate sat back down. ‘And we’ll get him to look at you as well.’

  She smiled gratefully, a smile that Thomas returned briefly before glancing back to his brother.

  ‘What happened to your hand?’ he asked without looking at her. She stared at the dirty bandage and shuddered as she imagined what might be underneath it. Duffy had stemmed the flow of blood and had actually left the bandage with her, though she’d had to wrap it herself. It still throbbed, often without provocation, and it only served to remind her of the disfigurement.

  He’d left the fingers with her as well – ‘Just so you don’t forget,’ he’d told her, though how was she ever going to be able to do that? Still, she had kicked the bloody digits out of sight anyway, while remaining aware that they still lurked in the blackness surrounding her. They would soon enough become an unexpected feast for the rats.

  There was a knock on the door and they both looked round. Thomas moved towards the door, opening it and speaking to the person on the other side – it was a woman’s voice – before closing it shut and returning to the room with a bowl of water in his hand.

  ‘The doctor will be here soon,’ he said, placing the bowl on the floor at the side of the bed. ‘We’ll need to clean him up first.’

  Thomas looked down on his brother and Kate followed his gaze. After a few moments she was aware that he was watching her. She could tell from his face what he wanted her to do, though he seemed nervous about asking her. She nodded knowingly and relief spread across his face. The priest waited for a few minutes, still watching Mick though he had stopped praying, and an awkward silence filled the room.

  ‘I’ll go and wait for the doctor,’ he said eventually as he stepped towards the door and she waited until he had closed it behind him before she turned her attention towards the bed.

  She slowly pulled back the cover, her fingers shaking nervously in her anxiousness to avoid hurting him. It was bloodstained and the outline of his battered body was clearly visible on the white material. Her eyes scanned his torso, trying to figure out where to start, but she was reluctant to begin. She’d never done anything like this before and she was scared; she wanted to help him, to soothe his pain, but she was worried it would hurt him more than help him. Mick groaned again, his face wearing a mask of pain, and it dragged her out of her dithering.

  She took the cloth and immersed it in the bowl of warm water. Squeezing it, she wiped his face, so delicately at first that it made no difference, but as she applied more force, the dried blood began to disappear and with each sighting of his cleansed flesh, she would leave a soft kiss – on his forehead, his cheeks, his chin and, finally his lips. She let her own lips rest on his and sighed with a trace of contentment she barely thought possible. Mick groaned again. It could have been her ears deceiving her but Kate was convinced there was less pain in that noise and she pressed her lips more heavily down on his.

  Once his face was clean, she began on his arms, performing the same ritual as before, first on his right arm until she was sure she’d kissed every inch of it, and then onto his left arm, though he flinched as soon as the cloth touched flesh, and she remembered what had happened when she’d leant on it. Looking at the limb, she should have realised because it was bent and broken out of shape from where Duffy had repeatedly crushed it and she wondered whether there would be much the doctor could do to heal it.

  After two or three attempts at cleaning it, she gave up, realising that it was only going to cause him more pain, and her attention turned to the rest of his body. Her cloth freshly rinsed, she began under his chin before her tongue caressed his Adam’s apple. It moved across his throat, tracing a faint line across his skin, before it reached his ear. As she nibbled the lobe, his head moved slightly and the briefest glimmer of a smile broke out from the edges of his mouth. Her tongue retraced its route across to the other ear, where she repeated the same action, provoking the same response.

  Now she began to wipe his chest, aware again of where Duffy had landed his heaviest blows. It rose and fell weakly as her fingers playfully toyed with his chest hairs before her lips caressed each of his nipples in turn. She wanted to rest her head on his torso but she was afraid the weight would only add to his agony, so she continued wiping the blood off his body.

  She could feel the jagged edges of his ribs and knew that was where he’d been kicked. She hoped that the doctor would be gentle when he carried out his own examination.

  When she reached his waist, she wiped round the edges of his underwear, before transferring her attention to his legs, beginning with his feet and working her way up until she met the material again. As the cloth ran up and down each leg in turn, she began humming a tune her mammy had sang to her when she was just a girl. It seemed like a lifetime ago but the words soon came flooding back to her much easier than the prayers she’d struggled to recall.

  ‘The pale moon was rising above the green mountains, the sun was declining beneath the blue sea; When I strayed with my love by the pure crystal fountain, that stands in the beautiful Vale of Tralee�
�’

  Her mammy had always seemed to be singing, no matter what she was doing, whether it was cooking or cleaning or sitting for five minutes in front of the stove in what was a rare break from the endless chores that piled up on top of her.

  Kate’s favourite time was just before bed, when she would wait in line behind her sisters, all of them freshly scrubbed and ready for bed. Each of them would sit on their mammy’s knee in turn, and she’d sing to them in a voice that sounded like an angel’s as she brushed their hair until it was smooth and shiny.

  ‘She was lovely and fair as the rose of the summer, yet ‘twas not her beauty alone that won me; Oh no, ‘twas the truth in her eyes ever dawning, that made me love Mary, the Rose of Tralee.’

  That was her mammy’s name and that was her song. She was beautiful, even after the years of hardship, the nine children she’d borne, of whom only six had survived beyond infancy.

  ‘You’re your mother’s daughter,’ people used to tell Kate and she’d blush, though secretly pleased with the compliment, which she treasured, while willing each day to pass quicker than the last so that she could grow older and more like her mammy.

  She ran her tongue along her swollen mouth, suddenly reminded of her own injuries, thankful there was no mirror to cast that image back at her. It certainly wouldn’t remind her of her mammy and she was glad that she had her memories of happier times.

  Satisfied that Mick’s body was clean, or at least as clean as it could be without causing him untold pain, Kate dropped the cloth into the basin and pulled the bloodstained cover over his body. She leant over and kissed him once more and then inched the cover back again. She moved his right arm, giving herself a tiny space on the edge of the bed and she slowly squeezed herself onto it, draping her right arm softly across his chest and letting her head rest on his arm which now acted as a pillow for her. She pressed closer to his body until she could feel its heat beginning to seep into hers and she smiled as she closed her eyes, kissed his chest one last time and let the exhaustion wash over her until she began to drift into the first contented sleep she’d enjoyed since the last time she’d lain with her Galway boy.

  13

  SECRETS AND LIES

  She stood before him as he sat on the edge of the bed. His hands were shaking and his heart was booming. She smiled as his nervous eyes watched her and she nodded as if to calm him. Her hands slowly stretched up and peeled the straps of her negligee off her shoulders. He stared at the bare flesh which slowly revealed itself as the garment slid silently down her body. She was as naked before him as he was to her. Her fingers ran through her black hair as she stretched and his eyes tried to memorise every inch of her. Stepping forward, she sat across his lap; his own flesh tingled as it touched hers and her body was so close to his that, as he breathed in deeply and anxiously, he could smell her aroma, like freshly picked apples. He looked up as she moved her face towards his and their lips met…

  Thomas woke with a start and glanced around him, though he knew he was alone in the church. He held out his trembling hand and he could feel his heart pounding. He breathed deeply, two or three times, trying to calm down, and then pushed himself off the kneeler and sat up.

  One minute he had been praying the Sorrowful Mysteries – the Crowning of Thorns – and the next he was dreaming of her. It wasn’t the first time it had happened and he worried that it wouldn’t be the last. At least before he’d been in bed and had woken suddenly, momentarily unaware of his surroundings, before his eyes adjusted to the dark and he realised that it wasn’t real; she wasn’t there with him, beside him, under him. Thomas shook his head and frowned. These were not the thoughts of a good priest and this was certainly not the place to be having them.

  The church was empty. This was normally Thomas’ favourite time, when it felt like his personal chapel, and he would kneel in silent prayer, sometimes for an hour or two. He prayed for his family, especially his mother and his brother and sisters back in Galway, though, in truth, the main focus of his prayers was actually Mick. It had been that way before his brother got into trouble and it was even more so now. Mick was still in the chapel house, a guest that Monsignor Dolan knew about but chose not to enquire of too deeply. His lack of curiosity surprised Thomas, but he was grateful for it nevertheless.

  ‘I will ask no questions, which means you will tell me no lies,’ Monsignor Dolan said.

  ‘Thank you, Peter,’ Thomas said. ‘It will only be for a few days.’

  ‘Discretion, Thomas. That is all I ask for,’ he said with a final nod before retiring to his own room.

  The girl also remained and the Monsignor asked even less about her, if only because he didn’t know of her presence. Thomas could think of no plausible or acceptable explanation that would appease the parish priest so, with the help of Mrs Breslin, he’d managed to keep her hidden from prying eyes.

  Kate. How many times each day did he say that name, out loud or in his head, the sound of which made his spirits soar? And when he saw her, his heart wanted to explode into a million tiny, painful pieces. He watched her when she tended his brother’s wounds, gently washing and drying and cleaning them and sometimes adding a gentle, soothing kiss. He smiled cautiously whenever she did so at him, pocketing each one to recall and savour later. He’d memorised every conversation they’d had, whether brief or not, replaying them in his mind over and over again. And when he slept he dreamt of her, picturing her naked body pressed close to his. The feeling of desire would almost suffocate him, at which point he would wake up, the desire instantly replaced by guilt and then confusion. He wasn’t supposed to feel like this. He wasn’t allowed. Yet, he couldn’t help it and he didn’t want it to stop.

  Dozing off in the church was taking it too far, however, and he knelt down and resumed his prayers, his own forgiveness now at the forefront of his thoughts, though he kept his eyes opened and focused on the crucified Christ on the wall behind the altar. He didn’t want to run the risk of falling asleep again. There were other things that he should have been concentrating on, though even as he tried to remember them, thoughts of Kate wouldn’t disappear.

  At this moment she was lying in bed with his brother, the two of them probably still sleeping. They had been when he’d gently pushed the door open and saw them, wrapped together, oblivious to his silent vigil. Mick was bruised and battered and she wasn’t much better. Her injured hand, freshly tended to and dressed properly by Doctor Hannah, lay across Mick’s bare chest.

  Thomas had stood outside the room when the doctor treated her, though her cries of pain seeped through the wooden door and pierced his heart, and he had to resist the urge to go in and hold her in a comforting embrace. That feeling had crept up on him and left him surprised and disorientated, but it had merely been a foretaste of what was to come.

  When the doctor emerged from the room, he wore a grave expression that Thomas recognised from when he was about to announce a death in a sombre, dispassionate tone, and he was instantly worried.

  ‘That is a bloody mess, if you’ll pardon the language, Father,’ the doctor said with a shake of the head.

  ‘Will she be okay?’ Thomas asked, desperately trying to disguise the concern in his voice.

  ‘She’ll be fine, no doubt about that, but she’ll never play the piano again,’ the doctor said with a grim chuckle, though any trace of a self-appreciative grin instantly disappeared when he saw the expression on Thomas’ face.

  ‘God forgive me, Father,’ he said.

  Thomas nodded disdainfully, gesturing with his head in the same movement towards the way out and the doctor quickly scurried away.

  The priest pressed his ear to the door. He could hear sniffles, the remnants of tears that had flown more freely not five minutes before, but it was not enough to justify his sudden entrance. He wanted to console her, but feared that if he stepped over the threshold at that moment, it would only lead to an awkward and embarrassing scene. After a couple of minutes, he slipped away, but she was never fa
r from his thoughts.

  Now, having finished his prayers, he made the sign of the cross, stood up and walked to the front of the aisle, genuflecting and then heading through a door at the side of the altar that led into the chapel house. He was tempted to check on the sleeping couple but headed instead for the dining room where Mrs Breslin would soon be serving dinner. He was eating alone tonight. Monsignor Dolan was visiting St Mary’s. It was a fortuitous visit, thought Thomas as he sat down at the table, breathing in deeply as he detected the odours of his food drifting through from the kitchen. There was another meeting in the hall tonight and the less the Monsignor knew about it, the better. He had decided against asking about Mick, but Thomas wasn’t so sure the same lack of curiosity would apply to the group of Irishmen who would soon be gathering in the parish.

  It had been Padraig Clarke who first approached him one Sunday after Mass. He hadn’t actually attended the service himself but he appeared as everyone poured out of the church, pushing against the tide of bodies as he made his way inside. Thomas was hanging up his surplice when there was a knock on the sacristy door and he turned to see Padraig, cap in hand, waiting at the doorway for an invitation to enter.

  The request to use the hall was brazen. Padraig had never, even for a moment, hesitated about revealing the name of the Irish Republican Brotherhood. It didn’t surprise or startle him, but Thomas still felt uneasy and he looked at Padraig, wondering for a brief moment if this was the last face he would stare at should his own intentions ever be discovered. The Brotherhood was a name he remembered from his childhood, whispered warily in public or boasted of loudly in private. They were fighting for ‘the cause’, and every shot fired in anger at a barracks or any pane of glass smashed at a police station was down to them. Even broken wheels on army carts or carriages were apparently the work of the Brotherhood. This is what he remembered from his daddy’s drunken lectures, that and the heavy slaps on the back of the head whenever he didn’t supply the right answer to questions that were often barely coherent.