by Paul Cuddihy
Thomas slid in beside her and squeezed her arm again – it was the third or fourth time he’d done so – and she found his touch gently reassuring though she sensed it was better not to say anything.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said quietly. ‘We’ll find him. You know what he’s like. He can look after himself.’
17
SUFFER IN SILENCE
Kate was sleeping. Thomas sat watching her shoulders gently rise and fall and her eyelids occasionally flicker like she was going to waken up. She’d probably get a fright if she did open her eyes and discover his silent vigil, yet he didn’t move. He wondered what she was dreaming about and hoped that it might involve him. They had returned to the chapel house in silence, a sense of defeat and despondency accompanying the cart on its weary journey away from Duffy’s street. Thomas wouldn’t look round at O’Connor but the guilt that was beginning to gnaw at his conscience made him constantly aware of the dead body.
The cart had delivered them safely home before continuing on its journey to deposit O’Connor at the morgue, though not before Thomas instructed the driver to let the authorities know where the funeral would be held. It was the least he could do, even though he didn’t know whether O’Connor had any family. He didn’t even know the man’s Christian name. It wasn’t that kind of friendship. It wasn’t any kind of friendship, if truth be told, but it was a convenient relationship that had often benefited the priest but which had now cost O’Connor his life.
It had started with some work in the chapel – the window in the sacristy needed fixing to stop the rain pouring through the cracks that had developed over the years; he didn’t know if O’Connor was a joiner to trade but he’d done a good job, even Monsignor Dolan was impressed – and he soon became a regular presence in the church, turning his hand to all sorts of odd jobs that suddenly seemed to spring up. But he also became Thomas’ eyes and ears in the parish and beyond, in the murky world of tenements and pubs where the priest feared to venture.
He had saved Kate’s life – and Mick’s too – and Thomas was torn between guilt and gratitude, though as he looked at the peaceful body now sleeping in the room, he remained thankful that O’Connor had intervened.
Kate’s face was buried deep in the pillow. Her eyes had closed and sleep embraced her almost as soon as her head dropped onto the bed. Thomas was envious, not least because he knew that sleep would put off his meeting with Monsignor Dolan that was looming ominously on the horizon.Yet, even when he did shut his eyes his mind remained alert, and he couldn’t resist looking again just to make sure Kate was still there. Not that she was going to go anywhere else. She was safe here, at least for today, though Thomas realised that he’d have to find somewhere else for her to stay now that Duffy knew where she was.
He stood up and shuffled over to the side of the bed. He leant in and tenderly pushed a strand of hair off her face that was threatening to drift into her eye. He wanted to move even closer and brush her cheek with his lips, the urge gripping him like a fever and he imagined kissing her, slowly at first and then with an urgency born out of years of frustration. He imagined her sighs, which would only make his passion even more frantic, his eyes remaining wide open, wanting to take in every tiny sign of pleasure that he could detect on her face.
Thomas stepped back with a jolt like someone had slapped him hard on the face and he stumbled to his seat, dropping onto it almost breathlessly like he’d just run a mile. Kate remained sleeping, oblivious to the body that had been hovering above her, and to the mind that harboured such lustful thoughts.
It felt like a sickness was eating away at his insides and there was a pain in his chest like he was having a heart attack. Every time he looked at her he wanted to kiss her or touch her; sometimes the urge to tell her how he felt was overwhelming and it was as if he was drowning. He’d gulp for air, trying to imagine what it would sound like if he actually pushed the words out of his mouth, but they seemed so ridiculous when they floated around in his head that he knew he’d never tell her.
But what if she felt the same way? The idea was enough to restore some sense of reality to his thinking and he felt like punching himself hard in the face, just to knock some sense into his mind. He was a priest and she was … well, she was with his brother and that really should have been the end of that.
He stood up quickly, realising that he needed to get out of the room, which was beginning to suffocate him. Yet, even as he opened the door there was a reluctance to leave. He stared at Kate for a few moments, silently mouthing, ‘I love you,’ part of him hoping that she’d wake up at that exact moment and catch him, but part of him terrified at such a prospect. He closed the door and walked slowly down the hallway, though the image of Kate sleeping in the bed followed him all the way into the church, where he sat praying for help – and forgiveness – until the dying embers of daylight had seeped away and he was just a shadowy figure in the darkened building.
He had almost finished the Glorious Mysteries – the Crowning of Our Blessed Lady as Queen of Heaven – when he heard a noise. At first he ignored it, presuming it was the building painfully contracting in the winter chill, but after a minute of silence, he heard another noise. It was coming from the hall. Thomas got up slowly, his natural instinct to avoid confrontation battling with his conscience, but he knew the latter would win out, since he had a duty to investigate what was going on. He walked towards the hall, sometimes on tiptoe, and then telling himself not to be so scared. He was a priest of this parish. This was his home and he had every right to be here.
He knew, even before he reached the hall and saw the faint light creeping out shyly from under the door, that it was Padraig’s room. That’s what he called it now, ridiculous though it sounded even to him. Thomas hesitated a few steps from the door, knowing that the easier option would be to turn and slip back into the church, or scurry up to his bedroom. He already felt nervous about spying on these people and was even more reluctant to find out what they were doing.
The click of the gun suddenly rang in his ears again and he shuddered. That made his mind up for him and he turned to head back the church. There was another click and he realised it wasn’t memories he was hearing. There were guns in the room again. The noise momentarily paralysed him and it was in those fleeting few seconds that the door opened, casting a wider trail of light across the hall which rushed towards him, capturing his frame in its glare.
‘Father, what are you doing here?’ It was Padraig’s voice, though Thomas didn’t immediately look up. When he did, he saw the man standing in the doorway, looking surprised and guilty like a child caught stealing from its mammy’s pockets. He was holding a wooden crate and Thomas spotted a few stray strands of straw sticking out the side of the lid. Padraig’s discomfort lasted just seconds, however, before he stepped forward.
‘This is a surprise,’ he said.
‘I heard a noise,’ said Thomas. ‘I didn’t know anyone was using the hall tonight.’
‘We’ll not be long, Father. We’ve just got a few things we need to move.’
‘Well, I’ll leave you to it then,’ Thomas said nervously.
‘Your help would be much appreciated, Father,’ said Padraig, thrusting the crate into Thomas’ arms, and he struggled at first to hold the heavy object. ‘More hands make idle work,’ Padraig said with a wink. ‘I’ll show you where it goes.’
He led the way to the main door of the hall, which he opened. Thomas didn’t know how he could have done that since there was only one key that was still part of the main bundle, but he thought better than to ask. A cart was parked outside the hall, with a couple of crates already loaded on the back. Denis Lyons, one of the men from the meetings, stood patting the horse and he looked startled when he saw Thomas appear through the door.
‘Don’t worry, Denis,’ said Padraig. ‘Father Costello has kindly agreed to give us a hand.’
Thomas smiled grimly at Denis, who nodded as the priest lowered the box gently onto the back of th
e cart and slid it alongside the other two.
‘Just a few more, Father, and then we’ll be off,’ said Padraig, opening the hall door and gesturing for Thomas to come back inside.
They walked in silence to the room, Padraig leading the way. There were at least a dozen crates stacked on the table and Dan Foley stood beside one opened crate, a hammer in one hand and a pistol in the other. He nearly dropped both of them when he saw Thomas. Padraig scurried over to his comrade, whispering a few words in his ear that Thomas couldn’t hear. Dan nodded reluctantly but Thomas could tell he wasn’t happy.
He frowned at the priest as he tucked the gun into the crate, stuffing it under some straw to conceal it. Then he placed a lid on top, quickly knocking a succession of nails into it until the crate was sealed.
‘It’s just a few Christmas presents for the boys back home,’ Padraig said as Thomas stared at the crates. ‘But we don’t want to spoil the surprise now, do we?’
‘Of course not,’ Thomas said as Dan grunted, and he knew the other man would have preferred to use one of the guns, or even the hammer, to guarantee Thomas’ silence.
‘We’ll keep this to ourselves, Father,’ Padraig said as he handed another crate to Thomas, who was more prepared for the weight this time. ‘Careless talk and all that…’
Thomas nodded.
‘After all, I’m sure the authorities would be interested in finding out everyone who’s involved, even those who are just lending a helping hand.’
The two men stared at each other before Thomas turned and shuffled slowly back through the hall towards the cart, burdened by his load as well as the guilt which was now weighing even heavier on his shoulders.
* * *
Monsignor Dolan wanted to see him. Thomas nervously trudged towards the sitting room where he knew the parish priest would be, no doubt having commandeered the armchair nearest the fire. It was a meeting he’d been expecting, and dreading, ever since Kate had burst into the room to demand his help in rescuing Mick. His anxiety had increased after what had happened with the crates and he could only pray that the other priest was so focused on what was happening in his house that he hadn’t noticed what was going on in the hall.
Whether the Monsignor had known about Kate’s presence or not – and it appeared that he had – now that she had emerged out of the shadows, he was left with no choice but to act, and Thomas knew Kate would have to leave. They still hadn’t found Mick either, and he sensed Duffy had been telling the truth when he denied knowing anything about it.
Thomas knocked gently on the door and waited for a grunt from within before pushing the door open and walking in.
Monsignor Dolan was standing in front of the fire, hands clasped behind his back, which was being caressed by the heat of the fire shimmering out into the room.
‘No need to be so formal, Thomas,’ the older man said with a smile. ‘This is your house as well. Sit down.’
As Thomas dropped slowly onto the chair furthest from the fire, Monsignor Dolan took a small bell from the mantelpiece and rang it. He’d barely put it back above the fire when Mrs Breslin appeared at the door.
‘A cup of tea would be lovely, Mrs Breslin’ the Monsignor said.
‘What about a wee sandwich as well?’ she asked.
‘Nothing for me … but maybe Thomas is hungry?’
‘No, I’m fine, Mrs Breslin. Tea’s fine for me.’
The housekeeper closed the door and Thomas stared out the window, anxious to avoid any eye contact with his fellow priest. He feared that the older man might read his thoughts and then he’d be in a whole lot more trouble than he was already; there was no chance of him confessing any of it either, regardless of the sanctity of the confessional box.
Monsignor Dolan sighed and sat down on the chair nearest the fire – his chair by virtue of superiority – and clasped his hands together. Thomas noticed for the first time that he played with his thumbs when he did this, both of them circling anxiously around each other. After a few minutes of unbearable silence for Thomas, the older man slapped his palms on his thighs.
‘Where do we start, Thomas? Where do we start?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Your brother?’
‘I’ve no idea where he is,’ Thomas said, shaking his head. ‘I don’t even know who took him.’ He couldn’t bring himself to explain about the man who’d pursued Mick from Ireland. It was just another secret to keep from Monsignor Dolan.
‘That is not good news,’ the parish priest said, joining his hands together and pressing them to his lips. ‘So what are you going to do now?’
‘I don’t know. Ask about and see if anyone’s heard anything, I suppose.’
‘Your man is dead, I hear.’
Thomas nodded as O’Connor’s crucified body suddenly appeared before his eyes. He clenched his fists, his fingertips running up and down his palms and trying to imagine the pain of them being pierced by a nail.
‘And the girl?’
‘She’s asleep now.’
‘She will have to go.’
‘I know.’
‘We can’t have anything that would embarrass the Church. That would never do. What would the Archbishop say?’
‘I know, Peter, and I’m very sorry. I wasn’t thinking … She’ll be gone by tomorrow morning.’
Monsignor Dolan coughed briefly as the door opened and Mrs Breslin appeared, a rattling tray of cups and saucers announcing her presence. She began laying everything out beside either chair, not looking up as the two men watched her, waiting until she’d gone back to the kitchen for the pot of tea before speaking again.
‘Mrs Breslin has a sister,’ the Monsignor said. ‘She’s on her own with two children since her husband died, God rest his soul.’
‘I didn’t know,’ Thomas said.
‘She has space in her house. The girl can stay there for just now, and she’ll be able to help with the children as well. Mrs Breslin will take her there tonight, after she’s finished here.’
‘I don’t know what to say, Peter. Thank you.’
Monsignor Dolan shook his head dismissively, stretching across to the table beside his chair and lifting up the cup and saucer, holding it ready for Mrs Breslin who re-emerged with the tea. She filled the cup slowly, conscious of not spilling any of the hot liquid onto the priest’s legs, only stopping when he nodded to indicate so. She repeated the task with Thomas’ cup and he muttered, ‘Thank you,’ as she took the pot away. Tiny spirals of steam floated up from the tea and Thomas blew at them, causing them to break up and disappear.
‘Thank you, Mrs Breslin,’ Monsignor Dolan said as the housekeeper left the room once more. ‘There’s nothing quite like a cup of tea, Thomas, is there?’
‘No.’
The parish priest sipped his tea in silent appreciation as Thomas watched him, grateful for his continued and uncharacteristic understanding, though he was beginning to think that he might have misjudged the older man. Thomas had tried to be discreet, secretive, even devious, hiding them downstairs in the guest room at the back of the house while Monsignor Dolan occupied the main bedroom upstairs, but the parish priest seemed to know everything, almost as soon as it happened. What if he could read minds, Thomas wondered, instantly dismissing the idea with an imperceptible shudder as he remembered the thoughts that were constantly running through his own head. Whatever the Monsignor’s secret was, and he suspected the information was probably served up to him along with his tea, he wasn’t going to ask, though it did make him wonder whether Padraig’s activities in the hall were as secret as Thomas believed. He was relieved, more than anything else, however, that Kate would have somewhere safe to stay because it was quite clear that Duffy was not going to let her get away. Hadn’t he told her that she could run but not hide? Well, hopefully, she would now be able to hide.
‘Right, now that’s sorted,’ Monsignor Dolan said as he put down his cup, his voice dragging Thomas back from his thoughts, ‘let’s see if we can’t fi
nd your brother. Now who do you think would snatch him off the street just like that?’
18
SINK OR SWIM
Mick closed his eyes and heard the water splash against the side of the ship, which rocked gently in the calm sea. It was a comforting sound and the movement of the vessel soothed him, like he was a baby being cradled in his mammy’s arms again. He could feel himself drifting off to sleep, though at the very moment he began to relax and move to make himself more comfortable, the chains which bound him to a damp, wooden pillar jolted his body back into position and he had to start all over again.
It would begin with an image of Kate running towards him, arms outstretched, her face lit up with joy, and he’d breathe in deeply, trying to recapture her smell though his nose would fill up with the odours that drifted over the deck – dampness and decay, sweat and salt, blood and brine. Overpowering all of these was the stench of death, hovering in the air, so thick that Mick felt he could taste it every time he opened his mouth and he’d gag like he was going to throw up. He had already been sick a few times, the evidence of which adorned the front of his torn shirt, but though his stomach was now empty his throat still insisted on trying to produce more debris.
He had lost all feeling in his left arm. They’d chained it to the pillar anyway, ignoring his agonised screams as they twisted it behind his back. He’d got a kick in the teeth to shut him up and his chin still throbbed where the toecap had connected. He couldn’t see his captors and they didn’t speak so he wasn’t even able to guess where they were from. He could smell them, however – it seemed like the only sense that was still working and, certainly, right now, it was the only one that was proving to have any use.