by Paul Cuddihy
‘What the hell’s going on?’ the guard said. The man had barely managed to get the words out before a knife had glided across his bare neck. He immediately clutched it, gargling like a drowning man – the same sound that Mick had made in the barrel – and he sunk to his knees as blood began pouring out from the invisible wound, seeping through his fingers.
The hooded man turned his attention to the other guard, who was rooted to the spot, shocked at the suddenness of the attack on his partner. Seeing the man approaching with a knife, however, snapped him out of his daze. He stumbled back and then turned and ran, falling blindly into the gap that led to the hold below. Mick heard the crash as the body bounced down the stairs and landed on the floor, and there was a moment of silence before the man began to cry out in pain. Mick’s companion disappeared down the same hole and within a few seconds there was silence again.
Mick began trying to push himself up using only his right arm, all the time keeping an eye on the gurgling guard who had now slumped to the ground, unable to stem the flow of blood and probably aware that it was only a matter of minutes before he’d be dead. Mick managed to get back on his feet at the same time as the final sound eased out of the man’s mouth and he stood, trying to calm his own breath, staring at the dead body on the deck.
The hooded man had acted with impressive and chilling swiftness and Mick didn’t know whether to be relieved or scared. He was both, but the man had done it to save his life, so he was grateful for that at least. He felt no remorse for the guard lying at his feet, not after what had happened with the barrel. He watched as a pool of thick, purple liquid spread out across the deck and he took a couple of steps back so that his feet wouldn’t become immersed in the blood. He knew the other guard was lying at the bottom of the stairs in the hold, his throat cut just as swiftly and silently, and he briefly thought about blessing himself – old habits die hard – but then he remembered the barrel of water again and he decided against it.
Thomas was the first to emerge from the hold, followed by his hooded companion. His brother’s nose seemed to have spread out across his face and his eyes were screwed up, like he was staring intently at something – a Bible with extremely small print. The two brothers embraced, gently, while the guard’s body was dragged across the deck and pushed down into the hold where its fall was cushioned by the other dead guard. There was nothing any of them could do about the pool of blood in front of them or the trail that led to the hold.
‘Come on, we need to hurry,’ the hooded man said. ‘I don’t know who else is about.’
Mick and Thomas looked round and then nodded in perfect synchronicity. They followed the man until all three of them were safely on the dock. When they were back in the shadows, Mick found himself almost smothered by Kate’s embraces, while the hooded man quickly explained to Padraig what happened. He had barely finished speaking before he slipped away in the darkness without a word of goodbye, leaving his robe crumpled in a heap on the ground. Mick would have liked to thank him but he sensed it would have been an inappropriate gesture.
Kate hadn’t let go of Mick and he was grateful for her presence. It was too dark to stare into her eyes, both of which he noticed were now open, but every now and then, it seemed like they sparkled when a trace of moonlight drifted across them. She clung to his arm, trying to offer both support and comfort as Padraig led the way, slipping out of their hiding place and scurrying along the dock, quickly followed by Thomas with Mick and Kate lagging behind. Mick was forcing himself to keep going, though every step forward was a painful one. He knew, however, that they had to get away from the ship as quickly as possible, before the dead guards were discovered and the alarm was raised.
He thought they were heading back to the chapel house, and he was already imagining being in the same bed as before, with Kate snuggled in alongside him. Instead, they headed in a different direction until they came to a stop outside a tenement close.
‘Make sure he doesn’t go out again, Father,’ Padraig said. ‘They’ll be tearing down the city looking for him and I’m not sure they’ll waste any time sending him back to Ireland now.’
‘Thank you, Padraig,’ Thomas said, holding out his hand, which the other man clasped briefly but firmly. ‘Thanks for everything.’
‘Don’t mention it, Father,’ he said. ‘Just mind what I said.’
Padraig walked away down the street without any acknowledgement of Kate or Mick, and Mick watched the dark figure until it seemed to melt into the night and he was gone.
‘This’ll be safe for just now,’ Thomas said, regaining Mick’s attention and he turned to look at his brother. ‘Kate’s been staying here so it’ll be fine.’
‘I didn’t think anyone would find me,’ Mick mumbled, trying desperately to find the right words of gratitude.
Thomas nodded. ‘It must be that guardian angel of yours again,’ he said and Mick smiled.
‘I don’t care who it was,’ said Kate. ‘I’m just glad you’re safe.’
She stood up on tiptoes and gently kissed Mick. Thomas looked away.
‘You heard what Padraig said,’ he eventually muttered, and Mick and Kate broke off their lingering kiss.
‘I’ll not be going anywhere,’ Mick said. ‘I promise.’
‘You’ll be a wanted man in Glasgow now,’ the priest said. ‘And there will be a proper price on your head, what with two dead men to account for.’
Mick nodded, grateful for the comforting squeeze of his hand that Kate offered by way of support.
‘I told you, Thomas, I’m not going anywhere.’
‘Well, make sure you don’t. I think you’ve used up enough luck to last a hundred lifetimes.’
Mick nodded again and he began to inch back towards the mouth of the close, Kate still attached to his right arm.
‘I’m sure we’ll find something to occupy our time,’ he said with a wink to his brother and Kate let out a giggle.
‘Remember you’re staying under somebody else’s roof,’ Thomas said. ‘And it’s only a short-term arrangement, just as long as it takes for me to organise everything for you to get out of the city.’
‘What?’
‘You can’t stay here now, Mick, not after tonight. There are two dead men lying on that ship and someone will have to account for them. If you stay here, then that will surely be you.’
Mick gave a final nod as he and Kate climbed up the stairs and into the close. He heard his brother’s brisk footsteps growing fainter as he strode down the road and he knew that Thomas was right. To stay in Glasgow now would be madness. It would be like signing his own death warrant. Now all he had to do was persuade Kate to go with him, wherever that might be. He leant into her and kissed her roughly and frantically.
‘Did no one ever tell you that patience is a virtue, Mick Costello?’ she said with a laugh, and he didn’t want to tell her that he’d done it because he was scared – scared of what might happen to him, to them, and he was going to savour every single second of their time together. He also knew that if she wouldn’t leave Glasgow, then neither would he.
21
AN INSPECTOR CALLS
There was a gentle knock on his bedroom door which Thomas knew was Mrs Breslin but he lay back on the bed, feigning deafness and hoping the housekeeper would presume he was still sleeping and leave him be. It was a daily struggle to get up now and it seemed to only get harder with each passing day.
The Christmas celebrations in the parish had gone smoothly and Monsignor Dolan seemed to be in good spirits. Thomas had tried to avoid him as best he could even though it was difficult with them sharing the same house and, on occasion, the same altar, but even when they were together the conversation never once mentioned Mick or Kate. Thomas was permanently on edge, waiting for the older priest to enquire as to what had happened but he didn’t say anything. Thomas presumed that he was studiously avoiding the subject but occasionally he would pretend that the Monsignor had completely forgotten about it all. He knew that
wasn’t the case, and he wasn’t fooling himself for a second, but he was still grateful that his boss had so far decided against quizzing him because he didn’t know what he would say.
He hadn’t seen Padraig again since the night of Mick’s rescue. There hadn’t been another meeting in the hall, or indeed any other activity from the men of the Brotherhood as far as he was aware, and Thomas was grateful for that as well, though he was resolved to thank Padraig again next time he saw him. Mick owed his life to the man and Thomas wouldn’t forget it. He presumed that they’d put everything on hold, perhaps because of what had happened on the ship, though he hoped that it had ended permanently now that the crates had been taken away. He’d had enough deception to last a lifetime and he felt that the longer the Brotherhood used the hall, the more chance there was of Monsignor Dolan finding out about them.
Mrs Breslin knocked on the door again, this time slightly louder and with just a hint of urgency, which was entirely out of character. Thomas groaned and pushed himself up, swinging his legs across the bed until they hung over the side. He ran his hand through his hair and yawned. It had been another restless sleep and he wished he could crawl back under the covers, close his eyes and not wake up for a day at least. There was another knock on the door. Mrs Breslin was probably just going to ask him what he wanted for breakfast and he was tempted to shout, ‘Porridge!’ and see if that would send her scurrying back to the kitchen.
Thomas had also avoided going to see his brother. He was worried that he might lead the authorities straight to him and he’d never forgive himself if that happened. He knew, however, that there was another reason for staying away. Every time he imagined Kate with Mick, it was like a hand reached into his chest and grasped his heart, squeezing it until the pain became so unbearable that he wished he was dead. It would be a million times worse if he actually saw them together. The frustration was enough to make him want to cry, but he knew there was nothing he could do about it. Never mind that Mick was his brother and it would be a terrible thing if he suddenly declared his love for Kate. He was also a priest and that just wasn’t allowed. He kept reminding himself of that fact, though it had little effect on how he felt and he had a sense of not being in control of his own emotions, which left him feeling uneasy.
He knew the two of them were safe – he’d have heard news if Mick had been tracked down and captured – but he also knew that it wouldn’t last forever. He’d already made some discreet inquiries and he was hopeful that a priest friend in Liverpool would be able to help. That wouldn’t be a permanent arrangement either, since the hunt for Mick would eventually spread further afield when they couldn’t find him in Glasgow, but at least it might give him enough respite to recover physically from his ordeal. He didn’t know if Kate would go too – he presumed she would – and the thought of never seeing her again brought a fresh surge of pain that seemed to grip his whole body now.
The guilt that haunted him came in unexpected waves. He’d avoided any mention of it when Monsignor Dolan had heard his confession. The old man wouldn’t be able to say anything, the confessional seal making sure of that, but Thomas didn’t even like the idea of anyone else knowing his deepest thoughts and darkest secrets – well, apart from God and there was nothing he could do about that.
It actually made him smile when he tried to imagine what he’d have said to the Monsignor, knowing that whatever it was would leave both men embarrassed. The parish priest might have heard more confessions than he ever cared to remember in all the years since his ordination, but it was unlikely he’d ever have heard anything so scandalous from a fellow priest. God only knows what his penance would be for that confession, but he suspected it would be a lengthy one.
Yet, his sin was all in his mind. He had not actually done anything wrong. That was a mere technicality, of course, and Monsignor Dolan would be unlikely to be any more lenient just because he hadn’t committed any physical discretion.
Mrs Breslin knocked on the door again, three quick, angry thuds and Thomas stood up, shuffling across the room. He opened the door a fraction and popped his head round the frame – he didn’t want Mrs Breslin to see him in his nightshirt. The embarrassment would be too much for both of them.
‘Sorry to bother you, Father,’ she said, staring down at her feet.
‘It’s alright, Mrs Breslin. I was already awake.’
‘It’s just that Monsignor Dolan wants to see you.’
Thomas nodded. So this was the old man’s plan. Wait until he least expected it and then summon him for an interrogation. Well, let him wait, Thomas thought, though he could already feel his stomach beginning to churn. He’d not had to face the wrath of the Monsignor before, though he had witnessed it once or twice when it had been unleashed on other victims and it wasn’t a pleasant sight. He nodded at Mrs Breslin and began to close the door, but the housekeeper didn’t move.
‘It’s just that … well, Father. He says you’ve to come straight away.’
‘Why, what’s the matter?’
‘I don’t know, Father, but there’s a gentleman in with the Monsignor who’s waiting for you.’
‘A gentleman?’
‘Yes. I think his name is Mister Walsh. A small man, dressed all in black. He’s got a squinty nose. Do you know him?’
Thomas shook his head.
‘Tell Monsignor Dolan I’ll be down in two minutes,’ he said, shutting the door without waiting to see if the housekeeper left with his message.
He quickly slipped off his nightshirt and began grabbing the various items of clothing he needed, not even taking the time to wash, which was usually always an essential part of his daily routine. His mind was racing. He’d heard that name and he felt sick, worse than any time he tried to imagine Monsignor Dolan’s possible anger. It was the name his hooded companion had used to get them on the ship and now he was here in the chapel house. As he slipped his jacket on, Thomas tried to figure out what he would say, though without knowing what the questions would be it was near impossible. Stay calm, he told himself as he bounded down the stairs, stopping outside the drawing room and quickly blessing himself before opening the door.
Mister Walsh was sitting in the armchair Thomas normally used, a black hat lying at his feet, while Monsignor Dolan stood at the window, hands clasped behind his back. As soon as he saw Thomas, he moved forward and made the formal introductions, with the visitor standing up and holding out a hand that Thomas shook. The man had a weak grip and his palm was sweaty. His eyes, however, displayed a steely resolve and Thomas had to look away from the unblinking stare, turning his attention to the Monsignor.
‘Mister Walsh would like to ask you a few questions, Thomas,’ Monsignor Dolan said. ‘If that’s okay with you?’
‘That’s fine,’ Thomas said in what he hoped was a steady voice. ‘What about?’
‘Well, that’s my cue to leave,’ the Monsignor said. ‘I believe this is a private matter, Mister Walsh?’
The visitor nodded.
‘I’ll be in my room if you need me for anything.’
‘Thank you, Monsignor,’ Mister Walsh said as the parish priest slipped quietly out of the room.
‘Sit down, Father,’ Mister Walsh said, dropping back onto the chair and nodding towards Monsignor Dolan’s armchair near the fire. Thomas perched himself nervously on the edge of the seat.
‘So how can I help you, Mister Walsh?’
‘I’m looking for your brother.’
‘My brother?’
‘Your brother is Michael Costello?’ Thomas nodded.
‘I’m sorry to tell you this, Father, but he is a wanted man.’
‘He is?’
‘Here and in Ireland.’
Thomas sat back in the chair, trying to look more relaxed even though his heart was racing and he felt Mister Walsh could smell the nervousness seeping out of every pore.
‘Why, what’s he done?’
Mister Walsh sighed. ‘I am here to take him back to Ireland for the crimes
he committed there, crimes for which, I’m afraid to tell you, he will pay for with his life. I had him already but he has escaped, helped by friends he has in this city. Unfortunately, that came at a cost, Father, and two of my men are now dead. And someone will have to pay for that as well.’
‘You think my brother … you think he killed them?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘There are already lives he has to account for back in Ireland. These will merely be added to the charges.’
‘I can’t believe it, Mister Walsh. I know my brother and I know he’s not a killer,’ Thomas said, hoping his face hadn’t started to glow.
Mister Walsh stood up and walked purposefully over to the window, staring out and shaking his head.
‘How many of us really know our own family, Father?’ he said, turning round to face the priest. Thomas shrugged.
‘Your brother is a tricky character. I thought I had him in Ireland and he slipped through my grasp. Then I did have him here and, again, he’s gone. But I need to find him, and I will.’
Thomas watched Mister Walsh, who had resumed his gaze out of the window, clocking every passer-by with casual interest. He was dressed all in black and he knew for sure this was the man who’d been offering money to find Mick. From his questions, however, it was obvious that he didn’t suspect Thomas’ involvement in Mick’s escape or worse, any part in the killings, and why would he? He was a Catholic priest after all, a man of the cloth, a respected member of the community, and he would not have been a part of any rescue which resulted in the murder of two men.
Yet, whenever Thomas closed his eyes, he saw the two dead guards. It had looked at first as though they were just sleeping but both of them wore slim wounds across their throats like crimson necklaces from which continued to seep blood even though both of them had long since breathed their last. Thomas had watched from his chair in the hold of the ship as Brother Jerome dispatched the guard to meet his maker.