Saints and Sinners

by Paul Cuddihy

  The man had plunged suddenly through the hole, startling Thomas, but he’d barely time to gather his thoughts, or for the guard to groan out in pain before Jerome was upon him, a brief flash of moonlight on steel enough to let Thomas know the man had a blade, which he used swiftly and to deadly effect. And even when he was being led, stumbling, towards the stairs, he couldn’t resist a ghoulish glance at the dead man, or his companion when they emerged on deck, though he wished he hadn’t succumbed to the temptation since their empty faces continued to haunt him.

  ‘Your brother is a traitor,’ Mister Walsh suddenly declared, though he did not look round. ‘A traitor to the Crown and it is my responsibility to ensure he pays for his treachery.’

  ‘Those are strong accusations to be making, Mister Walsh,’ Thomas said. ‘I presume you have the evidence to back it up?’

  Mister Walsh walked back to his chair and sat down, a lazy smile breaking out across his face.

  ‘I have the proof. I have the witnesses and I have the confession of one of his fellow traitors.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘It is a long story, Father, and one that is not for the faint-hearted. It is enough for you to know that what he did was serious enough for me to hunt him down to this God-forsaken city, if you’ll excuse me for saying.’

  Thomas nodded to show he wasn’t offended, though his mind was racing as he tried to imagine what it was that Mick had done. He would have to ask his brother yet again, and he wasn’t going to be put off with an answer as vague as Mister Walsh’s. It would mean having to go and see Mick, of course, which suddenly seemed an even riskier option, and Thomas was now convinced that someone would be following him if he left the chapel house. Not for the first time, he wished that O’Connor was still alive.

  ‘So how can I be of help, Mister Walsh?’

  ‘If he contacts you I want you to let me know.’

  ‘You want me to turn in my own brother?’

  Mister Walsh nodded. ‘There are lives which have to be accounted for and horrors that your brother and his friends in the Brotherhood are responsible for … things beyond your imagination.’

  Thomas could feel his face burning and his heart suddenly start racing at the mention of that word, which Walsh had spat out venomously. He hoped the other man hadn’t noticed the surprise that was now masking his face.

  ‘The Brotherhood?’ Thomas croaked.

  ‘I’m afraid your brother’s involved with some very bad people,’ said Walsh. ‘I can see you don’t believe me, but don’t be fooled by the romantic stories you might have heard about these people. I’ve seen what they’re capable of, and trust me, Father, it would change your opinion. You might think differently about your brother too.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘Too much, Father. Too much. I will leave it at that and bid you a good morning.’

  Both men stood up and Mister Walsh held out his hand again for another limp handshake. This time Thomas held the gaze of his visitor, though he still realised he had been the first to blink. It was as if the man had glass eyes.

  ‘Thank you for your time, Father. And, remember, if your brother gets in touch…’

  Thomas nodded as he ushered the man out the room, walking ahead of him until they reached the front door. Mister Walsh pushed his black hat firmly back on his head as he stepped outside, striding towards the carriage that had been waiting patiently for him while he’d been inside. Thomas didn’t wait for him to leave but immediately shut the door, turning round and coming face-to-face with Monsignor Dolan.

  ‘I think it’s time you and I had a chat, Thomas, don’t you think?’

  22

  THE NAME GAME

  Mick was worried that his presence might spark resentment amongst the other men, who would glare at him with silent fury, their own arms aching with the strain of work, backs bent painfully out of shape at the end of a long day’s toil. He knew he’d avoid all eye contact, embarrassed and slightly shameful that he could do so little when they did so much.

  ‘Don’t be an eejit,’ Thomas said when he voiced his reservations. ‘It’s not like you’re getting paid anyway.’

  ‘But they’ll think I’m just a waster.’

  Thomas laughed and shook his head.

  ‘Look at your arm,’ he said. ‘Everyone will see it and they’ll know what you can do and what you can’t … and I’ll have a word with the foreman as well, just to be on the safe side.’

  Kate was sitting beside Mick and squeezed his hand reassuringly as he frowned.

  ‘See, I told you Thomas would sort it out.’

  Mick kissed her, wanting to let his lips linger on hers, knowing he’d never tire of them no matter how many times he tasted them, but Kate pulled away, conscious of Thomas’ silent presence in the room.

  ‘Well, I suppose that’s okay then,’ he said with a shrug and now it was Thomas’ turn to frown.

  It had been his brother’s idea to find him work. He needed to get out of this house before his mind began to go or, more likely, his temper snapped. Mrs Breslin’s sister – Eileen – had been kind enough to put them up and for that he was grateful, but with only one room and kitchen for three adults and two children, it felt claustrophobic. Mick had whispered on more than one occasion to Kate that they needed to find somewhere else to stay.

  For one thing, there was little opportunity for the sort of intimacy they’d enjoyed in the chapel house. At times there, it had been possible to forget where they were and imagine instead they were living in their own house, where they could lie naked alongside each other every minute of every day if they wanted. In Eileen’s house, however, even their clumsy fumblings in the dark seemed out of place. They both imagined they were making enough noise to wake the dead and they sensed curious eyes trained on their mattress in the small alcove beside the kitchen, watching every movement.

  Mick wanted to be able to sit back in bed, his head resting against the wall, the cover pulled up to his waist, rogue specks of ash from his cigarette floating onto his bare chest and watch Kate glide towards him, his eyes taking in every inch of her body in all its glorious nakedness.

  ‘Working will help get your strength back up,’ Thomas had said. ‘And it’s just till I get word back from Liverpool that it’s safe for you to go there.’

  ‘But should I be out at all?’ Mick asked. ‘What if they’re waiting for me to show my face?’

  ‘They won’t expect you to work, especially not on a building site. They saw the state of your arm.’

  Mick had to admit that his brother made sense and the prospect of some fresh air amidst wide, open spaces was appealing enough. Kate would walk him there every morning and she’d be waiting for him when it was time to finish for the day.

  Thomas had also tried to press him for more information on what had happened in Ireland, but Mick would only smoke silently and sullenly until his brother eventually gave up with a frustrated sigh.

  * * *

  Mick wasn’t sure whether it was his physical condition – he still felt weak and fragile – or his mental anguish, but he was sure he was walking even slower than normal on the first day he was to report for work. He’d taken his time getting ready that morning, though his washing had only consisted of a cursory splash of water on his face. Before his imprisonment on the ship, he’d liked nothing better than to rest his face in a bowl of water – hot or cold – for a few minutes while it felt like the clear liquid seeped through his skin and he was ready to tackle the new day. Now, even the sight of water left him shuddering and he had to force himself into contact with it.

  His subtle reluctance to get to work wasn’t detected by Kate, however, who led the way with an enthusiasm Mick felt was out of place in the early morning haze they shuffled through along with other silent figures, most of whom were heading for their own place of work.

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ she whispered as they drew closer to where he would be working. Already he could see bodies gatherin
g in front of a man waving a sheet of paper in the air.

  ‘Just ask for Donnelly. He’s the foreman,’ Thomas had said. ‘He’ll see you alright.’

  Mick presumed the man with the paper was Donnelly. He was suddenly conscious of his injured limb concealed inside his coat, the left arm of the garment hanging limply at his side. He stopped and spun Kate round till she faced him. Leaning forward, he kissed her frantically and she responded in a similar fashion, only breaking free after a couple of minutes.

  ‘Let’s go back home,’ he said. ‘We’ll spend the day in bed.’

  ‘But Eileen and the kids will be there.’

  ‘What about the chapel house? We could go there. Thomas would let us.’

  ‘Indeed he would not. Your brother’s probably in enough trouble already for letting us stay in the first place without the two of us turning up on his doorstep again.’

  Mick sighed and Kate gently kissed his cheek.

  ‘Everything’s going to be fine,’ she said. ‘Thomas said he’d have a word for you.’

  ‘But what if he didn’t?’

  She kissed him again.

  ‘I trust your brother,’ she said. ‘He’s a man of his word. If he says he’ll help then that’s what he’ll do.’

  There was nothing else Mick could do or say. He would have to go to work.

  Work turned out to be a giant field of dirt and rubble and timber and shrubbery and every sort of debris imaginable.

  ‘We’re going to clear it all,’ Donnelly had explained to him after Mick had introduced himself, ‘every last bit of it, and then we’ll flatten it down so they can put the pitch on it.’

  Mick glanced over Donnelly’s shoulder.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ the foreman said. ‘We’ve already got a football ground. You’re right there, Mick, but the thieving landlords have hiked the rent up – ten times as much is what I’ve heard. Landlords are Ireland’s bloody curse and they’ve followed us here to Glasgow. So we’re going to build a new ground for the team to play at, one that we can call our own.’

  Mick remembered his visit to the other ground to watch a game of football and it made him shudder as he immediately thought of Duffy, picturing him holding court in the middle of the crowd.

  ‘So what do you want me to do?’ he asked Donnelly, glancing down at his arm with a shrug.

  ‘Well, you can start by handing out the shovels and we’ll take it from there.’

  Donnelly was a Kerry man, of that Mick would have bet his life on. He had hands that looked bigger than the shovels Mick stood beside, and his ears stuck out from the side of his head like a pair of wings. Mick couldn’t stop staring at them, even though he kept trying to look away, glancing up and down or left and right, but still his gaze returned to the ears. He presumed Donnelly was used to it because he never said anything or gave any indication that he was aware of Mick’s attention.

  There were already men at work, piling the dirt into barrows which, when filled to the brim, would be pushed slowly over to the carts at the far end of the field. The heavy load would then be guided carefully up a plank of wood and the contents tipped into the cart. Occasionally, a barrow would topple over before it reached the top, the air suddenly filled with a hundred angry curses as the unlucky worker began reloading the barrow with the spilled earth. When the cart was full, and Mick reckoned it took about twenty barrows to do so, a driver would snap the reins and the Shire horse would begin its slow and laborious journey to wherever the final resting place of the dirt would be before returning, ready to be filled again. There were three carts that were constantly being filled up, emptied and filled up again.

  As more men arrived to work, having first checked in with Donnelly, they were directed over to where Mick stood, smoking a cigarette and idly watching the exertions of everyone around him. He would hand each man a shovel, usually to be greeted with a nod or a grunt, and then they would join in the monotonous work. Thomas had explained to him that it was all volunteers who were helping, the word having spread quickly round the various East End parishes.

  ‘They all seem to like the Celtic,’ Thomas had said with a shrug, showing as much interest in the sport as his brother.

  ‘They must do if they’re working for nothing,’ Mick said. Normally he would have laughed off such an idea but in his physical state he didn’t think anyone would pay for his services.

  Once the pile of shovels had disappeared, Mick shuffled over to Donnelly who was scribbling furiously in a little black notebook.

  ‘Is there anything else to be done, Mister Donnelly?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll have something for you in five minutes,’ Donnelly muttered without glancing up from his notebook. Mick lit a cigarette and stood smoking, feeling awkward and useless at the same time, wishing that he was back home with Kate, even if it was in Eileen’s house.

  Eventually, Donnelly snapped his notebook shut, placed the pencil behind his ear and lit his own cigarette, blowing smoke in Mick’s direction.

  ‘Do you follow the football, son?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ said Mick.

  ‘You should now. It’s a grand game, so it is, and Celtic are a grand team. Do you not even like the Celtic?’

  ‘I watched them once, over there,’ Mick said, nodding towards the old ground.

  ‘This place will be something special when it’s finished,’ Donnelly said as they tramped across the field. Mick didn’t say anything and avoided looking at the foreman in case he could see the doubt in Mick’s eyes. The Kerry man was in full flight now, pointing out where the goalposts would be, and the pavilion, and where he would stand with his son for the first game after the ground was opened. Donnelly had a fine imagination, Mick thought, because whenever he looked around, he couldn’t picture any of the things the foreman was describing. They stopped beside two men who were on their knees digging furiously at the soil to loosen the bushes that were randomly dotted all over the field.

  ‘You think you can manage this?’ Donnelly asked and Mick immediately nodded, knowing that anything would be better than just handing out shovels. At least now, if the other men looked round, they would just see another worker on his hands and knees. Soon he was digging alongside the other two men, happy to be working at last and able to forget, for a few moments at least, that he was doing so with only one arm.

  ‘Denis Meehan,’ the older of the two men said with a nod after Mick had introduced himself. He looked at the other man, who kept his head bowed and was burrowing like a rabbit, puffing and panting in time with each thrust of his trowel.

  ‘That’s my brother, Joe,’ Denis said. ‘He doesn’t say much … Joe! JOE!’

  Joe looked up, startled.

  ‘This is Mick,’ Denis said and Joe stared vacantly for a moment at Mick before bowing his head again and resuming his work. Mick glanced at Denis, who shrugged.

  ‘He’s harmless,’ he said in a Donegal accent. ‘And he’ll do the work of two men, so he will.’

  ‘What happened to –’ Mick said, immediately stopping himself. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Don’t be worrying about it, Mick. That’s just the way God made him, but he’s a good boy,’ Denis said, giving his brother an affectionate punch on the arm which Joe didn’t appear to notice.

  Mick nodded and began digging, the three men now working silently, and he could see that Denis was right. Joe dug faster and deeper than the two of them and they seemed to be clearing the bushes with an impressive swiftness that Mick found invigorating. He realised after about fifteen minutes that he hadn’t thought about anything in particular – not his injured arm, nor the man in black or even Duffy. He smiled, seemingly content, though he immediately felt slightly guilty that this list included Kate.

  As he continued digging he tried to picture her, imagining what she would be doing at this very moment and hoping that she had him in her mind. They had spoken of Liverpool – she was set on going with him, and though he had explained the dangers it was
without conviction and with a secret joy in his heart.

  ‘There’s nothing to keep me here anyway,’ she said when he asked her if she’d miss the city. ‘And I’ve got as much reason to go as you.’

  He knew she was talking about Duffy and the name made him shudder again. He’d been lucky enough to escape with his life the last time he’d clashed with him, but Mick knew Duffy wasn’t the sort of man to accept defeat graciously and he still seemed to think he had some sort of claim on Kate.

  At half past ten, Donnelly blew a whistle, the sound of which floated shrilly out across the field, signalling a temporary halt to all the work. Shovels were dropped gratefully and noisily to the ground and the air was suddenly filled with a million tiny clouds as men sucked hungrily on their cigarettes. Mick stood up, stretching himself with a groan and Denis did the same. Joe remained kneeling, though he too had stopped digging. Denis lit two cigarettes and handed one to his brother, who snatched it and thrust it clumsily into his mouth. Denis nodded to Mick and they began walking over to where a group of men had gathered in front of a barrel of water.

  Mick gulped, feeling his heart begin to race, but he tried to quell the rising fear as they got closer to the barrel, realising that he’d look foolish if he said or did anything. He remained at arm’s length from the barrel, however, taking the cup quickly from the man who was doling out the water and then stepping away and turning his back on it. Denis had already finished his water and was on to his second cigarette, and he shuffled to the side to allow Mick to join the circle of men who were smoking and drinking.

  ‘They were back in the pub again last night,’ one of the men was saying in a gravely Belfast voice.

  ‘What for?’ asked another man.

  ‘I told you before,’ the Belfast man said.

  ‘No, you didn’t.’

  ‘I did so, O’Brien, you big daft Dublin eejit. We were talking about it yesterday.’

  ‘No, we weren’t,’ O’Brien muttered, but the nodding heads from the rest of the group indicated that he was wrong.