by Paul Cuddihy
‘That’s right,’ the woman shouted. ‘Run away now you’ve made a bloody nuisance of yourself. Typical man.’
‘Look, I said I was sorry.’
‘I’ve been walking these streets for an hour … an hour!’
‘I know,’ said Mick, suddenly aware of clomping hooves that were slowing down on the street behind him. He knew who it was without having to glance up and he thrust his head in the pram, hoping Walsh would think it was just an angry couple arguing over a crying baby.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ the woman screamed, grabbing his right shoulder to pull him away, her grip, which was surprisingly strong, sending a bolt of pain shooting through his body.
‘That’s my baby, so get your ugly head out of there.’
Mick looked up. Walsh sat on his horse, wearing the grin of a man who had finally got what he wanted. He glanced down the road and Mick followed his gaze, spying three guards approaching on foot. He looked along the other end of the road though he knew he’d never outrun Walsh and his horse.
‘I guess it’s all over now, Mick,’ he said, leaning forward. Mick shrugged as the woman looked round at Walsh, who was inching his horse ever closer to the pavement.
‘And keep that bloody beast away from my baby,’ she shouted, slapping the horse’s nose hard with the palm of her hand. The beast reared up on its hind legs and Walsh battled to calm it and remain in the saddle. Mick didn’t need a second invitation to start running, a stream of abuse from the woman ringing in his ears, along with the distressed braying of Walsh’s horse. Walsh was also shouting to the guards and Mick knew they’d already be chasing after him.
It didn’t take long before Mick could feel himself tiring. He was amazed he’d managed to keep going this long, and he knew it was only his determination to escape that had given him the strength to continue. But the beatings and torture his body had already endured was now beginning to tell and he was getting slower. It felt like he was running into a gale, even though there wasn’t a hint of wind in the air.
He sensed that the guards were gaining ground on him, and no doubt Walsh had regained control of his horse and had either rejoined the chase or was leading it again. He ran through groups of people, provoking angry shouts after barging into them, and raced across busy junctions without bothering to check for any oncoming traffic, thanking God whenever he managed to reach the other side of the road safely. He hurtled round a corner, almost losing his balance in the process, and headed for the first tenement, taking the stairs two at a time and disappearing into the mouth of the close. He kept bounding up the stairs until he’d reached the top landing, where he stopped, bending over, hands on his knees as he tried to regain his breath.
He’d run up a dead end but at least he’d given himself a few moments of respite and when his breathing started to calm down, he glanced out the window and into the back court where two small boys chased each other round and round the small patch of grass, dancing in and out of the bed sheets which someone in the building had hung up in the hope of drying them, though that would be a long process in the winter chill of the day.
Mick now started to walk slowly down the stairs, stopping just above the second landing and sitting down when he heard voices echoing up from the ground floor. It was the guards and they were searching for him. Someone must have pointed out where Mick had gone. They were knocking on the doors of each house, asking the same question each time – ‘Have you seen a man running into this close?’ – before barging into the house to search it, ignoring the angry protests of the occupants. Mick scurried back up to the top floor and looked out the window again. If he jumped out now, he’d be dead for sure. He glanced up at the attic hatch and realised it was his only hope.
Jumping onto the flimsy banister, he pushed at the hatch, which sprung open straight away, though it fell back down with a clatter. He did it again, managing to keep it open this time and, clutching the side of the hole with his hand, he slowly pulled himself up with his right arm and into the attic, quickly closing the hatch behind him, leaving himself in absolute darkness. He stood for a few seconds, trying to get a sense of where he was and hoping that his eyes would become accustomed to the gloominess, but there was not even a sliver of light to help him.
Slowly, he began inching his way across a wooden beam, stretching out his arm in the hope it would come into contact with something solid he could grip onto. After a few more nervous steps, his fingertips hit another beam, this one snaking down the side of the roof and Mick smiled as he grasped onto it, not caring if his hand picked up any skelves.
Feeling slightly more secure, he took another step forward and his foot missed the beam, plunging through the soft roof. There was a split second when it seemed like he was frozen to the spot and then his whole body plunged through the roof, landing with a deafening thud on the floor below, though he was momentarily hidden amidst the dust and debris which had followed his fall. As the cloud of dust cleared, Mick opened his eyes.
Standing in a steel bath in front of a fire, which looked warm and inviting, was a young woman. She was naked and Mick allowed his eyes a couple of seconds to take in the sight, appreciating every curve and smooth contour of her body before she started screaming, splashing frantically in the tub as her arms and legs tried desperately to offer some privacy, though they failed miserably. She was in her twenties and wore a scar across her belly that Mick guessed was done by a knife and he figured she was lucky to be alive after a wound like that.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said with a groan as the woman kept screaming. He could hear the heavy footsteps of the guards bounding up the wooden stairs towards the source of the noise and he tried to move. Nothing happened. He waited a few seconds and then tried again, slowly beginning to push himself onto his knees. He was still kneeling in front of the naked women when the guards burst into the room. There were worse sights he could feast his eyes on in his last few seconds as a free man, Mick thought with a smile as one of the guards strode towards him, swinging an arm in his direction and cracking his head with the butt of his rifle. Where before there had been breasts, now there was only darkness.
24
MURKY WATERS
Thomas needed to go to confession. It was a last resort but he hoped that absolution might bring him some relief from the guilt that was eating away at his heart and soul. He had woken even earlier than usual, and even with his eyes barely open and his body still languishing in that limbo between sleep and being fully awake, his first thought was of Kate. Her face danced before his eyes. He saw her smile and heard her laugh; when he breathed in deeply he could swear he smelt her. He smothered a pillow over his face and groaned. There was no respite from this.
At one point, his heart would soar whenever she came into his thoughts but it was beyond that stage. Now he tortured himself with the fact that he couldn’t have her. More than that, he just wanted to tell her how he felt. He knew, when he wasn’t trying to delude himself, that his feelings wouldn’t be reciprocated. She looked on him as Mick’s brother and, just as importantly, as a priest. The thought of having feelings for a priest would, he was sure, be horrifying to her. God knows how she’d react if she knew what feelings he harboured for her.
He held little hope that confession would provide the peace of mind he was looking for but in his desperate mental and emotional state, he was prepared to try anything. They hadn’t warned him about this at seminary. Stern priests had spoken of evil women, trying to tempt them as Eve had tempted Adam, warning them that they must resist the temptations of the flesh at all costs. How that was to be done was another matter, and one that was left unexplained, and Thomas was discovering to his cost that the power of prayer was having little effect. He was now pinning his hopes on the prospect of a fellow priest offering some words of wisdom, if not comfort, in the confessional box. More likely, it would be words of condemnation, but he was prepared to accept that as well.
He’d eventually decided against going to M
onsignor Dolan. Regardless of the parish priest’s discretion, and he had been gratefully surprised at the manner in which the Monsignor had handled everything so far, every man has his limits and Thomas suspected his confession would be well beyond that. So he’d decided to go to St. Mary’s. He knew the priests there, but he didn’t think they’d recognise his voice. For one thing, they wouldn’t be expecting him to make a confession, though just to be sure, he’d decided to hide his dog collar to avoid attracting any attention from priests or parishioners.
As he got dressed, he went over in his head what he was going to say, though he couldn’t quite find the words that properly explained how he felt. The truth was, he was in love with Kate, but his face burned brightly when he said it out loud. What would his confessor say? Thomas would have to offer some sort of explanation as to why this was a problem that needed to be unburdened, but he wasn’t going to admit to being a priest, so there was another lie straight off. Eventually, he decided he would just wait and see how he felt when he was there, putting his trust in God that he’d find the right words at the right time.
Thomas recognised the carriage straight away and instinctively slowed down. He stopped across the road from St Mary’s, standing at the corner of a tenement where he could watch the front of the church without detection. Suddenly he wasn’t sure whether it was a good idea to go to confession. Not that he wasn’t desperate to unburden his conscience, but he feared now that he might be identified.
Father Angus McNeill’s carriage sat outside the chapel house, the driver patting down the horse but continuing to glance every few minutes towards the front door, ready to spring into action if it should suddenly open. The Archbishop’s Chancellor was obviously on his parish visits, though the way the carriage was facing suggested that he would be heading back to the Cathedral. He hadn’t called in at St Alphonsus’ for a few weeks now, not since the meetings in the church hall had stopped, though Thomas knew that once they resumed the Highland priest would once again be on his doorstep, looking for more information to scurry back to the Archbishop with.
There would be no obvious explanation Thomas could offer if he was spotted now. He fingered the dog collar in his coat pocket and thought about slipping it back on, though he decided to wait and watch for Father McNeill’s departure before finally deciding what to do. He could imagine the discomfort among the priests of St Mary’s. It was the same in every parish of the diocese whenever Father McNeill paid a visit. His position brought with it obvious unpopularity. He had to do the Archbishop’s bidding and that could be an unpleasant task, while the Chancellor’s own personality, which was cold and aloof, did nothing to endear him to his colleagues. Finally, there was his nationality. He was Scottish, a minority within the teeming mass of Irish men, women and children who populated the city and its parishes. Just as significantly, he was a minority among his fellow priests, who were mostly from across the water.
Yet, even given all this, he still exuded an air of superiority that was silently tolerated by the rest of the clergy, the power of his office and the patronage of the Archbishop enough to protect him.
That wouldn’t last forever, thought Thomas, and he hoped he was there to see the day when Father McNeill finally got what was coming to him. He knew thoughts like that should also be confessed, but if he did make it as far as the confessional box, he would concentrate on the one sin – and the most serious one at that.
The door of the chapel house began to open and the driver immediately rushed over to the door of the carriage to hold it for the Chancellor. Thomas took a step back just to be sure no one could see him from the front of the church and almost bumped into an old man who was shuffling along the street, his hands gripping the lapels of his flimsy jacket to try and protect his body from the worst excesses of the bitter cold. He nodded at Thomas as he reached the corner and then headed down the street in the same direction as the church or, more likely, a pub. Thomas thought briefly of going after the man and offering him a few pennies but he decided against it as he looked over to the carriage.
Father McNeill was talking with another man who had his back to the priest. At one point whatever the man said was enough to amuse the Chancellor who threw back his head and let out a laugh that could have been heard six feet under. The other man nodded and held out his hand, which Father McNeill grasped, and they stood vigorously shaking hands before the priest stepped into his carriage.
The driver immediately closed the door and scuttled to the front of the carriage, jumping up and setting the horse on its way. The other man stood watching the carriage until it reached the end of the street then, clasping his hands behind his back, he turned and strode across the road, heading straight towards Thomas.
Thomas couldn’t believe what he was seeing and he blinked a couple of times. He also realised he had a choice to make because he didn’t want to be discovered. He began stepping back, glancing over either shoulder so as to avoid colliding with any other passers-by, while his mind was racing, even though there was really just once question to answer. Why was Father McNeill meeting with Mister Walsh?
Thomas made it to the other end of the street and had just stepped round the corner, his mind still in turmoil at what he’d witnessed, when he saw Kate walking towards him. She didn’t notice him at first but when she looked up and realised, she raced towards him. She was crying. Thomas stood as she ran straight into him, burying her head in his chest and wrapping her thin arms round his waist. He glanced around him, checking to see if anyone was watching and glad at the same time that he wasn’t wearing his dog collar. Slowly he moved his arms and embraced her, gently at first and then holding her tighter, his touch provoking more tears from Kate.
His chin was almost resting on the top of her head and every time he breathed in, he could savour the scent of fresh apples that seemed to follow him everywhere. God, what are you doing to me, he thought, even though he made no attempt to let her go or find out why she was crying. It was enough that she had turned to him for comfort, though at the back of his mind he was worried that someone would spot him and report back to Monsignor Dolan, leaving Thomas with a lot of explaining to do. He’d already tried to reassure him that the business with his brother would be resolved and wouldn’t land on his doorstep again, but trying to explain why he was embracing a woman, and in public, might be more difficult.
‘What’s wrong?’ he eventually asked, though Kate didn’t hear him at first. He took a small step back but still kept hold of her.
‘Kate, what’s happened?’
‘It’s Mick. He’s gone.’
Now Thomas did release her and in between sobs, she told him about Mick’s escape. Word of the fight had quickly spread through the East End and Kate had immediately headed out onto the streets, though she had no idea where she was going or what she was looking for. She just knew that she couldn’t have sat in Eileen’s house doing nothing.
Thomas glanced back round the corner, expecting to see Walsh almost upon them, but the street was empty. The man in black had disappeared. Kate’s sobs had subsided and though Thomas wanted to hold her again, he sensed the moment had passed. She was looking at him, waiting for him to say something, confident that he would have the right answers. He had helped find Mick before so why couldn’t he do so again? There was so much for him to take in, with his brother missing again and the man who had been hunting him now meeting up with the Chancellor of the diocese.
He hardly dare imagine what Mick was involved in, yet he knew it was serious because Walsh had pursued him from Ireland. So what did he want with Father McNeill? More than that, he needed to know exactly why they’d asked him to spy on the Brotherhood. That would mean confronting the Chancellor and he knew that would be a more difficult proposition, and one that would require some thought and planning. The Chancellor would be a difficult adversary. Thomas’ only advantage was that of surprise, since he’d stumbled upon the two men together, and he’d have to use that well when the time came.
/> Kate didn’t speak all the way back to the church, though he sensed she was desperate to ask him what he was going to do next. Perhaps she guessed that he didn’t actually know and it was better to harbour false hopes than to suffer the disappointment of his own admission of failure. The truth was, he had absolutely no idea what to do. Mick had enjoyed more luck than any man could fairly claim, and there would come a time when that luck would finally run out. Maybe it already had? He should have sent the two of them off to Liverpool right away without waiting for news that it was safe. It would have been easier for the two of them to hide out in a city where no one was looking for them. Glasgow had proved to be too small for them to remain there safely, but that realisation appeared to have come too late for Mick.
Thomas was angry with himself, though he tried not to let it show. He had suggested that Mick go out to work when he was sure his brother would rather have stayed at home, and that had obviously put him directly in the path of danger. He’d have to speak to Padraig and ask him to help again. He seemed to know a lot about what was going on in the city and Thomas hoped he was still grateful for using the hall. Or was it just that Padraig wanted to look after one of his own? Thomas’ fear, and it was one that he was never going to voice to Kate, was that Mick was already on a ship halfway across the Irish Sea to meet the hangman’s noose.
As they reached the chapel house, Thomas thought of Monsignor Dolan’s reaction to seeing Kate again. Ideally, he would have liked to leave her at Eileen’s but he knew that she would have refused if he had even suggested it. He was also secretly glad to have her alongside him and every now and then his thoughts drifted back to those few moments when they’d held each other, even if her motives were entirely different from his.
Standing outside the door, he suddenly realised that Kate’s hand had slipped into his. It was tiny and totally lost in his palm. He glanced at her but she stared ahead at the front door. He squeezed her hand and was sure he saw the faint traces of a nervous smile beginning to crack at the edges of her mouth.