by Mick Hare
Andrew led Sean to a set of stairs at the rear of the building and down into a basement area. They entered a dimly lit room where Andrew called “Hello Gordon!” to an elderly man clad in blue overalls. “It’s only me, sneaking out the back way again.”
The man looked up from his Daily Mirror and called back.
“Not to worry, Mr Trubshaw, Sir. Your secret is safe with me.”
Andrew winked at Sean and led him across the basement. He stopped at a large furnace and, using an iron poker that lay beside it, he pulled open the door. The intense heat from the interior flowed out and washed over their faces. In the dancing glare, Andrew looked into Sean’s eyes. He took the recording from his pocket and held it up. Sean watched Andrew throw the recording into the furnace and heard its agonising crackle as it disintegrated.
It wasn’t until they were seated inside the cocktail bar of the Grosvenor Hotel in Victoria that Andrew explained his actions.
“Listen Sean, I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you’ve made this decision. I agree with you about Hitler’s Germany. I am positive that soon his bunch of gangsters will bring about war. Unfortunately, when that comes we will not be warring against a bunch of gangsters but against the whole might of the Wermacht. Our problem is we are a divided house. Every department of state is embroiled in a virtual civil war between the appeasers and those who have seen through the illusion of Nazism. You have been brutally honest with me and I credit you for that. But if the story of Frau Hahn fell into the wrong hands in my Ministry there are those who would see it as their duty to expose you. If, as you say, the woman died, they would find no difficulty in implicating you in her death. They would find a way of returning you to Germany as a criminal. They would see it as a marvellous way of proving to Hitler that they wanted to do legitimate business with him and his administration.”
Sean’s face fell into a sad grimace.
“I’m not proud of what happened.”
“No Sean, that is wrong. Those of us who have allowed reality to re-enter our lives know that the normal rules of law and civilisation no longer apply in Germany. It is because of Germany’s magnificent history and culture that so many of us are unable to believe the evidence of our own eyes. As I have said, your honesty does you credit, but it is dangerously naïve. No one else must know what you have told me today. If they did not have you extradited to Germany they would use it as a lever to pressurise you into doing their bidding whatever your own feelings might be.”
Sean drank his whisky down and called for another. The waiter replenished Andrew’s glass at the same time.
“Well I can’t go back to medicine, that’s for sure. Not after what I’ve done.”
“That’s exactly where you’re wrong,” interrupted Andrew. “Medicine is the very thing you’ve got to get into. You must get back to Trinity and finish your course there. In any case, you have only a few months validation to complete. Then we must get you away to a gentle practice somewhere out in the west of Ireland; somewhere where intermittent absences won’t be too alarming. But your occupation must exempt you from military service should Eire declare war on Germany alongside Britain when the time comes.”
“The country practice won’t be a problem. I’ve got one lined up.”
The men downed their whiskeys and Andrew called for two club sandwiches.
“Sean,” he began hesitantly after they had both finished eating, “I want you to know I do appreciate the extraordinary courage it has taken for you to make this decision. Some of us are not blind to the crimes of the past committed in the king’s name in Ireland. You and your kind are greatly admired in military circles for the tenacity of your campaign. I know this decision of yours has caused an intense struggle within your conscience and I recognise the morality of what you are doing.”
“Well, you may be right,” replied Sean thoughtfully, “but sometimes I think I really have no choice. Deep down I’m a fighting man, a soldier, and that’s all there is to it. All of this doctoring, studenting and rugby playing has been a vain attempt to deny the undeniable truth.”
“Well, if that’s the case,” said Andrew, “you’re exactly the man for us.”
There would come a day when Sean would look back upon this conversation with morbid regret. He would come to see it as the day when his whole life turned and led directly to the day of his greatest and most tragic loss.
After spending a week in Leicester with his other close friend, John Barberis, Sean returned to London to undergo his induction programme. Despite the best efforts of the department’s psychiatrists, no reason could be found to doubt Sean’s anti-Nazi convictions, nor his determination to work with his new masters to help engineer the downfall of that odious regime.
On completion of his induction he was sent back to Dublin where he would meet and marry Martha Grady, and quite soon become the father of her son.
Twenty
1940
Eamonn Brody stepped from the shadow of an ancient horse chestnut tree as Martha left the church with Conny. He noticed that she was heavily pregnant. Father O’ Shea was sitting in his room in the sacristy drinking a large glass of red wine. He was feeling drained, overpowered by his complex relationship with Martha and the intensity of feeling the proximity of the boy aroused. Whenever he spent time in her company her departure left him feeling like this. In another life she would be his ideal partner. He liked her. She made him feel good about himself. She made no secret of her admiration for him. She trusted him implicitly as her confessor. But he knew his desires led him elsewhere. Unspeakable desires that drew him to the very place that would make her abhor his very existence if ever she were to discover them and the deeds they drove him to. His self-abasement was disturbed by the scrape of a sole on the stone floor. He was startled and shot his glance over his shoulder to catch sight of Eamonn Brody entering the sacristy.
“Pardon me Father,” whispered Brody. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I see you’re having a wee sample of the altar wine. How about pouring a comradely glass for a poor pilgrim such as meself?”
O’Shea rose suddenly from his chair and approached Brody aggressively.
“Get out of this house of God you. You have no place…”
Before he could finish his sentence Brody had him by the throat and had slammed him against the wall. O’Shea banged his head on a coat hook and a splash of blood fell onto his white collar.
“Now don’t be getting preachy Father,” hissed Brody. “You might be the priest here but I’m still your senior officer.”
Brody released him and O’Shea slid to the floor.
“What do you want?”
“That’s more like it,” grinned Brody. “Your church walls are not thick enough. I heard that woman make her confession. She’s found something out about Sean Colquhoun that she doesn’t like. We need to know what it is. You’re the only man who can get that information.”
O’Shea dragged himself to his feet. “How do you expect me to do that?”
“A good father can find out most things.”
O’Shea looked as if he had taken another blow. His worst nightmare since being recruited to the IRA was coming to fruition.
Twenty-one
1926
Sixteen year old Brendan O’Shea had been sent to a Catholic seminary in Athlone. It was not long before he encountered a young priest who was happy to step into Father Haggerty’s shoes in Brendan’s life. Father O’Lally described their relations as “what men do together”. O’Lally was the youngest teacher priest and everybody wanted to be in his class. Brendan was lucky to have been allocated a place in the dormitory that O’Lally supervised as Housemaster.
O’Lally used a similar strategy with all of his boys. In his third week Brendan was invited to O’Lally’s room after seven o’clock mass in order to discuss his last written assignment. After a cup of tea and a brief explanation by Brendan of his academic efforts, O’Lally commenced to demolish the boy’s work. Manifesting impatienc
e and temper, he ridiculed Brendan’s essay until the boy was reduced to tears. It was then that O’Lally made his move. Embracing Brendan he whispered soothingly into his ear that he should not take this criticism so seriously. Then O’Lally was kissing his face and wiping away the tears. Brendan now knew what to expect and when O’Lally took him by the hand and led him to the bed, he followed without reluctance.
“We men know how to help one another. You and me are going to become best friends.”
And so they did.
It surprised no one when Brendan confirmed to his teachers that he felt he had a vocation for the priesthood. A vow of celibacy held no fears for Brendan. He knew he could never sustain a physical relationship with a woman. He would of course strive to battle and defeat his demons. But if he could not, he had the example of Father O’Lally to comfort him. Blessed father O’Lally had been humbled before his own demons, but he was revered by all and talked of as a saint. Surely he could not expect to aspire to greater holiness than such a godly man.
He caught a glimpse of the precipice his life was to be acted out upon during his third year in the seminary. One of the work experience roles allocated to him was the preparation of boys and girls for their first holy communion. This was in the local primary school not a five mile walk from his seminary. One afternoon as the children were leaving at the end of their instruction, a sweet young boy named Jimmy walked back into the chapel hall holding his knee and crying. He had fallen over and there was blood coming from the scrape on his knee.
“Lord save us!” exclaimed O’Shea. “Whatever’s happened to you, Jimmy McShane?”
“Laura pushed me over and I’ve scraped me knee.”
“Ah she’s the devil in her that wee Laura. Never mind Jimmy. Come over here and I’ll fix you up.”
As O’Shea washed the boy’s knee he felt a stirring within him. He felt it at first like a curse he had come to dread. But in a moment it transformed itself into an intense pleasure. His hand wandered above the boy’s knee and stroked his thigh. Before he knew himself he had slipped his hand inside the boy’s pants and was caressing him passionately.
“What are you doing, Father?” asked Jimmy.
In a breathless whisper he replied, “I’m making you better.”
“You are not,” yelled Jimmy. “You’re rubbing me johnny, that’s what you’re doing.”
And with that, little Jimmy lashed out with his fist and thumped the distracted Brendan on the lip. It caught between the tiny fist and his teeth and it split, spilling blood onto his chin. Jimmy pulled himself away and ran from the hall.
“Come back, Jimmy,” called O’Shea. But Jimmy had no intention of coming back. He ran straight home and told his big brother, Seamus what had happened.
Eighteen year old Seamus put down the sledgehammer he had been using to break stones for the wall he was repairing and set off for the church. He met O’Shea half way to the chapel and gave him a fierce beating.
When O’Shea got back to the seminary for supper he was bleeding and bruised, and on the advice of his mentor, to whom he had told his tale of an unprovoked vicious attack, he reported the assault to the police. Seamus McShane served nine months in Dublin Gaol and Jimmy was expelled from the first communion class and never took the sacrament.
O’Shea knew that his black garb had saved him. He also knew in his own mind that he had done nothing wrong and had not harmed the boy at all. He had no prescient knowledge of the jagged gorge his desires would plunge him into as he stepped out along his own personal precipice.
It was not long after this incident that he made a clumsy attempt to seduce a fellow student. The boy’s detailed complaint led to Brendan’s transfer to Rome to complete his studies. It had been during his first placement as a curate in Dublin that his chickens had come home to roost. He was serving in a parish just beyond Westland Row station in an area of slum housing. He resisted the temptations available to him in the primary school, the confession box, the communion classes and at altar boy training classes. He was reading and praying. It was in the years following the civil war and he was a fierce republican.
One evening he attended a play at the Abbey theatre, which opened up into a debate about the play and the issues of colonialism, republicanism and Irish socialism that the play had dealt with.
As he was preparing to leave, having thoroughly enjoyed this intellectual stimulation, he was approached by a face he vaguely recognised.
“O’Shea,” the man said, “I thought it was you. You don’t remember me, do you?”
O’Shea did not wish to be impolite. He knew the man’s face but could not remember his name or where he knew him from.
“It’s Dougal Lennihan. I was at primary school with you. We were both altar boys.”
O’Shea stopped his face from falling. His past always made him uncomfortable.
“Good God!” he exclaimed. “Lennihan. Yes I do remember you. You were in my class. I don’t remember you as an altar boy though.”
“I’m not surprised. I soon got out of that crowd when that bastard Haggerty tried to get his filthy paws on me. He tried getting his hand inside my pants once. He didn’t try again. Did he never try it on with you?”
“Not likely. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Lennihan paused and looked O’Shea up and down.
“I see you’ve found a vocation,” he said with a sneer.
“Yes, I have,” said O’Shea starting to feel embarrassed and hoping it wasn’t coming across as humility or piety.
“What brings a man of the cloth to an event like this? I thought the church stood outside of politics.”
Surprised and relieved by this swift change of topic, O’Shea responded with the enthusiasm the play and follow-up debate had engendered.
“Well the Church in Ireland has always been close to the state. ‘Church and State as one’ is how I like to think of it. Just because a man dresses in black, does not mean he has no political principles.”
“So you’re a patriot, are you?” asked Lennihan.
“I am that, and proud of it too.”
“Well there’s many a good precedent for you. Father Murphy led the men of Wexford and many a good priest has joined the movement.”
O’Shea immediately regretted his previous statement.
“Don’t get me wrong. I have no intention of joining any organisation other than Holy Mother Church. I am not politically active. I simply meant to state where my sympathies lie.”
A cold expression came into Lennihan’s eyes.
“Sympathy’s not much use to the patriots of Ireland. It’s action that’s got us where we are today. And now we need more of it. The priesthood is a crucial factor in the success of our movement. Friends of mine will be very disappointed to hear that you are not a man of action.”
“Well, I’m very sorry for that, but there it is. Saving souls is my calling.” O’Shea laughed with nervousness and relief as he found the courage to state his position and hopefully extricate himself from an unwanted, possibly dangerous entanglement.
But he laughed too soon. Lennihan leaned forward. He leaned so close that O’Shea could smell his dinner on his breath.
“Saving souls, you say,” breathed Lennihan into O’Shea’s ear. And I thought it was saving little boy’s arses that interested you most.”
Within a month O’Shea was a sworn-in member of the IRA with the honorary rank of Sergeant.
Twenty-two
1940
Sean Colquhoun was enjoying his life with Martha and Conny and their new baby daughter, Mary, in County Cork. He had an immense feeling of satisfaction following his recent successful mission as Doctor Bauer in Gerona and it intensified his feeling of well-being as country Doctor Colquhoun as he made his rural rounds to deliver babies, mend broken bones and treat his tuberculosis cases.