by Mick Hare
The intensity of his reunion with Martha had been spectacular. They had recaptured all of the physical passion that had burst into life at the beginning of their relationship. The fact that it had waned slightly over the months since his return did not trouble him at all. He smiled to himself at the thought that he would have needed to be super human to keep it up at the pace they had set in the first few weeks of his return.
He had no idea that Martha’s cooling had nothing to do with exhaustion and everything to do with her discovery of his file containing false identities. Her growing reluctance to be intimate with him was a withdrawal from this man who deceived her by omission. He omitted to tell her what he was involved in; what risks he was taking. Her anger and annoyance were driven by a feeling that her husband could not trust her. To be kept out of this crucial part of Sean’s life was to be slapped in the face. She could only grow colder towards this man. Although her mood grew into an almost permanent sulk, she maintained civility and was as responsive as she could be when he made love to her. Because she had not immediately confronted him on discovering his file, she felt unable to subsequently. It was as if she had been deceitful by not admitting to her discovery at once. She determined she could not now raise the issue with Sean. He would have to come clean about his secret life of his own volition.
In the meantime she sought solace in the confessional. Gradually she found it possible to reveal more and more details about Sean to O’Shea. Each time she revealed a little more it was no great thing. But each item added up to a bigger picture. Whilst Martha was secure in the sanctity of the confessional, O’Shea was feeding back everything he knew to Eamonn Brody. Soon Martha had told them of his absences and the identities he had adopted. Pretty soon it was clear he was active for the British Secret Service in their fight against Nazism.
Brody delivered all of his information to High Command South West and argued that any active officer of the British Government was an enemy of Irish nationalism and must be eliminated.
Amongst those on the High Command there were those who remembered Sean’s active service during the Anglo-Irish war and harboured a deep reluctance to eliminate a former comrade; a particularly courageous one at that. They ordered Brody to bring back some more compelling evidence before they would issue the order to take out Sean Colquhoun. Annoyed, but not defeated, Brody headed off to County Cork and the company of Father O’Shea.
Stepping off the train at the village station outside Cobh, Brody hired a trap to take him up to the church. As they trotted along he ignored the stubbly old driver who chatted in Gaelic about the price of bread and whisky and the state of the world. He paid particular attention to the doctor’s house as they sailed past and caught a glimpse of a tall, straight-backed woman astride a fine stallion, just turning her mount into the field at the rear of the cottage and urging the steed to an increasing canter out of it. Martha Colquhoun was out for a gallop along the cliffs. If Brody wondered for a moment who might be looking after the baby and the boy, he might have guessed the maid that the Colquhoun’s could afford on a Doctor’s salary. But on arriving at the church he would discover that Martha entrusted her son into the care of her priest.
At first Brody thought he must have arrived at a bad time. The church seemed empty, with no sign of activity. Reluctant to have wasted a journey he wandered up the centre aisle, automatically going through the rituals of blessing himself with holy water and genuflecting before the altar. Even in the sacristy there was no sign of any one and he was just about to leave when he heard what he thought was a gasp of breath and a faint knocking sound like a table on a wall. It came from beyond the back of the sacristy where he could now see a wooden door, partially hidden from view by the number of holy vestments hanging from several hooks screwed into the timber. He tiptoed across the sacristy towards the door and as he did so the sounds from inside became clearer.
A man’s voice was whispering in soothing tones. The words were indistinguishable at first, but as he drew closer he could make some of them out.
“Conny… everything is good… God loves you… this is our secret with God… your daddy would be angry if he knew… he might leave you…”
By now Brody had silently opened the door and was watching O’Shea as he pleasured himself on the dumbstruck boy. The boy’s pants and undergarment lay discarded on the floor and O’Shea had opened his cassock to allow himself access. His urgent to and fro movements were grotesquely mimicked by the boy’s painful jerks.
“Enjoying yourself there are you, Father?” enquired Brody casually.
The shock of his voice shot through O’Shea like a thunderbolt. He clumsily disengaged himself and the boy fell to the floor. O’Shea turned in horror to see Brody grinning at him.
“God forgive me Father, but you’re an evil bastard!”
Conny began to cry as he scrambled into his clothes.
“No need to cry son. The nasty man has had his fill for today,” sneered Brody. He then turned to O’Shea. “Sort the lad out and then come in here.”
Brody went back through the door into the main sacristy. He heard O’Shea reassuring Conny and eventually the sobbing subsided. O’Shea came into the sacristy.
“Brody,” he began, “It’s not what you thi…”
Before he could finish Brody slapped him across the mouth.
“Don’t trouble yourself, Father. Who am I to question the ways of the Lord?”
To his great dismay, O’Shea found himself crying uncontrollably. Ignoring his wracked sobbing Brody took him by the throat and spat into his face.
“No excuses, O’Shea! Get up to that house and get all the documents relating to Sean Colquhoun; the ones that disloyal bitch of his has been discussing with you in confession. Get them today or you’ll find yourself exposing more than your wee todger in the middle of Cork City before tonight is through.”
About a quarter of an hour after Brody left, Father O’Shea and Conny set off hand in hand on the short walk between the church and the cottage. O’Shea knew that Sean was out on a long trip into the county to visit two old patients and would not be back until quite late this evening. He knew because Martha had told him. Martha would be out for a good three hours on her ride.
When they reached the cottage they had no trouble gaining entry as the doors were not locked. It was very unusual for anyone to lock their doors in this part of the world.
* * *
Mannix’s bar was busy that night. Mannix had the radio turned up so that everyone could hear the commentary on the big fight from Dublin. The contender was a Cork man and he was battling for the All-Ireland Heavyweight Championship against a man from Monaghan. There was little attention paid to the individuals entering the room at the back of the bar. The south west High Command was in session.
Eamonn Brody stood before them and said, “You asked for more evidence.” He dropped a large file on the table. “Here it is.”
The file was passed between the six men around the table and they scrutinised every document there.
“What happens when Colquhoun finds this file missing?”
“He won’t. Holy Mother Church will see that it is returned to its place tomorrow with nobody any the wiser.”
Captain Doyle glanced around at his comrades. He received a nod in return from each of them. He closed the file and handed it back to Brody.
“Get it done,” he said and closed the meeting.
Martha placed a plate of smoked mackerel in front of Sean at breakfast and he took up the bread knife to cut a thick slice.
“Is everything all right, Martha?” he asked.
“Why wouldn’t it be?” she replied a bit too sharply, arousing his concern. He put down his knife and got up to go to her.
“What’s the matter?” he said attempting to reach his arms around her.
Sensing his approach she pulled away leaving him open armed and empty.
“It’s nothing. I’m a little worried about Conny,” she said, more as an excuse
to avoid the real issue.
“What about Conny?”
Now that she had said it she realised she was worried about Conny.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “He’s just not himself recently. He’s become withdrawn and moody.”
Sean approached her again and this time she did not move away. He took her in his arms but there was no embrace in response.
“I’m sure it’s nothing. Probably a phase. I’ll check him out tonight.”
Sean sounded reassuring but his concern was triggered. So much so that when he returned to his breakfast he slipped and cut himself with the bread knife. The cut was small but drew blood and he had to wash it at the sink.
“What are you doing today?” he asked his wife.
“Oh, I’m not sure. I’ll probably go up to the church. Conny seems to like it up there. Father O’Shea is very good to him.”
“I’m married into a very religious family all of a sudden,” joked Sean, but Martha was not amused.
Sean finished eating, washed his hand again at the sink because the cut was still bleeding and then kissed Martha goodbye.
“I’ll get off,” he said. “The Lennon baby is due at any time. I promised Joe I’d call up and see Mary today. I’ll try not to be late.”
“Bye Sean,” said Martha. “Send Conny in from the yard. Tell him we’re going out now and he needs to wash his hands and face.”
Sean stood in the yard and looked across at his son. He was sitting against the wall talking to himself. He wasn’t chasing the hens or swinging on the gate as he often used to.
“Hey there, Conny. Come and give your dad a kiss.”
Conny jumped at the sound of his father’s voice. Slowly he got to his feet and walked over. His father picked him up and kissed his cheek. Conny pulled away. Sean put him down trying to make nothing of it, but he couldn’t help agreeing with Martha. There was something wrong. Now, however, was not the time to go into it. He put his son down and said, “Go in now, Conny, your mother wants you. You have to get ready to go up to the church.”
Conny’s face darkened but he said nothing. Sean put him down and watched him walk into the house.
Sean drove out of the yard, along the drive and stopped to climb out and open the gate. He drove through the gate, stopped again, and got out to close it. He then drove in to Cobh where he had two calls to make before driving up country to the Lennon’s farm.
His first call was not a good start. Mrs Flynn had asked him to call to see her daughter, Josephine. She was complaining of stomach pains and vomiting. She was refusing to go to school. It took Sean less than a minute to decide the young girl was pregnant and no more than five to confirm it. Fourteen year old Josephine with the mind of a six year old had been taken advantage of. When Sean questioned her about whom the father might be he got little sense from her. Poor Mrs Flynn was distraught.
“We are ruined! What will we do with the child? We’ll all be damned to hell!”
“Now, now Mrs Flynn. It’s not as bad as all that. I’ll guide Josephine through the pregnancy and then we’ll find a good home for the baby. I meet many a childless couple in my line of work who would love to adopt a healthy baby. In the meantime, I’ll fill out the forms for the school so that no one will pry into why Josephine is absent.”
“Oh Doctor. You’re a good man. Let’s hope it is a healthy baby. The stupid girl has no more sense than a monkey. I hope the baby doesn’t take after her.”
Sean left the tiny house and headed for his next call. He was irritated that the cut on his hand had re-opened whilst working with Josephine. Realising it was not best practice for a doctor to turn up for house calls with blood coming out of his hand he decided to divert his route back home to deal properly with the cut before going on.
As he turned into the lane that led to the cottage he glimpsed two figures way up the top field going over the brow towards the church. Martha and Conny looked so beautiful, in such an idyllic setting that he felt water come to his eyes. Conny would be five soon and starting school in the following year. That would be good for him too, Sean thought.
When he reached the gate to the yard he could not be bothered with all the opening and closing involved so he switched off the engine and decided to walk up to the cottage. Coming around the wall of the stable he was surprised to see a figure ahead of him right up at the cottage door. He was just about to call out when he stopped himself as the figure pushed the door open and walked in. The figure was a priest, if his garb was anything to go by, and if he was not mistaken, Sean was pretty sure the priest was Father O’Shea.
Sean reached the front door and tiptoed in. The door into his consulting room was open and he could hear the sounds of someone rummaging around. Soundlessly he went to the door and watched as O’Shea placed a brown folder, one Sean recognised as his own, on the table and began to feel around in his writing bureau. In a moment O’Shea had opened the drawer which Sean believed to be known only to himself, and turned to pick up the folder from the table. It was as O’Shea turned that he saw Sean watching him.
O’Shea froze. His groin turned to water. His chest lurched in fear.
“What’s going on O’Shea?”
“Hello there, Sean,” croaked O’Shea, dragging his tongue across dry lips.
“Put both hands flat on the table,” ordered Sean in a suddenly cold tone.
O’Shea did as he was told. Sean walked towards the table. He picked up the folder and flicked through the contents. He knew that whoever had read this would know of his activities and involvement with British Secret Service.
“What were you doing with this? Who else has seen it?”
About to answer, O’Shea seemed distracted and glanced behind Sean towards the door. Sean instinctively looked behind him. There in the doorway, armed with Thompson rifles, stood Eamonn Brody and a comrade soldier of the movement. Brody was confident and assertive. His partner was no more than seventeen years old and he was red-faced and nervous. His eyes darted here and there and his head jerked from side to side. Sean knew immediately what this meant.
“You can go now Father. You can catch up with the rest of the Colquhouns and continue your filthy practices.”
It was Eamonn who spoke. He wore a triumphant grin and he stared at Sean. Something jarred in Sean’s mind as he digested Brody’s obscure comment.
“What do you mean –‘filthy practices’?” he asked.
“Maybe you should ask your wee boy, Doctor Colquhoun. If you were an anyways decent father you wouldn’t have to ask. If we had more time the Holy Father here would enlighten you, but unfortunately for you your time has run out.”
Sean made an instinctive lunge towards O’Shea. Brody raised and cocked his rifle and stepped towards Sean.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Brody threatened.
Sean stopped himself.
“Go on, get out of here priest,” yelled Brody. “Before I set the British secret agent on you.”
O’Shea scurried around the table almost crashing into Brody’s nervous comrade and ran out of the room without looking back. Sean was now backed up against the table with Brody’s rifle barrel at his throat. His eyes studied those of Sean. He looked puzzled.
“I don’t get it Sean. You of all people - a traitor. How could it happen?”
“I’m no traitor to Ireland, Eamonn Brody, and you know it.” Sean rasped his reply into Brody’s face. Brody did not flinch. He was enjoying Sean’s impotent rage.
“You’re the traitor to everything that is decent, Brody. You use an abuser of children to further your own ends. God help Ireland if you people ever succeed in your twisted aims. If you had any decency in you, that bastard priest would be dead with your bullet in his sick brain.”