by Peter Murphy
He tried to put his foot down the day Danny came home and told him that a blue Cortina had followed them to Mass, and waited until they came out. But his mother just stared him down and never went to Mass again.
**
“They’re spies for the British,” Granny reassured Danny who was concerned for the state of her soul. “But don’t worry; we’ll just do what Michael Collins did to them.”
“Michael Collins,” Danny whispered to himself, like the very name sent a shiver down his spine.
“You’re the spitting image of your grandfather, when he was little.”
“Tell me about the time they thought he was dead.”
His granny laughed, something she didn’t do so much anymore. “Well! It was when he was on the run. He had been to a friendly house for his supper and then went up the road to a barn full of fine, warm hay. In he goes and settles down for the night—after saying his prayers, of course. But it was a cold, frosty night and all he had to warm himself was a bottle of wine.
“Now your grandfather wasn’t a great man for the drinking—not like some that we know—and after a few swigs didn’t he fall asleep and slept the sleep of an honest man. When he woke up the farmer was poking him with a stick to see if he was alive or dead. You see, the wine had spilt all over your grandfather’s shirt making it look for all the world like he had been shot through the chest.
“’I’m not dead at all,’ he tells the poor farmer. ‘Not dead at all but powerful hungry.’”
“Did they take him in and give him his breakfast?” Danny asked as he did every time before.
“Sure, of course they did. Back then the people used to support the ones that did the fighting. Not like today when we all think we are so civilized. Take my word for it, Danny boy. We drove them out too late. We might be rid of the English but we will never be rid of the way they made us.
“It’s at times like these,” she told him, “that everybody has to look into their own heart and see what is right and wrong. I know that I’ve always taught you to be good and to not go around fighting and sinning but this is different. You see, if we didn’t fight once in a while we never would have been allowed to have our own place to ourselves. And every once in a while, the Church closed its doors to those that did the fighting. But it was quick, too, to take charge after the hard work was done. But a lot of them know better, only they can’t say. Some of them even led us into battle.”
“Like Father Murphy of old Kilcormack?”
“Just like Father Murphy from old Kilcormack,” she smiled and tousled his hair.
CHAPTER 6
Fr. Reilly was writing to his friend, Joe, when the two detectives called.
Writing about the death of Declan Scully let him organize his thoughts a bit and almost helped him to make some sense out of the senselessness of it all. The detectives were very sorry for disturbing him but they needed his help with their inquiries. He led them into the front room and went off to make some tea—and to compose himself.
He had done his priestly duties for poor Scully. It was easy—sadness, loss, bereavement, consolation—these things were his stock in trade and his primary purpose in the world. He shared the words that Christ had left them; the message of Faith, Hope and the greatest of these–Love. “The Virtues,” he had promised the broken-hearted family of the deceased, “can be a source of strength at a time like this.”
It was the same message he gave every funeral family, but this time it seemed so inadequate. “We must believe that Our Heavenly Father took Declan for a reason—that his life had a purpose and a meaning. Let us not give in to despair but take strength in the knowledge that God loves us. And when doubts arise remember that God, too, let His own son die to save us all.”
Some of the parishioners stiffened a bit. He hadn’t meant it to sound like he was comparing Declan Scully to Jesus Christ but he didn’t know what else to say. His job was to get them through it all as best he could. The two detectives had a far worse job. They were looking into the details of Scully’s death. They had just been over to talk with Danny’s parents who both assured him that Danny was home with them all night—and that he hadn’t snuck out between midnight and four a.m.
**
“Of course we’re sure,” Jerry had explained. “Weren’t we up playing cards and listening to a few records until after four? We’re only trying to get our Danny interested in some good music, ya know? They need all the direction they can get these days—what with the whole world going mad around us.”
“Like what happened to that poor Scully boy, God save his soul,” Jacinta joined in and started to cry.
“It’s very upsetting,” Jerry continued as he put his arm around her. “That’s why we make a point of spending as much time as we can with our Danny. We even share a few bottles of beer with him, ya know? There’s no harm in having a few drinks every now and then, right? What with all the other stuff they could be getting up to.”
***
“Why are you telling me all of this?” Fr. Reilly asked cautiously. He could imagine what it must have been like for Jerry and Jacinta. They had enough to deal with without having to believe that Danny was involved in any way. But life as a priest had taught him that nothing was to be unexpected. “You can’t really believe that Danny Boyle was involved. I’ve known the boy for most of his life and I can assure you that it is highly unlikely that he would ever get involved in anything like this.”
“Well,” the younger detective checked his notebook as his older colleague sat impassively watching Fr. Reilly. “One of the names that Mr. Scully gave us, before he met his unfortunate demise, was one Danny Boyle, whom he described as a small-time pusher.”
Fr. Reilly tried not to react and betray anything until he had time to sort it out.
“What we were hoping,” the young detective continued after a nod from his colleague, “was that maybe you could have a word with the parents—or better still, with Danny, himself. We don’t think that he was involved directly but we do have reason to believe that he might know something about it. In previous investigations, we have found that they all knew what was going on but they were reluctant to let us get involved—even if it was to protect them.”
“Like the way you were protecting Declan Scully?”
He shouldn’t have said that. They were only doing their best, as they saw it. Policemen were a peculiar breed who tended to see the worst in everybody. He could understand that but he could never accept it. “I’m very sorry,” he corrected himself. He had no business judging them. “I didn’t mean that. I just get so frustrated with it all.”
“We all do, Father, but we still have to investigate these matters—and we have to do it against a wall of silence. We get no cooperation, Father. We do try to work with some of these unfortunates, you know, and get them into treatment, and the likes. We offer protection—when they ask for it. And that’s the problem, Father. Some of them are so addicted that as soon as we let them out, they go running back into the arms of the gangs. We can’t just hold them indefinitely, Father.”
The younger detective seemed to be in earnest but the taciturn one just sat impassively watching Fr. Reilly’s face with just a hint of condescension around his mouth. “The problem lies in the courts, Father. We can’t do anything that might infringe on their rights, even if it is to save their lives. It’s a bad business, Father, and one that we have to deal with every day.”
“I’m sorry gentlemen.” Fr. Reilly thought about blessing them but decided against it. He had to be a little more careful or they wouldn’t help. Policemen could be very sensitive and defensive. Not that he blamed them. He didn’t envy their job: damned if you do and damned if you don’t. He understood that, but he also understood that they were no Pat McCarthys either. “Please continue.”
“That’s okay, Father,” the taciturn detective soothed. “We understand. But you must understand something, too. In our line of work we can’t afford to have bleeding hearts. You have
to learn how to stop bleeding on this job—otherwise you’d bleed to death, Father. Now will you have a chat with Mr. Boyle, or will we?”
If he was Chuck O’Malley, or even Fr. Fitzgibbon, Fr. Reilly might have pulled rank. But he wasn’t. He was heading into unfamiliar ground. He was going onto their turf and all he had left was to appeal to their Catholicism. “But even if I talk with him I cannot repeat anything he might tell me.”
“Not if it’s outside the confessional, Father.”
“It wouldn’t matter. I’d have to maintain Danny’s trust to have any hope of reaching out to him.”
“I do see your point, Father. And, if you prefer, we can discuss this matter with the Bishop, directly, and let him decide what it is we all should do.”
Fr. Reilly lowered his head like Judas and told them he would do what he could and let them know. He’d let the Bishop know, too. He’d get to him before the detectives and lay the case before him. His uncle was a decent man, but could be a touch unpredictable at times. Especially when he sensed defiance. It brought out the St. Michael in him. He’d have to be careful, though; the Bishop had never really got over that time he made his famous sermon—the one that troubled so many. He had even been called to the Palace for a little chat about things.
**
The Bishop’s secretary had smiled her knowing smile. “Good morning Father Reilly. Are you well? Have a seat and himself will be with you in no time. Can I get you a cup of tea in the meantime?”
He was getting the wait, the Bishop’s way of signalling his displeasure, but he wasn’t surprised. Fr. Brennan had been fielding calls for a few weeks. The parishioners were outraged and it was only a matter of time before the higher powers became involved. “Not at all Mrs. Mawhinney, I’m grand. Is he very busy?”
“He’s been on the phone to the Diocese all morning and,” she paused to smile at the errant young curate, “he’s in a right old mood.”
“You know, Patrick,” the Bishop began when he finally saw him. “The Irish are a very particular race of people. They have stood by the Church through the years of persecution, risking their very lives to hear Mass and take the Sacraments.
“And they have given their children to the missions to spread the word of God into every dark corner of the world. They’ve a particular passion for the downtrodden and the exploited and the Church needs as much of that as it can get.” He sipped his coffee and searched his nephew’s face for some indication that he was getting the message. “But they’re also a fiery people—the savagery of their Celtic ancestry is never far below the surface. And sometimes, when they’re outraged, they need to blow off a little steam. It’s at times like these that a good priest knows when to listen and when to talk. They’re very angry right now and we both know that they’ve every right to be. Am I right?”
“You are indeed, Your Grace.”
The Bishop noted his stilted formality. Damn the boy for his hard head. “Then why, in the name of God, did you have to take it upon yourself to berate them, now of all times?”
“I was just hoping to remind them of the true message of Christ.”
The Bishop’s eye bulged a little and his cheeks reddened but his voice remained calm and low, like he was coaxing a skittish foal. “The true message of Christ, you say? For the love of God man, don’t you remember what they did to Him?”
He regretted it the moment he said it. His nephew was starry-eyed enough without putting thoughts of martyrdom into his head. And it’d look so bad in the newspapers if his parishioners crucified him. It’d be better for all concerned if any killing of his holy spirit was done quietly, behind closed doors.
“So?” he asked in the most superior tone he could manage. “How’s it that you’re so certain what the true message was when the Pope and all of the cardinals sit up late at night trying to understand it?”
“I’m sorry, Your Grace. I meant no disrespect with my comments. I was just hoping to remind them of the comfort the Sacred Heart of Christ offers to those in trial.”
It sounded like sass but the Bishop couldn’t be sure. His nephew’s face was in earnest.
“Patrick, matters of Church and State have a way of making simple things complex. The people of Ireland are at a crossroads and may choose to go on without us. Times are changing and with all this talk about civil rights, the old ways are in danger of being washed away—the good and the bad. The Diocese is most anxious that we do nothing that might tip the scales even if it means relaxing the reins a bit and letting them blow off their steam. Most of them will spend their rage getting a few pints into them and singing rebel songs. And so what if they burn down the British Embassy? It can be rebuilt, but our relationship with the people might not. Let them have their rage and we’ll rein them back when the time is right.”
“But what about the people that were killed in Aldershot?”
“Ah! We can only assume that God took them for his own purpose. Why else would he allow a priest to die?”
“But, Your Grace, the Provos are talking about bombing the Brits out.”
The Bishop paused to think. The Provisional IRA were young and hard and full of bile. And they had split from the “Officials” who had put aside the gun to unite the working men. He had seen their likes before—earnest, and driven by their cause; the most dangerous types of individuals. The types that could actually cause things to change. Church and State had worked hard to discredit them and turn the flock away from them. It would be a problem for a while, but in time, when their thirst for vengeance was slaked, they could be brought back in line. And a few dead Protestants was regrettable but better than dead Catholics.
Not that the other side wouldn’t strike back, too. The Church would just have to sit back and offer comfort where it could. There was no point in trying to talk peace to any of them right now—they were deafened by their rage.
“My advice to you, Father, is to pray to God for the wisdom and guidance so that you can be a comfort to the people instead.”
“Very well, Your Grace, I will.”
“And you’ll apologize, too, next Sunday. Or you’ll be off to Timbuktu in the morning. Now get off with you so I can get a bit of lunch into me.”
***
In time the parishioners accepted his apology, but Fr. Reilly never felt he re-won their trust. They tolerated him because of his collar but they put little stock in what he had to say. It was, he consoled himself, the cost of telling the absolute truth, something that he had become somewhat selective about since. He hadn’t started to lie, he just became more selective in how much of the truth he revealed. It was too bright a light to be flashing in the eyes of those who were living in darkness.
It had taken some cajoling but Danny finally agreed to meet him. They walked through the grounds of Rathfarnham Castle, away from prying eyes, and where the casuistry of the Jesuits might help in getting through to Danny. He could talk to the Garda voluntarily, or they would come and get him.
“But I keep telling you, Father, I don’t know anything about it.”
Danny seemed to be getting nervous and Fr. Reilly didn’t want to lose him. His good nature told him to believe the boy but he couldn’t trust that judgement. He wasn’t seasoned enough yet for these situations. But he had to be. He just had to apply his craft the way they had taught him after he left the seminary. Fr. Brennan always said that it was like trout fishing: getting someone to open up enough to share the burdens that God had put there for His own reasons.
That was another thing he didn’t understand. Why was this to be Danny’s lot? There was no logic behind it. Danny, God love him, had suffered enough. What more could God want from the boy?
“Well, that may be as well be, but the fact is the Garda still want to talk with you. They seem to think you have some information that might be helpful in finding who murdered Declan Scully.”
He thought Danny might have winced for a second but he had his head down as they walked the stone drive; the crunching of the stones
in rhythm with the song of birds, the only noises of the world outside.
This was his Chuck O’Malley moment. This was when his worth as a priest was to be really measured. This was what Christ had called him to do—to save the soul of Danny Boyle. Who had a grandmother in Heaven and, he almost smiled as he thought it, she probably had a hold of God’s ear by now—or at least someone that had. It was probably St. Jude, Patrick Reilly decided. Jude was always his favorite; lost cause that he was.
“I’m not going to grass on anyone, Father.”
“Of course not, Danny. Nobody’s asking you to do that. All I’m telling you is that either you go to see them or they will come and see you.”
“Then I’m fucked—just like Scully.”
Patrick Reilly ignored the profanity in deference to the importance of the moment—when the sinner comes to the realization that a life without God would end down in Hell. He had to choose his next words carefully. He had to let Danny know that he understood the enormity of it all and that he wasn’t shocked or disapproving. He wasn’t there as a judge but as an advocate: Danny’s advocate before the courts of God, and man.
“Yes, Danny. It’s very serious. There is no point in trying to soften the truth. Declan Scully gave them your name and you have now become what they call a person of interest. You’re in very serious trouble, but you still have God to turn to.”
“Him? The same God that let my granny lock my mother up in the loony bin? I’d rather stick with my mates. At least I can trust them.”
“Danny, they didn’t do so well by Declan Scully. You know you can’t trust them.”
“Then what? Go to cops and grass? And spend the rest of my days looking over my shoulder?”
“Danny. We could do a deal with them. If you’re willing to cooperate with them . . . then I’m sure we can ask them to protect you properly. I have even taken the matter up with the Bishop. He’s always been a great friend to your family.”