The spool runs out just inside the gate, and in the full view of passersby who take no notice, Crowley asks for Brad’s lighter. Brad fumbles it out of his pants pocket and hands it to the priest, who holds the end of the wire in his right hand.
“No,” says the priest. “You want to be part of this, you light it.”
Brad lights the wire. Chris is shaking. He notes that Hinckley is as calm as bathwater.
The wire hisses and they follow Crowley out of the gate. Chris wants to run, but Crowley walks as if he were walking down the aisle during the opening procession of a Mass.
They are just ten yards away when they hear the pipe bombs go off, a near deafening roar. The pedestrians freeze, but the automobile traffic moves on. The pedestrians only stop for a moment as they write off the noise as just another sound of urban civilization.
They are almost a full block away when they turn and see the smoke rising from the cemetery, and a block and a half away when they hear the sound of sirens.
Crowley grins broadly. He walks between Brad and Chris, his arms around them.
Constable Robertson arrives in his little storefront station half an hour before Holliday is due to arrive.
He turns on the lights. The fluorescents hum and seem so out of place in the century-old building. Robertson plugs in the hotplate and takes a mug and rinses it out in the sink and readies it for a cup of tea. It is Saturday. His office is usually closed and calls are forwarded to the station in Brechin, but he does come in on occasion if there has been a bit of trouble the night before or if there are reports to write or follow-up calls to make.
The kettle whistles after what seems an eternity and he pours the tea. The steam from the clean but stained mug rises and ends at his furrowed brow. He bobs the tea bag up and down and discards it in the lined wastebasket next to his desk, pours some milk and adds more than his usual amount of sugar, as he is trying to build up the energy and maybe a little courage to confront the priest.
He goes over to the teletype and rips up the accumulated paper. He scans the items line by line and looks for what is germane to his part of the country.
He sees the word “Trinity” and stops. He reads of the murder of the cab driver, of the fire in a Jewish cemetery in Glasgow, a city that seems worlds away to him, full of industry and commerce and pestilence. It is not known if the murder of the cab driver is related to the desecration of the cemetery, but it is assumed, and the investigations are intertwined. There is mention of a note left on the cemetery gate, and that is where the name “Trinity” is drawn from, but the contents of the note are not printed for the rest of law enforcement in Great Britain.
Holliday will know, thinks Robertson. He’ll have all the details on the tip of his tongue, have them as part of his intimate knowledge.
He is somewhat comforted by the fact that the crimes occurred on a Saturday, making it unlikely that Crowley is indeed responsible, as he has Mass to perform Saturday afternoon. That would take the problem away from his attention, and his life and work would return to normal, as leisurely as a cup of tea with someone he has known for years stopping in at the station.
He checks the time on the report, approximately 10:45 a.m. He sighs. There was plenty of time for Crowley to return to Lutherkirk, plenty of time to perform Mass.
He looks out the window and sees two Americans walking down the street, a husband and a wife, older, senior enlisted, he guesses. The man doesn’t have the slender or genteel look of an officer. He is slightly pudgy and mustached with silver-rimmed glasses. They live in the village. Robertson has seen them about, but they occupy that parallel universe of America that floats through the Lutherkirk air. He doesn’t bother to memorize their names, as they will be gone suddenly, transferred to another part of the world. The man sees Robertson in the window and smiles and waves. He has seen the constable before. He recognizes and respects the uniform.
Typically, the constable would return the smile and the wave. But not now. He has developed a subconscious resentment for Americans. If the Americans weren’t here, none of this vileness would have happened. There would have been no murders, no rocks thrown through windows, no grotesque suicide in a cottage just outside his wee little village. Life would have progressed with nary a ripple.
He pretends not to see the Americans. He looks at the top of his desk and shuffles some papers.
Holliday arrives as the sun sets. His white Cortina pulls up in front of the station and he parks not quite parallel to the curb.
“Wouldn’t dream of doing that back in Dundee,” he says. “Kind of nice to be up here in the country and not have to worry about such things.”
“No, we just have racist priests sailing around the bloody country leaving a bloody wake in their trail,” Robertson says with a hint of a smile.
Holliday laughs, and coughs as he loses his breath in a guffaw. He wheezes for a moment and his face turns red, but in an instant, his composure returns. “As soon as I retire, I’m giving up the fags.” He points at a box of cigarettes tucked into his shirt pocket. He is wearing a tweed jacket that at one time fit him quite nicely but now hugs him at the waist and in the shoulders and it is too short in the sleeves. He is wearing a striped and faded blue shirt and a wide maroon tie. None of the three articles of clothing match his gray trousers, but the disorder of his attire is just part of the overall essence of the inspector, so he doesn’t really come across as looking peculiar at all.
“Tea?” asks Robertson, pointing to the kettle on the hotplate next to his desk.
“That would be fine,” replies the inspector. “We had better develop a plan of attack before going to see this priest bloke.” He looks at his watch and sits in a chair in front of Robertson’s desk, crossing his legs and making himself as comfortable as possible in a padded metal chair.
Robertson plugs in the hotplate and rinses another mug for the inspector. He returns to his desk. “I suppose you know about Glasgow?”
“Yes, I do. I think our friend is getting nasty again.”
“But we have no proof.”
“Correct. We have no proof.”
“I’m a bit out of my league here. How do we get proof?”
“Well, usually someone has to tell us something. The last time we visited our good American priest, he seemed to like to talk, but not about the truth. So we talk in his fashion—not dishonest, but misleading.”
“How do you mean?”
“Follow my lead when I talk, and you’ll see, but I want you to remain as close as possible to the door, just in case.”
“If he bolts?”
“Yes, or if someone else comes in.”
They are silent as the kettle comes to a boil. Robertson stands to make the tea, but Holliday puts up his hand, telling him to stay seated, that he will fend for himself. The inspector stands up and re-hitches his sagging pants as far over his vast stomach as possible. He makes himself tea. A little milk, a lot of sugar.
He sits down, retrieves a cigarette from his pocket, and offers one to the constable.
Robertson shakes his head and slides a clean ashtray across the desk for the inspector to use. “You know,” says the constable, “he may not be involved. To go all the way to Glasgow on a day he normally works—granted, he doesn’t work until late in the afternoon—would be a bit unusual. Unless he knew what he was going to do, and had it planned to the minute. What did the note say, by the way?”
“Oh, yes.” Holliday pulls a wad of paper from inside his jacket. “An old friend of mine in the Strathclyde department called me. They have armies of racists in that bloody city, but the armies don’t have a wide number of targets to choose from. Just some Pakis, some Turks, a few blacks, you know, transplants from the West Indies, no large population. Never, ever, has he seen something so randomly violent as this.” Holliday relays more information to the constable, the crude pipe bombs and wine bottles, the discarded athletic bag, the cab driver murdered and the letter, a chilling and worrisome letter, promi
sing more things to come.
He reads:
To the wretched Zionists who deign to call Scotland home,
This is an invitation to you who so want to undermine the white race and subject it to perpetual slavery. We know who you are, and what you’ve been up to throughout the ages, the financial slavery of those who are genetically superior. You had the foresight to control the wealth of nations by owning its banks and printing paper money you established control that has yet to be wrestled, even in this modern and evil world of which you truly reign supreme. But you don’t control us. We are whites of European stock, indigenous to this part of the world. You belong in Palestine, in that wretched part of the world. This is your invitation and opportunity to leave, we give you a month. If you don’t, the blood of your wives and children will be spilled on the streets of this fine, white country. When you leave, the Asians, and blacks, and those from the Middle East who follow your dollars will leave also, and Scotland will once again be the strict domain of one of the most ancient white races on this planet. The month starts today.
The Trinity
“And they signed it in blood,” concludes Holliday, folding up the wad of paper and placing it back in his pocket. “That may not be word for word, mind you; I scribbled as he talked, but in our profession, as you know, we learn to scribble rather quickly.”
“I wouldn’t know,” replies Constable Robertson. “I can barely type, let alone take notes.” He sips his tea. “So since the young American died in the priest’s home, the focus of attack has gone from blacks to the Jews. Why?”
Holliday shrugs his shoulders. “Dunno. Maybe this is an imitation. Maybe the shootings in Dundee gave birth to an idea already fermenting in Scottish lads. I dunno. But that priest was peculiar, and most people don’t have swastikas on their mantels. I don’t care if it’s some Native American mumbo jumbo, it’s not normal. I have a vast and experienced gut,” he pats his stomach, “and my gut tells me that this priest is more than involved.”
“Should we talk to the Americans? Ask permission to investigate?”
“We don’t need permission to investigate. If I’m not mistaken, the base is British property, through and through. The MoDP can pull in whoever they want. I would have thought you knew that?”
“Something like this has never happened. It’s all new.”
“Right. Well, we don’t need permission, but we would need their cooperation. Through the years, what has been your experience with the Yanks? As far as them keeping troublemakers around?”
“They usually ship them back to the States or god knows where.”
“Right. We need to try on our own first. You ready to go?”
“Yes.”
They climb into the inspector’s white and vaguely rusty Ford and drive to Crowley’s cottage.
The priest isn’t home.
So they wait.
Crowley’s performance of Mass is an anticlimactic and pathetic end to what otherwise has been, in his eyes, the most glorious of days.
He is more than pleased with the success of the events in Glasgow. He was especially cheerful on the train ride back to Montrose. He was so happy that his joy was contagious, Chris and Hinckley both engaged in laughter.
He asked them about future plans, after their work is done and the Navy scatters them across the globe. He asked them what they want out of life.
Their laughter subsided but did not disappear. Over the rumble of the train, Hinckley said, “I just want to know I made a difference, that I’ve done something worthwhile. I feel like that now, though, that I’m making a difference, making the world a better place. But I’d like to go home, back to Nebraska, get me some land, maybe have a little lake on it or a pond, stock it with some fish, I don’t know. I think I’d be happier back home. Maybe I can clean up Nebraska, like we’re doing here.”
“Excellent, excellent,” replied the priest, proud of his first protégé. “And you, Chris? What about you? Where do you see yourself in a few years?” This he asked as the train rolled to a stop at Arbroath, the end of their journey drawing near.
Chris did not hesitate. “I want to be in love, maybe have a wife,” he said, quite candidly.
His reply shocked and dismayed Father Crowley. He didn’t think Chris thought about such things. He hoped he would be more like him, his heart and mind focused on only the higher things.
“I see,” said the priest, and he considered his response carefully. He rubbed his nose, looked out the window, and again there was the North Sea under a partially sunny sky, the waves of black water churning even though the trees stood still. “You know, the sort of life we lead, warriors for the white race, doesn’t lend itself to a traditional lifestyle. It’s hard to maintain that sort of commitment when you’re committed to something much greater. I’m not saying it’s impossible, but I would recommend against getting your hopes up, at least until we’ve made some headway.”
“But what’s headway? What will satisfy us?” Chris asked, as the priest has never outlined anything. He has only taken Brad and Chris from place to place, conducting little acts of vandalism—or in this case, murder, though they don’t yet know it—without making clear to them what his goals are.
“We will be satisfied when all non-whites and Jews leave Scotland, which I think we can accomplish fairly quickly, with the right pressure. Having succeeded with that, we will concentrate on England, but by this time I guarantee our numbers will have swollen, as other decent white people who have been too afraid to act will take up our cause and do the dirty work for us. We can sit back and direct, like the executive of a big company, and reap the benefits and accolades. We are like the Founding Fathers of the United States. We are rebel soldiers, except our battlefield is much larger, and we answer to the gods of Valhalla. After Great Britain comes Northern Europe, and after that, America, and our friend Mr. Hinckley can return to Nebraska in peace and live out the rest of his days fishing and drinking and watching football and not have to worry about blacks robbing him or the Jewish banks controlling his money and lending it to him at a ridiculous rate of interest. So, girls are out of the picture.” He coughed, cleared his throat, and lowered his voice even more. “I am a virgin. I too have never been in love. Someday? Maybe. As a priest, I of course took a vow of celibacy, and when I discovered the great lie of Christianity and the truth of Odinism, I took another vow. I vowed to wage war against the lies of Zionism and to shun all other influences. The fairer sex is definitely an influence and an avenue I don’t have the time or inclination to explore.” He knows this last is partially a lie. For years, as an adolescent, in college and in the seminary, he successfully prayed to stifle a latent homosexuality, which re-emerged upon meeting Chris. He has never been interested in girls and as a child had a hard time understanding what all the fuss was about on playgrounds, boys chasing girls, girls chasing boys and trying to kiss them. He had a subconscious hope for he and Chris, and in his most depraved thoughts he envisioned himself and Chris, occupying a throne just underneath Odin, in an earthly kingdom, stretching from the north of Europe to North America, the rest of the world sectioned off, fenced in, and left to fend for itself.
As disappointed as he was in Chris’s statement, it was a reality he expected, and he wants to keep Chris happy and content to be in his fold. He forms a plan, a carnal reward that he will present to Chris later.
They have given the Jews thirty days to clear out. He knows they won’t and he hopes they won’t, because the repercussion will ring around the world, and indeed, the world will know that there is something very powerful and white in the Scottish lowlands.
“Still,” Chris said, “I wouldn’t mind finding somebody. I’m kind of tired of being by myself.” And his time alone is long for someone his age, feeling the pain of a lack of nurturing going all the way back to early childhood.
“In due time, in due time, my fine young friend,” replied Crowley, patting him on the shoulder and allowing his hand to linger.
&nb
sp; “You know,” chimed Hinckley, in a moment of uncharacteristic and brazen honesty, “I’m tired of not havin’ a girlfriend, not ever,” a fact he had previously denied in front of Chris. “I like girls, better’n football, better’n scaring niggers and Jews. I always kind of figured I’d wait till I got back home, out of this Navy, and find myself a good Nebraska girl, not like one of these tramps here in Scotland or in the Navy. A wholesome girl, loyal, you know, a good churchgoer.”
Crowley rolled his eyes, but decided that although Brad would never go astray, he needs some kind of reward too, like a training treat for a dog, to encourage him to stay the course.
The train arrived in Montrose in the middle of the afternoon, giving him time to drop off Brad and Chris, with instructions to meet at his house during the middle of the week, in the evening, for drinks and dinner and discussion.
He returned home and showered briefly, removing the sweat of travel and the smell of gasoline and gunpowder. He drove to the base and performed Mass with a pasted grin and a listless emotion. Easter is drawing near, and he speaks briefly and by rote of Jesus’s march through Jerusalem, carrying his cross to his crucifixion, and how each man has his own cross to bear and it’s up to the individual to deal with it. No man can bear the burden himself. He needs help from up on high, and the sooner he realizes it, the happier he can be. He will be at peace.
Now he is driving home. The Austin backfires as it exits the base, and the MoDP sentry on duty at the gate shakes his head as the priest who always seems very strange and secretive drives away.
Crowley has his evening plans made. It will be an evening of relaxation. He looks forward to tearing off his uniform and donning his bathrobe. He will eat a can of soup warmed up on the stovetop of the ancient oven in his kitchen. He will drink wine from his goblet. He will listen to Wagner. He will fall asleep with visions of Valkyries carrying him off to Valhalla, in celebration of his achievements yet to be realized.
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