Chris is ready to throw up. He is as nauseated by Brad’s casual air about the whole thing as he is about his proximity to the act of murder itself. The priest has always talked about wars and blood and things of that nature, but he never thought these things would mean anything literally. They have. He now knows that the sailor in Dundee was probably ordered dead by the priest, and god only knows the whole truth about Rodgers.
He has always dismissed these things as coincidental impossibilities. The priest had always seemed too kind, too softhearted to do anything heinous. He is still nothing but paternal to Chris, and Chris admires him. But murder—murder is too much.
Or is it? After the initial shock of the brutal realization, after his heart slows down and his hands and lips stop quivering, he somehow rationalizes it all. He likes his life now, more than before. He has friends, places he goes. He has some semblance of a life. To run away from the Trinity, to ignore the priest and Brad, would lead to a return to his old life of days and nights in the barracks, looking forward to work to disrupt the tedium.
Besides, he hasn’t killed anybody. He didn’t see it happen. He’s done no more than what could be interpreted as harmless pranks, some graffiti here, a little arson there, nothing too incriminating.
Still, he doesn’t feel good. Before the train arrives in Aberdeen, he retires himself to the lavatory and vomits.
Without emotion, he deposits the letter in the mailbox of the synagogue that he visited with Father Crowley in what seems so long ago. He was different then. Innocent, his mind unstained by the horrific.
Crowley drives home from Mass slowly. He is happy but nervous about the task he has just sent Brad and Chris on. Neither of them have traveled so far in this country without his guidance, and he knows what a parent feels like when a child ventures far away from home for the first time.
But the gods are watching. The white lights were dancing over Brad and Chris’s heads while they sat in his office. He knows they will be fine.
As the thermometer has now reached fifty degrees, he rolls the window of the Allegro down as it sputters through the village of Lutherkirk.
He will have to get the car’s poor idle fixed before the thirty days expire, before he decides the fate of the Jews of Scotland.
His Sunday will be a solitary one: wine and records and sleep, interrupted only by frozen dinners from the commissary that he has stacked in his freezer.
He sees the car belonging to Constable Robertson outside his driveway, a pale blue Fiat 1100. His car stalls right next to it. It restarts after several seconds. He honks his horn and waves at the constable as he drives onto the gravel and rolls in front of his cottage.
Robertson, knowing his cover is blown, returns home. He tells his wife the bad news and drinks some tea morosely.
The constable calls Inspector Holliday almost immediately and tells him about it.
“Nay bother,” replies the Inspector. “We haven’t been granted the manpower to watch him, anyway. It would have been impossible—and exhausting—to do it yourself. At least he knows that we are watching him. If you can, just drive by once every few hours. See if he’s home or not. That way, if something happens, we will know whether or not he was home. Make sense?”
“It does,” replies the constable, who is embarrassed at his failure but somewhat heartened by the inspector’s reassurance. “You have a good day, Inspector.”
Wordlessly, Holliday hangs up the phone. Robertson drives by the priest’s cottage several times on this day. The car is in the driveway. The curtains are drawn. Robertson wonders what a single man can do home alone for several hours at a time. The loneliness must be agonizing.
Not for Crowley. He is joined by angels from the North. He hears the poetry of Odin floating through the air of his house, louder and clearer with each goblet of wine that he consumes.
Later that evening, as the constable and his wife conclude their supper, his phone rings.
It is Holliday, telling him that two letters in manila envelopes were found sticking out of the mailboxes of synagogues in Edinburgh and Aberdeen. Each letter was identical to the one found in the cemetery in Glasgow.
Robertson reports to Holliday that the priest has been home all day and he last checked less than an hour ago. As there were Jewish services on Saturday, the letters had to have been placed today. Crowley couldn’t have done it.
Holliday is irritated by this discovery. “I guess we wait thirty days, and may God bless the Jews”
Crowley takes his car to the lone garage on High Street in Lutherkirk. He leaves it for two days. Two hundred quid later, he retrieves his car, which is worth little more than that. He has felt affluent, but two hundred pounds is nearly four hundred dollars. It hurts, cutting into money for wine and war.
He has three weeks to recover his losses, three weeks during which he will have to deal with Easter and all the ceremony required of him as the ranks of his congregants swell an additional third. He will see the part-time Catholics looking bored and lethargic in the pews, awkwardly taking communion, not sure how to receive the body, loudly sipping the blood.
During this time, he waits for a common weekend between him and Brad and Chris. He still wants to reward them.
On a Thursday night, he drives his car the forty minutes north to Aberdeen. It is a city he doesn’t know well, not like Dundee, whose industrial side, its grayer buildings, its working class air, has always attracted him more. He can feel the wealth of Aberdeen. During his recruiting days, he knew his ranks wouldn’t come from the haves, only the have-nots.
He must still avoid Dundee.
He finds a pub on the highway to Aberdeen, just as the city approaches along the A92. It is somewhat tawdry on the outside, down and out dingy on the inside. He receives some wine in a dirty glass and finds a ripped stool at the bar, electrical tape covering the tears in the vinyl covering and holding the padding in.
He chooses a seat next to a very slight man, perhaps in his forties, his black greasy hair combed to the side. The thin man’s slacks are made of polyester, his gray sweater is of wool, which he wears over a once-white t-shirt. Its yellowed neck protrudes just above the neck of the sweater.
Crowley can smell the history of the man. The stale smell of alcohol and sweat comes out of his pores and hangs over the air of the bar; he hasn’t showered in days. He is an out and out drunk, and that’s why Crowley chooses to sit next to him. Drunks, he believes, are honest. Their reason is destroyed by alcohol. A drunk will not be condescending, and that is important in his current search.
He is looking for prostitutes, his reward for Chris and Brad, the carrot he wants to dangle to keep them happy and looking forward on their quest.
They are both shamed by their apparent virginity, especially Chris. Shame is a distraction, an emasculation. He needs them to feel full of vigor. He knows human nature; nothing bolsters a man’s ego more than satisfying a woman.
Directly, Crowley asks the man, “Are there whores in this town?”
Unflinching, the man says, “Aye, my wife is one.”
Crowley laughs. “No, I meant for hire, prostitutes, or whatever you call them here.”
“You’re an American,” the man says, accusing the priest of his nationality.
“I am. So how about it? Are there any here?”
The man directs Crowley to the Aberdeen harbor, specifically Clarence Street, in between Church and Wellington, and there the lasses will be, after dark. Sometimes there are twenty and sometimes only two, but there they will be.
“How will I know if they’re prostitutes or not?” Crowley asks.
“I hope you’ll be able to tell,” replies the man.
“Thank you,” says Crowley. “Buy you a drink?”
The man nods and Crowley beckons the bartender. “Whiskey for my friend here.”
“Make it Glenmorangie, will ya?” the man asks, taking advantage of Crowley’s benevolence.
Crowley walks out, and though he doesn’t know
Aberdeen, he makes the car hug the sea. He drives around until he sees a roundabout, which points him to Clarence Street.
He sees them, sure enough, these girls of the night. They are not as garish as he expects, not as garish as they are portrayed in American television programs and movies, nor are they as destitute as the ones who have crossed his path, pockmarked addicts seeking confession, which he always obliged, imposing the stiffest penance he could muster.
No. The half-dozen girls he sees as he drives slowly down this industrial road are indeed fuller-figured than he would imagine, and more modestly dressed. It’s the makeup and hair that gives them away, the heaviness of the eye shadow, the dark scarlet of their cheeks, and their hair large upon their heads. As he drives the block several times, their attention becomes rapt and they follow his car with turns of their heads, their eyes sizing him up. The car is unfamiliar, and under the streetlamps, the figure he cuts behind the wheel is very much unlike a cop. He seems to be just another punter.
He stops. A girl approaches him, speaks to him in a thick brogue that he tunes his ears to understand. He tells her she wouldn’t be for him, but he wants her for the following evening, her and a friend. She tells him that would be expensive. He says that doesn’t matter.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
“Jane, and yours?”
“Alex. Can you get to Montrose? I’ll pay you extra for the cab fare.”
“Sure.”
He scribbles the name of the George Hotel on a piece of paper that he retrieves from the floor of his car. The George Hotel is an elegant looking place that he has poked into once or twice. It has a nice bar and restaurant downstairs with hotel rooms upstairs. He will let two for tomorrow evening. He also gives her two fifty-pound notes, promising the balance tomorrow upon the conclusion of her duties.
“You’re not some sort of pervert, are you?”
“No—not the kind you need to worry about.” He tells her the situation; she is only needed to terminate someone’s virginity.
“That’s it?” she asks. “I really don’t like virgins. It’s so awkward and painful, and they always need directions.” She rolls her eyes, which are barely visible underneath the bangs of her dark brown hair.
“That’s it,” he says, disinterested in her commentary on virginity. “Be at the George around eight o’clock tomorrow night. Who’s your friend going to be?”
“I dunno. Margo, maybe, but she’s not here. See you tomorrow?”
“You will see me tomorrow, but just for a minute. I have no interest to stay and watch.”
With that, he drives away, back to his cottage, back to his wine and records.
Friday morning comes and Crowley discusses the use of the chapel for Easter services with Chaplain Lambert. That is, Lambert tells him his needs for the Protestant services and Crowley works around him. Crowley barely speaks more than a word in reply to Lambert’s questions. His mind is elsewhere. There are just two weeks until the deadline arrives. The Jews must leave Scotland or the sky will be hazy from the smoke of Jewish flesh and the streets will be red from Jewish blood.
Lambert watches Crowley’s face change, smile and scowl, smile and scowl, entirely out of context with their conversation.
“Lieutenant, is there something I’m saying that you find amusing?”
Crowley’s mind returns to the chapel. “No, sir. I was just recalling past Easters. There are a lot of memories, always a wonderful time for the Church.” He is lying. He hates Easter, as he hates Christmas. In his youthful, zealous days, he prayed constantly throughout the Lenten season. Not only would he deny himself meat; he also abstained from sugar, caffeine, and watching television.
They return to their respective offices after the chapel schedule is set. Lambert’s desk is covered in paper, his desktop calendar in appointments and notes.
Crowley’s desk is nearly bare, save a cup full of pens and pencils and a single yellow legal pad with unblemished pages.
Quietly, Crowley calls Hinckley in the supply depot and instructs him and Chris to take a cab to Montrose this evening, to the George Hotel, and to be there before 8 p.m. He tells them to wear nice clothing. Their years of waiting are over.
“Waiting for what?” Brad asks.
“You’ll see. Remember—Montrose, the George Hotel, before eight.”
Brad finds Chris in their room when he gets off work. Chris is sitting on his bed, reading the Stars and Stripes and listening to his radio. The sound of news always causes some anxiety, in case there is talk about the attacks on the synagogues or the murder of the cab driver.
Brad tells Chris about Father Crowley’s phone call and tells him to be ready. Chris is concerned that there may be another task for them to do, but Brads tells him no, they’re laying low until the deadline.
They shower and get dressed in silence and hang out in the room for an hour without really talking. Chris is thinking about what he’s been waiting for years for. Only one thing comes to mind: a girlfriend.
“No, that can’t be it,” he thinks to himself, and as the hands of his watch arrive at seven, he and Brad walk across the base to the gate. They find a row of taxis in Friday night formation.
They are deposited at the George Hotel, as elegant an establishment as Chris has ever been to in his life. Most pubs he’s been to have been cloaked in semi-darkness, but the bar area of the hotel is well lit in soft light, exposing clean upholstered booths and a wood bar with brass trim.
They find Father Crowley alone at the bar, drinking a glass of red wine with an uncorked bottle at his elbow. He is wearing black slacks that Chris or Brad have never seen, a black turtleneck, and his black leather coat, which he leaves on to hide his pear-shaped body and his protruding stomach.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen, sit down. I suggest you start drinking right away. You will need to be as relaxed as possible within a few hours. I would hope.”
“What’s going on, Father?” Chris asks, clearing his throat.
“You shall see, you shall see.” He pats Chris’s shoulder and allows his hand to linger. Brad and Chris take barstools on either side of the priest. They receive their pints and Brad asks Chris for a cigarette. Chris takes an unopened pack and throws it on top of the bar. Brad helps himself without saying thank you.
Father Crowley removes two keys from his coat pocket, each with a keychain indicating a room number. Crowley points upstairs and hands Chris and Brad each a key.
“For later. For the end of an era in your lives.”
They drink in silence. Chris starts to feel the alcohol. Again, he gets that peaceful and warm feeling, drinking with friends across the world from home. At this moment, he is at peace, the threats to the Jews far from his mind.
They remain at the bar until quarter past eight. Crowley’s bottle is empty and he doesn’t replenish it. He checks his watch constantly, and his face grows tense.
Then suddenly as he checks the front door, his face softens and his forehead smoothes.
Two girls walk in. One is Jane, whom he met in Aberdeen, and the other, similar in appearance except for hair that is frosted blonde, is Margo.
“Hello, hello.” Crowley offers the two girls stools, Jane next to Chris and Margo next to Brad. He chooses to stand in the center. “Drink?” he asks, tilting his empty hand toward his mouth.
“Vodka and fresh orange,” both girls say, nearly in unison. The bartender shuffles off, eyebrows raised. Not the usual Friday night crowd assembled in front of him.
The bar is nearly two-thirds full, containing mostly members of the Montrose elite. The Americans don’t belong, and the girls look entirely out of place. The fact that they are not from Montrose is obvious to all the patrons.
With a wave of his head, Crowley walks outside, indicating that Jane should follow. He shakes hands with Chris and Brad. “Do what comes natural and do what feels good. That is what life is all about.” Just a few years ago, he never would have dreamed of uttering those words.
Brad has a goofy and awkward and sporting grin, as if he is just understanding what is supposed to happen.
Chris looks pale and terrified. He is terrified. He wants his virginity to end, but not in this fashion, not at what seems like gunpoint.
Crowley and Jane go outside and walk down the cement steps, clutching onto the ornamental stair rail. He hands her another two hundred pounds. “If I hear all goes well, I will find you and give you more. I will be in Aberdeen during the week.”
She takes the money without comment. She snatches it from his hand and places it in her purse. Crowley watches her walk up the stairs and back into the George Hotel. He can’t take his eyes off her large, jiggling buttocks, stretching the skin-tight black pants that end just above her ankles. He finds her repulsive. He scratches his head as he has all his life about the base attraction men feel for women. He hops in his car and drives to a pub that stands alone on the road between Montrose and Lutherkirk, where he will sit ignored by all as he watches two young men compete in snooker, a game he can’t comprehend. He will return to his cottage of near perpetual solitude and get lost in his current recurring daydream, a fantasy where he is lauded in Valhalla as the Valkyries carry him on their elegant wings after plucking him from the field of battle that he imagines to be somewhere outside of London, as his conquest for Britain comes to a close. Odin welcomes him with open arms, his solitary eye twinkling through the shadow of the brim of his hat.
Jane returns to the bar, where she finds Margo and Brad and Chris sitting in silence. And that’s how the remainder of the hour will go, save casual small talk initiated by the girls. They ask the two where they are from and how big America must be and aren’t they homesick?
The Trinity Page 27