He thinks only briefly about Brad—his friend, but not really his friend. They were only friends while drinking. He knows Brad is a hateful young man. His heart is full of rage. He is without a conscience. He even hit a girl, Chris recalls. He has been with the priest since early on and has shown no sign of remorse over past murders or the possibility of future murders. He is a willing participant.
Chris finishes his cigarette. Karen is in the kitchen, cleaning up from the morning, the clutter of coffee cups and her own cereal bowl.
“I’ll do it,” he says suddenly. “I’ll do what I have to do.” He puts his head in his hands and he knows his words have just now sealed his fate. He could never go back on his word—not his word to Karen.
She nods slowly while walking to the couch. She sits next to Chris, very closely. The closeness is almost uncomfortable for Chris, but not unwelcome.
Karen is touched. She knows this requires a lot of courage on Chris’s part, a sort of bravery that has never been required of him before at this tender age. She has been somehow attracted to Chris from early on. There is something about his gentle nature that is endearing, and she realizes now that he reminds her of her late husband. He too was gentle and unassuming, not brash and obnoxious like the boys she knew and dated in high school. He was sensitive; he showed his emotions to her often and readily. So has Chris.
“I just want you to know that you won’t do this alone. I’ll be with you and worrying about you while you’re gone.” She kisses him on the cheek and a thought crosses her mind, a thought that she would not have expected in a million years.
She has not been with a man since her husband and children passed away. She hasn’t been interested, not even a little. She has been propositioned probably a thousand times. She is, after all, a not-so-unattractive woman in a mostly male Navy. Adak, Alaska was especially tiresome; the island was military-only. There was no place off base for sailors to go. She dared not show her face in the enlisted club at night. She stayed locked away in her room—her shelves lined with books borrowed from the base library or ordered through the mail.
She has known all along that her celibacy would end. She has, as of late, felt a sort of longing for companionship, and she realized after showing Chris some of Scotland that experiences are better and richer if they can be shared. His youth doesn’t bother her; he hasn’t been alive long enough for the world to harden him.
So she decides to make love to Chris.
Her reasoning is two-fold. The first reason is to satisfy her own needs; the length of mourning has been long enough where she doesn’t feel a sense of guilt. The second reason is that Chris needs to cross the threshold into manhood. He needs to make love to a woman in a genuine way, in a way that will build his confidence. He needs a certain swagger in his step that one can only have when involved with a new love. He will need all the swagger and confidence he can muster when he goes back to the priest.
She kisses him once on the cheek, and she sees his face redden with a probable mix of embarrassment and desire. She kisses him again on the other cheek and then on the lips. She is surprised at her own aggressiveness. He kisses her back gently, and the softness of his kiss enthralls her even more.
She then seduces him completely, there on her couch, removing his clothes before removing her own. It has been a long time, but it is an act she hasn’t forgotten. The sensation of desire fans across her body, a feeling that she realizes she has missed.
Chris, at first, is more than dumbfounded. This is a behavior that he doesn’t expect from Karen, though it is a behavior that he has longed for and has imagined with her. His first inclination, out of shame and decency, is to resist her. He, of course, doesn’t resist her; he surrenders completely and follows her lead with his own instinct.
They make love and the span of time is brief. The event is a less torturous one for him than the night in the George Hotel—he doesn’t think about the procedural things quite so much. He is awkward at first, tumbling on top of her as she lays down on the couch, but he quickly learns the cadence of her body and he orgasms inside her, deep and passionately.
He is now quite sure that he is no longer a virgin.
They sit on the couch naked for a moment in the afterglow. They smoke cigarettes halfway and then get dressed, and decide to walk to a café for supper. The thought of dealing with the priest is nowhere near his mind as Chris walks along High Street with that certain amount of swagger. He is again in love, a lopsided smile set upon his face.
Chris eats heartily, as he is hungry from the act of love and the fast induced by the stress of the previous day.
“You know,” she says, interrupting Chris’s amorous reverie, “we need to call Inspector Holliday and let him know that you’re going to help.”
Chris’s smile fades. Karen reaches for his hand. A trace of a smile returns in answer to her touch. Fear is no longer so visible on his face, as Karen’s overture of affection is effective. He has a sense of confidence that he didn’t possess just an hour before. The look on his face underlines that confidence.
Karen pays the bill and they return to her flat. They call the inspector. It is agreed that Chris will return to the priest as if nothing tragic happened, as if Crowley’s predatory behavior wasn’t so disturbing and that his blackmail was effective. Chris will be a good soldier right up until the attack on the synagogue in Aberdeen. Chris will be asked to alert Holliday of when the priest plans his assault, and Holliday in turn will alert the Grampian Police and Scotland Yard, who will wait as the priest arrives in Aberdeen. They will then pounce, arresting Father Crowley and Brad, as well as Chris, but only for show. He is to be granted a degree of immunity for his cooperation.
Chris agrees to the terms, and Holliday reminds him of the haste that is required.
“You need to head back to the base straightaway,” the inspector tells Chris. “You can’t deviate too much from your normal routine, and you can’t alert them of your contact with Karen. Call us when you know something.”
Chris nods as he hangs up the phone and tells Karen what the inspector said. She drives him back to the base. She kisses him goodbye, and he passionately returns her kiss. He morosely exits her car and walks through the front gate. He approaches his barracks and his room with dread. He hopes Brad isn’t there, but he knows he is.
Chris enters his room. Brad is sprawled out on his rack, listening to Chris’s Walkman radio.
“What’s up, faggot?” he asks. “Where the hell you been?”
Chris says nothing as he thinks of a response. He sits heavily on his bed. “Nowhere. I was just walking around the countryside, trying to think.”
“Oh.” Brad hands the radio back to Chris. “Well… Father wants to know what you’re going to do. He wants us to go out there tonight, if you’re still in. If you’re not in—”
“I’m in.”
“Then let’s get rollin’.”
Crowley lets Chris and Brad into his cottage wordlessly. His mood is more solemn than it has been in the past. Before, he has assumed an air of friendliness, his face always adorned with a smile.
On this night, a Saturday after he has conducted a soulless Mass, he is all business. His deadline is less than a week away, and he has heard nary a mention in the news of any exodus of the Jews in Scotland. He knows their number is small, not even five thousand, but still, he had hoped the fear he has spread would make more of an impact. There was some talk dispensing fear on the radio at first, when the cab driver was murdered and when notes were deposited in Edinburgh and Aberdeen.
The lack of concern is insulting to him. He is irritated that he hasn’t been taken more seriously. His ego is definitely bruised.
“Sit down,” he commands as Chris and Brad walk in. He points to the chair for Brad, and sits himself down on the couch next to Chris, without even allowing an arm’s width to separate them.
Brad makes a detour to the kitchen. He opens the refrigerator, as his body is aching for beer. The refrigera
tor is empty. Crowley barks, “You’re not here for fun, you damn lush. Sit down. You will drink when I say you’re damn good and ready to drink.”
Morosely, Brad sits down. Crowley sits silently for a moment, satisfied that his Trinity is intact and loyal. He is smug in his role as the Trinity head, as if Chris and Brad are his subjects, mere extensions of his will.
“Now, gentlemen,” Crowley continues. He is still wearing his khaki uniform that he wore under his robe for Mass. “I suggest we get to business first, and if time permits, maybe we will go over to Lutherkirk and grab a drink.” Chris notes Crowley’s selfishness; he is armed with his goblet, and the smell of wine hangs over the couch, mingling with the smell of Crowley himself. Crowley hasn’t showered in the past twenty-four hours. If Chris knew the reason for Crowley’s lack of hygiene, he would be horrified. Crowley is keeping the smell and flesh of Chris on his genitalia as a sort of trophy. It is an attempt to prolong the memory of his intercourse with Chris. Several times throughout the day, he has pulled his pants down and smiled at the sight of Chris’s dried blood and feces on his penis. It is the first fantasy he has ever fulfilled.
He plans to fulfill a second.
The plan to attack the Aberdeen synagogue is simple in its brutality. Father Crowley instructs Brad to stand at the door of the synagogue, armed with Thor’s hammer. He is to keep the spike in constant motion, striking any man, woman or child that tries to exit the synagogue. Chris and the priest are going to dispense Molotov cocktails through the lone window after the door is ignited with gasoline.
Crowley shows Brad and Chris the assortment of pipe bombs and wine bottles and even a small propane torch he has purchased for the occasion. He salivates at the image of the synagogue in smoke and flames and wonders how he will feel when he hears the screams of the Jews as they meet their certain end.
His mood lightens. He tousles Brad’s hair and puts his arm around Chris’s shoulder. Gently, Chris pulls himself away.
“Chris, when is your next Saturday off?” He asks the question merely out of ceremony. He has long memorized Chris’s schedule.
“I have a mid-watch next Saturday,” Chris replies, knowing that the priest already knows the answer.
“Excellent, excellent,” continues Crowley. “You will both stay here Friday night, and then on Saturday morning we will make our assault on Aberdeen. If that isn’t effective enough, we will turn to Glasgow, Edinburgh, and finally Dundee. I am afraid I have become a blip on the radar of the Tayside Police, and I should really stay out of Dundee, until the end, anyway.”
Father Crowley’s last sentence causes Chris alarm, as if the priest knows Chris has betrayed him. Chris studies his face and sees no sign of resentment pointed in his direction.
They will conduct a rehearsal Wednesday evening, timing the drive to Aberdeen and how long it takes them to assume their positions.
When next Saturday comes, Father Crowley will take the license plate off his Allegro. They will wear black ski masks that Crowley acquired long ago for just such an occasion.
He wants their appearance to be as fearsome as possible.
“How about a drink, gentlemen? Let’s have a drink to celebrate the last Saturday of freedom for the Jews in Scotland.”
Father Crowley’s earlier suggestion of driving to Lutherkirk for a drink is discarded. There is too great a chance they will run into fellow Americans so close to the base, and the existence of their Trinity must be kept a secret, especially now in these furious, last days. Crowley decides to drive to Finavon, a village slightly larger than Lutherkirk to the South and West, away from the coast. It is perhaps twenty minutes away, and the chance of coming across other Americans is nil.
Chris breaks his self-imposed vow of abstinence in the priest’s presence. They spend nearly two hours in a dark little pub in the heart of Finavon. There is precious little else to do besides drink. He drinks slowly, making one of his pints last as long as three of Brad’s. The evening is not entirely unpleasant; Chris enjoys traveling to a village that he’s never seen and inhaling the atmosphere of the village from the bottom of a pint glass.
Chris and Brad remain mostly silent while Crowley talks vaguely about their impending greatness. They are to be the liberators of the white world, he says. Statues of them will adorn the great cities of Europe and North America by the time the war is complete.
“The blacks and Jews and Asians that are scattered away from their ancestral homes will be grateful to us, too, in the end,” the priest predicts. “They will find more fulfillment in their natural realms.”
He also talks about the need for reservations, not unlike those occupied by Native Americans in North America. Not all the blacks will be able to go to Africa, and not all the Jews will be able to return to Israel.
“There is a lot of empty land out west,” Crowley says, thinking of Utah and Nevada. “There is acre upon acre upon acre of federally owned land that would be perfect. Reservations could be made and the whites that live out west would still be miles away from these encampments. We could even let the blacks and Jews govern their own affairs, but of course, they would be corralled. Like Soweto in South Africa—a brilliant move by the whites there, creating black homelands that are only partially self-governed, and still under white control. The same thing should happen in America, for those blacks and Jews and Asians that remain behind.”
“What about spics, Father?” Brad asks, recalling the sight of migrant workers in the summertime fields of Nebraska.
“The same, the same. They can be sent back to Mexico or Central America or wherever they came from. It is easier to repatriate someone to a neighboring country than it is to send them across the oceans.”
They drive back to Crowley’s house. The priest and Brad are both quite drunk. Chris, who would normally be drunk in their presence, is nearly sober. The priest’s driving terrifies him. He grabs the handle of the door tightly, his fingers and knuckles turning white as the priest fails to slow down for the many curves and rises in the road.
They return to Crowley’s house. Looking at Chris, the priest invites them both to stay the night.
Chris declines. He says he doesn’t feel good.
He starts walking towards the base, not bothering to see if Brad is coming with him.
Brad doesn’t follow Chris to the barracks, and Chris is relieved; he needs a certain amount of privacy as he arrives at the base after walking in the dark.
He calls Karen from a payphone in the barracks lounge; the time is nearing 11 p.m. She listens to his account of the evening, and tells him to telephone Holliday straight away in the morning, before Brad returns.
“Can’t I just come and stay with you?” Chris asks. “It would be easier for me to call Inspector Holliday from your place, without the chance of running into Brad.”
“You know the answer to that one. Of course you can’t. You will only be able to see me at work until this is done, but don’t worry, I plan to be in Aberdeen when this whole thing goes down, and you can come home with me then. I’m going to be there, just to make sure that you’re okay.”
Chris feels a sensation of warmth in the base of his stomach, the same sensation he feels when he thinks about Karen, his mind constantly playing back the image of her underneath him while he made love to her—the smoldering look in her eyes, the sight of her unclothed body, the sound of pleasure from her lips. His mind has been too busy and too afraid to think about that moment for very long.
“Okay,” Chris replies, smiling, feeling better about the whole situation. It has brought him Karen, and he can sort of consider her a girlfriend. The companion that he has wanted all along, coming from the unlikeliest of sources.
“And Chris?”
“Yes?”
“You should go to Mass tomorrow. You know, you have to play the part of a good soldier. You can show no wavering of loyalty or else your cover may be blown. But call the inspector first. Call me tomorrow if you can.”
They say farewell.
Chris hangs up and looks at the telephone with longing, wishing he were in the company of the voice that was on the other end.
Chris calls the inspector after a mostly sleepless night. The night has been spent with his headphones attached to his ears, the sounds of Radio Luxembourg intermingling with the fear of the priest and the lust and affection for Karen. His mind is a cacophony of images and emotions. He fell asleep finally as the sight of dawn just started to appear over the base.
Inspector Holliday is full of reassurances. There will be many policemen on the scene in Aberdeen when Saturday rolls around. Chris gives him a description of Brad and a description of the Allegro. The inspector thanks him and tells him not to worry. Chris is only slightly reassured.
Chris lingers in front of the television in the barracks lounge as he exits the phone booth. A situation comedy from the States is blaring, the sound of canned laughter echoing through the nearly empty lounge. The sound of laughter reminds Chris of a sad detail of his life—his life has been devoid of laughter.
He returns to his room to shower and dress for church. Brad is in the room and is sprawled across his bed fully clothed.
“What’s up, faggot?” he asks as Chris exits the bathroom with only a barracks-supplied towel wrapped around his waist.
Chris ignores him and proceeds to get dressed. “You going to church?” Chris asks Brad.
“Naw. Father would like that, but I told him as we drove back to base that I need more shuteye. I can’t sleep for shit in that damn house of his. It’s too musty or dusty or somethin’. I always wake up with a headache.”
The Trinity Page 33