Cathedral (44 page)

Father Murphy and the Cardinal shouted at her.

Megan raised the belt again and brought it down on Maureen's upraised arms.

She aimed the next blow at Baxter, but Maureen threw herself over his defenseless body and the belt lashed her across the neck.

Megan struck at Maureen's back, then struck again at her legs, then her buttocks.

The Cardinal looked away. Murphy was shouting at the top of his lungs.

Hickey began playing the chancel organ, joining with the bells. Frank Gallagher sat on the blood-smeared landing where Fitzgerald had lain and listened to the sounds of blows falling; then the sharp sounds were lost as the organ played "The Dying Rebel."

. George Sullivan looked away from the sanctuary and played his bagpipe.

Abby Boland and Eamon Farrell had stopped singing, but Flynn's voice called to them over the microphone, and they sang. Hickey sang, too, into the organ microphone.

"The first I saw was a dying rebel. Kneeling low I heard him cry, 370

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God bless my home in Tipperary, God bless the cause for which I die."

In the attic Jean Kearney and Arthur Nulty lay on their sides, huddled together on the vibrating floor boards. They kissed, then moved closer.

Jean Kearney rolled on her back, and Nulty covered her body with his.

Rory Devane stared out of the north tower, then fired the last flare. The crowds below were still singing, and he sang, too, because it made him feel less alone.

Donald Mullins stood in the tower below the first bell room, oblivious to everything but the pounding in his head and the cold wind passing through the smashed windows. From his pocket he took a notebook filled with scrawled poems and stared at it. He remembered what Padraic Pearse had said, referring to himself, Joseph Plunkett, and Thomas MacDonagh at the beginning of the 1916 uprising: "If we do nothing else, we shall rid Ireland of three bad poets." Mullins laughed, then wiped his eyes. He threw the notebook over his shoulder, and it sailed out into the night.

In the choir loft Leary watched Megan through his sniper scope. It came to him in a startling way that he had never once, even as a child, struck anyone. He watched Megan's face, watched her body move, and he suddenly wanted her.

Brian Flynn stared into the organ's large concave mirror, watching the scene on the altar sanctuary. He listened for the sound of Maureen's cries and the sound of the steady slap of the belt against her body, but heard only the vibrant tones of the chimes, the high, reedy wail of the bagpipes, the singing, and the full, rich organ below.

"The next I saw was a gray-haired father, Searching for his only son.

I said Old Man there's no use in searching Your only son to Heaven has gone."

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He lowered his eyes from the mirror and shut them, listening only to the faraway chimes. He remembered that sacrifices took place on altars, and the allusion was not lost on him, and possibly some of the others understood as well. Maureen understood. He remembered the double meaning of sacrifice: an implied sanctification, an offering to the Deity, thanksgiving, purification. . . . But the other meaning was darker, more terrible-pain, loss, death. But in either case the understanding was that sacrifice was rewarded. The time, place, and nature of the reward was never clear, however.

"Your only son was shot in Dublin Fighting for his Country bold.

He died for Ireland and Ireland only The Irish flag green, white and gold."

A sense of overpowering melancholy filled him-visions of Ireland, Maureen, Whitchorn Abbey, his childhood, flashed through his mind. He suddenly felt his own mortality, felt it as a palpable thing, a wrenching in his stomach, a constriction in his throat, a numbness that spread across his chest and arms.

A confused vision of death filled the blackness behind his eyelids, and he saw himself lying naked, white as the cathedral marble, in the arms of a woman with long honeycolored hair shrouding her face; and blood streamed from his mouth, over his cold dead whiteness-blood so red and so plentiful that the people who had gathered around remarked on it curiously. A young man took his hand and knelt to kiss his ring; but the ring was gone, and the man rose and walked away in disgust. And the woman who held him said, Brian, we all forgive you. But that gave him more pain than comfort, because he realized he had done nothing to earn forgiveness, done nothing to try to alter the course of events that had been set in motion so long before.

372

Brian Flynn looked at the clock in the rear of the choir loft. He let the last notes of "An Irish Lullaby" die away, then pressed the key for the bell named Patrick. The single bell tolled, a deep low tone, then tolled again and again, twelve times, marking the midnight hour. St. Patrick's Day was over.

The shortest day of the year, he reflected, was not the winter solstice but the day you died, and March 18 would be only six hours and three minutes long, if that.

A deep silence lay over the acre of stone, and the outside cold seeped into the church, slowly numbing the people inside. The four hostages slept fitfully on the cool marble of the altar sanctuary, cuffed together in pairs.

John Hickey rubbed his eyes, yawned, and looked at the television he had moved to the organ console. The volume was turned down, and a barely audible voice was remarking on the new day and speculating on what the sunrise would bring. Hickey wondered how many people were still watching. He pictured all-night vigils around television sets. Whatever happened would happen live, in color, and few would be willing to go to sleep and see it on the replays. Hickey looked down at Pedar Fitzgerald. There were ice packs around his throat and a tube coming from his mouth that emitted a hissing sound. Slightly annoying, Hickey thought.

Flynn began playing the bells again, an Irish-American song this time, "How Are Things in Glocca Morra?"

Hickey watched the television. The street crowds approved of the selection. People were swaying arm in arm,

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beery tears rolling down red faces. But eventually, he knew, the magic would pass, the concern over the hostages and the Cathedral would become the key news story again. A lot of emotional strings were being pulled this night, and he was fascinated by the game of manipulation. Hickey glanced up at the empty triforium. where Gallagher had stood, then turned and called back toward the sacristy stairs, "Frank?'

Gallagher ca;led from the stairwell, "All quiet!"

Hickey looked up at Sullivan and Abby Boland, and they signaled in return. Eamon Farrell called down from the triforium overhead. "All quiet." Hickey cranked the field phone.

Arthur Nulty rolled over and reached out for the receiver. "Roger."

"Status."

Nulty cleared his throat. "Haven't we had enough bells, for God's sake?

I can't hear so well with that clanging in my cars."

"Do the best you can." He cranked the phone again. "Bell tower?"

Mullins was staring through a shattered window, and the phone rang several times before he was aware of it. He grabbed it quickly, "Bell tower."

Hickey said, "Sleeping?"

Mullins moved one earpiece of the shooters' baffles and said irritably,

"Sleeping? How the hell could anyone sleep with that?" He paused, then said, "Has he gone mad?"

Hickey said, "How are they behaving outside?"

Mullins trailed the phone wire and walked around the tower. "They keep coming and going. Mostly coming. Soldiers bivouacked in the Channel Gardens. Damned reporters on the roofs have been drinking all night.

Could use a rip myself."

"Aye, time enough for that. At this hour tomorrow you'll be-where?"

"Mexico City . . . I'm to fly to Mexico City.He tried to laugh. "Long way from Tipperary.-

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"Warm there. Keep alert." Hickey cranked again. "South tower."

Rory Devane answered. "Situation unchanged."

"Watch for the strobe lights."

"I know."

"Are the snipers still making you nervous, lad?"

Devane laughed. "No. They're keeping me company. I'll miss them, I think."

"Where are you headed tomorrow?"

"South of France. It's spring there, they tell me."

"So it is. Remember, a year from today at Kavanagh's in fair Dublin."

"I'll be there."

Hickey smiled at the dim memory of Kavanagh's Pub, whose front wall was part of the surrounding wall of Glasnevin Cemetery. There was a pass-through in the back wall where gravediggers could obtain refreshments, and as a result, it was said, many a deceased was put into the wrong hole.

Hickey laughed. "Aye, Rory, you'll be there." He hung up and turned the crank again.

Leary picked up the phone in the choir loft. Hickey said, "Tell Brian to give the bells a rest, then." He watched Leary turn and speak to Flynn.

Leary came back on the line. "He says he feels like playing."

Hickey swore under his breath. "Hold on." He looked at the television set again. The scenes of New York had been replaced by an equally dramatic view of the White House, yellow light coming from the Oval Office windows. A reporter was telling the world that the President was in conference with top advisers. The scene shifted to 10 Downing Street, where it was 5:00 A.m. A bleary-eyed female reporter was assuring America that the Prime Minister was still awake. A quick scene-change showed the Apostolic Palace in the Vatican. Hickey leaned forward and listened carefully as the reporter speculated about the closed-door gathering of Vatican officials. He mumbled to himself, "Saint Peter's next."

Hickey spoke into the phone. "Tell Mr. Flynn that since we can expect an attack at any time now, I suggest be stop

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providing them with the noise cover they need." He hung up and listened to the bells, which still rang. Brian Flynn, he thought, was not the same man who strode so cockily through this Cathedral little more than six hours before.

Flynn was a man who had learned a great deal in those six hours, but had learned it too late and would learn nothing further of any consequenc I e in the final six hours.

Captain Bert Schroeder was startled out of a half-sleepby the ringing telephone. He picked it up quickly.

Hickey's voice cut into the stillness of the office and boomed out over the speakers in the surrounding rooms, also startling some of the people there. "Schroeder! Schroeder!"

Schroeder sat up, his chest pounding. "Yes! What's wrong?"

Hickey's voice was urgent. "Someone's seized the Cathedral!" He paused and said softly, "Or was I having a nightmare?" He laughed.

Schroeder waited until he knew his voice would be steady. He looked around the office. Only Burke was there at the moment, sleeping soundly on the couch. Schroeder said, "What can I do for you?"

Hickey said, "Status report, Schroeder."

Schroeder cleared his throat. "Status---~'

"How are things in Glocca Morra, London, Washington, Vatican City, Dublin? Anybody still working on this?"

"Of course. You can see it on TV."

"I'm not the public, Schroeder. You tell me what's happening."

"Well He looked at some recent memos. "Well . . . the Red Cross and Amnesty are positioned at all of the camps . . . waiting . . .

"That was on TV."

"Was it? Well . . . Dublin . . . Dublin has not yet agreed to accept released internees-"

"Tell them for me that they're sniveling cowards. Tell them I said the IRA will take Dublin within the year and shoot them all."

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Schroeder said emphatically, "Anyway, we all haven't agreed on terms yet, have we? So finding a place of sanctuary is of secondary importance-"

"I want to speak with all the governments directly. Set up a conference call."

Schroeder's voice was firm. "You know they won't speak to you directly."

"Those pompous bastards will be on their knees begging for an audience by six o'clock."

Schroeder put a note of optimism in his voice. "Your speech is still having favorable repercussions. The Vatican is-"

"Speaking of repercussions and concussions and all that, do you think-now this is a technical question that you should consider-do you think that the -lass fagade of the Olympic Tower will fall into the street when-"

Schroeder said abruptly, "Is Mr. Flynn there?"

"You have a bad habit of interrupting, Schroeder."

"Is Mr. Flynn there?"

"Of course he's here, you ass. Where else would he be?"

"May I speak to him, please?"

"He's playing the bells, for God's sake!"

"Can you tell him to pick up the extension beside the organ?"

"I told you, you don't interrupt a man when he's playing the hells.

Haven't you learned anything tonight? I'll bet you were a vice cop once, busting into hotel rooms, interrupting people. You're the type."

Schroeder felt his face redden. He heard Hickey's voice echoing through the rectory and heard a few people laughing. Schroeder snapped a pencil between his fingers. "We want to speak with Mr. Flynn-privately, at the sacristy gate." He looked at Burke sleeping on the couch. "Lieutenant Burke wants to speak-"

"As you said before, it's less confusing to speak to one person. If I can't speak to the Queen, you can't speak to Finn MacCumail. What's wrong with ine? By the way, what have you given up for Lent? Your brains or your

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balls? I gave up talking to fools on the telephone, but I'll make an exception in your case."

Schroeder suddenly felt something inside him come loose. He made a strong effort to control his voice and spoke in measured tones. "Mr. Hickey . . .

Brian Flynn has a great deal of faith in me-the efforts I'm making, the honesty I've shown-"

The sound of Hickey's laughter filled the office. "He sounds like a good lad to you, does he? Well, he's got a surprise in store for you, Schroeder, and you won't like it."

Schroeder said, "We'd rather not have any surprises-"