Reckless (44 page)

‘By the way,’ said Mountbatten, ‘I’ve put you on the list for Turnstile.’

‘What’s Turnstile?’

‘It’s the government bunker, somewhere in the Cotswolds. Highly restricted list. I’m only allowed twelve names. Consider it an honour.’

‘Thank you, sir. Actually, if you don’t mind, I’d rather take my chances here in town.’

‘Me too. But someone has to be left to run the bloody country.’

By Thursday morning Rupert, along with all his colleagues, was feeling the strain of the prolonged period of heightened alert. Following the orders of the prime minister the headlines in the newspapers were concerned, but not alarmist. Life seemed to be continuing on the streets of London much as ever. This only added to the otherworldly nature of the crisis.

By Sunday it could all be over.

Rupert made a bet with John Grimsdale. He bet his friend the tension would be diffused by the end of tomorrow, Friday. He didn’t tell Grimsdale about the back channel in which he was involved, only that he believed there would be a negotiated settlement. Grimsdale bet that it would turn into a shooting war by Monday.

‘And after that?’ said Rupert.

‘Who knows?’ said Grimsdale. ‘I don’t see why it has to be the end of the world. Why can’t it just be another little war?’

‘Because this isn’t a proxy fight, like the Congo. This is the big boys in the ring.’

‘You know your trouble, Rupert? You’ve philosophised yourself into a corner. You want this to be an epoch-defining experiment, don’t you? Will mankind choose life or death?’

‘How much?’ said Rupert.

‘Ten bob,’ said Grimsdale.

A message came for Rupert that there was a lady at the Ministry of Defence outer gateway asking for him. For a single blinding moment he thought it was Mary, unexpectedly returned from Ireland. But surely she would have let him know? He ran down the stairs and out into the forecourt. There, on the street side of the gate, stood his sister Geraldine.

‘For God’s sake, Geraldine! What are you doing here?’

‘I have to see you, Rupert.’

She sounded frantic.

‘You can’t come in. We’re on top security alert.’

‘You come out, then.’

‘I can’t.’

At that Geraldine burst into tears.

‘All right,’ said Rupert. ‘Five minutes.’

He went out through the gate and his sister threw herself into his arms.

‘I’m frightened,’ she said. ‘I heard it on the one o’clock news. I had to find you. There’s something you have to do.’

She seized his hand and led him up Whitehall, past the Houses of Parliament.

‘Where are we going, Geraldine? What do you want?’

‘It’s true, isn’t it? There’s going to be a war. I didn’t really believe it, but I thought maybe I should go to confession, just in case. So I walked down to the Carmelite church. And Rupert, there was a queue!’

‘For confession?’

‘Three cubicles working at once. And there was still a long queue, all down the side of the nave. And that’s not all.’

She led him across the green and into the big west doors of Westminster Abbey.

‘Look!’

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Then
he saw that there were people scattered about, kneeling in the pews, praying. There was no service in progress. These were clearly people who had come in off the street to pray.

‘Do you see?’

A lot of people, heads bowed, silent in prayer.

‘They’re praying,’ whispered Geraldine.

‘They’re afraid,’ said Rupert.

‘Are they right to be afraid? Will this war really come?’

Rupert looked at his sister’s flushed face, and saw that she wanted it to come. She wasn’t afraid, she was exultant.

‘It might,’ he said.

‘If it comes,’ she said, ‘all this, the Abbey, the Houses of Parliament, the streets, the houses, all London, will be swept away, won’t it?’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘No one will survive.’

‘Very few.’

‘Then don’t you see?’ She was whispering in her intensity. ‘This changes everything. Larry must be told.’

‘Larry must be told?’

‘He has so little time. The news said it could be days. Hours, even.’

‘Geraldine, if there is a nuclear war, I don’t think it really matters who’s been told what.’

‘Will they drop a bomb on Sussex? Will
she
die?’

‘If bombs are dropped on London, the whole south-east will be poisoned by radiation.’

‘So she’ll die later? Slowly?’

Rupert turned away.

‘Stop this, please.’

‘But there’s no time! You must call Larry. Tell him to come. This is his last chance to come back and make everything right
again, before the end. Rupert, you must do this! I have a right to die in my husband’s arms.’

‘I will not call Larry, Geraldine. Now I’m going back to work.’

She followed him out of the Abbey, running to keep up with his angry stride.

‘You have to call him. He won’t believe me. He’ll believe you.’

‘I’m not doing it.’

‘But can’t you see, Rupert? God is giving us one last chance. We’ve been given the warning. We must prepare our souls. Why do you think the churches are full?’

Rupert strode on in silence. She reached for his sleeve, pulled at him.

‘Call Larry! Give him the chance to die with the woman he loves.’

‘He loves Kitty,’ said Rupert.

Geraldine let go of his sleeve and came to a stop.

‘No,’ she said. Then she screamed. ‘No! No!’

Rupert was forced to turn back. Passers-by were staring.

‘He doesn’t love Kitty!’ Geraldine howled. ‘He loves me!’

The exultation was gone from her face. Tears were coursing down her cheeks. Her arms hung limp by her side.

This is my baby sister. We played together as children. I loved her once.

Rupert was overwhelmed with pity and sadness.

‘Come here, sis.’ He took in his arms. ‘It’ll be all right. There won’t be any war. We’ll all go on living.’

‘I don’t want to go on living,’ she cried, sobbing in his arms. ‘I want the world to end. I want it all to be over.’

‘I know. I know.’

She calmed down slowly, her face pressed to his shoulder.

‘We just have to struggle on somehow, don’t we?’ he said.

‘It’s too hard,’ she said. ‘Too hard.’

‘I know.’

‘What’s wrong with us, Rupert? Why can’t we be happy, like everyone else?’

‘I don’t think everyone else is all that happy. I think most people find it hard too.’

He hailed a cab for her.

‘You go home now. Go home and rest. I have to go back to work.’

‘Yes, I know. Men always have to work.’

Rupert gave the cabbie Geraldine’s address. The taxi drove off. He walked slowly now, back to the Ministry.

I want the world to end
.

An end to struggle and failure. An end to loneliness. What if those in charge of the nuclear buttons felt it too? Let all our sorrows be wiped away. Let the page turn and we can start afresh. A new story on a new sheet. The age-old seduction of the end of the world.

It was Father Flannery’s idea to hold a prayer service that Thursday evening. The pilgrims weren’t going away.

‘We’ll pray the rosary,’ he said. ‘We’ll ask God for forgiveness.’

The rain was falling heavily, streaming down the tile roof of the church, overspilling the clogged gutters and running in streams between the gravestones. The pilgrims crowded into the church, shaking off their umbrellas, discreetly shuffling for a place in the whitewashed nave where they’d be close enough to hear.

Father Flannery and the Brennans and Patrick Dempsey, who had experience as a bouncer in the pubs of Sligo, were squeezed into the tiny vestry, waiting for the crowd to settle. The priest peeped through the crack of the door.

‘That’s a good crowd,’ he said.

‘Am I to say no flash photographs?’ said Patrick Dempsey.

‘No,’ said Mary. ‘Let them do as they wish.’

‘They’ll not come past the communion rail,’ said the priest. ‘Not in my church.’

‘Will you speak to them, Mary?’ said her brother.

‘I’ve nothing more to say,’ said Mary.

‘We’ll just pray,’ said the priest. ‘We’ll pray together for the world.’

Then the priest stepped out of the vestry and spoke to the people packed into the church.

‘I have Mary Brennan with me here,’ he said. ‘She’s here to join us in prayer. She’ll not be speaking to you herself.’

He beckoned Mary out, along with Eileen and Eamonn Brennan. There was a stir in the church as the people strained to see her.

‘Now I’ll ask you to kneel with me and pray to Our Father in heaven to show us his mercy and kindness in these troubled times.’

The people shuffled onto their knees, as did the Brennans by the altar. The priest made the sign of the cross and led them all in the prayers of the rosary.

‘I believe in God, the Father almighty, creator of heaven and earth … ’

The murmuring voices of the faithful filled the church, blurring into the sound of the rain on the roof. Mary spoke the familiar words of the creed by rote, no longer aware of any meaning.

‘He descended into hell; the third day he rose again from the dead … ’

She knew she should be thinking of the perilous state of the world, but she was not. She was thinking how small the church was, and the village, and how she wanted to get away from it. She was thinking how she had never had pretty clothes to wear, like Pamela, and how men had never looked at her the way they looked at Pamela.

Then she was remembering how Brendan Flynn had given her a cigarette to show him her weenie. And how she had flicked up her skirts to show the devil her bum.

Here I am, twenty-nine years old and never been kissed. All I’ve had is Jesus come to me over the water and say to me, ‘Be my voice.’

I’ve done what you said, Lord. When’s it my turn?

They were into the long chain of Hail Marys now.

‘Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed art thou among women … ’

And I’m Mary too, and I’m blessed among women. Only nobody asked me and I don’t want it.

‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.’

Mother of God. Not wife of God. Not girlfriend of God. No fun and games for Mary, no making love, just a baby out of nowhere and a lifetime of sorrow and an eternity of being prayed at by keening women. Who’d be a Mary?

I’ll go back to London tomorrow, she thought. First thing I’ll be on the bus south, and catch an afternoon plane. Rupert will come to see me and I’ll tell him all my wicked thoughts and he’ll laugh at me. That’s assuming the world hasn’t ended after all.

She became aware of raised voices. Someone was shouting. There was a scuffle in the nave, and more raised voices.

‘Save me, Mary! I don’t want to die!’

A woman was pushing through the crowd towards the altar, her arms flailing. Her face was distorted with panic.

‘Let me touch her! If I touch her I’ll be saved!’

People were pulling the woman back, trying to get her on her knees again. From the sound of her voice she wasn’t a local, Spanish perhaps, or Mexican. A lot of strangers had come to Kilnacarry in the last few days.

‘The warning! Tell us the warning!’

This was a different voice, a younger woman, crying out from the back. At once a dozen other voices joined in.

‘Mary! Speak to us! When’s it to come, the great wind? The wind, Mary! Tell us!’

Mary turned towards them, not knowing what to do. The priest was on his feet, his hands raised in protest.

‘That’s enough now!’

But fear had taken hold of the pilgrims, and they were pushing forward, calling out.

‘Take me with you, Mary! I don’t want to die! Have pity on us! Tell us! Tell us!’

Now they were forcing their way past the communion rail, and Mary, frightened, was backing towards the altar. Eamonn and Patrick Dempsey stepped forward to protect her. The priest called out in vain.

‘No! Go back! What are you doing? This is a disgrace!’

The woman who had first begun the calling out now broke free of those trying to restrain her and hurled herself forward onto the altar steps. She had black hair in a braid and big black frightened eyes. She lunged at Mary, hands outreached, and managed to seize hold of the hem of her coat.

‘Take me with you!’ she cried out. ‘Take me with you to heaven!’

She had a mad desperate look about her. Mary shrank back in fear as Eamonn pushed the woman away. The woman held on so tight to Mary’s coat that she was almost pulled over.

‘Take her outside, Eamonn!’ said the priest.

Everyone seemed to be shouting now, the whole crowd pushing forward to reach Mary. Eamonn took her by the arm and pulled her away to the vestry, while Patrick Dempsey blocked the rush of people. From the vestry Eamonn took her straight out into the night, into the falling rain, fumbling to open the umbrella he carried. Before he could get it open he saw there were pilgrims spilling out of the main door of the church, making their way between the gravestones of the churchyard towards them.

‘Run, Mary! Don’t mind getting wet!’

He kept hold of her hand, and they set off at a run up the road. The pilgrims caught sight of them and gave chase. It would have been comical if it hadn’t been frightening.

Hot, panting, drenched, they ran all the way to their cottage. As
soon as they were inside, Eamonn bolted the door. They stood there in the dark and listened as the chasing crowd caught up, and called to Mary, and beat on the door.

‘Mary! Mary! Speak to us!’

Then they lit the lamp and took off their wet coats and dried their wet faces.

‘It’s madness out there,’ said Mary.

‘And it’s cold and wet,’ said Eamonn. ‘They’ll not stay long.’

Shortly there came a different voice at the door, the voice of the priest. He was outside with Eileen Brennan. They opened the door and let them in, closing it at once afterwards.

‘That was a terrible disgrace!’ said the priest. ‘The shame of it in my church!’

He was very angry.

‘It’s the fear has got them,’ said Eileen Brennan. ‘They believe our Mary can save them.’