At last, feeling his way, he found the place he was searching for. The sepulcher was high, like a narrow stone house. He snatched at the rusty padlock, unhooking it, swung open the gate, closed it behind him, stepped across a narrow strip of weeds and was quickly inside out of the rain. He felt his way along the wall, and when he came to the first stone coffin at ground levelâmost were on stone shelvesâhe sat. It was good to take the weight off his foot.
He had found the hideaway only just in time. He could hear the putter-putter of the searching motorcycle in the cemetery.
He was scared. He was alone. And he was sitting on a stone coffin.
“It's not a coffin; it's a casket,” Sean Farrell had said the first time they sat inside. “That's what they're called these days, a casket. And this place is called a crypt. The cat crept in the crypt and crapped.” He laughed.
“A crypt is below ground,” said Rory. Rory was a big reader. “This frightful edifice, you ignoramus, is a sepulcher.”
Liam wished Rory and Sean were with him right now. Anyway, he was sitting on a coffin and it didn't matter a tinker's hoot what other names it had. A coffin is a coffin, plain and simple. With a dead body inside. And Rory and Sean were not there with him, play-acting and cracking jokes and blowing cigarette smoke into the dank gloomy air. They used to wonder if there was a wooden coffin inside the stone one. And inside the wooden coffinâ¦? Like a set of Russian dolls, smaller and smaller, until finally a tiny box and a withered Ludlow homunculus (Rory's word) the size of a dried raisinâ¦
It was cold and wet. July? Might as well live at the North Pole as live in Belfast.
The motorcycle noise went away. After a while it came back. It stopped near Liam's hiding place. Was the Mole coming to check the sepulcher? Why would the Mole stop at this particular one of the many sepulchers throughout the cemetery? He strained his ears listening for the sound of a hand on the padlock. Nothing. The motorcycle noise started again. Then it went away.
Silence.
He sat in the dark, arms folded over his shivering chest, legs pressed tight together, and waited for daylight as he tried not to think of the many Ludlow ghosts around him, lying in their cold coffins, or hovering over his head, preparing to stop his grief-destroyed heart with fright.
He was too scared to sleep. Besides, it was cold in the sepulcher. The pain throbbed in his foot. It was the ankle of the same foot he had sprained the time he fell off the trapeze at YC, or Youth Circus.
A Protestant boy named Timmy Banks is the anchor. He is holding the rope attached to Liam's safety harness. Timmy stumbles and loses his grip. The rope races through the pulley. Liam, still twelve feet above the ring floor, drops like a bomb and twists his ankle. The pain is excruciating.
Timmy is eleven. He cries.
Nicole Easterbrook, another Protestant, carefully, tenderly removes Liam's shoe while her friend Grace Newton runs for the director. Rory is there. He helps Nicole peel off Liam's sock.
Liam and Rory became members of the Belfast Community Youth Circus after being on their waiting list for a whole year. Catholic and Protestant kids work and train together on Saturdays, and sometimes Sundays. The circus school is under the directorship of the severe Madame Dubois and has a hundred young members with a waiting list of as many more. Started originally as a way of creating friendship and harmony between young Catholics and Protestants, it continues to encourage kids to forget their differences and work and train together. For children whose parents are unemployed, the fees are waived.
Accidents sometimes happen. Sprained ankles and wrists are not at all unusual.
Rory helps Liam hop to Madame Dubois' car. Liam sits in front next to the director. Rory gets into the car and sits in the back. The two boys are stiff with shyness.
Miss Dubois drives to the hospital and the foot is X-rayed and bandaged. Then she takes the two boys home. Not a word is exchanged between them in the ten minutes it takes for Madame Dubois to drive them home through west Belfast's mean streets. To Liam, nursing his throbbing ankle, the journey seems to take forever, not because of the pain but because of the silent authority of the director's straight no-nonsense back.
Supported by Rory and escorted by the director, Liam hops into the house. Liam and Rory are still dumb from the car ride, so Madame Dubois introduces herself to Liam's mum and da. Liam can see that they are temporarily stunned by her French accent and haughty polished manner. She does not offer her hand.
“Mr. Fogarty? Mrs. Fogarty? I am Madame Dubois, director of the Youth Circus. Your son had a small accident, yes?” She hands Liam's shoe and sock to Mr. Fogarty, who stares at them stupidly while Madame Dubois continues. “It is nothing to be too concerned about. A sprained ankle is all, but he will be forced to rest awhile, I'm afraid.” She speaks, without so much as a nod or a smile, with the air of an expert on sprained ankles.
By now Liam is lying on the couch with his foot up on the arm and, though suffering from the pain of his swollen ankle, can see that his parents, like all the circus students, are awed by the director's take-charge personality.
Rory stands helplessly by.
His mum fetches a bag of frozen peas, wraps it in a towel and shapes it to fit around Liam's ankle.
His da recovers from his astonishment. “It was remarkable kind of you to drive him to the hospital and bring him home, Madame Dubois. Will you stay for a wee cup of tea? Sure you will; I will put on the kettle.”
His mum, holding the frozen peas to Liam's ankle, looks up at Madame Dubois. “Please sit, won't you?”
Madame Dubois flutters her hands. “Thank you, no. I must be on my way.” She nods at Liam. “It was an awkward fall, but soon you will return to your training.”
His da says, “An awkward colt often becomes a speedy horse, isn't that right, Madame Dubois?”
Madame Dubois stares at him blankly.
His da smiles. “An old Irish saying.”
His mum stands. “Thanks again for bringing him home.”
“The boy will soon be on his feet again, don't worry,” says his da.
Madame Dubois leaves without another word.
They love the circus. When they are kids, soon after Liam moves to the Ballymurphy neighborhood, he and Rory sneak into a circus in Belfast, ducking through the turnstiles after Rory's well-aimed stink bomb diverts the ticket collector's attention.
Soon after that, Liam discovers Trapeze, an old 1956 film, in the video store on Springfield Street. Hollywood hero Burt Lancaster plays the part of a famous trapeze artist named Mike Ribble. Liam and Rory rent the film as often as they can afford it. They think it is brilliant.
Black night melted into dark gray gloom.
Liam crawled out of the sepulcher shivering and looked about him with bleary eyes. No rain. He hooked the padlock back on the gate with cold trembling fingers. When he was sure no one was watching, he started walking quickly to get his blood flowing, to shake out the cramps in his legs and warm himself up. His sore foot felt tender inside the shoe, and his ribs ached on the left side where he had been kicked. His walking slowed and he began to limp. Motorcycle tire tracks muddied the grass and the many flat gravestones; vases and jars of flowers were shattered and scattered on the ground. He limped out the gate, pausing first to make sure the coast was clear. No motorcycle; no sign of the Mole.
He made his way back to the Cassidy house and beat on the door with his fist.
Delia Cassidy, in pink sweater and jeans, jerked the door open. “Ah! Thank God you're all right, lovey. We thought you were killed. Or kidnapped. Thanks be to heaven you're safe! Come in, for God's sake. Come in, boy. The police were over at your house and then they came here. Two of the Royal Ulster Constabulary's finest. They sent a car looking for you. Come in, come in.” Her husband and Rory stood behind her, wide-eyed and anxious.
He limped into the kitchen while Delia Cassidy called the police.
Breakfast time. Delia Cassidy had noticed him limping. She finished calling the police and sat him down. Jack Cassidy placed a hot mug of tea in his hands to warm him.
“The police are on their way,” said Delia Cassidy.
Liam told them what had happened and about his night in the Ludlow tomb. Delia Cassidy gathered her first-aid things together. “It's obvious what happened here,” she said. “Didn't we hear the gun? And see the destruction caused down here? Thanks be to God you weren't killed like your poor mum and da, God save them both.”
“It's clear you can't stay here tonight,” said Jack Cassidy.
Rory's eyes were wide with worry. “This Mole feller, he knows where you are, Liam. He'll annihilate you for sure.”
That was Rory. Never used a short word if a long one would do.
Delia Cassidy had her tweezers ready. “Lie on the couch and I'll just take a wee look at that foot again.”
Liam lay on the couch with his foot dangling over the arm, as before, trying not to cry out while Delia Cassidy removed the Band-Aid and probed his foot gently with her tweezers again. “What will the boy do to be safe?” she asked her husband over her shoulder.
“Go to the IRA,” said Rory, butting in. “They'll protect him.”
Delia Cassidy looked up sharply. “Hush your mouth with the IRA. The only thing they're good for is killing innocent people.”
Jack Cassidy shook his head. “The boy must go to the police. There's no other way, or this time tomorrow he will be stone dead for sure.”
“Are you mad?” said Delia Cassidy. “Are you out of your mind, man? The police are worse than the I.R.A! Aren't the police all Protestants? I wouldn't trust them with the cat. They'd be just as likely to hand the boy over to a gang of Protestant thugs! Hold still, Liam. There's the tiniest wee bit left in there and I almost have it.”
“Ouch!” The biting pain made it hard for him to hold still.
“Aye,” said Jack Cassidy, “but there's a few Catholics in the police force, not many, you're right, only a few percent maybe, but the lad will be safer with them than here with us, a sitting target for those murdering butchers. He might not be so lucky next time.”
Delia Cassidy held up the tweezers for Liam's inspection. “There! See? The Last piece, I'm sure. I'll put on a fresh Band-Aid and you'll be as fit as a butcher's dog, as my father used to say. It might be a good idea to walk on your heel whenever you can, so the Band-Aid doesn't come off. We don't want dirt getting in there and causing infection.”
Jack Cassidy said, “Eat some breakfast, boy, and then get a bit of rest before the police get here.”
Liam ate a small bowl of cereal but couldn't face the plate of toast, butter and marmalade in front of him. He stretched himself out on the couch. It felt good to lie down. He was exhausted. Everything ached.
Delia Cassidy said, “The police will take their own sweet time.” She put on her raincoat. “I'm away to the church. I'll not be long. Back before the police get here. I want to light two candles for the repose of the souls of your poor unfortunate mum and da.”
Candles.
Liam closed his eyes. Delia Cassidy was like his mother, and most of the women in the parish, lighting candles in St. Anthony's church, pushing them into the spiked candleholders, crossing themselves, bowing their heads in prayer. Fiona Fogarty had made it a habit, dropping a coin into the collection box and lighting a candle after Mass every Sunday without fail.
“Why do you always light a candle, Mum?”
He is nine years old.
“It's for a private intention.”
“What's a private attention?”
“Private means it's a secret between me and God. Lighting a candle is a prayer asking God for something.”
“What are you asking God for, Mum?”
“Never you mind. It's private. That's why it's called a private intention.”
He watches the way her dark hair falls into her eyes, watches how she flicks it back with a shake of her head. Her hazel eyes are permanently anxious, it seems, because she has to make do with very little money. Liam is old enough to understand that it is always a struggle for his mother to find the rent and put meals on the table and clothes on their backs. And yet she never misses her candle conversation with God after Sunday Mass, even though coins are scarce.
She bends her head in prayer. Then she crosses herself and the ceremony is over for another week.
Liam said, “Could I ask for a private attention too? Would I have to light a candle? I could ask God for a bicycle. Do you think He would listen?”
“It's intention, not attention. God is always listening. No, the candle is not important; you can ask for whatever you want. But that doesn't necessarily mean you will get it.”
“If the candle isn't important, why do you light one then?”
“It's a symbol, that's all, a symbol of hope and remembrance.” She thinks for a second. “And gratefulness,” she adds.
“What's a symbol, Mum?”
The next Sunday he stands at the altar without lighting a candle and asks God for a bicycle. Six months go by before his da brings home a second-hand bicycle from “The Spinning Wheel,” John Joe Murphy's sports shop in Ballymurphy.
“You're right,” he tells his mother. “I didn't even need to light a candle.”
Their last day together:
He walks with his mother to the ten o'clock Sunday morning Mass, her last. As they approach St. Anthony's he hangs back, looking for his friends Rory and Sean. He no longer sits and kneels with his mother in a pew; he is much too old for that. Instead he joins Rory and Sean at the back of the church where they stand with the latecomers, and then, when no one is looking, slip away to share an illegal cigarette behind the presbytery wall.