Tell Them I'll Be There (21 page)

Now, faced with Timothy Dolan, Bridget erupted. First she threw a dishcloth at him, then a ladle and, as he ducked and, swayed his way in, he caught and held her arms to her sides.

‘Get out!' she screamed.

The commotion had alerted Mrs Lynch, the lady next door, and she came running now. ‘What, in God's name?'

‘It's all right, Mrs Lynch,' Tim said, gingerly letting Bridget go. ‘I'll go. I shouldn't have come.'

Bridget screamed again and ran at him but Maggie Lynch was a heavyweight and she caught Bridget, came between them.

‘You better go, lad,' she said. ‘What you did to young Kathy was wrong and you'll find no forgiveness for that around here.'

‘I just want to see her,' he said quietly.

‘Well, she's at the church,' Bridget told him. ‘If you want to go down on your knees and say you're sorry then that's where she is.'

‘You robbed that girl of her future, Timothy Dolan,' Mrs Lynch accused him. ‘You were going to marry Kathy and you were going to spend the rest of your lives together.'

‘You don't understand,' Tim said feebly.

‘Oh, I understand all right,' Mrs Lynch assured him. ‘You held on to that girl and then you left her.'

‘I know,' Tim said. ‘But look, I just want to see her.'

‘I've told you,' Bridget yelled at him. ‘She's down at the church.'

‘I've just come from the church.'

‘Well, that's where she is. Now go, will ye? And don't come back.'

Still Tim hesitated.

‘Is your Jim home, Maggie?' Bridget asked Mrs Lynch. ‘Will you get him to throw this one out?'

‘No need,' Tim said. ‘I'm going.'

They were right. He should have finished with Kathy long before it became so serious. There were other fellows after her and he should have made his intentions clear much sooner 
than he did. But hey! he told himself. She's still only a young woman.

He walked back to where the path met the lane. This was where he would wait for Kathy when they were both in
standard
seven, aged fourteen. Most days she would be walking a little eight-year-old called Marie to school. Marie had red hair and a smiley face full of freckles. She would walk between them, holding them by the hand, and every few yards they would swing her up in the air and she would squeal with delight.

Now, as he approached the school, the children were spilling out into the lane. He saw Marie at once, same red hair, same smiley face, and she saw him at the moment he saw her.
She
was fourteen now but, apart from growing taller, she didn't seem to have changed much. He raised a hand and smiled, but she simply stared back at him, her face without expression, before turning away and running to catch up with her friends. Tim felt like a leper, an outcast in his own village.

He hurried back to the church and the deserted churchyard. Sometimes in the church a girl from the village would arrange the flowers from a funeral with just the family flowers left at the grave. But there was no sign of Kathy and the church was empty. He went to the sacristry but the door was locked and he found himself back at the main door. Then he saw Bridie Friel. She was coming up the path with her shopping basket.

‘Bridie!' he called. ‘Have you seen Kathy? Kathy O'Donnell?'

She looked at him blankly, her mouth open.

‘I was told she was here, at the church.'

The poor lad, she thought.

‘She's here all right,' she said in her gentle way and with a nod she indicated that he should follow.

Tim followed her down a neatly edged path, away from the church to where she came to a halt and looked down at an oblong mound of earth with a simple wooden cross. It was starting to go dark now in the grey dismal late afternoon but he could make out the carved wording on the small cross: Kathleen Mary O'Donnell (1908–1926). He fell to his knees. 

‘I'm sorry,' Bridie said softly. ‘I didn't realize you didn't know.'

Tim stared up at her in disbelief. ‘What was it? What happened?'

She shook her head. ‘I don't know. I believe she started to stay at home, wouldn't leave the house, wouldn't go to her work. They say she sort of wasted away.'

‘When was this? How long…?'

‘It was soon after you and the boys left.'

‘It was my fault, Bridie? Is that what you're saying?'

‘That's what everyone says.' He was suffering and she wanted to help him, reassure him, say what he wanted to hear, but she couldn't. ‘You were together for a long time. Everyone expected you to marry and become a part of the village but you chose the Church.'

‘So did I do wrong?'

‘What you did wrong was you didn't end it soon enough. Kathleen never believed you would leave her until you did.'

‘She didn't have to die.'

‘No,' Bridie agreed. ‘But you still don't understand, do you? She didn't want to
live
and she just allowed herself to waste away.'

‘But what did she die of? I mean …'

‘I don't know what Dr Murphy called it but the folk in the village, they say … well, you know what they are like.'

‘What? What do they say?'

She looked at him with genuine compassion and with her head on one side she said gently, ‘They say she died of a broken heart.'

B
ACK IN
Joe Baker's Madison Avenue office Lois had a message for Dan. A Mr O'Shaughnessey had called to say he needed to speak to Mr Dolan urgently, would he please call. Dan called the music agency where Nathan was employed but the girl on the switchboard said he had not been in. They hadn't heard from him and nobody there had any idea where he might be. Dan decided, as soon as the bell went for the end of the day's trading, he would call at the apartment Nathan had shared with Michael.

He knocked several times, tried the door handle and was about to leave when the housekeeper intercepted him on the stairs. She was a little Irish lady, a Mrs Daly, and she knew Dan was Michael's brother.

‘You're a friend of Mr O'Shaughnessey.'

Dan smiled. ‘I'm Michael Dolan's brother.'

‘Oh, Mr Dolan,' she said, her hands shaking. ‘I didn't know what to do. Your brother's gone and Mr O'Shaughnessey …' Her voice trailed.

‘What?' Dan asked quietly to calm her down. ‘What's happened, Mrs Daly? Is Nathan all right?'

‘No,' she said. ‘He is not. They took him to the County Hospital. Three men came very early this morning, about six o'clock, and they … they beat him up real bad. He was in a terrible state I thought they'd killed him.'

‘Three men.'

‘A small man and two big ugly brutes. Cowards they are. And you know Mr O'Shaughnessey. He's not a big man.' Mrs Daly 
had clearly been shaken and she was still scared. ‘They came yesterday. They said they were looking for Mr O'Shaughnessey but he wasn't in, so they said they would come back and they did.'

‘The County Hospital?' He dodged by her in the hallway. He was in a hurry now. ‘Don't worry, Mrs Daly,' he said. ‘I'll let you know what's going on. And thank you for calling the
ambulance
.'

‘I called the police, Mr Dolan. The police called the
ambulance
.'

He nodded and left her wringing her hands in the apron at her waist. It turned out that Nathan was not at the County Hospital. He had been transferred to an emergency unit at a hospital in Jersey where a specialist could examine his badly damaged eye.

It was 6.30, the traffic was heavy and it took Dan over an hour to get there. The man at the desk was reluctant to let him through but he walked through anyway, determined to find Nathan if he had to look in every room in the place. The man at the desk called Security but Dan was in luck. Both the Security men who appeared were Irish and when he told them his friend, Nathan O'Shaughnessey, had been beaten up and left for dead by a couple of hoodlums they couldn't have been more helpful. Within minutes they had found where Nathan was and one of them led him there.

Dan was shocked at what he saw. Nathan lay perfectly still, his head and his face heavily bandaged, a neck brace for support. The young doctor on duty told Dan that Nathan was lucky to be alive. ‘Whoever did this,' he said, ‘was out to kill your friend and they darn' near did.'

Nathan's left eye was patched up but he succeeded in opening his other eye. He tried to grin at Dan but the effort looked painful.

Dan looked down at him and smiled. ‘So how's the other fellow?'

Nathan opened his mouth but the young doctor looked concerned. ‘Don't try to talk,' he said. ‘It's too soon.' 

Dan said, ‘I just want to ask you a couple of questions, Nathan. If it's yes give me a wink. If it's no, give me two. OK?'

Nathan winked his good eye.

Dan smiled. ‘You're a tough guy, O'Shaughnessey.'

Nathan winked in agreement and Dan grinned down at him.

‘This was two of O'Hara's men?' he said, grimly serious now. Nathan winked once. ‘They wanted to know where Michael was?' He winked again. ‘You told them you didn't know and they didn't believe you?' He winked again. ‘So they tried to beat it out of you?' Winked again.

The young doctor decided this was enough. ‘I guess—'

‘It's OK, Doc,' Dan said. ‘I've got all I need to know.' To Nathan he said, ‘I'll be back and don't you worry about a thing. You're in good hands here.'

There was a telephone booth in the hospital foyer. Dan was furious. Nathan's wounds were much worse then he had expected and it was obvious it would be a long time, if ever, before he fully recovered. Dan wanted to do something about it, fast. He rang Joe Baker's apartment.

‘Pops!' he said, and he realized he was trembling with rage. ‘I'm just calling to tell you I may not see you for some time so I want to say thanks, thank you for everything.'

‘Sounds serious,' Baker said.

‘It is,' Dan said.

‘So where are you? What's going on? When you didn't come back to the office we thought maybe something had happened.'

‘It has. And I'm sorry. But I can explain. I'm at a hospital in Jersey.'

‘Hospital! Why? What is it?' Baker asked in alarm. ‘You OK?'

‘Yeah,' Dan said. ‘I'll tell you about it when I see you. But that might not be for some time. I'm going along to O'Hara's place right now and I'm going to kill him.'

‘Whoa! What's this? You are not going to kill anyone.'

‘I'm going to do it now, so I am. He's going to get what he deserves.'

‘You do nothing 'til you've seen me. All right? Whatever he's 
done he's not worth doing time for. Now you do as I say and come over here.'

‘Is Barbara there?'

‘Yeah, she is.'

‘Well, I can't talk to you there.'

There was a pause then Baker said, ‘Right. I think I know what you're saying. Well, why not go home, get some sleep and we'll talk about it in the morning.'

‘Can't do that, Pops. I need to do something now, tonight.'

‘Just calm down, son. Come over here and I'll be waiting for you downstairs. OK?'

‘O'Hara sent a couple of thugs to beat up a boy called Nathan, friend of ours, wouldn't harm a fly. And they left him for dead. Well, he's not going to get away with it. Not this time. I'm going to kill him.'

‘No, you're not,' Baker said. ‘
I
am.'

The crowd had been growing since early morning. Word had gone out that three condemned men were to die in one day and the Anti-Chair League and other protestors were there in force. News reporters were broadcasting from outside the prison gates and listeners across the country could hear the chants and the hymn singing of the demonstrators that drowned the
loud-hailers
of the large contingent of police officers detailed to keep them under control. Three executions in one day seemed an unsavoury act of defiance on behalf of the authorities and this had provoked a feeling of outrage amongst even the most passive of objectors.

Beyond the gates Father Pat felt there was an air of unease, a kind of guilty briskness about the proceedings as if everyone on duty wanted to get the day's gruesome work over and done with as quickly and efficiently as possible. Even the minute finger on the large round clock in the main hall seemed to be in a hurry, the little time left eroding rapidly.

The brick walls of Tony O'Reilly's cell were pale grey with here and there a lighter patch where some message left by a previous occupant had been painted out. There was a small 
wash basin, a single upright chair for visitors and a low iron bed, the last place where Tony would lay his head. Tony's cell was in a row of eight. Two were empty, six were occupied by men awaiting execution.

The wide passageway outside the cells led to a brown door that led to another door, a green door that opened on to the slightly raised area where the dreaded chair with its retaining straps awaited. Facing the platform were the seats from where members of the Press and around twenty ‘witnesses' would watch. In just ten minutes' time Tony O'Reilly would make his entrance and a few minutes later he would make his exit.

In his cell he sat on the bed, his head down, his hands covering his face, as Father Pat, seated in the chair, spoke to him quietly.

Tony's head had been shaved as if to render him anonymous. He looked up, terrified. ‘I don't want to die, Father.'

Father Pat didn't know what to say. Tony was just a boy, barely out of school. But the priest knew he had to keep talking, help the minutes tick away. ‘These people are wrong, son,' he said. ‘They don't know what they're doing. But I guess it's too late now to stop them. They think what they are doing is right. But God knows what is right. You must be brave, hold your head up high. You're Tony O'Reilly. And you're innocent. Let them see that. Look them in the eye and be proud. I want to be able to tell your Ma and Frankie that you were brave and strong because you were innocent and you knew that your God was with you.'

The governor was at the cell door. He nodded at Father Pat to indicate the time had come. Father Pat drew back his chair as a guard came in and took hold of Tony's arm. Tony stood up. Neither the governor nor any of the guards knew what to expect. They never did. Sometimes the condemned man would cower back and have to be dragged from the cell. Others would come quietly, often as if in a kind of stupor.

Tony's eyes mirrored his terror as he looked at Father Pat. ‘Will you walk with me, Father?'

Father Pat nodded. The governor had already agreed to his request that he should take the place of the prison chaplain. 

‘As far as the Gates of Heaven,' he told Tony and together they began that last walk, passed the cells of others awaiting the same fate, to the brown door then on towards the green door.

‘Go on, kid,' one of the condemned men cried. ‘Show 'em you can take it.'

Tony's young, lithe, athletic body seemed to have collapsed from within. He looked thinner, smaller, shrunken in on himself as if his spirit had already left his body and what remained of him had come to accept his role in this obscene and indefensible charade.

Beyond the green door the audience fell silent as the six guards, lined up in twos, trooped to a halt. As if perplexed by the part they were playing, they seemed to hang their heads in shame.

Tony O'Reilly turned his tear-stained face to Father Pat and tried to smile. ‘Tell Ma an' Frankie …'

Father Pat nodded and gripped his hand for the last time.

‘I'll put in a good word for you, Father, when I get up there.'

He squeezed the priest's hand and with that he turned away and was led to the waiting chair where he was swiftly strapped in, a black mask went over his face and a wired-up helmet was placed on his head.

Father Pat looked at the governor. It was all happening so fast. But the governor simply nodded at the executioner and without a moment's grace or time even for a collective prayer the switch was thrown. There had been reports that on occasion the electrics had failed at the last moment and the doomed prisoner had been reprieved, his sentence commuted. But there were no such hitches today and the strong, young but diminished body of Tony O'Reilly slumped forward.

The greying priest had closed his eyes and if, as the
myth-makers
maintained, the lights dimmed as the surge of electricity took all the power, he had not noticed. For the moment he was traumatized, his heart and his mind scarred for the rest of his days.

The procedure had taken seconds, a young man was dead and even as they were being ushered out the apparently insensitive 
newsmen were scribbling their lines, their lives intact, their earthly pressures paramount. From behind the phalanx of guards and the straight-backed governor, the diminutive figure of Father Pat stepped forward.

‘That's it, fellas,' he cried. ‘You can do your job now, write your grubby little stories. Or you can try telling the truth. The State has murdered an innocent boy today, a mere child. And you lot sat there and watched it happen. Have you no shame?'

The governor and a large guard stepped before him. ‘Please, Father,' the governor said quietly, ‘we must have some respect.'

Father Pat gave a hollow laugh. ‘Respect? Respect for what? We're murderers,' he cried at the dwindling audience, ‘all of us, because we were here and we let it happen.'

The governor looked shocked, open-mouthed, at the priest's outburst, but some of the scribes were already adding a new dimension to their reports. And then, in the shamefaced silence that followed, Father Pat shook himself free of the guard's gently restraining arm and turned on his heel to the green door.

‘Shame on you!' he cried as he left. ‘May God forgive you.'

On the train home Father Pat could not contain his tears and to the consternation of those nearby he sobbed bitterly. Back at his church and well into the night, he composed a letter to the
Times
.