The Bells of Scotland Road (17 page)

Bridie refused to be nervous in the face of this imminent happening. Her hands were trembling because of the bitter cold, she told herself. And the headache was just tiredness, wasn’t it?
Of course it was. She wasn’t dreading seeing those awfully cold eyes again. No, not at all. She was just a little run down, no more than that.

Anthony’s house was very interesting. There wasn’t a lot of furniture – just a pair of armchairs in the tiny parlour, a table and chairs in the kitchen, a
couple of rugs. But there were hundreds of books. Some were on real shelves and in bookcases, others were housed in orange boxes stood on end to look like cupboards, and many were stacked on
window-ledges, mantelshelves and against walls. Cathy dashed about picking and choosing, finally setting on an
Atlas of European Countries
.

They pored over a map of Ireland. ‘There it is,’ said Cathy triumphantly. ‘Ballinasloe. It’s really spelt B-E-A-L, A-T-H-A, N-A, S-L-U-A-I-G-H-E. With lines over some of
the letters. That’s proper Irish. There’s a castle to guard the river Suck and a big quarry nearby where they get the Galway stone. Great big men work there. They have to be strong to
break the stuff. Sometimes, there’s an explosion and your feet tremble. I used to pretend I lived near one of those mountains—’

‘Volcanoes?’

‘Yes. They spit fire and rocks.’

She was bright to the point of effervescence. Intelligence shone in her eyes, and she had humour, too. Cathy was like her mother, he decided. Although he had never known Eugene, he guessed that
this little one would turn out to be very like Bridie. Bridie. He mustn’t think about the fall of her hair and the arch of her brows. No, he should concentrate on what he did best, should
stick to educating children.

He listened while Cathy prattled on about the forge and the church, while she passed on her mother’s opinions about various neighbours. ‘My daddy ran the farm, then he was killed in
the machinery. Mammy took over, but the landlord wanted a man to have the place. Mammy told him she could read and count and do as well as anybody, but we were still moved. We lived with Granda.
He’s got angry eyes and bushy hair, but he plasters that down with stuff in a bottle. Granda has horses and cows and pigs. I had my own chicken and a dog, but now I’ve got Noel. Granda
used to slap me. I think that’s why Mammy said she’d come over and marry Mr Bell. We call him Uncle Sam. Mammy never smacks us and she doesn’t like anyone else slapping us.
Anyway, Uncle Sam’s nice because he never shouts and he got Noel for me.’

They both gazed at the animal in question. ‘He’s a size,’ said Anthony.

‘I have to be good to keep him. Mammy says we’re both on trial. But really, I’m the one who has to behave.’

He tried not to laugh. ‘That shouldn’t be too difficult. When Tildy and Jimmy want to go . . . want to find stuff for the Nolans, just walk away.’ The child would never walk
away from anything. She was an explorer, one of life’s navigators.

Cathy studied this teacher and friend for a moment. ‘Can I do that? Won’t they laugh and call me a baby if I just go off and don’t help to feed the poor?’

Anthony took the child’s hand. ‘Does it matter if they do?’

It did matter. What people thought was important. She was Mammy’s big girl in the house, but when she went outside, she became a little girl who had to remember her mother’s orders
and stick to them at all costs. Following Mammy’s orders meant she couldn’t spend time with the Costigans, couldn’t choose or decide anything for herself. Cathy told Anthony about
this. ‘I’m to be big and helpful at home, but not in the street.’ She withdrew her fingers from his grip and folded her arms. ‘It’s like being two different girls
altogether, one big and one small. I have to remember which one I’m being, and that’s not easy.’

He understood her. ‘Childhood is confusing,’ he informed her. ‘And parents don’t always make the best sense. But your mother has your welfare at heart, Cathy. She wants
you safe and sensible. Tildy and Jimmy have had a different life. Anyway, don’t you want to go back to Ireland? Isn’t that what you’d like to do?’

She really didn’t know, and she told Anthony all about it. ‘I like school. I like the shop, and Uncle Sam gives me pennies. Tildy is my friend, even though she’s older and in a
different form at school.’ She pondered for a second or two. ‘But I miss Bob and Chucky and the fields. I don’t miss Granda, because I don’t like him. Nobody likes him. If
we do go back, it won’t be to Galway, Mammy said. So . . .’ She chewed her lip. ‘So I’d rather stay here than have to go and live somewhere new all over again. It would be
Ireland, but it would still be strange.’

The front door opened and Maureen Costigan stepped inside after a cursory little click of fingernails against the wood. She stopped in her tracks when she saw Cathy, then slinked her way into
the room and stood in front of the fire. ‘I just came to see how you are,’ she informed the sick man. She smiled to show off her dimples, then fluttered the long,
soot-and-petroleum-jelly-coated eyelashes.

Anthony breathed deeply. How much longer would this go on? Maureen was in her last year at school, for which he thanked God, but she was pursuing him relentlessly at every opportunity. During
playtimes, she came down from the senior department and ‘helped’ him. ‘Helping’ was sashaying about with inkwells and gazing into his eyes across piles of books.
‘I’m going to have a rest now,’ he told the two girls.

Maureen pounced on the tray, carried it out to the scullery and clattered the pots.

Cathy placed a proprietorial hand on Noel’s head and led him to the door. Sometimes, she didn’t quite manage to like Maureen Costigan. At first, she hadn’t liked
Nicky-really-Monica, but Nicky was all right. Nicky had a boyfriend called Graham Pile. Graham Pile had a lazy eye that stuck in the corner next to his nose, but he was kind. When he got his hands
on stale or spoiled stock at the bakery where he worked, he always wrapped it up and brought it to the Nolans. But Maureen was selfish and proud.

The little girl said goodbye and went out into Dryden Street. Maureen wasn’t nice. She was usually chasing boys. Tildy was always telling stories about Maureen kissing people in the dark
in jiggers and in shop doorways. As far as Cathy understood, kissing should be reserved for members of a family. For a brief moment, she imagined herself embracing one of the boys from school. When
her stomach settled, she walked along to a group of children that contained Cozzer and Tildy. Within seconds, she had forgotten all about Anthony and Maureen.

The black-clad man alighted from a vehicle and stood at the bottom of Dryden Street. Anthony was ill, or so he had been told by Aunt Edith. He must go and visit his brother.
After all, wasn’t the tending of the sick a part of his ministry? And he rather liked the concept of praying over his prostrate twin. Was he still afraid of Anthony? Liam asked himself as he
made his way towards the house. No. All that nonsense should be dead and buried by now. This was 1931, the first of January, the beginning of a new decade. Wasn’t it time to forgive and
forget? His mouth curled into a travesty of a smile.

The older O’Brien girl was here with some of those dreadful Costigans. He stopped for a few seconds and watched the group playing an unseasonal game of cricket. It was clear that the
Costigan boy had been given a bat for Christmas, as he was dictating and changing the rules to the advantage of his own side. Gas lamps acted as wickets, and a monster of a dog kept running off
with the ball. The O’Brien girl spotted Liam, ran towards him. ‘You should be inside,’ she cried. ‘Mammy says you’ve to stay warm.’ The child shunted to a halt.
‘Sorry, Father. I thought you were . . .’ Her words tailed away as she spoke.

Liam ignored the girl, straightened his shoulders and tapped at Anthony’s door. Whatever happened in the next few minutes, he would emerge victorious. If Anthony accepted the attempt at
reconciliation, Liam would get the glory. If Anthony would not negotiate, then the priest would still be wearing the halo.

He entered the house. Maureen Costigan was sitting opposite Anthony with a cup and saucer. The host, too, was sipping tea. Liam paused, took in the situation. This strumpet was dressed to the
nines and her face was painted. It was plain that she adored the sick man. ‘Anthony,’ he said with a nod, ‘I thought it was about time I paid you a visit.’

Anthony maintained the grip on his cup, but only just. Had Maureen not been here – and he fervently wished her in darkest Africa at that moment – he would have said a few short,
sharp words. As things were, he could only sit and hope, however stupidly, that he was experiencing yet another nightmare from which he would wake in a moment or two. Of late, Liam Bell and Maureen
Costigan had figured in the less pleasant of Anthony’s dreams.

Maureen rose carefully and placed her crockery on the mantelpiece. ‘Father,’ she said, ‘I’ve been looking after Mr Bell.’ She smiled fondly at the recovering
invalid. ‘He’s getting better now.’ She tightened the scarf at her throat and awarded both men a smile that was supposed to be seductive. ‘Ta-ra, Father,’ she trilled.
Then she turned to Anthony. ‘I’ll see you later,’ she said, her tone suddenly husky.

When the young madam had left, Liam placed himself in the chair she had vacated. Like many priests, he treated the houses of others as if they were an extension of the church and presbytery.
Even here, where his welcome was not assured, he made himself at home.

‘What do you want, Liam?’

Anthony did not look ill at all. And he had been entertaining that cheap-looking girl, too. ‘I heard you had been sick, so I came to see how you are,’ said the priest.

When his teacup and saucer had been placed on the rug, Anthony rose to his feet. ‘I don’t recall asking for Extreme Unction – when I do need a priest, I’ll send for a
real one. And I don’t remember inviting you in.’ His voice was quiet.

‘Do I need an invitation?’

‘Don’t hold your breath,’ was the quick reply, ‘because you’ll never receive one.’

Liam remained very still. It didn’t matter. This man could say and do nothing that would have the slightest chance of damaging an ordained priest. ‘That business is long past and
best forgotten,’ he said. For much of the time, Liam really did forget the past. Occasionally, he even managed to believe that nothing had happened, that it had all been a strange story that
he had read somewhere.

Anthony nodded. ‘It’s long past, I agree. And Val’s long dead.’ He concentrated on his breathing, prayed that he might stay free from one of his coughing bouts. ‘It
must be twenty years since you threw me in the river.’ His tone was normal, conversational. ‘I think we were eight when you broke my arm, a little bit younger when you knocked out two
of my teeth.’ The clock marked beats of time for a few seconds. ‘And you killed Val five years ago.’

‘Rubbish,’ snarled the hallowed visitor.

Anthony nodded pensively. ‘The police said the same thing. They thought I was in shock. But even if I was in shock, I knew you. I knew you then and I know you now.’

Liam stared straight ahead, seemed to look through his brother. ‘I am only glad that my father and grandmother didn’t get to hear about that foul accusation.’

Anthony laughed, though the hollow sound contained no joy. ‘If my allegation had been empty, you would have run to Dad and told him. You would have been delighted to inform the family
about how wrong and how cruel I was, how I had tried to blacken your name with the police. But you kept quiet.’

‘I was a priest,’ snarled Liam.

‘And a murderer. Now, because of your sins, you are condemned to eternal damnation – isn’t that the case? If you go to confession without telling all, if you partake of Holy
Communion while in a state of mortal sin – isn’t that a sacrilege?’

Liam continued to stare, but his eyelids blinked slowly. Anthony was saying all these things, but Liam could scarcely bring to mind the sequence of events that had led to the quarrel.

‘You are so sick,’ whispered Anthony. ‘So sick and so evil. You forget, don’t you? If the past is unsavoury, you just file it away in a drawer marked miscellaneous. You
genuinely manage to wipe out all the things you don’t need to remember. But I remember, brother. Oh yes, I can’t erase any of it.’

Liam licked his upper lip. He was the priest; he was in charge. The things Anthony spoke of were part of another time, a different life. ‘Anything I have done wrong has been confessed and
forgiven,’ he said clearly.

‘Get out,’ snapped Anthony. He leaned over the chair in which his brother sat. ‘Even the pope himself could not absolve a murderer – not without the intervention of state
authorities. To be absolved, you would need to confess to the church and to the police. Out, now. Or I’ll find the strength to kick you the length of this street.’

Liam jumped up, staggered back, then threw himself out of the house.

Anthony, his breathing suddenly laboured, sank to the rug and gasped for oxygen. How could the man just walk in here like that? After a minute or so, his heart slowed and his head stopped
spinning. As slowly as an old man, he placed his weary bones in the chair. He was cold, chilled to the marrow in spite of a healthy coal fire in the grate.

Icy sweat poured down his face, stung his eyes. Dear God, would he never be free of Liam? He remembered. Oh yes, he remembered, felt the pain in his head, in his arm, felt the water closing over
his face. ‘You’ll die,’ Liam had spat before throwing his twin into the Mersey. Anthony had been no swimmer, but a docker had rescued him. ‘An accident,’ Sam Bell had
declared while visiting Anthony in hospital.

Girls. The girls had always found Anthony attractive. One by one, Liam had picked them off, had bought them little gifts, had bribed them so that they would change allegiance.

Anthony shifted his head and looked at a pale photograph of the mother he had never known. ‘He came close to rape many times before actually committing it, I’m sure,’ he told
the faded picture. Of course, the assaulted girls had not lived in this parish – they had been culled from streets nearer to the city itself.