The Bells of Scotland Road (22 page)

Liam smoothed his hair and stepped back into Scotland Road. He was on his way to catch the last train, had been privileged to watch that trite scene between Anthony and this Costigan girl. He
had heard none of the conversation, but he had watched the little tears and the sharing of a handkerchief. Costigans. He sniffed, turned up the collar of his overcoat. Anthony had such poor taste
in women.

As he made his way to the city centre, he thought about his twin’s last dalliance, the one that had ended . . . when? Ah yes, about five years ago. Valerie had been a strumpet. She had
denounced the faith openly after leaving training college, had opted to teach in some saintless school away from her roots. Twice he had followed her – once to her place of work, next to . .
. no, he could not quite recall the second time. Had it been dark? Dark and cold like tonight? Had he pursued her into a dark place? Well, whatever, she had been found dead and the incident had
been reported in all the national newspapers. A Catholic funeral, too, he mused, his teeth clenched against a chill wind.

It was cold. His breath hung in the air, and the soles of his shoes found poor purchase on the slick of ice that covered the paving stones. Surely that Costigan girl was still a child? Yet she
had the body of a woman and a face that matched those found on hoardings outside picture houses. So, Anthony was looking for another soulmate, was he?

Liam’s lip curled. For as long as he could remember, it had been ‘Anthony did this’ and ‘Anthony said that’. Grandmuth had loved Anthony, yet she had not loved his
twin brother. Liam had been forced to fight for attention, had urged himself to attain a status far higher than Anthony’s. But even now, Anthony got all the praise, all the fuss from
Grandmuth about being a handsome fellow and a marvellous teacher.

He turned into Lime Street, bought a paper, leaned against a lighted window and read the news. The words danced before his eyes, would not enter his mind. All he could see was that pretty,
dark-haired girl having a lover’s quarrel with Anthony. Anthony would marry, would have children. Dad might be won over when another generation of Bells put in an appearance. And if Dad got
won over, Liam would be truly alone.

He sat on the train and looked at his reflection in the darkened glass. The vehicle lumbered over rails, chattered across points, struggled to achieve its regular rhythm. His eyes closed and he
leaned back. As he slipped towards sleep, he heard the regular accent of iron on iron. ‘Anthony Bell, going to hell, Anthony Bell,’ chanted a voice in his head. His eyes flew open. Did
he have to wait until the end of life before getting his due? Would things even out only then, when he entered Paradise and Anthony sank into Hades? No, no, he didn’t want his twin to go to
hell. He must save Anthony again, must make sure that Anthony made no mistakes. He had saved him before . . . but the details were still vague.

Liam wiped an unseasonal sweat from his face and loosened his coat. Confusion ruled his brain, made his thoughts jump all over the place. Anthony. He loved him, hated him. He could not just sit
back and let Anthony carry on sinning. Something would have to be done, something big. It would happen in a dark place and . . . Yes, he would know what to do, he would remember. The answer would
come before death, he would make sure of that.

Anthony drained the glass and asked for a second pint. He saw Billy Costigan lumbering towards him, hoped that the big man was not too upset. But he should have known that
there would be no ill-feeling on Billy’s part. Billy clapped Anthony on the back, asked the barman for a set of arrows and went off to wage war at the dartboard.

Someone touched Anthony’s arm. ‘Is this you drinking straight out of your sickbed?’

Anthony smiled down on Michael Brennan. The priest’s head reached Anthony’s shoulder, just about, though his girth filled enough space for two. ‘Whisky, Father
Brennan?’

‘Oh, very well. Here’s yourself leading me into the ways of sin. Mind, I have to tell you – I’m very easily led astray.’

They drank, found a corner and leaned against the wall. ‘Crowded,’ remarked Michael Brennan. ‘Are they putting on turns tonight?’

Anthony shook his head. The pubs hereabouts were still famed for ‘free and easy’ evenings, nights when landlords did battle for business by bringing in a comedian, a singer or an
illusionist. ‘No, we’ve no entertainment tonight,’ he told the priest. ‘It’s the football teams debating strategy. There’ll be a ding-dong in Lock Fields next
Sunday. They’re competing for free beer. And the rest have come in to watch the fun and to thaw out.’

The cleric finished his drink and looked hard at Anthony. This was one of the best teachers he had ever encountered. The children respected him, felt no fear of him, trusted him. This was hardly
the right place, but Michael Brennan had to come out with it, had to get it off his chest. ‘Anthony, Liam is to be attached to our church for a while.’ Well, at least he had said it. He
had been wondering since early evening how he would break the news. But the scotch had loosened his tongue. ‘Just for a few months,’ he added.

Anthony dropped his chin and thought for a moment or two. This short, friendly priest was Anthony’s confessor. Anthony had never mentioned Val in confession, had never unburdened himself.
Could he do it now? Could he do it ever without sounding like a total idiot? ‘Father, I’m ninety per cent certain that my brother raped and murdered my fiancée, though I’m
sure he half believes he didn’t. Or perhaps he thinks what he did was not a sin. Yes, he is a priest and yes, he will be coming back to our church simply to make my life a perfect
misery.’ Oh, that would sound great, wouldn’t it?

‘Anthony?’

The younger man fixed his attention on the man who was, he supposed, his boss. Without the support of a parish priest, no teacher could reign long in a Catholic school. ‘Michael,’ he
said, ‘you asked me ages ago to call you by your Christian name, and this seems a good occasion on which I might start.’ He inhaled deeply, coughed out some second-hand tobacco smoke.
‘I am asking you to release me from my contract.’

‘What? What are you talking about, man?’

‘The need to go, the need to get away from him.’

‘Away from Liam? But why? I know he’s not the kindest of men, and I remember the spat you had when I was new to the parish. But I put that down to you being upset. Didn’t your
fiancée get buried a month or so before I took up my post?’

Anthony nodded.

‘Liam said he tried to make peace with you just recently.’ The priest left space for a reply, got none. ‘Is that the case?’

It was hopeless, thought Anthony. What was he supposed to say? ‘I think he’s sick,’ he managed eventually. ‘Sick in his head. Sometimes, I really believe he has no memory
of the unsavoury things he has done.’ He tapped his empty glass with his fingernails. ‘If I were to tell you what I know, and what I think I know, you wouldn’t accept
it.’

‘Try me.’

Anthony lowered his head. ‘If you did give me credit, the Church in Liverpool could be lifted right off its foundations. Even then, Liam would win through. Winning through is what life is
all about as far as my brother is concerned.’

A new shiver travelled the length of Father Brennan’s short spine. Anthony Bell was a completely trustworthy man. Like everyone else, he was a sinner who attended confession, but there
were very few stains on the soul of this teacher. ‘Is he dangerous?’ he asked quietly.

‘Yes.’

‘And you’ll say no more?’ Antagonism between siblings was not uncommon, but the Bell twins were surely taking their rivalry a bit too far? ‘Will you wait till I replace
you?’

‘Of course. There are plenty who will be glad of the chance.’

‘And where will you go?’

Anthony thought for a few seconds. ‘Not too far away from Grandmuth, I suppose. Inland. Yes, I’ll go a bit deeper into Lancashire.’

Father Brennan touched his friend’s arm, then went forth to visit those among his flock who needed their priest. He stood for a while and watched a tram pulling up, listened to the Mary
Ellens as they serenaded all the other passengers. A few of these alighted, fruit baskets empty after a day’s toil at the Pier Head and on the ferries that cut across the Mersey several times
each day.

Ragged urchins dashed about trying to rid themselves of their remaining newspapers. The smells of cabbage, pig’s cheek and spiceballs lingered in chill air as people walked homeward with
carry-out suppers. Michael Brennan loved this place, knew that his friend Anthony Bell loved it, too. Why was this happening?

He crossed the road and made for Tenterden Street where a mother was nursing three cases of measles. One of the children was extremely ill and might be in need of the fever hospital. On a
corner, he paused for a while and watched an entertainer juggling with plates. Why did Anthony have to leave? Perhaps the bishop’s opinion should be sought, but . . . but what could a man say
to a bishop about family feuds? Also, it would be wrong to blacken Liam’s name, and yet . . . And yet Michael Brennan trusted Anthony completely. He stared at the juggler and felt empathy
with the man. A priest’s job was not unlike juggling, trying to keep all the plates in the air, hoping they would not collide or crack.

As he walked towards the sickbeds of children, the parish priest of St Aloysius Gonzaga made his reluctant decision. He must let Anthony go, and he must keep an eye on Father Liam Bell. Like the
juggler, the parish priest had to keep the show on the road.

Monica Costigan, usually known as Nicky, walked with the love of her young life along Dryden Street to the door of her home. Graham Pile, a boy with a good heart and an
unfortunate appearance, carried a basket of stale bread from the bakery. At seventeen going on eighteen, he was almost ready to complete his apprenticeship, so he and Nicky would be married as soon
as she had reached the age of sixteen.

‘Mam’ll miss Mrs Bell,’ said Nicky. ‘They’re going to Bolton for Easter, Mrs Bell and her little girls. That Auntie Edith invited them just after Christmas, but Mrs
Bell’s only just made her mind up. I like Mrs Bell. We’ll all miss them.’

‘It’s only for a fortnight,’ Graham replied. ‘And it’s not as if they’re going to Africa. Bolton’s not that far away.’

Nicky stopped in her tracks and grabbed his arm. ‘Right. Have you ever been to Bolton?’

‘No,’ he admitted.

‘Where is it?’ she asked.

‘Over there.’ He waved a hand in a direction he judged to be north-easterly.

Nicky clicked her tongue and carried on walking while Graham brought up the rear. Had Monica Costigan been able to see herself and Graham at that moment, she might have recognized a facsimile of
her own parents. Diddy led and Billy followed, though he had been known to put down one of his very large feet whenever the various breeds of bee in his wife’s bonnet buzzed too loudly.

Diddy was in full flood when Nicky and Graham entered the house. She shook a newspaper as if she wanted to throttle it. ‘Not fit for human habitation?’ she yelled. ‘Have they
only just bloody noticed? Why can’t they make our places decent instead of threatening to pull them down?’

Billy, who was struggling with a tough piece of stewing beef, closed his eyes and allowed the storm to develop. Opinions about living conditions in Scotland Road had been the subject of
editorials since the previous century. Nothing would get done, yet Diddy continued to panic every time she read one of these articles.

‘Well, I’m not budging,’ she declared.

Billy swallowed the offending forkful. ‘They’re not knocking us down yet, love,’ he said mildly.

Diddy breathed in and prepared to deliver another piece of oratory. ‘You’ll be sitting there, Billy Costigan, when the big hammer takes the walls down. I mean, if we all just sat
there chewing, who knows where we’d end up?’

‘Sitting down,’ came the response from Billy. ‘If we all sat down, we’d end up sitting down, not squeezing the life out of the
Liverpool Echo
. Don’t get
yourself worked up.’

Diddy marched to the dresser, pulled out a large brown envelope, then scattered its contents onto the table. ‘Just you look at them, Billy Costigan. Look. How long has my family lived here
in this house? Since before the bloody turn. And I’ve kept all my mam’s rent books and all ours.’

Billy sighed. It was lecture time. Diddy would be riding round the kitchen on a very high horse until she got saddle sore, fell off, or got pushed off. ‘Don’t start, girl,’ he
begged. ‘I’ve had a hard day.’

Diddy pushed out her enormous chest and folded her arms beneath it. ‘There’s more bloody rules on them rent books than what they’ve got written down at the Old Bailey.’
She picked up a few of the tattered articles. ‘See, three bob a week in nineteen-o-eight. “The tenancy shall be subject to the rules . . . the tenement is not to be used as a
shop.” They stopped my mam selling pie and peas through that very window you’re staring at,’ she accused.

Billy lit a cigarette. If she hadn’t burnt herself out by the time he reached the end of his smoke, he’d be off out.

‘Mam—’

‘And,’ Diddy glared at Nicky and Graham, ‘look here, Monica – you, too, Graham – you might learn something. See that word? And there and there again. It says
arrears, arrears, arrears.’ She stabbed at the page with a podgy finger. ‘It’s all smudged because my mam cried over not being able to pay. Tears rhymes with arrears,
doesn’t it?’

Graham looked at Nicky, then placed his offering on the table. ‘Bread for the Nolans, Mrs Costigan,’ he said quietly.

‘Thanks,’ snapped Diddy. ‘If the rotten government did its duty instead of sitting on its arse, there’d be no need for stale loaves. Course, they’re like that
bloody Marie Anton-etty, aren’t they? No bread, let the buggers live on cake.’

Dock work was difficult, thought Billy, though a wife with a mission was worse. He cared. He cared just as much as she did. But his hand was sore in spite of leather glove and docker’s
hook. His shoulders ached from heaving bags of molasses and coffee beans, and all he wanted was a little snore behind the
Echo
and a bit of tranquillity in his own house. Which dwelling
belonged, for the moment, to Diddy’s mother. It would be at least ten minutes before Diddy reached the change of tenancy.