The Bells of Scotland Road (38 page)

‘I don’t think he should have been a priest.’

Anthony inclined his head. Poor Maureen’s thoughts were all over the place. Perhaps an almost inaccessible part of her mind had connected with Liam—

‘Nobody likes him,’ she added.

‘I know.’

She sniffed. ‘I don’t think Father Brennan likes him, even. Nobody goes to confession when Father Bell’s on. I’m sorry, ’cos I know he’s your brother,
but—’

‘It’s quite all right, Maureen. We can’t choose our families, can we? Fortunately, we do get to choose our friends.’

She put her head on one side. ‘Mr Bell’s all for him, isn’t he?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘And you belted Father Bell a long time ago.’

‘Five years ago, yes.’

‘Why?’ She blushed. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. It’s your own business, not mine.’

He reached out and touched her shoulder. ‘Go and do your shopping, Maureen. Don’t worry about me and mine, just concentrate on yourself.’ He stood and watched as she walked
towards Astleigh Fold. Was it his imagination, or were those black curls of hair stiller than they used to be, less bouncy and free? Suddenly, Anthony realized that he was watching a woman, not a
girl. Maureen Costigan was almost fourteen, and she was almost old.

Bridie rapped on the door sharply. He had to answer, had to be in.

Anthony finally opened the door. ‘Bridie?’ Her face was flushed along the fine cheekbones. She was so small, so vulnerable. He wanted to gather her into his arms and into his home,
wanted to look after her and keep her from all harm. And she was the last person he could ever expect to enter his life as lover and soulmate.

Displaying an unexpected level of physical strength, she thrust herself past him and into the house. Her breathing was shallow and rapid, as if she had run all the way from Cherry Hinton.
‘He’s gone,’ she whispered. ‘I wondered if he had hurt you. He was on the lane earlier and I spoke to him.’ She caught her breath. ‘Richard came home after
surgery and took him to Trinity Street in the car. About ten minutes ago.’

‘Thank God for that. Are you all right?’

Bridie nodded, struggled to control her rapid inhalations. She had to tell him that she believed him, had to make sure that Anthony was not alone. ‘’Twas he who did it,
Anthony,’ she managed at last. ‘I tried so hard to hope that you were wrong. I tried.’ Her voice faded to nothing.

He drew her across the room and placed her in a chair. ‘Please calm yourself,’ he advised quietly.

She gazed at him silently for a moment. ‘He looks so like you, yet not at all like you.’ She didn’t know what she meant. ‘I saw the devil in his face,’ she muttered
by way of explanation. ‘Anthony, he did it. He did that to Maureen, and she doesn’t even remember. Can we make her remember?’

‘No, Bridie. She will take her own time. And I doubt he’ll strike at Maureen again, because he knows I have his measure.’

‘Dear God.’ She took a handkerchief from her sleeve and patted the moisture from her face. ‘I feel so hot,’ she said. ‘I’m all of a work, as Mrs Cornwell
would say.’

Anthony sat himself in the opposite chair. ‘What happened to make you so agitated?’ he asked.

‘Nothing. Nothing at all. And that’s the eejit truth of it.’ She was strangling the handkerchief now. ‘Nothing I can put a finger on, at least.’

He nodded, waited.

‘I just looked through the window and saw the both of them together. The way he looked at her. That’s all it was. He said little, did less, just stood there. But his mouth went tight
and a corner of his lip lifted a bit, like a sneer. And his eyes . . . well . . . I never before saw an expression like his. Just a second, it lasted, but I finally understood you.’

Anthony leaned forward, arms bent, elbows resting on knees, his head in his hands. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered.

‘For what?’

‘For coming.’ He sat up straight, pushed the shock of dark hair from his forehead. ‘For believing me.’

Bridie stared into the near distance. ‘Has it occurred to you ever that he can’t help it?’

‘Of course it has. A mad dog can’t help biting, so we remove him from society. If Liam isn’t managing to control his behaviour, then we must remove him.’

Bridie froze. ‘You don’t mean . . . kill him?’

‘I mean we put him away where he can do no more harm. But will he get put away because you don’t like the way he looked at Maureen? Or because I have this strange notion that he
killed Val and attacked other women including poor little Maureen Costigan? Do you know what that was about? Have you any idea how he came to pick on Maureen?’

‘No.’

He closed his eyes for a couple of seconds, saw Maureen’s bright young face in his mind’s eye. The Costigan girl was still beautiful, but she was so much quieter these days.
‘Maureen imagined a fondness for me, kept coming round to my house and feeding me tea and toast. He must have noticed. No-one must ever come near me, you see. He’s . . . obsessed with
our “’twin-ness”.’

‘That’s terrible. It’s unbelievable.’

‘I know. That’s why I am grateful for your faith in me. And Bridie, I’m beginning to think there’s more than one Liam.’

Bridie bit her lip. ‘I have to talk to Sam, Anthony.’

Anthony sat bolt upright. ‘And Dad will run straight to Liam with the tale. Do you want to die?’ His tone was low, almost inaudible.

‘No, I do not.’

‘You want your children safe?’

A thrill of ice-cold fear made its slow way up Bridie’s arms.

‘He is so treacherous,’ said Anthony. ‘And I won’t allow you to put yourself in any danger.’ He jumped up and paced about. ‘You must stay away from me and
from him. Even though I love you . . .’ His voice died for a few seconds. ‘If he realized how fond I am of you—’

‘This isn’t the time for all that kind of talk,’ she retorted almost snappily. ‘In fact, there’s never a right time for such foolishness. I have to talk to my
husband, Anthony.’

‘No. Don’t you understand?’ He crossed the room in two strides and stood over her. ‘You must do and say nothing.’

But Bridie’s mind was made up. Her marriage was not exactly the stuff dreams were made of, but she trusted the man who had taken her in. ‘I shall talk to him,’ she insisted.
‘I have a lot of faith in your father. He is very good to me and my girls.’

‘Dad won’t listen.’

‘Oh, he will.’ She nodded thoughtfully. ‘He will listen to me, Anthony. It’s time he understood the quarrel between you and your brother. If you won’t tell him,
then somebody should. And I am probably the best somebody for the job.’

Made powerless by the forcefulness of her tone, Anthony returned to his chair. ‘What a bloody mess,’ he remarked.

‘Yes, it is so,’ she said to herself. ‘It won’t be easy. I don’t expect it to be easy. But all the same, it has to be tackled.’

‘It will hurt my father,’ he told her.

‘I know that. But Val, Maureen and yourself have been hurt. Unfortunately, more pain must be caused before the problem can be wiped out.’

‘I’ll miss you,’ he whispered.

She knew what he meant. ‘I’ll need to be going,’ she answered.

He saw tears in her eyes. ‘Telling Dad what we know about Liam will damage him,’ he said.

She walked to the door. ‘I have weighed it all in my mind, Anthony,’ she announced clearly. ‘And I shall be talking to Sam.’ Her heart lurched as the words were spoken,
because she might well be putting herself, Cathy and Shauna at risk. Even Sam could become a target for his own son’s vileness. But Bridie’s sense of right and wrong dictated that the
problem must be addressed. ‘Goodbye,’ she said softly. ‘Be safe.’

‘But will you be safe?’

She dropped her chin and stared at the ground. ‘I have never been safe. Neither have you. Yet we have survived till now, so we’ll probably be all right.’

He went inside, stood at the window and watched as she walked towards Cherry Hinton. The pit of his stomach ached with emptiness, though Anthony’s real hunger was not for food.

Flash Flanagan ambled along behind the cart that contained all his worldly goods plus a few items whose origins he had conveniently forgotten. A gentle soul who would never
willingly hurt another, he was not averse to picking up ‘lost’ articles, some of which had not been thoroughly misplaced when Flash had ‘found’ them. But his mind dwelt on
just one small parcel – a paper bag with a length of green silk folded into it.

He stopped at the Pier Head, watched a train puffing its cityward way along the dockers’ umbrella. The overhead railway sheltered many people from rain, and Flash used its protection
regularly as one of his stopping-off points. He picked up a penny, two cigarette cards and a half-eaten apple.

‘Flash?’

It was the law. ‘This is my penny – I dropped it.’ The defensiveness left his tone as he continued, ‘I’m not moving on. There’s no life at the other side of
Liverpool. I’m doing no harm here, anyway.’

‘You’re a vagrant,’ replied the constable.

‘I’m as English as you are,’ said Flash, deliberately choosing to misinterpret the policeman’s words.

‘Go to the Sally Army,’ suggested the officer.

‘I don’t want saving.’ Flash’s feathers were ruffled. ‘And I got fleas last time.’

‘Fleas? You breed your own, Flash.’ The younger man shrugged his shoulders. ‘Just keep moving, then. Don’t be loitering with intent.’

Flash glared belligerently at the policeman, did not blink until the man turned and walked away. A bloody nuisance, they were. Thought they owned the place just because they wore a daft hat and
boots big enough to use as tugs. He did not trust the keepers of the peace. Had he enjoyed any faith in the law, Flash would have handed over that murder weapon. The girl had survived, but the
stole had been used with a view to ending her life.

He turned towards the river and stared blankly at the horizon. The green stole had been stretched to a point where the stitching had failed. The green stole had probably been stretched across
Maureen Costigan’s throat. Flash remembered Maureen well, as she had often joined him in his efforts to entertain the people of Scotland Road. The girl had shared in his takings, had
performed many a song and dance while Flash had rattled his marionettes or his tambourine.

A priest? Gulls whirled over his head, their plaintive cries echoing along the waterfront. Or had someone stolen the stole? He allowed himself a wry grin when the play on words hit his
consciousness. Who stole the stole?

A seagull perched itself on the handrail that edged the Pier Head. It kept one eye on the river and the other on Flash’s recently acquired half-apple. ‘Loitering with intent,’
Flash advised the bird. ‘Keep moving, or soft lad’ll be back with his truncheon.’

The gull sped away over the water.

‘Whoever did it, it’ll be my fault,’ Flash told himself aloud. ‘Every time anything goes missing, it’s always down to me. Anybody would think I was a robber.
They’ll say I pinched it. But I never hurt little Maureen, did I?’

A woman stopped. ‘Did you say something?’

‘Not to you, no.’

She walked on and wondered whether the tramp’s brain was drink-addled.

Flash collected thoughts and cart, then continued his noisy journey. The cart’s wheels squealed like injured cats, and various substances clattered together inside the cart’s body.
Several people recognized Flash and greeted him, asked him where he had been recently.

On a whim, he turned right and made for Scotland Road. He didn’t feel up to much, wasn’t in the mood for puppets and music. But on Scotland Road there lived a man who was a good
listener. Flash would go to Sam Bell and see if he could squeeze an opinion out of the pawnbroker. Sam was a quiet man, but he owned a degree of common sense. Perhaps Sam could work out what should
be done about the stole.

When he reached Scottie, Flash stood for a few seconds and drank in the sights and sounds that he loved so much. The barber leaned against his door jamb, a white apron covering him from head to
foot. A butcher chased a dog out of his shop, while trams and horses rattled along the road. ‘This is my bloody home,’ Flash told himself. ‘I’m not getting hunted out of
here again.’ He straightened his travelweary spine. ‘Just let them try,’ he muttered.

This was no time for talking to walls and seagulls, he told himself firmly. Although the vestment in his cart weighed very little, it was the biggest burden he had ever carried. In his
possession, Flash had the evidence that might send a man to the gallows. Although the day was warm, the tramp pulled up the collar of his coat before crossing over to Bell’s.

Charlie grinned broadly, allowing Flash Flanagan the sight of perfectly even teeth. ‘I’m in charge,’ he boasted. ‘Mr Bell’s been fishing three
times this week.’

Flash processed the poorly pronounced statement. ‘Is he fishing now?’

Charlie shook his over-large head. ‘Down Paddy’s with a load of stuff for Nicky’s stall.’

The visitor leaned against the counter. ‘How’s Maureen?’

Charlie’s smile vanished. ‘With Mam on a farm. Getting better. Mam’s coming home. Maureen’s stopping at the farm.’

While Charlie made out a ticket for a customer, Flash had a root round the shop. He turned the mechanism of an oil-starved wooden mangle, fiddled with a chloride house-lighting battery and a
James Autocycle that had seen better days, then sat on a cane chair to wait for Sam’s return. Poor little Maureen.

Flash closed his eyes and saw her dancing outside the Rotunda, shining curls bouncing, cheeks dimpling in the three-year-old face. Even the hardest of hearts had melted when confronted by such a
beautiful and talented child. She would run along the theatre queue and beg for money, would always bring it back to share with Flash. ‘I looked after her,’ the tramp said to no-one in
particular.

‘Mam likes you.’

Flash opened his eyes. The Costigans were a good lot, decent and caring. ‘I like your mam, too, Charlie.’ They had trusted him to look after little Maureen, had left her in his care
for many an hour. ‘Safe as houses with Flash,’ Diddy had always said.

Charlie counted takings, made laborious notes in a ledger.