Trinity: A Novel of Ireland

by Leon Uris

  Each night and during the days as well, they walked into the cave to fly and were shortly in a place of tens of trillions of galaxies, exploring in a web of miracle. When they knew they had reached the final nirvana, they found another even more thrilling . . . again and again.

  As the hours of Blackpool ticked off, Brendan Sean Barren, Long Dan Sweeney, the Brotherhood, tender cars, guns, grew dimmer.

  The hotel was deserted except for a few stragglers. A sudden late storm swooped in, setting off a wild surf and filling the sky violently with heat lightning. They went out on their porch and watched it, enthralled by the spectacular flashes which lit up the maddened whitecaps.

  The decision came that quickly, that clearly. He gripped her shoulders from behind. "I want to take you away," he said, "will you come?"

  "My bags have been packed all my life," she answered. Conor stared at the woman outlined against the storm. "I know how you've been pondering this in the past twelve weeks. It may be penny plain, Conor, but are you sure? Are you absolutely certain?"

  "I can make it with you, Shelley, I can make it with you."

  *

  There was little sleep that night, for there was something even more wild for them to discover. When they fell to rest it was a time for holding on profoundly, for touching, for reiterating the decision to go. By morning the storm was spent and the two lovers were as exhausted and peaceful as the sea.

  Conor was babbling now, soft, blissful . . . "The more I'm thinking, it's Australia. We can do anything we want down there as long as I've got these," holding his hands up.

  "Any place," she purred.

  He covered her back with kisses and touched her in a way that never failed to stir her, even in a state of utter weariness.

  "I feel so good," he said. "We'll do the marrying business before we ship out and we'll land in Australia as mister and missus."

  Shelley wept her happiness. He reached to the night stand for a handkerchief for her eyes and to blow her nose. As he propped up against the headboard she wiggled as close as she could and watched him thinking furiously.

  "We'll go on an early ship, right from England. I'll run down to London and see after passage and to get our papers fixed. You skip back to Belfast, pack our things and close my account."

  "Won't you come?"

  "I don't want to go back to Ireland," he whispered. "I don't want to go back," he repeated, "I've nothing much there . . ."

  She put her fingers to his lips to silence him. "Don't say any more, Conor, except how much you love me."

  "Love you? Are you daft? Your breasts are too small, you sing off key, you walk flat-footed, you can't drink worth a damn and, worse, you pray standing up."

  They passed the day walking on the promenade, reassuring and reassuring, never leaving touch of one another. Over dinner their eyes made love in a prelude for the new venture of that night.

  Conor lit a fire and as she cuddled on the chesterfield and warmed they repeated their plans. Then he sat down at the desk and started letters to Robin, Seamus O'Neill and Jeremy. He was interrupted by a knock on the door. It was Mr. Thornton, the proprietor.

  "Sorry to disturb you," the innkeeper said, "but there's a gentleman downstairs to see you."

  "Me?"

  "He asked for Conor Larkin."

  Conor shrugged, thinking it must be one of the locals who knew him as a rugby man, and said so to quell Shelley's inquisitive stare. "It must be, no one else knows we're here." He slipped on his jacket, kissed her. "I'll only be a few minutes, love," he said.

  Mr. Thornton pointed down the long veranda beyond the lobby which faced the sea. "He's waiting for you out there, Mr. Larkin."

  Conor stepped outside, braced against the chill, and looked about. A bright three-quarter moon silvered above a much calmed sea. At the far end of the porch stood a small man caught up in the machinations of the waves. Conor approached his rear.

  "You asked to see me?"

  The man turned. Conor was dumbstruck! At first he thought it was . . . no, it couldn't be. He stepped closer, thinking the moonlight was playing tricks off the man's face. He was quite old and bent but the similarity . . . Conor shook his head in confusion . . . could it be?

  "Kevin O'Garvey?" he said hoarsely.

  "Aye, it's me," Kevin answered. There was no mistaking that voice!

  "This must be some kind of madness!"

  "No, it's myself all right. I know this must come as a terrible shock to you. I'm sorry I was unable to give you advance warning."

  "Wait a minute," Conor said. "I don't believe this."

  "I've changed, I know, but take a good look and try to get ahold of yourself and I'll explain."

  Conor remained rigid, his mind became cloudy as he attempted to rapidly piece together the sequence of events around Kevin's disappearance. It was difficult because he had been in a funk himself, at the time. "Jesus, my head's all fucked up."

  "I know you feel biffed. Can we sit down and talk?"

  Conor nodded and half fell into a rocker while Kevin pulled up one opposite him. "Where to start? Well, let me see. For reasons you'll learn in a few minutes I've contacted no one in Derry since my disappearance except for Father Pat and I held him to an oath of secrecy. Father Pat wrote to me after he was transferred from Bogside, telling me he had to inform you of his suspicion that I had probably made some kind of deal with the Hubbles not to investigate the shirt factory."

  Conor nodded tentatively, still trying to unfog his mind.

  "I suppose you took the news very hard."

  Conor nodded again.

  "You must try to realize what it did to me when I learned of the fire. I was as much responsible for those hundred deaths as if I had set the place ablaze with my own hand. The horror of it all but crushed me. In addition, my whole life was a failure. Oh, I considered the possibility of coming back to Derry and facing it but I couldn't, I didn't have the strength, Conor. And more, I was in a state of shock, deep depressed shock. Do you understand?"

  "So was I," Conor answered.

  "The pain of it eventually drove me from Derry. I can't even begin to imagine what it did to you."

  "I ran," Kevin said.

  Conor bolted from the rocking chair, leaving it swinging empty. "I don't believe what I'm hearing. It's all a crazy fantasy. If I'm not dreaming, then how could you possibly know I was here? No one knows I'm in Blackpool, much less the ghost of Kevin O'Garvey."

  "Brendan Sean Barrett told me."

  "I've never met the man. He's no way of knowing."

  "For God's sake, Conor, they're not idiots in the Brotherhood. The minute you stepped ashore in England you were singled out. Brotherhood men have been watching you on every city of your tour. Callaghan was in the railroad station when you stepped off the train in Bradford . . . You still look as though you doubt me. Well then, did you or did you not go into Callaghan's Funeral Parlor on Wild Boar Road two weeks ago and did you not leave the establishment without making contact?"

  Conor stared a bit wild-eyed. If it was a ghost, it was a well-informed ghost indeed. He studied the pinched face worn to near emaciation by sorrow but it was unmistakably Kevin O'Garvey before him.

  "Then it's true," Conor said.

  "Aye, it's true," he answered.

  "How did you know I was in Blackpool?"

  "You seem to have forgotten I've been a member of the Brotherhood since Fenian days. I've always been in contact, all during their dormant years. The instant I was elected to Parliament I helped get things re-established in London."

  "Go on," Conor whispered.

  "Brendan Sean Barrett received a letter from Dan Sweeney just as you arrived on the tour. He advised us to keep a close watch on you." Kevin jerked a thumb toward the hotel proper, "A woman, I believe. We checked your rail tickets and hotel reservations when you left Swansea."

  "I see," Conor said, totally deflated, "so I am under suspicion by the Brotherhood."

  "You yourself told Sweeney you were ser
ious about the woman. He was only taking studious precaution."

  "He was right," Conor said. "So you've been hiding in England all these years."

  "Not exactly. After the Witherspoon & McNab fire and my decision to flee, the lads found a safe country for me. A place where a lawyer can practice and make a living with no questions asked."

  "Where did you go?"

  "Paraguay. It took me three years to return to a semblance of normalcy. Of course I was never out of contact with the Brotherhood. Using Paraguay as a base, I began traveling for them. Their passport got me in and out of America as well as England."

  "And all this time you never let any of us know you're alive!"

  "Just Father Pat. He's a priest and he could tell me about my friends and about Ireland. I could have brought nothing but pain and sorrow by letting anyone else know."

  "What about your wife, man!"

  "I've wept tears over that, you can believe me. But Teresa knew I was a Fenian the day she married me. She's always understood there were things more important than the two of us. You see, Conor, I was remembered as a Land Leaguer, a lawyer who fought for his people. I was a respected man, perhaps even loved. I could have accomplished nothing by letting them know except to destroy that image."

  Conor stopped his pacing and braced himself. . .. "Why have you come here?"

  "I came to England bringing money from the Dan in America. Three thousand quid. I gave it to Brendan Sean Barrett to be passed to you. When the lads assessed that you were acting strangely after you bolted from Callaghan's we had a meeting. I convinced them that you'd give it to me straight, being as we were old, old friends."

  "I'll give it to you straight," Conor said. "Tell Barrett I'm through. You know enough about me to vouch for my integrity. I hope you trust me enough to believe me when I tell you no one knows anything about the Brotherhood from me."

  "Mind you, Conor, no one took you for an informer because of your behavior. We all knew about the woman."

  "All right then, Kevin. It's a clean break with no one owing the other anything."

  "Sure. So, you're really through. The woman?"

  "Aye, the woman."

  "You love her that much?"

  "Aye."

  Kevin nodded sadly. "It was much different with Teresa. She was one of our own, a Catholic girl. She knew I was a Fenian and would never give it up. You see, the Brotherhood could never come between us."

  "It's not her," Conor said. "It's me making the choice. She'd do whatever I asked but I've found something I love more than the agony of Ireland."

  "You have that right, indeed. The Brotherhood will be sorry. All the old-timers thought a lot of you."

  "I love my woman," Conor said firmly, "I love her . . . in a way you wouldn't understand."

  "You must, indeed."

  "What the hell, Kevin, look what love of Ireland has done to you."

  "Yes, yes, it has. I've reached the age of spending a great deal of time in reflection over it. Actually I've made two great mistakes in my life. The first was to try to make a pact with the Devil in form of Roger Hubble. The second was to run. I should have returned to Derry and faced up to what I had done, even if it meant the rest of my days in jail and losing the love of my people. I've lived in limbo, Conor. Limbo is no place for a man to exist. It's living death, worse than death, praying for death."

  "The place I'm going to is not limbo," Conor snapped.

  Kevin stopped the rocker and stood up wearily. "Sure," he said, "I know you've got it all figured out."

  Conor grabbed his arm. "You think I'm a bloody traitor, don't you?"

  "How can I think that? I held you in my arms when you were a baby. I watched every step of your life. The son of Tomas a traitor? Never. You can't betray us. It's not in your scant. But you can betray yourself and, worse, you can betray that woman. Australia, is it?"

  "How did you know!"

  Kevin shrugged. "You were there for a year. It's the farthest point from Ireland. I hope it's far enough. I hope you never hear the name of Ireland again as I have. Memories, smells, passing faces, hearing the words . . . it can destroy you in time. I hope you don't hear about it when the rising comes. That will surely kill you. But . . . I told Brendan Sean Barrett that coming to see you would be of little avail. I told him that Conor Larkin was a man of his own mind. Not to worry. We'll get those guns over there somehow. Well, I've outstayed my welcome. God be with you, Conor."

  Conor stuffed his hands into his pockets and merely nodded, showing no desire for an affectionate farewell, but only for Kevin to understand his resolve and to leave him in peace. Kevin nodded and turned down the long veranda. Instead of making into the lobby he went down the steps to the beach. His feet dragged through the sand as though they were suction cups. He moved toward the water.

  "Wait!" Conor called. "Wait! You're going in the wrong direction!"

  Kevin did not seem to hear and Conor thought him blind, as well. He continued over the strand to the breaker's edge where the sand became hard and then he continued directly into the water.

  "Wait!" Conor called, running after him, down the steps. Suddenly he was unable to move! The sand entrapped him and held him motionless. He stood struggling futilely to free himself, terrified as Kevin moved into the water!

  "Wait! Wait!"

  Kevin O'Garvey continued out steadily, waist high, to the chest, then the water passed over his face and his entire self disappeared . . .

  "Wait! Wait! Wait!"

  "Conor, wake up! Conor! Conor!"

  He lifted his head from the pillow as though it were a stone. Daylight flooded into the room and the curtain blew on waves of a gentle warmish breeze. Both his fists were wrapped hard around the tortured sheet, then he felt the desperation of her body pressed against him, her fingers kneading the back of his neck. "Conor!" Shelley cried.

  His head dropped back on the pillow and he lay there gasping, waiting for his heart to quit pounding, then worked his way from the bed daring but a peek at her disturbed stare.

  Two letters sat on the desk. A third was half written. He had stopped writing when Shelley came to him. They had made love and fallen asleep.

  He said nothing, dressed quietly, pecked at breakfast, then excused himself for a solitary walk on the strand.

  *

  He returned in a bit over an hour with the strong edge of the nightmare flushed out of his system. As he passed through the lobby, he started. Shelley's suitcases were by the reception desk! He dashed up the stairs and flung the door open. She sat stiffly on the edge of a chair dressed to travel.

  "What the devil!"

  "There's a train leaving for Liverpool in about an hour," she said. "It will arrive in time to make connections with the Belfast steamer."

  "But you weren't to leave till tomorrow. Of course, if you want to get back early, we'll be on our way that much sooner."

  Her lack of response told him all he needed to know and only then did he see her eyes, red-rimmed. He was too frightened to speak at first. "Don't make too much of it," he said, "it was only a bad dream."

  "The first of many, I fear," she answered.

  "Shelley, listen to me, darling. Just now out there I thought it through and I know what matters. Two people matter and the rest of it is nothing. What have you won in the end if you don't have the love of a woman? The only thing that can keep the stink and the pain of the world away are two people with the ability to create a sanctuary of one another."

  "We can't live our life in a sanctuary," she said softly. "Those who try become sterile."

  "Shelley . . ."

  "Let me finish. A man must do what he must do. And a woman must do what she must do as well. What must be done must be done, no matter what agony it entails. Only then have you earned the privilege of finding a sanctuary in one another to get through the dark hours. Because, my love, when the time comes around again, you've got to go out and face it all, with all the stink and all the pain."

  "No," Conor
said. "I'll not do that to you. In the end it would have to be me against your family. I'll be the enemy of your father and brother. If I take you back to Ireland, you'll wither."

  "And if we run, you will wither."

  "Shelley, what we have is new, for we thought we'd never have it. Reaching out now, taking it, cutting the past is frightening but we've the power and the love between us."

  Shelley MacLeod remained immaculately calm. Her serenity in the midst of a volcano made her all the more beautiful. "Don't you know, Larkin, I can cope with anything but an Irishman's dream? It "will come pounding after us no matter where we try to hide. What we have discovered here will turn sour and, as you grow bitter, it will turn violently against us. How long can we hold it off, Conor? How long can we pretend? A year, two, three. Sooner or later it will overtake us and we will have squandered the ability to fight it. What then?"

  "Shelley, I don't want to go back to Belfast! I don't want to live for this fucking thing any more. It's a bloody curse. Shelley, come with me . . ."

  "And watch you die, man? Like your father, in pieces? Do you think I love you that little?"

  "Shelley, I'm begging you!"

  She spun out of his grasp and backed away. "Who is Kevin O'Garvey?" she cried.

  Conor stiffened in his tracks.

  "Who is Brendan Sean Barrett? Oh, Conor, for a few lovely days I deceived myself into believing we could do it. But all the while, under the fierceness of the lovemaking, I sensed the boiling inside you. Oh, man, I love you so . . . almost enough to run . . ."

  Like the giant of his father before him, he stood helpless against the forces that brought him to this moment. The hurt of it made him paw helplessly at the air .. defenseless against screaming out . . . too stricken weep . . . "Ill be in Belfast," she groaned, "and so will you. You'll do what you've got to do. If things get very bad, if you're alone, if you're frightened, I'll come to you. I'll always come to you. If I were married, I'd leave my husband's bed to come to you."