Christmas vespers had passed and prayers echoed in the halls to atone for the past year and in hope that the new year would bring them closer to living in perfect spiritual harmony. She ushered her visitor into the humble room off the great hallway reserved for visitors. Another sister, dressed in the all black attire of a novice, waited inside. The novice was barely visible, robes and shadows serving to hide her human form. Only the oval of her face shone in the soft light. Having joined them a few months before, she had not yet vowed her silence and separation from the outside world. She was not the first woman to use the seclusion of the convent for more than simple contemplation. Time spent reflecting on her path could lead to a life devoted to prayer. A life of prayer was not this novice’s calling.
“God speed, Sagart Hughes,” Reverend Mother said, giving her head a slight bow and using his Irish title. She genuflected in front of a large crucifix, blessed herself, and knelt heavily at the prie dieu in the corner. Entwining the rosary in her fingers, she telegraphed being too involved in her prayers to be interested in overhearing what the handsome priest and the beautiful novice said. At least that’s what her body language suggested. Her role as chaperone only went so far.
She discretely looked at a spot on the floor as the priest drew up the hands of the novice and kissed them, pressing the long, fine fingers to his lips. She didn’t see the looks in their eyes or the way their bodies seemed to pull together, drawn by an invisible force. If she did, she would have understood but would have found it hard not to judge.
Father Kavan Hughes had come to her a few months ago to ask for the convent’s shelter during an unwed mother’s confinement. She had been surprised that the expectant mother was not a fresh-faced young girl, but a woman in full bloom who should have known better. He had said that the woman was the only family he truly had, and he had promised her dying mother before God to care for her and all her needs for as long as they both lived.
He was earnest with his request and determined to provide for his friend that she could hardly have said no. Besides, his request had come with gifts. Rumors were that this young priest was a rising force in the church, and she would be wise to garner his favor as he rose. She prayed she would not eavesdrop but knew how human flaws could overcome pious intents. Reverend Mother’s heart gave a skip at the sound of his voice, deep and steady.
The novice’s voice betrayed her surprise. “You should not have come.”
The wooden chair creaked as the priest sat down. “Ah, Bridget. It’s good to see you so well,” he said in the same hushed voice he would use with confessors. “I came to wish birthday blessings.”
The slight cough sounded like it covered a chuff. “You’d not risk yourself on account of my birthday. Why are you here?” she asked, her voice a taught wire.
“I came at the wish of a dying man. Daniel wants to see you one more time.”
Bridget’s breath caught in her throat. “My Danny Boy? What’s happened?”
Reverend Mother could hear a rustle of fabric and the chair scrape across the stone floor as the priest adjusted his position. “There was an accident at his, um, work. An explosion,” he spoke slowly, each word carefully chosen. “He was horribly burned. I’m afraid there is only prayer left.”
Reflexively, Reverend Mother stole a look to witness the young woman’s reactions. Bridget gathered her robes around her shoulders, as if doing so would keep the cold reality away from her. “What about Patrick?”
“I’m sorry. Patrick died in the atta—accident. Grace be had that he did not suffer.” He reached out—as any compassionate human would—to rub her back in solace, but his touch made the novice jump as if burned with a firebrand. Bridget hugged her arms around herself, and rocked back and forth, whimpers of grief loud in the hollow room. “I see. I understand,” she said, barely a whisper. “And Dan? He’s in hospital?”
Father Hughes gripped Bridget’s hands firmly. “Yes, but there’s nothing anyone can do. He’s in good care. He’s asked for you, and I didn’t see how I could refuse him.”
“What’s word on the Harveys? Anyone see them about?”
Reverend Mother put extra care and attention on running her fingers over the decade of beads on her rosary, averting her eyes when he looked over at her. He continued speaking thinking his veiled meanings were enough not to rouse her curiosity. “They sent word of their travels across the border. It seems that Belfast wasn’t to their liking, and they’ve moved on.”
“So, word is they’re no longer in Belfast?”
“That’s right. Anyone hoping to see them has moved on as well.”
Bridget sat back, assessing her options. “How much time does he have?”
“He’s hanging on to see you.”
Reverend Mother let a gasp escape and quickly tried to cover her eavesdropping by attentively working her rosary. She couldn’t help herself. She was embarrassed to be caught listening, but the temptation to see raw emotion was too great. The hours spent praying over the world’s worries and cares kept her isolated. To be a spectator of immediate and real suffering was rare for her, and she considered it a gift to bear witness, even if listening in was one of the lesser human qualities. Prayer requests would come from people who had already come to grips with their problems and concerns. Worries from the outside would be brought to her for prayer, but any emotion duly wrung out by the time it was told to her.
The unfiltered reactions of those impacted with shocking news were more of a window into a person’s character than any rehearsed request. If she were to pray for a sickly husband, it was after the doctor visits and the handwringing and sleepless nights. The emotion was gone—or at least numbed over—filtered by time and acceptance and replaced with a beseeching that seemed to accompany every prayer request, regardless of reason. She lowered her head and hoped that the drape of her headwear would hide her inquiring eyes. Asking for forgiveness would happen tomorrow.
Bridget stood up and walked over to the window, barely more than a slit in the wall, and looked out over the barren landscape. She smoothed her hand down the front of her robes. The folds of fabric billowed around her figure. Combined with her height and slender build, the swollen belly would be evident only to those who knew.
“At evening vespers, Reverend Mother asked us to keep certain souls in our prayers. She said the funerals of a few men who died during a raid on their flats sparked riots. The RUC used tear gas and live ammunition to break up the crowds.” She steadied her voice with a dry swallow. “Was Paddy among those to be buried?”
Reverend Mother scrambled to pick up her dropped rosary beads.
“Yes,” Father Hughes finally answered. “Do you think you can travel?”
“I can’t be away for long. There is only one I trust to travel with.”
“I thought as much. Anna Marie will be here in the morning. You should be back by evening prayers.” When Bridget hesitated, he hastened to add, “I can see your time is very near. It’s only a matter of a few hours to grant his last wish.”
“Tell her to be here at seven.”
Bridget bumped along beside Anna Marie in silence. Being at the convent for a few months was enough to condition her to the sparse landscape, making driving the coastal route south back into Belfast a feast for her eyes. The gray winter day cloaked the countryside in layers of windswept rain, but to Bridget the beauty of the land was there. She placed a protective hand over her belly, determined to make it through one more day. Happy to be out and about, she also needed to pay attention to what was happening around her.
Anna Marie alternated between hugging her tightly and holding her at arms’ length to absorb fully all of the changes that had taken place. Bridget’s cheeks were noticeably fuller, and she no longer moved with aristocratic grace, but with a stiffened back and smaller steps. With her mane of hair tucked under her wimple and the volume of robes and capes enveloping every angle of her body, only her height gave hint to her identity. Her radiant face showed that she was r
ested and the transformation captivated Anna Marie. It was hardly consolation to her as they talked.
“I hardly recognized you, Bridget, and I’m pleased at that. You’re smart to’ve gone under until things have cooled down, but I’m worried that a sighting of you will stir things up.” She paused and quickly glanced at Bridget’s belly. “Especially now.”
Bridget nodded and watched the scenery pass from remote coast to countryside to suburbs. They would be in Belfast soon. She seemed not to hear Anna Marie. “Where is Patrick buried?”
“He’s at Milltown Cemetery.”
“I want to go there.”
“No. Absolutely not. Our people are mightily upset and got into open brawls with the UVF and the RUC. There’s been a lockdown, and they’re keeping everyone away from the grave.”
“I... I need t-to see...” Her voice trailed off as she tried to find the words.
Anna Marie understood. “They have a plot for him next to your Ma, Pa, and...” she caught herself before she said more. “I promised not to upset you. I’ve said too much.”
“You can say it. He has a plot next to Danny’s as well.”
“They’ve made sure your brothers have a proper spot, not in the poor grounds. Proper headstones, too.”
“They?”
Anna Marie hesitated. “Your brothers are a bit of a legend among the IRA for their daring. They won’t soon be forgotten. Gus made the arrangements, and Father Hughes paid.”
“Gus did this? Is he in Belfast?” Bridget tried but failed to hide the panic in her voice.
“I don’t know, Bridget. If he thought for a moment he could see you he’d be here.” She waited. “He doesn’t suspect anything, Bridget. I’ve kept my promise.”
Bridget patted Anna Marie’s hand, and they spent the remaining time going over precautions and cover stories. Danny was at the Royal Victoria Hospital, a place that caused Bridget much concern. The hospital was earning a preeminent reputation in the emergency care of gunshot wounds and orthopedic surgery, especially in the treatment of “punishment” injuries—kneecaps shot off or arms dislocated on those who had crossed the IRA.
On the winter day when Bridget walked through the doors, the expertise Danny needed was for the critically burned. She dreaded thinking what his experience had been like. For any mortally burned victim, the deepest wish is to have died in the flames and not live with the agony his wounds inflict. Every nerve ending in his skin is short-circuited, sending constant signals of searing heat. The agony of the blistering and bubbling of skin cycles on a constant loop. The body reacts by forming a blister around itself, sapping the organs of moisture, and throwing the delicate balance of electrolytes and platelets into cascades of chaos.
The process of dying would be a slow one for Danny, marked only by a swelling of the face and hands, if he still had them, and a steady drowning as his lungs filled up with fluid. If he survived long enough, then the crust formed over his wounds would be scrubbed off until his skin is raw again, an act that is intended to help in later years by creating scars that are more elastic. The abrading of wounds makes victims writhe in pain and beg for mercy, if not death.
As if not difficult enough, the generous amounts of morphine prescribed create addicts of many. Danny might still die from his wounds, but at least the drugs would make his final days pass without pain. Perhaps because pain medications lifts inhibitions and loosens tongues or perhaps because the Irish are very keen on paying their respects to the sick and dying, the Royal Victoria Hospital had also gained a reputation as the premier undercover resource for identifying relationships of wounded IRA soldiers and the network which supports them.
Rumors prevailed of British undercover agents sitting in waiting rooms, peering over old newspapers to see who came to visit whom. Even a nurse or two was said to earn a bit more on the side for the tips she could bring by observing visitors.
Bridget gave many assurances that she was capable of walking the distance before Anna Marie could drop her off, away from the main traffic area and eyes of the hospital. Using a cane as much for support as for disguise, Bridget—stooped, robed, and methodical—made her way through the front entrance and up to Intensive Care. It was all so easy.
Dan’s room was small and sparsely furnished. A single bed, a chair, a rolling cart. His bedside table held only a telephone, the numbers on its round dial nearly new with lack of use. The television propped on a high corner shelf was silent and cold. An iron mesh and a paper shade, yellowed from age and sunlight, covered the window. A few machines on rolling poles and squat metal tables beeped steadily.
Bridget sat in a chair and gathered herself before she reached out and held his gauze wrapped hand, making sure to keep the door in her view. Bits of skin she could see were black or sickly red. Too many tubes, bags, and wires tethered her brother, and she resisted the urge to rip them all away to set him free. Someone had wrapped a rosary around his hand, and she reached over to finger the beads as she said her Hail Marys and Our Fathers. Dan was one of the unlucky ones who survived the first hell, only to be acutely aware his life was oozing out of him, never to recover. He was in a haze created as much by drugs as by the lack of life, and it took him a while to rally enough to recognize her. She was grateful for the time. She needed the minutes to gather herself and not scream and wail at his suffering and their loss.
“Rish-it...!” he rasped her name and attempted to move his arms, perhaps to hug her. His lips were gone. What remained of his face was slathered in petroleum goo intended to keep the crisped skin from becoming brittle. One eye was gone. The eye that remained began to glisten. There were no more illusions to keep.
She spoke to him of Ma and the days at Lough Neagh and shared their favorite stories of Patrick and Margaret. Danny promised to look after Patrick and find their wee sister, Eileen. Then he apologized for leaving too early and promised to watch over her.
“Ah, Danny Boy. It wasn’t to be like this, you know,” she murmured, keeping her voice steady and refusing her tears. She could see his eye focus on her as if committing her to final memory. It slowly traced her face and the outline of her robes.
His chest started to heave, and he gave a “har... heh” followed by a racking cough. Alarmed, she started to reach the call button for the nurse, but he managed to raise an arm and stop her. It took her a moment to realize he was laughing.
The moment suspended between them. Bridget would be forever grateful that the tears she shed for her brother that day included those of mirth. She wanted to stay, to be there until his very end, but he was clear. He needed to pass in private and in close conversation with God. She could hardly refuse him. With a final kiss to his forehead, she left.
Her robes were the perfect cloak, and a cane served to reduce her identifying height. If it were not for the fact that the man the nun had visited had been pulled out of a building targeted by the Ulster Volunteer Force and bombed with the support of the RUC, she may have gone undetected. As she neared the exit, the hair on the back of her neck bristled. One look at Anna Marie’s face was enough for her to fear that she would not make it back to the safety of the convent. Any hope was doused with her words.
“They’ve been tipped on Mrs. Harvey.”
They crisscrossed side streets and alleys and brought the rattling compact car into car parks and out the other side. Bridget guided Anna Marie as much as she could but soon realized the young woman was well versed in the skills of losing a tail. A month before, the RUC had begun a systematic sweep of the streets to bring in persons of interest for questioning, and commonly such persons ended up jailed and forgotten by the process. She feared she would soon be one of them. Anna Marie was in tears as she begged Bridget to enter the network of safe houses that Bridget herself had created. The network was only available for women and was populated and operated by women, but Bridget refused. She had worked too hard to keep herself and her baby in secret these past months and she was not to be revealed now.
“Bring
me to the cathedral.”
Anna Marie obeyed. Masses were over for the day and the hollow interior betrayed no movements of anyone inside. Anna Marie helped Bridget into the cramped confessional in the back of the nave. Bridget undid the tucks of her wimple and dropped the folds of her habit beside her, revealing a simple thin woolen under-dress. She remained there, breathless, exhausted and with the growing knowledge that things were going terribly wrong.
Sounds of approaching feet echoed and the curtained door to the confessional swung open.
Anna Marie guided her to her feet and kicked aside the pile of robes. “We have a place for tonight.”
“No.” Bridget’s mouth was set in a straight line of resolve. “This is my problem. The RUC is only after me. You’ve done enough. Keep yourself safe.” She smoothed a strand of hair away from her friend’s face, feeling the bond of closeness and family more strongly than she ever had. The day’s events were moving too quickly and with a gravity that threatened to crush her. She was afraid—afraid for her brother’s final hours, afraid for her friend’s foolish loyalties, afraid for her baby. Mostly, she was afraid of being an albatross and of being the reason her networks and relationships were discovered.
“You can’t drive, and I’m not leaving you.”
“I can’t risk being followed back to the convent.”
“I agree. We have access to a car and directions to a safe house outside the city. But it’s a long walk through the tunnels. Hours. I’m worried that it will be too much for you. Will you be alright?”
She gathered herself with resolve knowing arguing wasted precious time. “I have to be. Let’s go.”
Bridget walked too slowly, leaned too much on Anna Marie. They met each other’s eyes without questions and continued down the stone steps, through the darkened hallways of the basement, and down a second set of stairs. At the far end of the building, away from any windows or vents, they entered a room only visible when a table and picture was moved away from the wall to expose its entrance. Shadows in the corner swept toward them and Anna Marie stifled a gasp.
The Troubles (The Jessica Trilogy Book 2) Page 34
