The Troubles (The Jessica Trilogy Book 2)

by Connie Johnson Hambley

Kavan felt along the oiled surface. His fingers found the block of wood, moved it slightly. The center medallion eked forward, then he slowly eased it out. With each motion, Father Storm’s breathing slowed and his color normalized. He finally shuffled to the wooden chair and collapsed onto it.

  The entire armoire was free of dust and clutter, evidence of its recent care. The small drawer pulled out soundlessly. Kavan did not need a chair to reach its contents but pulled one up anyway to see with his eyes what his fingers already told him. It was empty.

  He turned to face the father. His expression formed the question that his mouth could not.

  Father Storm’s eyes bulged in disbelief and fear. “I’ve told no one, Your Grace. I swear to you. I’ve not told a soul.”

  After a light dinner, shower, and a change of clothes, Jessica followed Thea through a side entrance to Saint Peter’s. Thea cleaved onto her to ensure that her skittish guest would not run in terror at seeing the community center in use. They descended two flights of stairs and snaked through long corridors of cinderblock walls and linoleum floors. Thea theatrically produced keys and unlocked doors, dramatizing how removed they were from public areas. Once inside the room and introductions made, Thea left with assurances to meet after services in the morning.

  Jessica stood with her shoulder to the wall, arms crossed as she looked through the window to the street above. Few passed through this section of Belfast on a Saturday night. Destinations for food and spirits held more allure. Two beds flanked the functional space. A curtain pulled up between them attempted privacy. Beside each bed sat a chair, table, and lamp. Books were neatly stacked in one corner of the floor next to a well-worn pile of Tattler and Gossip Girl magazines.

  The odds and ends of a life salvaged were stacked under the window. A few dresses and a coat hung from hangers hooked on the water pipes that ran across the ceiling. Neatly folded piles of sweaters and pants sat along the floor. A few milk crates held a variety of figurines and kitchenware. A faint smell of soot clung to them. An assortment of brooms, buckets, and mops filled a makeshift cubby by the door.

  “Can I fetch you a cup of tea?”

  Jessica turned to her keeper for the night. “No thanks.” She looked at the hot plate and kettle and the assortment of dried and packaged food. “Thea told me about your flat burning in the riots. I’m sorry.” Thea spoke of the riots as if they were a bout of excessive heat or a flood-swollen river; more of a God-given nuisance that a person grows accustomed to because fighting against it would be futile. Jessica looked into Aoife’s eyes, trying to gauge her anger. Only a resigned acceptance huddled beneath the surface.

  Aoife gave a non-committal shrug. “Thank you. I’ve been assigned a flat and will be moving as soon as it’s ready. If I wasn’t here, I don’t know where they would have put you up for the night. The shelters are good enough, but I guess if you’ve never been to one they can seem a bit frightening.”

  The same trigger of events put them together, and Jessica was not ready to examine it. This was the cathedral of her mother’s youth, where Bridget taught the Catechism and pilfered coins from the coffers. If what Tim said was true, this was also where she would meet her father. She ran her hand along the cinderblock walls, hoping for the fire of connection to ignite. Like on the beach at Aghalee, she felt nothing, only the familiar numbness. She focused her attention on her host.

  Aoife could not have been more than a few years older and moved with planned and determined actions. She had a slightly convex appearance; thin not by choice but worn down by stress and hard work. The knees of her pants showed faint patches as if bearing silent witness to hours spent scrubbing. Her faded strawberry hair was swept back and secured with a plastic clamp. A faint scattering of freckles graced her nose and cheeks. Aoife’s hands, strong with knotted blue veins, were not noteworthy except for being red and chapped. Only when Aoife looked at Jessica did her impression change from downtrodden to veiled. Aoife’s eyes bore into her as if nothing could keep her from seeing the truth.

  “Ah. This is the best place for reflection, I’ll give you that.” Aoife pressed her hands to her hips and stretched her back. “On the nights I can’t sleep, I go up to the nave and sit. Sometimes I pray, but most times I let my mind wander.”

  “It’s not locked? You can just go in there?” She struggled to keep the burr in her words.

  Aoife gave her a look that made Jessica feel stupid. “No worries. The doors are locked at sunset and automatically latch behind so there’s no re-entry. I almost had to spend my first night in the sanctuary. I block the door with this.” She waved a tattered book in the air. “Would you like to see the inside?”

  Jessica shrugged, unsure of how to answer.

  “C’mon. It’ll do us both good. Take our mind off things for a while.”

  She shrugged. “Okay, sure. Why not?”

  When Aoife smiled, the stresses fell from her face, making her almost pretty. Suddenly energized, she placed her steaming mug down and motioned with her head for Jessica to follow.

  Aoife carefully steered Jessica through the labyrinth of halls. They walked down a long corridor and up two flights of stairs, their way lit by dim overhead lights. The first flight was modern, built twenty or thirty years before, and was part of the building referred to as the community center. The second flight was more ancient, maybe a century old and part of the cathedral itself.

  They passed through a series of doors. Some they chocked open with rubber wedges, others they propped with chairs. When they reached the first large carved door, Aoife turned and waved the book with a smile, placing it down between the jamb and the door. Her demeanor was that of a teenager accustomed to being out past curfew. Her eyes and mouth were set with determination as she showed the ropes to a newcomer. They entered near the front of the cathedral and stood in a small foyer behind the altar. A huge oak cabinet stood to their right with the vestry and ancillary rooms beyond it.

  The air held a combination of faded incense, fresh linens, and lemon oil. The floor was stone, polished smooth from centuries of footsteps, and scrubbed so clean the tiny flecks of mica shone like diamonds. A carved cross graced each thick wooden door. The carvings on the altar door were the most ornate, with a trellis and interweaving vines. Iron sconces held dimmed flame-shaped lights.

  Aoife started to walk forward and stopped, head cocked and hand raised. Men’s voices came from inside the vestry. She reached behind her, grabbed Jessica’s arm and pulled her into the shadow of the cabinet. Jessica’s heart pounded and she tried to leave, but Aoife held her back with an iron grasp.

  The stone walls did not muffle the conversation. One voice was old and wavered. “I... I simply don’t remember. It was there and hadn’t been touched.”

  Another voice was younger, more patient, and restrained. “With all the bother leading up to tomorrow’s services, perhaps you moved it for safekeeping?” The next minutes filled with sounds of door hinges squeaking and of drawers sliding open and shut.

  “Och! Perhaps you’re right. There’s been so much these past weeks. I’ve j-just gone all soft.”

  After a pause, the sound of a chair scraped against the floor. The younger voice said, “Take your time, Father. It will come to you when you least expect it. Tell me about the preparations you’ve overseen. You always were the best at organizing the celebrations. I remember all you did when I was ordained.”

  A thick chortle. “That was a fine day, Kavan. One of the best in my life to see you take your oath before God. I can barely believe so many years have passed and soon you’ll be Archbishop.”

  Jessica stopped listening. Kavan. Bishop Kavan Hughes was a few feet away. A deep trembling shifted inside of her as if a fault line finally broke free from its tension. He was her living link to past and present. She only heard his voice, but the desperation to speak to him grew. She wanted to see his face and the smile her mother had seen, and to hear the laughter her mother had heard. Most of all, she wanted to watch the expression in
his eyes when she told him who her mother was, to see for herself the truth of Tim’s words.

  The men continued their conversation, relaxed in the presence of one another, words punctuated with short bursts of the knowing laughter of close friends. The sound of his voice, the cadence of his conversation, woke something inside of her. She fought the feeling, thinking she was imagining a connection where logic had dictated none existed. Her head felt detached again, tethered by a gossamer thread. It was irrational, insane really, but she began to believe she heard her father’s voice. She tried to shake off the ludicrous thought, no doubt fed and fostered by the isolation and fear she felt. From what she read in the journals, he never knew of Bridget’s pregnancy. Still, a doubt nagged.

  She pressed her face into the gap between the cabinet and the back wall, trying to see all she could. The door to the vestry opened. A gnome of a man, stooped and gnarled with age and arthritis scuffed out, supported by a man dressed in the all black suit and white collar of the clergy. The light from the sconce showed his profile, face lean, cleanly shaven, and weathered, belying the image that a cleric’s life was one of endless days of indoor prayer. His movements spoke of the athletic ease of someone who comfortably inhabits his physical world. Small lines creased from his eyes to show a smile always reached them, and his light brown hair was shortly cropped and amply flecked with gray. His manner to the older priest was respectful and patient. The men turned and walked out toward the rectory, door swinging silently shut behind them.

  She must have taken a step forward, for Aoife jabbed an elbow into her side and gripped her collar, holding it for several minutes after the last of their voices faded.

  Aoife slowly relaxed and let a faint smile creep to her lips. “Jaysus! That was a close one! I thought I was going to piss in my panties. I’ve never seen Father Storm up here so late and to have the bishop, too!” She cracked open the door to the altar and peered out. “It’s clear now. C’mon, let’s have you a tour.” She walked toward the door and, not followed, stopped. “What’s on? You’re shaking like a leaf.”

  “It’s, um, it’s just that... That was too close. I thought you said no one would be here.”

  “My mistake. Sorry. Here I thought we had a bit of fun, and you’re about to shake apart. Let’s give you a quick look ‘round, and we’ll go back to our room.”

  “They won’t find the doors propped open and suspect we were here?”

  “No. They were off to Father Storm’s living quarters at the rectory over on the other side. The bishop has his own flat near Stormont and won’t be walking through here on his way.”

  Jessica stood up straight, surprised her legs would hold her. “They were pretty distracted. What were they looking for?” She waited for an answer and received nothing, not even an acknowledgement of her question. She followed Aoife through the door and hesitated when she realized she was at the very front of the cathedral near the altar. Seeing the expanse of the whole nave from her vantage point was a shock. The sanctity of the space made her want to move with great care, concentrating on being silent. Their footfalls echoed in the cavernous space.

  The sanctuary could seat close to one thousand people. Like all cathedrals, Saint Peter’s floor plan formed the footprint of a cross. The nave’s main aisle flowed from the cathedral’s entrance to the altar. A second aisle intersected it to shape the outstretched arms of the cross. Two smaller chapels, named Reconciliation and Resurrection, were at either end of the transept. These areas of prayer provided additional seating when the main nave was full.

  The altar sat in the center of the chancel surrounded by an area large enough to allow priests and altar server’s room to perform their rituals during the service. The ambulatory was higher than the main floor of the nave where the pews sat. To reach it, parishioners had to step up a series of three steps along its perimeter—carpeted to provide a cushioned surface for people to kneel in prayer and receive Holy Communion. From her vantage point, she could see the large stained glass window on the west side. Multi-colored bits of light reflected off the organ’s pipes at the far end of the nave.

  Aoife, tiring in her role as tour guide, was careful to keep her voice at a respectful level. Jessica made an effort to pay attention and gave minimal responses as her mind was busy tracing over every aspect of her encounter with the men. Aoife rattled on about the cathedral’s history. The long line of women who ensured the cathedral’s enduring dominance as the center of the Belfast community was especially significant. Her comments were as much about the carved symbolism on the walls as they were for the women who restored and cared for them. Aoife herself was the fifth generation of her family woven into the fabric of the cathedral’s history, and her pride and sense of belonging was obvious.

  Jessica only half listened as they walked down one corridor and stopped near a chest-high brass and cut-glass stand. A red cord secured the ornate display case’s perfectly polished doors. White satin lined the interior that contained several vessels. Jessica had never seen anything like it before. Making an effort to be engaged, she asked about its importance.

  “That’s what they call the Aumbry. They keep the sacraments and Holy Oil in there. The parishioners had it made in memory of two priests who were shot while anointing the wounded during a riot in the early ‘70s.”

  “Who killed them?”

  Aoife looked at Jessica with fresh eyes and spit out, “Just who do you think would kill a priest in Belfast?”

  Jessica stopped, unsure of how to respond. She had forgotten herself somewhere between the drama of near discovery and her silent dialog of whether or not to approach the bishop. If the disappearance of the fake brogue wasn’t enough to show she was not from Northern Ireland, then an ignorant question was.

  When Aoife straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin, Jessica could see the stainless steel of her inner core. Aoife’s methodical and cordial demeanor evaporated, replaced by menace. What Jessica first saw as a stressed and weakened body transformed to bristling muscle as fear and suspicion surfaced. “You don’t have that haunted look in your eyes I’ve seen with other women who escape their violent men.” She paused, carefully watching Jessica’s reactions. “You lied to get here, and you’re not an Irishman.”

  Jessica could see the rapid churning of Aoife’s mind. “Please don’t be afraid. I’m an American, but I didn’t lie about needing help.”

  Aoife stood up straight. “Why are you here?”

  Her stomach sank. Instinctively, her eyes scanned for escape routes and doors. Not paying attention as they wandered inside the massive structure, she lost her bearings. She played for time. “I’ll answer your questions, but I want to learn more about the bishop and tomorrow’s service.”

  “No. No questions from you. Why are you here? Tomorrow’s mass will be jammed for Father Storm’s retirement. No self-respecting Catholic within fifty miles would miss the chance to pay their respects to the man. Bishop Hughes always brings a crowd in from Stormont. It wouldn’t be the first time a service has been a target.” The words laced with edge and suspicion. “Then again, you already know that.”

  “Look, I’m not here for—”

  “And it wouldn’t be the first time an American did their dirty work.” Aoife cut Jessica off, her manner becoming increasingly hostile.

  Jessica didn’t know how to respond. She started to back up, hands up to show that no harm was intended. “You saw me arrive. I have nothing on me. I’m not here for any other reason but to get a few answers and to sort a few things out.”

  “You don’t need anything but your eyes and your mouth to be a tool. You’re here the night before one of the biggest events this cathedral has seen in years. You’re a feckin’ liar.”

  Jessica watched as Aoife moved toward her. Aoife’s eyes scanned the space as she gathered the crucial information needed to determine if an attack was winnable. It was as if Jessica was watching herself measuring an opponent, sensing the space, looking for a tool or an escape r
oute. Jessica looked for anything that would hint at a hidden weapon when Aoife gave a slight stretch to her right leg, as if feeling for something. Aoife was right-handed. Any weapon would be strapped to her the outside of it. Jessica’s heart pounded in her chest. She didn’t want this.

  All of her attention was on Aoife. She could see that Aoife was preparing for a fight, opening and closing her reddened hands, ready, but not certain.

  Aoife continued to move forward, and Jessica felt the odds against her mount. Aoife’s eyes had stopped scanning and focused only on Jessica. Their movements, slow and deliberate, gave time to look for weakness and the best angle. Strength gathered. She knew the telltale signs. When Aoife moved her shoulders slightly back and lowered her chin, Jessica countered the actions by taking a few steps back and keeping the distance between them neutral.

  What was Aoife expecting from her? Where was the hole, the weakness, the blind spot? Jessica’s mind raced through the details of what she learned. Aoife was there, living in the same cathedral she had been integrally involved with for years. She was loyal. And she was protective.

  A realization hit Jessica. “You have what Bishop Hughes wants.”

  Aoife hesitated, mid-stride. Blinking. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Father Storm gave it to you and told the bishop he forgot what he did with it. You have it.” Jessica continued to back up slowly, feeling her way to the nave.

  The only sound was the spit and sputter of the lines of votive candles lit with prayers for peace. “I don’t have anything of the bishop’s.”

  “N-no. You’ve taken it, hidden it somewhere. I have to see it. It might have something to do with me.” She heard the words spill out of her mouth but didn’t connect with their meaning. Something was beginning to build in her, gnawing and demanding to understand.

  “What has to do with you? An American?”

  She was confused. How much could she say? Whom was she protecting with her silence? “B-because there are people out there who believe he’s my father.”