by Pat Mullan
Lord Desmond had regained some of his composure and, looking directly at the monsignor, he said, “But it hasn’t blown over, has it Thomas. If Burke knows, other people know. And Burke is a determined man. He believes the boy was driven to his death. And he’s looking for justice. This was always too big for you. Why didn’t you let me know? I would have stopped this before it went any further. You have ignored the power of this family. What the hell were you thinking of?”
“I didn’t see the need to bother you. Besides, it was embarrassing for Father Roland. He preferred that you didn’t know.”
Lord Desmond was now on his feet. He ushered the monsignor out of the snooker room and walked him to the large front drawing room, saying nothing on the way. Once there, he poured two small glasses of Jamieson’s and offered one to the monsignor.
“We need to spend some time on this, Thomas. You’ll stay the night. I’ve already ordered dinner for two.”
But Monsignor Thomas Fallon was too old and too tired to spend the night on family intrigue. He still simmered with resentment from the imperious way that he felt he’d been treated. So, to his Lordship’s amazement, he took only one sip of the whisky, put down the glass, and brusquely walked out.
30
The Avenger saw him leave and watched as his car moved slowly out of the main gates and turned left onto the road that would take him past Lough Corrib and onwards to Galway. He had parked on the verge of the road opposite the castle’s main gates. As the monsignor passed he put on his headlights, high beams this time, pulled out and drove after him. He soon caught up and immediately began to close behind the monsignor’s car, knowing that his high beams would torture the monsignor.
Monsignor Fallon almost swore out loud. If he’d been accustomed to using swear words when angry, he’d have done so. He pounded the steering wheel and screamed damn! damn! damn!. The high beams penetrated his car, reflecting off his mirrors and distracting him. He knew that this could not be a coincidence. It had to be the same person. He was very afraid. Why would someone follow him? He had no enemies. And he had no money. They’d get nothing if they robbed him. Maybe I can lose him, he thought. He pushed down on the accelerator and watched the needle move from sixty to sixty-five to seventy. He didn’t feel safe at this speed, especially now that it was dark, but he had to try and get away. It had started to rain and his windscreen fogged up. He strained to see as the high beams behind continued to drill into him. Maybe I should get off the road, he thought. The village of Cong lay a mile ahead and he decided to stop and seek refuge there.
Losing his concentration, he suddenly realized that the speedometer needle was nudging seventy-five as he entered the village of Cong. He hit the brakes and tried to slow down. But the rain had slicked the ground and he missed his turn-off into the main street of the village. The car spun out of control, almost hitting the dark limestone plinth of the Market Cross, and crossed the street at an angle narrowly missing the corner houses on each side until it finally slid into the old wall surrounding Cong Abbey. Steam rose out of the radiator and the bonnet had crumpled like a piece of cheap tin. The adrenalin was telling him to flee and the seat belts were cutting into his neck and shoulder telling him not to move. He released the seat belt and looked over his shoulder to see the street in darkness behind him. No sign of the car that had followed him. Maybe this is God’s will that I should come to the Abbey on a night like this. Fumbling under the seat, he found a flashlight he’d stowed there. Hoping that the batteries still worked, he turned it on. It worked but dimly. The batteries were on their last legs. It wouldn’t last long. The rain had lessened and he made a decision. He’d visit the Abbey and pray. Then he’d find somewhere to say for the night and get a garage to take care of his car in the morning.
Pulling the hood of his raincoat over his head, he had enough street light to let him see the entrance to the abbey, a few yards ahead. Founded by the last High King of Ireland, Turlough O’Conor, in the early twelfth century for the Augustinians, its ruined walls still stood, a monument to its grandeur. Passing through its very beautiful doorway, he turned the flashlight on and briefly illuminated the intricate carvings that framed it. Even though he’d been there many time before, he was still in awe of the artistry.
He stepped through the doorway and stood inside the great abbey church. The rain had stopped and the sky now served as a huge vaulted roof. He felt the majesty of God here and, using the flashlight, stepped over the tombstones that paved the floor until he reached the centre. Kneeling then, he clasped his hands in silent prayer.
The sound of footsteps on gravel brought him out of his reverie of prayer in time to see the rays of a very powerful flashlight streak across the walls at the gable end. Painfully, he forced his arthritic hips to support his legs as he stood. But the flashlight, almost a searchlight had now found him and he stood there in its glow.
“Monsignor, so good of you to wait for me.” The voice was strong, even theatrical, with a strong sense of threat.
“Who are you? What do you want with me?”
“It doesn’t matter who I am. It’s God who wants you, wants a reckoning with you.”
That was enough for the Monsignor. This man sounded deranged. He’d have to get away from him. So he turned and ran, stumbling over the large flat tombstones. If he could make it to the forest at the end of the open cloisters, he might be able to hide. He knew the direction but he couldn’t see and his flashlight was almost dead. But he could see more from the powerful light that his pursuer splayed back and forth. He dashed ahead, then tripped and fell, the flashlight clattering away from him. Hurting badly, he got up again and finally made it though the church wall into the cloisters at the rear. He knew that if he followed the path straight ahead, it would lead him into the dense Ashford forest where he might be able to hide.
He could sense his pursuer closing in so he started to run, blindly, tripped and fell almost immediately. Stunned, he tried to get up but couldn’t. Then he felt strong hands behind him, lifting him and holding him. He was powerless to fight back as he felt some kind of restraints tying his wrists together behind his back. His attacker said nothing. Monsignor Fallon fell back on the only defence he knew: prayer. He prayed as his attacker pulled and dragged him down the pathway between the trees until they reached the river. He couldn’t see it clearly but he could hear the rush of its water.
The Avenger knew what he must do. But he wanted the monsignor to know why. He wanted to give him time to repent before he met his God. An old abandoned stone house, the walls still standing, stood out over the river. Used as a fish house by the friars, it was constructed over the river to trap the fish in a crib underneath. Swimming about they touched a wire that rang a bell to let the cook know. The Avenger thought that the old fish house would do nicely. Dragging the monsignor onto it, he looped a rope through the restraints on his wrist and pushed him over the edge until he was waist deep in the river. He tied the rope around a metal barrier that had been installed to protect the tourists and stood up. The monsignor had said nothing, only prayed all the time, and now prayed even louder. He took the bible out of his pocket, held the flashlight over it, and in his deep theatrical voice, started to read:
“Monsignor, you must already know why you are here. You must know the crimes you have committed. No? You do not defend yourself. Yes, go on, pray. Maybe the Lord will forgive you. After all he is compassionate, we think.
But I will read from the bible so you can listen to his anger:
From Romans 1:27 : “They wanted to have sex with one another. They did wrong things with other men. Their own bodies were punished because of the wrong things they did.”
From Romans 13:13 : “We must not do any kind of wrong thing with sex.”
And in Jude 1:7, the Lord says that “Sodom and Gomorrah and the surrounding towns gave themselves up to sexual immorality and perversion”
Monsignor Fallon had stopped praying and was trying to speak. But only phlegm and grunts emi
tted from his mouth. He could not utter any words. His tongue failed him and he could feel his heart racing and then skipping and stopping and spluttering. He could hear his torturer’s voice clearly and it seemed familiar to him. But he believed that he was only imagining that. He tried to speak again but his larynx had shut down.
“And, Monsignor, you and those like you are no better than the people of Sodom and Gomorrah! I see you trying to speak but the Lord won’t let you defend yourself. No, there is no defence for you. You are guilty. And what punishment does the Lord dictate? He says, ‘If your right eye makes you do wrong, take it out and throw it away. It is better to lose a part of your body, than for your whole body to be thrown into hell. If your hand or your foot makes you do wrong, cut it off and throw it away! It is better for you to enter into life without hands or feet than to have two hands and two feet and be thrown into the fire that burns for ever.’
“And what does he tell us to do? You must know the answer. He tells us to “ take the man or woman who has done this evil deed to your city gate and stone that person to death.”
But I will leave you here like this and if the Lord has compassion he will save you!
The water now lapped over the monsignor’s chest and he no longer felt anything in his legs. Before he lapsed into unconsciousness, something screamed in his brain “I know that voice! I know who he is.”
The Avenger left Cong in a state of numbness. He felt both exhilarated and depressed. He did not feel any remorse. He never felt remorse. Driving with his right hand he fingered his rosary beads in his left. He wasn’t saying the rosary. He mostly used the beads as a touchstone, a comforter, a device to control his emotions. He knew that he was God’s instrument. God had asked him to clear out the temple, to pluck out the eyes that offended, to cut off the hands that scandalized. His work had only just begun. He inserted the CD of Biscantorat and hit the play button. Adjusting the volume, he almost closed his eyes as The Sound of The Spirit from Glenstal Abbey filled the air.
The chapel appeared like a ship in the mist. A triangular shape, beached on the mountainy roadside, buffeted by the rain and wind, the invitation Stop and Pray , black on white, glared at Father Bernard Flaherty in the headlights of his car.
He pulled into the small empty parking place in front of the church. One light shone inside through the large transparent front windows. He sat for a while, then got out, pulled the hood of his coat over his head, and strode through the rain to the front door. It was open. He entered and looked around. Empty, as though it had been reserved especially for him. For a brief moment, he wondered if this church really existed, wondered if it would really be here if he drove past in tomorrow’s daylight.
He walked slowly up the centre aisle until he reached the altar rail. Without hesitation, he knelt and let his wet raincoat drop to the ground at his feet, puddles of rainwater soon accumulating on the tiles that surrounded him.
And he prayed.
Dear Lord, I did not ask for this. Just as you did not ask for the suffering you endured, for the brutal crucifixion, so I have not asked to be your instrument of vengeance. But your church on earth must be cleansed of its sins. Your people must see that the will of God is carried out. Your people will know the signs. They will know that these defilers have been punished by you. They will know the signs. Just as you prophesized against the Philistines when you promised that you would stretch out your hand against them, carry out great vengeance on them and punish them in your wrath. They knew that you were the Lord when you took vengeance on them.
Slowly he rose to his feet, raised the raincoat from the floor and pulled it around his shoulders. He genuflected, turned around and walked briskly out of the church. The rain had turned to a fine drizzle, peppering his face and filling him with renewed energy. He felt cleansed, refreshed, his soul blessed by God. He climbed into his car and headed towards Athlone. It was Easter holidays at St. Curnan’s and he wasn’t expected back for two weeks. Enough time to let the news about the monsignor get absorbed in his absence. He headed for the monastery in Mullingar. They were expecting him and he would be able to find solace there. And await the word of the Lord.
He didn’t know it then but he wouldn’t have to wait very long.
31
At noon, Ed Burke’s Aer Lingus flight lifted off into the dark and overcast Dublin sky and, seven hours later, descended into Boston sunshine.
He knew Boston well. In the early days in the States, as a young lawyer on the bottom rung of an aggressive criminal law firm, Ed was assigned every petty criminal defence in the book. That often took him to Boston to defend north-end petty criminals, some of whom would later become major clients of his own New York law firm. Long days spent toiling in the defence of the indefensible took their toll and they’d often end in long nights in the pub, sometimes in Roisin Dubh, the Black Rose. He promised that he’d treat himself to a pint there before he left. For old time’s sake.
He gained five hours in time zone difference and sat in a taxi on his way out of Logan Airport by three pm.
Joe Brosnan was expecting him. Sean Coyne had made all the arrangements in advance, assuring Ed that his cousin would be only too happy to see him and that he had plenty of room in the old rambling house he owned in Cambridge.
With eyes glued to the window as they circled Harvard Square, he sucked in the essence of it all, remembering days long past when he’d hung out here after his gig as guest speaker to the graduating law students at Harvard.
In an instant they entered Massachusetts Avenue and left the Square behind. A few minutes later they took a right into a road, bordered by old Victorian style homes. The taxi pulled up outside a house on the right, halfway down the road. Ed paid the driver and retrieved his bag from the boot. As the taxi drove away he climbed the front steps to Joe Brosnan’s door. He rang the doorbell and waited. And waited. Eventually he heard the lock turning and the door opening.
“Ed Burke, it’s you, isn’t it? I’d recognize you anywhere. Sean described you well.”
Joe Brosnan was a tall, angular, affable man. Friendly eyes and a ready smile shone out of a face that looked toughened and well worn from the miles it had travelled. His fair hair was greying and thinning out on top.
“Joe, thank you for inviting me.”
“Ed, Ed, no trouble. Besides, you’re here to talk about my favourite subject. I should be thanking you.”
He ushered Ed up the narrow stairs that clung to the wall until they reached a large open landing that lead into a warm, cosy living room. A bubbly lady put down a magazine and stood to greet Ed.
“Ed, this is Annie. “
“Good to meet you, Annie. And thanks for having me.”
“It’s nice to have you stay with us. We seldom get any visitors. You’ll have tea. Or maybe you’d like coffee.”
“No, tea will be fine. And, listen, I don’t want you running after me while I’m here. I mean that now.”
Annie laughed loudly, a sound of dismissal, and headed towards the kitchen. Joe invited Ed to sit down and took his bag upstairs to his bedroom. Ed glanced around the room, a TV and stereo in the corner and books lying everywhere. But no photographs or anything personal. Only a couple of landscapes on the wall that seemed to be the kind of pictures you got as a new home gift and didn’t know what to do with them. Stuck with hanging them to avoid awkward feelings when the giver visited, you never took them down again. Ed didn’t think that these two landscapes would be the kind of art that Joe and Annie would choose to hang on their wall.
Annie returned with a tray of tea and biscuits, “It’s afternoon tea time for us. We like to keep up the old traditions. Of course it’s about nine o’clock tonight by your internal clock. But you’re better off forgetting about that.”
“Oh, I do. I seem to be able to adjust my internal clock. Always. I’ve never suffered jet lag. And your tea is just what the doctor ordered.”
Joe came back and Annie poured the tea.
“Sean di
dn’t tell you about Annie, did he?”
“No, he didn’t. But you’re a nice surprise Annie.”
“Annie and I are both former religious. Annie was in the Dominican Order when we met. At a time when I was disillusioned.”
“And when I had decided that I should never have become a nun. It was the wrong choice for me”, said Annie.
“You look like you’ve found each other, found a life. That’s great. I’m happy for you both.”
Ed spent the rest of the evening in their very enjoyable company. After a light pasta meal, they ushered him up to his room with a generous nightcap of his favourite Drambuie.
Annie did volunteer work and was conveniently gone early next morning, leaving the day to Ed and Joe.
Joe used one of the rooms in the large old house as an office and at nine am, fortified with a pot of strong coffee, they retired there. Books lay strewn everywhere, waiting for shelves or charity auctions. A stack of newspapers leant precariously against the side of Joe’s big old wooden desk, the kind of desk one expected to see in the bishop’s house. Joe dug through the papers, retrieved seven or eight without overturning the lot, and held up the headlines for Ed to see. Joe read them: “ ‘Cardinal Law under pressure to resign’, ‘Pope accepts Law’s resignation’, ‘Bishop O’Malley pays $120 million in abuse claims’, ‘Portland Archdiocese settles 100 claims for $53 million’ ,‘Archbishop of Portland files for Chapter 11 bankruptcy’, ‘Diocese of Tucson files bankruptcy’, ‘Diocese of Spokane files bankruptcy’ “.
