The Bells of Scotland Road

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘You chose a fine time to visit the old neighbourhood,’ Billy said to Anthony.

  ‘Yes.’ The single syllable emerged rusty and dry.

  Billy picked up his torch. ‘You’d better get out of here,’ he advised. ‘Tomorrow, somebody will have a look to see if it’s safe for you to use the other rooms, Father. For tonight, you’d better sleep with the gypsies or in a shelter.’ He turned to Anthony. ‘Where will you go? Bridie’s Morrison will be full, because our Tildy uses it, too.’

  ‘I’ll . . . I’ll stay with Father Brennan,’ replied Anthony. He still could not bring himself to tell Billy that Maureen was missing.

  Billy guided them out through the rubbish that had recently been the hallway, pushed them in the direction of the school. ‘Stay out of the presbytery,’ he repeated before taking off in the direction of more fires.

  Anthony and the priest stared into a crater that had once been Newsham Street. Father Brennan, who was used to nights like this, sniffed the air, detected no gas. ‘What do we do now?’ he asked his companion.

  ‘We find Maureen and Cathy,’ replied Anthony. He gazed round, listened to the falling missiles, saw flames everywhere. ‘They’ve hammered the docks,’ he said.

  ‘It’s needles and haystacks,’ remarked Michael. ‘The two girls could be anywhere. They could be right under our noses, or in the middle of Liverpool, or—’

  ‘Dead,’ said Anthony.

  ‘Don’t say that.’ Michael Brennan loosened the dog collar and grabbed Anthony’s arm. ‘Come on,’ he muttered. ‘We’ll find nothing while we stand here. And if the lunatics in the sky carry on like this, I’d prefer to be a moving target.’

  ‘Father?’

  Both men swung round. Beneath layers of grime, Cathy’s face was troubled. ‘We just got here,’ she said. ‘Maureen’s in the school talking to the horses. She’s become fond of horses.’

  ‘Where have you been?’ asked Anthony. His heart did a somersault. They were alive and well and he could have danced for joy had he not been exhausted. ‘And why on earth did you come back here? Couldn’t you have waited?’

  Cathy pushed a lock of hair from her face. ‘Maureen was the one who wouldn’t wait. I don’t blame her, either, because everything came back to her in a terrible rush at St Patrick’s.’ She fixed her gaze on Anthony. ‘Was it your brother? Was it?’

  ‘I think so.’ Anthony forced himself to meet her eyes. ‘We told the police years ago, Cathy. But he disappeared. Maureen didn’t want to talk about things, and we had no tangible proof, so . . . so that’s why it has dragged on. Forcing Maureen to go over the event would have damaged her even further. I’m sorry.’ He felt useless and stupid, tired beyond measure.

  Michael intervened. ‘You are not responsible in any way for your brother’s sins,’ he said. ‘Cathy, you must not blame Anthony.’

  ‘I don’t,’ she answered.

  ‘And Liam . . .’ began Anthony. ‘He’s sick. He’s always been sick, I think.’ He glanced upward, saw that the sky was still populated by planes. ‘Inside,’ he ordered. ‘We’ll get under the headmaster’s table.’ He led the way into St Aloysius Gonzaga.

  Maureen was stroking the white-blazed nose of a chestnut carthorse. She was cleaner than Cathy, was certainly calmer. ‘Father,’ she said, ‘how are you?’

  Michael Brennan took the girl’s hand. ‘I’d be well enough if the fellows above would kindly stop trying to kill me. And yourself?’

  ‘Better,’ she replied. ‘Better than I’ve been in years.’

  ‘That’s good news.’ The priest shunted everyone into the headmaster’s office. After checking the blackout, he lit an oil lantern and ordered everyone under the sturdy table.

  ‘Three different trains, two lorries and a very long walk,’ remarked Cathy. ‘We got a cup of tea from a first aid post. Some of the lines are up, so the trains can only go short distances.’ She patted Maureen’s hand. ‘Maureen never flinched through all this.’ Cathy waved a hand upward. ‘I was scared to death. How long has it gone on?’

  Anthony, whose watch had stopped, judged the time to be about three in the morning. According to Father Brennan, the raids had begun just after eight o’clock. ‘Seven hours or so. Are you wearing a watch?’ he asked the priest.

  ‘No. But this has gone on all night. There were a couple of lulls lasting ten or fifteen minutes, but they seem to want to carry on for ever. There will be a lot of casualties, I fear.’

  ‘Where’s my mother?’ asked Cathy.

  ‘In a Morrison at the shop.’ Father Brennan covered his ears, waited for another near-miss to happen. When the earth stopped shaking, he carried on with the conversation. ‘Maureen’s daddy is a fireman – he’s somewhere fairly near – and Diddy’s driving a lorry or a van. She’s rescuing the newly bombed.’ He decided to say nothing about Maureen’s missing brother. ‘Charlie’s a warden, doing a grand job. Tildy-Anne will be with Bridie, and Nicky goes to a public shelter. Everyone is safe, please God.’

  Maureen smiled. ‘Have you heard from Father Liam at all?’

  Anthony felt his pores opening.

  ‘No,’ replied Michael Brennan. ‘Not for years.’

  ‘He disappeared into thin air,’ said Anthony. ‘He was supposed to be going to Africa, but we’re sure he didn’t.’

  More bombs fell. ‘Will there be anyone alive tomorrow?’ asked Cathy of no-one in particular.

  ‘You’d be amazed,’ answered the parish priest. ‘They crawl out of the smallest and silliest places quite unhurt. There was one poor fellow slipped down inside the tippler lavatory. He was stuck there all night until a warden found him. I’m told he complained more about the smell than the bombs.’

  After an awkward silence, Maureen spoke again. ‘I have come here to report everything that happened. I must talk to the police. You see, I’m afraid that he might do something to someone else. I couldn’t bear to think of another girl going through such a terrible time.’ She looked at Anthony. ‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured. ‘Sorry for you.’

  Anthony could manage no reply.

  Cathy reached across and squeezed the hand of the man who was loved by Bridie. When Grandmuth died, Anthony would cease to be a stepbrother and would become a stepfather to her and Shauna. ‘Anthony, it’s all right. We all know how he used to hurt you. Like you said, he’s sick in his head and can’t help himself.’

  Anthony bit his lip. ‘Give us a few minutes, girls,’ he managed eventually. ‘Then we’ll go to Bridie and get a bite to eat. The police will be up to their eyes in trouble tonight, so you’d better leave seeing them until daylight. Just let this raid die off a bit.’ He thought about Diddy and Billy, wondered how they would react, what they would say when they found out that Anthony, Bridie and Father Brennan had suspected Liam for so many years.

  They stayed under the table for a long time, each with his or her own thoughts, every one clinging to the nearest person while bombs crashed to earth. So far, it had been a very long night.

  He stood outside the shop, pressing his body against the wall in order to conceal himself as well as possible. Bombers droned above his head, while anti-aircraft fire continued to boom from the city’s gun sites. From his pocket, he took a large handkerchief before stooping to pick up a sharp stone. If he timed his actions well, he would get into Bell’s without attracting attention to his behaviour.

  When a missile hit the ground some hundred yards away, he lifted an arm to protect his face from flying glass as he broke the side window of the shop. With the handkerchief wound around his fingers, he removed the glazing and stepped into a display of mops, buckets and scrubbing brushes.

  The blackout panel fell away and clattered among ironmongery. Liam strode into the shop, saw her standing next to a counter with a lighted candle in her hand. ‘I didn’t bother to knock,’ he said. ‘Because this is my home, you see.’ He brushed dust from his sleeves and walked towards her. ‘You stole my property, Mrs O’Brien.’ He grinned, displaying his teeth in a m
enacing way. ‘Your other daughter is out there, Mrs Bell. Do you prefer to be called Bell? Your daughter, your Cathy. She’s in Liverpool waiting for a bomb to hit her. She is on her way to you. So is Maureen Costigan. They’ll never get here, because the world is on fire tonight.’

  Bridie was terrified. Cathy, Cathy. The waking nightmares had plagued Bridie, had driven her out of the shelter. She needed space, needed air. For what had seemed an endless time, she had stood in one position with the candlestick in one hand, the knife in the other. Mammy’s broken rosary was in a pocket of her cardigan.

  She stared at him, knew that her feet had solidified. Where was Cathy? Was she really on her way here, or had Liam made up the story to cause further torment? Her breathing quickened when she imagined Cathy out there with all the bombs.

  ‘Are you alone?’ he barked.

  She nodded jerkily.

  ‘Your younger daughter?’

  ‘In . . . in a shelter.’ That was the truth. He must not touch Shauna, must not touch Tildy. Cathy, Cathy. Where was Cathy?

  Anthony, too, was in the area, though Liam had made no mention of him. Had Anthony followed the girls? she wondered. He had talked about missing children . . . Her breathing quickened when she thought about Cathy wandering the city streets during this heavy raid.

  ‘Are you really alone?’ he asked.

  She was not alone, but she did not want to lead him to Shauna and Tildy. ‘Yes,’ she lied, opting once again for the smaller offence.

  He looked around the shop. ‘I need to go into the storeroom – the one in the living room.’ The letter from Sam to Bridie, the letter he had intercepted and concealed in his cell, had revealed the hiding place. That stole was in a box behind a heavy cabinet. She would not have discovered it, he felt sure. Some of dad’s secret caches had been almost impossible to penetrate. ‘There is something of mine in there,’ he said.

  There was something of Bridie’s in the living room, too. Bridie’s something was a living, breathing child in a Morrison. ‘You can’t go in there,’ she said. ‘The storeroom was . . . was hit. It has been declared unsafe.’ Did several small sins build up to become mortal?

  ‘Nevertheless, I intend to take what is mine.’

  With panic pounding in her breast, Bridie backed away until she stood at the bottom of the stairs. ‘No,’ she said.

  A temporary silence was broken by shells from a gun site. ‘I shall do exactly as I please,’ he snarled. Anger rushed into his temples, made him hot and uncertain. Martin was talking to him, was telling him to leave well alone. ‘Shut up,’ snapped Liam.

  Bridie, who had not spoken, felt the hairs on her arms standing up. If she retreated any further, she would be in the living room where Shauna and Tildy lay in their cage. Screaming was not an option, as that would either alert the girls or be drowned by the noises outside. She should have told the warden, should have sent for help.

  ‘No more, Liam,’ begged Martin.

  Liam shrugged off his alter ego and advanced on his prey. ‘You must be punished,’ he said. ‘You were having lovers’ quarrels with my brother long before Dad’s death. Now, you are no more than a harlot, no better than a street whore.’

  Bridie tried to swallow the panic. ‘Stay away from me,’ she whispered.

  He looked at her. The candlelight made her young, waif-like and almost ethereal. ‘You look like a dead child,’ he said, his tone softer, gentler.

  Bridie ran a dry tongue over her lower lip. ‘I am no child, Liam.’

  The man frowned. ‘I am Brother Martin Waring,’ he told her. ‘I am one of the Frères de la Croix de St Pierre.’ He shook himself, literally forced his body into a series of spasms. ‘No, no, I am Liam. This is Liverpool, so it’s my turn.’

  She tried to smile, failed abysmally. The mother had to win, had to protect her innocent child. Bridie forced herself to speak. ‘Tell me what you want and I shall get it for you. A priest or a brother should not go into an unsafe room. Describe whatever you need, then I can fetch it.’

  Liam Bell was not going to be confused or confounded by this small and unimportant female. He silenced Martin by stepping forward and grabbing the candlestick. She struggled, seemed quite strong for a person of such small stature. The candle tumbled and was snuffed out, but the fallen blackout allowed in light from the side window. Flames cast eerie shadows, made monsters of items stacked all round the room.

  As if in a dream, Bridie felt her arm lifting itself from her side. Slowly, slowly, the knife in her hand slid through fabric, pierced skin, sliced its way into the man’s shoulder. Blood poured, splashed, hit her face.

  Feeling no pain, he used the candlestick to smash the knife from her grip. He licked his lips, smiled, ripped the clothes from her upper body, tugged at her hair until it tumbled free of its grips. The familiar excitement was back, the thrill of half-remembered pleasures from long, long ago. Power was pleasure and pleasure was power and Martin was silent. He lifted her effortlessly, seemed not to notice when she rained blows on his face. When she lay across the counter, he smashed a fist into her face and made her quiet.

  Like a lover, he peeled away the rest of Bridie’s clothing, was almost tender towards her. Unconscious, she was a thing of beauty, an item he needed to possess. While owning her for a short time, he would cleanse her body and pray over her misguided soul. The punishment must fit the crime; he must not be gentle, must not linger in order to prolong his own physical enjoyment.

  He ran his hands the length of her body, felt the satin smoothness of her skin, the warmth that emanated from the whore. They had all been warm, had all oozed an earthy heat that needed to be quenched and driven out. God had sent him here to purify, to make whole this poor sinner.

  Stepping back and fumbling with his own clothing, Liam made contact with another human. As he swung round, a terrible pain coursed through his head, causing flashes of coloured light to appear all round the shop. As he sank to the floor, he sighed sadly, because he had failed to punish the woman.

  Bridie moaned and stirred, felt the soreness in her jaw, was immediately aware of her nakedness.

  ‘He didn’t do it, Mammy. He didn’t. He was getting ready, so I hit him with this.’ Shauna waved the poker. ‘I think I’ve killed him.’ All through the war, Shauna had stayed with her mother, had waited for something terrible. This was the something. This was why she had remained in Scotland Road. Shauna felt sick, inhaled through her mouth to stop the nausea.

  Bridie sat up, stared at her daughter. She tried to speak, failed. Her body trembled and her face was sore. Breathing slowly, she waited for a modicum of calmness to return. ‘Give me the poker,’ she said finally. She took the weapon from Shauna, gripped it hard, stood over the man’s body. ‘Find some clothes, Shauna,’ she said. ‘A coat – anything for me to wear.’

  Shauna was riveted to the spot. She had just clouted a man hard enough to kill him. It was as if she had blocks of ice rather than feet attached to her legs, and a cold sweat was pouring down her forehead and into her eyes. ‘Mammy, I can’t move.’

  Bridie drank in the shadowy sight of her beautiful daughter. She had been so wrong about each of her children, had worried too much, had judged them prematurely. Cathy had been a thief because she had stolen in order to provide for the truly wretched. Shauna was dubbed a madam because she spoke her mind and shamed the devil himself. Shauna O’Brien had the makings of a brave and powerful woman. While the creature lay motionless on the floor, Bridie spoke to her daughter. ‘I love you, Shauna,’ she said. ‘I really do love you very much.’

  ‘I love you, Mammy. But I’d be a lot more use if I could walk.’

  ‘You’ll walk,’ said Bridie thickly. ‘In a minute, you will go and find my clothes. Thank you, Shauna. I shall never forget what you did for me tonight.’

  Galvanized by her mother’s naked vulnerability,Shauna pointed to the poker. ‘Belt him with that if he moves,’ she ordered. ‘I’ll find you something to wear, then I’ll wake Tildy.’ She stagg
ered out towards the living quarters.

  Bridie leaned against the counter, watched the man closely, knew that he continued to breathe. Where was Cathy? Had Liam been lying, had he been Liam, had he been Martin?

  ‘Bridie? Is that you now?’

  She did not turn when she heard the familiar voice. Her job was to guard the man on the floor. The fact that she was naked did not matter. Nothing mattered, nothing beyond the watching of Liam Bell. ‘Yes, Father Brennan,’ she answered automatically . . .

  ‘Bridie?’

  Her mouth was sore, the lips swelling after that cruel blow from Liam. ‘I have no clothes on,’ she mentioned almost casually.

  The priest tut-tutted his way into the shop, causing a clatter of buckets to travel across oilcloth. ‘This is no way to go visiting,’ he pretended to grumble. ‘I’m not used to coming in through windows. It’s all a bit much for a man of my years.’

  ‘Father, please . . .’

  He removed his cape and spread the dark garment across her shoulders. ‘What has happened here, child?’

  She sobbed, bit back the pain. ‘I’ve been attacked. It’s Liam.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Here on the floor. That’s Father Liam Bell.’

  Michael Brennan looked down at the bearded man. A shiver passed through him as he recalled how he had shared a home with Liam Bell, how he had broken bread with a lunatic. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked.

  She nodded and continued to fight the tears.

  The priest prodded Liam with the toe of his shoe. ‘Tell me now, were you raped?’

  ‘No,’ answered Bridie, her eyes still fixed to the shadowy figure on the floor.

  ‘Thank God for that. You managed to save yourself.’

  Bridie placed a hand on Michael’s arm. ‘Shauna saved me,’ she said. ‘She belted him with the poker. He probably has a broken skull.’

  ‘That’s a good girl. You have two daughters to be proud of.’

  ‘I know.’ Bridie continued to watch the motionless figure on the floor. ‘He says that Cathy and Maureen are here. Is that true?’

  ‘Yes, they’re here.’