The priest put his arm around the informer. There were those so-called holy men who would have applauded the action that was about to take place; that a rat, however young, deserved to die. But he was there to offer God’s absolution and comfort, not to preach to those who would not listen.
‘My son,’ he said, placing his hand on the dank thatch of blond hair, ‘I absolve you of your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.’ His voice was breaking, his soul ruptured almost beyond repair. It was a hideous event. Yet for a priest, the confessional extended into all aspects of life. He could not be judge, jury or law enforcer. Those roles would make people feel that a priestly confidence was worthless. He could comfort the dying, offer God’s absolution, and confront violence with Christianity, but the moment he stepped outside of that framework his role as a priest was compromised. It might be seen by some as a cop-out, but what was the alternative?
The young man began to sob quietly. Just as O’Hare straightened, there came a knock at the door. In one last act of comfort, the priest clasped the victim’s shoulder and turned towards the door. The man with blue eyes opened it and beckoned for him to leave the room.
‘This is against the law of God,’ O’Hare protested weakly, as he was led from the derelict building.
The reply was as contrary as it was final. ‘You look after the law of God, Father, and we’ll take care of business.’
With this, the priest was bundled into the back seat of a car in which sat other masked members of the Provisional Irish Republican Army. Within fifteen minutes, he was back in his church, kneeling in front of the Madonna and Child. He may not have heard the shooting that dispatched the young informer, but he was now able to put a name to the voice of the terrorist leader.
‘May God have mercy on your soul, Kieran Patrick Kelly,’ he prayed.
Kelly stirred. Memories of death in times past had flooded his dreams, leaving him bathed in a cold sweat. Still curled in a foetal position next to the chilled and lifeless body of his one true love, he began to luxuriate in the ether between waking and slumber. It was a time when wishful thinking still dominated reality; a time when the white knight always rode to the rescue, plucking the fair maid from the gnarled grasp of the Angel of Death; a time for the family Kelly to celebrate love, unity and wholeness. They were indestructible. And yet the sound of a baby’s distress began to invade his idyll. Whose was it? Where was it?
It was several seconds before the Irishman opened his eyes. The pressing demands of baby Patrick went unheeded as he stared at the ceiling, willing it to come crashing down and put an end to his misery. Death was no stranger to him, for in the past he had been its harbinger. He had been the nemesis, the instrument that God had used in order to punish those who were godless in their perfidy. Stool pigeons, informers, traitors, they had all deserved to die. But not Teresa Kelly, not this woman of such selfless devotion to her family, such innate goodness, such piety.
He leaned over her inert form and picked up the empty bottle of painkillers from the side table. He stared at the innocuous brown container. How much torment must she have endured to have taken an action so anathema to her religion? He cursed himself for not recognising the signs, and yet, if he were honest, there were none. She had borne her illness with such fortitude, always putting the concerns of her husband and children before her own.
Kelly rose slowly from the bed and crossed wearily to the crib. He gently cradled his new son, whose sobbing pierced his heart like the devil’s trident. Only then did he allow his own tears to flow, for anger was rapidly becoming the dominant emotion.
One thought now consumed Kieran Patrick Kelly: revenge.
Later that day, Professor Jonathan Tring was sitting uncomfortably before his chairman. ‘The best thing to do when dealing with the press is to take the wind out of their sails, JP,’ said the scientist somewhat tentatively. He felt not a little discomfort as Proctor fixed him with a cold, inquisitive gaze that was matched by that of his wife in the huge portrait hanging on the wall. The enigmatic Sharon Proctor’s steel-blue eyes seemed to be reminding visitors who the real boss was at Parados.
‘Spectacular, isn’t she?’ the Yorkshireman said in a tone that implied forbidden fruit.
‘Er, quite,’ Tring stuttered. He felt himself blushing like a naughty schoolboy caught peeping into the girls’ changing room. The scientist sought to quickly return to the matter in hand. It had not taken the professor long to ascertain that the company had been less than forthright about ensuring the safe use of one of its products. No law had been broken – yet. ‘We must issue a statement without further delay,’ he suggested.
‘You mean like the Government has done?’ Proctor growled.
‘No, I think we have to go a little bit further. We have to bring the instructions on the use of Triamerol into line with those issued outside the U.K.’
‘Wouldn’t that mean admitting culpability, lad?’
‘No, I don’t believe so. Legally, we were under no obligation to advise doctors not to put it anywhere. It is, after all, a drug that has produced some benefit in epidural use. Apart from the US, we have always left it to the medical profession to use its discretion.’
Tring felt uneasy. The company had taken almost two decades to issue the new edict across the pond. The press had not been slow to point this out, but statistics, or more pertinently the lack of them, could always be used to extricate the company from a sticky situation. He knew that none of this was lost on his chairman.
‘So what do you suggest, lad?’ Proctor queried.
Tring produced the press release he had spent hours formulating and placed it face up on the chairman’s table.
Proctor slowly withdrew reading glasses from an inside pocket of his tweed jacket. He placed them at the end of his pug nose, where they threatened to keep slipping off.
Tring watched his boss dissect every word. They both knew that any mistake would be picked up by the media and used to slaughter the company and, more importantly, the share price. Basically, he had written that while there was no statistical evidence to prove that Triamerol was more dangerous in epidural use than other drugs of its type, the company would now advise doctors worldwide that this use was not indicated. However, the company could not be held liable if individual doctors believed the epidural or intrathecal use of Triamerol would be of benefit to their patients. Tring knew that this was a cop-out. As long as Parados never said the drug should be used for epidural or intrathecal use, then the blame for its use could always be landed at the door of the medical profession, which would, in turn, claim that there was not enough statistical evidence to support its contra-indication. When in doubt, obfuscation was always the best policy. Tring had agonised over the task set him. Perhaps he should have resigned from a company that had shown such a cavalier attitude towards the public, and yet he knew that by staying on the inside he could now do more good. He could attempt to rein in the Machiavellian machinations of the man before him by making sure the company trod a more ethical path in future. Meanwhile, he had little choice but to play his master’s game.
After what seemed an eternity, Jack Proctor slowly lowered the sheet of paper onto the table and then pushed it towards his chief scientist.
‘Publish and be damned,’ he said flatly.
It was slightly less than a month later when Kelly drove into the car park of a halfway house hotel just off the M1 motorway near Leicester. It was the sort of nondescript watering hole used by many organisations that needed a venue suitable for members who might live as far apart as Land’s End and John O’Groats.
The Irishman switched off the engine of his ten-year-old VW Golf and sat for a few moments to luxuriate in the spring sun as it beat on the windscreen. The cocoon-like feeling brought him a rare moment of solace from the torment of the past few weeks. Closing his eyes, he imagined that Teresa was still alive, that his children were playing in the garden, that it was a Friday evening and she was callin
g them in for tea. Poached cod and mashed potatoes topped with mushy peas. He could taste it even now. So much better than the cardboard upon which he now subsisted. Junk food in a junk life.
As melancholy once more swept over him, he could taste the salt tears of his daughters as he relived the funeral of their mother; tears that were repeated when he had flown them to Belfast to hand them over to their Aunt Mary. He knew that he could not raise three children on his own. Terry’s sister and her husband were childless and the children could not have been in better hands. He spoke to them by phone every evening and intended to fly to Belfast every second weekend to see them, as long as this did not conflict with his plan. Nothing, not even his own children, must stand in the way of his destiny. He slapped the steering wheel as if to reinforce his belief that what he was planning to do was right and just.
A voice filtered through his half-open window. ‘Have you come for the meeting?’
Kelly looked up from his dashboard to see a dapper middle-aged man who was standing next to a woman in a wheelchair. The Irishman nodded.
The dapper man opened the driver’s door of the Golf. ‘Follow us,’ he said.
Kelly climbed out of his car and the three of them were soon in the hotel lobby.
‘Are you a sufferer yourself?’ the wheelchair woman asked.
‘No, it’s my wife.’
The wheelchair woman sighed. ‘Nurse was she? So many nurses are sufferers. They do their backs in helping others and then get crippled by their own profession.’
They entered the lobby and approached a table at which sat two female committee members. Kelly knew this because of the badges they wore. One of them was extraordinarily beautiful, with blonde hair swept back into a bun and mesmerising turquoise eyes. He thought she must have been in her late twenties. He was surprised when she spoke, for her voice bore a German accent.
‘You must be Mr O’Donaghue,’ she said. Her voice was kind and her smile generous.
‘How did you guess?’
She laughed and handed him a badge with his name on it. ‘You told us you were coming, and you’re the only new person here. You’re originally from Northern Ireland, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, and your good self?’
‘Austro-Hungarian,’ she said, proffering her hand. ‘Countess Magda von Esterhazy.’
Kelly took her delicate hand in his and brushed it with his lips. ‘Charmed, I’m sure. My first real live Countess.’
‘A real gentleman, Magda,’ enthused a rather portly lady sitting next to the Countess.
‘Mr O’Donaghue is married, Linda. It’s your wife who’s a sufferer, isn’t it, Mr O’Donaghue?’
‘Call me Kieran,’ Kelly replied. ‘Yes. Unfortunately she was too ill to come today.’
The Countess sighed. ‘There are so many who are too ill to travel,
Kieran. We have about five thousand members of our League of Friends with Arachnoiditis, but we get only a fraction along to our annual meetings. There are probably only about sixty here today. Anyway, it’s always good to welcome new members. There are so many out there who have not got a clue what they are suffering from, or how they can get advice and support.’
Kelly noticed a flicker of pain cross his hostess’s eyes. It was only then that he realised she was sitting in a wheelchair. He knew she must be in torment but was too proud to show it. ‘That’s why I’m here,’ he said. ‘I’ve come to find out as much as possible.’
‘Yes,’ said the Countess through pursed lips, her high cheekbones suddenly flushing with anger, ‘something must be done about it.’
‘Something will be done about it,’ said Kelly, his voice suddenly cold and distant.
Both sets of eyes, differing in hue but equally as piercing, met in mutual defiance, not of each other, but of the insanity that had ruined both their lives.
The voice of the woman named Linda broke in, ‘I think we’re all here, now. We can start the meeting.’ She stood up and began to wheel the Countess towards the dais. Kelly followed and sat in the front row facing a table at which were seated five committee members. Linda nodded deferentially to the Countess. ‘If I may, Madam Chairman, I should like to welcome everyone here to our eighth annual general meeting. Most of you know one another. We have one new member to introduce to you. He is a carer whose wife is a sufferer and unfortunately cannot be with us. Welcome, Mr Kieran O’Donaghue from London.’
Kelly nodded as all eyes turned towards him. He could not help feeling that if he had known about this support group earlier, Teresa would not have felt so desperately alone. Two weeks after the funeral, he had bought himself a computer. It had taken him a further week to master it enough to surf the Internet and garner all the information on the disease that had wrecked his life. He had discovered LOFWA and had applied to join immediately, albeit under a fictitious surname.
‘And now I should like to ask our chairperson to inform us of the latest developments in our fight for justice,’ said the beaming Linda, and moved the microphone in front of the Countess.
‘Welcome, friends,’ the Countess began, ‘I really do wish that I could have more positive things to report but, as you know, the Government continues to be, how you say, obdurate. The press, too, seems to be avoiding the issue. We had a brief flurry of support from The Times, but they, too, now appear to be putting our plight on the, er, what is that English phrase?’
‘Back burner,’ came a voice from the back of the room.
‘Yes, back burner.’
Kelly found himself mesmerised by the Countess. She possessed a classical beauty that reminded him of the iconic French actress Catherine Deneuve. It seemed criminal that she should be reduced to a life of pain in a wheelchair.
‘Anyway,’ the Countess continued, ‘you can rest assured that the committee will not give up the fight. We are continuing our postcard blitz on the Prime Minister’s office and the Department of Health, and of course we urge members to carry on lobbying their MPs.’
‘But they don’t give a toss,’ came the voice again. ‘They’re all in the pay of the pharmaceutical companies whether they be politicians, papers or doctors.’ The accent was East Anglian and belonged to a rotund middle-aged man whose ruddy face was swelling with indignation. With obvious difficulty he struggled to his feet and leant on his stick. ‘Madam Chairman,’ he continued, ‘we’ve been pussyfooting around for nigh on seven years. We have to become more aggressive. Everyone here knows nothing will ever be accomplished by being nice to these people. They’re all corrupt.
‘What do you suggest, Ronald?’ the Countess asked kindly.
‘I, for one, would be willing to go on a hunger strike. I can’t take the pain anymore, Magda. I can’t.’ Tears began to well in his eyes. ‘Something must be done,’ he muttered, and slumped back in his chair.
‘Does anyone here feel the same as Ronald?’ queried the Countess.
The response was mute. It was clear to Kelly that most of the sufferers would love to imagine themselves carrying out such an action. But hunger strikes were for healthy people. They were for political ideologists like Bobby Sands and the other IRA heroes who had sacrificed their lives for the cause. These people were too sick to have the strength to starve themselves.
‘I’m sorry, Ronald,’ the Countess continued, her turquoise eyes shining with compassion, ‘I know how frustrated you must feel. The fight for justice is a long and lonely road, but we have a saying in German: Das kleinste Haar wirft seinen Schatten, the smallest hair casts a shadow. I assure you that we shall prevail in the end.’ She hesitated a little, knowing they desperately needed reassurance, some semblance that progress was being made somewhere, somehow.
‘My dear group,’ she went on, ‘I have read every post, every single word that has been written to me by sufferers since I became chairperson. I’ve laughed, cried and prayed more than anyone will ever know. I have been challenged by those words, alternately depressed and uplifted. But despite the suffering we endure, we have a commo
n thread that has brought us all to this time and place. Along with all the, er, baggage as you say, we bring experience, strength, hope and a multitude of skills and gifts to offer each other. There are many sufferers out there who are too shy to make contact with us. They may be unaccustomed to talking about themselves for fear of sounding like complainers, or far too ill to write or telephone.’
Kelly was spellbound by her eloquence, finding it all the more remarkable since English wasn’t her native tongue.
‘I propose,’ she went on, ‘that we set up a buddy system such as the Americans have, so that there will always be someone, somewhere to whom a newly diagnosed sufferer can reach out. This is an extraordinary network of mentally and emotionally strong and giving people, many of whom may not be able to hold down a job because of their illness, but yet have definite skills and something to offer. Where it should have treated us with respect and compassion, the outside world has conspired to beat us down. But we must never give up the battle. As I said before, we shall win in the end.’
There was a moment’s silence before the audience broke into enthusiastic applause. The Countess blushed. She knew that fine words were the only thing she could offer them. There was no research being carried out to find a cure for their condition. Alternative therapies sometimes offered palliative remedies, but there was only anecdotal evidence for this. She went on to mention a few of them before passing the chair back to her colleague.
While Magda von Esterhazy’s delivery was as beguiling as that of the most consummate politician, the voice of the woman named Linda grated on Kelly like a squeaky pub sign on a windy day. After what seemed an eternity of the sort of mundane minutiae that infected most meetings, the Irishman was visibly relieved when the obligatory raffle was announced.
It was one of those where everyone was a winner. Kelly won two small prizes and promptly put one back into the pot. He kept the lavender bath salts for himself.
Following the raffle, squeaky Linda brought the meeting to an end and group members, some hobbling and others in wheelchairs, began to make their way to the exits. Kelly, too, was about to leave the hotel, but thought it polite to wish the Countess well. He approached her through a melee.
Cry of the Needle Page 5
