“I do apologize,” the priest said again. “Yes, well, you know what they say about the early bird. Better luck next time.” He put a hand to his well-barbered hair and threw a glance back into the hall. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really must get back.”
The stragglers looked at one another and glowered at Lorcan before traipsing out, their dreams of being one thousand pounds richer wiped out for another month.
But the hiker hung back, eager to make a point, walking stick raised.
“If I come here next month and ye turn me away again, I’ll shove this so far down yer throat ye’ll be shittin’ splinters for a week!” he warned.
Lorcan, drawing on his fine command of the English language, said nothing.
He shut the outer doors against further encroachment and closed his eyes in blessed relief. The only remaining task was to count the proceeds and deliver the money backstage.
Father Cassidy had provided a carpetbag for that purpose. A rather unusual bag, with a garish icon on the front. The image, Cassidy explained, was that of Our Lady of Guadalupe. He’d purchased the bag in Mexico. He’d been very specific regarding delivery of the proceeds.
“When you’ve got the money sorted,” he’d said, “don’t bring the bag through the hall. Too many strangers, a trifle risky.” He’d handed him a key. “I think it would be safer all round if you used the side door to get backstage. It’s usually locked, so you’ll need that.”
“Right, Fergal, let’s get counting.”
Lorcan pulled open the drawer. It contained a great deal of money. He heaped it onto the table.
Twenty minutes later, with more than £1,800 safely stowed in the carpetbag, Lorcan stepped outside and made his way round the side of the building. He was glad to be free of the stifling hall and stood for a while, eyes shut, savoring the fresh air and relative calm of the evening.
Suddenly, for no apparent reason, he got the feeling that he was being watched. He opened his eyes and looked about, but there was no one to be seen. From inside the hall came the monotonous calls of Fred McCrum and the low hubbub of voices. From the distant trees came the more pleasant-sounding calls of blackbirds.
He decided not to dally. It was safer all round to get the bag of money delivered into Cassidy’s hands without delay, then return to the pub, Saturday evenings being rather busy. And this Saturday evening in particular. The bingo crowd would be filling the bars later on. From what his mother had said, the Beardy Boys were quite a draw.
He proceeded along the side of the building and, arriving by the stage door, fished the key from his pocket.
He went to insert it in the lock.
He didn’t make it.
His hand froze.
He felt the touch of cold steel on his temple, heard labored breathing. Before he had time to react, a raspy voice—sandpaper on brick—close by his right ear said, “Just give us the bag and nobody’ll get hurt.”
“But I—I—” There were two of them, but Lorcan dared not look round.
“Are ye gonna argue with a gun, are ye?” The barrel was jammed against his temple, forcing his head against the door. He dropped the bag.
“That’s more like it.”
“Now, keep lookin’ at that door,” another voice commanded. A woman’s voice. “Start countin’ slowly to fifty and nathin’ will happen ye.”
Lorcan could not speak. The gun was now jammed against the back of his head.
“Start fuckin’ countin’!” It was the man again.
“One…t-t-two, th-three…f-f-f-four—”
“That’s more like it. If ye look round, ye’re a dead man.”
He heard something being dropped by his feet.
“A wee gift for ye, seein’ ye’ve been a good boy.”
All of a sudden, the thud of metal on bone.
The world reeling.
A stunning pain.
Father Cassidy pulling open the door.
Then, darkness.
Blessed darkness.
No more pain.
Chapter thirty-one
Where…am…I? The words—weighty, cumbrous—took real effort to call forth. But he was able to voice them, if only in his head. A dervish was wheeling round and round in there, beating fiercely against his temples, hammering wildly on his skull. He could find no purchase in this alien world. What the blazes was happening?
“There wasn’t much blood,” a voice said, close to his right ear. “Just a bit of concussion. I’ve bandaged him up. He’ll come round in a minute or two…be as right as rain.”
“That’s good to hear,” another voice, a more familiar voice, said. “Must have been a terrible shock for the poor fellow.”
Footsteps retreating.
A door closing.
Silence.
He opened his eyes. Tried to sit up. The blurry room looked familiar. He took in heavy furniture, brocade drapes, and portraits of dour clerics.
Dour clerics? He’d been here before. In this room. Slowly, fragments of the jigsaw were locking into place. Father Cassidy. Parochial house. This room. Father Cassidy…yes…sitting there in the armchair. “I wonder if you’d do me a favor.” Money…collect…something about bingo…yes, bingo.
Something terrible must have happened.
The tightness in his head was fierce. He raised a hand to his scalp and was startled to discover a bandage there. Then it came back to him. He’d been struck on the head. Yes. He was remembering now.
Voices…gun…Guadalupe…Guadalupe Virgin bag…money. Falling down. Blacking out. He shut his eyes again. It seemed such an effort to keep them open. There were voices in the hallway. He kept his eyes shut. It seemed safer that way.
Father Cassidy, as calm as a toad in summer despite the shock, and always thinking ahead, had decided to keep the mugging of Lorcan to himself. Best not to cause too much alarm. He’d announced to the gathering that a suspect package had been found by the stage door, “most likely a hoax,” and urged them to vacate the community hall in an orderly fashion. Yet his cautionary words had had little effect. At the utterance of “suspect package” a stampede had erupted akin to the bull run of Pamplona.
Now, back in the parochial house, having just seen out Dr. Brewster and with Lorcan recovering in the living room, Cassidy paced the hallway, awaiting the arrival of the constabulary. He eyed the telephone, and it suddenly occurred to him that he needed to alert Mrs. Strong.
A sudden rapping on the front door put paid to that. He turned to see the ruby cheeks of Rose McFadden at the frosted side panel.
That insufferable woman! What on earth is she doing here?
He pulled open the door.
“God, Father, was it a real bomb or one-a-them old hoaxes?”
“The police are investigating, Mrs. McFadden. That’s all I know. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
“Och, I know, Father. Most of them bombs is hoaxes anyway. But what I was gonna say is that the very minute ye made the announcemint, if I didn’t have the five numbers.”
Rose waited for the priest to fill in the blanks, but all she got back was a steely glare and a terse “And?”
“Well, Father, and I shouted ‘check’ and ‘yo-ho,’ but nobody could hear me in the din, like.”
“Really, Mrs. McFadden, this is neither the time nor the place. Now, if you don’t mind.”
“But Father, I won the twenty pounds!”
“Yes…yes, if you say so. I’ll see about that later. Now, I’m awaiting the arrival of the police. So if you’d be kind enough to—”
“Right-ye-be. I’ll call round the morra tae collect it. For ye know, the floribundas in the grotto are startin’ tae droop and I thought I’d buy some fresh ones with the money, like. ’Cos—”
Mercifully, the phone rang at that moment, affording the priest the perfect exit. He shut the door on Rose.
It was Etta Strong, wondering what was detaining her son.
“I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Strong. I was just about to call you
. I’m afraid Lorcan’s had a small mishap…”
There was an audible gasp at the other end of the line.
“Now, there’s nothing at all to worry about. He’s simply had a fall. The doctor’s given him the all clear and he’s recovering here at the parochial house.” He did not want to frighten the elderly lady by mentioning the police. She’d find that out soon enough. “I’ll drive him home myself in about half an hour.”
No sooner had he replaced the receiver than he heard a car in the driveway. The Royal Ulster Constabulary had arrived.
Soon enough came the sound of two car doors being opened and banged shut, followed by the crunch of regulation boots on gravel.
Cassidy checked his appearance in the hat-stand mirror. Smoothed his hair, adjusted his collar, and called on the stoicism of St. Paul to sustain him. This was turning out to be a very stressful evening indeed.
He took a few steadying lungfuls of air before opening the door.
“Thank you for coming so soon, officers.” He enunciated the words carefully and calmly. “It’s very good of you.”
The policemen removed their peaked green caps. “All part of the job, sir,” said Sergeant Ranfurley, entering first.
He was a bulky man, his girth boosted by a duty belt. From it dangled an array of accoutrements for the apprehension of the wayward: handcuffs, a baton, a holstered Ruger Speed Six pistol, ammunition. His assistant, the much younger Constable Johnston, similarly attired, seemed puny by comparison. He shuffled self-consciously in his superior’s wake.
“Has the bomb been—”
“Made safe?” the sergeant harrumphed. “A brick in a shopping bag, Father. It’s called ‘wasting police time.’ But we’re used to it, aren’t we, Constable?”
“Yes sir.”
There was a strained pause. “Etta Strong’s lad, ye say? Where would he be now?”
“Yes, Lorcan Strong. He’s in the living room. Allow me.”
Lorcan was sitting upright and nursing a glass of water when the door opened. He recognized Ranfurley immediately. His mother had had a few run-ins with the sergeant regarding after-hours drinking. He was an overbearing man by all accounts. One who enjoyed exerting his power within the small nationalist community.
“Took a wee bit of a fall, Lorcan,” he said now, leading the way into the room. “How’s the mammy?”
“Fine, thank you, Sergeant.” Lorcan did not care for the smirk that accompanied the word mammy. The constable, following behind, nodded briefly, his face stern.
Father Cassidy offered chairs. Constable Johnston sat down immediately, but a look from the sergeant had him springing to his feet again.
“Oh, I don’t think it’s a time to be sittin’,” Ranfurley grunted. He clasped his hands behind his big back and began a tour of the room. “No, I don’t think we should be sittin’ atall, in the circumstances. Wouldn’t be the first time you’ve had money stole, eh, Father?”
“That is correct. We had a break-in here last month.”
“Are ye takin’ notes there, Constable?”
Constable Johnston stood awkwardly, pen hovering over a notebook while Father Cassidy tracked Ranfurley’s inspection of the room with bemusement.
“We’re busy men,” the sergeant continued, pausing by a bookcase to run a pudgy forefinger down the spine of Fundamentals of Catholic Dogma. “Very stretched we are, Father, given the times that’s in it these days.”
I doubt that, thought Lorcan, still dazed but alert. The RUC of Tailorstown was probably the most underworked unit in the region. The predominantly Catholic village was rarely bothered by the constabulary’s attentions. Their duties amounting to little more than settling the occasional brawl outside O’Shea’s of a Saturday night, alerting the absentminded Paddy McFadden that he’d forgotten to turn his headlights on, again, and steering a rather “refreshed” Jamie McCloone away from his tractor on Market Day, he having celebrated the sale of a heifer a trifle too extravagantly. Such was the extent of the district’s lawbreaking—if one could call it that.
But all that could change, the artist thought ruefully. The startled face of his mother hove into his mind’s eye. God, he needed to call her. His head began to throb again, and he pressed down firmly on the bandage. Perhaps he should not be too judgmental of Ranfurley and Johnston. They risked their lives every day simply by donning those dark green uniforms. That aside, he hoped they’d be quick.
“I fully appreciate that these are very difficult times, Sergeant,” Father Cassidy was saying with a note of impatience. He had his sermon to prepare for early Mass. A bath to take. His altar shoes to polish. Valuable time was being squandered. He turned to Lorcan. “Perhaps you’d like to give the gentlemen some details. Your mother rang earlier and will be expecting you shortly.”
“What did you tell her? I wouldn’t want—”
The priest raised his hand in a gesture of appeasement. In the midst of his pain Lorcan saw The Saviour of the World, an El Greco masterpiece, bar the robes and globe. “Now, I assured her you were fine, Lorcan, and that I’d run you home within—”
“We’ll ask the questions, Father,” Ranfurley interjected. “If ye don’t mind, that is.” No Taig was going to tell him how to do his job—least of all one in a frock with a girl’s hands and wearing women’s shoes. What sort of man wears suede slip-ons anyway?
“Why, of course, Sergeant.”
Constable Johnston hovered nervously, pen still cocked above the blank note page.
“Now.” Ranfurley eyed Lorcan. “The Father says here that ye were mugged. Would that be right?”
“Yes, that’s a fair assessment. I was walking round the side of the building with the bag of money and—”
“What kinda bag was it?”
“It was rather distinctive, in fact. A kind of carpetbag with an emblem of the Blessed Mother on it.”
Ranfurley raised an eyebrow at the priest. “A funny sort of bag to put the spoils of gamblin’ in, if ye don’t mind me sayin’ so, Father.”
“It was the only one I could find big enough. The jackpot being rather substantial, I expected the takings to be equally so.”
“Right.” He turned his attention to Lorcan again. “And what color was this bag with the Blissed Mother on it?”
Father Cassidy gave a tactful cough. “May I just explain, that it wasn’t our Blessed Mother—”
“Well, whose Blissed Mother was she, then?”
“Our Lady of Guadalupe. The Mexican one.”
“Didn’t know ye had different types. Thought there was just the one.”
Cassidy did not care for the note of mockery. “There is just the one. But Our Lady has appeared in many places and in many guises across the globe.”
“If ye say. So, this bag with the Lady of Guady-loopy-whatever—”
“Guadalupay. It’s a mountain in Mexico. The image is, as Lorcan says, quite distinctive.”
“Guadalupay…begging your pardon. Would ye have a pitcher of her?”
Father Cassidy crossed to the glass-fronted bookcase and scanned an upper shelf. “Yes, here we are: The Life of Juan Diego. He was the visionary whom she appeared to.” He handed the book to the sergeant.
The depiction was of a crowned Virgin of dusky complexion clad in green-and-pink robes studded with golden stars. She was being held aloft by a banner-waving angel sporting red, white, and green wings, echoing the colors of the Mexican flag. From the figure there emanated an amber-tinged ethereal glow. Ranfurley studied the illustration. “Aye, unusual indeed. Wouldn’t be too many of these around.”
“No indeed,” Father Cassidy said. “It was given to me by the Bishop of Monterrey when I had the good fortune to be invited to the Synod Conference on Latin-American Interfaith Relations in nineteen seven—”
“Aye…right, I’m gettin’ the pitcher,” said Ranfurley bluntly. “We’ll need tae be holding on to this.”
Father Cassidy removed the dust jacket and handed it to him.
“Now,
Lorcan. What time would this of been that ye left the hall with the beg of money?”
“Hmm, let’s see.” Lorcan did a quick calculation. “It took us about fifteen, twenty minutes to count the money…so ten to eight.”
“You said ‘us.’”
“Fergal O’Toole and I.”
“Are ye gettin’ this, Constable?” Johnston was scribbling in the notebook. A seam of perspiration was forming on his upper lip. Lorcan reckoned the poor constable’s uniform to be as stifling for him as his bullying boss. “Young Fergal is Molly’s son. We’ll be needin’ his version of events, too.”
“Yes sir.”
“Yes, it would have been ten to,” Lorcan said.
“Ten to what?”
“Why, eight, of course.”
Over the sergeant’s shoulder, Lorcan saw Father Cassidy roll his eyes heavenward.
“Ten to eight then. See anything unusual in the vicinity, did ye?”
“No…nothing really.”
“And when ye got to the stage door, then what happened?”
“Well, that’s when I was attacked. I was pushed into the door from behind. I felt the point of a gun in the back of my head. I was ordered to drop the bag and was struck from behind. That’s all I remember.”
“And there were two of them?”
“Yes. A man and—”
“What kinda accent did this man have?”
“Oh, just ordinary. Regional. A bit guttural.”
“Gutter-what?”
“Deep. Throaty. The kind of voice that comes from drinking and smoking too much.”
“Hmph!” said the sergeant, pondering an ornately gilded portrait of Pope John Paul II. “That would account for most men round these parts, wouldn’t it, Constable?”
“Yes sir.” Constable Johnston looked up from his notepad and seized the opportunity to wipe the sweat from his lip.
“And the other boy’s accent, what was it like?”
“It wasn’t male, Sergeant. It was a woman’s voice.”
“A wommin?”
“Yes.”
Sergeant Ranfurley scoffed. “Dearie me! These Fenian vermin are really scrapin’ the saucepan now, gettin’ the missus tae share their durty work. And what kinda accent did this wommin have?”
The Disenchanted Widow Page 21
