‘I thought not,’ nodded the tinker and directed his eyes back to the blaze. ‘An’ what would ye be wantin’ with Gary an’ Con?’
‘I think they may have my son,’ Patrick told him. ‘He’s gone missing. We believe he was attacked by the Fallons.’
‘But what makes ye think they brung him here?’ asked the man, puffing on his pipe. ‘If those boys attacked him ye can be sure he’s dead; they don’t waste punches.’
Patrick tingled at the man’s words and found his own hard to form; his tongue kept sticking to his teeth. ‘There was no sign of … a body, or anything. He just vanished into thin air. We think they musta kidnapped him.’
The tinker gave a throaty chuckle. ‘An’ tell me, why would two fine tinker lads want to kidnap themselves a buffer?’
‘I should say they’ve good reason,’ said Patrick noncommittally, then at the old man’s searching stare added, ‘My son got their sister into trouble.’
‘Ah, God I’d not give much for his chances then. If Garret an’ his brother don’t fix him the mother will. ’Tis her ye want to watch out for.’
Patrick’s temper flared and he bunched his fists. ‘If they’ve harmed my boy then I promise there’ll be nothing left o’ this camp but matchwood when the police arrive.’ The tinker looked at him sharply. ‘The runners are coming?’
‘They are. But don’t worry, they’ll not be here for a day or two yet. Ye see, my son is not “officially” missin’. Now will ye kindly point me to the Fallons’ caravan or do I have to turn each one o’ them inside out^7^’
The man pulled the sleeping dog’s ears. Poor old Tasker was not even aware of the strangers’ presence when they were virtually on top of him. He’d get his backside kicked if he belonged to anyone but Paeder. But his owner knew what it felt like to be old and useless. ‘I’d point it out to ye if I could,’ he told Patrick good-naturedly. ‘But I can’t. See, they’re not here, the Fallons.’
‘Not here? Then why didn’t ye say something before? Where are they?’
The man hoisted his shoulders. ‘Who knows? Here, there …’
‘Ah, come on, man!’ Patrick leapt to his feet, at last waking the dog who bristled and uttered a low warning growl.
‘Ah, ye’ve decided to wake up, have ye?’ The man ignored Patrick’s threatening stance. ‘I coulda been dead six times over for all you care.’
‘Damn ye, man! They have my son, now where are they?’ .
The lurcher seemed to shake off his old age in an eye-blink. He rounded, hackles rising, his yellowed teeth bared. Sonny rose slowly to stand with his father.
‘Easy, Task!’ The man dropped the blanket from his shoulders and used the dog to pull himself up. He stood facing Patrick, or rather looking up, for the younger man was considerably taller. ‘This is your boy too?’ Patrick nodded. ‘Then listen, mister, if I was yourself I’d be thankful I’d one son left an’ forget about the other. For if those Fallon boys really have a down on him, ye’ve as much chance of seein’ him again as I have to crack walnuts with me teeth.’
He smiled widely – there was not a tooth in his head.
* * *
Dickie had been gone for more than two months now and neither the police nor Patrick could find any trace of him. Thomasin was frantic with worry. For all she had threatened and berated and disowned he was still her son; if anything had befallen him she would never forgive herself. For it was she and Patrick who were to blame. Somewhere in his upbringing they had failed. Her mind would not concentrate on anything, always straying back to her wayward son. Christmas, usually a rumbustious occurrence in the Feeney house, passed almost without celebration. Even poor Josie’s attempts at festivity by decorating the room with holly and myrtle only earned her a severe ticking off for fetching the household more bad luck by carrying in the greenery herself. Traditionally, it should have been left to the men whose thoughts, understandably, were far from mistletoe.
Thomasin knew that it must be worse for Patrick than for herself. At least she had the store to occupy her. His land could afford him no relief under six inches of snow. For the most part of the day he was out combing the streets for his son. When not doing this he was prowling around the house like a caged beast, getting under Josie’s feet and being generally bad-tempered.
It was on a day such as this that yet another shock was to come. Patrick, chided from all quarters, stated that it was a poor thing if a man could not release his frustrations in his own house and informed them that he was off where he might be allowed some peace. It was a filthy day. The heavy downpour was turning the snow to a grey slush that sprayed up from the carriage wheels as they sped past. He trudged blindly on through the streets and out towards the countryside, regardless of the saturated condition of his clothes and the bone-chilling cold. He had no idea where his feet were taking him; he merely followed, knowing that he had to rid himself of all outward influences and concentrate on a way to find his son. And the only way to do that was out here where there were few houses and less people to distract him.
His land, when he reached it, was shrouded in a cape of snow. Unlike the city pavements it still retained its virgin state. He hunched over the fence, the rain dripping from the peak of his cap to trickle down his nose. Every attempt he made to produce a line of thought was invaded by the sound of the raindrops embedding themselves in the white blanket. He stood there for a long time, trying to force his mind into submission, but the noise of the rain grew louder, driving him to distraction. His only accomplishment would seem to be earning himself a severe chill.
The snow was beginning to succumb to the onslaught; pitted by the rain it took on the appearance of a huge slab of tripe. He stared at it for some moments longer, then straightened and looked about him despairingly. He was surrounded by a white wilderness. Going back to the track he considered the trail of distinctive footprints in the snow, the outside edge a good inch deeper than the inner. There were two sets of Catch’s footprints, going in opposite directions; one going, one coming back. Patrick disregarded the set of prints that went towards York and followed the other with his eyes. Quite suddenly he found that he was soaked to the skin. Catch’s cabin was only a mile or two down the track. Unconsciously, he permitted his feet to fill Catch’s bootprints and took their lead.
‘Tha must have a slate loose comin’ out on a day like this!’ The old bachelor waved him inside and reshot the bolts that secured his small fortress. ‘Can’t be too careful, there’s a lotta queer folk abaht. By gum, look at state o’ thee!’ He pushed a shivering Patrick in front of the fire. ‘Get them be-ats off. No! Don’t sit in that chair, tha’s soppin’ wet ’Ere!’ He threw a pile of sacking onto the chair. ‘Now tha can sit down.’ He watched Patrick unlace his boots and hold his stockinged feet to the blaze. ‘I allus knew tha were cracked. Surely tha didn’t come up ’ere to do any work?’
Patrick took off his cap and shook his head. ‘I just wanted to get some peace.’ He flicked his wrist, unleashing a spray of droplets which made the fire hiss and its smoke waft out into the room.
Catch grimaced. ‘Way tha’s goin’ on tha’ll have plenty o’ that – an eternity of it. If tha don’t catch tha death o’ cold Ah’ll eat me hat.’
There was a large can dangling from a homemade contraption over the fire. Catch took a poker and swung it wide of the blaze, pouring the water that was in it into a teapot. ‘Ah knew minute Ah put tea on to brew somebody’d smell it. It’s allus way. Folk must think Ah’m med o’ brass, brewin’ tea for half o’ county.’ He put his hand in a drawer and brought out the first item he laid his hand on. ‘You watch – Ah’ll ’ave another half dozen hammerin’ on me door in five minutes.’ He inserted the fork into the teapot, gave it a brisk stir, tapped it noisily on the rim and threw it aside. Finding two pewter mugs he filled them and passed one to Patrick.
‘Blinkin’ ’ell, look at thee!’ He pointed to the Irishman’s steaming clothes. ‘Tha’s like a hoss what’s just run Derby.’ He reached behi
nd him as he sat down, adjusting the squashed patchwork cushion.
Patrick cupped grateful hands to the mug. ‘I’m sorry to inconvenience ye, Catch. I don’t know why I came really. I’ll just get thawed out an’ I’ll be off.’ He glanced around him at the typical bachelor’s lair – the curtains fixed over the windows with six inch nails, permanently drawn; nails hammered here, there and everwhere on which to hang saucepans, coats, anything that would hang up; an oil can on the table, plus a selection of nuts and bolts; a row of wooden boards with moleskins stretched out to dry; the boots on the ash-covered fender; every corner of the twelve feet square room put to good use, and most of it taken up by the old man’s bed next to the fireplace. It was a primitive lifestyle, but remarkably warm and comforting to Patrick as he sat here nursing his troubles.
Catch opened his mouth to sample his tea when there came a knock at the door. ‘What did Ah tell thee?’ he exclaimed vociferously. ‘Buggers round ’ere can smell a brew before it hits cup.’ His bandy legs carried him to the door where he struggled with the three bolts and opened it an inch. ‘Oh, it’s thee is it?’ He opened it wider. ‘Well, don’t just stand there lettin’ all warmth out, away in.’
Sonny stamped the snow from his boots and stepped into the snug cabin. ‘I thought I might find you here, Father.’
Patrick looked up in surprise. ‘I thought ye were helping your mother at the store. Here, come by the fire, boyo an’ get yourself a warm.’ He drew in his long legs to make way for his son.
Sonny stepped into the gap and held out his hands. Unlike Patrick’s his clothes were barely damp; the rain had eased. ‘Mother sent me to find you – no thanks, Catch.’ He refused the tea.
‘Tha might as well have one whilst tha’s ’ere,’ insisted Catch.
‘Oh, all right, thank you – just half a cup though, I’ll not have time to drink a full one.’ He turned back to Patrick. ‘We had a visitor at the store, Dad. A policeman.’ Patrick came out of his benumbed state and set aside the mug eagerly. ‘They’ve found Dickie?’
Sonny thanked Catch and grasped the pewter mug. ‘They think they have … at least they’ve found someone who matches the description we gave them.’
Patrick picked up the mug again to cover his apprehension, and with the gulp that he took came a sense of foreboding. ‘Get it over with, son.’
‘Well … if it is Dickie …’ Sonny glanced at Catch, then back at his father. ‘He’s dead … I’m sorry, Father.’ He watched Patrick’s face drain of colour. ‘They asked if someone could go and identify him. Mother couldn’t…’ ‘Of course she couldn’t.’ Patrick rose swiftly then, remembering his boots, ducked to the hearth and began to pull them on, tussling with the saturated leather. His mind screamed its horror, but when he opened his mouth the words came out evenly. It was as though another person were speaking. ‘How is your mother, Sonny?’
‘She’s as one might expect after receiving such news,’ answered the other. ‘I didn’t like leaving her but there was no one else to send for you. Josie’s seeing to her.’
‘So she’s at home now?’
‘Yes, I insisted she close the store for the remainder of the day. She was in no fit state to continue.’
Patrick finished securing his laces. ‘Have ye come in the gig?’ Sonny replied that he had. ‘Then I’ll drop you off at home while I go down to the whatsit.’ Mortuary, he thought. Say it! Mortuary, mortuary, mortuary.
‘I thought you may be glad of some support,’ said his son.
‘That I would, but your mother will need ye more. I can manage on me own.’
‘No need,’ said Catch, grabbing his coat. ‘Ah’ll go wi’ thee.’ He was familiar with the latest drama in the Feeney family. Patrick was inclined to divest himself of his problems whilst toiling the land, and the old man provided a ready ear whose owner was not inclined to blab.
‘There’s no call for you to drag yourself out in this weather, Catch,’ said Patrick. ‘It won’t be a very pleasant task either.’
‘Don’t argue, I’m off.’ Catch damped down the fire, twined a scarf around his neck and pulled on a woollen hat. ‘Tha can bring me back, mind. No doubt it’ll be a wasted journey.’
‘I pray to God you’re right,’ said the Irishman, but was sure deep down that it would not be.
When they all stood outside Catch locked the door and climbed onto the cart, squeezing himself beside Patrick and his son. Sonny clicked his tongue and flapped the reins and set off towards York.
Once there they dropped Sonny outside his front door and carried straight on. Patrick wanted to get this thing over with as quickly as possible, and face it squarely. Thomasin’s tears would not stand him in very good stead for his coming ordeal. He took control of the reins and steered the gig towards the mortuary.
* * *
A bitter draught whistled down the corridor where he and Catch sat waiting. Patrick stared at the reflection in the brown tiles and saw an old man sitting bolt upright, hands gripping knees, fingers flexing and unflexing, the mouth a rigid gash in the white face and a nervous tic playing round the right eye. At first he thought it was Catch, then saw another, much shorter, old man sitting alongside it, and realised with a jolt that the first old man was himself.
Catch nudged Patrick. ‘Get tha pipe out, lad. If nowt else it’ll help to get rid o’ this blasted stink. God’s truth, what the hell is it?’ His wrinkled face screwed up in distaste.
Patrick had come across death many times in his life and knew very well what the smell was. He searched for his pipe and put it to his mouth, then pulled out a box of matches, but his fumbling, cold fingers spilled the whole lot over the floor. The policeman who had shown them in poked his head around the corner at the noise. The look on his face caused Patrick to abandon his idea.
Catch sniffed in disgust. ‘They leave thee sittin’ ’ere in this draughty blessed hole for half an hour, never a cuppa tea, an’ they won’t even let thee tek comfort in tha pipe.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ Patrick finished collecting the matches and put them and the pipe back into his pocket. ‘I wish they’d hurry up. What the hell are they doing in there?’
‘’Ave tha thought about what tha’s purrin’ in that top corner next year?’ Patrick looked askance. ‘Tha crops, man! Tha’ll have to be more careful o’ that carrot fly. Don’t be so heavy-handed wi’ t’seed so’s tha don’t have so much thinnin’ out to do. That’s when buggers get in, tha knows.’
Patrick couldn’t believe this. ‘I’m sitting here waiting to identify me dead son an’ you’re talking about carrot fly!’ he accused.
Catch looked offended. ‘Nay, Ah thought tha might be interested, seein’ as how tha lost half yer crop last year.’
‘God!’ sighed Patrick with feeling. ‘I don’t know what help I thought I’d get from you when I brought ye along – ye’ve no children of your own, how could I expect ye to understand what I’m going through? But at least I thought ye’d place human life above bloody vegetables!’
The old man rose stiffly. ‘Ah came along ’cause Ah thought Ah might be able to tek tha mind off t’ordeal. But all thou seems to want to do is to wallow in tha misery. Don’t fuss abaht givin’ me a lift home – Ah’ll walk!’
Patrick groaned and buried his head in his hands. ‘Oh, Jazers, Catch ye know I meant no disrespect.’ He dragged his fingers down over his cheeks leaving red tracks on the pale skin. ‘’Tis all this infernal waitin’. I thank ye for trying to take me mind off things, but nothing can do that. God, I wish they’d hurry up.’
Patrick’s entreaty was answered by the sound of footfalls echoing down the corridor. Both men looked up enquiringly as an attendant came round the corner. ‘Mr Feeney?’ Patrick stood up. ‘This way, please.’ The man moved off. Patrick turned fearful eyes to Catch who gave him an encouraging shove.
‘Come with me, Catch,’ begged the Irishman. ‘I need somebody.’
The attendant was waiting by an open door as they rounded the corner. Pa
trick walked slowly towards him, the bandy-legged rustic hobbling by his side. The corridor seemed endless. The sound of their boots bounced back and forth off the tiled walls. The sound enhanced his trepidation.
‘In here, sir.’
Patrick gagged at the smell and moved no further than the doorway. The tiled room was empty save for what looked like a table spread for tea. But there were no knives and forks, and there was an ominous undulation in the creased cloth.
‘If you’d like to step closer?’ The man waited.
Patrick felt Catch’s hand cradle his elbow and at the insistent pressure stepped up to the table, the bile souring his throat.
‘Now, I’ll simply lift a corner, sir and you can tell me if it’s him.’
The cloth peeled away. Patrick’s jaw sagged. He took a staggering step backwards and Catch had to steady him before he fell. He forced himself to look again. The youth could have been asleep but for the mark at his throat that bespoke his violent death. Like a piece of ripped linen, frayed pink at the edges. Patrick quickly averted his eyes from the wound to those of the boy; closed, the dark lashes like the spread bristles of an artist’s brush, resting upon the waxen cheeks, thick and luscious like a girl’s. The ebony hair fell in soft curls over the passive forehead. The bloodless lips curved into a peaceful smile – a far cry from the tortured wreck that had been wheeled in here, thought the assistant proudly.
Patrick felt the tears burn his eyes. The boy’s face became blurred. When the fog cleared the sheet was once more in place. He could have imagined it all.
‘Well, sir?’ asked the attendant gently.
Patrick took a deep lungful of air as his eyes came up from the shrouded form. The attendant tried to guess what his response would be. The pale-blue eyes were moist with sympathy, pain – and relief.
‘That’s not my son,’ whispered Patrick gratefully. ‘It’s not Dickie.’
For My Brother’s Sins Page 42
