For Your Sins: previously published as Joseph's Mansions

by Richard Pitman

  5

  He made his way down O’Connell Street through the light rain, bypassing the taxi ranks. The walk to his mother’s house in Infirmary Road was a long one, but Frankie needed the time it would take to marshal his thoughts. He went into a hardware shop and bought a black umbrella with a shiny wooden handle.

  Turning south on Drumcondra Road, he tried to get back into the marching rhythm he’d adopted as he’d gone to the cathedral but his legs wouldn’t obey. The dread in his heart at the prospect of telling his mother weighed heavy, making him almost drag his steps. His mother, who had raised him since he drew his first breath to be a priest. His mother who, as she clutched the hands of midwives and pushed him out into the world, had had the priest standing by to bless not just him but the hospital cot that was to be his first bed. His mother who had insisted that the blood and placenta remnants be washed from his howling body with nothing but holy water. His mother whose life had been stained by bitterness and bigotry. The only thing she had to boast about, the single source of pride in her existence was her son, Father Francis Houlihan. Involuntarily, he drew a huge breath and the sigh that carried it back out made the woman approaching him raise her head to look.

  She was pulling a battered metal shopping trolley with squeaking wheels, on which balanced a suitcase. She looked up at Frankie as they passed each other, and he saw the tears on her cheeks and pain in her eyes. He stopped, forgetting his own troubles, and looked at her as she went away from him. ‘Are you alright missus?’ he called, surprising himself with the richness of his own accent.

  She didn’t turn round and he watched as she reached the junction and turned to go down O’Connell Street, Frankie flushed the rain from his umbrella, put it above his head once more and continued the journey to his mother’s house.

  Bridget Gleeson, the tearful woman with the suitcase, had heard the priest call her, but she had no faith in the Catholic Church anymore and little faith in anything else. It had been knocked out of her physically and emotionally, and she was now doing what she had long promised she would. Bridget was the mother of twelve-year-old Sean and the wife of alcoholic Brendan, chauffeur to gangster Kelly Corell. She had held on as long as she could, but a woman could only take so much when she was thirty-seven, her life withering further from every drunken beating and the happiness she’d always wished for looking beyond hope.

  Leaving Brendan now, just after their fifteenth wedding anniversary, caused her no sadness. His years of losing money to bookmakers and casinos had condemned them to a life of poverty. And she had struggled on because there was always some love there for him and she hadn’t wanted Sean to suffer from a break-up.

  But a year previously Brendan had started drinking heavily too, and taking everything out on her. She’d sworn she’d stand for most things but not for being battered. She’d warned him. Now he’d wake up from his stupor on the floor by the gas fire (many times she’d been tempted to leave the gas on and unlit for she knew the first thing he did when coming round was light a cigarette) and see she’d finally gone.

  She’d miss her son. Someday she’d come back for him or bring him to her. They had lived in St Joseph’s Mansions all their married life and she recalled many good times there. Sean had loved it; the enclosed playground, the hordes of playmates. And she’d been happy there too in what had been a close and supportive community.

  Then the drug-dealers had moved in, making junkies of the teenagers, then corpses of the junkies. It had spread like cancer through the Mansions, devouring the extremities first then moving with grim inevitability through the body until the heart of the community was barely beating. The Gleesons were one of only three families remaining and now, Bridget thought, there’d be one Gleeson less. St Joseph’s Mansions was a ghetto, and living in a ghetto had never been in Bridget Gleeson’s life-plan.

  Sean wiped the cold wet windowpane with the corner of his bed sheet, the image of his mother slinking away in the November rain still strong in his mind. What made him saddest was the sight of those old canvas moccasins she wore, lest the click-clack of her street shoes woke his father.

  She had begged him to go with her. ‘I can’t, Ma. I can’t leave the ponies.’ Sean was one of many boys in Dublin who raced ponies. Most of them did it for a laugh, for the crack, but Sean did it because he wanted to make a career of it; he wanted to become a proper jockey.

  ‘Ma, you know Mister Cosgrave’s looking for a new boy. They’re all sayin’ it and my name’s been mentioned.’

  She looked frustrated. ‘Mister Cosgrave’s a proper trainer; he’s not interested in street races and kids like you. I’m sorry, Sean, I don’t mean to hurt ye and I know how good a rider ye are, but Mister Cosgrave lives in a different world.’

  ‘Well that’s the world for me, Ma. It’s not this one in the Mansions. I’ll not be here forever. When I go over to England, ‘twill be as a proper jockey to ride in the Cheltenham Gold Cup.’

  He’d watched her pretty face crease in sorrow. He sensed that she wanted to reach and cuddle him. But he was too old for that now and it had been her choice anyway.

  Her tears rose again. Sean said, ‘Don’t cry, Ma. We’ll all be back together before you know it and me da’ll be fine. I’ve a good strong feelin’ it’ll all work out.’

  The second-storey flat Sean lived in was one of two hundred and eighty-six that made up St Joseph’s Mansions. The drug-dealers and their customers had turned the block into a warren of squalor; a disease-ridden, graffiti-strewn monolith whose stairwells and flaking corridors stank of urine and faeces. Apart from the Gleesons, only two families remained, both determined not to give in to the criminals who still used the place for their night-time dealings.

  The Gleesons refused to move partly because Sean had so many happy memories of growing up there and wanted to stay, but mostly because Brendan, Sean’s father, had always plied his ‘trade’ in this area. For five years, he had worked for Dublin’s richest and most successful criminal, Kelly Corell. Part of Gleeson’s work was occasional drug dealing and this was where his market was. While his neighbours had battled to keep the dealers out, Brendan Gleeson had joined the enemy.

  Corell knew that Gleeson’s skills were limited but he did what he was told and the next job Corell wanted doing wasn’t difficult. The main thing was that if something went wrong, Gleeson wouldn’t be missed. He was the most expendable of Corell’s men.

  6

  Brendan Gleeson could not remember being so nervous, so stressed as he felt on this drive. He was with his boss in south-west England. Corell was in the rear seat of a hired Mercedes and his temper was getting shorter. Gleeson couldn’t find the house he was supposed to be taking Corell to and he was sweating, close to panic. Corell was a great guy to be with when he was in good form, but Gleeson knew how quickly his moods changed. He’d seen Corell’s appetite for violence at first hand, having witnessed the man spreadeagling one of his criminal rivals on a snooker table and hammering six-inch nails through his screaming enemy’s hands until they’d split the polished wood of the surround.

  Gleeson had pulled into the side of the road near the top of a hill. He had lost count of the times he’d unfolded the fax. It was grubby and dog-eared and the interior light in the hire car wasn’t bright. Gleeson screwed his eyes up as he tilted the paper under the weak, pinkish beam. ‘About a mile and a half outside Lambourn on the B4001, near the top of the hill. Turn left along a road which goes through tall trees and drive to the big gates at the end then ring the bell.’

  Corell watched him. ‘Does it say anything different from the last ten times you looked at it, Brendan?’

  Turning to face his solemn passenger Gleeson said, ‘Mister Corell, this is the bloody B4001. I’ve been up and down it for the past half-hour and there’s no road! Look!’ He tried to give the sheet to Corell who kept his hands on his thighs.

  ‘His number’s on it,’ Corell said. ‘Call him and tell him you’re sorry to drag him out on such a cold night, but
you’re such a shite driver that you can’t get me there without help.’

  Gleeson looked at him and decided not to argue.

  Fifteen minutes later, he was driving behind David Hewitt’s black Audi Quattro. He felt calmer. Hewitt had been decent to him, told him the turnoff was almost impossible to find in the dark. He said quite a few missed it in daylight too. Gleeson said he wouldn’t mind having his maximum bet that the turn-off wasn’t on this road at all. Hewitt had smiled and said, ‘Follow me.’ Corell left the Mercedes and travelled with Hewitt.

  7

  Hewitt drove fast but skilfully. Corell said, ‘I don’t suppose you’re looking for a chauffeur’s job?’ Hewitt chuckled. ‘You shouldn’t be too harsh on your man, Mister Corell. You’ll see when we get there; it isn’t the easiest of roads to find. I should have remembered you might be travelling in the dark when I faxed the instructions.’

  ‘You coulda rolled out a ball of string from here to Dublin and he still wouldn’t’ve been able to follow it back.’

  ‘That bad?’

  Corell smiled, remembering that he needed Hewitt to have some trust in Gleeson’s ability to set him up with a decent supplier. ‘Nah, he’s a good man, really. He’s no genius, is Brendan, but he’s smart enough and you can count on him to do what he’s told. He’d walk off a cliff if I asked him to, so he would.’

  ‘You must treat him well, if he shows that sort of respect.’

  Corell resisted making a clever remark. He realized Hewitt believed what Corell had told him when they’d first met at Leopardstown, that he was simply a businessman. Most people in Corell’s world could interpret the euphemism well enough, but he was conscious that Hewitt came from a completely different background.

  Corell rarely set up deals personally; there was too much risk involved. But this one, if Hewitt managed to deliver, would be the biggest Corell would ever do. He replied to the scientist’s question, ‘I’d like to think I have the respect of all the people who work for me,’

  ‘I’m sure that I too will find our association a pleasure,’ Hewitt replied.

  ‘And a profitable pleasure, too. That’s what we all want,’ Corell said as they approached the high black gates.

  When they got through the entrance and parked, an animated Gleeson came quickly from his car. When Corell opened his door, Gleeson leaned forward, almost blocking his way, and said, ‘Road! That was never a road! Jeez, they talk about Ireland being a backward country! That was a pig-track, Mister Corell!’ He looked across at Hewitt. ‘No offence to your directions there, Mister Hewitt, but Christopher bloody Columbus couldn’t have found that turning!’

  Hewitt smiled kindly at him. ‘He only found America by mistake, so you’re probably right.’ Gleeson went round the car to cement the alliance and stayed close to Hewitt as they walked across the gravel, almost jostling him as he sought vindication, leaning over and looking up into the taller man’s face. ‘Ye couldn’t blame anybody for missing that now, could ye? I mean, what chance’ve ye got when the directions says a road and it’s no more a road than… well, it’s like sayin’ look out for a racehorse and what ye find’s a bloody donkey, eh?’

  As Hewitt used his thumb to key a four-figure code into a control panel to the right of the double door, Gleeson was uncrumpling the old fax once more; moving beside his boss again and pointing to the words he said, ‘Look, road, road! Road my arse!’

  Corell said, menacingly quiet, ‘Give it a rest.’

  Inside, seated in what seemed to Gleeson like a library, he declined the offer of a drink. He was dying for one, but he knew he had a drink problem and he didn’t want Corell to get a sniff of that. If the man found out, Gleeson would be redundant. ‘Ahh, a glass of lemonade would be fine,’ he said, trying to look enthusiastic about it.

  ‘There might be some in the kitchen,’ Hewitt said. ‘Bear with me.’

  When he left the room, Corell turned to Gleeson; ‘Drink the friggin’ lemonade then tell him you’ve got to go to the car and make a few calls. Wait there until I’m done.’

  Out in the cold, Gleeson watched through the window as Hewitt poured a big measure of whiskey from a decanter and handed the glass to Corell. Gleeson sighed and wandered toward the car.

  Hewitt toasted Corell. ‘To success.’

  ‘Success.’ Corell saluted with his glass and said, ‘Would you bring me up to date, now, on how things are?’

  ‘Sure.’ Hewitt outlined the scope of the project with great enthusiasm. The young scientist didn’t bullshit; he told Corell the timescales were completely unpredictable and that long-term resources would be necessary. ‘No problem,’ Corell told him. ‘Now what about the raw materials?’ He smiled.

  ‘As I mentioned on the phone, I need to establish a regular supply of racehorses. I’d want each for twenty-four hours maximum. They don’t have to be racing currently and there’d be no necessity for them to be completely sound, certainly not for this stage of the project.’

  Corell nodded. ‘I was thinking of setting up a deal with a fella in an abattoir. He brings you horses he’s picked up for slaughter. You do what you need to then he collects them. We pay him two hundred and fifty pounds a time. How does that sound to you?’

  ‘Would you be prepared to pay more if the horse has some talent?’

  ‘If it helps you along with the project, no problem.’ Corell smiled. ‘Mister Gleeson will sort everything out for you within the next forty-eight hours.’

  ‘Good. And you brought the cash?’

  ‘It’s in the car. A bloody big bag of it.’

  ‘Sterling?’

  ‘‘Tis.’

  ‘Good.’

  Corell drank what remained in his glass. Hewitt, looking serious, leant forward, elbows on knees and said, ‘Just to be clear - Mister Gleeson’s not aware of the actual project we’re working on here?’ Corell shook his head. ‘He knows what he needs to. He won’t ask questions.’

  Hewitt nodded. He said, ‘And you don’t mind if I call you direct if I have a problem? I know you must be a busy man.’

  Corell got to his feet. ‘I don’t mind at all. This is probably the most important project I’ve ever launched. I’ll give you whatever help I can.’

  Hewitt smiled warmly and reached to shake his hand. ‘I’m sure we’ll make a good team.’

  8

  Frankie returned to his parish and began preparing for his final three months. Although he longed to see her, to hear her voice, it didn’t seem right to call Kathy on the first day back in England. He waited three days before ringing.

  They met on a mellow mid-November afternoon in a park in Cheltenham. The sun was low, its weak, watery light just enough to cast shadows on the paths which were sticky with wet leaves. He watched her come toward him, the first time they’d met for more than six weeks. She wore a long dark coat, buttoned, with the collar turned up. A white cashmere scarf filled the V at the top, accentuating the rich shades of her olive skin. Frankie drew an involuntary breath; he’d forgotten how beautiful she was.

  She smiled as she stopped in front of him and the temptation to throw his arms around her and hold her was the strongest impulse by far he had ever experienced. But he resisted. ‘Hello Kathy,’ he said and held out his hand awkwardly.

  ‘Hello Frankie.’ She shook his hand, careful not to hold on a second longer than might seem proper. ‘It’s good to see you.’

  ‘Good to see you too.’ A smile found its way through the frown that had seemed almost constant these past weeks. ‘Do you want to walk, or would you like to go and have a drink somewhere?’

  ‘Let’s walk,’ she said and they ambled off, settling deeper into that comfortable companionship with each stride. A lone mallard glided on a leaf-strewn pond.

  ‘My last day in the formal ministry is January thirty-first.’

  She nodded slowly. They walked ten paces before she spoke. ‘Does that mean it’s your last day as a priest?’

  ‘Once a priest, always a priest. That’s what
we were taught. There’s no renouncing of the vows, only the breaking of them. But I suppose that is what it means, my last day as a priest.’

  They walked on for a while in silence, then Kathy said, ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘I’ll be fine. There are some practical things to sort out and I might need to ask your advice on some of the stuff I need to plan for, sort of post-ministry, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Sure, I’ll help in any way I can. How did your mother take the news?’

  He sighed. ‘As though she’d just found out there was no God after all. ‘Twas like the end of the world, Judgement Day, and she was stood there waiting for the Lord to appear and tell all the good people that the day of reward was here only to have the Devil himself come out on stage and say, “Surprise, surprise.”‘

  Kathy smiled gently and watched her suede-booted feet step in time with Frankie’s black brogues. Frankie said, ‘I thought we were going to have to call the doctor out to sedate her.’

  ‘Is she alright, though?’

  ‘She’s well enough to write me letters cursing me to eternity. There are holes in the pages of them where her rage has forced the nib through. And she’s well enough to have warned the family under pain of death to have nothing to do with me. If I were to die tomorrow, which she says she hopes I will for I’ve shamed her so that she can never again show her face in the streets of Dublin, she’s forbidden every one of them from attending my funeral.’

  ‘Maybe you shouldn’t open any more of her letters.’

  ‘I think you’re right. I’ll see.’