by Jack Higgins
Two of the boys were West Indians, the other English of Hungarian parents. All a product of the few slum streets still remaining. They stood in the corner waiting for him, whispering together, occasionally laughing, newly-washed, hair combed, bright in their scarlet cassocks and white cottas. Had Jack Meehan looked like that once?
The memory was like a sword in the heart. The fact of his own violence, the killing rage. The violence that had been so often his undoing through the years. The men he had killed in the war - that was one thing, but after ... the Chinese soldier in Korea machine-gunning a column of refugees. He had picked up a rifle and shot the man through the head at two hundred yards. Expertly, skilfully, the old soldier temporarily in control. Had he been wrong? Had it really been wrong when so many lives had been saved? And that Portuguese Captain in Mozambique stringing up guerrillas by their ankles. He had beaten the man half to death, the incident that had finally sent him home in disgrace.
'The days when bishops rode into battle with a mace in one hand are over, my friend.' The Bishop's voice echoed faintly 'Your task is to save souls.'
Violence for Violence. That was Meehan's way. Sick and disgusted, Father da Costa took off the violet stole he had worn for confession and put on a green one, crossing it under his girdle to represent Christ's passion and death. As he put on an old rose-coloured cope, the outer door opened and Anna came in, her stick in one hand, a raincoat over her.
He moved to take the raincoat, holding her shoulders briefly. 'Are you all right?'
She turned at once, concern on her face. 'What is it? You're upset. Has anything happened?'
'I had an unpleasant interview with the man Meehan,' he replied in a low voice. 'He said certain things concerning Fallon. Things which could explain a great deal. I'll tell you later.'
She frowned slightly, but he led her to the door and opened it, pushing her through into the church. He waited for a few moments to give her time to reach the organ, then nodded to the boys. They formed into their tiny procession, one of them opening the door, and as the organ started to play, they moved into the church.
It was a place of shadows, candlelight and darkness alternating, cold and damp. There were perhaps fifteen people in the congregation, no more. He had never felt so dispirited, so close to the final edge of things, not since Korea, and then he looked across at the figure of the Virgin. She seemed to float there in the candlelight, so calm, so serene and the slight half-smile on the parted lips seemed somehow for him alone.
'Asperges me,' he intoned and moved down the aisle, one of the West Indian boys carrying the bucket of holy water in front of him, Father da Costa sprinkling the heads of his congregation as he passed, symbolically washing them clean.
'And who will cleanse me?' he asked himself desperately. 'Who?'
In the faded rose cope, hands together, he commenced the mass. 'I confess to Almighty God, and to you, my brothers and sisters, that I have sinned through my own fault,' Here, he struck his breast once as ritual required. 'In my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done, and in what I have failed to do.'
The voices of the congregation swelled up in unison behind him. There were tears on his face, the first in many years, and he struck his breast again.
'Lord, have mercy on me,' he whispered. 'Help me. Show me what to do.'
9
The Executioner
The wind howled through the city like a living thing, driving rain before it, clearing the streets, rattling old window frames, tapping at the glass like some invisible presence.
When Billy Meehan went into Jenny Fox's bedroom, she was standing in front of the mirror combing her hair. She was wearing the black pleated mini skirt, dark stockings, patent-leather, high-heeled shoes and a white blouse. She looked extremely attractive.
As she turned, Billy closed the door and said softly, 'Nice, very nice. He's still in his room, isn't he?'
'He said he was going out again, though.'
'We'll have to change his mind then, won't we?' Billy went and sat on the bed. 'Come here.'
She fought to control the instant panic that threatened to choke her, the disgust that made her flesh crawl as she moved towards him.
He slipped his hands under her skirt, fondling the warm flesh at the top of the stockings. 'That's a good girl. He'll like that. They always do.' He stared up at her, that strange, dreamy look in his eyes again. 'You muck this up for me, you'll be in trouble. I mean, I'd have to punish you and you wouldn't like that, would you?'
Her heart thudded painfully, 'Please, Billy! Please!'
'Then do it right. I want to see what makes this guy tick.'
He pushed her away, got up and moved to a small picture on the wall. He removed it carefully. There was a tiny peephole underneath, skilfully placed and he peered through.
After a few moments, he turned and nodded. 'Just taken his shirt off. Now you get in there and remember - I'll be watching.'
His mouth was slack, his hands trembling a little and she turned, choking back her disgust, opened the door and slipped outside.
Fallon was standing at the washbasin, stripped to the waist, lather on his face, when she knocked on the door and went in. He turned to greet her, a bone-handled cut-throat razor in one hand.
She leaned against the door. 'Sorry about the razor. It was all I could find.'
That's all right.' He smiled. 'My father had one of these. Wouldn't use anything else till the day he died.'
A line of ugly, puckered scars cut across his abdomen down into the left hip. Her eyes widened. 'What happened?'
He glanced down. 'Oh, that - a machine-gun burst. One of those times I should have moved faster than I did.'
'Were you in the army?'
'In a manner of speaking.'
He turned back to the mirror to finish shaving. She moved across and stood beside him. He smiled sideways, crookedly, stretching his mouth for the razor.
'You look nice enough to eat. Going somewhere?'
There was that warmth again, that pricking behind her eyes and she suddenly realised, with a sense of wonder, just how much she had come to like this strange, small man, and in the same moment remembered Billy watching her every move on the other side of that damned wall.
She smiled archly and ran a finger down his bare arm. 'I thought I might stay in tonight. What about you?'
Fallon's eyes flickered towards her once, something close to amusement in them. 'Girl dear, you don't know what you'd be getting into. And me twice your age.'
'I've got a bottle of Irish whiskey in.'
'God save us and isn't that enough to tempt the Devil himself?'
He continued his shaving and she moved across to the bed and sat down. It wasn't going right - it wasn't going right at all and at the thought of Billy's anger, she turned cold inside. She summoned up all her resources and tried again.
'Mind if I have a cigarette?'
There was a packet on the bedside table and a box of matches. She took one, lit it and leaned back on the bed, a pillow behind her shoulders.
'Have you really got to go out?'
She raised one knee so that the skirt slid back provocatively exposing bare flesh at the top of dark stockings, sheer black nylon briefs.
Fallon sighed heavily, put down the razor and picked up a towel. He wiped the foam from his face as he crossed to the bed and stood looking down at her.
'You'll catch cold.' He smiled softly and pulled down her skirt. 'If you're not careful. And I'm still going out, but I'll have a glass with you before I do, so be off now and open the bottle.'
He pulled her up from the bed and pushed her firmly across the room. She turned at the door, fear in her eyes. 'Please?' she said fiercely. 'Please?'
He frowned slightly and then a brief, sad smile touched his mouth. He kissed her gently on the lips and shook his head. 'Not me, girl dear, not me in the whole wide world. You need a man ... I'm just a corpse walking.'
It was such a terrible remark, so dreadful in its
implication, that for the moment it drove every other thought from her mind. She stared up at him, eyes wide, and he opened the door and pushed her outside.
Fear possessed her now, such fear as she had never known. She couldn't face what awaited her in her bedroom. If she could only get downstairs - but it was already too late for as she tiptoed past, the door opened and Billy pulled her so violently into the bedroom that she stumbled, losing a shoe and went sprawling across the bed.
She turned fearfully and found him already unbuckling his belt. 'You cocked it up, didn't you?' he said softly. 'And after all I've done for you.'
'Please, Billy. Please don't,' she said. 'I'll do anything.'
'You can say that again. You're going to get one of my specials, just to keep you in line, and maybe next time I tell you to do something, you'll bloody well make sure it gets done.' He started to unfasten his trousers. 'Go on, turn over.' She was almost choking and shook her head dumbly. His face was like a mirror breaking, madness staring at her from those pale eyes and he struck her heavily across the face.
'You do as you're bloody well told, you bitch.'
He grabbed her by the hair, forcing her round until she sprawled across the edge of the bed, face down. His other hand tore at her briefs, pulling them down, And then, as she felt his hardness, as he forced himself between her buttocks like some animal, she screamed at the top of her voice, head arched back in agony.
The door opened so violently that it splintered against the wall and Fallon stood there, one side of his face still lathered, the cutthroat razor open in his right hand.
Billy turned from the girl, mouthing incoherently, clutching at his trousers, and as he stood up Fallon took two quick paces into the room and kicked him in the privates. Billy went down like a stone and lay there twitching, knees drawn up to his chest in a foetal position.
The girl adjusted her clothes as best she could and got up, every last shred of decency stripped from her, tears pouring down her face. Fallon wiped lather from his cheek mechanically with the back of his hand and his eyes were very dark.
She could hardly speak for sobbing. 'He made me go into your room tonight. He was watching.'
She gestured towards the wall and Fallon crossed to the peephole. He turned slowly. 'Does this kind of thing happen often?'
'He likes to watch.'
'And you? What about you?'
'I'm a whore,' she said and suddenly it erupted from her. All the disgust, the self-hate, born of years of degradation. 'Have you any idea what that means? He started me early, his brother.'
'Jack Meehan?'
'Who else? I was thirteen. Just right for a certain kind of client, and from then on it's been downhill all the way.'
'You could leave?'
'Where would I go to?' She had regained some of her composure now. 'It takes money. And I have a three-year-old daughter to think of.'
'Here - in this place?'
She shook her head. 'I board her out with a woman. A nice woman in a decent part of town, but Billy knows where she is.'
At that moment he stirred and pushed himself up on one elbow. There were tears in his eyes and his mouth was flecked with foam.
'You've had it,' he said faintly. 'When my brother hears about this you're a dead man.'
He started to zip up his trousers and Fallon crouched down beside him. 'My grandfather,' he began in a conversational tone, 'kept a farm back home in Ireland. Sheep mostly. And every year, he'd geld a few to improve the flavour of the mutton or make the wool grow more - something like that. Do you know what geld means, Billy boy?'
'Like hell I do. You're crackers,' Billy said angrily. 'Like all the bloody Irish.'
'It means he cut off their balls with a pair of sheep shears.'
An expression of frozen horror appeared on the boy's face and Fallon said softly, 'Touch this girl in any way from now on,' he held up the cut-throat razor, 'and I will attend to you personally. My word on it.'
The boy scrambled away from him and pushed himself up against the wall, clutching at his trousers. 'You're mad,' he whispered. 'Raving mad.'
'That's it, Billy,' Fallon said. 'Capable of anything and don't you forget it.'
The boy ducked out through the open door, his feet thundered on the stairs. The front door banged.
Fallon turned, a hand to his cheek. 'Could I finish my shaving now, do you suppose?'
She ran forward, gripping his arms fiercely. 'Please don't go out. Please don't leave me.'
'I must,' he said. 'He won't be back, not as long as I'm staying here.'
'And afterwards?'
'We'll think of something.'
She turned away and he grabbed her hand quickly. 'I'll be an hour, no more, I promise, and then we can have that glass of whiskey. How's that?'
She turned, peering at him uncertainly. The tears had streaked her make-up, making her somehow seem very young. 'You mean it?'
'On the word of an Irish gentleman.'
She flung her arms about his neck in delight. 'Oh. I'll be good to you. I really will.'
He put a finger on her mouth. 'There's no need. No need at all.' He patted her cheek. 'I'll be back, I promise. Only do one thing for me.'
'What's that?'
'Wash your face, for God's sake.'
He closed the door gently as he went out and she moved across to the washbasin and looked into the mirror. He was right. She looked terrible and yet for the first time in years, the eyes were smiling. Smiling through that streaked whore's mask. She picked up a flannel and some soap and started to wash her face thoroughly.
Father da Costa couldn't understand it. The refuge had been open for just over an hour without a single customer. In all the months he had been operating from the old crypt he had never known such a thing.
It wasn't much of a place, but the stone walls had been neatly whitewashed, there was a coke fire in the stove, benches and trestle tables. Anna sat behind one of them, knitting a sweater. The soup was in front of her in a heat-retaining container, plates piled beside it. There were several loaves of yesterday's bread supplied free by arrangement with a local bakery.
Father da Costa put more coke on the stove and stirred it impatiently with the poker. Anna stopped knitting. 'What do you think has happened?'
'God knows,' he said. 'I'm sure I don't.' He walked to the door and went out to the porch. The street was apparently deserted. The rain had declined into a light drizzle. He went back inside.
The Irishman, O'Hara, the one Varley had referred to as Big Mick, moved out of the entrance to a small yard halfway up the street and stood under a lamp. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, six foot three or four at least, with curling, black hair and a perpetual smile. The man who moved out of the shadows to join him was two or three inches shorter and had a broken nose.
It was at this moment that Fallon turned into the end of the street. He approached silently, pausing in the darkness to take stock of the situation when he saw O'Hara and his friend. When the Irishman started speaking. Fallon moved into a convenient doorway and listened.
'Sure and I think the reverend gentleman's just about ready for it, Daniel,' O'Hara said. 'How many have we got in there now?'
Daniel snapped his fingers and several shadowy figures emerged from the darkness. He counted them quickly. 'I make it eight,' he said. 'That's ten including us.'
'Nine,' O'Hara said. 'You stay outside and watch the door, just in case. They all know what to do?'
'I've seen to that,' Daniel said. 'For a quid apiece they'll take the place apart.'
O'Hara turned to address the shadowy group. 'Remember one thing. Da Costa - he's mine.'
Daniel said, 'Doesn't that worry you, Mick? I mean you being an Irishman and so on. After all, he's a priest.'
'I've a terrible confession to make, Daniel.' O'Hara put a hand on his shoulder. 'Some Irishmen are Protestants and I'm one of them.' He turned to the others. 'Come on, lads,' he said and crossed the road.
They went in throug
h the door and Daniel waited by the railings, his ear cocked for the first sound of a disturbance from inside. There was a slight, polite cough from behind and when he turned, Fallon was standing a yard or two away, hands in pockets.
'Where in hell did you spring from?' Daniel demanded. 'Never mind that,' Fallon said. 'What's going on in there?'
Daniel knew trouble when he saw it, but completely miscalculated his man. 'You little squirt,' he said contemptuously. 'Get the hell out of it.'
He moved in fast, his hands reaching out to destroy, but they only fastened on thin air as his feet were kicked expertly from beneath him.
He thudded against the wet pavement and scrambled to his feet, mouthing obscenities. Fallon seized his right wrist with both hands, twisting it up and around. Daniel gave a cry of agony as the muscle started to give. Still keeping that terrible hold in position, Fallon ran him headfirst into the railings.
Daniel pulled himself up off his knees, blood on his face, one hand out in supplication. 'No more, for Christ's sake.'
'All right,' Fallon said. 'Answers then. What's the game?'
'They're supposed to turn the place over.'
'Who for?' Daniel hesitated and Fallon kicked his feet from under him. 'Who for?'
'Jack Meehan,' Daniel gabbled.
Fallon pulled him to his feet and stood back. 'Next time you get a bullet in the kneecap. That's a promise. Now get out of it.'
Daniel turned and staggered into the darkness.
At the first sudden noisy rush, Father da Costa knew he was in trouble. As he moved forward, a bench went over and then another. Hands pawed at him, someone pulled his cassock. He was aware of Anna crying out in alarm and turning, saw O'Hara grab her from behind, arms about her waist.
'Now then, darlin', what about a little kiss?' he demanded.
She pulled away from him in a panic, hands reaching out blindly and cannoned into the trestle table, knocking it over, soup spilling out across the floor, plates clattering.
