Himself(76)
‘I’m sorry to call so late, Father.’
‘Oh, it’s you, is it?’
‘It is, a quick word, it won’t take long.’
Father Jim opened the door. ‘All right, come inside now.’
‘That would be grand, Father. Here, look, I’ve brought something to wet the baby’s head.’
The priest stepped in over the threshold and held the door open. ‘Now, I don’t think—’
‘Will we go into the library, Father? I’ve some information that may be of interest to you.’
Chapter 42
May 1976
The world is arsewards – sky, rain, branch, leaf, earth and stone, whipped and merging.
Mahony stumbles ahead by degrees with his hands held out in front of him. He hears only the rush and howl of the wind in his ears. But his guts hear the bass roll of thunder and his nerves catch every shotgun crackle of lightning as it forks and courses over the trees.
He keeps moving forward, caught by brambles, lashed by branches backlit for split seconds but otherwise just blacker fissures in the darkness.
Where Desmond is, the prick, God only knows.
When the lightning is overhead Mahony tramples a hole in the undergrowth and squats down on his hunkers with his feet together and his arms wrapped around his shins. He tucks his head between his knees.
So he doesn’t see a thing coming.
Chapter 43
May 1976
The wind is still and the storm has passed and Father Quinn is up with the surviving larks before the town is even awake enough to find its bollocks, let alone scratch them.
He’s a happy little figure this morning, for he has a great piece of information, spoon-sized, and he plans to have a really good stir with it.
He combs the thick wedge of his greying hair and buffs his crocodile teeth.
‘I go,’ he announces to himself in the bathroom mirror. ‘I go, look, how I go, swifter than arrow from the Tartar’s bow.’
Róisín, coming up the stairs with a pile of clean facecloths, knocks on the door. ‘Are you all right in there, Father?’
What could be more natural than a priest out at daybreak, striding about a storm-tossed village, doing all he can to help his community? Although today, like any other day, Father Quinn is as welcome as knob rot.
He’s just one more affliction in an already blighted landscape. The Shand has burst her banks and dead fish swim in hedgerows. Ancient trees have dominoed down in the forest and the birds nest a foot off the ground. Roofs and crops and flocks have been lost. Water still surges down through the town, filthy with ruined livelihoods and drowned dreams.
Father Quinn makes short shrift of the village central and the outlying farms, and, finding himself able to turn to the real business of the day, he starts to make his way up to Annie Farelly’s.
Having all the luck of the malignant, the widow’s bungalow is largely untouched by the ravages of the storm. Father Quinn finds her in the garden.
‘You have survived the storm, Mrs Farelly.’
Annie sheaths her secateurs. ‘I have, Father. Thank you for your concern.’
‘Not at all. Actually, there’s a matter I need to discuss with you. It’s a little delicate.’ The priest offers her a smile that would make a lesser woman recoil.
Annie nods and pulls off her spotless gardening gloves. ‘Come inside, Father.’
Mahony wakes with the mother of all headaches.
He’s lying on a wet mattress in a broken-down caravan.
He touches the side of his head. Something is stuck to it with duct tape. The tape goes across his cheek and extends into his hairline. Mahony sits up, fighting the urge to hurl. The arse and legs of his jeans are caked with mud, as if he’s been dragged along the ground. He has no shirt or socks. His boots wait by the door, in a muddy puddle that has formed in the dipped and pitted linoleum.
Annie puts down her teacup and turns to Father Quinn with the disgust barely concealed on her face.
‘How dare she?’ she whispers.
‘I’m afraid Mrs Cauley has long believed that she is a law unto herself. You could say that she has grown too big for her boots.’
‘And you say she actually bribed the clerk?’
Father Quinn nods sadly. ‘The girl is distraught. Not only did she take a bribe but she also divulged confidential information concerning the bank’s valued clientele. Needless to say she has lost her position.’
‘Well, at least it explains Mahony’s visit.’
‘Mahony visited you?’
‘Yes, Father, and it wasn’t a pleasant experience at all.’
It’s a while before Mahony can stand. When he can lift his arms he gets the dressing off his head and finds it’s made from a balled-up piece of his shirt. The gash on his forehead bleeds a little. He dabs at it with the cleanest corner he can find.
He finds his jacket folded on the table and his empty cigarette carton and matches next to it.
Mahony sits down on the doorstep and looks out. The clearing is strewn with Thomas Sweeney’s possessions, half-submerged in mud, flung into bushes.
His grandfather is nowhere to be seen.
Mahony sees a blur of blue and hears the faint babble of song interspersed by emphatic swearing. Ida hopscotches into the clearing through upturned buckets and broken chairs. She stops in the middle of an upended bathtub and executes a perfect curtsy.