Himself(84)

A man comes quietly into the hall and takes a drink from the tray on the table. He picks his way along the aisle to a vacant seat.

A voice calls out loud from the back of the hall.

‘He is washed in the blood of the lamb.’

A few members of the audience laugh, believing it to be part of the play.

The voice rings out again: the high, clear voice of a young girl.

‘He is washed in the blood of the lamb.’

Eddie Callaghan’s nephew gives a cry of alarm, as above him the stage lights flare and turn around all by themselves in their sockets, leaving the stage in darkness.

The actors too stop and turn.

The audience hold on to their seats as, inexplicably, the chairs pivot round on their back legs, scraping the floor in unison. The front doors slip down their latches and drive home their bolts. In the kitchen, the tea urn reaches a rolling boil and the crockery starts to shake. The spoons begin to bend and the sandwiches curl up and die.

At the back of the hall Mrs Lavelle stands barefoot in the spotlight with an expression of finely wrought hatred on her face.

She raises her arm and points.

And everyone looks.

It is Jack Brophy, taking his seat with a paper cup in his hand.

Jack puts his drink down and cautiously walks over to Mrs Lavelle, as if he’s a shy man asking a timid woman to dance. The village holds its breath as he lays a hand gently on her arm.

She screams. It’s threadbare and piercing, like a hurt child.

Pat Nolan strikes up the band.

After the play, the buffet table is set for the aftershow party and within minutes it is gnawed so clean it’s a wonder it still has legs. Many move quickly past the tea and on to the hard stuff as they stand around dusting down crumbs and joining in with one of several acceptable topics of debate: the high calibre of the acting, not just of Mahony himself, of course, but of the supporting cast, particularly Tadhg Kerrigan as Old Mahon, the murdered father, tripping in and out over the doorframe.

No one mentions Mrs Lavelle.

Father Quinn skulks amongst them, as welcome as a wet shoe.

Across the room Mrs Cauley catches his eye and toasts him. He moves across to her.

‘Mrs Cauley.’

‘Father Quinn, did you enjoy the play?’

‘It was a remarkable production, but I hope it was worth it.’

Mrs Cauley smiles sweetly. ‘Oh it was, Father.’

The priest bends forwards. ‘We had a deal, Mrs Cauley. Mahony should have left town this morning.’

‘When it came down to it he just couldn’t, Father.’

Father Quinn’s smile is pestilential. ‘No matter. I’ll be going home to make that call directly. Your protégé will be swiftly taken into custody.’

Shauna brings over a tray with two glasses of whiskey on it. ‘Will you have a little tipple for yourself, Father?’

Father Quinn smirks. ‘Why not? It seems that I have reason to celebrate.’

‘Grand, so, that’s your one there, Father. Not that one, the one on the left, Father, the left one. Yes. That one.’

Father Quinn raises his glass. ‘Ladies, I wish you a good evening.’ He bows slightly and weaves off through the crowd, grinning malignantly.

‘And I wish you a lifetime of hard shits,’ says Mrs Cauley, downing her whiskey with a widening smile.

At the parochial house Bridget Doosey cuts the telephone cord, locks the back door and dangles the key into the cup of her brassiere. She goes up to the guest room, takes off her overalls and opens her crocodile handbag. She pulls on grey tights and a leotard and flexes gamely in front of the wardrobe mirror before settling down to wait.

At the village hall the crowd shows no sign of leaving, not while the cast move amongst them like higher beings. The actors grin at the requests to run another night, or two, or ten. All of them radiant with stage make-up and success. In the kitchen the helpers are wiping up the plates and cups with the radio on. Mrs Moran flicks her tea towel in time to the Brotherhood of Man and even Michael Hopper joins in, although quite who he’s saving his kisses for is a mystery to everyone.

By the side of the stage Mrs Cauley watches and smiles. There is Mahony, riding high with Shauna by his side blushing scarlet at being near the centre of attention. God love her.

Mrs Cauley’s smile fades as she spots Jack Brophy making his way through the crowd, stopping to lean down to talk here and there. Nodding with a serious expression on his face, listening intently. Tadhg presses a glass into his hand, they speak for a moment and then Tadhg pats him on the back. Jack downs his drink.

Mrs Cauley studies Jack closely and for long enough for him to look up at her. He smiles and makes his way over.

‘Now then, Jack.’

‘Are you behaving yourself, Merle?’

‘I am of course.’

‘And how did you get those two shiners?’

‘I ran into a pillow.’

Jack pulls up a chair and sits down beside her. ‘Congratulations on a fine play.’

‘You missed the first act.’

Jack shrugs and smiles. ‘Garda business.’

‘Then you’re excused. And how is Mary Lavelle?’

Jack nods. ‘She’s quiet now. Maurice has given her a sedative.’

There’s a great commotion as a group of lads pick Mahony up and parade him around the hall; a few young ones follow laughing. The band reforms again in the corner of the room and pockets of dancing start to break out.