A Prayer for the Dying (v5) (9 page)

'Ah no you don't.' Lawlor grinned tiredly. 'No metaphysics, if you please, Father, I've got other things to do.' He turned to Miller. 'Have you seen enough?'

'I think so,' Miller said.

'Good, then get this devil's advocate out of here and leave me in peace to finish. It will be the morning before you get the full report now.' He grinned at Father da Costa again. 'I won't shake hands for obvious reasons, but any time you're passing just drop in. There's always someone here.'

He laughed at his own joke, was still laughing when they went back to the dressing-room. One of the technicians went with them to make sure that the robes they had worn went straight into the dirty laundry basket, so there was no opportunity to talk.

Miller led the way back outside, feeling tired and depressed. He had lost, he knew that already. The trouble was he didn't really know what to do next, except to take the kind of official action he'd been hoping to avoid.

It was still raining when they went out into the courtyard. When they reached the car, Fitzgerald opened the door and Father da Costa climbed in. Miller followed him. Fitzgerald sat in the front with the driver.

As they moved out into the city traffic, Miller said, 'I wanted you to see the reality of it and it hasn't made the slightest difference, has it?'

Father da Costa said, 'When I was twenty years of age, I dropped into the Cretan mountains by parachute, dressed as a peasant. All very romantic. Action by night - that sort of thing. When I arrived at the local village inn I was arrested at gunpoint by a German undercover agent. A member of the Feldgendarmerie.'

Miller was interested in spite of himself. 'You'd been betrayed?'

'Something like that. He wasn't a bad sort. Told me he was sorry, but that he'd have to hold me till the Gestapo got there. We had a drink together. I managed to hit him on the head with a wine bottle.'

Father da Costa stared back into the past and Miller said gently. 'What happened?'

'He shot me in the left lung and I choked him to death with my bare hands.' Father da Costa held them up. 'I've prayed for him every day of my life since.'

They turned into the street at the side of the church and Miller said wearily, 'All right, I get the picture.' The car pulled in at the kerb and there was a new formality in his voice when he said, 'In legal terms, your attitude in this matter makes you an accessory after the fact. You understand that?'

'Perfectly,' da Costa told him.

'All right,' Miller said. 'This is what I intend to do. I shall approach your superior in a final effort to make you see sense.'

'Monsignor O'Halloran is the man you want. I tried to see him myself earlier, but he's out of town. He'll be back in the morning - but it won't do you any good.'

'Then I'll apply to the Director of Public Prosecutions for a warrant for your arrest.'

Father da Costa nodded soberly. 'You must do what you think is right. I see that, Superintendent.' He opened the door and got out. 'I'll pray for you.'

'Pray for me!' Miller ground his teeth together as the car moved away. 'Have you ever heard the like?'

'I know, sir,' Fitzgerald said. 'He's quite a man, isn't he?'

It was cold in the church and damp as Father da Costa opened the door and moved inside. Not long till Mass. He felt tired - wretchedly tired. It had been an awful day - the worst he could remember in a great many years - since the Chinese prison camp at Chong Sam. If only Fallon and Miller - all of them - would simply fade away, cease to exist.

He dipped his fingers in the Holy Water and on his right a match flared in the darkness of the little side chapel to St Martin de Porres as someone lit a candle, illuminating a familiar face.

There was a slight pause and then the Devil moved out of the darkness and Father da Costa girded up his loins to meet him.

8

The Devil and all his Works

'What do you want here, Mr Meehan?' Father da Costa said.

'You know who I am?'

'Oh, yes,' Father da Costa told him. 'I was taught to recognise the Devil from a very early age.'

Meehan stared at him for a moment in genuine amazement and then he laughed harshly, his head thrown back, and the sound echoed up into the rafters.

'That's good. I like that.' Father da Costa said nothing and Meehan shrugged and turned to look down towards the altar. 'I used to come here when I was a kid. I was an acolyte.' He turned and there was a challenge in his voice. 'You don't believe me?'

'Shouldn't I?'

Meehan nodded towards the altar. 'I've stood up there many a time when it was my turn to serve at Mass. Scarlet cassock, white cotta. My old lady used to launder them every week. She loved seeing me up there. Father O'Malley was the priest in those days.'

'I've heard of him,' Father da Costa said.

'Tough as old boots.' Meehan was warming to his theme now - enjoying himself. 'I remember one Saturday evening, a couple of drunken Micks came in just before Mass and started turning things upside down. Duffed them up proper, he did. Straight out on their ear. Said they'd desecrated God's house and all that stuff.' He shook his head. 'A real old sod, he was. He once caught me with a packet of fags I'd nicked from a shop round the corner. Didn't call the law. Just took a stick to me in the sacristy.' He chuckled. 'Kept me honest for a fortnight that, Father. Straight up.'

Father da Costa said quietly, 'What do you want here, Mr Meehan?'

Meehan made a sweeping gesture with one arm that took in the whole church. 'Not what it was, I can tell you. Used to be beautiful, a real picture, but now ...' He shrugged. 'Ready to fall down any time. This restoration fund of yours? I hear you've not been getting very far.'

Father da Costa saw it all. 'And you'd like to help, is that it?'

'That's it, Father, that's it exactly.'

The door opened behind them, they both turned and saw an old lady with a shopping-bag enter. As she genuflected, Father da Costa said, 'We can't talk here. Come with me.'

They went up in the hoist to the top of the tower. It was still raining as he led the way out along the catwalk, but the mist had lifted and the view of the city was remarkable. In the far distance, perhaps four or five miles away, it was even possible to see the edge of the moors smudging the grey sky.

Meehan was genuinely delighted, 'Heh, I was up here once when I was a kid. Inside the belfry. It was different then.' He leaned over the rail and pointed to where the bulldozers were excavating in the brickfield. 'We used to live there. Thirteen, Khyber Street.'

He turned to Father da Costa who made no reply. Meehan said softly, 'This arrangement between you and Fallon? You going to stick to it?'

Father da Costa said, 'What arrangement would that be?'

'Come off it,' Meehan replied impatiently. 'This confession thing. I know all about it. He told me.'

'Then, as a Catholic yourself, you must know that there is nothing I can say. The secrets of the confessional are absolute.'

Meehan laughed harshly, 'I know. He's got brains, that Fallon. He shut you up good, didn't he?'

A small, hot spark of anger moved in Father da Costa and he breathed deeply to control it. 'If you say so.'

Meehan chuckled. 'Never mind, Father, I always pay my debts. How much?' His gesture took in the church, the scaffolding, everything. 'To put all this right?'

'Fifteen thousand pounds,' Father da Costa told him. 'For essential preliminary work. More would be needed later.'

'Easy,' Meehan said. 'With my help you could pick that up inside two or three months.'

'Might I ask how?'

Meehan lit a cigarette. 'For a start, there's the clubs. Dozens of them all over the north. They'll all put the old collecting-box round if I give the word.'

'And you actually imagine that I could take it?'

Meehan looked genuinely bewildered. 'It's only money, isn't it? Pieces of paper. A medium of exchange, that's what the bright boys call it. Isn't that what you need?'

'In case you've forgotten, Mr Meehan, Christ drove the money-lenders
out
of the temple. He didn't ask them for a contribution to the cause.'

Meehan frowned. 'I don't get it.'

'Then let me put it this way. My religion teaches me that reconciliation with God is always possible. That no human being, however degraded or evil, is beyond God's mercy. I had always believed that until now.'

Meehan's face was pale with fury. He grabbed da Costa's arm and pushed him towards the rail, pointing down at the brickfield.

'Thirteen, Khyber Street. A back-to-back rabbit hutch. One room downstairs, two up. One stinking lavatory to every four houses. My old man cleared off when I was a kid - he had sense. My old lady - she kept us going by cleaning when she could get it. When she couldn't, there were always ten bob quickies behind the boozer on a Saturday night. A bloody whore, that's all she was.'

'Who found time to clean and iron your cassock and cotta each week?' Father da Costa said. 'Who fed you and washed you and sent you to this church?'

'To hell with that,' Meehan said wildly. 'All she ever got - all anybody from Khyber Street ever got - was screwed into the ground, but not me. Not Jack Meehan. I'm up here now. I'm on top of the world where nobody can touch me.'

Father da Costa felt no pity, only a terrible disgust. He said calmly, 'I believe you to be the most evil and perverted creature it has ever been my misfortune to meet. If I could, I would hand you over to the proper authorities gladly. Tell them everything, but for reasons well known to you, this is impossible.'

Meehan seemed to be more in control of himself again. He said, with a sneer, 'That's good, that is. Me, you wouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole, but Fallon, he's different, isn't he? I mean, he only murders women and children.'

For a moment, Father da Costa had to fight for breath. When he spoke, it was with difficulty, 'What are you talking about?

'Don't say he hasn't told you,' Meehan jeered. 'Nothing about Belfast or Londonderry or that bus full of schoolkids he blew up?' He leaned forward, a strange intent look on his face and then he smiled, softly 'You don't like that, do you? Fell for his Irish charm. Did you fancy him, then? I've heard some of you priests ...'

There was a hand at his throat, a hand of iron and he was back against the cage of the hoist, fighting for his very life, the priest's eyes sparking fire. Meehan tried to bring up a knee and found only a thigh turned expertly to block it. Father da Costa shook him like a rat, then opened the door and threw him inside.

The cage door slammed as Meehan picked himself up. 'I'll have you for this,' he said hoarsely. 'You're dead meat.'

'My God, Mr Meehan,' Father da Costa said softly through the bars of the cage, 'is a God of Love. But he is also a God of Wrath. I leave you in his hands.'

He pressed the button and the cage started to descend.

As Meehan emerged from the church porch, a sudden flurry of wind dashed rain in his face. He turned up his collar and paused to light a cigarette. It was beginning to get dark and as he went down the steps he noticed a number of men waiting by a side door, sheltering against the wall from the rain. Human derelicts, most of them, in tattered coats and broken boots.

He moved across the street and Varley came out of the doorway of the old warehouse on the corner. 'I waited, Mr Meehan, like Billy said.'

'What happened to Fallon?'

'Went off in the car with Billy.'

Meehan frowned, but for the moment, that could wait and he turned his attention to the queue again. 'What are they all waiting for? This bleeding soup kitchen to open?'

'That's right, Mr Meehan. In the crypt.'

Meehan stared across at the queue for a while and then smiled suddenly. He opened his wallet and extracted a bundle of one-pound notes.

'I make it twenty-two in that queue, Charlie. You give them a quid apiece with my compliments and tell them the pub on the corner's just opened.'

Varley, mystified, crossed the street to distribute his largesse and within seconds, the queue was breaking up, several of the men touching their caps to Meehan who nodded cheerfully as they shuffled past. When Varley came back, there was no one left outside the door.

'He's going to have a lot of bleeding soup on his hands tonight,' Meehan said, grinning.

'I don't know about that, Mr Meehan,' Varley pointed out. 'They'll only come back when they've spent up.'

'And by then they'll have a skinful, won't they, so they might give him a little trouble. In fact, I think we'll make sure they do. Get hold of that bouncer from the Kit Kat Club. The Irishman, O'Hara.'

'Big Mick, Mr Meehan?' Varley stirred uneasily. 'I'm not too happy about that. He's a terrible man when he gets going.'

Meehan knocked off his cap and grabbed him by the hair. 'You tell him to be outside that door with one of his mates at opening time. Nobody goes in for the first hour. Nobody. He waits for at least a dozen drunks to back him, then he goes in and smashes the place up. If he does it right, it's worth twenty-five quid. If the priest breaks an arm, accidental like, it's worth fifty.'

Varley scrambled for his cap in the gutter. 'Is that all, Mr Meehan?' he asked fearfully.

'It'll do for starters.' Meehan was chuckling to himself as he walked away.

Father da Costa could count on only three acolytes for evening Mass. The parish was dying, that was the trouble. As the houses came down, the people moved away to the new estates, leaving only the office blocks. It was a hopeless task, he had known that when they sent him to Holy Name. His superiors had known. A hopeless task to teach him humility, wasn't that what the bishop had said? A little humility for a man who had been arrogant enough to think he could change the world. Remake the Church in his own image.

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.'