Born & Bred (39 page)

“How could you be imposing after bringing our Danny home safe?”

The detectives settled down in their chairs as Jacinta insisted that Danny go on upstairs and she’d follow him on up after she had put the kettle on again. Jerry offered them cigarettes and by the time the kettle was ready they had taken their coats off, too, and looked like a couple of ordinary men. That’s why Jacinta didn’t mind rushing off and leaving her husband to entertain them.

“She just wants to make a bit of a fuss over him. You know how mothers can be.” Jerry poured their tea and offered to top it up with whiskey.

The younger one declined but the taciturn agreed to a few drops—so he wouldn’t catch a chill after spending the night on the mountains.

“And why wouldn’t you?” Jerry began to warm to them, a little “But tell me, where did you find him?”

“He was locked in the boot of their car.”

“And did they give you any trouble? Did you get to arrest the pair of them?”

“We didn’t have to. When we got there they were both lying dead on the ground. They must have had a fight and killed each other.”

“And Danny was safe all along.”

“He was, but he might be in shock. You’ll need to keep an eye out for that.”

Jerry gulped his tea and poured some more.

“So they are finally dead—the pair of them?”

“They are,” the taciturn answered as Jerry poured another drop to warm his tea. “And what I’m about to tell you must be kept confidential. But as the lad’s father you have as much right to know as anybody.”

Jerry agreed, totally, and poured a bit extra.

“They were lying on the ground, still holding their guns, and each one had a hole in the back of their heads, as well as the front.”

“Isn’t that’s a bit odd?”

“As far as we can ascertain, they might have both fired again when they hit the ground—as they were falling away from each other . . .” The two detectives raised their teacups to their faces, simultaneously, as Jerry nodded until he realized what they were really telling him.

“There won’t be a fuss about it? Danny is just about to leave for Canada. He won’t have to be involved in an inquiry, or anything?”

“I doubt it. I don’t think anybody is going to make a fuss over either of them. And we’ve already taken your son’s statement. I don’t think he’ll need to be involved—any further.”

Jerry thanked them again and called Jacinta down as they rose to leave. She thanked each one of them with a hug and a kiss and saw them to the door.

“Where’s he now?” Jerry asked when they were alone.

“He’s having a bath. He had a bit of an accident in his underpants so he’s just cleaning up a bit. He’s going to go straight to bed after that. The poor lad, he didn’t get a wink of sleep.”

Jerry held her in his arms and kissed her gently. “Why don’t you go up, too, and get a bit of sleep and I’ll be up in a minute.”

He sat smoking for a while and, in time, wondered what his mother and father would have thought of it all. Before, whenever he thought about them, they would appear in his mind like dark shadows and that used to make him shiver. But that was before. Now, he thought they might have been smiling at him.

He was feeling better about the future, too, and swore he’d spend as much time as he could trying to make things better—for everybody. It was the least they deserved for standing by them through all that happened. Danny’s kidnapping was public news anyway—happening right there in the middle of the wedding—and everybody had come up to him and Jacinta before they left.

Some said nice things, but others just looked at him and he could see all the same fears running through them. It could have been any of their children. That was the worst thing about it. It just kept spreading and it was time somebody rose up and did something about it.

He’d talk with Dermot about it. They could set up some kind of thing where they could get all the parents together and Jerry could stand up in front of them and tell them all about his experience.

You never know, he might be able to help some other family from going down the same road.

He’d get right on it—after Danny left.

He tided away the teacups and emptied the ashtrays and was turning off the lights when he noticed the duffle bag, sitting where Danny had left it. He took a peep inside and saw the cigarettes and the gin.

*

Martin had come over to intercept any calls or visitors while they all slept—right into the afternoon. A deep sleep without dreams.

Danny didn’t wake until Mrs. Fallon called round. She was wondering—if they wouldn’t mind—if they would like to come over to her house for dinner. Jacinta had enough to do and it was no bother, really.

Martin had accepted for them and saw her out before Jerry and Jacinta came down from their beds. Jacinta wasn’t sure. She wasn’t sure she was up for seeing people just yet but Jerry thought it was a great idea and he’d run out and get a few bottles of wine.

Danny heard his mother tell Martin to go up and ask him first, and then she’d decide.

“Are you up?” He called from outside the bedroom door and waited a few moments before he came in. “You look like crap.”

“I don’t. I look like shite. Remember? You’re back in Ireland now.”

“I’m happy to see you, too.” Martin ducked behind his fists and threw a fake jab before he reached out and hugged his nephew tightly. “Are you all right?”

“Never better. I guess it was all that fresh mountain air.”

Danny knew that Martin knew he was just trying to put on the brave face. He had to; it was far too early to think about it. But he had heard it all. Even Anto and the Driller, pleading for their lives—almost begging.

Nobody answered them—only two sudden shots.

He heard the sound of them being dragged and set into place. Two more shots followed and then someone opened the boot. They had told him that he’d seen nothing and he’d heard nothing. And it was to stay that way, even when he was off in Canada. They could get to him there, too, easier than here. But if he kept his mouth shut he’d have nothing to worry about. They placed the duffle bag beside him and closed the boot, leaving him in a stunned silence.

After they had gone it got worse. All he could hear was the pounding of his own heart and the sobbing he couldn’t stop.

That’s how the Guards found him. They had put a blanket around him as they asked him a few questions.

*

They didn’t discuss it over dinner and Dermot Fallon got over any disdain he might have had and was the perfect host, opening Jerry’s wine with flourish and offering Jerry a sample sip—the way they did in fancy restaurants.

Jerry played along and swished it around for a moment before swallowing it and nodded for more.

Mrs. Fallon and Deirdre served in perfect unison, roast lamb with assorted vegetables and potatoes, boiled and roasted. All served on very fine china.

“Everything is wonderful, Mrs. Fallon.” Jacinta beamed as the fuss went on around her.

“Thank you, Jacinta and please call me Anne. After all, we’re friends now.”

“May I say,” Martin joined them to keep the conversation flowing. “That I love the china. Is it very old?”

“Actually,” Mrs. Fallon almost laughed, like someone who had been caught in a little white lie. “We found them in a pawn shop.”

“They are very nice, aren’t they, Jacinta?” But Jacinta didn’t answer and just sipped from her wine.

*

They chatted about almost everything else until dinner was over and Martin insisted that he and Danny would help Deirdre tidy things away but her father wouldn’t hear of it. His daughter and his wife had done their part and now it was down to the men to clear off while the women went into the front room. It would take them no time at all and he’d be back with a pot of tea and biscuits for the ladies.

He had been on his best behavior and it was a bit of a strain. He needed a smoke. Though he’d probably have to let Jerry have one, and listen to him while they smoked. But it was better than having his daughter spending time alone with Danny—even if his uncle from Canada was there. It was all very well being nice to the Boyles, and having them over for dinner, but he wasn’t going to stand for that. He’d be neighborly but he didn’t want his daughter going out with one of them.

“Do you see?” Jacinta prodded Jerry. “There’s a real gentleman for you. Get up and help him and maybe some of his manners might rub off on you, too,” She nodded to Danny before flashing Deirdre a quick smile.

“C’mon then,” Dermot Fallon agreed. “You and I can wash and dry while the two lads bring in and put away.”

“Isn’t it nice for them to be waiting on us for a change?”

Mrs. Fallon laughed and agreed as she led Jacinta and Deirdre into the other room where a coal fire glowed.

*

The morning after Danny left, the Bishop waited for Fr. Reilly.

He had been brooding on it all morning, causing Mrs. Power and Mrs. Mawhinney to remark.

When they heard it was about his nephew they both chided him for always being so hard on the young man. The Bishop let them have their say. The whole world was going mad around him but he was used to that. He waited until they were done and dismissed them with a very formal nod and settled behind his paper.

He wasn’t judging Patrick, or any of them. They all went into the seminary modeling themselves after Aidan of Lindisfarne and Ciarán of Clonmacnoise, Kevin of Glendalough and Columba of Iona. Good decent men who spread the word of God through the heathens of Scotland and beyond. They went out with no thought for themselves and served God and no one else, not even the rot that was growing down in Rome.

For him, the greatest of these was Brendan, the Navigator. The man who found America while the Spanish and Portuguese were still praying to Allah. It must have rattled a few mitres down in the Vatican. “It was allegory,” they used to remind him with all of their Roman smugness. “Everyone knows that it was our own Christopher Columbus that discovered the New World.” That always created a ripple among the Spanish and Portuguese but they could all take a back seat now. It was proven that Brendan’s craft was more than capable of making the trip.

Despite all that, he missed the old days in Rome. He had made good friends while he was there. He had studied for a while with Óscar Galdámez who had gone on to do very well for himself. They had kept in touch for a while but they hadn’t exchanged letters in years. He should write to him soon, at least to congratulate him. He was an archbishop now, down in El Salvador.

He still got a card from Giovanni Montini, every year, around Saint Patrick’s Day. He was one of his earliest friends who had gone on to do very well for himself, all the way to the very top.

They were a mixed lot back then. Idealists and conformists all bound together on the great journey that was service to the Church and all her people. Full of hubris, too, they knew far more than the old men they knelt before, praying that God would take the lot of them off to their Heavenly rewards so the younger men could get on with the job.

The years had taught them all patience and modesty and the sad truth that the world of men was no longer theirs to direct. It was their purpose now to bring attention to what was still good and right in the world. He would have to make sure that it was a feature of every sermon on Sunday. The people needed to be reminded of a time when men gave themselves to the devotion of God instead of bickering and fighting and blowing the hell out of each other. He would call Mrs. Mawhinney and have her dictate a letter.

As if on cue, she peered around the door. “Excuse me, Your Grace. Father Reilly is waiting.”

“Send him in, send him in right away.” He folded the newspaper but kept it close in case he had to rap his nephew across the nose.

“Patrick, come in and close the door behind you. Are you well?”

“I am, Your Grace, and how are you?”

“I’m an old man whose days are fleeting but there is still a bit of spark in me yet. Can I get you something to drink?”

“No, Your Grace, but you go ahead if you like.”

“I will so.” He poured a modest dash into the Waterford tumbler he fingered as he sat and studied his nephew’s earnest face. Fr. Brennan had been quietly moved off to a retirement home, out of the public eye. “We need to talk.”

“Yes, Your Grace, and may I apologize, again, for not telling you in time.”

“I was going to talk with you about something else but now that you bring it up: Why didn’t you tell me that the poor man hadn’t been right in months?”

“Well, at first I was hoping that he’d come out of it. I was going to tell you, of course, but I just wanted to see if it would pass before I brought it to Your Grace’s attention.”

“I see.”

“I felt it was the least I owed Father Brennan, after all he had done for me.”

“Well Patrick, that was commendable in one way but, in another, it was very poor judgement.”

“I realize that, now, Your Grace.”

The Bishop drained his glass and stared at his nephew. It wasn’t just the other matter. It was as plain as the nose on his face: his nephew wasn’t ready. He was a good curate but he wasn’t ready to run a parish. The Bishop would have to find someone else.

“Can I ask you something, Patrick?”

“Anything, Your Grace.”

“Are you still happy at the parish?”

“Yes, Your Grace, very happy. Why do you ask?”

“Because I often think that a young man like you should get away and see a bit of the world while he still can. Trust me; they’ll have you back here before the end.”

“I see, Your Grace. And may I ask where it is you would like me to go?”

The Bishop paused. His nephew had a knack for saying one thing while implying another—it was most unsettling.

“That would be your decision, Patrick. I just thought that you might like a break from parish work. I have friends in Rome, you know? I could ask around and maybe we could find you a position in the Irish College there. You were always a great man for the studying. What would you say to that?”

“I am always happy to serve wherever the Good Lord sees fit to put me.”