Never an Empire (33 page)

‘Good. God go with you, my son.'

The door closed behind Father Enrique and the Bishop rang a bell on his desk.

His secretary came in.

‘I want the letters we were sent about Father O'Mara destroyed.'

‘All of them.'

‘No, just the recent one about his goings on. If the Americans ask me whether there are any reports on his behaviour over recent months I want to be able to say truthfully that there are not.'

‘Are they likely to ask?'

‘They have already. One of them came to see me. He seemed to already know a great deal about what was going on in Father Enrique's parish.'

‘Then if you have already told them –'

‘Oh, I didn't. The American was clever, very clever, but he has obviously had little or nothing to do with the Catholic Church. He is awaiting my answer. Once you have told me that they have been destroyed he can have it.'

‘Is there a problem with Father O'Mara and the Americans?'

‘There was, but I think there is no longer. He is a good priest who has had to learn some simple facts under difficult circumstances. I will watch his future with interest. Go and destroy those letters at once, then get in touch with the governor general's office and make an appointment for the American to come and get his answer.'

‘Yes, my lord, at once.'

Chapter Forty-two

San Juan Bautista

July

The storm had broken shortly after sunset and the rain was beating down heavily. The heat was always more oppressive when summer storms like this brewed up and the back door was open, giving what little relief it could to the stuffy kitchen. The rain splashed on the stone floor just inside the doorway. Father Enrique sat at the table with an empty plate in front of him, watching the pool of rainwater slowly grow. Soon it would start to run further into the kitchen over the slightly uneven flags. The lamp on the table was turned up full, a luxury he allowed himself now that he lived on his own. He didn't like sitting in darkness. When he went to bed his thoughts, in the darkness before sleep came, were always unsettling. Drink helped but could not cure.

He stood and went to the cupboard that held the brandy. He was reaching for the bottle when a voice spoke behind him.

‘No need for that, Father; I brought my own.'

Father Enrique turned.

In the doorway, with water streaming from a heavy, long, waxed cape stood the American. On his head he wore a standard US army issue wide-brimmed hat. The brim was heavy with water and sagged at front and rear. The American came into the kitchen and walked over to the table. He left a trail of rainwater on the floor among which his wet footprints could be seen. He lifted the cape and put two bottles on the table.

Father Enrique stood looking at him holding the bottle of brandy. The American pointed to it.

‘Did you expect me, Father?'

‘No.'

The American grinned.

‘That's good. I wanted this visit to be a surprise and if you knew I was coming, well, that would worry me.' He took off his hat and swung it by the brim. The water scattered across the floor. He threw the hat onto the table, pulled the cape over his head, and tossed it aside. ‘Put away that bottle and get us a couple of glasses. We're going to have a drink and a talk.'

‘Are we?'

‘Sure we are.' The American pulled back a chair and sat down heavily. ‘We're buddies, aren't we? Old buddies. Why shouldn't we sit and talk?' His voice became truculent. ‘I'd like to see any bastard try to stop a couple of old buddies like us talk. There's two men at your gate out there, policemen, and they're armed. If any bastard tried to stop us talking …' and there the words and truculence petered out. Father Enrique waited. The American looked down at the table for a few moments. Then raised his head. ‘Sorry, Father, I get this way sometimes. Too often lately. I'm drunk, in case you hadn't noticed.'

‘I'd noticed.'

The American smiled.

‘Sure you had. You're smart enough to do that. Still, drunk or not we can still have a talk, can't we?'

‘If you insist.'

‘Aw, come on, Father, don't be like that. Do you think I wanted to come back? No, sir. I had a special reason to come all the way back from Manila to this shithole. If I hadn't got to come then horses couldn't drag me, no sir, not wild horses.' He looked at the bottle then at Father Enrique. ‘Come on, Father, what about those glasses?'

Father Enrique put the brandy bottle back in its cupboard, took two glasses from a shelf, and brought them to the table.

‘Have you come to arrest me?'

The American laughed.

‘No, Father, not to arrest you. What would I arrest you for? Anyway, I don't have the power of arrest here. I'm not the police.'

He took up one of the bottles and poured some bourbon into a glass.

‘Should you drink any more? Haven't you had enough?'

The American put the bottle on the table and looked at the glass he'd picked up.

‘No, I shouldn't drink any more. In fact I shouldn't have drunk as much as I already have. But as for enough, how much is enough?' He looked up at Father Enrique. ‘Do you know how much is enough, Father?'

‘No, I suppose not.'

‘Then sit down.' The American took the bottle again and poured bourbon into the other glass. Father Enrique sat down. ‘I had to come back, Father. There's something I've got to do. It's not something I want to do but it's got to be done.' He picked up his glass and took a drink. ‘And this helps.' He held up his glass. ‘To you, Father.'

Father Enrique picked up his glass.

‘To me.'

And they both drank.

Father Enrique let the bourbon slowly go down. He remembered the taste and it was as good as he remembered. He took another sip, a long one which nearly emptied the glass. He was frightened again. The American's arrival had frightened him and he needed to drink to try and stay in any sort of control.

‘That's it, Father, drink up. I've come a long way to see you.'

‘Why?'

‘We'll get to that. First let's have a few drinks and talk.'

He picked up the bottle and held it out. Father Enrique held across his glass and the American poured. Father Enrique took another drink.

‘Is it to do with General Sakay?'

‘No. That's done. You brought the message that he was ready to come in and as soon as you told me I got Dominador Gomez on the move and the whole thing went like clockwork. The general and his senior staff are the guests of the governor general in Manila as we speak.'

‘Guests? Guests in gaol?'

A big smile split the American's face.

‘Don't you trust us to keep our side of the agreement, Father?'

Father Enrique took another sip. It had been a stupid thing to say. He didn't want to make things worse.

‘I'm a priest, not a politician. I don't know about such things. My opinion means nothing.'

‘No, it doesn't. But I'll answer your question anyway; they're not in any gaol, they're in a hotel and being treated like visiting royalty and while the general and his staff are meeting the great and the good their men are peacefully dispersing and going home to their wives and families. Everything is going along fine and dandy just like I wanted it to,' he took a sip, ‘and I couldn't have done it without your help.'

‘My unwilling help.'

‘Willing, unwilling, who cares so long as the job gets done.'

‘So is it all finished now?'

‘No, not quite. There are a few things that need to be done back in Manila but they're all taken care of. I saw to that before I left.'

‘What sort of things?'

‘Loose ends. Tying up the last few bits and pieces; nothing serious. Remember what I told you, Father: I can't leave any loose ends around.' Father Enrique felt the sweat form on his forehead. He knew what was coming but he could see no way of avoiding it. The best he could hope for was to delay it. He cast about for something to say, anything to say. ‘What's the matter, Father: you're looking worried and you're sweating.'

‘It's hot, that's all.'

‘It was hot when I arrived and you weren't sweating then. Is something troubling you, Father?'

It seemed an odd question for him to ask and Father Enrique felt a small spurt of anger.

‘Why have you come back?'

‘I told you, to see you, to talk to you.'

‘To talk, just to talk?'

The American paused and then took a drink.

‘No, Father, not just to talk. There's something else I've got to do as well.'

‘A loose end?'

A look of mild surprise came into the American's face.

‘That's right. How did you know?'

‘You told me just now that you never leave loose ends.'

‘So I did.' He held up his glass. ‘See, Father, that's what this stuff does to you, it makes you sloppy and it makes you talk.' He took a long sip and then refilled his glass. ‘And you're right, it is hot.' He loosened his bow tie and undid the top button of his soft shirt. ‘Glad I'm not dressed up; a stiff collar might choke me in this weather.'

Father Enrique could see it was meant as a joke so he smiled. He looked at his own glass. Suddenly he didn't want any more to drink.

‘You said you wanted to talk.'

‘That's right.'

‘Then talk. I didn't invite you, you invited yourself, and I don't want any more to drink.' He waited a moment to gather himself then forced out the words. ‘Do whatever you came to do.'

The American looked at him for a moment then pushed his glass away, unbuttoned his jacket, and let it hang loose. Stuck in the band of his pants Father Enrique could see the butt of a pistol. The American reached down, pulled it out, and put it heavily on the table.

‘Sorry, Father, it's a tool of my trade.'

‘You kill people, I know.'

‘Yes, I kill people, and I have people killed. It's all part of what I do.'

‘For your government?'

‘Yes.'

‘And that makes it right?'

‘Most of the time.'

‘Well I'm not interested in you or your government or your excuses. You are a killer and that's all you are so now, if you've come to kill me do it, just do it.'

The American's eyes screwed up slightly and a puzzled look came into his flushed face.

‘What do you mean, kill you?'

‘You have come to kill me, haven't you? I'm what you call a loose end. I know too much and one day I might tell what I know so you must kill me. You will make your excuses, that it is your work, for your government, your country. But it will still be murder and it will stay murder in the eyes of God no matter what lies you use to justify it to yourself.'

The American stared at him for a moment and Father Enrique felt the fear flooding back. Suddenly he wanted that drink again. He had tried to face death with honour, even with some dignity, but fine words changed nothing. The man looking at him would pick up the pistol and his life would end and he wasn't ready to die. Please God help me, save me. But the unspoken prayer would change nothing. God wouldn't save him. Nothing could save him. He reached forward, grabbed his glass, emptied it, took the bottle, and poured. His hands shook and some of the bourbon spilled onto the hand that held the glass and onto the table. The American sat passively watching as he drank.

‘For Christ's sake, you're not a loose end, Father. You know almost nothing and what you do know you can shout from the top of your church and tell the whole town any time you like for all I care. The job's done, almost finished. In no more than a week it will be completely finished. It's nothing to me whether you live or die.'

Father Enrique tried to understand.

‘Then why did you come?'

‘For God's sake, man, I've told you, to talk, to see you.'

‘But why?'

‘Because you're a priest, a Catholic priest.'

‘Yes, I am.'

‘Then you can forgive me. You can say to me what you say to people in that Confessional of yours.'

‘Why? You're not a Catholic.'

‘Who the hell cares? All I'm asking is for you to say the words: that you forgive me.'

‘Forgive you for what?'

The American had leaned forward and become more agitated as he had spoken. There was a sort of wild look in his eyes and now he was the one sweating heavily. The beads of perspiration ran down his face and dripped from his chin. The flush became an angry redness. He seemed to be on the point of some sort of seizure.

‘Never mind for what, just say the damn words,' he picked up the pistol and pointed it at Father Enrique's head. ‘Say the goddamn words, Father, or I'll blow your brains out here and now.'

The American pulled back the hammer and Father Enrique saw his finger tighten slightly on the trigger. He closed his eyes.

‘I cannot say the words if there is nothing to forgive. They would be meaningless. There would be no forgiveness.'

He waited for the explosion that would bring his life to an end. It didn't come so, after a moment, he opened his eyes. The gun was still pointed at his head and the American was still looking at him. But now the madness was gone from his eyes.

‘Ask me how many innocent men I've killed.'

‘I don't understand.'

‘And I don't care. Just ask.'

‘How many innocent men have you killed?'

‘Two hundred and twenty-six that I know of for certain. Two hundred and twenty-six.'

Despite himself he asked the question.

‘How can you be so exact?'

‘Because they were US sailors; my own countrymen.' His head dropped for a second then came up again. The madness was back in the eyes. ‘Now say the words, Father, say the goddam words.'