The Bells of Scotland Road (40 page)

Sam was waiting for his son. ‘Bless me, Father,’ he began.

Liam raised his hand and formed the sign of the cross.

‘The biggest sin, the worst sin,’ said Sam. ‘That’s what I’ve come to talk about. You see, I had no time for my children. If I had made time, I would have noticed
what was going on.’

The priest mumbled a blessing.

‘Anthony was always in trouble,’ continued Sam. ‘Broken toys, bruises all over him, missing teeth. I took the easiest way by listening to you and not to him. My mother tried to
tell me what a bad lot you were, but you were so quiet and angelic in the house. You didn’t interfere with business, you see. Your brother’s complaining kept me from my shop, so I lost
patience with him, then ignored him. I had a living to make.’ He paused, took a deep breath. ‘It is three weeks since my last confession, Father,’ continued the penitent.
‘My biggest sin is that I bred a monster. You are my fault, Liam. I take full responsibility for what you are.’

Liam dropped into the chair he had recently vacated. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

Sam stared into those familiar dark eyes, noticed that his son scarcely flinched. ‘Valerie. Little Maureen Costigan. Those street girls in Liverpool. I’m talking about rape, murder
and attempted murder.’

‘Nonsense,’ snapped Liam. ‘You’ve been in touch with Anthony, I take it?’

Sam nodded.

‘He’s hated me right from the start. How do you think I felt when he threw himself into the river and blamed me for the incident? He used to go into the cupboard and push the key
under the door. He broke his arm and said I’d done it. Everything that goes wrong for him is my fault, or so he insists.’

Sam clucked his tongue. ‘You’ll fool me no longer,’ he muttered. ‘I’ve seen the light.’

‘What light?’

‘The stole.’

Liam picked up his cutlery and laid it neatly on the plate. ‘I told you earlier – the stole went missing from the vestry. Anyone could have taken it. Perhaps one of the altar boys,
or—’

‘No.’

‘Dad, I am a priest. Being a priest is difficult enough without all this. I have done nothing wrong. Anything I do is for the good of the Church and her members.’

Sam walked across the room and stared through the window. He looked at the school where Anthony had taught until recently, where young Cathy had enjoyed herself since arriving in Liverpool. St
Aloysius’s was a marvellous school with an excellent reputation. ‘Anthony’s a good teacher,’ he said, almost inaudibly.

Liam heard the words. ‘That has never been in doubt.’

‘Then why did he leave?’

‘I don’t know.’

Sam swung round and faced his son. ‘Because of you. He left because he can’t stand to be near you. He’s been reading some medical books, stuff about mental cases, says
you’re ill. Are you ill?’

‘No.’

The pawnbroker inclined his head in thought. ‘Then why do you hurt people? What the hell gives you the right to go round raping women and murdering them?’ He held up a hand.
‘No, don’t deny it. Anthony put me straight this afternoon. There’s no way he could have made all that up. Too many coincidences, you see. I should have known without needing to
be told. Perhaps I did know, only I didn’t want to face what you are. Because I’m a failure as a father, Anthony has been forced to carry the weight of your sins without my help.
It’s been a heavy burden for the lad.’

Liam glanced at the clock. Depending on the number of customers, Father Brennan might be back within half an hour. ‘You should sleep on this.’ There was a steely edge to the words.
‘After all, you can’t go running around with accusations of this nature, can you? I think you should—’

‘Don’t think for me,’ snapped Sam. ‘Don’t treat me like a child whose fingers have been in the collection plate. I’m sick of your patronizing attitude. You
killed Anthony’s girl. You tried to squeeze the life out of Diddy’s daughter. When Billy hears about that, you’d better be in a different country or a different bloody
galaxy.’

Liam’s eyes were fixed on his father’s face. Never before had he seen Sam Bell in a temper. Sam had been a placid man, one who usually followed the easiest course through life. It
was the Irish bitch who had changed him, of course.

‘Why, Liam?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Why did you kill?’

Liam’s face was devoid of expression. ‘I followed orders,’ he answered at last.

‘From God?’

The young cleric nodded.

‘Voices?’ Anthony had mentioned voices, had told Sam that many diseased minds played tricks.

‘Sometimes.’

‘Then you are ill,’ Sam said. ‘You need help. And those around you need to be kept safe.’

Liam did not understand any of this. Other saints had followed orders straight from God. St Joan had persisted until the flames had swallowed her. St Stephen had been stoned to death. Many
apostles had been martyred because they had obeyed the voice of the departed Jesus. ‘I do what has to be done,’ he announced clearly. ‘The punishment must fit the
crime.’

Sam nodded rhythmically for a few moments, as if deliberating over his son’s words. ‘Then you must hang. If the punishment is to fit, you must feel that noose tightening around your
throat. That’s what Maureen felt. The only difference was that her noose was holy and made of silk.’

Liam’s head shook in disbelief. ‘Maureen was throwing herself at Anthony and—’

‘And that’s no business of yours.’

Liam jumped to his feet. ‘It is, it is!’ His tone rose in pitch until it resembled the wailings of a spoilt child. ‘Anthony is the other half of me. I have to save
him.’

Sam Bell feared for his own sanity. He was watching his son dissolving before his very eyes, as if the man’s face were melting into an unrecognizable shape. The eyes were burning like
coals, and his mouth kept twisting as if something nasty rested on the taste buds. ‘You’re crackers,’ breathed Sam. ‘You are one hundred per cent off your bloody head,
Liam.’

Liam checked himself, literally pulling himself together until he felt taller and stronger. ‘Yes, it is your fault,’ he breathed. ‘If you had taken better care of my mother,
she would have been there to care for me. Instead of a mother, I had that old dragon. She always despised me, always loved Anthony. My mother died because of your neglect.’

Sam staggered back as if he had just been hit. Liam had struck a nerve. Poor Maria. He closed his eyes and saw her, a little waif of a thing with a belly swollen in pregnancy. Maria had had no
family to take care of her. Sam, busy making ends meet, had found little time for his exhausted wife. Muth had tried her best, of course, but Maria had still slipped away quietly. Maria had done
everything quietly, and Sam had not appreciated her. ‘I wish I’d done more,’ he admitted. ‘I wish I’d got to know your mam better.’

‘Then that’s the sin you should be confessing,’ snarled the priest.

The older man’s eyes flew open. ‘Whatever I’ve done or failed to do, my behaviour was nothing compared to yours. I suppose you’ll kill me now. But before you do, remember
this. Others know about you.’ He nodded jerkily. ‘There is no way of silencing all who know the truth, Liam.’

‘Who? Who are they?’ Panic trimmed the words, causing Liam’s voice to rise yet again. ‘Who?’ he screamed.

‘Apart from your brother, who has always known your guilt, the rest are not family members.’ There was only Flash, Sam told himself. No, no. There was Richard. Anthony had spoken to
him, and the good doctor had agreed. According to Richard Spencer, Liam Bell was probably a lunatic. Had Anthony told Bridie? God, were they all in danger?

Sam swallowed the rising panic. ‘Anthony has left the decision-making to me. He tried five years ago to have you arrested for killing Valerie. Now, he feels that no-one will ever believe
him. But there’s proof at last, Liam. There’s the stole. Once that’s given to the police, they’ll start listening to your brother.’

‘Where is it?’ The priest spoke through gritted teeth. He had to find that wretched stole.

‘In a safe place,’ replied Sam. It was locked in a box behind a loose brick in the storeroom, hidden while Sam decided what to do next.

‘Anthony? Is he going to have me arrested?’

Sam shook his head wearily. ‘Anthony, strangely enough, is on your side. He’s been thinking about . . . doctors. You should go into hospital for treatment.’

‘Never!’ roared Liam. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me. Look at my exam results; look at all I’ve achieved. No mentally sick person could do what I’ve
done.’

Sam dropped his head. ‘Your cleverness is part of your illness,’ he said sadly. ‘And that’s the unfortunate thing. You were born with a magnificent brain and you have
used your natural superiority to do damage. I’m sorry, son. I’m so sorry for you.’

Liam leapt across the room. Soon, he would work out what must be done. As God’s chosen messenger, he must carry on with his work. ‘Will you hang me?’ he asked. ‘Or will
you have your own son locked away for life with insane people? Where is the stole?’

Sam saw the devil in his son’s eyes and backed away.

‘Where is it?’

‘No.’ Sam pulled at his collar, which was suddenly tight. He had to get out, had to get away from the madman. The world had fallen apart since Flash Flanagan’s visit. Until a
couple of hours ago, Sam had been the father of a priest. Now, he was the father of a maniac.

‘Tell me!’ commanded Liam.

A red-hot pain shot through Sam’s chest. It travelled swiftly down his arms and into his wrists. There was no air in the room. Knowing that he was dying, he thought briefly about his
pretty young wife, his poor old mother and the son who had gone to work in Bolton, the son he had neglected.

Liam stood by helplessly while his father dropped like a stone. He bent down and shook Sam’s arm, recognized immediately that the man was dead. Like an animal, the priest lifted his head
and roared at the ceiling. His father was gone. More importantly, the stole had been found and he, Father Liam Bell, was in danger.

The pavements were packed with people, yet a strange quiet overhung much of Scotland Road. Old enemies rubbed shoulders, all differences forgotten in the wake of recent events.
United by tragedy, friend and foe stood together to mourn the passing of a man whose shop, like all the others, was closed for the first time in years.

Outside Dolly Hanson’s, a
Daily Herald
poster had been knocked to the ground, ‘
PRIEST STILL MISSING
’ screamed the headline. Sam Bell had died of
a heart attack in the presbytery of St Aloysius Gonzaga, and his son had disappeared without trace on the same evening.

‘I suppose he might be upset, like. In shock or sent crazy with grief,’ said Alice Makin, doubtfully. Alice, money-lender and seller of second-hand clothes, had woken this morning in
her own bed rather than in the bridewell. Out of respect for the deceased, she had stuck to brown ale for several days. She had also taken the unprecedented step of leaving her market stall
unopened. The gigantic woman, surrounded by other ‘Paddy’s’ traders, waited with everyone else for Sam’s coffin to be borne out of Bell’s Pledges. ‘For all we
know, Father Bell couldn’t take no more, so he ran off when his dad dropped dead.’

The pot stall woman grunted. ‘He never cared about nobody, that Father Bell. He once gave me a dozen decades for swearing. Twelve bloody decades. My old man got no tea that night because I
kept forgetting how many times I’d been round the beads. Horrible, that priest was. I can’t see him dashing off just because his old feller keeled over. More to it than that,
Alice.’

Alice Makin sighed. ‘I’ve met nobody what liked Father Liam, the po-faced bugger. But Sam Bell thought the world of him, loved his bones. Never had no time for their Anthony. Sam was
the only one what loved Liam. So now, Liam hasn’t got a friend on this earth. I wonder where he’s buggered off to?’

‘He doesn’t want friends,’ snapped the pot-seller. ‘He likes people not liking him. Cut above us all, that one. No, he’s not gone off grieving, Alice.’

The trams had stopped running, were spilling their human cargo onto the road. Drivers got down and removed their hats. A postman lingered with his sack, waited with everyone else for Sam Bell to
make his final journey to church.

At the back of the crowd, a thin blue line was forming.

‘Police,’ breathed Alice.

‘Never mind – you’re sober,’ replied Alice’s colleague.

‘I bet they’re looking for him,’ decided Alice Makin.

‘For Father Bell?’

‘Yes. Told you, Polly. There’s more going on than what meets the eye. I’ve got a funny feeling about this lot,’ she whispered. ‘I keep hoping he’s just run
away because he’s sad, but my flesh carries on crawling. There’s something wrong.’

But the woman who was usually called Potty Polly wasn’t convinced that the boys in blue were looking for Father Bell. The police were here because the Protestants were here. She cast an
eye over familiar faces, noticed Jews among Christians, Methodists in line with Catholics, nuns side by side with uniformed members of the Sally Army. ‘He never had a lot to say for himself,
Sam Bell,’ she decided aloud. ‘But he was fair. Did you ever see the likes of this, Alice? There’s that kosher butcher, the one what always pays to have his fire lit by a
Christian lad on Saturdays. And look – that lot over there marches with the Orange every year. They’ve all come out for Sam Bell. If I hadn’t seen this with my own eyes, I’d
never have believed it, not in a month of Easter Sundays.’

Alice nodded and folded ham-like arms across her ample chest. ‘There’ll be no fighting,’ she advised her companion. ‘Not at a funeral. Police aren’t here because of
the crowd. No, there’s got to be something else.’

Potty Polly smiled sadly. It was nice to see everybody together like this. For years, there had been trouble on ‘walking days’, when Catholics paraded through the streets with brass
bands playing behind statues carried by strong men. On walking days, the Protestants had to keep their distance from Scotland Road.

The little old woman who had sold pots on Paddy’s Market for almost half a century thought about the Orange marches, too, when Catholic children threw fruit and abuse in the direction of
King Billy’s horse as it ambled through the streets with a child on its back. The poor lad who pretended to be Billy inevitably ended up spattered and filthy. Yet today, because a quiet and
rather cool-mannered pawnbroker had died, the people stood united in an almost silent wall of tribute. ‘He was respected,’ said Polly.