The Disenchanted Widow (26 page)

In their wake trailed the husbands, reduced now to the role of mere drivers, cowed into silence by the sheer numbers of the female kind. Dotted throughout the swell of marrieds were other men, the plainly wifeless ones who, without the benefit of a hectoring spouse—“Clean yerself up a bit. Ye’re not goin’ out
in that!”—or indeed a looking glass, appeared as though they’d garbed themselves up in the dark.

Many faces swam out of the past at Lorcan. Kindly faces lined by time and circumstance but still recognizable as the postmistress, the dinner lady, the school nurse from his childhood.

“Still paintin’ the pitchers, are ye, Lorcan?” asked a little round woman worrying a purse out from the depths of a mighty alligator handbag—Lorcan had lost count of the number of times he’d been asked such a question—and immediately he was back in junior school, being handed a plate of boiled bacon and cabbage from the dimpled hand of Miss Alice Mulvany.

“Miss Mulvany…very good to see you,” he said, accepting her fiver. “Oh, yes, still brandishing the brush for my sins.”

“You were always great at the drawin’ when ye were wee, so ye were.” She dropped the purse into the jaws of the mighty bag and snapped it shut. “And isn’t it grand ye’ve made a job of it in the city.”

“God save us, Lorcan, ye made a great hand of the Virgin,” cut in Rose McFadden. “Didn’t he, Josie?”

“Oh, wonderful, Lorcan, so it was,” Josie agreed. “Everybody’s talkin’ ’bout how well she looks.”

Next up was Socrates O’Sullivan. “Gimme two-a them boys, will ye?” he said in the patois of the locale.

“They’re the last two left, Mr. Strong,” a voice broke in. It was Fergal. The boy had been so quiet that Lorcan, preoccupied with dealing with queries as to the state of his health, his mother, his job, et cetera, had forgotten he still sat next to him.

“Gosh! Are you sure?”

“Just as well I got here in time, so,” said Socrates, smiling broadly while a line of expectant faces began to scowl and look askance.

“That’s not fair, so it’s not!” cried a woman whose bad perm and scalded cheeks hinted at many a suffering bout at the
hairdressers. “Me and my Mickey came all the way from Muff, so we did.”

Within seconds the relaxed jollity of the evening was on the turn.

“Aye, and
I
just walked three mile,” a thickset man with an alkie nose protested. “Who’s in charge here?”

All accusing eyes were on Lorcan. Not having factored in such a confrontation, he was at a loss. “Well, Father Cassidy’s in charge. I don’t suppose he expected such a big turnout.”
Neither do I expect him to be able to conjure bingo cards out of thin air because you lot came late.
Wisely, he decided to keep that last thought to himself.

“Well, we’re standin’ our ground tae we get our cards,” said the stick-wielding walker, his tiny eyes ablaze with a fundamentalist fervor.

“Aye, we’re all standin’ our ground,” the sheep behind him bleated.

At that, the rear doors, which young Fergal had gone to shut, were pushed open again.

In breezed Bessie.

“Thank heavens I made it on time! Good evening, Mr. Strong.”

“Hmmph!” the woman with the bad perm sniffed. “
Mister
Strong indeed! And you’ve wasted yer time, missus. There’s no cards left, accordin’ tae him!”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Halstone,” Lorcan said, trying to sound as genial as possible.

“But I’m the priest’s housekeeper!” whinnied Bessie. “If anyone deserves a card, it’s me.”

“I know, but—”

“Aye, and why should that make you any better than the rest of us?” Bad Perm’s cheeks were getting redder as she rounded on Bessie. There came murmurs of agreement from the assembly.

“I’m sure my employer, Father Cassidy—the man running this event—would beg to differ, madam.” Bessie pouted.

Lorcan, sensing that something unpleasant might develop between the two ladies, moved quickly to quell matters.

“Look,” he said. “I’ll see if I can get Father Cassidy to come out here. Perhaps he can sort something out.”

He opened the doors to the bingo hall. The place was packed, the noise level at an animated high. Father Cassidy was nowhere to be seen.

Suddenly, mercifully, a hush fell on the gathering. The reason? Fred McCrum, used-car salesman by day, emcee and resident bingo-caller by night, had clambered onto the stage. He tapped the microphone.

“Testin’ one two, one two.”

The mike squealed and shuddered.

“Evenin’ tae yis all,” said Fred. “Now, a few wee things tae mention afore we get started.” He unfolded a piece of paper. “There’s a blue Robin Riley, reg number en eye double-ye wan four-four five, blockin’ the gate tae Scrunty Branny’s back feel. Could the owner please move it, as Scrunty needs tae get his cows in for the milkin’.”

Someone at the front approached the stage. Fred leaned over, unmooring his comb-over in an inelegant manner. There was a whispered exchange and an audible titter from those nearest the front. The emcee straightened up, red-faced. He returned to the microphone.

“Now, I’ve just been told that the blue Robin Riley belongs tae Deaf Mick. So cud somebody that knows deaf Mick go and get the keys aff him and move it, please? All eyes down for the first single line, a tenner.”

Lorcan espied Father Cassidy stage left. He waved to him, but the priest’s eyes were firmly fixed on Fred and the ball machine.

“Baker’s bun…sixty-one. Young and keen…fifteen. Dirty Gertie, number thirty…”

“Check!” a voice shouted.

There was a ripple of dissent, and all heads turned to see Rose McFadden waving her bingo book in the air.

“Ye cudn’t of checked,” said Fred. “Ye have tae get the five numbers in a row, so ye have.”

“Oh, God-blissus-and-savus!” cried Rose. “I thought it was the three, with the excitement of it. D’ye not get nothin’ for the three?”

“Naw, ye get nothin’ for the three, ye bloody eejit!” a man at the back called out. “Get on with it, Fred, or we’ll be here all fuckin’ night.”

A round of applause had an embarrassed Rose sitting down again. Father Cassidy leaped onto the stage and grabbed the mike. Silence fell like a guillotine blade.

“That’s enough! There’ll be no bad language in this hall. Now, at the risk of repeating himself for a third time, Fred will run through the rules
again
.”

He handed the mike back to Fred and got down off the stage.

Lorcan sighed.

“D’ye want me tae go and get Father Cassidy?” said young Fergal, joining him.

“If you wouldn’t mind, Fergal.”

Moments later the priest was making his way through a congested side aisle—a veritable Moses parting the Red Sea—to arrive, unruffled, in front of the disgruntled would-be bingo players.

Lorcan noted a distinct loosening in the air at the sight of the priest. The woman with the bad perm beamed broadly and nearly curtsied. Her husband removed his cap and crushed it apologetically between his big, hairy paws. The puce-nosed hiker dropped his pugnacious pose. He stood more erectly, in deference.

“Good evening, Father,” said Bessie, simpering.

“Mrs. Halstone. Good evening.” He smiled at the group, turning on the charm. “Now, what have we got here?”

“We’ve run out of cards, Father,” Lorcan said pointedly. “And these people are none too happy.”

“I do apologize. That, unfortunately, is the risk one runs when the stakes are high.”

“I think at the very least
I
should get one,” Bessie declared.

“Yes…well,” Father Cassidy emitted a small sigh, waved a hand. “I do understand your disappointment, Mrs. Halstone, but one must be fair in this situation. These people came late, as did you, therefore all of you have missed out on this occasion. However, there is always next time. No one is saying the jackpot will be won tonight.”

Bad Perm snickered.

Bessie breathed tersely through her nose. “Never mind,” she said, not bothering with the “Father” honorific. She was seething at his total disregard for her position, but seizing the reins of propriety before Bad Perm could get there, said, “Gambling isn’t really my thing anyway. See you tomorrow then.”

She went out, not bothering to shut the door.

“We were just sayin’ what a pity we didn’t come earlier,” Bad Perm said into the chilly pause.

“Aye, it’s our own fault, Father,” the husband agreed. “We’ll know better the next time.”

The rest of the group, unable to meet Father Cassidy’s blessed gaze, shifted uneasily, surveyed the floor, and murmured assent.

“I
do
apologize,” the priest said again. “Yes, well, you know what they say about the early bird. Better luck next time.” He put a hand to his well-barbered hair and threw a glance back into the hall. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really must get back.”

The stragglers looked at one another and glowered at Lorcan before traipsing out, their dreams of being one thousand pounds richer wiped out for another month.

But the hiker hung back, eager to make a point, walking stick raised.

“If I come here next month and ye turn me away again, I’ll shove this so far down yer throat ye’ll be shittin’ splinters for a week!” he warned.

Lorcan, drawing on his fine command of the English language, said nothing.

He shut the outer doors against further encroachment and closed his eyes in blessed relief. The only remaining task was to count the proceeds and deliver the money backstage.

Father Cassidy had provided a carpetbag for that purpose. A rather unusual bag, with a garish icon on the front. The image, Cassidy explained, was that of Our Lady of Guadalupe. He’d purchased the bag in Mexico. He’d been very specific regarding delivery of the proceeds.

“When you’ve got the money sorted,” he’d said, “don’t bring the bag through the hall. Too many strangers, a trifle risky.” He’d handed him a key. “I think it would be safer all round if you used the side door to get backstage. It’s usually locked, so you’ll need that.”

“Right, Fergal, let’s get counting.”

Lorcan pulled open the drawer. It contained a great deal of money. He heaped it onto the table.

Twenty minutes later, with more than £1,800 safely stowed in the carpetbag, Lorcan stepped outside and made his way round the side of the building. He was glad to be free of the stifling hall and stood for a while, eyes shut, savoring the fresh air and relative calm of the evening.

Suddenly, for no apparent reason, he got the feeling that he was being watched. He opened his eyes and looked about, but there was no one to be seen. From inside the hall came the monotonous calls of Fred McCrum and the low hubbub of voices. From the distant trees came the more pleasant-sounding calls of blackbirds.

He decided not to dally. It was safer all round to get the bag of money delivered into Cassidy’s hands without delay, then return to the pub, Saturday evenings being rather busy. And this Saturday evening in particular. The bingo crowd would be filling the bars later on. From what his mother had said, the Beardy Boys were quite a draw.

He proceeded along the side of the building and, arriving by the stage door, fished the key from his pocket.

He went to insert it in the lock.

He didn’t make it.

His hand froze.

He felt the touch of cold steel on his temple, heard labored breathing. Before he had time to react, a raspy voice—sandpaper on brick—close by his right ear said, “Just give us the bag and nobody’ll get hurt.”

“But I—I—” There were two of them, but Lorcan dared not look round.

“Are ye gonna argue with a gun, are ye?” The barrel was jammed against his temple, forcing his head against the door. He dropped the bag.

“That’s more like it.”

“Now, keep lookin’ at that door,” another voice commanded. A
woman’s
voice. “Start countin’ slowly to fifty and nathin’ will happen ye.”

Lorcan could not speak. The gun was now jammed against the back of his head.

“Start
fuckin’ countin’!
” It was the man again.

“One…t-t-two, th-three…f-f-f-four—”

“That’s more like it. If ye look round, ye’re a dead man.”

He heard something being dropped by his feet.

“A wee gift for ye, seein’ ye’ve been a good boy.”

All of a sudden, the thud of metal on bone.

The world reeling.

A stunning pain.

Father Cassidy pulling open the door.

Then, darkness.

Blessed darkness.

No more pain.

Chapter thirty-one

W
here…am…I?
The words—weighty, cumbrous—took real effort to call forth. But he was able to voice them, if only in his head. A dervish was wheeling round and round in there, beating fiercely against his temples, hammering wildly on his skull. He could find no purchase in this alien world. What the blazes was happening?

“There wasn’t much blood,” a voice said, close to his right ear. “Just a bit of concussion. I’ve bandaged him up. He’ll come round in a minute or two…be as right as rain.”

“That’s good to hear,” another voice, a more familiar voice, said. “Must have been a terrible shock for the poor fellow.”

Footsteps retreating.

A door closing.

Silence.

He opened his eyes. Tried to sit up. The blurry room looked familiar. He took in heavy furniture, brocade drapes, and portraits of dour clerics.

Dour clerics? He’d been here before. In this room. Slowly, fragments of the jigsaw were locking into place. Father Cassidy. Parochial house. This room. Father Cassidy…yes…sitting there
in the armchair. “
I wonder if you’d do me a favor.
” Money…collect…something about bingo…yes, bingo.

Something terrible must have happened.

The tightness in his head was fierce. He raised a hand to his scalp and was startled to discover a bandage there. Then it came back to him. He’d been struck on the head. Yes. He was remembering now.

Voices…gun…Guadalupe…Guadalupe Virgin bag…money. Falling down. Blacking out. He shut his eyes again. It seemed such an effort to keep them open. There were voices in the hallway. He kept his eyes shut. It seemed safer that way.