The Trinity (31 page)

“Oh, I talk to him from time to time,” Brad says without looking at Chris. “You know, he was there when Lee did what he did, and… I just know him that way.”

“I was going to say, I’ve never seen you at church, and you’re usually sleeping when I go.”

“Naw, I don’t have time for that crap. Father Crowley says it don’t matter if you go or not, it don’t make any difference. It’s a crutch, basically, for those who need it. I talk to him now and again, you know, we’re both on the support side of the base, not out at the communications sites. I run into him or I go to his office, and we talk about stuff, life, you’ll find out some of it tomorrow. I used to go to his place. He’ll treat you real good, all you can drink and eat, and you can smoke, if you want. He ain’t like any priest I’ve ever known. He’s basically a regular guy.”

Chris is confused and maybe a little jealous. He thought the priest had only befriended him, that their relationship might be somewhat exclusive. But nonetheless, it is a new friendship, and he is excited about what the evening might offer.

They walk to the galley in air that is still cold but less frigid than it has been during the previous weeks and months. The trees are starting to show just the slightest trace of green.

“So you’ll be there tomorrow?” Chris asks.

“Yep, I’ll be there. He asked me to go. He figured out that I knew you and thought you might be more comfortable if there was someone there that you knew.”

The galley is buzzing, and there is much animated conversation, especially among those who have just gotten off their shifts at the communications site. The atmosphere indicates that something significant just happened. Though Chris and Hinckley are basically ostracized, Chris asks someone a few chairs over, a petty officer third class, what happened.

“We’re at war, buddy,” he says with glee. Chris is taken aback; the word war instantly makes him think of the Soviets, which would certainly lead to nuclear annihilation, a threat that looms over the free world that he is now so proud to defend.

“War?” Chris asks while Hinckley works on a mouthful of food, almost disinterested.

“Hell, yeah. We just bombed Libya. We’re gonna take that damn Qadaffi out.  It’s about damn time we did something; we can’t let those A-rabs push us around anymore. We’re the United States and that’s all there is to it, and if you try to push us around, there’ll be hell to pay. I think we got a carrier group right off the Libya coast. Gonna blow Qadaffi right out of his socks.”

“Wow,” Chris says. He knew that the Navy patrolled many fronts, keeping an ever-watchful eye on the Soviets, the Chinese, the North Koreans, and the Cubans. But there were also constant rumblings about the Middle East, the Palestinians being pursued by the Israelis in Lebanon and the ever-troublesome Colonel Qadaffi in Libya.

Under his breath, Hinckley says, “Notice how excited everyone is because of fighting?” The chatter and animated faces make that fact seem obvious.

“Yes.” Chris scans the diners in the galley.

“They’re happy, ain’t they?”

“I don’t know if they’re happy, but I’d say they’re excited.”

“Same difference, but sure enough, they’re happy. And you want to know why?”

“Because they’re patriotic, and the United States is defending itself, that’s why.”

“Maybe yes, maybe no, but I think people like to fight. They need to fight. They need to take care of their own. Just remember that, that’s all. They’re happy because the group that they’re a part of, the United States military, is fighting, and it makes their life a little more worthwhile. It gives them peace.”

Chris is startled by that last sentence. He knows where Brad first heard it.

An elderly man clutching the
Evening News
and walking along Salisbury Road in Edinburgh is the first to notice the red and runny swastika. He walks to the synagogue’s door to examine it more closely, and is chilled by its striking appearance. The dark red blood is in stark contrast to the ashen door. “Bloody fucking hell,” he says to himself, barely audible above his breath.

He quickly walks home to his flat a few blocks away and telephones the police.

Two PCs arrive, dressed in bright yellow rain gear, as a light early spring rain comes out of a barely sunlit sky. After examining the door, they summon an evidence technician, who arrives very directly to scrape part of the swastika from the door.

“Blood,” the evidence technician says, a plain looking woman on the cusp of early middle age. Her hair is cut just above the shoulders to stay within police regulations and it is not styled at all; it lies flat and straight. The early evening rain causes mist to form on her thick and dark rimmed spectacles, which she wipes on the sleeve of her yellow slicker. “I imagine we’ll find out this is blood.” Her face indicates her disdain, though her years on the job leave her shocked by precious little.

The two constables take pictures, as does a reporter from the
Edinburgh
Evening News
who keeps his ear glued to a home model police scanner and chases the reports that may be of human interest. He often arrives at the scene as officers converge, and his face is known by most. His presence is acknowledged with a semi-friendly nod by the evidence technician, who waves and says hello.

The rabbi of the synagogue comes a short while later, a short and thin man imported from England, who is dressed rather neatly in a simple black suit with a white shirt and black tie, an unremarkable yarmulke perched neatly on top of his head. In his private thoughts, he hates Scotland and longs for the scholarly life he led in London before taking this job in the bitter north. He puts his hands on his hips and stares at heaven but doesn’t interrupt the police as they take their pictures.

The reporter approaches him. “You must want some sort of explanation, don’t you, Rabbi?”

The rabbi turns to face him and the reporter snaps his photo, with the door and the swastika in the background. “No,” the rabbi says with irritation. “God will reveal who did this… Whoever did this can’t hide from God.”

“Very noble of you, Rabbi. Any idea who might have done it?”

The rabbi shakes his head. “Whoever claims to be the Trinity. A skinhead group, I suspect. Never heard of them before. We get crank calls all the time, so this doesn’t surprise me terribly.”

One of the constables interrupts and tells the reporter that he’s asked enough. They ask the rabbi the same sort of questions and get the same answers. They write everything down, unlike the reporter, who can commit such details to memory. The police tell the rabbi that he can clean the door and they will be in touch with him. They tell him to please be careful. The rabbi nods and enters the synagogue. The reporter runs away and hops into his rickety Vauxhall and drives away to the office. He knows the picture of the bloody swastika and the grim rabbi will make the front page of the next edition.

Back at the station, an Inspector Parlabane is given the case. He looks at the Polaroids of the door and studies the name ‘Trinity’. This all seems familiar, and he feeds information into the national crime computer and waits for the printer to laboriously print out a smattering of pages. He glances at the reports and immediately picks up the phone and dials the headquarters of the Tayside Police in Dundee.

It is Friday and Chris and Brad share a taxi for the very brief ride to Father Crowley’s house from the base. The taxi drives by the ruins of Inverhaven Castle through the twilight as the castle eclipses the nearly descended sun. Chris can see the tulips of the vast gardens starting to bloom and he recalls his day with Karen. He smiles as broadly as he ever has in his life.

Crowley—while waiting for the two—is anxious. He left the chapel half an hour earlier than normal, telling the Protestant chaplain that he needed to go the home of a despondent sailor off base. When Chaplain Lambert questioned him about who he was going to see and the nature of the crisis, Crowley replied that it was confidential, between himself, the sailor, and God.

Chaplain Lambert didn’t respond. Crowley took his silence as approval, but he knows Lambert is suspicious of him, ever since the death of Lee Rodgers. The priest has felt that Lambert doesn’t regard him as a peer, but more of a nuisance, a monstrous nuisance.      

Crowley sped home. He laid the table as garishly as possible with a somewhat dusty linen tablecloth that is part of the furnishings that came with the house, using polished silverware that he purchased from a resale shop and wineglasses that also came with the house, rather offensive wineglasses with frosted impressions of flowers against a glass that is tinted red.

He has his goblet in his hand, and he has nearly drained a bottle of his favorite South African wine. He constantly checks himself in the bathroom mirror, smoothing out his clothes and his hair, tucking and un-tucking his oxford shirt, which he wears underneath a thin sweater now, as the evenings aren’t quite so chilly. He splashes water on his face and checks his eyebrows and nostrils for renegade hair. Finding several, he plucks them by hand and somewhat enjoys the pain.

He will start to prepare the food when they arrive, simple dishes: spaghetti, garlic bread, salad. He will lean on a well stocked refrigerator full of tins of varied British beers.

The cab pulls in front of the house, and as he watches Chris pay the cab driver, Father Crowley removes the swastika from his mantel and hides it in a kitchen cabinet. He doesn’t want to reveal too much too soon. He could tell that Chris is more intelligent than either Hinckley or Rodgers, and knows he will probably be alarmed by the sight of the swastika.

He watches as the two young men approach his cottage, Brad in front, swaggering with the familiarity of entering this house, and Chris walking timidly behind him, looking around, studying the elm trees that are starting to show signs of life.

Crowley swings open the front door as they approach.

“Welcome, welcome,” he says, and he is quite jovial.

The sight of Chris without a window or desk between them makes him tremble.

“You got beer, Father?” asks Hinckley. He pulls off his jacket and places it in a stuffed and disorganized front closet.

“Of course, of course. Help yourself.” Crowley reaches for Chris’s coat and stores it in the same closet. He hangs it with care, as if it has just come from the dry cleaners.

Hinckley returns from the kitchen with two tins of beer. Chris is impressed by the size and takes one gladly.

“Sit down, sit down.” Crowley points at the couch. “You two fine gentlemen sit down and relax, and I will prepare dinner.” He walks into the kitchen, and asks Hinckley to retrieve coal for the fireplace from the bin outside. Hinckley grabs a tin pail next to the fireplace and walks outside. Chris is alarmed with the familiarity that Brad seems to display with the workings of the priest’s house.

The house isn’t what Chris expected. He thought it would be light and clean and somewhat cheerful based on the conversations he had with the priest. Instead, he finds the house dark, even though the sunlight has just started to wane and is still streaming through very dirty windows. It also seems damp, and Chris feels a chill that is intensified as the beer first hits his throat.

Brad returns quickly, straining from the weight of the coal-laden pail. He sets it down on the ash-covered hearth and feeds the fire, which shows only embers. Chris feels heat instantly and the chill he felt dissipates. He starts to feel warm inside as the beer starts to affect him.

“I told ya he was cool.” Hinckley sits down and quickly drains his beer in just over three swallows. He crushes the empty tin with his hand and asks Chris if he is ready for another. Chris hurriedly finishes his and nods, handing Brad the empty tin.

“Like I said,” says Brad as he returns from the kitchen, “he’s a real nice guy, not like a priest at all. He makes you feel like you’re at home.”

Chris can’t help but agree. Even Karen hasn’t invited him to her home, and here is this priest—an officer no less—having him over, giving him beer, making him dinner.

After a few minutes, the priest summons them to the table and gives them their salad, and then arrives with their spaghetti and a bottle of wine. He fills their wineglasses nearly full.  “Eat and drink, and drink and eat as much as you like. You’re in a house of family, so to speak. I want you to feel like you’re at home here.”