Blood Whispers (9 page)

She pulled on a robe and made her way next door to her grandmother’s bedroom, but there was no reason to hurry; she already knew what she’d find when she got there.

Father Anthony looked up from the pages of the Bible laid out in front of him on the pulpit and surveyed the congregation as he drew the early evening Mass to a close.

He’d overfilled the censer again. The Three Kings Pontifical incense evoked memories of his days in the Vatican, but tonight it hung in the air in thin choking wisps, aggravating his asthma.

He’d been aware of the young woman sitting in the pew near the back of the church since she’d entered, ten minutes after the service had started. She was modestly dressed in a light blue tailored suit that fitted neatly around the waist. It was a style more in keeping with a professional from Belfast or Dublin, rather than someone living in the small rural parish that he ministered to these days: definitely not a local. She was in her late twenties and throughout the entire service had never once taken her eyes off him, staring with a cool intensity that – whether it was intended to or not – was making him feel self-conscious. What was more disturbing about the young woman’s presence, however, was not her rapt attention, but that somewhere in the back of his mind he was convinced he knew her.

He glanced once more at the handwritten note – smuggled on to the lectern before the sermon had started – then answered the question written on it. ‘Yes, for anyone interested, I
will
be taking confession after this evening’s Mass. The Mass is ended. Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.’

The congregation responded, ‘Thanks be to God,’ then rose as one and started to shuffle along between the pews as they made their way outside.

The priest stepped down from the altar and exchanged pleasantries with a few of the older members of the parish before heading over to the corner of the church to the confession box. The dark brown mahogany frame was a replica modelled on a seventeenth-century confessional housed in the Vatican and had intricate carvings on the columns at each end and a wider spiral column in the centre that separated two thick red velvet curtains. Father Anthony pushed aside one of the curtains and took his seat inside the cramped cubicle, taking care to draw the drape firmly closed behind him. He then slid a set of bi-fold doors into place so that he was completely cut off from the noise of exiting parishioners and sat for a moment enjoying the silence. A small bluebell-shaped shade in rose-frosted glass glowed dimly on the wall above his head, providing just enough light to pick out the ornately patterned brass grille that divided the cubicles and obscured the confessor from view. Seconds later he heard the door of the adjacent booth being locked into place and someone shuffling on to the narrow wooden bench. A long silence followed.

‘The usual opening line is “Bless me, Father‚ for I have sinned”,’ said Father Anthony.

‘I stopped believing a long time ago and haven’t been to church since. I’d feel like a hypocrite, asking for a blessing,’ a woman’s voice replied.

‘In order to have stopped believing you must – at one time – have believed; that’ll do for now. Why do you want to take confession?’

‘I’ve something to confess.’

‘Fair enough. How long has it been since you were in a church?’

‘Twenty years.’

Her whispered tones made it difficult to tell for sure, but she didn’t sound Irish, as he had expected. The lilt was more Scottish than anything, although he was convinced he could pick out certain words that still had an undertone of Newry in their vowel sounds.

‘Twenty years!’ whispered the priest, grimacing. ‘Well, before you launch into anything too elaborate, can I just remind you that I have a dinner engagement planned for this evening.’ He heard a slight snort but couldn’t decide if it was through a smile or to hold back a tear. ‘And while I have your ear,’ continued the priest, ‘I presume it was you that left the note on the pulpit?’

‘It was,’ came the faint reply.

‘You didn’t sign it.’

‘I thought the whole idea of confession was that the priest wouldn’t know who he was talking to.’

‘Indeed, that’s true. And believe me, to my mind the seal of the confessional is inviolable: I’m with Father Francis Douglas on that one. I wouldn’t expect you to have heard of him, but during the Second World War he was tortured to death by the Japanese because he refused to divulge information he had received in confession about the Filipino guerrillas. It is an extraordinary sacrament, but I lived through the seventies and eighties over here when the security forces were secreting listening devices in churches frequented by well-known republicans. Ever since then I’ve never been a big fan of the thing. Also . . . I think I recognize you. If you are who I think you are then it might be more conducive to meet somewhere we can have a proper conversation, don’t you think?’

‘I thought you could only hear confession in a confessional?’

‘For someone who hasn’t stepped inside one of these things for the best part of your life you seem to know a lot about it. You’re quite correct. The Code of Canon Law does say that, but it also adds “except for just reason”, and the fact that I’m on the verge of an asthma attack and can’t breathe for the smell of frankincense is just reason enough. Also, if – as you state – you are a non-believer, we’re wasting our time. That, in concert with the fact that you are known to me, seals the deal. How many others are waiting outside?’ he asked, searching his pockets for a scrap of paper.

‘Four.’

‘The one night you’re in line for an early finish and you have a festival of sinners in your church. Would you have a pen on you? I’ll give you my home address.’

‘I know where you live.’

Father Anthony raised an eyebrow and flicked a sideways glance in the direction of the brass screen.

‘It’s quite a walk.’

‘I have a hire car.’

‘Well, aside from absolving the wrongdoers of Waterfoot, I have a few things to finish off, but I could meet you there in an hour or so. Would eight-thirty be too late?’

‘What about your dinner engagement?’

‘A ruse to stop those that haven’t been to confession for a while from blathering on; pay no heed. If you get to the big houses on the left you’ve gone too far.’

Keira drove along Glen Road for a few miles inland from the beach at Waterfoot, then pulled left on to the soft verge outside a solitary, grey, pebble-dashed house that looked like a child’s drawing with two windows upstairs and two downstairs, both set on either side of a moulded plastic door in a style too elaborate for the rest of the building.

It had been over twenty years since Keira had last set eyes on the priest. Seeing him today in the church had brought back a lot of unwelcome memories and emotions.

She lifted the rusted scrolled-metal latch on the garden gate. Any misgivings or thoughts of turning back were cancelled by the rusted hinges squeaking loudly as she pushed through. She had no choice now but to make her way across the concrete slabs and press the doorbell. If the priest hadn’t already heard her car drawing up, he definitely would have heard the gate.

Suddenly the front door opened and a warm, subdued glow filled the darkness in front of her.

‘Come away in.’ Father Anthony stood to one side with his arm outstretched into the narrow hallway in a welcoming gesture. ‘Who needs a guard dog when you have a creaky gate?’

Keira squeezed past him.

‘Straight ahead, the kitchen’s on your left at the end,’ he added as he closed the door and followed behind her. ‘Can I get you anything to drink? I have a bottle of altar wine, stolen from the church: gives it a certain piquancy that makes it almost palatable.’

‘Palatable altar wine; is there such a thing?’

‘I take charge of ordering it myself. It’s a Mont La Salle from the Napa Valley. Really quite good! As a result I have some of the most devout parishioners in Northern Ireland.’

‘That’d be grand.’

The kitchen was sparsely equipped, with none of the usual modern gadgets in evidence, but it still felt cosy and inviting. Father Anthony had lit a couple of large altar candles and placed them on the window ledge, aside from which the only other illumination was from a small reading lamp sitting at the edge of a drop-leaf Formica table pressed hard against the wall, which had a chair on either side and two place settings. There was a pile of dirty dishes on a stainless-steel sink unit waiting to be washed and a cream stand-alone gas cooker with a pot bubbling away on one of its rings.

Keira realized in that moment that she hadn’t eaten anything all day.

‘Can I get you something to eat?’ asked the priest, reading her mind.

‘Only if you have enough.’

‘Sure there’s plenty! I make a huge load of the stuff on a Monday night and that does me for the rest of the week, but don’t look so worried, I made this lot fresh this morning. Take a seat and I’ll get you sorted. Help yourself to the wine.’

She sat at the table and poured two large glasses of red from the bottle.

‘I presume as you know where I live you would also have my telephone number?’

The priest had his back turned. She couldn’t read the expression on his face. ‘I didn’t think it would be the right thing to do . . . talk to you over the phone. I felt I should do it in person.’

‘I hope you don’t mind me saying,’ continued Father Anthony, ‘but you look so much like your mother I can hardly believe it. It threw me when I saw you at first, like jumping back in time. Quite striking!’

‘Thank you,’ she answered, aware that he was paying her a compliment.

‘How is she? Did she ever remarry?’

‘She’s grand. Still has no end of admirers that she plays off against one another to amuse herself, but she’s never really settled with anyone. Doesn’t seem that interested.’

Father Anthony spooned out two bowls of stew and placed them on the table, then picked up his glass and swallowed a large mouthful of wine before sitting down.

He watched her staring vacantly at the bowl, but not eating.

After a few moments he spoke again.

‘Well, nice as it is to see you, I have an awful feeling that you haven’t flown all this way to share my company, nor my cooking, nor for that matter my wine. No offence but – if I’m being honest – my heart sank a little when I realized it was yourself.’

Keira placed her wine glass on the table and tried to reply, but nothing came.

‘I’m assuming that your presence here can mean only one thing,’ continued the priest, ‘so let me just ask you this. When did it happen?’

‘She died a few days ago.’

Father Anthony dropped his gaze to the floor. ‘Ah, dear! Well I’m truly sorry to hear that. I’ve spoken to your grandmother at intervals over the years – more so recently, since she was diagnosed – but I hadn’t heard from her in a few weeks. I did start to wonder. She mentioned that you had changed your name when you moved away. What do you call yourself now?’

‘Keira . . . Lynch.’

‘Nice. I like it. Would it bother you if I stuck with the name I know you by, otherwise I’ll end up getting confused?’

Keira shook her head. ‘I don’t have a problem with that.’

‘Okay, Niamh McGuire it is, then. I presume you’re over to make arrangements for the funeral?’

Keira nodded. ‘She asked if you would consider doing a Mass in Newry . . . at the cathedral. She wants to be buried with her sons. Although she put it in an odd way.’

‘Odd? Why odd?’

‘She said that, when the time was right, she wanted her ashes scattered over her sons’ graves. It seemed like an odd thing to say.’

‘Well, I presume she was meaning after she was dead. Anyway, I had spoken to her about St Patrick’s and I gave her my word I would make that possible. I’ll have to discuss it with Father Doyle, who runs the cathedral now, but I can’t see that it should be a problem. The boys’ graves are up at St Mary’s, is that right?’

‘Yes . . . I know it’s been a long time and things have moved on, but I’m still not sure it’s the right thing to do . . . go back. There are still a lot of . . . unresolved issues. I’d appreciate it if it was kept as quiet as possible.’

‘I understand your reluctance and I’ll certainly try. There’s no one will hear it from my lips, and I’ll pass that message on to Father Doyle. I should say, however, that your grandmother was a very popular woman. A lot of the mothers in Newry around the time of the Troubles had been through similar experiences and Kathleen was always there for them. I’m sure there would be a number of them would want to pay their respects. It’ll be hard to keep it a secret, but I’ll try my best.’

‘She also wanted a piper: the uillean. She asked if you’d mind choosing the music.’

‘Certainly. And I know the very thing. Have you ever heard of “Róisín Dubh”?’

Keira shook her head. ‘No.’

‘It means Dark Rose. “
A Róisín ná bíodh brón ort fé’r éirigh dhuit.
” “Little Rose, be not sad for all that hath behapped thee.”’

‘You’re going to set me off, Father.’

‘I’m sorry. I’m not trying to upset you. Let’s just say it’s a beautiful piece of music that will fit the occasion very well and we’ll leave it there.’

Father Anthony took another drink from his glass.

‘She mentioned you had something for me . . . but didn’t say what it was.’

‘Indeed. I have it safe, a small package, not much to it. Your grandmother entrusted it to me twenty years ago, bound and taped to within an inch of its life. Her instructions were to keep it safe until she passed away, then give it on to you. All very mysterious! There’s a box of knives as well: don’t ask me where they came from . . .’

‘Knives? What sort of knives?’

‘I’ll get them as soon as we’ve eaten and you can see for yourself, or if you’d rather I’ll fetch it now?’

‘No, that’s fine, let’s eat.’

Keira still hadn’t touched her bowl of food.

She was abstractedly rubbing her wrists together in small circular movements.

‘What sort of knives?’ she asked again.

‘Throwing knives, if I remember. I haven’t looked at them for a very long time, but I believe they belonged to your uncle Danny.’

She was suddenly eight years old again, standing in the small back garden of her terraced house in Ballinlare Gardens, Newry, her uncle Danny showing her the box containing a set of intricately tooled throwing knives. He’d taught her how to use them, how to hold the blade, tip pointing at the ground. He trained her to raise her arm, then bring it forward in a straight line with as much force as possible, and at the last moment flick her wrist and release. But strength wasn’t the main factor. It was as much to do with the timing of the release as the energy behind it whether the blade would stick point first, but Keira had mastered it quickly.