A Mersey Mile (23 page)

As he lost weight and became stronger, clothes stolen in the early days hung off him, and the man he saw reflected in window glass bore no resemblance to the priest on the run. He had acquired a
rucksack that contained all his worldly goods: towel, soap, toothbrush, whiskey, scissors, knives, a spoon and clothing filched from washing lines.

Still in Staffordshire, he wandered in all directions, certain that those hunting him would believe he had left miles between himself and the monastery, but he was cleverer than they were. With
a full beard and in a working man’s clothes, he was just another farmhand who laboured for food and minimum wages, but he felt well and drank less than he once had, since he needed his wits
about him.

Sleeping remained a problem. When employers offered accommodation, he refused it, because he dared not risk screaming out in the night while others were within hearing distance. He continued to
sleep in barns, derelict houses, empty stables, sometimes in woods while the weather remained good. He dared not think about winter. Even autumn would be difficult, as he already felt the cold
during summer nights.

Eventually, he would get to Liverpool and retrieve his few belongings, though he doubted he would be able to return home to Dublin. The jungle drums within the church were no doubt being
hammered to death, yet the newspapers seemed to have calmed down a little. The fact remained that he had murdered a true servant of God, and retribution would be sought.

Eugene Brennan was unforgivable.

Apart from the absence of musical instruments, he was a wandering minstrel. There was a song about one of those, but he’d forgotten it. He wished he could forget Brother
Anselm, but he couldn’t and probably never would.

Casual jobs were easy to come by as long as he didn’t mind walking, and he was getting used to travelling on foot over considerable distances. ‘You can do it, Gene,’ he urged
himself often. He tightened his belt, though the braces were an absolute necessity, since his girth seemed to decrease with every day that passed. His beard grew, the skin on face, neck, hands and
arms turned brown, and he drank less.

He did window-cleaning as long as the householder owned ladders, he mowed lawns, weeded beds, exercised dogs, fed chickens, wrung necks, pulled feathers, removed innards and trussed poultry
ready for ovens. On a few occasions, he drove a tractor, walked cows home and even managed to talk a bit of sense into a partially broken horse. This was the life he had given up for the sake of
his mother, who had wanted him to become a priest. Eugene Brennan was a farmer to the core, and he ought to have remained a farmer.

But he couldn’t stay anywhere just yet. Every evening, he had to find shelter in an isolated place so that no one would be disturbed by his noisy dreams. They weren’t as bad or as
frequent as they had been, yet he dared not take a chance on being recognized and captured. What did he say when he screamed, how much did he give away? He had no idea.

So he wandered on, the man with no name, the minstrel with no music, the priest with no parish. He had few choices. All he could do was move on and on and on . . .

‘You messing about up your sleeve again, Charleson? Does your determined separation from the faith turn you into a cheat and a liar?’ Father Christopher Foley
pretended to glare at his mischievous friend whose poker face was totally unreadable. ‘I am beginning to despair of you, Francis.’ He placed his cards face down on the table and buried
his head in his hands. ‘Who can a man trust these days?’ he moaned.

Four males were seated round the presbytery dining table, every one of them welded to his top-secret cards. They were playing for money, which made this very serious business. An inveterate
gambler, the much-loved man of God played to win, though his features were too mobile and expressive for poker. ‘You’re up to something, mate,’ he accused, releasing his face and
awarding Frank a dirty look. ‘There is mendacity in every line of your body, every pore of your skin.’

‘That’s a big word for a Friday night,’ Johnny Blunt grumbled. ‘This is worse than work, Fred. Our foreman couldn’t hold a candle to Father Foley, and he’s a
walking dictionary since his daughter got into university to do English literature. Gone all posh, he has, except for his thick Scouse accent.’

His brother voiced his agreement. ‘Mend-a-city? It’s what we had to do starting ten years back after the Germans buggered off leaving a load of holes all over the place. Like a
giants’ flaming golf course, it was. But we mustn’t get Father here on the subject of golf, or we’ll be here till a week next Thursday. He’ll start going on about his putter
not putting properly and the holes on the course being too small for his balls.’

‘Me? Me mendacious? Me cheating with cards up my sleeve?’ With his expression arranged in innocent mode, Frank threw in his hand, cards facing upward for all to see. ‘Listen,
Chris. You were the one a few months ago who found an extra queen of hearts in one game. Fred and Johnny here were witnesses, weren’t you? Remember? He produced it with a flourish, and I
already had it in a royal flush.’

‘Surrounded by liars and fools,’ Chris mumbled.

‘Selective amnesia?’ Frank asked. ‘You remember, Fred and Johnny?’

‘Yes,’ chorused the brothers. ‘It was disgraceful,’ Johnny added. ‘You wouldn’t expect it from a priest.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Mind, Father
Brennan’s worse by a long chalk, may he rot.’

Tormented and heavily outnumbered, Chris Foley stood up. ‘You’re all talking a pile of hogwash. I do not cheat. Well, very seldom, anyway. And would I steal pennies from my close
friends? Would I?’

‘Oh, sit down, holy Joe. I can still hear you to this day,’ Frank accused. Then he carried on, his Irish accent spot-on right. ‘ ‘‘Sure it must have been put away
by accident in the wrong pack, for the backs of the cards are all the same, so.’’ You, Father Foley, are a dishonest pastor and a very poor advertisement for Catholicism.’ He
turned to the other two men. ‘Blamed his housekeeper, and she’s a better Catholic than he is. Mind you, that’s hardly difficult when you think about the way he carries on.
They’ve better Catholics than Chris stuck in prison cells all over the place.’

The cleric sat. ‘And you are mocking me, Francis. Just think of the wonderful man who is your namesake. Francis of Assisi is a worthy saint who abandoned the grand life to care for the
poor.’

Fred Blunt put his ten-pennyworth into the mix. ‘You shouldn’t have thrown in, Frank. That’s a good fistful of cards. You had a few possibilities there. And we know you
wouldn’t cheat.’

Frank spoke again to his ordained cardsharp pal. ‘Hang on, Christopher. I am named after Francis Xavier, who went about brainwashing folk in Asia for no good reason whatsoever. Francis of
Assisi could charm birds from the trees, but he’s nothing to do with me. So stick that in your porridge and eat it.’

‘Are we done?’ Fred asked. ‘Me and Johnny thought we’d go for a pint in the Holy House. Fancy a few drinks down the Newsham, Frank? Or the Throstle’s?’ There
was no point in inviting their host, as he was on duty for three parishes tonight. If required, he would deal with the baptism of a frail newborn or the blessing and anointing of a dying
person.

‘No, thanks. I need a word with my so-called Father Confessor here. He has whiskey and a spare room, so I’ll stay the night. Mind, he’s the one who should be confessing his
sins, the cheating old monkey. It’ll all catch up with him one day. What’s that saying? Something about your sins finding you out?’

The two brothers left, their backs shaking with laughter. Frank and Chris spent ten minutes making supper in the kitchen: scrambled eggs, which represented the complete breadth of Frank’s
culinary skills, placed eventually on toast cremated by the resident priest of the parish. He scraped it over the sink, muttering all the while under his breath.

‘You swearing again?’ Frank asked. ‘You’ll go to hell on a handcart if you don’t cut that out.’

‘I’m speaking in Gaelic, which doesn’t count. Anyway, what’s the craic? I can see the worry bursting out of your eye sockets and pouring down your face. You look like a
month of wet Sundays in Blackpool.’

‘You don’t half talk a load of tripe, man. Speaking of food, let’s eat, then I’ll moan when I’ve something in my belly.’

Chris said grace, after which Frank answered with a perfunctory ‘Amen’.

They ate in silence. A friendship as close as theirs did not require constant chatter; each was comfortable in the presence of the other. Frank, a lapsed Catholic, experienced no trouble in
accepting his closest friend’s position in life, while Chris held firmly to the belief that Frank, a man good to the bone, would not be turned away by Pope Peter on the Day of Judgement.

After their frugal and somewhat crisp repast, they lounged in the living-room armchairs. ‘I feel bloated,’ Chris complained. ‘Were those eggs all right?’

‘Till I put the arsenic in yours, yes.’ Frank scratched his head. ‘I can’t stop thinking about him. The bastard’s still out there on the loose somewhere, and
goodness knows what he’s up to. I shiver every time my mind wanders to young Billy and that poor brother. What a career Brennan’s had, from priest to murderer in a few weeks.’

Chris shook his head and sighed heavily. ‘I blame myself, you know. He’s always been difficult and quick to temper, but my passion for golf resulted in the near death of poor Billy
and the killing of a monk. I shouldn’t have handed over the reins to a man I dislike and for whom I never had respect. If he’d been decent in the eyes of the Church, he would have had
his own parish years ago.’

‘Oh, stop it. You didn’t know he was going to turn completely crazy, did you? You needed a break. Everybody wants a change from time to time.’

‘I told the congregation I was going on retreat, which I suppose I was in my terms. But instead of prayer and meditation, I won just short of a hundred quid while playing golf.
That’s gone into the Turnpike Fund, by the way.’ He paused. ‘Where the hell is he, Frank? This is a relatively small country, so how far can he get without being noticed?
He’s not an item you could miss, for he’s built like a brick outhouse and has a face only his mother could love.’

‘No idea. If I had an inkling, I’d be on his tail, believe me. But you are in no way responsible for what he is or where he is. Did he leave any belongings here? Might he come back
to collect his stuff?’

‘He left two missals given to him by his parents at confirmation and ordination, money, a chequebook, and clothing. Oh, there was his father’s fob watch and a photo of his mother in
a little silver frame. I wonder what those poor people did to deserve a son like that one?’ The priest sat deep in thought while seconds ticked by. ‘His belongings are locked in a
repository safe in central Liverpool, so if he does return here, there’ll be nothing for him.’ He shivered. The man had a key to this house. Perhaps he’d lost it? Oh, he’d
better have lost it.

Frank laughed, though the tone held little merriment. ‘There’s your altar plate, chalices, patens and so forth. A man needn’t go far in Liverpool to dispose of them for melting
down. Don’t look at me like that, Chris. If he can kill a monk with a crucifix, he can empty your tabernacle without a qualm and steal your ciborium, the one you and the parish saved for all
those years. Oh, and hide your mother’s silver tea service while you’re at it in case he gets in here.’

Chris nodded. He would need to make sure that his tabernacle, the central point on the altar, would be locked. ‘What else bothers you, O faithless dolt? I can tell your brain’s in
overdrive, because your headlights are on full beam. Yes, those eyes are aglow with devilment.’

‘Polly Kennedy to mention but a few. My mother. A temptress who might put Eve with her apple and her snake to shame.’

‘Your mother’s become a temptress?’

‘No. Mrs Moo? She looks like a barrage balloon in a frock. I just delivered three women for you. Mother is a lost cause, sadly. Polly turned me down because of what my mother did to poor
Ellen, and the temptress is my solicitor.’

‘She solicits like a lady of the night?’

‘Not that old joke again, Chris. She does legal soliciting.’ He told his friend about the shop and flat on Rice Lane, his store of second-hand furniture and trinkets, his desire to
set up his own business well away from Charleson Holdings. ‘It was to be for me, Polly and her brother. A good start in life for the three of us, or so I thought. Now, it feels like just
another pipe dream, though I don’t know why, because I’m going ahead with it. I suppose nothing’s as good without Polly. Without her, I’m only half of me.’

‘She misses you sorely, Frank. It’s not over. She had other stuff to think about is all.’

‘So there’s hope? God, I hope there’s hope.’

Chris grinned. ‘And this solicitor is tempting you into a dalliance of some kind? Or will she want a wedding ring? Take care. You know, marriage is like a card game. You begin with two
hearts and a diamond or three, and you end up wanting a club and a spade. Somebody intelligent wrote that. I know for myself, anyway. I watched my brothers and feared for their sanity, especially
once the breeding started, ergo I escaped into celibacy at the earliest opportunity, because it was a terrifying sight altogether.’

‘So you’ve never been with a woman?’

‘I didn’t say that, did I?’

‘Ah.’

‘Take off the smile before I wipe it with the back of my hand. When you’re old enough, I’ll tell you stories fit to curl your hair. My past might well make a lurid novella or
the tale of a rebel saint. That’s for me to know and you to ponder until I choose to talk.’

Frank’s grin widened. This wearer of vestments, mediator for the forgiveness of sins, speaker of Latin, baptizer of infants, comforter of the dying and bereaved, was probably the most
normal man he knew. ‘The bloody solicitor had me going, Chris. If she’d undone another button on that blouse, I might have jumped on her. Instead, I played dominoes, so at least
I’m not banned from the Liver. Not just yet, anyway.’