Fear of the Fathers (7 page)

“I'll post it for you, if you like,” she had replied.

“No, no,” he had said earnestly. “No post. It must be delivered by hand. The post is not good enough. Please – you will be paid well.”

After much persuasion she had finally agreed. The recipient was near enough to her own home to make it easy, and the £100 she was going to get for the task would top up her earnings nicely.

Mrs Styles was asleep and Diana didn't hang around. Once she'd set the drip she was back on the move. Visiting Mr Abebi was a bit of a detour, but, after her initial acceptance, she was beginning to have doubts. The letter had been preying on her mind all day, becoming increasingly heavy in her pocket, and she wished to clarify once again that she was not getting mixed up in anything illegal. The last thing she needed was trouble with the law.

She walked past the door to F-ward and waved to the duty nurse as she went. After another fifty yards she made the turn towards the ICU. As she rounded the corner something hit her shoulder almost throwing her to the floor. She steadied herself and looked round to see what had happened. Disappearing down the corridor was a dark-haired man in a white coat.

“Oi!” she shouted after him. “An excuse me wouldn't hurt!”

The figure carried on, oblivious to her calls.

She gathered herself and continued on her way. Probably some jumped up junior, she thought. They were all the same – straight out of medical school and thinking they owned the place. What was she? Just some stupid tart who changed the bedpans! She shook her head and laughed it away.

As she entered Abebi's room the silence hit her. Instinct told her something was wrong.

Her heart started to pound.

She looked over to his monitor and realized that it was switched off. In a panic she checked for a pulse: there was none. She sounded the alarm and then started to administer CPR.

Outside the Angel Inn Stella took a couple of steadying breaths. She hadn't been into the place since Stratton's demise, and without Oggi by her side she felt like a stranger. Father Cronin stood patiently at her side.

“Are you sure you want do this?” he asked.

“Of course,” she replied.

Cronin touched her shoulder gently. “It's just that you seem a bit apprehensive.”

“A bit, I suppose. It's a strange place. Are you sure you're ok with it? Wouldn't you rather stay in the car?”

Cronin laughed. “Don't worry. We've got plenty of places like this in Belfast.”

Stella smiled grimly. “I wouldn't bet on it.”

She walked through the front door and was immediately hit by the trademark stench of stale booze and cigarettes. Being a Sunday afternoon it was standing room only. It was half-time in the football and the jukebox was blaring out
Motorhead's Ace of Spades
. Stella eased her way in and made for the bar. Father Cronin followed close behind. They drew a few stares, but it was so crowded and noisy they were hardly noticed.

After a lot of pushing and shoving Stella finally arrived at the counter. There were two barmen, and to her relief one of them was Oggi's friend Lenny. He recognized her and attended to her almost immediately.

“Hi Lenny,” she shouted, trying to make herself heard. “How's it going?”

“Busy!” he hollered. “What can I get you?”

“A lager and a Guinness please.”

Lenny poured the drinks and put them on the counter. “What brings you here?” he asked.

“I'm looking for people who knew Stratton. I'm trying to organize a memorial.”

For a moment Lenny looked perplexed. Then he said, “Oh, right. Of course. Try in the back room. Ask for Tags. He's big and bald, you can't miss him.”

Stella thanked him and paid for the drinks. They headed for the back room. Lenny gave Cronin a suspicious look.

Stella navigated her way through the sweaty mass expertly, keeping most of her pint intact. Father Cronin tracked her closely, his incongruity turning a few heads. He smiled politely as he passed, ignoring the underlying threat of violence that pervaded the air.

The back room was contrastingly quiet, populated solely with bikers. A couple of them were playing pool, and another five sat round a table in the right-hand corner. All of them stopped talking and looked up as Stella and Cronin entered. After a brief silence they went back to their conversations.

Holding court at the table was a scary-looking guy with a shiny head. Stella assumed this was Tags. On his left cheek was a two-inch scar that made his eye droop to the side, exuding an air of malevolence. Another scar at the side of his mouth gave the impression of a cruel sneer. She noted that he had a badge on his jacket embellished with the legend ‘Filthy Few'. She knew this meant he had killed someone. All things considered, she wondered if approaching him was a good idea.

She steeled herself and walked up to the table. “Excuse me,” she said. “Are you Tags?”

“Yes,” he replied bluntly. “What of it?”

Stella cleared her throat nervously. “Lenny at the bar told me that you knew Stratton.”

Tags stared at her with cold, fish eyes. She could feel them boring their way into her brain. Although her instinct was to turn away, she knew that she couldn't allow him to psyche her out. She breathed slowly and stifled her trembling.

After what seemed like an eternity, he spoke. “It's Stella isn't it?” he said without emotion.

“Yes. How do you know?”

“Because I do,” he said.

He picked up a shot glass of whisky and downed it.

“And who's your friend here?” He nodded suspiciously towards Cronin.

“This is Father Pat Cronin,” she said, motioning to the priest. “He's helping me organize a memorial service for Stratton. I thought that maybe some of the guys in here would want to come along.”

Tags gestured for them both to take a seat. It seemed wise to accept.

After another pause Tags said, “A memorial service, eh? And where exactly would you be holding this service.”

“At a church,” said Stella.

Tags picked up a packet of Marlboro from the table and offered one to Stella. She took it gratefully and, after taking one for himself, he lit them. “I don't recall Stratton being a big fan of the Church, especially the Catholic one.” He turned to Cronin. “You are a Catholic aren't you Father?”

“I am indeed,” said Cronin. “But whether he was a Catholic or not, I'd be prepared to have a little service for him.”

“Yes, I'm sure you would,” said Tags, curling his mouth and accentuating his scar. He took a drag of his cigarette. “The thing is, I'm not sure it's what Stratton would have wanted. Perhaps a do without any religious connotations might be more fitting. We could hold it here if you like.”

Stella paused to think. Tags was right enough about Stratton's distaste for organized religion, but at the same time she imagined that any memorial should be a sacred occasion. Was the Angel a suitable place to honour someone's memory?

“Are you sure he would want it here?” she questioned.

“I don't know,” admitted Tags. “But can you think of anywhere less religious?”

“Was Stratton really such an atheist?” asked Cronin.

“Not at all,” said Stella. “In fact he was probably the most spiritual person I've ever known. He just didn't agree with organized religion. To him it was all about wealth and power. He disagreed with people being told what to believe and how to demonstrate their faith. And most of all he hated violence in the name of religious conviction.” She paused. “Can you blame him, with all the atrocities carried out in the name of God or Allah?”

Cronin shook his head. “Of course not. In this day and age I can't blame anyone for despising religion. But it's my job to keep the faith even in the face of extreme unpopularity and adversity. There are still good people out there in all beliefs. We can't let the minority spoil the world for the majority.”

Tags cleared his throat. “I hate to break up this little theological discussion, but aren't you veering away from the point. All we're trying to do is find a suitable venue.”

“Of course,” Cronin apologized. “And if you think that it should be here, then maybe that's the best idea. The Lord has eyes everywhere, not only in church. It wouldn't have to be a service – just a few people saying a few kind words perhaps. The important thing is the remembrance.”

“Absolutely,” agreed Tags. “A few words and a bit of food and booze. Nice and simple.” He turned to Stella. “How about it?”

“I guess so,” she said reluctantly. “If you think that's enough.”

Tags put his hand on her arm. “Listen Stella,” he said gently. “This was Stratton's home remember. I'm sure he'd approve. It'd appeal to his sense of humour as well.”

For a brief moment Stella was disarmed. The softness of Tags' voice and the tenderness of his hands had taken her by surprise. She felt almost hypnotically obliged to agree with him. “Yeah, I suppose you're right,” she said. “Seeing as most of his friends drink in here anyway, it's probably the easiest thing.”

Tags removed his hand. “Well that's settled then. All we need to do now is sort out a date. What about next Sunday?”

“Isn't that a bit soon?” said Stella. “And what about the football? I know what they're like in here.”

“Don't worry about it,” Tags said firmly. “Leave all that to me. You just invite whoever you want, and I'll sort out this end. We'll say noon a week today, yes?”

“Ok.”

Stella and Cronin finished their drinks quickly and left. Although Tags had been friendly there was still a sense that they were interrupting something important. He had dealt with them swiftly and purposefully.

“Well that was easy enough,” said Cronin as they walked back to the car.

“Yes,” said Stella. “But I got the feeling that we were being humoured.”

Back in the pub Tags lit another cigarette and sipped some whisky. His gang sat in silence until they were certain the two inter-lopers had gone.

Sitting on Tags' right was the youngest of the group, a small, wiry lad called Dino. “What do you make of that then boss?” he asked.

“Nothing
to
make of it,” said Tags. “Just a woman wanting to organize a memorial for a loved one. It's natural enough isn't it?”

“I guess so,” said Dino. “But what about that priest?”

“Just helping out I guess. A memorial, a priest – they fit together.”

“Yeah I know, but there was something about him that unnerved me. He was watching and listening too much for my liking.”

“You're being paranoid Dino. Just leave it,” said Tags, putting an end to the matter. His words, however, disguised an unease within. Dino was right – there was something strange about Father Cronin. It seemed odd to him that a priest would go to so much trouble to assist with the memorial of somebody he didn't know. Turning up in a pub on a Sunday afternoon? It didn't make sense. And as for Stella – what was she up to? Was she really organizing a memorial? Or did she have a more devious purpose? Maybe she was back with the police and trying to get on Oggi's trail. Whatever the motive for their visit, Tags mused, he was going to have to tread very carefully.

Stella lit herself a cigarette and then started the MR2. For Cronin's comfort, she whirred the window down a notch. “Sorry Father,” she said. “I know it's a disgusting habit.”

“Don't worry about it,” said Cronin genuinely. “I grew up in a house full of smokers. I'm very much used to it.”

Just before pulling out of the car park Stella stopped for a moment. In the rear-view mirror something had caught her eye. She turned her head round to get a better look.

“What is it?” asked Cronin.

Stella faced front again. “Nothing,” she said. “I just caught a flash of movement. I've got a suspicious nature. That's what years in Special Branch does to you.”

“Well at least I know I'm in safe hands,” laughed Cronin.

Stella took one last look behind and drove away. She kept her eye on the exit of the car park until she turned out of view. Satisfied that they weren't being followed, she relaxed. “Thanks very much for this afternoon Father,” she said.

“It's no problem,” said Cronin. “Like I said to you – I'm only staying at Our Lady's, I'm not obliged to attend their services. I felt that you needed my assistance more.” He paused and smiled. “And besides, I don't think I would have had half such an interesting time in church.”

“No, I guess not. I suppose the Angel is interesting, if nothing else.”

Cronin gazed out of the side window. “I'm quite looking forward to next week actually.”

Stella stubbed out her cigarette. “Are you going to come then?”