The Bells of Scotland Road (26 page)

‘Put those things back.’

Shauna jumped, turned and looked at her big sister. ‘No,’ she replied. ‘I want them.’

Cathy stood her ground. If she told Mammy about Shauna’s stealing, Mammy might decide to go back to Uncle Sam’s right away. Also, Mammy might blame her older daughter for the
younger’s delinquency. After all, hadn’t Cathy been involved in schemes set up by Cozzer and Tildy to provide for the vast Nolan family? She wrenched the case from Shauna’s
hand.

Shauna screamed. In Cathy’s opinion, Shauna’s screams might have put to shame the sirens of large ships on the Mersey.

Bridie rushed in. ‘Whatever is it?’ she asked.

Cathy sighed, gave the case to Mammy. ‘Aunt Edith’s things,’ she said, ‘Shauna has been taking them, and they were for herself, too, not for people who need
them.’

Bridie relieved Cathy of the stolen goods. ‘Shauna, these things are not ours. You must put them back where you found them.’

Shauna looked from Mammy to Cathy, then turned again to her mother. ‘I want them,’ she said clearly.

‘Why?’ asked Bridie.

‘To show to Charlie. Charlie shows me things in the shop.’

Bridie sank onto Cathy’s bed. Two of them. She had two of them growing up with no morals at all. Where had she gone wrong? She had tried to teach them the early sections of their
catechism, had explained about commandments and sins. Of course, Cathy had picked up her waywardness from the Costigans. In a sense, Bridie had come to understand the Costigans’ dual
standards. But now, Shauna was becoming a thief, too.

‘Don’t read too much into it,’ said a voice from the doorway.

Bridie jumped to her feet. ‘I’m sorry, Edith. Shauna’s only a baby. She doesn’t know the difference between right and wrong, not yet.’

Edith eyed Shauna. The child knew, all right. She had been mollycoddled, overindulged because of her slightness of frame and her unwillingness to eat a full meal. Shauna O’Brien might well
grow up believing that the world existed just for her amusement. ‘She will return those things. Won’t you, Shauna?’

Shauna looked at the unsmiling lady. Something in Aunt Edith’s expression made Shauna realize that no foolishness would be tolerated. She took the case from Mammy and went to put back the
treasures.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Bridie.

‘It’s no matter,’ said Edith, her tone reassuring. ‘Most children do that sort of thing. We must remember that Shauna is not turned four yet.’ All the same, Edith
Spencer could not quite manage to like Shauna. Which was ridiculous, she tried to tell herself firmly. Children of Shauna’s age were not fully formed, were still growing and learning. She
smiled at Cathy. Cathy had stolen in order to help her friends who, in their turn, were keeping alive a family of twelve. Instinctively, Edith knew that Cathy would never steal on her own
behalf.

Cathy broke the tension. ‘Aren’t we going to see our horses today?’ she asked.

‘Indeed we are,’ replied Edith. ‘It’ll mean boots, because there may be mud. Boots are kept in the rear porch.’

Cathy ran down to invade Mrs Cornwell’s kitchen. The cook grinned, sighed, thought wistfully of her mistress’s sad lack of children.

Bridie took Edith’s hand. ‘Thank you for stabling the animals,’ she said. ‘And for understanding about Shauna. She misses her daddy. They both miss him.’

‘And you?’

Bridie knew that she would miss Eugene for the rest of her life. But she was married to this lady’s cousin. ‘I’m over it,’ she lied.

Edith heard the lie and said nothing.

Anthony Bell was living in a cottage on Far Moss Lane. From his upstairs front window, he could see Cherry Hinton if he stood on tiptoe on a chair. Which, he told himself, was
an extremely silly position for a man who was headmaster of the local school. Also, he would never see Bridie from here, not without some very strong binoculars.

He stepped down from his perch and sat on the bed. Had fate dictated that Bridie should be sent here? Anthony had left Liverpool for two reasons. Firstly, he needed to keep a great many miles
between himself and Liam. Secondly, the feelings Anthony had for his father’s wife were not appropriate. He remembered the touch of her hand when she had nursed him, the sound of her voice,
the kindness that seemed to radiate from her.

He was content in his work, happy with the cottage. Built of stone, it stood alone on the lane. Opposite the house was one of the farms owned by Richard Spencer. The Spencers had been gentleman
farmers in these parts for several generations, but Richard had broken the mould by becoming a doctor. Now, the crops and animals were tended by tenant farmers, though Richard maintained his deeply
ingrained love of the land. Whenever he had time to spare, Richard Spencer could be seen striding about in long boots and old trousers. He birthed calves, ploughed fields and looked after all who
worked for him.

Anthony loved the tranquillity here, though he missed many of Scotland Road’s colourful characters. This district was quiet and sparsely populated, a far cry from the hum and bustle of
Anthony’s birthplace. At the bottom of the lane, in a slight pleat between two moors, rested the village of Astleigh Fold. It boasted a public house, a post office, a few dozen houses and the
school where Anthony worked. Children from other villages travelled to Astleigh Fold Junior Mixed and Infants, but the numbers were still low enough for the classes to be of a decent and manageable
size.

So he should be happy. He stared at the brass bedstead as if his distorted reflection in one of its decorative orbs could give him some answers. But there were no answers. He had loved Val, had
lost her. He had fallen almost in love again, this time with a woman who was totally out of reach.

His hands curled into tight balls. He knew. He carried the knowledge in his head, and it was heavy, far too weighty for any one man to support. Sometimes, he thought he would go insane, because
his nerves had been worn to transparency by the near certainty that Father Liam Bell had murdered Valerie. There was no proof, nothing tangible that could link the then newly ordained priest with
that heinous crime. How on earth could Anthony have stuck to his guns? Apart from one small outburst in the police station, he had nursed the feelings close to himself, because no-one would ever
believe him. A priest? A Catholic priest committing rape and murder? The desk sergeant and his officers had declared Anthony to be out of control due to shock. And the scratches on Liam’s
face had been made by an illmannered dog belonging to a parishioner . . .

No! Anthony leapt up and smashed his fist against the nearest wall. The pain seemed to cleanse him, because he was calm in an instant. Was he like Liam, then? Was his temper just a fraction
below the surface, was he capable of damaging others while in a rage?

He forced himself to sit down again. Red-hot needles of agony shot through the digits of his right hand. Mercifully, the school was closed for Easter, so he would not need to write for a couple
of weeks.

Liam. Liam had bribed away most of Anthony’s girlfriends. The twins had been young then – fourteen or fifteen. But about a year later, just before entering the seminary, Liam had
begun to conduct his own social life well away from Scotland Road. Once he had managed the spoiling of Anthony’s friendships, Liam had hunted elsewhere, in the seedier areas of the city
centre. Girls had been beaten; some had been scarred for life. The man who had assaulted them had worn a balaclava helmet and an eye mask. Both Anthony and Liam had been bigger as youths than most
grown men.

So, ladies of the night who had plied their trade on Lime Street had taken to walking in pairs and threes. When Liam had gone into the seminary, no further attacks had occurred. Of course, none
of those anonymous women had been murdered, because Liam had saved his worst behaviour for Val. He had punished the prostitutes, had killed the one woman who had been close to his twin brother. Had
he prayed over the corpse? Anthony wondered.

The street girls of Liverpool had enjoyed some peace once Liam had left the city. Coincidence? wondered Anthony. No, oh no. The bruises and the scratches had been visible on his brother’s
hands. With a blinding conviction, Anthony had perceived that Liam Bell’s sexuality was empowered only by fury. He was a woman-hater, a man who needed to wreak his sadistic and sick revenge
on females. Yet it was more than that, more than simple misogyny. Liam despised people and believed that he had been put on earth to punish and cleanse them. Almost every one of the prostitutes had
reported that their attacker had mumbled over them, as if he had been praying. He punished, then he prayed. The women of the streets were lucky, as they had been allowed to live. Unlike poor
Valerie whose life had been terminated by a very sick man . . .

Anthony shifted in the chair. Liam was guilty, but Liam was ill. Anthony hung on to that idea for a few seconds, ordered himself to feel pity instead of rage. And he did feel pity. Not for Liam,
but for the victims. ‘Sweet Jesus, help me,’ he prayed aloud. But would Jesus help him? After all, Anthony had deliberately taken a post in a non-denominational school. He smiled to
himself, realized that he was probably as brainwashed as most Catholics. Jesus was there for everybody, not just for the followers of Rome.

Anthony had no quarrel with the Church, hadn’t stopped going to mass. But he was confused. How could the one true faith harbour in its fold a monster who maimed and killed people? Liam
should be in an asylum. If he were locked away, the world would breathe more easily.

He leaned back, closed his eyes and tried to ignore the throbbing hand. Grandmuth had told him all about the birth. Maria Bell, the mother of the twins, had suffered an appallingly long and
painful labour. Anthony had been born first, a healthy and robust child. Liam, smaller and weaker, had arrived some fifteen minutes later. Was it possible for a person to remember, however
subconsciously, that a sibling had commanded the best nourishment in the womb? Had Liam wanted to take revenge because he had been squashed for months behind the stronger baby?

Anthony shook his head. ‘Jesus,’ he mumbled, ‘I’m serious. Put a stop to him, please.’ Liam had killed Val because Val had been important to Anthony. Must Anthony
remain celibate for the rest of his life so that the population could be safe?

He went downstairs and set the kettle to boil, wincing when his fingers ached again as he turned the tap. While not exactly primitive, the cottage offered just the rudiments necessary to sustain
human habitation. It had a cold tap in the kitchen, a grate with an oven attached, and a hob that lowered over the fire for cooking. The kitchen housed a table, two chairs and a dresser with
blue-and-white plates, cups and saucers spread along its shelves. In the living room, the furniture consisted of a sofa, some bookshelves and an overstuffed armchair. The lighting was provided by
oil lamps, and the bath hung on a nail just outside the kitchen door. A cast-iron grate and a Victorian whatnot completed the living room.

Richard had offered to get the place decorated, but Anthony, unsure of how long he would remain in Astleigh Fold, had refused any help. He liked things the way they were, anyway. And he had his
luxuries. The shelves were crammed with books, and a wireless stood on a small table beneath the front room window. He had to get the accumulators charged at the post office each week, but that was
a small price to pay for concerts, plays and up-to-the-minute news broadcasts.

He warmed the pot, spooned in some tea, made the brew. This afternoon, he intended to walk the short distance to Cherry Hinton. He was going to see Cathy, he told himself.

When someone knocked at the front door, he put down the teapot and hesitated before walking from the kitchen, through the living room and into the small vestibule. Few people called at the lone
cottage.

He opened the door and tried hard not to show his pleasure. She was wearing blue, and the colour did justice to those magnificent eyes. ‘Bridie,’ he managed, ‘come in.
I’m just making some tea.’

She entered and placed a basket on the sofa. ‘Pasties from Diddy,’ she explained. ‘You’d have thought we were going on safari to Africa, the amount of food and lemonade
she packed for us. We saved them for you. Mrs Cornwell kept them cool overnight. They have a refrigerator, you know, at Edith’s house. Did you hurt yourself?’ She noticed that he was
nursing the right hand by cradling it with the left.

‘It’s nothing,’ he answered. ‘Where are the girls?’

‘With Edith.’ She sat down next to the basket. ‘She wants to keep Cathy. She wants to send her to a good school with a uniform and strict nuns.’

He nodded. ‘That’ll be Sacred Heart. It’s near Richard’s practice in Bolton.’

He was a teacher, so she might as well ask him. ‘What would you do? Is it a good school?’ The man had warm brown eyes with laughter lines already taking up residence along the
temples. His brother had lines, too, but Liam’s were around his mouth and just above the nose, nasty furrows caused by frowning and scowling all the time.

Anthony placed himself in the armchair. ‘They’ve been getting girls into Oxford and Cambridge. They have high standards, they expect perfect behaviour and the fees are colossal. As
for what I’d do – well – I’ve never had a child, so I can only hypothesize.’ He paused, pondered. ‘Cathy is unusually clever. She is already receiving a good
education, but the chance to go to Sacred Heart can’t be dismissed lightly.’ Why did he always lecture her? Why couldn’t he sit here like a normal human being having a normal
conversation with another normal human being?’

‘What’ll I do, Anthony?’

He loved the way she spoke, the softness of her voice, the way she caressed the consonants lightly, as if words glided like molten silver . . . He was becoming poetic, albeit inwardly. She had
wonderful ankles, too. He cleared his throat. ‘I can’t make the decision for you. But let me think about it for a while. It is important that you see the school and meet the nuns first.
After that, you would need to know what was on offer, wouldn’t you? Informed decision’s essential.’