The Bells of Scotland Road (66 page)

Michael Brennan had another go at righting himself, managed to reach a seat before collapsing again. He held on to the edges of the chair with his hands.

Billy stood his torch on the table’s surface. When the three men looked around, not one of them could understand how two of them had survived. The wall that separated the living area from
the hallway no longer existed. A support joist above the door hung drunkenly over collapsed brick and plaster. Pictures and statues were broken up and scattered all over the place with books and
papers. Yet above the fireplace, a crucifix remained perfectly in place even though the contents of the mantelpiece were spread all over the floor.

‘A miracle,’ breathed Michael when he saw the cross. ‘Though if God had intended a miracle, He might have saved my whisky. That was a Waterford decanter and a very fine Irish,
too. Still.’ He brushed at his sleeve and tried to smile. ‘It’s probably God’s way of telling me that I drink too much.’

Anthony ordered himself to stop trembling. It wasn’t just the shock that made him shake; he was also worried about what Billy’s reaction might be when Maureen finally put in an
appearance. Had Billy already seen Maureen or Cathy? Probably not. Surely he would have mentioned such a sighting?

‘You chose a fine time to visit the old neighbourhood,’ Billy said to Anthony.

‘Yes.’ The single syllable emerged rusty and dry.

Billy picked up his torch. ‘You’d better get out of here,’ he advised. ‘Tomorrow, somebody will have a look to see if it’s safe for you to use the other rooms,
Father. For tonight, you’d better sleep with the gypsies or in a shelter.’ He turned to Anthony. ‘Where will you go? Bridie’s Morrison will be full, because our Tildy uses
it, too.’

‘I’ll . . . I’ll stay with Father Brennan,’ replied Anthony. He still could not bring himself to tell Billy that Maureen was missing.

Billy guided them out through the rubbish that had recently been the hallway, pushed them in the direction of the school. ‘Stay out of the presbytery,’ he repeated before taking off
in the direction of more fires.

Anthony and the priest stared into a crater that had once been Newsham Street. Father Brennan, who was used to nights like this, sniffed the air, detected no gas. ‘What do we do
now?’ he asked his companion.

‘We find Maureen and Cathy,’ replied Anthony. He gazed round, listened to the falling missiles, saw flames everywhere. ‘They’ve hammered the docks,’ he said.

‘It’s needles and haystacks,’ remarked Michael. ‘The two girls could be anywhere. They could be right under our noses, or in the middle of Liverpool, or—’

‘Dead,’ said Anthony.

‘Don’t say that.’ Michael Brennan loosened the dog collar and grabbed Anthony’s arm. ‘Come on,’ he muttered. ‘We’ll find nothing while we stand
here. And if the lunatics in the sky carry on like this, I’d prefer to be a moving target.’

‘Father?’

Both men swung round. Beneath layers of grime, Cathy’s face was troubled. ‘We just got here,’ she said. ‘Maureen’s in the school talking to the horses. She’s
become fond of horses.’

‘Where have you been?’ asked Anthony. His heart did a somersault. They were alive and well and he could have danced for joy had he not been exhausted. ‘And why on earth did you
come back here? Couldn’t you have waited?’

Cathy pushed a lock of hair from her face. ‘Maureen was the one who wouldn’t wait. I don’t blame her, either, because everything came back to her in a terrible rush at St
Patrick’s.’ She fixed her gaze on Anthony. ‘Was it your brother? Was it?’

‘I think so.’ Anthony forced himself to meet her eyes. ‘We told the police years ago, Cathy. But he disappeared. Maureen didn’t want to talk about things, and we had no
tangible proof, so . . . so that’s why it has dragged on. Forcing Maureen to go over the event would have damaged her even further. I’m sorry.’ He felt useless and stupid, tired
beyond measure.

Michael intervened. ‘You are not responsible in any way for your brother’s sins,’ he said. ‘Cathy, you must not blame Anthony.’

‘I don’t,’ she answered.

‘And Liam . . .’ began Anthony. ‘He’s sick. He’s always been sick, I think.’ He glanced upward, saw that the sky was still populated by planes.
‘Inside,’ he ordered. ‘We’ll get under the headmaster’s table.’ He led the way into St Aloysius Gonzaga.

Maureen was stroking the white-blazed nose of a chestnut carthorse. She was cleaner than Cathy, was certainly calmer. ‘Father,’ she said, ‘how are you?’

Michael Brennan took the girl’s hand. ‘I’d be well enough if the fellows above would kindly stop trying to kill me. And yourself?’

‘Better,’ she replied. ‘Better than I’ve been in years.’

‘That’s good news.’ The priest shunted everyone into the headmaster’s office. After checking the blackout, he lit an oil lantern and ordered everyone under the sturdy
table.

‘Three different trains, two lorries and a very long walk,’ remarked Cathy. ‘We got a cup of tea from a first aid post. Some of the lines are up, so the trains can only go
short distances.’ She patted Maureen’s hand. ‘Maureen never flinched through all this.’ Cathy waved a hand upward. ‘I was scared to death. How long has it gone
on?’

Anthony, whose watch had stopped, judged the time to be about three in the morning. According to Father Brennan, the raids had begun just after eight o’clock. ‘Seven hours or so. Are
you wearing a watch?’ he asked the priest.

‘No. But this has gone on all night. There were a couple of lulls lasting ten or fifteen minutes, but they seem to want to carry on for ever. There will be a lot of casualties, I
fear.’

‘Where’s my mother?’ asked Cathy.

‘In a Morrison at the shop.’ Father Brennan covered his ears, waited for another near-miss to happen. When the earth stopped shaking, he carried on with the conversation.
‘Maureen’s daddy is a fireman – he’s somewhere fairly near – and Diddy’s driving a lorry or a van. She’s rescuing the newly bombed.’ He decided to
say nothing about Maureen’s missing brother. ‘Charlie’s a warden, doing a grand job. Tildy-Anne will be with Bridie, and Nicky goes to a public shelter. Everyone is safe, please
God.’

Maureen smiled. ‘Have you heard from Father Liam at all?’

Anthony felt his pores opening.

‘No,’ replied Michael Brennan. ‘Not for years.’

‘He disappeared into thin air,’ said Anthony. ‘He was supposed to be going to Africa, but we’re sure he didn’t.’

More bombs fell. ‘Will there be anyone alive tomorrow?’ asked Cathy of no-one in particular.

‘You’d be amazed,’ answered the parish priest. ‘They crawl out of the smallest and silliest places quite unhurt. There was one poor fellow slipped down inside the tippler
lavatory. He was stuck there all night until a warden found him. I’m told he complained more about the smell than the bombs.’

After an awkward silence, Maureen spoke again. ‘I have come here to report everything that happened. I must talk to the police. You see, I’m afraid that he might do something to
someone else. I couldn’t bear to think of another girl going through such a terrible time.’ She looked at Anthony. ‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured. ‘Sorry for
you.’

Anthony could manage no reply.

Cathy reached across and squeezed the hand of the man who was loved by Bridie. When Grandmuth died, Anthony would cease to be a stepbrother and would become a stepfather to her and Shauna.
‘Anthony, it’s all right. We all know how he used to hurt you. Like you said, he’s sick in his head and can’t help himself.’

Anthony bit his lip. ‘Give us a few minutes, girls,’ he managed eventually. ‘Then we’ll go to Bridie and get a bite to eat. The police will be up to their eyes in trouble
tonight, so you’d better leave seeing them until daylight. Just let this raid die off a bit.’ He thought about Diddy and Billy, wondered how they would react, what they would say when
they found out that Anthony, Bridie and Father Brennan had suspected Liam for so many years.

They stayed under the table for a long time, each with his or her own thoughts, every one clinging to the nearest person while bombs crashed to earth. So far, it had been a very long night.

He stood outside the shop, pressing his body against the wall in order to conceal himself as well as possible. Bombers droned above his head, while anti-aircraft fire continued
to boom from the city’s gun sites. From his pocket, he took a large handkerchief before stooping to pick up a sharp stone. If he timed his actions well, he would get into Bell’s without
attracting attention to his behaviour.

When a missile hit the ground some hundred yards away, he lifted an arm to protect his face from flying glass as he broke the side window of the shop. With the handkerchief wound around his
fingers, he removed the glazing and stepped into a display of mops, buckets and scrubbing brushes.

The blackout panel fell away and clattered among ironmongery. Liam strode into the shop, saw her standing next to a counter with a lighted candle in her hand. ‘I didn’t bother to
knock,’ he said. ‘Because this is my home, you see.’ He brushed dust from his sleeves and walked towards her. ‘You stole my property, Mrs O’Brien.’ He grinned,
displaying his teeth in a menacing way. ‘Your other daughter is out there, Mrs Bell. Do you prefer to be called Bell? Your daughter, your Cathy. She’s in Liverpool waiting for a bomb to
hit her. She is on her way to you. So is Maureen Costigan. They’ll never get here, because the world is on fire tonight.’

Bridie was terrified. Cathy, Cathy. The waking nightmares had plagued Bridie, had driven her out of the shelter. She needed space, needed air. For what had seemed an endless time, she had stood
in one position with the candlestick in one hand, the knife in the other. Mammy’s broken rosary was in a pocket of her cardigan.

She stared at him, knew that her feet had solidified. Where was Cathy? Was she really on her way here, or had Liam made up the story to cause further torment? Her breathing quickened when she
imagined Cathy out there with all the bombs.

‘Are you alone?’ he barked.

She nodded jerkily.

‘Your younger daughter?’

‘In . . . in a shelter.’ That was the truth. He must not touch Shauna, must not touch Tildy. Cathy, Cathy. Where was Cathy?

Anthony, too, was in the area, though Liam had made no mention of him. Had Anthony followed the girls? she wondered. He had talked about missing children . . . Her breathing quickened when she
thought about Cathy wandering the city streets during this heavy raid.

‘Are you really alone?’ he asked.

She was not alone, but she did not want to lead him to Shauna and Tildy. ‘Yes,’ she lied, opting once again for the smaller offence.

He looked around the shop. ‘I need to go into the storeroom – the one in the living room.’ The letter from Sam to Bridie, the letter he had intercepted and concealed in his
cell, had revealed the hiding place. That stole was in a box behind a heavy cabinet. She would not have discovered it, he felt sure. Some of dad’s secret caches had been almost impossible to
penetrate. ‘There is something of mine in there,’ he said.

There was something of Bridie’s in the living room, too. Bridie’s something was a living, breathing child in a Morrison. ‘You can’t go in there,’ she said.
‘The storeroom was . . . was hit. It has been declared unsafe.’ Did several small sins build up to become mortal?

‘Nevertheless, I intend to take what is mine.’

With panic pounding in her breast, Bridie backed away until she stood at the bottom of the stairs. ‘No,’ she said.

A temporary silence was broken by shells from a gun site. ‘I shall do exactly as I please,’ he snarled. Anger rushed into his temples, made him hot and uncertain. Martin was talking
to him, was telling him to leave well alone. ‘Shut up,’ snapped Liam.

Bridie, who had not spoken, felt the hairs on her arms standing up. If she retreated any further, she would be in the living room where Shauna and Tildy lay in their cage. Screaming was not an
option, as that would either alert the girls or be drowned by the noises outside. She should have told the warden, should have sent for help.

‘No more, Liam,’ begged Martin.

Liam shrugged off his alter ego and advanced on his prey. ‘You must be punished,’ he said. ‘You were having lovers’ quarrels with my brother long before Dad’s
death. Now, you are no more than a harlot, no better than a street whore.’

Bridie tried to swallow the panic. ‘Stay away from me,’ she whispered.

He looked at her. The candlelight made her young, waif-like and almost ethereal. ‘You look like a dead child,’ he said, his tone softer, gentler.

Bridie ran a dry tongue over her lower lip. ‘I am no child, Liam.’

The man frowned. ‘I am Brother Martin Waring,’ he told her. ‘I am one of the
Frères de la Croix de St Pierre
.’ He shook himself, literally forced his body
into a series of spasms. ‘No, no, I am Liam. This is Liverpool, so it’s my turn.’

She tried to smile, failed abysmally. The mother had to win, had to protect her innocent child. Bridie forced herself to speak. ‘Tell me what you want and I shall get it for you. A priest
or a brother should not go into an unsafe room. Describe whatever you need, then I can fetch it.’

Liam Bell was not going to be confused or confounded by this small and unimportant female. He silenced Martin by stepping forward and grabbing the candlestick. She struggled, seemed quite strong
for a person of such small stature. The candle tumbled and was snuffed out, but the fallen blackout allowed in light from the side window. Flames cast eerie shadows, made monsters of items stacked
all round the room.

As if in a dream, Bridie felt her arm lifting itself from her side. Slowly, slowly, the knife in her hand slid through fabric, pierced skin, sliced its way into the man’s shoulder. Blood
poured, splashed, hit her face.

Feeling no pain, he used the candlestick to smash the knife from her grip. He licked his lips, smiled, ripped the clothes from her upper body, tugged at her hair until it tumbled free of its
grips. The familiar excitement was back, the thrill of half-remembered pleasures from long, long ago. Power was pleasure and pleasure was power and Martin was silent. He lifted her effortlessly,
seemed not to notice when she rained blows on his face. When she lay across the counter, he smashed a fist into her face and made her quiet.