The Bells of Scotland Road (67 page)

Like a lover, he peeled away the rest of Bridie’s clothing, was almost tender towards her. Unconscious, she was a thing of beauty, an item he needed to possess. While owning her for a
short time, he would cleanse her body and pray over her misguided soul. The punishment must fit the crime; he must not be gentle, must not linger in order to prolong his own physical enjoyment.

He ran his hands the length of her body, felt the satin smoothness of her skin, the warmth that emanated from the whore. They had all been warm, had all oozed an earthy heat that needed to be
quenched and driven out. God had sent him here to purify, to make whole this poor sinner.

Stepping back and fumbling with his own clothing, Liam made contact with another human. As he swung round, a terrible pain coursed through his head, causing flashes of coloured light to appear
all round the shop. As he sank to the floor, he sighed sadly, because he had failed to punish the woman.

Bridie moaned and stirred, felt the soreness in her jaw, was immediately aware of her nakedness.

‘He didn’t do it, Mammy. He didn’t. He was getting ready, so I hit him with this.’ Shauna waved the poker. ‘I think I’ve killed him.’ All through the
war, Shauna had stayed with her mother, had waited for something terrible. This was the something. This was why she had remained in Scotland Road. Shauna felt sick, inhaled through her mouth to
stop the nausea.

Bridie sat up, stared at her daughter. She tried to speak, failed. Her body trembled and her face was sore. Breathing slowly, she waited for a modicum of calmness to return. ‘Give me the
poker,’ she said finally. She took the weapon from Shauna, gripped it hard, stood over the man’s body. ‘Find some clothes, Shauna,’ she said. ‘A coat – anything
for me to wear.’

Shauna was riveted to the spot. She had just clouted a man hard enough to kill him. It was as if she had blocks of ice rather than feet attached to her legs, and a cold sweat was pouring down
her forehead and into her eyes. ‘Mammy, I can’t move.’

Bridie drank in the shadowy sight of her beautiful daughter. She had been so wrong about each of her children, had worried too much, had judged them prematurely. Cathy had been a thief because
she had stolen in order to provide for the truly wretched. Shauna was dubbed a madam because she spoke her mind and shamed the devil himself. Shauna O’Brien had the makings of a brave and
powerful woman. While the creature lay motionless on the floor, Bridie spoke to her daughter. ‘I love you, Shauna,’ she said. ‘I really do love you very much.’

‘I love you, Mammy. But I’d be a lot more use if I could walk.’

‘You’ll walk,’ said Bridie thickly. ‘In a minute, you will go and find my clothes. Thank you, Shauna. I shall never forget what you did for me tonight.’

Galvanized by her mother’s naked vulnerability,Shauna pointed to the poker. ‘Belt him with that if he moves,’ she ordered. ‘I’ll find you something to wear, then
I’ll wake Tildy.’ She staggered out towards the living quarters.

Bridie leaned against the counter, watched the man closely, knew that he continued to breathe. Where was Cathy? Had Liam been lying, had he been Liam, had he been Martin?

‘Bridie? Is that you now?’

She did not turn when she heard the familiar voice. Her job was to guard the man on the floor. The fact that she was naked did not matter. Nothing mattered, nothing beyond the watching of Liam
Bell. ‘Yes, Father Brennan,’ she answered automatically . . .

‘Bridie?’

Her mouth was sore, the lips swelling after that cruel blow from Liam. ‘I have no clothes on,’ she mentioned almost casually.

The priest tut-tutted his way into the shop, causing a clatter of buckets to travel across oilcloth. ‘This is no way to go visiting,’ he pretended to grumble. ‘I’m not
used to coming in through windows. It’s all a bit much for a man of my years.’

‘Father, please . . .’

He removed his cape and spread the dark garment across her shoulders. ‘What has happened here, child?’

She sobbed, bit back the pain. ‘I’ve been attacked. It’s Liam.’

‘What?’

‘Here on the floor. That’s Father Liam Bell.’

Michael Brennan looked down at the bearded man. A shiver passed through him as he recalled how he had shared a home with Liam Bell, how he had broken bread with a lunatic. ‘Are you
sure?’ he asked.

She nodded and continued to fight the tears.

The priest prodded Liam with the toe of his shoe. ‘Tell me now, were you raped?’

‘No,’ answered Bridie, her eyes still fixed to the shadowy figure on the floor.

‘Thank God for that. You managed to save yourself.’

Bridie placed a hand on Michael’s arm. ‘Shauna saved me,’ she said. ‘She belted him with the poker. He probably has a broken skull.’

‘That’s a good girl. You have two daughters to be proud of.’

‘I know.’ Bridie continued to watch the motionless figure on the floor. ‘He says that Cathy and Maureen are here. Is that true?’

‘Yes, they’re here.’

‘But why? Weren’t they safer back in Astleigh Fold?’

‘Of course. But Anthony came to find the girls. It seems that Maureen went to mass with Cathy. In the church, Maureen finally realized the identity of the attacker. In spite of
Cathy’s pleading, Maureen insisted on coming home to see the police.’

Shauna appeared in the doorway. ‘Your clothes, Mammy.’ She placed a bundle on the counter. ‘Hello, Father.’ She turned to Bridie. ‘Tildy’s getting dressed. We
can’t stay here, not after what’s happened.’

Bridie took the clothing and dressed herself in relative privacy at the foot of the stairs. Waking Muth would be a waste of time, she decided. Muth would not leave the house, no matter what the
Germans threw at her. All fingers and thumbs, Bridie struggled with buttons and stockings.

Tildy joined her. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked.

Bridie could not bring herself to tell her. ‘Go through to the shop. Someone has broken in. Father Brennan and Shauna are there.’

Tildy, Shauna, Bridie and Father Brennan stood round the inert body in the shop. ‘Who is it?’ asked Tildy.

‘Father Bell,’ replied the priest.

‘What’s he doing here?’

Bridie looked into Michael Brennan’s eyes. ‘We’re not sure,’ she replied carefully.

Shauna took charge, unlocked and opened the front door. ‘Mammy, get hold of one of his feet – Tildy, take the other one.’ With Michael Brennan and Shauna O’Brien at the
heavy end, the four of them dragged Liam outside.

Father Brennan took a whistle and sent a long blast along Scotland Road. After several seconds, a warden and a policeman put in an appearance. ‘Take him, lock him up,’ said the
priest. He glanced skyward, saw a lone bomber making its weary way home. As it faltered its way over Liverpool, the guns fired and finished it off. In a blaze of flame, the plane dived into the
Mersey.

The priest took aside the warden and the policeman, told them to guard Liam well. ‘I shall be along to the station in the morning,’ he said. ‘Just keep him safe.’ He
tugged at Bridie’s arm. ‘Come along now. We’ll go to the school. Anthony is there taking care of Cathy and Maureen.’

‘Our Maureen?’ asked Tildy, her voice shrill. ‘What’s she doing here?’

‘You’ll know soon enough,’ replied Bridie.

They left Liam with his guards, then began the walk towards St Aloysius Gonzaga.

For a reason she would never be able to explain in a million years, Bridie suddenly stopped, turned and retraced her steps. Shauna made to follow her mother, but Michael held her back.
‘The bombing seems to be over,’ he said. ‘Let her go. She’ll be back in a few minutes.’

Bridie gave Liam and his companions a wide berth, ran through the shop and into the living room. From the mantelpiece, she took a small green tin, opened it, sniffed at its contents. The scent
of tobacco still lingered, though the box contained little more than dried dust. ‘Sam,’ she said, ‘thanks for looking after us. Wherever you are, I know you are keeping an eye on
me and mine.’ She slipped the tin into her pocket and returned to the shop.

She heard a vehicle stopping outside, knew that Sam’s son was being taken away. Oh, Sam. Always, always, she would keep the tobacco tin.

Bridie looked at the counter on which she had almost been raped, took in the broken window and the scattered ironmongery. The feeling that she would never come back here was strong. She gazed on
the piles of books, the mangles and dolly tubs, the sewing machine in a corner, a violin on a shelf.

Prodded by an invisible hand, she left Bell’s Pledges and ran towards the church. When the small group had reached Newsham Street, the temporary silence was broken once more by the sound
of engines overhead. A crippled Heinkel stumbled across the sky. It seemed so low that anyone might have reached up and touched it.

‘He’s going home,’ said Tildy wearily.

The plane seemed to be dropping by the second. To ease its journey, it released the rest of its load onto Scotland Road. Bridie stood open-mouthed while Sam’s shop disappeared in the space
of two seconds. She held the tobacco tin tightly in her hand. ‘I’m sorry, Sam,’ she said inwardly. ‘All your hard work gone.’ Dirty air rushed at them, caused everyone
but Shauna to turn away.

Shauna ran screaming down the road. ‘Muth!’ she cried. ‘Muth, I’m coming.’

Bridie spat out the dust and chased her daughter. ‘Shauna! You can’t do anything, you can’t, you can’t!’

The two of them stood at the edge of smouldering ruins. Through clouds of smoke and dirt, they looked into a hole that was once their home.

‘There’s still the staircase, Mammy,’ sobbed Shauna. ‘Look at that. Stairs that go nowhere. And Muth is dead, Mammy. Poor Muth.’

Bridie clung to her child. Three brass balls, still attached to their moulded moorings, lay at her feet. The mangle nearest the door remained intact, as did the sewing machine. She shuddered,
passed a handkerchief to Shauna, who was weeping softly. Death had been inches and seconds away when she had returned for Sam’s tin. Between her shoulder blades, she still felt the strange
touch that had propelled her to safety. ‘It could be my imagination,’ she said. ‘But it was as if Sam had pushed me out of there.’

‘No, Mammy,’ sobbed Shauna. ‘It wasn’t your imagination. It was Sam. He saved us. He loved us, just as Anthony does.’

Bridie, who had worried herself to the verge of illness about how her children would accept Anthony, knew that she was forgiven. God was the architect, no doubt. But Sam had surely contributed
something towards the plan.

Bridie looked through the small window, saw a bed with a motionless figure lying beneath a white coverlet. Liam had been sedated and the stab wound was stitched and healing.
After recovering from the blow to his head, he had become agitated, had screamed at someone called Martin, who, in turn, had given Liam a few tellings-off. His skull was not fractured, though a
sizeable bump had appeared on the side of his head. Even now, days after the event, a large, purple bruise sat over one eye.

‘He’s still asleep,’ said Bridie. She looked at the rest of the company, each one of them sitting in a chair against the wall of a green-painted corridor. The floor was brown
linoleum, and a nasty mêlée of scents fought in the air – disinfectant challenging polish, overcooked cabbage warring with the sad odour of sick flesh.

Brother Nicholas had been summoned to the prison hospital. Bridie had remembered, eventually, most of what Liam had said, had passed on as much information as possible. Brother Martin Waring
really was a
Frère de la Croix de St Pierre
. ‘An odd sort of chap,’ Brother Nicholas had said earlier. ‘Yet so very diligent.’ The good brother sat now with a
rosary in his hands. He prayed for the man who had been arrested, prayed for Liam Bell’s victims and for world peace. The monk he had known for many years was twice ordained and was two
people. Father Liam Bell had been arrested, but Brother Martin Waring would also be paying the price.

Anthony Bell drew the woman he loved into a chair next to his. ‘Stop punishing yourself, Bridie,’ he told her. ‘None of us knew where he was; Brother Nicholas did not know
Liam’s true identity. There is no blame.’

The monk stopped praying for a few moments. ‘Martin Waring is the predominant persona,’ he told the group. ‘I do not know Father Liam Bell. None of the brothers knew
him.’ He fiddled with the rosary, frowned with the effort of remembering. ‘On a few occasions, he has been heard talking to himself, but that sort of behaviour is not rare in a
community such as ours. Many of us pray aloud while working, as it concentrates the mind. But we are a friendly lot, and Martin was close to nobody. He is a very unusual man. After talking to the
doctors here, I think Liam and Martin were communicating with one another for much of the time at Tithebarn. Such a pity.’

Diddy Costigan blew her nose loudly on a snow-white handkerchief. She had come here to kill a man who no longer existed. Billy kept scratching his head as if confused, and Diddy understood his
feelings perfectly. Liam Bell, that bloody awful priest, had raped Maureen. There was still no real proof, yet Diddy knew in her bones that the man behind the nearby door was the guilty party. But
he wasn’t guilty, because he wasn’t Liam; he wasn’t Father Liam because he was crackers. ‘Did he know who he was when he did it?’ she asked of anyone who might be
listening.

Anthony answered as best he could. ‘He probably did, though he had no control. He invented Martin Waring as a means of hiding from his past. But Martin became real. If my brother has a
better side, then he has invested it in Martin.’

‘What’s going to happen?’ asked Father Michael Brennan.

Richard Spencer rose from his chair and walked to the door of Liam’s room. ‘He’s unfit for trial,’ he said. ‘No court on earth will manage to get sensible answers
out of him.’ He dropped his chin, stared at the floor for a few seconds. ‘He’ll be locked away,’ he concluded.

Bridie clung to Anthony. ‘He was asking about the storeroom,’ she said. ‘He wanted to get in there.’ There was no storeroom now. Everything had been destroyed in the
Blitz. Muth was dead. She must try not to think about Sam’s mother, not yet. Muth had been a difficult, wily, mischievous and totally lovable woman and Bridie would miss her terribly. But
there was Liam to deal with first, so Bridie would grieve later and in private. ‘The firemen are looking through the debris today. I doubt they’ll find much.’