Blood From A Shadow (2012) Read online

  “Let’s think about it, Con, let’s think about it,” he said.

  I drove on towards the McErlane house. Artie clicked his beads, eyes closed, droning his prayers. The panic was over, but he still reeked of shit and puke.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I stopped the Merc a mile from Sarah’s house.

  “Well Artie, what do you say? Are the cops sitting up there waiting on me? Is there an ambush ready, like there was for Sarah’s brothers?” I said.

  “We’re close to the border,” Artie said. “There’s a chapel over there about four miles away, the priest is a friend of mine. We can sit down and think it through, before we do anything foolish.”

  A narrow country lane, with grass up the middle, took us across the border into the Republic of Ireland. Fifteen minutes later a priest showed me into his study while Artie got cleaned up.

  I heard the two old priests moving about upstairs. Could I trust them? I pulled the curtains back, traced the road approaching the house, no lights, just country darkness. Any police vehicle would need their headlights to get anywhere near us. I would probably escape on foot, but wouldn’t get too far before daylight in a strange country. The priest had a phone on his study table. I wanted to contact Rose. I would tell her I was sorry, I hadn’t done anything but somehow I was in trouble again, big time. I lifted the phone but set it down again, afraid the cops would trace my call, afraid of what she might say.

  Artie came back, showered, new priest uniform, not a bad fit.

  “Con, I really don’t know what is happening, I would never have put you in danger, you know that, don’t you?” he said.

  I waited.

  “I don’t know what you want to do now, Con, but I’ll go with you to the police, if that’s what you really want, we’ll just tell them what happened and put our trust in them to uncover the truth,” he said.

  “You don’t fill me with confidence, the way you say it,” I said. “I get the idea you have something else lined up, let’s hear it.”

  The other priest was hovering outside the door. I slammed it shut and heard his footsteps echoing in the tiled hallway.

  “It’s just that you could be in a difficult position, that’s what concerns me,” he said. “We know Archer Duffin was very keen to get you here, and there’s this other man Lutterall as well. Who knows what they are up to, where Swansea fits in.”

  Artie scrutinized himself in the mirror as he spoke, tugged the collar and sleeves, trying to make them fit better. “Cheap shit” he said to himself.

  “What does it look like to the police?” he said. “You’re a war hero, fine, but that really means you are a practiced killer. You’ve had a mental breakdown, you’re staying at the home of a notorious Republican family, who have a grudge against him, Swansea questioned you yesterday. That young policeman knows Swansea was in contact with you today. And who knows what they have to tie you to the scene? Maybe eyewitnesses, maybe you were filmed, set up. You are covered in his blood, you must have left your own DNA at the scene. It just doesn’t look good, Con, not good. My first instinct is to go to the police, but there’s too much going against you here, we don’t know what games are being played.”

  He was almost back on his confident perch.

  “That’s very noble of you, Artie, but what about you?” I said. “It was your secret meeting spot, you were driving, there’s no way I could have set that up without you, they wouldn’t believe it.”

  “I don’t have any worries about myself, Con,” Artie said. “I’m a priest, they know me, in fact they know me very well. It’s not something I ever speak about, but I played a quiet, but significant, part in the Peace Process. Only a handful of people are aware of it, but I was the go-between that kept communication lines open in the darkest days between the IRA and the British Government. The stuff with Swansea was a separate issue, but there’s no way they would want to link me to his murder.”

  “What you’re telling me is that you’re untouchable, Artie, isn’t that it?” I said. “You have too much dirt to spill, know too many secrets. That can work the other way, you know, maybe you’re too dangerous, they need to make sure your secrets never come out.”

  “No, I’m pretty confident that isn’t the case at all, Con, not at all. I don’t think the authorities, in the highest places anyway, wish me any harm,” he said.

  “Swansea told me you were involved with the Taliban,” I said. “That’s where Duffin comes into this, isn’t it? You need to come clean with me Artie, I will beat the crap out of you if I have to, believe me I will.”

  “Of course, I’m still available to support those working for peace and justice, in any small way I can, but my only concern at the present is to keep you safe,” he said. “I do have certain contacts and I intend to use them, but it isn’t that easy. You don’t just lift the phone and get what you want these days. We need to get you out of here first, give me the space to speak to my contacts. They’ll direct the police lower down, on the ground, with the help of God.”

  I noticed he seldom referred to God, for a priest.

  “Then we’ll see if they have any idea who was behind this,” he said. “There’s so much dirty stuff, you would never believe it. Perhaps this has nothing to do with us at all, it could be some internal thing, an excuse to get rid of Swansea, maybe just ordinary criminals, we might never know. But all I can do right now is to get you out of the way.”

  A younger priest appeared with a tray of tea and biscuits. He offered a jug of milk for Artie’s tea, but he pushed it away and took out his shit smeared silver hip flask and added whiskey to his tea until the cup overflowed.

  I made my mind up about Artie. He looked like Ferdy, had his mannerisms, even sounded like him. But he wasn’t the real thing.

  Forty five minutes later we were speeding along dark country roads, heading west. We were going to Knock, he said. Knock I had heard of. Story was that some children had a vision, saw the Virgin Mary, Christ’s Mother, in a peat bog on the west coast of Ireland, up against the Atlantic ocean. Anyway, Knock is a major tourist pilgrimage centre now, hundreds of thousands of faithful visit every year. So many that a local priest managed to persuade the Government to build a brand new airport slap bang in the middle of that bog. Luckily, she chose to appear in this pious Catholic place instead of an Islamic or Protestant one, otherwise Artie wouldn’t have had an escape route.

  Artie had yoked his composure again and we were rolling smoothly away from danger. He looked like he maybe even secretly relished the thrill, still a glint of Ferdy about him, confident that he had all angles covered. Any cop sticking his head in the window of our slightly shabby Renault Scenic would only see two priests on a pilgrimage to Our Lady’s Holy Shrine at Knock, with our Rosary Beads and two air fresheners swinging from the rear view mirror, and would flinch at the hot tang of shit, despite Artie’s best efforts.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Artie gunned through the night, towns and villages blinked as we hugged the southern side of the border. He trafficked text messages, organising, directing, the web of ring tones spanning the shadow of his patronage. The Merc was going back forensically clean to the Country Stores. My bag and belongings would be collected, I’d get them back later. Everything was under control.

  I woke up outside a country house surrounded by fir trees. No car outside, just a light in the porch, darkness all around. Silence, except for the quiver of the trees and the burner from the central heating, timed to warm us.

  There was a whole roast chicken on the kitchen table, still faintly warm, with thick bread and a chocolate cake, still in its box. The refrigerator had been stocked with milk, butter and one large thick skinned orange. Neither of us were hungry, seeing a man’s head blown off dulls the appetite.

  Beds were prepared in two rooms. I hesitated at Artie’s “Good night and God Bless”. What if I woke in an empty house, surrounded by cops, Artie on his merry way back to Rome? The alternative was to climb in beside him, but his shit sce
nt still warmed the air.

  We woke early, I ate chicken and bread while Artie scrubbed himself some more in the shower. He came to the table with a pink bloom and waited for me to serve him..

  “So Artie, tell me again. How am I getting out of here? If my name is out there, I’ll never get past passport control,” I said.

  “Some of us were busy while you slept. The advantage of being a desk jockey in the Vatican is that I can arrange these things, at least between Knock and Milan airports I can, anyway. You don’t need a passport, that’s taken care of. All you have to do is keep your mouth shut and go where you are told. You’ll be collected in Milan and taken to Rome, a safe place. Just have faith in your friends for once, Con, and stop always asking people to prove they are worthy of your trust,” he said.

  Artie was in a bad mood even though he had a new priest suit. Fitted, good quality.

  “You know, Swansea tried to protect me last night,” I said. “His instinct was to save me, not himself. Not sure I would have done it for him.”

  “God have mercy on him. We locked horns in the past, but I prayed for his soul last night,” he said, as he tore the chicken apart.

  “Just doesn’t feel right, the guy tried to save me but I just left him lying there on the steps. I have his blood, his brain tissue on the soles of my shoes, it doesn’t sit right with me that I just walk away and forget about it,” I said.

  “That’s good, Con, that’s very good,” he said. “I was told you had retreated into yourself, weren’t interested in your duty anymore, content to float in your own little capsule. It sounds like you are coming back to the real world now, that’s progress, isn’t it?”

  A twitch of anger fired through my head, but it didn’t show.

  “Who did you hear that from? Duffin? Gallogly?” I said. “You know, I can’t work you out, Artie. I mean, what’s your duty, as a priest? You sure weren’t hanging around last night to pray over a dead man. We blow off a few prayers now, in daylight, in safety, and move on, forget about it?”

  Artie looked at me like I was an unruly altar boy.

  “I’m sorry if I disappoint you, but one thing I’ve learnt as a priest is to try not to judge people, regardless of their actions. Only God above can do that, only He knows what each of us really thinks, feels inside, knows why we do what we do. The rest is just temporal, none of it matters.”

  I startled him by reaching into his jacket pocket for the car keys.

  “I’m going to listen to the news on the car radio, see if we’re on it,” I said, “let Doctors Duffin and Gallogly know the patient is making progress, will you?”

  “When we get you out of here, you can tell them yourself, better still, show them, show everybody!” he shouted out the door after me.

  It had snowed last night, after we came up the lane, so there were no tracks to say this empty house had visitors. I turned the engine and set the heater on overtime. I was a few minutes early for the news headlines, but needed a break from Artie, in case I cracked and had to punch him.

  I knew I was too tense, needed to stroke my nerves, prepare for whatever lay ahead. I looked around, breathing my way to calmness. Somebody had reconn’d well, we were hidden on three sides by the trees, the house itself wasn’t visible from the road, but from where I was sitting I could see any traffic coming from either direction. Nobody need ever know we were there. But no phone, TV or radio in there either, no way to know what was happening outside without using your cellphone, and that would immediately give the game away.

  A deep throated screech said something was moving at the side of the house. I put the car in gear, ready to spin around and hit the main road. A black bird, a rook or crow, shuffled into view, with a plastic shopping bag. There was something in there it wanted. It tossed the bag in violent jerks until a chicken head fell into the snow. The rook stood over it, cranked a 360 degree view to make sure there would be no challengers, then pounded the carrion with its heavy beak. I knew I needed to keep cool, but I hated those disgusting bastards, ones like it in Iraq flocked to gorge on human body parts, drenching their filthy snouts in warm blood. Ferdy had cackled at the sight. This Irish cousin might only be cannibalising its own kind, but I’d wring its dirty neck if I could get my hands on it. I jumped out and threw a stone at it, the rook was half running, half flying, it lifted, dropped, lifted the head until it was out of sight in the trees. A spray of blood powdered the snow. The shopping bag was weighed down by signals we had been there, food packaging, the wrapping from Artie’s new shirt. A shop receipt with place, date and time of purchase there for all to see. Careless, Artie should speak to them.

  Back in the car, Swansea was only third on the news, behind the snow and the Presidential election campaign. Just a headline, no obituary, no footnote to history, his life dispensed in under 10 seconds.

  Artie emerged with a purpose to his step, cellphone to his ear. Looked like he could have been scheduling a round of golf before hurrying to say early Mass, instead of fleeing a murder scene.

  “OK, I think we are all set,” he said. “We go tonight, I’m coming with you but I have to go and see somebody first. You stay here, out of sight, there should be no-one around, anyway, you’ll be grand. I’ll be back for you later.”

  It would be easy to set me up. The cops surround this place, squeeze Swansea’s DNA from me, end of story. Maybe that’s what I was doing here, somebody had decided I would fit the role, who would miss me anyway?

  Five minutes later Artie was skating the Renault down the frozen lane, the cold diesel engine tracking his passage long after he disappeared from my view. I found a padded anorak with a hood rimmed with nylon fur and smelling of paraffin. I put it on and made tracks in the snow to the stone wall, then walked on top of the wall to the trees. The trees were about thirty yards deep, then the hill continued to a ridge about one hundred yards away. I would find out what was over the ridge only if the cops were tipped off.

  I retraced my steps to the house and collected any signs that we had been there. The chicken carcass, bread crusts, orange peel, the slice of cake Artie had started but didn’t like. I washed Artie’s dishes, stripped the bedclothes, picked up the cheap priest suit that he had dumped on the floor. I showered away any trace of Swansea. I had everything in order when I heard a car engine approaching. Not the Renault, a bigger, more powerful engine. I listened acutely, fuck, it was coming up the lane. I was out and on top of the wall behind the house before it crunched to a stop in front of the house. I dived into the trees, frozen, unseen. It was a green Saab, only a driver, couldn’t see me. Artie hopped out. He had forgotten to take my measurements, the prick.

  * * *

  It was dark when the Saab’s headlights lit up the house and trees again. Artie carried two holdalls and wedged his new cellphone between shoulder and cheek. He cut his conversation and sat the bags on the table. He drew out a thermos flask and a cube of silver wrapping paper, motioned me to help myself, he had already dined. The vegetable soup was hot, too much salt, the sandwiches were ham and tomato, soggy, too much salt. While I plugged it down, Artie was pleased to display a priest suit for me. He tested the material between finger and thumb, seemed satisfied, but clicked his tongue when he realised the suit trousers had become slightly wrinkled in the bag. Out to the Saab and then back with a pair of fine black leather brogues, hardly worn, and a green petrol can. The priest collar snug around my neck was the only mask I would need there.

  The bonfire of evidence licked the tip of the trees as we turned out of the lane and headed west to Knock airport. I turned the radio on, Swansea had slipped to fifth place on the news, overtaken by the latest Irish government scandal and the Iranian capture of another US Sentinel drone aircraft.

  “I phoned Mrs Swansea this afternoon, told her he would be in my prayers,” Artie said.

  “That was a risk. You’ve a lot of balls for a priest,” I said.

  “I needed to know if she had any idea I was there, or if she knew that was our mee
ting place,” he said. “I don’t think she knows anything, sounds like a zombie, the poor woman, probably drugged to the teeth. Anyway, I told her I was sure he was doing his duty to the end, she could be proud of him.”

  “But the cops haven’t been asking her questions about you, right?” I said.

  “No, I don’t think so, Con, I don’t think so,” he said.

  It was cold outside, snow and sleet double helixed in the headlights by the Siberian wind. He punched the Saab along, gratified by the new Italian tailored priest suit, basking in his cologne. Now and again he opened his nostrils to reassure himself, then dabbed the small black bottle to his nose, Acqua di Parma Colonia Essenza, it said. He smelt a lot better tonight.

  “There’s something down here I really think you should see, it won’t take long,” he said.

  “You sure we’ve got time for sight-seeing? I thought we wanted to get out of here without attracting attention,” I said.

  “It’s part of your story, Con, part of your story,” he said.

  I could see another memorial just ahead. Artie parked close to the entrance with the headlights angled at the monument.

  “You know who that is, don’t you?” he said.

  I read it.

  Michael Corcoran 1827—1863

  New York Ballymote Creeslough Bull Run

  I knew who it was alright. Colonel Michael Corcoran led the 69th Infantry Regiment into the First Battle of Bull Run, rose from the rank of Private to Brigadier General, couldn’t happen these days, not in the United States anyway.

  “Christ, what’s this doing here, in the middle of nowhere?” I said.

  “Great men can come from anywhere, that’s part of the American story too, you know,” he said. “It’s here as a memorial to the 200,000 Irishmen who fought in your American Civil War, and their legacy. You are part of that, you can let yourself be proud of it, can’t you?”