The Bells of Scotland Road (65 page)

Cathy and Maureen were not at the shop, then. He could not tell Bridie that her elder daughter was roaming about somewhere between Manchester and Liverpool. ‘I . . . er . . . I’ve
mislaid a couple of children,’ he told her. ‘Evacuees. They ran off, and I expect they will be trying to return to their families.’ He touched her face, stroked her hair. ‘I
must go,’ he said. ‘But I’ll see you later.’ He dashed out before she could reply.

Bridie paced about in the shop, thought about Shauna and Tildy, tried to organize her priorities. The girls needed her. But they were in a Morrison while Anthony was unprotected. What must she
do? Back and forth she trod, hands twisting together, sweat making her hair damp. She struck a match, found a steel helmet behind the counter and opened the door. She would find him and make sure
that he wore the helmet. With an old cardigan pulled about her shoulders, Bridie left the safety of her home. The girls would not look for her if and when they woke. She had left them many times to
go up to Muth’s room.

Keeping close to remaining walls, she walked in the direction of the city. Doors, huge shards of glass and piles of bricks impeded her progress, forcing her to walk out in the open. Above her
head, the Heinkels continued to drone and spit out their lethal cargo.

When she reached Newsham Street, she saw that the stables were on fire. Horses screamed hysterically while firemen pulled them free of the building. The gypsies ran about with old prams and
carts containing a few worldly goods. Further down, more firemen fought to quench long tongues of flames that licked a terrace of houses. Incendiaries continued to float down from the sky, while
bombs fell all around the area. As Bridie stood and fought for oxygen in the hot, smoky air, a hand clapped itself on her shoulder. ‘Go home,’ said a man’s voice.

She spun round, half expecting to find Anthony. But the man behind her had a beard and his eyes looked wild. It was the fire reflecting in the irises that made his face forbidding, she told
herself. ‘Who are you?’ she asked.

He smiled, displaying teeth that were perfectly white and even. Anthony’s teeth were . . . ‘Liam?’ she managed. ‘Father Bell – is that you?’

The man inhaled deeply. ‘The Irish whore,’ he said. ‘You know me. Oh yes, you know who I am.’ He had arrived in Liverpool half an hour earlier, had made the journey in a
van carrying medical supplies to the stricken city. She was shivering. He licked his lips, could almost taste her fear.

Bridie’s body was suddenly devoid of muscle and bone. In order not to tumble over, she placed a quivering hand against the wall. The helmet intended for Anthony tumbled down and rolled
away towards the gutter. ‘Wha . . . what do you . . . want?’ He had killed Valerie. He had raped Maureen, had almost killed her, too.

‘From you?’ He sneered, showed his teeth again. The light from fires flickered over him, making him look like the devil incarnate. ‘Not much. Not yet. Adulteress,’ he
hissed. He remembered the two of them in an orchard, the man and the woman entwined in an unmistakeably intimate embrace.

Bridie swallowed painfully. The dry air had seared her chest, making breathing almost impossible. Anthony was here. Did this man know that his twin brother was in the district? ‘My
marriage was annulled,’ she achieved finally.

‘So, have you married my brother?’ he asked.

‘Not yet. Perhaps we shall marry when Muth dies.’ Would this answer calm him? she wondered.

He laughed menacingly. ‘The old hag isn’t dead yet, then?’

Bridie inclined her head, said nothing.

‘Get back to the shop,’ he said. ‘To the shop that should be mine. I’ll find you when I’m ready. That is a promise, Mrs Bell. I always keep my promises.’

She looked round frantically, strained her eyes for a sight of Anthony. Liam would kill him if he found him. Or would he? Hadn’t Liam always wanted Anthony alive and suffering?
‘Anthony and I have not seen each other for a while,’ she gabbled, anxious to say anything at all that might distract the monster. ‘Perhaps he no longer wants to marry me.’
The smaller sin, she told herself. A lie was sometimes vital. ‘You can have anything, anything you want.’ Her teeth were chattering violently. When she spoke, she bit her tongue.
‘If you will go away and leave us alone.’

‘Don’t offer me bribes or compensation,’ he snarled. ‘I shall take what I want without permission from you.’ He clapped a hand against his head. ‘Shut up,
Martin,’ he said, his tone impatient.

Bridie looked around, saw no-one near enough to be the Martin to whom Liam was speaking.

‘I’m not listening,’ he said. ‘This is my turn.’

Thinking that she must be insane, Bridie took a step away from him. Then she remembered. Liam was mad. Anthony had studied, had talked to Richard. Liam needed locking away. ‘I’ll . .
. I’d better get back,’ she muttered lamely. Could she walk? Would her knees hold her?

Liam stared at her, remembered who she was and where he was. ‘I shall deal with you later,’ he said.

Bridie ran, was urged along by a warden. In her panic, she promised God that she would not make love to Anthony ever again, not until they could marry, at least. Inside the shop once more, she
dived for the telephone, listened uselessly to the instrument’s total silence. She was locked in a house with two girls and a very sick old woman. Outside, the Germans attacked from above,
while an earthbound madman waited to pounce. She should have alerted the warden, should have asked for help. But everyone was busy saving lives and drowning the flames of war.

Anthony was somewhere along Scotland Road, was searching for missing children. Why hadn’t he come back to the shop? Bridie grabbed her mother’s rosary and placed it round her neck.
With trembling hands, she picked up a large kitchen knife and Sam’s brass candlestick. The thought that Liam might kill Anthony crossed her mind, but she could do no more, could not go out
again.

Immobilized by terror, Bridie sat in the Morrison with a candlestick at her side and a knife held so tightly that it felt welded to her right hand. She held on to her daughter, and Shauna
flinched and complained because Bridie was hugging her too tightly. Tildy snored, the clock ticked into the few short silences between bombs. Surely morning could not be far away? Bridie prayed for
Jimmy who was missing, for Anthony who was in special danger, for the survival of Liverpool, tried hard to quell the fear she felt on her own behalf.

The ground shook as another delivery was made from the skies. Bridie released her hold on Shauna and tugged so fiercely at the beads around her own throat that they snapped. This had been her
mother’s rosary and she would mend it when daylight came.

She did not sleep, but the nightmares visited her in spite of wakefulness. She could see the man. He was bearded, insane and totally evil. He had come back. He had come for her, for Muth and for
Anthony. He had returned to wreak his revenge.

Billy Costigan dragged out the last of the horses. The terrified creature gradually calmed itself once the flames were at a safe distance. The man who led him was big, strong
and trustworthy. ‘You’ll be all right, lad,’ Billy kept repeating to the huge shire. He bent down and shifted a sheet of buckled metal with some rivets still in place. These
pieces of the
Malakind
were strewn far and wide, some on roofs of houses, others hanging from windows and impaled in doors. ‘God help us,’ Billy mumbled. ‘And find our
Jimmy for us, too.’ Diddy could not stand much more punishment. She continued to grieve for Maureen, was now fretting about Jimmy.

The horse whinnied and allowed Billy to lead him into the school playground. A couple of classrooms had been flattened in earlier raids, but the front of the building remained intact. Inside the
school, Father Brennan ministered to man and beast alike. Horses chewed happily on hay in a straw-carpeted corridor, while the gypsies settled themselves on chairs and old mattresses in the school
hall.

‘Is that everybody out, Billy?’ asked the priest.

Billy nodded. ‘Three dead further up. The ambulance took them away. Is the presbytery in one piece?’

‘Yes. I think I’ve the luck of the devil.’ Michael Brennan gave a shive of bread to a tousle-headed gypsy child. ‘Have you seen Diddy at all?’

Billy lowered his head. ‘They’ve taught her to drive,’ he said.

‘I beg your pardon?’

Billy grinned ruefully, raised his face. ‘She’s been promoted into the Queen’s Messenger Convoy. It’ll be more than the Germans now, Father. With my Diddy loose in a van,
you’d better stock up on holy oil. There’ll be broken bodies from here to Dingle. The only driving Diddy’s good at is driving me mad.’

Michael Brennan crossed the room and placed a hand on the large man’s shoulder. ‘I’ve said a mass for Jimmy, son.’

Billy Costigan wiped his sooty face with a cuff, left a streak of relatively clean skin where the material made contact. ‘I’ll get back to the job,’ he said. ‘We lost a
young fireman tonight, Father. Pray for him, too. He had the makings of a grand man. Flat feet and poor hearing kept him out of the army, but he died all the same. He was training as a law clerk
with some firm in town. Where’s the sense?’

Michael Brennan watched the volunteer fireman as he walked away with his shoulders bowed. Night after night, the hastily trained service fought to put out fires, to save lives and minimize
damage to property. There were shipping clerks, dockers, lawyers and accountants who worked all day before taking their turn at the pumps and ladders. The local window cleaner, the barber and the
baker, all too old for active service, had enlisted to do the same dangerous job. ‘Let it end,’ prayed the priest.

He checked on his lodgers, then returned to the presbytery for a quick cup of tea. Soon enough, he would be sent for. Soon enough, he would anoint the broken body of some recently departed man,
woman or child. As he opened the door of his house, he saw a candle burning on the hall stand. ‘Hello?’ he called.

‘Michael?’ Anthony came out of the living room. ‘Have you seen Cathy and Maureen?’

The priest grabbed the hand of his friend and shook it. ‘No, I have not seen them. Aren’t they in Astleigh Fold?’

‘They were.’ Anthony shook his head as if trying to clear it. He was almost too tired to think. ‘Cathy telephoned from Bolton to say that she and Maureen were coming here
today. Edith tried to contact Bridie and yourself, but—’

‘The phone lines are down.’

‘We realized that. So I was appointed to come. Edith is demented. She has several new evacuees to place, so she couldn’t get away herself.’ He stopped talking during a
particularly loud explosion. ‘I’m glad Aunt Edith didn’t come into this horror. But where are the two girls?’

Michael Brennan had no idea. ‘In a shelter somewhere, I hope. So Bridie doesn’t know that Cathy has left Edith’s house?’

‘Probably not. I called at the shop. The girls had not arrived there, and I wasn’t going to alarm Bridie – she has enough on her plate. Diddy probably continues to think that
Maureen’s safe, too.’

The priest sat down and lit another candle. ‘Jimmy’s missing. Poor Diddy has had enough. I’m not sure that she can cope with much more.’

Anthony placed himself at the opposite side of the table. ‘Michael, Maureen went to mass this morning.’

‘But she hasn’t been near a church in ages.’

‘In ten years,’ said Anthony. ‘After mass was over, Cathy telephoned Edith and told her the tale. It seems that the smell of incense has become distasteful to Maureen.’
He paused, took a deep breath. ‘She is sure that her attacker was a priest. Somewhere deep in her brain, Maureen remembered the smell. Her decision to avoid attending church services was
prompted by that half-hidden memory.’

‘Does she realize exactly who it was?’

‘Yes. Cathy told Edith that Maureen intended to travel to Liverpool and speak to the Rose Hill police. Cathy is with Maureen.’

Michael ran a hand over his head. ‘Is Maureen distraught?’

‘Quite the opposite, according to Cathy. But her pennies ran out before she could draw the full picture. We know that the pair of them headed this way. We must search for them. Bridie
thinks I’m looking for escaped evacuees, by the way.’

They rose simultaneously. Michael Brennan walked towards the door, turned and looked at his friend. ‘I’ll see you later,’ he said. He reached for the door handle just as the
wall collapsed.

Anthony was thrown across the room. He landed against a bookcase, sent its contents flying, then instinctively used his hands to cover his head. Thick dust entered his nose and mouth, and he
coughed convulsively against the threat of choking. Michael was buried. Anthony crawled across the floor, his hands clawing at debris, his eyes streaming against particles of dust beneath the
lids.

‘Anyone there?’ It was Billy Costigan’s voice. ‘Father Brennan?’

Anthony opened his mouth, coughed again, could not speak.

Billy pushed his way into the room. When he had cleared away the bricks, he picked up the door and threw it aside.

‘Didn’t I say I’ve the luck of the devil? But don’t stand on me, Billy.’ Michael Brennan spat out some bits of rubble and tried to stand. ‘The door saved me.
I’ve cursed its heaviness so many times—’ He spat again, coughed, tried to stand. ‘And will you stop shining that lamp in my eyes? Anthony?’ he shouted.

‘I’m here.’

‘Thank goodness for that.’

Billy helped the priest to his feet. ‘Are you sure there’s no bones broken?’

‘I’m tough,’ declared Michael. ‘After working in these parts for so many years, I’ve got to be tough. Go and help Anthony.’ He struggled to remain upright,
sank down to the floor again and grazed himself on a pile of wreckage. His hands shook and he had no control over his lower limbs.

Billy cleared a space, righted the table and a couple of chairs, then dragged Anthony into a seat. Chaos continued to reign outside. There was no sign of a let-up in the onslaught. ‘Where
the bloody hell are they finding all the ammo?’ asked Billy of no-one in particular. ‘Because if we’re getting this lot, I bet London’s in a pickle.’