Blood Whispers Read online

  ‘What d’you mean, “take your medication”? Why haven’t you taken it already?’

  The old woman tapped the side of her skull with her finger. ‘You can’t string a bloody sentence together when you’re on it. When I leave I still want to be able to read the exit sign.’

  A moment later she had recovered enough to continue. ‘You look terrible, darling. Tired. You working too hard?’ She lifted her head and stared straight at Keira.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Is that what you wanted to say?’

  ‘It’s coming now, just give me a second . . . I spoke with Father Anthony, a few weeks ago – he’s moved to somewhere in the Glens of Antrim – but he’s agreed to come back and take the Mass.’

  ‘What Mass?’

  ‘I know you’re not going to like this,’ continued her gran, ‘but I want to be cremated and my ashes spread over the boys’ graves back in Newry. I want the service to be held in the cathedral.’

  Keira stood in silence for a few moments, aware that her gran was waiting for her response.

  ‘You don’t know what you’re asking . . .’

  Her grandmother held up a hand to stop her. ‘Well now, that’s where you’re wrong darlin’. I know exactly what I’m asking. You don’t want to go back because that’s where your demons are, but I want you to go and confront them. It’s time to smite those bastards into the ground and take your life back before it’s too late. You’re a beautiful young woman, walking round with a weight on your shoulders that’s crushing you into the ground: it’s destroying your life. It’s time to stop. The priest has something to give you; something that’ll help.’

  ‘Help with what?’

  ‘Come on, now, it’s me you’re talking to. You’ve never breathed a word about it, but I know you want to find out about your father too. Who he was, what he was like, what happened. It’s all waiting for you. It’s time.’

  ‘Jesus, Gran!’

  ‘I know it’s a lot to ask, but there’s a lot to gain.’

  Keira was shaking her head. ‘I’d do anything for you‚ Gran, you know that, but I’m not sure I’m up to it. Really, I just don’t know if I can go back there.’

  ‘Well, I do know . . . and I know you won’t let me down. That’s not to say you shouldn’t be careful over there. You may not have set foot in the place for over twenty years, but there are still people in Northern Ireland hold grudges over what happened between Finn McCool and Gol Mac Morna and that was in the third century. No announcements in the papers or anything like that. I want a quiet affair. One other thing,’ she continued. ‘I’d like a piper: someone playing the uillean. Let Father Anthony choose the music: he has a good ear.’

  ‘You’re breaking my heart here, Gran,’ said Keira, her eyes starting to burn. ‘Is this why you wanted to see me? To make your funeral arrangements?’

  ‘It’s not about me‚ darling, it’s about you, I want to give you the key to unlocking your past.’

  ‘I’m not sure it’s a door I’m ready to go through just yet.’

  ‘I know that, but you need to. And when you’re standing on the other side you can slam it shut behind you and get on with your life.’

  There were so many things that Keira wanted to say to her, but mostly she wanted to be strong for her grandmother and if she tried to speak now she knew that she would lose it.

  ‘Come here now and take my hand,’ said her grandmother, as if she were reading her mind.

  Keira moved to kneel on the floor in front of her chair and clasped the old woman’s bony fingers between the palms of her hands.

  Her grandmother responded with a gentle squeeze. ‘When you know something in here,’ she said, banging her fist in the middle of her chest, ‘it doesn’t need to be spoken. Never once trouble yourself that I didn’t know what you thought of me, or I didn’t realize we had a special relationship. But if I’m to get through the long silence, I need to know that you’re happy . . . That’s why you have to go back. Father Anthony’s your starting point. Don’t think you’re doing it for me because I’ve asked you to: you’re doing it for yourself. I know a lot more about what happened that night all those years ago than I’ve ever let on, and the time has come to put it right.’ The old woman was staring at Keira with tears in her eyes. ‘I know I’m asking a lot of you, but I need to go home and I want you to take me there. When the time is right I want to be with my sons up at St Mary’s. Sure, Monkshill has a better view over the city, but it’s always blowing a bloody gale or raining up there.’

  The two women sat staring at each other, holding each other’s gaze. Suddenly Keira said, ‘“Smite!” Really?’

  Her grandmother caught it straight away. Her head tipped back as she started to laugh, her thin shoulders shuddering helplessly as she tried to control the sudden outburst and catch her breath.

  Eventually Keira joined in, until they were both rocking back and forth with tears running down their cheeks.

  *

  The figure hiding in the bushes broke cover and started back down the steep path leading to the black Land Rover Evoque, which was parked near the water’s edge. There was nothing more to see. All the necessary information about the lawyer was now known: where she lived, where she worked, where her family home was. Most of it would be irrelevant – back-up information should it ever be needed – but thoroughness was essential: even the smallest details could prove useful. The trip had been worthwhile.

  Keira Lynch was the one person with access to the target: the more that was known about her, the less chance there would be of making a mistake.

  From the roof of the house, the crow watched as the figure climbed into the black car and slammed the door.

  Moments later a cloud of smoke billowed from the rear tyres as it screeched off along the front and disappeared into the darkness at the far end of Scaur.

  *

  Keira was woken by a strange tapping noise from outside that sounded as if someone was throwing small stones against the window. Her bedroom was in total darkness except for a small pencil-slit of moonlight flaring between the curtains and fanning out across the floor. As she turned to look at the time on the bedside clock, she noticed her grandmother standing at the foot of the bed.

  She should have been alarmed, but instead she felt strangely calm, almost as if she had been expecting her.

  ‘Are you all right, Gran? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing’s wrong, I’ve come to say goodbye.’

  Suddenly a large crow appeared silhouetted against the curtains, flapping its wings and squawking loudly, its beak tapping noisily at the pane of glass.

  ‘Don’t go over there,’ whispered Keira, the sense of panic rising in her voice as her grandmother started towards the window. ‘Don’t go over there,’ she repeated, but her grandmother wasn’t listening.

  Just as she reached the window she turned and looked back at Keira. ‘It’s time. You take care now, my darling, and remember,’ she said banging her fist against her chest, ‘when you know it in here . . .’

  Keira opened her eyes and lay for a few moments staring up at the ceiling‚ the strange dream lingering in her consciousness. The shadow cast by the Morrigan may have been a figment of her imagination, but she was aware that something was different.

  She pulled on a robe and made her way next door to her grandmother’s bedroom, but there was no reason to hurry; she already knew what she’d find when she got there.

  Seventeen

  Father Anthony looked up from the pages of the Bible laid out in front of him on the pulpit and surveyed the congregation as he drew the early evening Mass to a close.

  He’d overfilled the censer again. The Three Kings Pontifical incense evoked memories of his days in the Vatican, but tonight it hung in the air in thin choking wisps, aggravating his asthma.

  He’d been aware of the young woman sitting in the pew near the back of the church since she’d entered, ten minutes after the service h
ad started. She was modestly dressed in a light blue tailored suit that fitted neatly around the waist. It was a style more in keeping with a professional from Belfast or Dublin, rather than someone living in the small rural parish that he ministered to these days: definitely not a local. She was in her late twenties and throughout the entire service had never once taken her eyes off him, staring with a cool intensity that – whether it was intended to or not – was making him feel self-conscious. What was more disturbing about the young woman’s presence, however, was not her rapt attention, but that somewhere in the back of his mind he was convinced he knew her.

  He glanced once more at the handwritten note – smuggled on to the lectern before the sermon had started – then answered the question written on it. ‘Yes, for anyone interested, I will be taking confession after this evening’s Mass. The Mass is ended. Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.’

  The congregation responded, ‘Thanks be to God,’ then rose as one and started to shuffle along between the pews as they made their way outside.

  The priest stepped down from the altar and exchanged pleasantries with a few of the older members of the parish before heading over to the corner of the church to the confession box. The dark brown mahogany frame was a replica modelled on a seventeenth-century confessional housed in the Vatican and had intricate carvings on the columns at each end and a wider spiral column in the centre that separated two thick red velvet curtains. Father Anthony pushed aside one of the curtains and took his seat inside the cramped cubicle, taking care to draw the drape firmly closed behind him. He then slid a set of bi-fold doors into place so that he was completely cut off from the noise of exiting parishioners and sat for a moment enjoying the silence. A small bluebell-shaped shade in rose-frosted glass glowed dimly on the wall above his head, providing just enough light to pick out the ornately patterned brass grille that divided the cubicles and obscured the confessor from view. Seconds later he heard the door of the adjacent booth being locked into place and someone shuffling on to the narrow wooden bench. A long silence followed.

  ‘The usual opening line is “Bless me, Father‚ for I have sinned”,’ said Father Anthony.

  ‘I stopped believing a long time ago and haven’t been to church since. I’d feel like a hypocrite, asking for a blessing,’ a woman’s voice replied.

  ‘In order to have stopped believing you must – at one time – have believed; that’ll do for now. Why do you want to take confession?’

  ‘I’ve something to confess.’

  ‘Fair enough. How long has it been since you were in a church?’

  ‘Twenty years.’

  Her whispered tones made it difficult to tell for sure, but she didn’t sound Irish, as he had expected. The lilt was more Scottish than anything, although he was convinced he could pick out certain words that still had an undertone of Newry in their vowel sounds.

  ‘Twenty years!’ whispered the priest, grimacing. ‘Well, before you launch into anything too elaborate, can I just remind you that I have a dinner engagement planned for this evening.’ He heard a slight snort but couldn’t decide if it was through a smile or to hold back a tear. ‘And while I have your ear,’ continued the priest, ‘I presume it was you that left the note on the pulpit?’

  ‘It was,’ came the faint reply.

  ‘You didn’t sign it.’

  ‘I thought the whole idea of confession was that the priest wouldn’t know who he was talking to.’

  ‘Indeed, that’s true. And believe me, to my mind the seal of the confessional is inviolable: I’m with Father Francis Douglas on that one. I wouldn’t expect you to have heard of him, but during the Second World War he was tortured to death by the Japanese because he refused to divulge information he had received in confession about the Filipino guerrillas. It is an extraordinary sacrament, but I lived through the seventies and eighties over here when the security forces were secreting listening devices in churches frequented by well-known republicans. Ever since then I’ve never been a big fan of the thing. Also . . . I think I recognize you. If you are who I think you are then it might be more conducive to meet somewhere we can have a proper conversation, don’t you think?’

  ‘I thought you could only hear confession in a confessional?’

  ‘For someone who hasn’t stepped inside one of these things for the best part of your life you seem to know a lot about it. You’re quite correct. The Code of Canon Law does say that, but it also adds “except for just reason”, and the fact that I’m on the verge of an asthma attack and can’t breathe for the smell of frankincense is just reason enough. Also, if – as you state – you are a non-believer, we’re wasting our time. That, in concert with the fact that you are known to me, seals the deal. How many others are waiting outside?’ he asked, searching his pockets for a scrap of paper.

  ‘Four.’

  ‘The one night you’re in line for an early finish and you have a festival of sinners in your church. Would you have a pen on you? I’ll give you my home address.’

  ‘I know where you live.’

  Father Anthony raised an eyebrow and flicked a sideways glance in the direction of the brass screen.

  ‘It’s quite a walk.’

  ‘I have a hire car.’

  ‘Well, aside from absolving the wrongdoers of Waterfoot, I have a few things to finish off, but I could meet you there in an hour or so. Would eight-thirty be too late?’

  ‘What about your dinner engagement?’

  ‘A ruse to stop those that haven’t been to confession for a while from blathering on; pay no heed. If you get to the big houses on the left you’ve gone too far.’

  *

  Keira drove along Glen Road for a few miles inland from the beach at Waterfoot, then pulled left on to the soft verge outside a solitary, grey, pebble-dashed house that looked like a child’s drawing with two windows upstairs and two downstairs, both set on either side of a moulded plastic door in a style too elaborate for the rest of the building.

  It had been over twenty years since Keira had last set eyes on the priest. Seeing him today in the church had brought back a lot of unwelcome memories and emotions.

  She lifted the rusted scrolled-metal latch on the garden gate. Any misgivings or thoughts of turning back were cancelled by the rusted hinges squeaking loudly as she pushed through. She had no choice now but to make her way across the concrete slabs and press the doorbell. If the priest hadn’t already heard her car drawing up, he definitely would have heard the gate.

  Suddenly the front door opened and a warm, subdued glow filled the darkness in front of her.

  ‘Come away in.’ Father Anthony stood to one side with his arm outstretched into the narrow hallway in a welcoming gesture. ‘Who needs a guard dog when you have a creaky gate?’

  Keira squeezed past him.

  ‘Straight ahead, the kitchen’s on your left at the end,’ he added as he closed the door and followed behind her. ‘Can I get you anything to drink? I have a bottle of altar wine, stolen from the church: gives it a certain piquancy that makes it almost palatable.’

  ‘Palatable altar wine; is there such a thing?’

  ‘I take charge of ordering it myself. It’s a Mont La Salle from the Napa Valley. Really quite good! As a result I have some of the most devout parishioners in Northern Ireland.’

  ‘That’d be grand.’

  The kitchen was sparsely equipped, with none of the usual modern gadgets in evidence, but it still felt cosy and inviting. Father Anthony had lit a couple of large altar candles and placed them on the window ledge, aside from which the only other illumination was from a small reading lamp sitting at the edge of a drop-leaf Formica table pressed hard against the wall, which had a chair on either side and two place settings. There was a pile of dirty dishes on a stainless-steel sink unit waiting to be washed and a cream stand-alone gas cooker with a pot bubbling away on one of its rings.

  Keira realized in that moment that she hadn’t eaten anything all day.

  ‘
Can I get you something to eat?’ asked the priest, reading her mind.

  ‘Only if you have enough.’

  ‘Sure there’s plenty! I make a huge load of the stuff on a Monday night and that does me for the rest of the week, but don’t look so worried, I made this lot fresh this morning. Take a seat and I’ll get you sorted. Help yourself to the wine.’

  She sat at the table and poured two large glasses of red from the bottle.

  ‘I presume as you know where I live you would also have my telephone number?’

  The priest had his back turned. She couldn’t read the expression on his face. ‘I didn’t think it would be the right thing to do . . . talk to you over the phone. I felt I should do it in person.’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying,’ continued Father Anthony, ‘but you look so much like your mother I can hardly believe it. It threw me when I saw you at first, like jumping back in time. Quite striking!’

  ‘Thank you,’ she answered, aware that he was paying her a compliment.

  ‘How is she? Did she ever remarry?’

  ‘She’s grand. Still has no end of admirers that she plays off against one another to amuse herself, but she’s never really settled with anyone. Doesn’t seem that interested.’

  Father Anthony spooned out two bowls of stew and placed them on the table, then picked up his glass and swallowed a large mouthful of wine before sitting down.

  He watched her staring vacantly at the bowl, but not eating.

  After a few moments he spoke again.

  ‘Well, nice as it is to see you, I have an awful feeling that you haven’t flown all this way to share my company, nor my cooking, nor for that matter my wine. No offence but – if I’m being honest – my heart sank a little when I realized it was yourself.’

  Keira placed her wine glass on the table and tried to reply, but nothing came.