What little sun there had been before lunch was now hidden behind dense low cloud that filled the air with a damp chill and made them button up their coats to the neck. He consulted the map again and they walked on, emerging from woodland to reach an elevated position with views of rolling countryside. They could see a town nestling in the folds of the landscape.
“There it is. About two miles I reckon.”
“I’m freezin’ so I am,” she said flapping her arms around her body. “Should have been wearin’ thermals.”
“When we get back to town, I’ll buy you a hot chocolate.”
“You sure know how to treat a lady.”
He needed to get her back onto the subject of the Eamonn Flynn, the guy clearly intrinsic to the nightmare she was now going through, though he couldn’t see how. His family may have found out about their relationship, blamed her for his suicide and now wanted vengeance, but it didn’t sit easily with the assertion she had something they wanted back, something she didn’t deny.
“So Eamonn found out he was really a Catholic when he thought he was a Protestant. What’s that got to do with The Sisters other than the fact that both you and his mother were in there?”
“Once he found out where his mammy had come from, he tried to find out who she was. He went to the convent, but The Sisters wouldn’t talk to him. He said it was like shutters coming down; they knew but were just refusing to say. But then he offered to make a big donation and they changed their tune. They said all the records were kept by the clerk at St. Patrick’s, which is the Roman Catholic church in a village called Drumloghan. He should go and make enquires with the priest there if he wanted to discover who she might have been.”
“How big a donation?”
“Ten grand.”
“Blimey! He wasn’t short of a bob or two.”
“It wasn’t his money.” She walked on and left him standing, contemplating this latest piece of information. He tried desperately not to speculate but now there was a new dimension to a problem which, instinct told him, was about to get more complicated.
***
They had an aperitif in the bar before dinner. Jack was wearing a new shirt and chinos he’d bought in town and she, a new green cashmere sweater and black trousers. They had all the cosmetics and toiletries they needed in the suite, but she’d decided to buy herself a small bottle of perfume she’d seen in the chemist’s window. They had each retired to separate bathrooms to shower and change and he’d been waiting for her in the sitting room reading the complimentary newspaper when she eventually reappeared, fresh and fragrant. He’d jumped to his feet and grinned like a lovestruck teenager when he saw her.
“I could get used to this luxury lifestyle,” she’d said, and he could only agree, especially if she was part of the deal, but it also reminded him they were still fugitives, that this brief moment of pleasure had to end soon and as yet, he had no idea what to do next. He needed to complete the picture if they were to make any more decisions about where to go next. It looked like it could be a long night.
They clinked glasses and made their selections from the menu. The hotel was busier than the previous night, but both bar and restaurant were large enough to accommodate all residents while allowing them plenty of personal space.
“You said it wasn’t Eamonn’s money.”
“Eamonn’s father, or foster father as it turned out, was a big player in the Orange Lodge and young Eamonn was brought up the same way. He played the fife and marched with the band and had a good Protestant education and never once doubted the supremacy of their religion. He said it changed when he went to university in Belfast and he got to mix with different people; not just Catholics but Muslims and Hindus, English and Scots and the odd American. Remember, this was well after the Good Friday Agreement, so the borders had come down and Ireland as a whole was an enthusiastic and outward lookin’ member of Europe. It opened his eyes to other faiths and religions and showed him there was a world beyond the bigotry and conflict he’d been brought up to accept as normal.”
“So he was already questioning his religious affiliations when he discovered his origins?”
“Aye. But his future was already planned out for him. Once he’d graduated, he joined a firm of accountants in Derry and after he qualified, he got a job in a company that was owned and run by a prominent Orangeman his daddy had known for years. Eamonn knew him too because he was one of the principal officers of the Lodge and he’d been to school with his daughter. They were destined to get married and before long the son-in-law was the chief accountant.”
“Keep it in the family.”
“Aye. He said it was very close knit and very secretive at first but once he was at the top table, he was privy to all the company’s affairs, and he started to get worried.”
“What does the company do?”
“Officially; import export. Goods from all over Europe, Asia and South America. Manufactured goods, provisions, industrial machinery, car parts, coffee, silk; you name it, they either traded in it or shipped it.”
“So, why was he worried?”
“Because it was all a front. The company’s legitimate commercial affairs turned out to be a cover for all manner of criminal activities like drugs, guns, people traffickin’, prostitution and agricultural fertiliser.”
“What’s criminal about fertiliser?”
“Think about it.”
“You mean that stuff they use in bombs?”
She nodded. “Ammonium nitrate, tons of the stuff. Enough to fertilise every last square mile in Ireland a hundred times over.”
“And the name of this company?”
“RBM Industries. HQ’s in Derry. Top dog is a mega-rich ex-RUC man, Worshipful Master of the Lodge, owns a big castle in Donegal, name of Rowan Maguire.” Jack was suddenly confused again.
“Hang on. Donegal’s in the Republic isn’t it?”
“So?”
“What’s an ex-RUC Orangeman doing in the Republic?”
“There’s plenty of Protestants in the Republic just as there’s plenty of Catholics in Northern Ireland. The Republic has Orange Lodges just like they have in Canada, Australia and the UK. And anyway, Donegal is part of Ulster.”
“I thought Ulster was another name for Northern Ireland.”
“Jeez. You feckin’ English know nothin’.”
“Enlighten me.”
“Northern Ireland is six counties. Ulster is nine. The extra three; Donegal, Cavan and Monaghan are in the Republic. There; that’s your geography lesson for the day.” She drained her glass and he ordered her another.
***
Dinner was another episode of culinary theatre and this time they ordered a starter to compensate for the paltry servings. They took their time with the Coquille St Jacques, eking out the meagre portion to make it last as long as possible, which meant they were more than halfway through the Pouilly-Fume when the turbot arrived. He ordered another bottle.
“Eamonn said he grew increasingly suspicious about dodgy paperwork, inconsistent consignment details, suppliers that turned out not to exist and he started askin’ questions. He said his father-in-law took him to a warehouse on the outskirts of Derry to examine a cargo of tractor parts and taught him the facts of life.”
“Which were?”
“That it was business. It was good business. It had nothin’ to do with the troubles and everythin’ to do with supplyin’ customers with what they wanted. The tractor parts turned out to be assault rifles, rocket launchers, grenades, landmines. Customers bein’ armed groups, revolutionaries, freedom fighters, tin-pot dictators, it didn’t matter; whatever you want to call it, there was demand all over the world and not just for arms, but drugs too and more locally, sex. RBM had a couple of nightclubs that did a side-line in escorts and hoorin’ with women trafficked in from eastern Europe. Very expensive and exclusive. Only the well-heeled could afford to go there. Eamonn said that all the hoors’ rooms were fitted with hidden cameras and every politician, policeman, businessman or whoever was secretly filmed in case Maguire ever needed them for somethin’.”
“So what did he do?”
“He couldn’t do anythin’. It was his family and he was up to his neck in it and would be incriminated too if they were ever found out, because he made all the money transfers, paid all the bills and effectively laundered the funds through the legitimate business. So he had to live with it, even though he knew it was all wrong.”
“Sounds like a cop-out.”
She stabbed a finger at him. “What would you have done? Run to the authorities and bring the whole thing crashin’ down around you ears? Can you imagine the collateral damage that would have caused to him, his family, his weans? And what if the men he ran to were part of the operation? Maguire was ex-RUC so he’d have extensive contacts amongst the PSNI, politicians, the Church and the Orange Order, the entire apparatus of the state. You don’t imagine he could continue to operate without a wee bit of assistance? It would be a pointless gesture and Eamonn would end up in a ditch with a bullet in his head, courtesy of the IRA.”
“Are you seriously telling me this is all part of a national criminal conspiracy?”
“I don’t know and neither did Eamonn. Would you have been brave enough to find out? Are you brave enough now?” The question was suddenly relevant and the reality chilling. Whatever Eamonn Flynn had been involved in; whatever had blighted his life and resulted in his untimely death, he had passed on to Caitlín McConnell and, despite her attempt to resist Jack’s attentions and keep it to herself, he had pursued her and pressed her until now, he too was infected.
“The two bad guys in the cottage. You said you knew one of them?”
“I don’t know the younger one, but the guy he shot dead was Maguire’s brother-in-law, Declan Doyle.”
“Shit.”
“Aye. Uncle Dec. Eamonn warned me about him. Showed me a picture. He was UVF in his younger days, but Maguire thought Dec was a thick eejit and wouldn’t have him in the company. He just used him to intimidate people.”
“So what are they looking for? Tell me it’s not just a ten-grand donation to a charity.” If it were, he could fix it in an instant and they could all get on with their lives. Somehow, he knew it couldn’t be that simple.
“No. That was just the start of it. Eamonn went to see the priest at St Patrick’s and told him he wanted to make a donation to The Sisters in return for findin’ out about his mammy. Well surprise surprise, they were all over him like a rash. He got to speak with the clerk and she waded through some dusty old ledgers until she found the details of the adoption of a baby boy by the Flynn family back in 1984. His mammy was a wee lassie called Mary Keane and she had Eamonn when she was fourteen years old.
“Fourteen? My God.”
“Aye, it’s tragic so it is. She was an orphan herself and was livin’ with her aunt and uncle when she got pregnant. She was probably raped by her uncle or one of her cousins but they called her a hoor and threw her out on the street where she was taken in by The Sisters.”
“So what happened to her after that?”
“Obviously Eamonn was anxious to find out if she was still at The Sisters; not just because he desperately wanted to meet her but also to help her; get her out of there and maybe start a new life. But apparently she died.”
“How long ago?”
“A couple of years after he was born, when she was just sixteen. Pneumonia, accordin’ to the records.”
“That’s terrible. It must have been very upsetting for him.”
“Aye, but he wasn’t ready to give up. He said he wanted to see inside the place, where she lived and worked and slept and talk to anyone in there who remembered her. They told him it wasn’t possible; they didn’t do private visits, so he threw more money at them. I think they played him for a fool, but it was important to him that he found out where he came from. He believed The Sisters did wonderful work and he wanted to support them as much as he could; it became an obsession.”
The restaurant had slowly emptied and Jack realised they were the only ones left. “Shall we continue this in the bar?”
***
A few other residents were in the oak-panelled bar having a nightcap and although it was past eleven, the log fire still burned brightly in the open fireplace. They ordered brandies and sat opposite each other in tall wingback leather chairs. He still felt alert despite the late hour and the excess alcohol did nothing to dull his attention to a story which seemed to get more involved and distressing as it unfolded. She appeared calm in its telling, possibly relieved she could unburden some of the past and maybe look at it in a new light. She had more or less admitted she and Eamonn had been lovers but he still couldn’t work out what had thrown them together, other than a tenuous connection to a convent charity.
“But you had personal experience of The Sisters and from what you say, it wasn’t a happy one.”
“No, and that was 1998; after they’d smartened up their act. It was bad enough then and God knows what it was like back in the eighties, but by the time Eamonn got in there, he probably encountered the benign, charitable organisation they were always meant to be.” She looked into space, as if questioning a painful reminiscence.
“And he did all this without any of his family knowing?”
“Aye. There was no way he could tell anyone; the same way he couldn’t tell anyone about the criminal activities at RBM. He said he felt like he was bein’ crushed by secrets and lies on both sides and there was no way out. But the most important thing for him was to find out about his mammy, so he was given access to The Sisters and he talked to some of the older ones there, but no one seemed to remember Mary Keane apart from a wee woman called Orla.
“She was only forty-eight but Eamonn said she looked twenty years older, and she babbled incoherently about all sorts of stuff he didn’t understand. He said Orla was mentally challenged and that doesn’t surprise me spendin’ all your life in a feckin’ convent like that. Her memory was all over the place but as soon as he mentioned Mary Keane, she became lucid and tearful. She said Mary was her best friend and that Mary had looked out for her and held her hand and brushed her hair when they were kids. She was a couple of years younger and looked upon Mary as her older sister.”
“Orla must have been there at the same time as you.”
“Aye but I don’t remember much apart from the bitch of a Mother Superior and a couple of the other sisters. But Orla told him somethin’ else and it almost broke him. She told him that Mary was the reincarnation of the Virgin Mary and that she was goin’ to give birth to the baby Jesus all over again. When Mary arrived at The Sisters she was already pregnant.”
“With Eamonn?”
“Aye. Mary insisted she’d never been with a man and accordin’ to the Mother Superior that made her the Virgin Mary and it was all God’s doin’ and Orla was only a wee lassie so she believed it too. Then one day Orla heard her screamin’ in one of the laundry rooms and the sound of a baby cryin’ and then Mary wasn’t pregnant anymore. She said they’d taken baby Jesus away from her.”
“So unless they messed up or forged the records, Eamonn must have been baby Jesus.”
“There was no mistake.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Orla had kept some of Mary’s hair. Eamonn took it and had it DNA tested, and it proved Mary was his mammy.”
Jack was beginning to feel dizzy thinking through the terrible life of this woman Mary Keane. Notwithstanding her appalling treatment at the hands of her family, The Sisters should have been a safe haven for her and all the other women but the more he learned the more sinister it sounded. The few details Caitlín had revealed about her own experience was consistent with the treatment Mary might have received. She had done well to escape or else like poor Orla, she may well have stayed there and gone mad. But however traumatic it might have been for Mary Keane in her short life and however disturbing and emotional the truth turned out to be for Eamonn Flynn, he couldn’t see the connection between that and Caitlín’s situation.
“And that’s not the worst of it. Orla said Mary got pregnant again, while she was in the convent. Mary told her God had visited her again and she was to be havin’ another virgin birth.”
“How the hell could that happen?
“How do you think? You’re a grown up so you are. You work it out.”
“It’s a bloody convent! Don’t tell me they had men in there too?”
“The truth is, she had another wean and again they took it off her and gave it away for adoption.” She sighed and scratched her head. She was getting tired and the alcohol that had fuelled her impassioned storytelling was now testing her patience. Similarly, the brandy was making him lose his own power for rational thought; the subject matter was so alien, it precluded the application of conventional wisdom.
“Well I don’t believe in the virgin birth, that’s for sure.”
“Neither do I. But I think it’s time for bed. There’s a load more to tell and I’m too tired to go over it now. Where are we goin’ tomorrow?” It sounded like another challenge, but carried the presumption that whatever hole they were in, they were in it together.
“I think we should stay on the move for the time being and find another place to stay.”
“Suits me. I’ve been doin’ it long enough.”
They bid goodnight to the barman and the receptionist and dragged themselves up three flights of stairs. He noticed she was unsteady on her feet, a combination of fatigue and the effects of the wine and brandy. He took her arm and steered her towards the door, but she began to giggle, and it made him chuckle too.
“I think we drank too much,” she said.
“You’re right about that.”
“You’re a bad influence. I hope you’re goin’ to be okay on that sofa,” she said pointing a wavering finger towards the sitting room. “And I’ve got that great big bed all to myself.”
“I’ll be fine.” He turned to face her and touched her hair with one hand. “Unless of course you’re feeling lonely.” It took her a moment to react, as if she was thinking and acting in slow motion and she gave him a mischievous look. He moved closer and slipped a hand around her waist, pulling her towards him so that the side of their heads touched and he breathed in the scent of her perfume. He felt her tense and he tightened his hold a little. He put his lips to her temple.
“Don’t,” she whispered. Despite the alcohol, the word was enough to break through the cloud fogging his brain. He was going too fast. He never had, nor ever would force himself on her, but he struggled to contain his disappointment. He loosened his hold again.
“I’m sorry. I misread the signs,” he said looking sheepish and nervously scratching the back of his head. But her expression had turned dark.
“What signs?”
“Nothing. It’s okay.”
“What signs?” she demanded, and there it was again, the disturbed alter ego, the emotionally charged soul buried deep inside, the powder keg waiting for a spark to ignite and destroy everything in close proximity. He had overstepped an invisible mark. He needed to calm the situation before he lost sight of the thoughtful, independent and strong woman with whom he was now falling in love. He held both hands up and smiled his best smile.
“Forgive me. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t be surprised they taught demureness in the convent!”
She struck like a cobra. The blow arrived with such speed and strength it almost knocked him off his feet, sending shock waves through his skull and blurring his vision. His left cheek burned as if she’d thrown boiling water in his face and he raised a hand instinctively to cool it and check his jaw wasn’t broken. It left him stunned and unable to speak.
“I’ll tell you what I was taught in that feckin’ convent!” she screamed, her face twisted in rage and her green eyes demonic, wide with hatred and condemnation. “I was taught not to scream or shout when the Mother feckin’ Superior was beatin’ me with a stick or shovin’ her fingers up my fanny, and to keep my mouth shut unless a feckin’ priest wanted to put his cock in it!” She whirled on the spot and marched over to her bathroom, slamming the door behind her.
Jack’s feet remained rooted, but his body swayed, dizzy not just from the combination of alcohol and pain but also the utter confusion and shock of something so unexpected. She’d already alluded to abusive behaviour at The Sisters but had neither elaborated on it nor cited any personal experience. He had been flippant, trying to defuse a situation of his own making before it became awkward for them both and unwittingly, he’d stepped on an emotional landmine.
He dragged himself over to the sitting room and slumped down on the sofa, head in hands, trying to process what she’d just said, and what he’d done to provoke her outburst. She’d warned him he didn’t know what he was dealing with and she’d been right. She must have known that a fuse lit many years ago would eventually burn through to the core and wreak havoc on her life and those around her. She’d tried to keep him away from a hideous secret she’d hidden for years and the full horror of it was now only too apparent to them both. He had no idea how to retrieve the situation; it may have gone too far.
He switched off the sitting room lights, leaving a single table lamp aglow in the corner of the room and lay down on the sofa, pulling a single sheet over him. He lay awake for half an hour before he sensed light flood briefly from the open bathroom door into the bedroom then, just as quickly, go out. A shadowy figure moved towards him and he quickly sat up and got to his feet. Even in the dim light he could see deep green eyes, puffy and red, a smudge of mascara under each lid. He braced himself for another blow, already deciding it was probably justified and that he would let her do whatever she wanted. They stood a foot apart, awkward and silent.
“I’m sorry… I,” he started to say.
“Hold me.” She bowed her head, pressing it to his chest and he wrapped his arms around her.
***
They said little on the journey east and when they reached the A1, Jack steered south towards Grantham. His plans were still not fully formed. It was clear they were both now on the run, but he still wasn’t clear what they were running from. The revelations of Mary Keane’s ill treatment at The Sisters, uncovered by Eamonn’s search for his roots, had become especially disturbing now he knew Caitlín had first-hand experience. But if there were a link between this and Eamonn’s reluctant involvement in organised crime, he couldn’t guess what it might be.
He and Caitlín had spent the night on the sofa, cuddled up together fully clothed under a single sheet. He had stroked her hair from time to time as she slept and lay awake wondering what further nightmares she had yet to divulge until he too succumbed to sleep. They had showered and changed in their separate bathrooms and gone to breakfast, leaving the giant four-poster untouched and him wondering whether the sitting room sofa was the most expensive bed in the country.
He’d tried to check out but was told Ms O’Callaghan had already settled both accounts. He knew now why she’d slipped away during breakfast to visit the ladies’ room.
“I told you I’d cover it,” she’d said when he asked her. “Did you think I would just take advantage of a rich businessman?” She’d said with barest suggestion of a glint in her eye, which helped him relax a little.
“Ex-businessman,” he’d corrected her, but was still left wondering how she could afford it.
***
Fifty yards from the entrance to Jack’s house, Michael Duggan was in a deep sleep when he heard a phone ringing in his subconscious. Before he could work out where it was coming from, he felt a hand on his shoulder shaking him violently.
“It’s yer feckin’ phone,” said Jerry Malone, irritated. He was cold, hungry and aching from a night in the car and all he wanted was to get home. Michael roused himself and dug the phone out of his inside pocket, looking at the screen before answering and putting it on speaker.
“Yes Mr Maguire,” he croaked, clearing his throat from the mucus that had built up overnight.
“What’s happenin’ down there?” Rowan Maguire was in one of his bad moods and hadn’t called to enquire after their health.
“Nothin’ Mr Maguire. There’s been no lights on. No signs of life. The house has been empty since we got here.”
“Are you sure? Have you been watchin’ it all the time?”
“Yes Mr Maguire. Me and Jerry have been parked down the road and we’ve a good view of anyone comin’ or goin’. There’s been nothin’.”
“Feck!”
“Apart from the cleaner.”
“Say again?”
“Some young lassie in a Mini. Came and went within two minutes.”
There was silence during which Michael looked at Jerry. They both imagined Maguire pacing his study, ready to throw something. “Right! This is what you’re goin’ to do. I’m sendin’ Seanie with Finn and the chopper over to an airfield about five miles from where you are. I’ll send you the map reference. Get yer arses over there to meet him and check out the security. There probably won’t be any. I’ll send you further instructions. I need you to bring me a package. Okay?”
“Aye Mr Maguire.”