The Starbucks at Canary Wharf was already teeming, filled with hyperactive young professionals surrounded by sheafs of paper and files, staring at laptops, talking on mobiles or heavily engaged in meetings, a temporary escape from their usual sanitised environment of chrome and glass. A queue for takeaways stretched out onto the street where customers stood, head down and shivering, engrossed in the vacuous, solitary activity of checking emails and social media feeds on their phones. He took one look, deciding somewhere quieter and more subdued was appropriate. A fifteen-minute taxi ride took them south of the river to Greenwich Park where they found a café opposite the Royal Observatory. They sat in a quiet corner by a window that afforded an extensive view of parkland, incongruous in the vibrant, overpopulated city.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean all that stuff about you and Natalie.”
“I know.”
“I’m always apologisin’ to you, so I am. Did you mean what you said?”
“Yes.” She managed a wry smile.
“You need your head examined, so you do.”
“Love is blind. I think that’s how it works.” He’d decided not to push her. If she was going to do or say anything, she needed to do it at her own pace. He simply resolved to be there when she needed him.
“I told you it would be Pandora’s box, but I wasn’t prepared for it.”
“Did you think it would be full of gold bars?”
“I don’t know what I expected. I knew there’d be information that gave me access to the money, but I don’t know how the system works. I’ll have to read the instructions. These Swiss boys seem to make it very complicated.” She’d left the door open a crack, so he pushed at it tentatively.
“What else?” She fished inside the envelope and pulled out the exercise book and letter.
“This is what nearly killed me.” She tapped the envelope gently on the palm of her hand as if to prove it was real and not just an object in a bad dream. “Here. You’d better read it yourself.” She proffered the envelope and he looked at it dumbly, suddenly unsure of what to do or say.
“Are you sure?”
“You wanted to know.”
“I imagine it’s very personal.”
“You imagine right. But I’m done with secrets. If you want to feck off after readin’ it, you can.” She clearly meant it. He could foresee no circumstances that would cause him to walk away, but then she knew what was inside and he didn’t. It could be the last throw of the dice for her; the last chance to break free from this imbecile who persisted with his ridiculous romantic delusions that had no place in her world. She hadn’t reciprocated and maybe never would. He took the envelope, watching it closely as if it were about to self-combust and then tried to catch her eye but she was staring through the window, chin resting on her forearm. He extracted the pages and started reading the last words of Eamonn Flynn.
My Dearest Caitlín,
I hope you have been able to come to terms with what has happened to me. If you are reading this, it’s only because I am no longer here. I gave the bank instructions to allow you access for a period of six months from the date of my death, so it goes without saying I have left this world for another, if indeed there is such a place.
You should also know that if you have not introduced yourself to the bank within that time, they are instructed to hand over control of the deposit box to a lady by the name of Louise Harrison, a journalist working for the Derry Examiner, and afford her every courtesy in administering the contents as she sees fit. You will understand the reason for this in due course, but it might explain why, in this letter, I have reiterated many points you already know, because she does not.
Caitlín, I hope you are safe and will remain so. It breaks my heart to think I have put your life in danger. That was never my intention. Whatever risks I ran in pursuing my own blind obsessions were taken knowingly and were never meant to be visited upon you. Unfortunately, we were seen together that day on the Peace Bridge and although I insisted it was a business meeting with a new customer and totally innocuous, I suspect I may not have been believed and if events have subsequently unfolded as I imagined they would, then bad people will be looking for you. Therefore, I sincerely hope the bequest contained in this envelope will allow you to live a long and fruitful life free of the misery and torment that has haunted you since you were little and has only just become apparent to me.
None of this would have happened if Mammy Flynn had not felt compelled to unburden her guilt during her last days. I loved both my parents and despite knowing now that I was not truly theirs, that love is undiminished. I can only imagine the pain she must have suffered both in keeping the secret for so long and finally revealing it. I assume her faith in God drove her to make this final confession in preparation for the afterlife. And that from a devout Protestant, no less! However, she planted a seed in my soul that grew and grew, a seed I could not suppress, and which so consumed me, I could no longer control my actions or my destiny. She unwittingly sent me on a voyage of discovery; she could not possibly have known it was the road to hell.
When I met you, I was already well on the way, although at that time, I was not aware of the danger that lay ahead. I was not only fully motivated, but also optimistic about the future. I knew there would be dark days ahead of me but compared to the evil into which I was being drawn at home, it seemed to be a price well worth paying. And above all, I had God on my side, and I knew I would not fail.
As a small boy growing up in a devout Protestant family and community, I took for granted the primacy of my religion, not only embracing the contempt in which we held the Roman Catholic Church, but actively participating in the scorn we heaped upon it. Such entrenched ideology and rampant prejudice, even if one is able to recognise it, is virtually impossible to challenge while one is young and even in later life, social norms and cohesion, combined with inherent human weakness, conspire to perpetuate this vile bigotry.
This is not to denigrate all my Protestant family, my friends and acquaintances, many of whom, in good faith, hold strong beliefs and are active members of both the Protestant Church and the Orange Order. As in all walks of life, most of them are decent people who care for their families and their communities, whose basic views are to be respected and who only want to live in peace with their neighbours. As always, it’s a minority of extremists, whose uncompromising certitude and belief in their supremacy is the source of so much conflict.
I was fortunate to gain a totally new perspective from an inspirational figure. The elderly priest at St Patrick’s Church in Drumloghan, Father Donal Byrne, was instrumental in my conversion. He received me, nurtured me, accepted me into his faith without fear or prejudice and for someone like me, a prominent member of a profoundly sectarian movement from across the border, that single act of magnanimity was a revelation. He introduced me to the guiding principles of Catholicism, tutored me in the proclamations of the Holy Father and took me under his wing. It became apparent to me that divine intervention was the driving force and I became convinced my cause was God’s cause and I, simply one of his missionaries.
My proselytisation was complete when I visited The Sisters of St Mary the Virgin for the second time. As you know I was originally turned away by The Sisters who feared my motives were less than altruistic. Their work and reputation had been tarnished by the sins of their predecessors and they were understandably reluctant to engage with a protestant male asking awkward questions about his origins. It was Father Donal who persuaded them to open their doors to me, although I confess, my generous donation may have oiled the hinges!
As you also know, I discovered, through the records kept at St Patrick’s, the tragic story of my mother Mary Keane, a fallen woman if ever there was one, and I met her childhood friend Orla McGrath. It was Orla who told me my mammy had named me Jesus because I had been born of a virgin and she gave me a lock of Mary’s hair that she had kept all this time. Although I considered the virgin birth theory was simply a naïve fantasy of a young girl, I had the lock of hair tested and it proved Mary was my real mammy. It was talking to Orla and some of the others and seeing the conditions in which all the women lived that convinced me of the rectitude of supporting the work of The Sisters who relied totally on donations. They received no help from the government, who wanted to wash their hands of any involvement in something they regard as a national embarrassment, not just because of wrongdoings in the past, but because the society over which they preside, to this day still creates the conditions under which these women are forced to seek help.
Father Donal did all he could to support them by diverting donations from his own church, but they had financial pressures of their own especially once the Holy Father had issued his exhortation to take the Church to the people. The establishment of an evangelical movement to rebuild the Catholic Church in Ireland and beyond turned out to be a very expensive enterprise, but one which I embraced wholeheartedly.
As you also know, the backdrop to this was my abhorrence of the criminal activities in which my father-in-law was engaged and my unwitting but inextricable involvement. Even before I was taken in by Father Donal and the Church, I had resolved to find a way of neutralising this evil without destroying everything I held dear; my wife and two small children. Alas, however I tried, I could see no way of achieving this. In the end, it came down to a choice and I chose God.
The nefarious crimes of my father-in-law (even now I cannot bring myself to mention his name) carried out under the legitimate guise of his company, RBM Industries, have long been suspected and it is testament to the power he wields that they have not been exposed before now. Having drawn the conclusion that justice might never prevail, I decided to utilise the power of God to vanquish the devil and punish him for his sins in a manner that transcends any conventional legal remedy. In doing so, I committed to sacrificing my life and my family and giving it up to God.
And so it was with God’s guidance, assisted and supported by Father Donal and his diocese, administered through the Holy Father’s own bank at The Vatican, that I was able to devise and implement an elaborate financial subterfuge intended not only to destroy and banish the lucifer in our midst but to redistribute the devil’s ill-gotten gains to the Church and its dependants.
All of which you already had some knowledge although not, I imagine, the depth of feelings which drove me. I know you expressed your reservations about The Sisters and remained sceptical of their motives, despite the many years which had passed since you were there. Please understand and accept that I was so under the spell of the Church that I allowed myself to be persuaded that your criticism was at best misguided, at worst malign, and probably influenced by other traumatic events you experienced while growing up.
It saddens me greatly to write this letter to you, now that I have finally learned the truth, as I know the truth will be of no comfort to you and may even plunge you into a personal abyss from which you may struggle to escape. I am torn between my desire to protect you and my need to share this truth, and I do so in the hope that, rather than weaken your resolve it actually strengthens you to carry on without me. For my part, it is the only way to purge my soul.
My doubts began when I had already donated five million pounds to the Church yet could see no evidence of the benefits that should have flown from it. The Sisters could demonstrate little or no improvement in the lives of the women in their care, neither in the quality of their dormitories nor the clothes they wore, or their general health either through improved sanitation or nutrition. Neither Father Donal nor Bishop McKenna, whom I had also come to know well, could brief me on the progress of the evangelical work of those charged with bringing footfall back to the Church. They offered mere platitudes that, due to my extraordinary generosity, God’s work was underway, would yield results in due course and I should not expect to see immediate improvements given the decades of decline that preceded my involvement.
Unconvinced and undeterred, I gained the confidence of someone whom I am not at liberty to name but will make themselves known at a time of their choosing. I questioned the application of the funds I had donated, and I discovered they had been transferred automatically to the diocese account for onwards transmission to Rome in accordance with the Church’s long established financial arrangements. Through this same person, I became privy to both the innermost secrets of The Sisters and the activities of the Church and the full horror of it all became clear.
I learned that as well as giving sanctuary to fallen women, the inmates were treated like slaves and exploited for financial gain by selling their babies for adoption in order to meet the insatiable needs of the Church for funds. Even worse, while in captivity, the women were further exploited for the sexual gratification of men; many of them in positions of power and authority in the community. Inconceivably, physical and sexual abuse also took place at the hands of the nuns themselves as well as several members of the Catholic clergy. Any consequent offspring for which there was no pre-arranged adoption were euthanised immediately, their deaths recorded as stillborn.
Naturally, I refused to believe such vile calumnies and sought an immediate audience with Father Donal and the Bishop to assure me the allegations were without foundation. Bishop McKenna refused to meet me but Father Donal agreed to investigate my concerns. He expressed outrage and promised, if they were found to be true, the Holy Father himself would ensure the guilty were punished. Significantly, however, he confirmed the transfer of excess funds to Rome was normal practice. Whilst admitting little technical knowledge or personal control of the process, he sought to assure me The Holy See was better placed to co-ordinate the proceeds from dioceses world-wide than each individual diocese or parish, hence what he called the ‘daily sweep’ of funds to relieve parish accounts of excess balances. I am struck by the irony that the Church’s treasury function is no more or less sophisticated than that which I myself instigated at RBM.
To my eternal shame, I accepted his word. After all, he was a man of God, had been an exemplary priest for decades who was loved and revered in the community; he had been my mentor, I, his seminary and he had taken my confession on several occasions, during which I had revealed my duplicity, my regrets about deceiving my family and my shameful links to organised crime. You have to realise that my increased involvement with the Church and my ultimate uncovering of malpractice on an epic scale, happened secretly over a period of two years, in spare time I contrived to make, while at the same time fulfilling my duties at home and at work. When questions began being asked of my activities outside of my work and home environments, they were specific enough to point to just one source. Father Donal betrayed my confessional.
But by then it was too late. When I was summoned to a meeting with Cardinal Monzi, flanked by two Italian bodyguards, he made clear I was putting my wife Meghan and my two beautiful children at risk. I knew there was no way out.
In my final days, I returned to The Sisters and met Orla McGrath for the last time. She was struck down with pneumonia, just like my mammy Mary, and was unlikely to recover. She bequeathed me a diary my mammy had kept over a four-year period and which Orla had treasured for thirty-five years, read a thousand times and kept hidden, as Mary had, behind a loose brick in the wall behind her bed. She told me that Mary had not died of pneumonia as the records showed. She had hung herself from one arm of the crucifix above the altar in the chapel. Orla had been the first to find her.
If that were not distressing enough, then I have to warn you that my mammy’s diary contains the most harrowing account of her life, before and after she entered The Sisters. I hope you have the strength to read it, but I feel it is my duty to soften the blow so that you know what I know and that I am watching over you and urging you on.
Mary Keane was raped at the age of fourteen by a Catholic priest. He convinced her she remained a virgin and that her baby was the son of God. For the sin of childhood pregnancy, she was cast out by her adopted family and taken in by The Sisters and shortly after her fifteenth birthday, gave birth to a baby boy she named Jesus. The boy was immediately taken from her and sold for adoption to a family named Flynn who named him Eamonn. I was that boy.
For the remainder of her time there, and in common with most of the women and girls, she not only endured sexual and physical assault at the hands of the nuns, she was raped for a second time by the same priest. She gave birth nine months later to a baby girl whom she named Oona. I’m not sure if you are aware of this but in some quarters, it means ‘pure and holy’ but it’s also Irish for ‘lamb’, the ‘Lamb of God’, another name for Jesus. The baby girl was immediately bought for adoption by the family McConnell, who renamed her Caitlín. You were that girl.
My dearest Caitlín, under normal circumstances, I would be proud and delighted to have you as my sister. Part of me wants to remain in your life so we can give comfort to each other and cherish the memory of our mother Mary Keane. But without realising it, and through the evil of others, I am guilty of the most heinous crime against my sister; a crime for which I must repent. Even then, I might have been able to salvage some good from the wreckage of my faith had I not discovered the name of the priest who violated our mammy; my father, your father, Father Donal Byrne.
I hope you will now understand why I cannot live anymore. The God who created and presides over this evil has no place for me in this life. I was prepared to sacrifice everything to do good, to do his work and instead, I encountered the devil. I honestly don’t know where to turn, other than to follow my mammy wherever she is.
I therefore hand to you this chalice, poisoned or otherwise, and with full confidence in your judgement, trust you will search your conscience and do the right thing, whatever that may be.
Forever, Eamonn.
Jack refolded the letter and placed it back in the envelope. She’d been still, looking through window while he read. She continued to rest her chin on folded arms that stretched across the back of the banquette seat and her legs were tucked under her, making herself appear small, a defensive position for the vulnerable. He slid the envelope across the table and placed a hand on the exercise book. “Is this the diary?”
“Aye. She wrote it from the age of twelve until she died at sixteen. I haven’t read any of it. I’m too afraid of what I might find in there.” She refused to look at him, but she sounded calm, and he was in awe of her composure given what he’d just read. She must have been thinking while he was reading. Reliving the hideous facts line by line as he turned each page, waiting for a reaction that never came.
“Well, I think I know just about everything now.”
“Not quite. There’s one thing Eamonn failed to mention, because he couldn’t have known.” She pulled her legs out from under her and leaned across the table until their faces were just two feet apart. “I know Father Donal. He raped his daughter as well.”