Oona O’Brien was in shock. “For the love of God, are you sure? Fifteen million Euros?”
“Pounds Oona. English ones.”
But Oona had no idea what an IBAN number was. Nor had Jack and Caitlín considered the possibility the church had no electronic banking facility, no computer in the office and consequently, no internet connection. She opened the laptop and used her phone as a hotspot. There was only a 3G signal, so the connection would be much slower but at least it was strong. The phone had only forty percent battery life remaining and the laptop; sixty. The chargers might be in the car, but she couldn’t be sure. She just had to hope both devices would hold out.
“IBAN stands for International Bank Account Number validation. It’s basically the bank sort code and account with a few extra check digits to prove the details are valid.”
“I’ve got sort code and account on the bank statement,” offered Oona helpfully, but it wasn’t enough. She dialled the branch in Lifford and within a few minutes, the fax machine hummed into life and a single sheet of thermal paper trundled out. “Isn’t technology amazin’?” said Oona, prompting a wry smile from Caitlín. She tapped away on the laptop and entered the details for the payment making the amount a round fifteen million, leaving less than a hundred in the account.
“There. All we need is Father Donal to arrive and then we can send it. I just need his authorisation from this wee gadget.” She held up the digital device with the fingerprint panel. Oona looked perplexed.
“I don’t think Father Donal will have any idea what you’re talkin’ about. He doesn’t understand computers or anything like that. He doesn’t even have one of those mobile phones.” It was another variable they hadn’t accounted for, although it was possible it could work in their favour. If Father Donal was a technophobe there was a good chance he’d be less inquisitive about the process and simply do as he was told. especially given the sum of money involved.
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll show him. Do you think Father Donal will remember me?” she asked tentatively.
“Father Donal is the kindest, sweetest, gentlest man in the world, so he is, but he remembers less and less these days. That’s why he keeps me!” Oona laughed and Caitlín fought the urge to protest at the glowing praise for a monster. It was almost unbearable.
“Well, don’t be lettin’ on. See how long it takes him.”
They heard a noise from the hallway; a heavy door opening, men’s voices. Caitlín suddenly tensed. She’d tried to imagine how she would feel, when after all these years she finally came face to face with her nemesis. Until Jack came along, her experience at the hands of Father Donal was something she’d tried push to the back of her mind, for whenever it resurfaced, the pain was enduring and visceral. She had only a vague recollection of his appearance; the black cassock, the stiff white collar, the gold crucifix and the purple stole around his neck. But also, the benign expression, so quickly turning to rage at her insubordination. Jocular tones resonated in the corridor. He was almost here, and she stood up, nervous but resolute.
“Oona, there’s a fancy big car out there next to yours…” boomed a voice from the corridor, then, the apparition in the doorway. No horns, no pointed tail, no wings, trident or demonic eyes. No fire or stench of sulphur. Plain black cassock and white collar, grey, thinning hair, shorter and rounder than she remembered, genial as ever. He saw her and for a moment looked confused, then smiled openly, any scar she may have left on his cheek, long since healed in the twenty years since she’d seen him.
“Oh, hello. It seems we have a visitor.”
Oona jumped to her feet. “Father, this is…”
“Sineád!” Caitlín said, quickly interrupting and extending a hand. “Sineád O’Callaghan.” She felt his eyes weighing her up, studying her form, absorbed and weirdly salacious in their rapid movement, his hand, warm and soft, holding on for much longer than necessary; so long, she feared he might never release her, and she would have to scream.
“Welcome to St Patrick’s my child. Oona, have you given Sineád some tea?”
“Of course, Father,” she huffed. “And cake.”
“Well, we’re honoured and delighted to have you here.” He looked over his shoulder. “Your Grace. We have a visitor.” Bishop Cormac McKenna sidled into the room. Taller, skinnier, younger, same uniform except for the winged upper sleeves and the amaranth-red zucchetto on his head.
“This is His Grace, Bishop McKenna.”
She remembered the name from Mary’s diary, although he’d been a humble priest back then. His crimes had been noted.
“Sineád, Your Grace.” She affected a curtsey and McKenna afforded her an imperious nod to go with his libertine expression.
“Charmed.”
“Will that be your fine motor car out there, Sineád?” asked Father Donal.
“Indeed it is Father. I was visitin’ the area and wanted to say hello.”
“Sineád has brought us some wonderful news Father,” said Oona, unable to contain her excitement. “But I’m sure she would like to tell you herself. I’ll make some more tea.” She scurried back to the kitchen with her tray and Father Donal proffered her a seat at his desk.
“I’ll be drivin’ back to The Sisters then Donal,” said Bishop McKenna.
“Aye, Your Grace. Thanks for the lift.”
“Oh, please Your Grace,” said Caitlín. “I don’t want you to leave on my account. In fact, you may also like to hear my news, that is, if you have time.”
McKenna hesitated. “Well…”
“Stay and have a cuppa tea Your Grace,” urged Father Donal.
McKenna checked his watch. “I’d love to,” he said taking a seat next to Caitlín.
“Now Sineád,” said Father Donal. “Tell me, are you from around here? You look very familiar, but I confess I don’t recall the name O’Callaghan.”
“I was brought up in Carranleigh, Father, near the border.”
“Then you’ll know Father Sean at St Michael’s.” She was ready for a trap but had no idea whether this was one or not. The priest in front of her could not appear more benign and warm-hearted. She hedged her answer.
“I think so Father, but I haven’t been there for over twenty years. I moved to Dublin.”
“I see. Now don’t keep us in suspense, what it is you’re itchin’ to tell me.”
“Before I do that Father, do you mind awfully if I send a text message to my friend to tell him I’ll be later than expected.” Father Donal frowned.
“And what would a… text message be?”
“Oh Donal, for the grace of God, don’t you think it’s time you dragged yourself into the twenty-first century?” Bishop McKenna enjoyed the joke at his priest’s expense and turned to Caitlín. “Father Donal refuses to have a mobile phone. It’s very inconvenient at times.”
“I see no need, Your Grace. There’s always a telephone available wherever I go,” he said, looking vaguely offended.
“Go ahead Sineád,” said the Bishop, giving her arm a gentle squeeze. She suppressed her revulsion at his touch and smiled awkwardly, then got up and went into the corridor. She put her back against the wall and tried to steady her breathing. She had probably an hour to stomach in the company of two men who were as physically strong as they were repugnant and she was grateful for Oona’s presence.
She typed a new message to Jack. All present and correct, transfer ready to go, but authorisation declined. Still in negotiations. Stand by. She pressed send and returned to her seat just as Oona emerged with her tray replenished.
“Well Father, I’m here to carry out the dyin’ wishes of a friend of mine. It’s very sad to lose someone so young but I know he was devoted to the Church and if he were still alive, he’d be playin’ an active part in spreadin’ the Gospel and supportin’ The Sisters.”
“You know about The Sisters?”
She sensed danger. She hadn’t meant to mention it because it served no purpose and only raised questions about her origins. Oona was pouring the tea and she caught her eye.
“Yes I do. Oona here tells me it’s a wonderful charity and I have a personal interest which I’d love to tell you about. Maybe later?” She managed a coquettish grin and watched Father Donal sit up in his chair.
“Of course, my child. I’d be delighted.” Bishop McKenna cleared his throat, and she saw them exchange glances.
“I think you’ll know my late friend. His name was Eamonn Flynn,” she said. She made an effort to sound deferential in the presence of eminent clergy, but Father Donal’s face suddenly darkened. “I don’t want to embarrass you Father, but he told me how wonderful you were.” She noticed the darkness turn to suspicion, then confusion. “He left a long letter extollin’ the virtues of the Church, the incredible work of The Sisters and, in particular, the benevolence of Father Donal Byrne. He wrote about his pride at bein’ a benefactor and how he wanted it to continue after his death.” Confusion turned to astonishment tinged with discomfort.
“But…my dear child. I was under the distinct impression Mr Flynn had become disillusioned with the Church. He certainly made some generous donations, but I’m afraid he fell under the influence of dark forces which clouded his judgment. Did you not think so Your Grace?”
“Well, yes Donal. But I got that impression from you. I met him myself only once or twice.”
“What dark forces Father?” She trained wide, ingenuous eyes on him and he began to stutter. He reached for his cup and hastily took a drink, spilling some down his chin in the process.
“I’m afraid there are some things that may not be spoken of, especially with a young lady present. All I will say is that I believe he succumbed to the temptations of the devil who filled his head with evil thoughts and lies and although I did everythin’ in my power, I regret I could not save him. God rest his soul.” He made the sign of the cross in the air and the Bishop reciprocated.
“Well, then I’m confused, so I am. Eamonn left instructions that the balance of the funds he had raised for the Church should be released to you six months after his death. That’s why I’m here. It’s just over six months since Eamonn died and I, Father, am the sole trustee of the fund as well as the administrator of the account.” Father Donal sat back in his chair looking perplexed, but his face soon revealed the stirrings of anticipation and he shot a glance at the Bishop.
“Well, my child. I’m quite astonished, so I am. I was instrumental in helpin’ young Eamonn establish the fund and it was always his intention that the Church would be the primary beneficiary.” He paused, struggling to find the words while containing his excitement. “I…I recall it amounted to a substantial sum.” Her phone beeped, snapping him out of his wayward imagination. “What was that noise?”
“My phone Father. May I?” It was a text from Jack. We’re on our way. Be there in twenty minutes. It made no sense. They’d calculated the distance. It was over seventy kilometres from Larnock to Drumloghan and a lot of it would be on minor roads. It was at least an hour. Twenty minutes! She would have to move things along.
“May I say,” interjected Bishop McKenna, “however this misunderstanding has arisen, we should respect Mr Flynn’s bequest. The Church is always receptive and grateful for the philanthropy of its followers. How much is in the fund, my child?”
“Fifteen million pounds, Your Grace.”
***
As expected, Maguire hit the roof when Jack showed him the text.
“Authorisation declined? Who does this papist think he is? I’ve had enough of this, so I have. I’m goin’ down there to sort the bastard out myself!” He picked up the phone on his desk and punched a number.
“Seanie? Tell Finn I want the Bell fired up. And get Jerry, Michael and the boys too. We’re goin’ for a wee ride.”
“What’s happening?” asked Jack even though he’d already worked it out for himself. Maguire stood and glared at him across the desk.
“The chopper will get us to Drumloghan in half an hour. I need this sorted out now! Come on. You and the lassie are comin’ too.” That much he’d expected; it was just the mode of transportation that had thrown him. He’d assumed a one-hour drive at least but now Caitlín had only half that time to play with. He hoped she’d be able to get the job done, but he needed to warn her. He followed Maguire out of the library door into the drawing room, where Charlie and Kathleen were still sitting by the fire. They looked up in consternation as Maguire strode past without stopping.
“Rowan?” said Mrs Maguire.
“I need to get down to Drumloghan, fast. Jack and his daughter are comin’ too. You stay here.” He set off into the hallway where the two thugs who’d driven Jack from Derry were waiting.
“C’mon sweetie. Time to go.” Charlie jumped to her feet and he put his arm around her. She eyed the two thugs nervously as they followed Maguire out through the front door and down the front steps to where the Bell’s blades were already turning. He pulled her close as they felt the increasing downdraught and said in her ear as loud as he dared. “Which of these punks put the bag over your head?” She cast a glance at the two guys behind them. “Both of them?” She nodded. Maguire was already hauling his body in through the side door and he turned around, waving a hand in the air.
“Hurry up!” They climbed into the front row of seats next to Maguire and three men got in behind them, another getting into the left-hand seat next to the pilot. Jack sat in the middle and had a good view of the cockpit controls. It had been a long time since he’d been in a Bell, but this was an old model and much of it looked familiar. Maguire donned some headphones, held one finger up and twirled it in the air.
“Go Finn.”
The chopper went suddenly light, spun on the spot and climbed rapidly, banking left as the castle quickly shrank in size and disappeared from view. Jack looked over his left shoulder and plucked another set of headphones from a hook. He put them over his ears and the roar of the engines dulled to the crackle and hiss of static. He fished his phone out of his pocket.
“I need to let her know,” he shouted down the mouthpiece waggling his phone in the air.
Maguire grimaced.
“What for? We’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“If I’d known she’d get resistance from the priest, I wouldn’t have sent her alone. I don’t know what she’s said to him, but he may be giving her a hard time.”
“He’ll get a fuckin’ hard time when I get there!” Jack took that as permission to text and typed the message. He showed it to Maguire who nodded and then pressed send.
The cabin temperature was still cold and Charlie started to shiver, whether due to lack of proper clothing or because of anxiety, he couldn’t tell, but he held her close and she clung on to him tightly. A wave of pessimism washed over him. There was every chance this could go wrong and although he never expected gratitude from Maguire he’d always thought once the guy got what he wanted, there was no longer any merit in harming them. But now, there was a new dimension. In his arrogance, and emboldened by the whiskey, Maguire had given him a guided tour of a giant arms cache and divulged his mad strategy for the future of Ulster if not the island of Ireland. He could not afford to let that information get out. Once the money had changed hands, he would take the prudent option. He kissed Charlie’s head and squeezed her shoulder. He had to be prepared for the worst.
***
Father Donal and Bishop McKenna were in a state of shock, bordering on jubilance.
“We thought that money had been lost forever,” said Bishop McKenna. “Didn’t you Donal?”
“I prayed to God that was not the case and now those prayers have been answered. I’m simply astonished the young man still had access to the funds, given his family’s background.”
“To be honest Father, I’m not sure they are aware the funds exist, or if they do, where they are. Eamonn gave me exclusive rights to administer it on his behalf. I’m here to finish his work,” said Caitlín helpfully.
Father Donal’s eyes suddenly lit up. “If I may be so bold Your Grace, I confidently predict that when the Holy Father sees what we have achieved, you will get the callin’ to Rome. Cardinal Cormac McKenna!” he announced in triumph.
McKenna’s face was flushed with euphoria. “And Donal, that will leave a vacancy in the Diocese, so it will. Bishop Donal Byrne!” he announced in return. “What do we have to do Sineád?”
“If you don’t mind, it would be nice if we can all go into the church and do the transfer under the watchful eye of our Lord Jesus Christ.”
“Excellent idea, my child,” said Father Donal, clapping his hands together.
“I’ll be goin’ home now Father, if that’s alright?” In their excitement, they’d forgotten Oona, who’d been sitting quietly at her desk.
“Not at all Oona, me darlin’.”
Caitlín would have preferred Oona had stayed, but she knew Jack would be here soon, so they bid their farewells and Father Donal led Caitlín into the church with McKenna following closely behind. She laid her bag and laptop on the altar, then stepped back and curtsied in front of the crucifix, making the sign of the cross, the clergymen doing likewise. She connected the fingerprint panel and tapped away on the keyboard, bringing the bank account summary onto the screen. Both men leaned forward as she pointed out the previous payments to the church, the balance in excess of fifteen million and the payment details for St Patrick’s. McKenna’s mouth dropped open, thoughts of striding through St Peter’s Basilica for his daily audience with the Holy Father uppermost in his mind. Father Donal continued to look blank, clearly not sure what he was looking at.
“Now Father, this is quite a simple process. As you can see, Oona has already given me the church’s bank details and I have set up the payment ready to go. All you need to do is place the three fingers of your right hand on this wee panel here and in a flash, the money will be sent to the account of St Patrick’s. Oona tells me that overnight, it will be transferred automatically to the Diocese and then onto Rome. Is that correct?” Father Donal looked a little bewildered.
“I think so. But to be honest Oona deals with all that stuff, so I’m not so sure.”
“Yes Donal, Sineád is right,” said McKenna. “Don’t be worryin’ yourself about the bank. The money will be in Rome by the mornin’.” McKenna was clued up on the Church’s treasury arrangements, but he also had a reasonable grasp of technology and looked suddenly puzzled. “Sineád, my child. I’m intrigued by this gadget of yours. How is it that it can recognise Father Donal’s fingerprints?”
“Well to be honest Your Grace, I can’t be sure it does. I’ve assumed at some point in the past Eamonn must have asked Father Donal here to scan his fingerprints so they could be uploaded onto the system.”
“What’s she talkin’ about Your Grace?” said Father Donal, mystified by the language. McKenna modified his tone as if he were talking to a five-year-old.
“Donal, do you remember putting your hand on a wee gadget like that before?”
“I certainly do not!” I would never go near such a thing.
McKenna raised an eyebrow and continued the patronising tone.
“Now Donal, you know what your memory’s like. You probably forgot all about it.”
“I did not!” he insisted, sounding like a truculent child.
“Well, there’s only one way to find out,” said Caitlín. “Give me a wee minute to finish off.” She turned back to the laptop and checked her phone while the men continued their argument about technology and the fragility of human recollection. Laptop power was down to twenty percent, the phone eighteen and already in the red zone, the time on both showing five fifteen.
A distant and incongruous sound distracted her; a rhythmic rumble that could have been thunder but was too constant and persistent to be a natural phenomenon; a vibrating machine noise that grew steadily louder until it shook the oak beams in the roof of the eight-hundred-year-old structure, then subsided as quickly as it had appeared. They were here.
She looked up at Christ on the cross and a surge of adrenalin flooded her body. The Son of God could not be held responsible for the actions of men on earth almost two thousand years after his death; that is of course, if he ever was the Son of God and not some hapless fool who found himself at the epicentre of circumstances that simply set a precedent for every other hapless fool to follow. She felt a tinge of regret that the unholy should be unleashed in such a holy place, but then the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit had all been present at The Sisters when their followers and acolytes had committed heinous crimes against humanity and by all accounts, done nothing to stop them. She could only surmise there was no power in heaven or on earth that could do that, the enduring power and love of the Almighty was a cruel deceit for the innocent and a calumny exploited by the devil to do evil. She had been gifted a power of her own and she was about to use it all. She imagined the two embodiments of evil standing behind her, drooling with pleasure and anticipation at the thought of fame and fortune within their grasp. Kneel before me Caitlín and I shall put inside you the love of God and the Son and the Holy Spirit.
She felt her heartbeat thudding in her ears as she moved her fingers closer to the panel, some invisible force preventing her closing the gap. She fought against the resistance and then, with shaking hand, contact was made. The laptop bleeped and a message appeared. ‘Your payment has been processed’. Her heart pounded as she turned to the two men who were looking perplexed, staring at the ceiling, still distracted by the infernal noise that had passed over their heads.
“Father? Could you please place your middle three fingers on this wee panel?” She kept the laptop screen hidden as Father Donal rolled up a sleeve and tentatively laid three fingers on the device, wincing as if he expected an electric shock. “Thank you.” She stood back and showed them the screen so they could see the message. “Congratulations Father. The Church is now fifteen million pounds richer!” Father Donal and Bishop McKenna stared open-mouthed then exchanged looks of glee and shook hands vigorously with each other.
“Well done Donal!” said McKenna. “You did it!”
Father Donal bristled with pride. “Oh, Your Grace. We have to thank Sineád here for everythin’.” He stepped forward to try to embrace her, but she held up a hand and stopped him in his tracks.
“Excuse me Father, but are you sure you don’t recognise me? I’m told your memory is not what it once was, so let me give you a wee clue. My name hasn’t always been Sineád. Before that it was Caitlín. Caitlín McConnell.”
Father Donal looked at Bishop McKenna who shrugged. “I’m afraid I…”
“You knew my mammy. She was in the choir. Her name was Mary Keane.” She paused to let the words sink in and saw Father Donal blink not once but twice. She held up the polaroid taken in 1985 and both men’s eyes were drawn to it. Long, red, curly hair, green eyes, innocent teenage countenance. “This is a picture of my mammy. Can you see the resemblance? Do you not remember? You should do because when she was just a wee lassie of fourteen, you raped her, here in this church, on this altar and that man up there on that cross watched you doin’ it.”
“What is this? How dare you!” said McKenna in a sudden fury. “You will not use that kind of language in the House of God!”
Caitlín stared at McKenna. “Perhaps you should let Father Donal speak for himself?” But Father Donal was struck dumb. “And the next thing, my mammy’s havin’ a baby, so she gets thrown out by her family and given up to The Sisters, where she gives birth to a wee baby boy whom she calls Jesus, because you told her she was a virgin just like Mary of Nazareth. Guess who the real daddy was, Father?”
“I…I…!” mumbled the priest, beginning to shake.
“And wee baby Jesus was taken away from my mammy and sold to a nice family in Derry who named him Eamonn. Eamonn Flynn.”
“Now that’s enough!” said McKenna.
She held one hand up to McKenna while keeping her eyes focused on Father Donal. “You have just as much to answer for, Your Grace, so please wait your turn. I’ll come to you shortly.” The Bishop grimaced, mouth twitching in rage. “Then you went to The Sisters and saw Mary Keane again and you gave her a personal gift from God. What was it you said? ‘Come and kneel before me Mary and we’ll say a wee prayer and then I can give you God’s love’. That’s what you said just before you raped her again.”
“Stop! I demand you stop!” shouted McKenna in despair.
“You evil hoor!” Father Donal spat out the words.
“Donal!” cautioned McKenna.
“And guess what, Father? Mary Keane had a wee baby girl she called Oona, the Lamb of God, and that wee baby girl was taken away from her and sold, yes sold, to the McConnell family of Carranleigh. They named her Caitlín.” She held up her own photograph. “There you go, that’s me,” and then both photographs “do you see the resemblance now…daddy?”
“This is an outrage!” blustered McKenna. “What evil slander is this you bring into God’s church.”
“It’s called the truth Your Grace. Somethin’ you know nothin’ about and somethin’ your God chooses to ignore when it suits him.”
“Blasphemy!” wailed McKenna.
She held up her picture again, her hand shaking, but she kept her eyes on Father Donal even as she sensed a commotion at the church entrance and several figures marching down the aisle towards them. “I’m about thirteen here Father. This is just before two of your nuns held me down and you shoved your cock up my arse!” She shouted at him with all the power in her lungs. “Do you remember?!”
She shouted at him with all the power in her lungs. The priest struck her across the face with the back of his hand and she fell against the altar then collapsed to the ground, rolling down the carpeted steps onto the polished stone floor.
“Hoor! Bitch!” he screamed, leaping down the steps to where she lay, straddling her, grabbing her by the neck and slapping her again. Blood spilled from her mouth and she spat some of it in his face as McKenna tried in vain to pull him off. Jack arrived first, wrapping an arm around the priest’s neck and dragging him aside, pushing McKenna over in the process. Michael and Sean jumped on Father Donal, kicked him in the belly and lifted him up so they could knock him down again with a punch, while McKenna scuttled backwards on all fours trying to escape only to find Maguire’s legs blocking his way.
Jack helped Caitlín to a sitting position and she flung her arms around his neck, shaking with fear, dripping blood onto his shoulder while Charlie stood in the aisle, mouth agape, watching the violence play out like a video game. “Oh my God!” she moaned, hand over her mouth. “Oh my God!”
“It’s okay sweetheart. Caitlín, meet Charlie. Charlie this is Caitlín.” Caitlín forced a smile through cracked lips.
“Hi Charlie. Heard a lot about you.”
“Enough of the fuckin’ pleasantries!” bellowed Maguire, hands on hips, the Bishop quivering at his feet. “Who’s got my fuckin’ money?” Jack lifted Caitlín to her feet and supported her while she wiped blood from her mouth on the sleeve of her blouse.
“They did it,” she spluttered. “I tried to stop them.”
“Did what?” said Maguire, his anxiety growing.
“I told them we had to pay back the money, but they refused. Wanted it for the Pope.”
The awful truth began to dawn on Maguire, and he raced up the steps and tapped feverishly on the laptop. The screen reappeared with its damning message still centre stage. He pressed clear and saw the summary bank account; a transfer to St Patrick’s of fifteen million pounds, balance barely one hundred. He turned slowly, face like thunder, his speech slow, measured, menacing.
“Are you tellin’ me, these bastards took my money for themselves? For the fuckin’ Pope?” She nodded. “Which one!” he shouted. She nodded towards Father Donal who was clutching his middle, a purple bruise appearing on one cheekbone. Maguire walked up to him and slapped him on the head, regarding him with a mixture of curiosity and contempt. “Did you steal my money, you cassock wearin’ Fenian?”
“I did not!” spat Father Donal, sweat pouring down his brow, face grimacing in pain. “It was a donation to the Church, that’s what it was.”