The raptures, p.21
The Raptures, page 21
She rings her husband’s work and tells the boss’s secretary he’s come down with a dreadful migraine. The strain he’s under has obviously started working on him. She’s quite firm with the woman; John won’t be coming in today. Then, she phones Tommy’s wife. It isn’t Susan who answers the phone. Susan’s in bed. The doctor’s given her something to knock her out. It’s a sister-in-law who answers: Fiona somebody or other with a Belfasty accent. This makes it easier for Hannah’s mum. She expresses her sympathy in vaguer terms. She says she’s praying for them and is there anything else she can do. She says, ‘Listen, this is a bit awkward. I just wanted to let you know, Tommy’s here. Judging by the state of him, he’s been out all night. He’s grand. My husband’s sitting with him. He’ll run him home later. I’m only telling you in case youse were worrying.’ The sister-in-law sighs. It is clear that she would quite like to give Mum a mouthful on the subject of her no-good brother-in-law.
Hannah’s mum arranges a tray and takes it into the men. As she passes her husband his tea, she leans across the coffee table and whispers, ‘I phoned work. They’re not expecting you this morning.’ A look of pure rage passes across his face. It’s so rare for Dad to let himself go, Mum’s never seen this face before. It doesn’t suit him. He composes himself quickly. There’s company watching. ‘I told them you were stressed,’ she says, and slips out before he can tell her off for lying. Hannah’s dad doesn’t believe in stress. There’s trusting God and there’s not trusting God. He has no concept of anything in between. She closes the door behind her. It’s better to leave them alone. There are things a man won’t say in the presence of a woman, even if that woman is his wife.
‘Well, Tommy,’ says Dad as soon as she’s gone, ‘should you not be getting back to your wife? I’m sure she could do with you home today.’
‘Susan’ll be fine. Her lot are up from Belfast. They’re more than capable of holding the fort. Naw, I’m not for heading home yet. There’s business to take care of first.’
‘Business?’
‘Aye,’ says Tommy. ‘We’ve to go out and find whatever bastard – pardon my French – is responsible for what happened to Caroline … and the rest of them. Justice is what I’m after, mate. Somebody needs to pay for this.’
‘Justice?’
‘Aye, proper justice. Eye for an eye and tooth for a tooth; all that stuff it says in the Bible. His life, for all the innocent wee lives he’s taken.’
Tommy Fletcher sits back on the sofa. He opens the flap of his jacket to reveal a gun handle poking out of an inner pocket. It’s not the first gun Dad’s ever seen. Once, during the early eighties, he was held up by three fellas in balaclavas. They were after a Ford Cortina for a bank job over in Magherafelt. They’d waved their guns in his face. When he didn’t move fast enough one of them hit him a bit, around the head. He’s seen guns before, though he wouldn’t call himself an expert by any means. He has no idea what sort of weapon Tommy’s packing: a pistol maybe, or a revolver. He can say with certainty it’s not a shotgun. That’s as far as his knowledge goes.
‘Put that thing away. Sandra’ll throw us both out if she sees it.’
Tommy closes his jacket, zippers it to the chin. He edges forward so he’s in Dad’s face.
‘Listen, John, I know you lot are Born Agains. Youse aren’t into violence or anything like that. But is it not driving you mad, knowing your wee girl’s upstairs, maybe – no, let’s be honest about this – probably dying and there’s some cock-of-the-walk eejit out there, some fella we probably both know, responsible?’
‘Hannah’s fine.’
‘Catch yourself on, John. Sure, it’s only a matter of time …’
Tommy pauses for a moment. He takes a long look at Hannah’s dad. The man’s gone white as a clean sheet. Revenge might not be the best angle for a Holy Roller like John Adger. He changes tack. ‘Look, John, maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s not too late for the ones that aren’t sick yet. Still, you’d want them to catch whoever done this. You’d want this fella punished for what he’s done.’
‘Seán Donnelly says the police will get him.’
‘Forget Seán Donnelly. Has he made any headway? Has he hell. Donnelly has no real interest in getting to the bottom of this. He’s a Taig, John. First and foremost, he is a bloody Taig. He doesn’t care about our weans. He couldn’t give a rat’s ass whether they live or die. He’s only here to keep us from taking matters into our own hands. Soon as it’s all over, he’ll be in that big jeep of his, heading back over the border, to his Fenian wife and his own Fenian kids. Not so much as a backward glance will he give Ballylack and the mess he’s left behind. Let me tell you, John, your man Donnelly is only in it for the money. I heard he’s getting paid a clean fortune to keep the peace.’
‘Really?’
‘As God’s my witness.’
‘He seems like a decent enough fella to me.’
‘Uch, John. Never trust a Taig. They’re a sleekit breed of folk; always saying one thing, meaning something else entirely. Do not be fooled by your man’s big talk. He doesn’t give a toss about your wee girl.’
A short silence descends upon the living room. Tommy Fletcher watches the mantelpiece clock as the hands inch closer to eight. Hannah’s dad sits back in his armchair mulling over what’s been said. The sweat’s begun to pool at the base of his spine; he can feel his trousers starting to stick to the leather upholstery. He’s not good with confrontation. Not good with awkward silences either. He speaks first.
‘I wouldn’t want to be involved in any vigilante stuff,’ he says slowly, hesitating over each word. ‘I don’t believe in violence. You know it’s not our place to deliver justice.’
‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Listen, forget all that nonsense about killing the bastard. That was just big talk on my part. Let’s pretend there’s nothing in my jacket pocket but a pack of smokes.’ Tommy pats his breast pocket and winks suggestively at Dad. ‘I only want to get a wheen of lads together to go over the fields. We’ll see if we can’t find any trace of this stuff around the farms. They say it came from one of us. I don’t trust the Peelers, John. Sure, they’re not getting anywhere. The likes of us know this bit of the world better than anyone. One good day of looking and I bet we can find the bastard responsible.’
‘And we’d go to the police if we found anything.’
‘Straight to the police, John. You have my word.’ Tommy catches Dad’s eye and holds it for a good ten seconds. He’s finally figured out how to play a man like John Adger. ‘Now, you wouldn’t want to be the only dad in Ballylack who’s not out there searching? The only one who’s not prepared to defend his child? You wouldn’t want this boyo getting away scot-free, would you, John?’
‘No,’ says Hannah’s dad. No, he wouldn’t want any of that.
He doesn’t know whether it’s Tommy’s strong talk, or the smell of whiskey rising off him, maybe it’s the gun, sitting silently between them, like a tiny ticking bomb, but Dad feels more like a man than he has in years. He looks down at his hands. He has one of Sandra’s scatter cushions all twisted up between his fingers, fabric straining at the seams. He’s not been aware of his hands, the way they’ve needed something to destroy. Could I punch another man? he wonders. The situation’s never come up before. But he thinks, Yes, maybe I could. Could I kill somebody? Definitely not. There’s no coming back once you’ve taken a life. Besides, he doesn’t think he has it in him. Though, then again, could he be absolutely certain in the moment, if somebody was hurting his wee girl?
Hannah’s dad is about to open his mouth and say, Count me in, when the door opens and Mum elbows her way in with a trayful of bacon sandwiches.
She shuffles the furniture around, unfolding a card table for the tray. She avoids looking either man in the eye. She places the food in front of them.
‘Get that knocked into you, Tommy,’ she says. ‘It’s nothing fancy, but it’ll line your stomach at least.’ As she slips out of the room, she turns to call over her shoulder, ‘Eat up, lads. Tommy’s brother-in-law’s on his way over. He’s offered to pick him up.’ She’s only just decided on saying this, but she’s pleased enough with the way it sounds. There’s a kind of swagger which comes with making statements in retreat.
Once the door’s closed Mum goes straight to the hall phone and calls the Fletchers’ farm again. The same sister-in-law answers. They’re probably taking shifts to mind the phone. ‘Would you be able to send your husband over to pick up Tommy?’ she asks. ‘Normally, my husband wouldn’t mind running him out, but he’s got a terrible migraine this morning and, well, I don’t think it’d be appropriate for me to drive Tommy, myself. Not in the state he’s in.’ The sister-in-law sighs again. She’ll send one of the men over straight away.
Hannah’s mum hangs up the phone. She leans against the wall, waiting for her nerves to steady. She should be repenting for all the lies she’s told. She should be on her knees asking the Lord to forgive her for not trusting her own husband, for listening at doors and hearing things he wouldn’t want her to hear. Weak moments. Sinful moments. The flesh rising to lord it over the spirit. She’s witnessed her husband sorely tempted; on the verge of giving in. It’s not her place to interfere. He’s the head of the house. The head of her too.
When Mum peels her emotions back, she finds not one jot of sorrow present. There’s nothing in her heart but relief. She’s caught her husband just in time. She’s seen his weakness and acted quickly. She knows it’s not right for a wife to lie. Neither is it Biblical for a woman to rise up and control her husband. The Bible’s crystal clear on that. But her man’s blind this morning: overcome with pride and rage. Surely, the Lord will make an exception. Maybe, he’d even be on her side. And if not, sure she can always beg forgiveness later. Isn’t that the great thing about grace? There’s no sin so dreadful the Lord won’t deem to forgive.
The Bones of It
ALAN GARDINER HAS a problem. He knows the walls are closing in.
After the third wean died, he’d put two and two together himself. He’d known in his guts there’d been more than diesel in those barrels. He’d known the sickness was his fault. He was afraid then. Much afraid. First for himself. Then for his boy. Realizing Ben was an afterthought had only added to Alan’s guilt.
He’s gone over and over that night in his head, especially these last few days since the police started draining the pond. He knows he was careful with the dumping. Nobody saw him going or coming. He disinfected the horsebox afterwards and put his boilersuit through a hot wash. He’s pretty certain he left no fingerprints. He’d worn a pair of Megan’s washing-up gloves. No, there’s nothing linking him to Millar’s Gap.
Still, he should’ve called the police first thing, the very second those barrels were found. He should’ve admitted everything. He should have. But he hasn’t yet. He knows the fathers are out for blood. He can’t blame them. If the circumstances were different, he’d feel exactly the same himself. If he tells them now, they’ll crucify him. He deserves to be crucified. Seven wee ones are dead. Seven other people’s children, and Alan knows it’s his fault.
If it was only him, he might do it – phone Seán Donnelly and take the blame – but he knows the reprisals wouldn’t stop with him. They’d take it out on his family too. Ben. Megan. Wee Lucy. He can’t bear the thought of anybody being cruel to her. He imagines folks saying horrible things, shouting and getting on, maybe even spitting at her in the street. It’s not her fault. It’s not Megan’s fault either. He can’t even bring himself to think about Ben. If the boy gets sick, he’ll be to blame. Maybe he’s wanted this all along.
The problem begins and ends with Ben. If the boy had been a bit more normal, which is to say, more like him, then Alan would never have gotten into this mess. And Ben would be safe. And the other weans too. God Almighty, thinks Alan Gardiner for the hundredth time, how did I end up with that for a son? The farm has required a son of him, yet Ben’s made it abundantly clear that he does not require a farm.
Alan has considered leaving the land to his daughter. Lucy could turn out to be a hardy one, the kind of woman who can work with beasts. But Ballylack’s the sort of place where farms still pass to sons or grandsons; a nephew if there’s nobody else. You wouldn’t leave your farm to a woman. Women were grand for keeping house and children, occasionally ploughtering about with hens. It would take a man to run his farm and Alan knew Megan hadn’t another baby in her. If Ben didn’t take his farm on it would be lost.
Damned if Alan was for sitting back while it passed down to his brothers’ boys. Hadn’t they land enough already – a hundred-odd acres in the next townland – and weren’t they both gobshites, big, florid-faced lads who call his weans darkies behind his back? He’d made his mind up years ago. It didn’t matter whether Ben wanted to farm or not. Alan would make the decision for him, as his father had decided for him. To hell with the boy’s fool ambitions. Book learning. Teaching. Running. Alan couldn’t give a toss.
In a year or two Alan intended to sit Ben down and tell him how it was going to be. When I’m gone, the farm’ll be yours. You need to learn the tricks of the trade.
Bollocks to that. Alan knew exactly what he’d say. Ben didn’t do scenes. He’d just shake his head and say, No, thank you, as if he was turning down a second helping of spuds rather than his own birthright. Ben was thran, like his father. If Alan wanted to convince him, he’d have to get Megan on side. She was the only one Ben listened to. Yes, Megan would have to remind the boy that she came from nothing. And he came from her. Which is to say, he was nothing too. Ben could be the first in her family to own his own land and a house with two storeys, to have a car – two cars, actually, if you counted the Land Rover – and the possibility of education beyond high school.
Alan wouldn’t have any problem convincing his wife that Ben should go to Agricultural College. Though buried in layer upon layer of other names, Maganda was still the same wee girl who once devoured paperback novels on the front porch. She’d want her Bayani to have what she’d never had. An education. The minute she heard Alan was keen on college, she’d be in like Flynn with all the reasons why Ben should go. You will love it, son. It is a great opportunity for you. Think of all the doors it will open.
She wouldn’t care that college could give Bayani a love of farming and the basics of his trade. That he’d be around other young ones, some of them from far-flung places more open-minded than Ballylack. That there’d be girls present – just a few, and mostly of the homely type – but all the same, girls. And there’d be drinking, too, and gadding about in souped-up motors; the sort of thing young fellas should be up to at his age. No, all she’d hear was her wee boy, with actual letters after his name. She’d picture a certificate framed on the wall. Photographs of Bayani on his graduation day. Photos she’d send back to Marikina so all the naysayers would have to admit that Maganda Rosamie Mendoza had come up in the world.
With Megan on side, Alan was reasonably confident he could talk his son into the farm. Still, a bribe would help: a wad of cash to make the compromise more appealing. Buy yourself a fancy car, he’d say. Do the house up whatever way you like. The young ones were mad keen for the mod cons. Ben could install a hot tub in the backyard for all he cared.
Alan had opened a bank account in Ben’s name. This last year, he’d been putting money aside. He’d started taking a tenner out of the housekeeping every week and putting it away for Ben instead of his mum. Last spring, he’d sold an extra calf at auction. Then, he’d laid off the young lad who helped with the morning milking. Though he’d been wiped out doing the whole thing himself, Alan had been pleased to see his savings mounting up. By the time Ben finished his GCSEs he aimed to have twenty grand to offer his son, maybe even twenty-five. Surely that kind of money would turn a young lad’s head.
Alan Gardiner’s not a bad man. He’s not even particularly greedy. He never meant to hurt the children. He’s innocent of everything but stupidity.
It’s the two fellas from Donegal Town who’re actually to blame. ‘Unknown One’ and ‘Unknown Two’, whose name, Alan thinks, might be Paddy. Not that this’d been any help when it came to tracking the bastard down. Every other eejit in the South goes by Paddy. Paddy the Irishman and all that. The pair of them are the guilty ones. Not Alan Gardiner. He had the very best of intentions. He was only trying to set his boy up. He was doing his best to hold on to his farm. He should’ve had more sense. He can see that now. Even the most wet-eared fool knows not to take shit off fellas you meet in pub car parks. Doesn’t matter how plastered you are or how much cash they’re offering. You’re supposed to say, Do you think I was born yesterday? You’re supposed to up and walk away.
But Alan was desperate the day he met the pair of boyos from Donegal Town. Ben had just that morning refused to sign up for the Young Farmers. He could feel his daddy’s farm slipping away. Desperate times. Desperate measures. Alan was only thinking about the money. The way it’d help to pin the boy down. He’d never stopped to consider the right or wrong of loading those four big barrels into his horsebox. He’d only said, ‘You’re sure there’s nothing dangerous in there?’ and chose to believe them when they said, ‘’Course not, mate. It’s only a bit of dodgy diesel. We were planning to shift it in Letterkenny, but apparently the Guards are stopping everybody on the border tonight. Some fecker must’ve tipped them off. We can’t take the risk of getting caught. Your man over there’s already got form.’ Alan was barely listening to the pair of them. He’d been thinking about the five hundred pounds sterling they were pressing upon him; the way it would bolster Ben’s funds. Easy money, he was thinking. I’ll just dump the barrels in Millar’s Gap.
