Michael Russell - The City of Shadows

‘It was ten minutes, that’s all. I was just following up on some information in a case.’ He stopped, unsure. It wasn’t exactly the truth. ‘It was a stupid thing to do. I should have left it. I wasn’t thinking …’

‘You picked the wrong curate,’ said Father McCauley, shaking his head. ‘I can’t say your boy standing in the Adelaide Road synagogue would keep me awake. I know Rabbi Herz. I wouldn’t be sorry to see some more priests who knew the Old Testament like he does. But Father Carey belongs to a different school; the nest of Christ-killers and communists school; the Monsignor Fitzpatrick crowd. Do you know who I’m talking about?’

Stefan knew all too well. He was slightly uncomfortable. The Commissioner was looking through the file on the desk again. This was a personal matter, but that didn’t mean Ned Broy hadn’t had something to do with putting the lid on his investigation. There was the way any serious questioning of Father Byrne had been pushed aside, and the way everything was now in the hands of Special Branch. Broy continued reading. Father McCauley spoke again.

‘Where do they want your son to go? It’s Tom, isn’t it?’

‘My brother-in-law’s, in Portlaoise.’

‘That’s not so far.’

‘He’s not even five. I wouldn’t dream of it.’

‘If it came to a court case, I’m not sure what the consequences would be,’ replied the chaplain. ‘There are a lot of people in the Church who don’t like this sort of thing, I assure you, but there are risks in taking a bishop on. And it’s not as if you’re with the boy all the time. You’re working in Dublin. Is it really so different, seeing him in Laois and seeing him in Wicklow?’

‘It’s not his home. It would be different to him.’

‘To him or to you?’

‘I know my son.’

‘You need to think hard, Sergeant, very hard. It’s not easy advice — ’

‘I don’t need to think at all, Father.’

‘I wish you would. I will do what I can on your behalf. I know the bishop. But they are serious about this, that’s all I can say, very serious.’

‘Thanks, Derek.’ The Commissioner closed the file.

The chaplain got up. He smiled at Stefan and then left.

‘It’s good advice, Gillespie,’ said Broy. ‘Perhaps it’s the only advice. I can’t help you with that side of things. I wish I could. I’ve got enough on my plate with your assault on the fecking curate. I can’t ignore it, can I?’

Stefan said nothing.

‘The bishop’s full of threats about a prosecution for assault. It’s bollocks. I can probably sit on that one. But he wants me to kick you out.’

Stefan nodded. Why would he have expected anything else?

‘There are a variety of disciplinary charges involved. I don’t know where we’d end up if we went down that road. So we won’t bother. I’m going for the chaplain’s approach. That means I won’t fight everything.’

‘So I’m out?’

‘No, we go along with it, but only so far. I have the power to suspend you, without any recourse to formal disciplinary procedures. I don’t need to ask anyone or explain it to anyone. I’ll write to the bishop and express my horror at what you’ve done, and say I’m suspending you forthwith. I can make that sound as near to a dismissal as makes no difference. You go away. We all shut up and forget about it. And in six months’ time I reinstate you.’

‘When would my suspension — ’

‘For now, just make Inspector Donaldson a happy man. Go home.’

‘I’m in the middle of a case.’

‘Not any more. You know what forthwith means. Fuck off, now!’

As Stefan Gillespie walked through the Phoenix Park it was colder. There was ice in the air. Uppermost in his mind was what waited for him in Baltinglass. The threat that was hanging over the house and over Tom was a real one. He had pushed it aside because he couldn’t believe it, but the chaplain’s words were in his head now. Other people did believe it. Tom couldn’t know, whatever else happened. His parents would have to share the burden though. So far he’d only told them of another row with the curate, but they already knew it was more serious than anything that had happened before. Now his father had spoken to the Commissioner too. He still had his job after a fashion; if he shut up and kept his head down. That was the real message from the Commissioner and the Garda Chaplain. But how far was Ned Broy really sticking his neck out? They were telling him to do what the Church wanted and pretend it was a way out. People always said the Irish had three curses: the English, the drink and the Church. The English had faded away; the drink was your own choice in the end; but the priests were always there. And once he took the first step, once he accepted that they could decide what happened to his son, there’d be no turning back. He couldn’t do it, not to Tom, not to himself, not to Maeve. If losing his son was the price for keeping his job, then the job wasn’t worth having.

He didn’t bother to go back to Pearse Street. They could have Susan Field and Vincent Walsh. They could have Hugo Keller and Jimmy Lynch. It didn’t matter. The only thing left from that was Hannah Rosen. He wondered where she was. But there was no point needing a woman he would never even see again. He walked on faster. Kingsbridge was just beyond the park gates. He reached Albert Quay and crossed the Liffey to the station. Fifteen minutes later the train was taking him back home to West Wicklow.

The upstairs room looked out over Main Street in Baltinglass. The solicitor’s office was untidy, cluttered with papers and files and books. But it was a bright room. The big windows let in the pale midwinter light and the dust that hung in the air showed how rarely the place was cleaned. A man in his sixties stood at the window looking out. He leant on a walking stick. In Dublin, thirteen years earlier, during the War of Independence, the Black and Tans had thrown him from the first floor of a solicitor’s practice in Leeson Street. His legs had been broken in too many places to ever mend properly. Ever since, he had been more comfortable standing up than sitting down. Through the window came the noise of cattle being driven through the town to the market place. Emmet Brady had listened to Stefan without interruption. Now he paced slowly in front of the window, while Stefan sat on a chair in front of the desk the solicitor only used to pile papers on.

‘There is a simple solution of course, Stefan. You could convert.’

‘Is that all there is?’

‘It would certainly be the end of it.’

He watched Brady limping slowly up and down. The old man was thinking hard, but what he was thinking wasn’t what Stefan wanted to hear.

‘Are you telling me they can do this, Mr Brady?’

‘No, of course I’m not.’

‘But — ’

‘But it doesn’t mean I’m telling you they can’t.’

‘It’s one or the other surely?’

‘You know the law better than that. A wife would be another option.’

‘What?’ Despite everything Stefan laughed.

Brady stopped, grimacing as pain shot down his leg, then paced again.

‘You’re not unattractive. Admittedly your employment prospects are slightly uncertain right now, but then you’ve a bit of land coming to you up at Kilranelagh one day. A good Catholic girl would do the job nicely. Maybe it’s time you put off the black armband, metaphorically speaking.’

‘I hope the fact that you think it’s funny is a good sign, Mr Brady.’

‘I don’t think it’s funny at all. But why not convert?’

‘I can’t convert to something I don’t believe in.’

‘You mean you’d rather not lie.’

‘I shouldn’t have to lie.’ Stefan turned in the chair, angry again.