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  Copyright

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Fourth Estate

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by Flamingo 1993

  Copyright © Edward Toman 1993

  Edward Toman asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks

  HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

  Source ISBN: 9780006545736

  Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2016 ISBN: 9780008226916

  Version: 2016-11-08

  Dedication

  For Siobhán and Declan

  Epigraph

  ÓM SCEOL AR ARDMHAGH FÁIL NÍ CHODLAIM OÍCHE

  I hear news from the high plains of Ireland and I cannot sleep at night

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  One

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Two

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Epilogue

  Keep Reading

  About the Author

  Other Books By

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  Alphonsus McLoughlin’s Spanish wasn’t all that hot, so it took him a minute or two to appreciate what the guide was telling him. The only way the mule could be persuaded to climb any higher, it seemed, was to offer it a shot of his tequila. ‘I can see its point,’ Alphonsus said, handing the bottle over without demur. He’d had quite a few shots himself that morning. He intended having quite a few more if God spared him. Only his faith and the cactus juice were keeping him going as, perched precariously on the swaying back of the bad-tempered beast and sweating like a proverbial pig under his dog collar, he stumbled upwards on a precipitous bridleway towards the lost city in the mountains.

  On either side of the narrow trail the thorny cacti sprouted promiscuously. When Alphonsus was a boy, he had taken a brief interest in cacti. His aunt had kept a small one in the window of their house on the Falls Road, issuing orders to all who darkened her door that it was never to be watered. One Saint Patrick’s Day it flowered, to the amazement of the neighbours. They sent for the Irish News. In those days there was less trouble on the Falls, and the Irish News was grateful for any story with a human interest angle. A reporter arrived who made Alphonsus spell out his name and took a snapshot of him standing beside the miraculous succulent. Alphonsus didn’t dare tell him the truth, that Maud Gonne McGuffin, the backstreet girl who came in on a Saturday to do his aunt’s washing, had secretly watered the plant on compassionate grounds one night when the aunt was at confession. It was never a good idea to get on the wrong side of the McGuffin clan.

  Before Easter, in spite of all the attention it was attracting, the cactus shrivelled and died. The Irish News spiked the story, Maud Gonne McGuffin was given her cards, and Alphonsus’s interests turned back to his impending vocation. His aunt had had to wait twenty years, until his ordination day, to see her smudged likeness on the front page of the paper.

  Even now, swaying through an endless vista of stunted spiky growths, Father Alphonsus recalled the incident with a pang of residual guilt.

  The guide, who had talked him into the trip the previous evening, had sworn to him on his mother’s grave that he would not be disappointed. But when they finally reached their destination at noon it needed only one glance at the scruffy Indian village for Alphonsus to know that he’d been sold a pup. But then what did he expect? he asked himself. The treasures of Teotihuacán? Half a dozen adobe huts were scattered round a makeshift square. Chickens and a goat scratched unconvincingly in the dust. A few children detached themselves from a lethargic game and tried to sell him knick-knacks. The guide ordered him to take photographs, then ushered him into the souvenir emporium. His heart sank. A boyhood on the Falls Road hadn’t taught him much about the glories of the Teoamoxtli, but he knew he could have spared himself the discomfort of the journey, could have stayed in the motel in Tijuana with a cold beer and a copy of Newsweek, enjoying impure thoughts by the poolside, instead of trekking all the way up to this God-abandoned spot. There was nothing here he couldn’t pick up in the town. He bought a few items out of politeness and was about to go when his eye was caught by the figurine nailed to the wall high above the cash register.

  It was a small female figure, no more than six inches tall, a Madonna perhaps, crudely carved from driftwood. Though the features were roughly executed, they captured an expression of hauteur in the blank stare, the slightly curled full lips and the oval Aztec eyes. He knew at once that he must have it. It certainly wasn’t the sort of thing his aunt would go for, but it had an authentically ethnic look that might impress his new friends back in Sausalito.

  ‘Esta, ¿quién es?’ he asked.

  The proprietor, a wizened little man with the wrinkled face of a dried prune, didn’t answer, didn’t move.

  ‘¡No es nada, señor! ¡No se vender the guide said. It’s nothing. It’s not for sale.

  ‘Can I see it anyhow?’ Alphonsus said.

  ‘¡No es posible!‘the guide answered hurriedly.

  ‘¿Cuánto cuesta?’ Alphonsus insisted.

  ‘¡Solamente una réplica!’ the guide assured him. ‘Not bring so good luck.’

  If they don’t want me to have it then it must be something rare, Alphonsus started thinking. Then he thought ‘bollocks’, as his Belfast common sense re-asserted itself. It was all a ploy to build up his interest, to sucker the gringo into parting with more greenbacks. The guide was taking mugs like himself up the mountain every day of the week; no doubt the old guy had a cardboard box full of similar carvings under the counter, and a kid out the back whittling away on demand. But the more Alphonsus contemplated it the more he knew he wanted it. He could picture it already on the mantelpiece in his study bedroom.

  The old man suddenly reached up and pulled the figurine roughly from the wall and handed it to him, muttering something in an ancient tongue.

  ‘What is he saying?’ Alphonsus asked.

  The guide shrugged his shoulders, suddenly appearing to lose interest in the transaction. ‘Señor Ramirez say you can have! He likes that you are priest; he too once had brother a priest. For you if you want it
is present. And maybe you pray for his brother? Okay?’

  ‘Ask him how much he wants for his present?’ Alphonsus said suspiciously.

  ‘It is present!’ the guide repeated. ‘You can have! Now we go, pronto, eh?’

  He beckoned to him to leave. Alphonsus pocketed the statuette and followed him out into the glare of the noonday sun. He’d have another tequila, he told himself. Then he’d help the guide prise the mules away from the peyote plants.

  The same sun that shone on Father Alphonsus had already gone down in the hills above Armagh. It was cold as well as dark, with a wind that would have cut corn. A night, you would have thought, for the fireside or the early bed.

  But not this night! For this was a night when none could sleep.

  The ice-cream van had stopped at the foot of the lane below the house, and a crowd had gathered. Frank Feely was standing up on a chair to look out of the window. His father was standing cursing inside the front door, his face red with anger, using words the boy had never heard before, and his mother was outside the house screaming back in at his father to come out and fight like a man. ‘You’re a no-good coward, a yellow-livered whore’s get out of hell! Are you just going to stand there and let him get away with it?’ His father went over to the gable wall of the house and began to throw lumps of stone over the potato patch in the direction of the chiming van. ‘For the love of the suffering Jesus,’ she shouted at him, ‘who do you think you are going to hit from that distance?’ She raced into the house, pushed Frank aside and, opening the window, grabbed the stout pole from which the papal flag hung limply. ‘Keep your eye on the child at least,’ she ordered. She ran to the road and he saw her begin to lay about her with the flagpole.

  Frank ran to follow her, but his father picked him up and carried him inside. ‘Sometimes there’s not a lot of point getting yourself caught up in that sort of carry-on,’ he said. ‘McCoy’s trailing his coat. He won’t be happy till there’s ructions. We’ll leave it to Father Schnozzle to sort out.’

  From the safety of the ice-cream van, Oliver Cromwell McCoy took stock of the developing situation with some satisfaction. The Mexican and his wife cowered on the floor, covering their ears against the noise of the riot building up outside. But the sounds were music to McCoy’s ears. ‘Mucho people! Mucho money! Eh?’ he announced to the couple at his feet. He switched off the chimes and blew into the microphone; the time had come to take control of the situation.

  ‘Protestant people of Armagh! Once more the lackeys of Rome are trying to stop us! They think they can come between us and our true Bible faith; but let them be warned, they’re dealing with Ulstermen, not some forelock-tugging toady from down the Free State, and it will take more than a few nancy boys from Rome, in their skirts and Italian hats, to stop us. With the help of God, and the Tynan B Specials’ – here a cheer went up from the crowd as these gallant defenders of the Protestant way moved through the crowd and took up their positions – ‘they’ll not stop us tonight either. Ulstermen will be free to travel the roads of their beloved province and exercise their right to religious freedom, won for them through the blood of their forefathers.’

  The reason for the hold-up had now become clear. Up ahead at the crossroads a throng of papists, led by a priest, had felled a tree and were gathered behind this barricade, reciting the rosary. Some of them knelt in the road as the thin cleric gave out the Hail Marys through a megaphone. Across the fallen tree stretched their banners and placards:

  LEGION OF MARY;

  SAINT MATT TALBOT’S MISSION TO THE PERVERT

  (Father forgive them for they know not what they do!)

  McCoy cautiously opened the sliding window of the van and craned his neck round, the better to survey the scene. He dodged back from the hail of stones which this gesture prompted. But he had seen enough to know that the B-men were massing for a frontal attack on the barricade and he gripped the mike and began to bellow his orders:

  ‘I see our long-nosed friend is here again. Mister Schnozzle Durante, if I’m not very mistaken. He calls himself “Father”, and has all the girls calling him “Father” too, but plain mister is all he’ll get from me! A lackey of the great harlot herself. But I’ve got news for him tonight. No nancy boy priest of Rome will ever stop a true-blue Protestant from the profession of his faith. No surrender! I now call upon our gallant forces to clear the road ahead and let these peaceful Protestant people through to celebrate their service, and if they don’t clear the road there’s plenty of boys here willing to do it for them. Am I right, boys?’

  The roar of support that greeted these sentiments indicated that he had hit the nail on the head. The push began. On the floor of the van the diminutive Mexican rolled into the foetal position and sobbed softly to himself in creole as the rocks bounced off the flimsy roof of the van. He closed his eyes, and heard the thud of wood and leather and metal, on skull and bones and flesh, the screaming of the women, the curses of the men, the wailing of lost children. Then they were moving, the van lurching unevenly as the crowd inched forward and the Fenians and their priest fell back into the fields. McCoy turned on the chimes again and the van began to pick up speed. ‘Give her the wellie, Mister Magee,’ he shouted into the front, where the dour-faced driver was wrestling with the gears. ‘We mustn’t keep the punters waiting.’ He flung open the window and leaned out, giving the priest in the field the two fingers. Then he turned his attention to the Mexicans, prodding them firmly with the steel toecap of his boot. ‘You can get up now, brother and sister. The fun’s over for the moment. Tutti finito, comprende? Pull yourselves together and start getting into your canonicals. Curtain up in ten minutes.’

  When Father Alphonsus was unpacking the next night, he remembered his souvenir and placed it carefully on the mantelpiece beside the statue of the Sacred Heart, admiring as he did so the symmetry it gave to the sparse decor of his room. The Sacred Heart had been a present from his aunt on his twenty-first birthday. Over the years her fierce devotion to the icon had paid off. She was convinced that it was the personal intercession of the Sacred Heart that had won him first prize in the lottery in his final year at Maynooth. A three-year secondment to sunny California with an option to renew! ‘Who ever heard of a Belfast boy winning anything, even the turkey in a Christmas raffle, unless they had someone’s prayers?’ she demanded to know, and he couldn’t disagree. She still wrote to him every day, the long letters of a lonely old woman, reminding him of his covenant with the Sacred Heart and keeping him up to date on every atrocity back home.

  Only too mindful of his good fortune, Alphonsus had kept his part of the bargain. Every night since his arrival he had faithfully offered up a perpetual novena to the Sacred Heart. He prayed for three things. He prayed for guidance, for the world of the West Coast was still a mystery to him. He prayed for purity, for there were temptations at every turning, even for a man with the rigorous training of Maynooth behind him. But above all he prayed that he might never be recalled to damp Belfast and that he might see out his days in the sun. So far the Sacred Heart had seen him right on all three scores.

  Next morning he was up for early Mass. He crossed himself and knelt by the bedside to say his prayers. Automatically he glanced up to the mantelpiece to catch the eye of his protector and dedicate this new day to Him. The Sacred Heart had gone! Where it should have been, in the centre of the shelf, stood the Indian carving, staring at him with cynical composure. The Sacred Heart statue was on the tiles of the hearth, smashed in a thousand fragments.

  Father Alphonsus took the ferry across the bay, speeding towards the towered city of San Francisco. He pulled the figurine from his pocket, said an inward act of contrition, and surreptitiously threw it overboard into the choppy waters. The boat moved on. But until they’d passed the forbidding bulk of Alcatraz, he could still see it, bobbing unconcerned on the tide, slowly drifting towards the Golden Gate and the open ocean beyond.

  With a pang of guilt he remembered the morning’s letter from his a
unt, unopened in his pocket. It would be full as usual of dreadful news from home, snippets from the paper telling of death and mutilation on the Falls Road. He slit the air mail envelope with his nail and studied the front page of the Irish News she had sent him. It spoke of a terrible scandal blighting the countryside, a monstrosity so obscene that there were hardly words to describe it. McCoy was up to his dirty business again. He glanced at the photograph of the preacher, bellowing defiance in some Orange hall. But cowering behind him was a face that Alphonsus thought he recognized. A face like a wrinkled prune. A face like the one he had seen in Mexico, in the lost village in the mountains.

  In spite of the sun, which was warm on his face, his blood ran cold. A cloud passed over his world. He knew now that some day the order would come, summoning him back to the unhappy land of his birth.

  ONE

  One

  Frank Feely’s mother had done the Nine Fridays when she was a girl, and though she had fulfilled all the regulations to the letter and now had a cast-iron guarantee of her place in heaven, she remained suspicious of the world, the way people born and bred in South Armagh tend to be. The framed pledge by the Sacred Heart, in fading gilt copperplate, was displayed above the mantelpiece, where the red candle glowed day and night before His picture. It became Frank’s first reading lesson, his father lifting him on his shoulders and helping him decipher the tortuous logic of the contract. Confession and Communion on nine consecutive first Fridays of the month, and the Sacred Heart would reserve for you a heavenly crown. In an uncertain world where sinful temptations could lurk at every turning, even in the hills of Armagh, it was as good as money in the bank.

  ‘It’s an offer no one could refuse,’ Joe Feely would extol. ‘Who could turn down a bargain like that?’ He said it with some feeling, for like many another before him, he was jinxed when it came to the Nine First Fridays. Somehow he never seemed to fill the run himself. Each winter he’d be going great guns, seven maybe eight months without a hiccup, but always something would intervene to invalidate the contract. Like the other mysteries of life, he accepted it with stoicism and just a hint of relief.