Free The Brothers' Lot by Kevin Holohan Page B

spent all morning on to the Department of Buildings and I could get no answer out of anyone so I was wondering if you could look into it … No, no, just to be sure it’s a mistake … Sure, sure, that’d be great … Lovely then. Thanks very much, Noel, and give me best to Margaret and the boys. You must drop over and see us some time … Great. I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”
    Brother Loughlin dropped the phone back in its cradle, sat back, and took a deep pull on his cigar. He was feeling very happy with himself. It was good to have friends in high places. That’s why he was Head Brother and not some drone hammering away at Caesar’s Gallic Wars all day. If he played his cards right, it wouldn’t be long before he’d be able to insinuate himself into the running for the position on the Interdiocesan Presidium. Brother Butler was not going to last forever. In fact, he looked very shook at Brother Galligan’s funeral in April. No, it wouldn’t be long now.
    Brother Loughlin switched off the desk light and sat in the dark smoking his cigar. Had he not been so engrossed in visions of his own grandeur, he might have noticed the squeaking of the gate that led from the monastery to the street. This gate was only ever used by visitors. It was never used at night except for the occasional passing drunk in need of a sheltered spot to relieve himself. Normally Brother Loughlin would have been at the window like a shot to vent his wrath on such a vagrant. But this was no vagrant he would have seen. Instead he would have spotted the porter-barrel shape of Brother Cox with the collar of his plastic raincoat pulled tight about his face sneaking out into the night.
    Cox scurried as far as the corner and turned onto the West Circular Road with great relief. He stopped and pressed himself against the wall. His heart pounded in his ears and he listened beyond its clamor for any sound of pursuit or detection. When he was satisfied that he was safely and secretly out, he reached inside his raincoat and pulled off the red collar. He was now effectively wearing a black suit with a curiously red shirt but nothing that could really arouse suspicion.
    The patrons of The Limping Gunman thought quite otherwise. In fact, they were already running a little book on what time Cox would arrive. A few of the less experienced had already lost by betting on him coming in on Friday night. Now all were sure he would not hold out for much longer. It had been four days since school began and Cox would have to crack soon.
    When the Brother entered the bar he would never have guessed that he himself had only seconds before been the subject of heated discussion for the whole room. He entered, placed himself at a small table, and patted himself on the back for his carefully cultivated anonymity.
    He sat stiffly, tensing the muscles in his toes to try to keep still and look calm and casual. He would not go up to the bar. He didn’t want to look like a desperate, thirsty man. He would wait until the barman came over. He could wait.
    Already he could taste the warm tingling on the back of his throat. He could feel the golden current pulse through his veins. His forehead began to bead with little droplets of sweaty anticipation. He opened the top button of his plastic raincoat and ran his finger around the inside of his shirt collar, then raised his head and tried to catch the barman’s eye.
    The barman, Tom Stack, was pretending not to notice Cox. He wanted to see how long it would take the man to lose his composure. Finally realizing that Cox was bloody-mindedly determined to sit there and sweat it out in the hope of looking casual, Stack relented and sauntered over to the table.
    “What’ll you have, pal?” he asked without a hint of ever having clapped eyes on Cox before.
    “I’ll have a large bottle of porter.”
    “Right you are,” said Stack, and turned back toward the bar.
    “Oh, and a ball of malt on the side. Actually, make it a