Free The Discourtesy of Death (Father Anselm Novels) by William Brodrick Page B

met. Registration numbers. Snippets of conversation from people who knew them. Pub talk. For all that he got paid a hundred quid a week. Tax free. He was just eighteen and very small-time indeed, which was why Michael was his handler. They were both new recruits to the long war. But Liam said he’d got something big this time. Real big. He’d met someone with a message. So he’d set up the meeting and Michael had turned up feeling sick with fear. He was sitting on the edge of a synthetic leather sofa in a council house in the Ballymurphy district of West Belfast. The sitting room door opened and Liam ushered into the wan light a haggard man in a long dark overcoat, black shoes and trousers, a black hat and a black scarf. Removing his hat, the man said, ‘How’s your ma, Liam?’
    ‘She’s fine.’
    ‘Her knees and ankles?’
    ‘Swollen again.’
    The visitor brought his dark eyes onto Michael. Addressing Liam, he said, ‘This is your man?’
    ‘Aye.’
    ‘He’s Army?’
    ‘I am,’ said Michael, his mouth dry, wanting to stamp some authority on his rising panic.
    The man shrugged off his coat and unwound the scarf from his neck. A white collar under the soft chin showed him to be a priest. Liam’s priest.
    ‘Get yerself upstairs now and look after your mother. I’ll call you when I’m done.’
    Liam obeyed. The priest shut the door. He started speaking even before he’d turned around.
    ‘It’s my job to look after the living and the dying. Sometimes, I help them pass over. I put oil on their forehead … I rub it into the palms of their hands … I give them bread for the last time … we call it
viaticum
… which means “provision for the journey”. The moment of parting, after giving the oil and the bread … it’s always unforgettable.’
    The priest sat on a shiny armchair near to Michael. He, too, sat on the edge of his seat, his arms wrapped around his overcoat and crumpled scarf. His hair was white. Thick black eyebrows bristled over his pale, lined face.
    ‘Last week there came a knock to the door,’ he said, looking at the ragged carpet. All the colour had gone. A loose weave of grey strands was all that remained. ‘It was after eleven. I opened up, and there on the step was a man I’d never seen before. A broken nose face. He didn’t even look at me, but I heard him well enough. “There’s someone needs you, Father. You won’t be long.” He walked off, into the dark, and I followed. Didn’t even get my overcoat. A car was waiting, engine running, a back door opened. The man didn’t speak. He just drove me half a mile to a house that had been half burned out the month before. I knew the family that had moved out … they’re decent folk.’ The priest paused to moisten his lips. ‘I went in, thinking I’d see one of the family, but there, at the end of the corridor, was a man in a denim jacket with a mask over his head. Roll-neck jumper. Corduroy trousers. He had a pistol in one hand. “Upstairs,” he said. “He asked for you. Make it quick.” Up I went and I stopped outside the bathroom … the floor was soaking wet, the bath full of discoloured water … and blood swimming round the taps. A short bulky man with thick arms appeared from one of the bedrooms and said, “Get on, will you. His time’s up.” He had a mask on, too … slits cut for the eyes and mouth. His shirt sleeves were rolled up and he was drying his hands on a filthy towel. There were red washing-up gloves hanging out of a pocket. “It took us three weeks to get a confession. You’ve got three minutes.” I went into the room and there … I…’ The priest dropped his head and his shoulders began to judder. He made a strange squealing noise and Michael shrank back into the sofa, the worn material squeaking loudly as he moved. Looking up, facing the drab wall, the priest said, ‘I knew him … I’d known him from birth … I’d baptised him … and he was strapped arms behind his back to a wooden