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TUBBS SAT CROSS-LEGGED IN front of the large drum, polishing its bright casing with a chamois cloth. Mikey lay on the top bunk bed in the cramped room, while Mairi-Clare set up the record player.
‘I told ye we’d be famous one day, didn’t Ah, Billy Boy?’
‘You’ve lost it, mate. That’s a picture of some maddy on a white horse wae a big fuck-off sword. It’s a drum.’
‘Mikey, we’re playing at the Toon Hall. How class is that?’ Tubbs smiled towards Mairi-Clare, his red cheeks widening.
‘Run this past me again. Some weirdo tells yer da’s lawyer mate that we can play with his orchestra, just like that?’ Mikey scanned his music sheet in frustration; his lack of ability, and the fact that his pal had stolen a march on him with Mairi-Clare, was making him angry. ‘Tubbs, how many job forms have we filled out at that careers class thing in school?’
‘Ach, hunners. Who cares ’bout that? We’re heading for the big time here, mate. This guy’s a conductor. Ah heard they always include young ones in every toon they play in, and they’re playing oor song – Capriccio Italien. And we’ve got two free front-row tickets each for the auld yins.’
Mikey jumped down from the bed, flute in hand. ‘We’re no’ good enough. We’ll make arses of ourselves.’ His voice took on an uncharacteristically negative tone.
‘Just keep practising. We’ll go over the timings again until its second nature. Anyway, there’ll be others playing instruments to cover all our mistakes. Try not to worry,’ Mairi-Clare reassured him, placing the needle delicately on the Tchaikovsky LP.
She liked visiting Tubbs’ house; it was constantly noisy and full of laughter. It allowed her to escape home, where her parents were at each other’s throats frequently, primarily about the lack of money and job opportunities.
‘You can use my tickets. My mum and dad are out that evening at a job fair,’ she announced, lowering her head.
‘That’s a shame,’ Tubbs said softly, placing his arm around her diminutive shoulders.
‘Mikey, ma da says it’s a lot of shite but ma maw is making him go, so you better tell yer auld man. Mairi, can wee Joe punt your free tickets seeing as he’s no part of this?’
Mairi shrugged, while Tubbs struggled to hide his excitement. His eyes lit up as his smile grew wider. ‘Right, Billy Boy, let’s hear ye again. We’ve a big posh audience tae get ready for.’
***
Grace hummed and proudly smiled at herself in the mirror as she applied her make up. Seldom did she have the opportunity these days to get dressed up, and never had she had the chance to see one of her sons perform on stage. At the Town Hall, of all places. Terence was nervous, she thought, which he always showed with his constant laughing at inane situations, an inability to settle and over-enthusiasm.
Dixie arrived home from his shift and left the day’s wage on the kitchen table. Grace glanced at the cash. ‘You’re paid short. Thought that wis a big job? You’ve been moaning long enough about it.’
‘Aye it wis, but Ah used some of ma leftover paint from another job. So, Ah cut the price. The wummin’s skint, Gracie. Ah seen in her food cupboards, feck all in them. There’s naebody in the hoose working. Ah couldnae take any more.’ He put his head under the kitchen tap to wash the dust off his weathered skin. ‘Yer looking great, Gracie. What’s for dinner?’
‘Nothing. Sandwich in the fridge. Yer son’s playing at the Town Hall tonight with an orchestra, remember.’
‘How could Ah forget?’
Grace thought there wasn’t a single person in the last week she hadn’t told about Terence playing with a world-famous orchestra. ‘Be pleased for him. He’s on the stage at the Town Hall, for Christ’s sake.’
Dixie looked around the room studiously. ‘Something different ’bout here, what is it, Gracie?’
‘Very observant of ye.’
‘Where’s the fuckin’ lino? Did somebody break in and blag the fuckin’ lino?’ he exclaimed, his pitch becoming higher as he checked the window locks.
‘Oh aye, that’s what the junkies are trading in these days – second-hand lino,’ Grace responded sarcastically, her eyes fixed on the small mirror on the kitchen table.
‘You remember yer boy... Shuffle. Ah think his name is – asked you for money to buy lino for his crew?’
‘Eh?’
‘Breakdancing. He asked you for some extra pocket money.’ She turned to face him.
‘Stephen ripped up the lino?’
‘Aye, took one of your Stanley knives to it. Quite neat, I’d say.’
‘Jesus, where is he?’ Dixie responded angrily.
‘Doesn’t matter where he is, you’ve nae time for that.’
‘Ach, where’s ma suit?’ he responded in frustration, heading for the door.
‘Hanging up.’
‘Right, I’ll go to the merchant’s, get lino and lay it the morra morning. I’ll change in the van; meet you at the Town Hall in half an hour.’
‘Don’t be late, Dixie. You’ll not spoil this for me, whether you’re there or not,’ Grace shouted after him as he headed for the door.
Dixie returned, his black pinstriped suit hanging over his arm. ‘I won’t let ye down,’ he whispered as he kissed his wife on the forehead. ‘But he’s dead when I get him, feckin’ Shuffle.’
***
‘I’m shitting it here, troops,’ Tubbs whispered, tugging at the ill-fitting black suit jacket he’d borrowed from a neighbour as they stood backstage awaiting their call.
The orchestra were in full flow. Their playing had kept the audience captivated all night with renditions of Tchaikovsky’s most famous compilations, including The Marche Slave and the enthralling 1812 Overture.
‘How the hell can we play with that mob? They’re amazing,’ Tubbs moaned.
The backstage was cold and bare in contrast with the heat from the audience and the orchestra, which swept towards them. Mairi-Clare slipped her hand into Tubbs and squeezed it reassuringly.
Tubbs’ mind wandered to the previous evening when he was lying in bed staring at the dark ceiling, his younger brother out like a light lying above him in the bunkbed. His dad had crept quietly into the room accompanied by the smell of fresh paint. Sitting gently at the edge of the bed, he’d moved the thick curtain to allow the streetlight to shine on his boy’s face.
‘Ye awrite, son? Bit nervous for the morra?’ he whispered.
Tubbs nodded.
‘Ye do know I’m really chuffed yer doing this, son. Ma boy, playing in a fancy orchestra. I don’t even know what that will look like. So Ah’m nervous for ye, wee man, in a very proud dad way.’
Tubbs looked towards his dad and suddenly relaxed.
‘Wee bit of advice, son. See when Davie Provan plays for Celtic, takes aw the free kicks around the penalty box. See, Ah wis talking to ma pal, Robert McGoldrick, big Celtic fan, and he telt me the night before a game Provan runs free kicks over in his head, plays out the whole event. Imagines how he’ll connect with the baw, where it will hit the net, the lot. That’s how he scores so many – practice ’n’ mind games. If you dae the same the morra night, after all your practice hitting that big drum, you’ll knock them out. Trust me. And Ah’ll be in the front row wae the biggest, proudest grin you’ll ever see.’
Dixie rubbed his hands through Tubbs’ hair then retreated silently towards the door.
‘Da, I’ll do that. Love you.’
‘Love you too, Terence son. Don’t tell yer ma, she’ll think A’ve went soppy.’ He winked, comfortable in the knowledge his sons were safe, warm, and knew he loved them dearly in his own awkward way.
‘Tubbs, see that career class stuff we’ve been doing in school. They forms we’ve been filling oot.’ Mikey stared ahead, leaning his head on the rough Artex wall. ‘Did ye ever fill oot a form for an engineer’s apprentice?’
‘Fuck’s sakes, mate, you still rattling oan bout that? We’re gaun on stage.’
‘Just cannae place it.’
‘What?’ Tubbs asked, frustrated.
Mikey turned to face his pal. ‘Ah’ve an interview for a job at the navy base.’
‘Good for you. Now think about yer timings,’ Tubbs responded, pointing his drumstick towards the packed stage.
‘Aye, but it’s in Portsmouth. Don’t even know whereabouts that is.’
‘It’s miles away, Ah think. Fuck’s sake.’
‘Is it? Ma da says the job’s a shoo-in. He’ll take me down next couple of weeks. If Ah get it, I’ll be down six months before I’m back up, plus its four-year apprentice.’
‘That’s mental. Ah’ve been offered heehaw.’
‘Think ma da had something to do with it. Don’t know.’
A stagehand approached to signal two minutes. ‘Wait for the intro,’ he whispered, motioning towards the conductor.
‘Good luck, boys. Remember; just let the flow of the music enter your mind and heart. The timings will take care of themselves.’ Mairi-Clare smiled confidently, plucking the strings of her violin.
Sebastian Bradshaw-Collins rotated on the raised podium and faced his captive audience in the one-hundred-year-old building. Funded by a local entrepreneur and designed by the renowned William Henry Lynn, the auditorium had an imposing balcony that made it feel like the audience was sitting on top of the stage. Sebastian could almost feel their breath as they waited, eager for the next enthralling rendition. Sweat dripped onto the stage from his manicured beard as he wrapped a small embossed towel around his neck. His white, tailor-made shirt tail flapped untidily around his hips.
Raising his eyes to the balconies then returning them to the stalls silenced the crowd as they anticipated his words. ‘As you are aware,’ he announced in a booming voice, ‘our fantastic Sheldonian Philharmonic Orchestra have been touring this beautiful country of ours. And wherever we play,’ he bellowed, ‘we provide opportunities for young musicians to join us on stage and experience the thrill, the exhilaration, and the downright elation of being part of an orchestra. Please welcome your young people to help us play the beautiful Capriccio Italien tonight– Michael, Mairi-Clare, and Terence.’
‘Fuck’s sake, good luck, troops.’ Tubbs grimaced as he moved out onto the brightly lit stage, squeezing past the seated orchestra with his large bass drum, the image of King Billy out of place in such salubrious company. He could hear his mum screaming and clapping beneath them but the lights beaming into his eyes prevented him from picking out his family.
He nudged up beside the principal timpani, a small, clean-shaven man with a miniature ponytail that contrasted with his balding head.
‘You will not be playing that thing in my percussion section. You will use my instruments,’ he whispered apathetically, directing the young musician to the large bass set out beside him. His eyes wide and pointed chin aimed at the already nervous Tubbs.
‘Listen, big man, Ah’ve been hitting Billy here for weeks. Ah’ve also been dreaming about how I’ll hit it tonight, and now Ah will hit it or ma big mate the conductor over there will boot yer baws.’ Tubbs returned the eyeballing.
The timpanist glanced at Sebastian, who shook his head. ‘Follow my lead. How embarrassing.’
‘Ah’m Terence. You?’
‘Marcus,’ he responded indifferently.
‘Nice to meet ye Marcus.’ Manners cost nothing, ya prick, he whispered to himself.
The male musicians looked resplendent in black evening suits and white bow ties. Tubbs and Mikey wore black ties borrowed from their dads’ wardrobes, only used at funerals.
Sebastian continued to address the audience as the guest musicians found their seats. ‘With Capriccio Italien, we will hear what the visitor Tchaikovsky thought of Rome when he arrived during a carnival. You will hear his gift of capturing a cacophony of sounds and blending them into the perfect ensemble.’ Sebastian’s gift for showmanship was clearly part of his persona.
Mairi-Clare walked confidently towards the string section, her curled blonde hair contrasting with her black evening gown. The concertmaster met her with a shake of the hand. ‘You will be in first violin, okay?’
‘No problem, thank you,’ she replied, occupying the chair in the front row of the sixty-strong group of seasoned musicians that was laid out in an oval to allow the conductor a clear view of all the performers. ‘Good luck, just follow my lead.’
‘Is this where the woodwind people – err – go?’ Mikey looked nervously at the blank, dull faces staring back at him. A flautist nodded his head towards an empty chair.
Sebastian turned to face his orchestra, reviewing the new incumbents with a frown.
***
‘I knew that suit wouldn’t fit, Terence,’ Gracie laughed behind her hand. ‘Have you seen Dixie, Peter? He’s late again.’ She glanced over her shoulder, hoping to see him dander down the aisle to the front row.
‘Not like him eh? He passed me in the van earlier. He’ll be here, don’t worry. He’s not shut up about this all week. How did you manage it, Cal, getting the weans in the orchestra?’
‘Oh, just called in a favour. Suzie is late as well, Grace. They might be sitting in the Vatican drinking pints of Guinness.’ Cal laughed.
‘If they are, he’s dead. Though Ah doubt yer girl would darken theat door of that place. Ah hope this camera works.’ Grace looked at the small instamatic and fiddled with the buttons.
‘Excuse me, excuse me, sorry.’ Suzie arrived in a rush, her bright red coat sweeping behind her as she found her seat next to Cal.
‘You’ve nearly missed the whole performance.’
‘Not the best bit I hope, sweetness.’ She kissed Cal on the lips, placed her long black hair into a tight bun, and breathed out in relief.
‘Mini emergency,’ she whispered, eyeing the orchestra. ‘Salon got flooded by upstairs. I had to wait for the maintenance guys to show up.’
‘Did you see my wayward husband?’ Gracie asked.
‘Dixie not here?’ Suzie responded, surprised.
‘As per with him,’ Grace tutted.
Peter’s mind was beginning to churn again. He’d been held by the police for five hours following the raid on the taxi firm and questioned about regular clients, fares, areas he travelled to, money he paid the firm to taxi. They’d let him go, advising him that they would be back to speak to him in a few days and not to make himself scarce.
Nails and McGurn were a different matter. They’d questioned him for a full day in a dark room, threatening him and seconds away from inflicting physical violence on several occasions. Who was he talking to? How many runs had he done? Whose names did he pass on? Why did he ask to be put on the hospital run then back on regulars? The same questions barked repeatedly, awaiting a slip-up. Then the ultimate: your good-looking boy and daughter will be slashed from ear to ear if we find out you’ve been touting.
He’d managed to convince them that he wasn’t a tout, helped by the letter from the dole advising that his money had been cut – the reason why he was back on the regular runs and appearing legitimate by being registered to pay tax and national insurance contributions. They were looking for a victim. God help whoever was in their crosshairs, he thought
A crescendo of bugles, a nod to the Italian cavalry, startled Grace as Capriccio Italien commenced.
The nervous teenagers had practised long and hard for this moment and the timings were etched in the minds. Mairi-Clare was first up on fifty-four seconds as the violins made their entry. Tubbs smiled as she followed the rhythm and swayed like a natural with the string section. He wanted to give her the thumbs up from his position to the rear of the ensemble, but thankfully disciplined himself at the last minute.
Mikey’s section joined in at two minutes as the flutes led the woodwinds into a gentle introduction leading to a crescendo and receding into a low, soothing, harmony.
‘They’re really good,’ Grace whispered to Cal.
‘Don’t be surprised.’ Peter murmured, his stare fixed on the stage.
‘Wait till Terence starts hitting that drum, the place will empty.’ She laughed out loud.
Tubbs’ section sat waiting for their cue, arms folded with the tedium. Tubbs swayed as he stood over his drum, sticks in hand, mentally playing every note. He followed the music, anticipating his moment. He lightly tapped the drum at five minutes and continued to flow with the music throughout the performance. He managed to catch Mairi-Clare’s eye; she seemed to be mesmerised with the harmony, her head and upper body connected to the violin as it moved effortlessly, elegantly, as one with the music. She smiled quickly then returned her eyes to the sheet music.
The conductor’s baton twirled in front of the musicians as he allowed them to bring an Italian carnival alive.
Mikey was wishing this was all over. He was moving the silver flute towards his mouth in time with the others but not attempting to play a note. His mind was on Portsmouth and leaving home.
Tubbs danced from foot to foot, swinging his hips as his big moment arrived. His new colleague was beginning to warm to his antics and passed him a handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his forehead. The performance drew to a close as Tubbs hammered his big drum in time with the string and woodwind sections.
The audience were out of their seats applauding as all three smiled and were hugged by their fellow musicians. The conductor summoned them to the front of the stage to take a bow.
‘Ye can keep Billy, Marcus. Ma work here is done.’ Tubbs shook his hand and returned the handkerchief to Marcus’s breast pocket, much to the man’s disgust. The lights went up and, for the first time, they could see the huge audience clearly and pick out familiar faces.
‘That was amazing, unbelievable. How good was that?’ Mairi-Clare gushed as she hugged her friends backstage.
‘Absolutely the best thing I’ve ever done, man. I want to do it again. Pity ma da couldn’t have been bothered to make it. Probably in the boozer.’ Tubbs removed his oversized jacket to reveal a soaking white shirt.
‘You might have missed him in the lights, pal.’
‘Naw, Mikey, there’s an empty seat next to ma maw. At least she enjoyed it – fucking mascara was running down her cheeks.’
Their discussions were interrupted by a visitor who came and stood amongst them, making them feel uncomfortable. ‘Very well done. To appear on stage with such accomplished performers in front of such a large crowd with no formal training takes guts.’ He spoke with an accent similar to their own, though his pronunciation was of a higher quality. ‘Mr Lynch has told me your story and I’m intrigued to see how far you wish to go. I can help you fulfil your dreams. Let me introduce myself. John G Cooper, Principal of the Conservatoire of Berlin.’ He handed each of them a business card. ‘I’m originally from Royston, the Garngad in Glasgow. I was appointed to this post ten years ago.’ He readjusted his black tie and ran his fingers through his wavy hair as the group studied his cards.
‘You are lucky, I’m just back home for a funeral. When I heard about this evening’s performance, I had to pop in. We offer twelve scholarships to young students across Europe each year. I have two scholarships still to be filled, and I’d like to offer them to you and you.’
The friends looked at each other in stunned amazement.
‘You, my friend. The orchestra is not for you. An uncomfortable performance that highlights your lack of passion for the art. You two? I don’t know yet if you have the necessary ability but you have enthusiasm, exuberance, and vitality. I can allow that to grow.’
‘Aye, ye called that right, big man. Ah’m just here to support ma mates,’ Mikey replied, handing his flute back to Mairi-Clare. ‘Go for it, troops.’
‘Speak to your families. I’ll be here for another few days. I’ve put my hotel details on the cards. We can discuss it in more detail.’
‘Err, cheers, thank you, Mr Cooper. Would we be going, like, abroad?’ Tubbs asked, slowly.
‘Berlin, Germany. And don’t worry about the language. We’re an international school, so English is the first language – though you will learn German.’
‘Wow.’
‘Thanks, Mr Cooper. We’ll speak to our parents and come back to you in the next day or so,’ Mairi-Clare intervened, taking control.
‘I look forward to it. Goodbye.’ He about-turned and waved over his shoulder, his leather-heeled shoes clicking on the cold concrete floor.
‘Feckin’ don’t believe this! Told ye King Billy would make us famous.’ Tubbs hugged his pals tightly.
‘Go for it, Tubbs. I’m off tae Portsmouth. At least you two will be there together.’ Mikey grinned, his mind again turning to the apprenticeship and how his life was changing at a pace his gut was telling him was unstoppable.
***
Father Dan raised himself to his feet as the bell rang, as scheduled, at 9pm, echoing throughout the large, sparse parochial house. He lifted the pack of sandwiches prepared by his housekeeper from the hall table to present them, as usual, to Jimmy the homeless soul who called round regularly. He always asked for money but left with food instead.
‘Good evening, Jimmy. Here’s your...’
‘Awrite, Father, you’ve got to go to this address. Someone sent me to tell you. They need your help.’ A skinny youth stood in front of him, his facial features hidden behind a large scarf and a black skip cap pulled over his eyes. He handed over a folded piece of paper.
‘Who are you, son? Remove that scarf immediately. You sound familiar, boy.’
‘Can’t do that, Father Dan. Just go to that address before ten o’clock,’ the youth replied, walking swiftly towards the front gate.
‘The reason, may I ask?’ Father Dan called after him.
‘Somebody’s sick, I think. Needs your prayers. Good luck, Father.’
The priest’s eyes followed the boy as he ran down the street into the blackness. Putting on his heavy coat and black trilby hat, he placed his stole, bible, and rosary in his pocket. He left the sandwiches and flask on the polished mosaic step, wrapped the woollen collar around his thick neck, and made his way out into the evening drizzle. A gentle wind seemed to match his own sighs.
Home visits were a bit of a rarity these days. Typically, he was called for the last rites at the local hospital, the odd serious car accident or drug overdose. The youth didn’t seem unduly anxious – must be an old relation and the partner was panicking. Everyone wanted to speak to God when the time came.
The tenements of Tweed Street were in darkness as Father Dan squinted to read the scrap of paper under the orange streetlight that coloured the light rain as it fell. Fifty-nine Tweed Street. Steel shutters and doors covered the building.
‘This can’t be right,’ he murmured to himself.
Only one close seemed to be inhabited, with a well-lit top-floor flat that looked occupied. He noticed the blinds twitching as someone observed his movements. Ah, must be expecting me, he thought as he crossed the street.
‘Father, in here.’ A deep voice came from behind a partially open steel shutter door. ‘This way. You’re needed here,’ the man said urgently.
The priest moved tentatively towards the large male who was dressed in a blue boiler suit and hardhat. He was trying to keep his chin low and his eyes on the priest in between scanning up and down the deserted street.
As Father Dan entered the close, the dampness immediately caught on his nostrils and gathered in his throat. The man closed the large door noisily behind him. The entrance was dimly lit with small lights spread along cabling towards the stairs and the landing. The flats had been stripped of any value: copper pipes severed, previously gleaming tiles smashed into thousands of pieces, and house doors removed for resale.
‘Up the stairs. Someone will meet you there.’
‘What’s going...?’
‘Just go or it’ll be too late,’ the man hissed quietly, revealing his impatience.
Father Dan followed his instruction. Builders’ working so late in a derelict property was ridiculous, he thought; someone must have been injured. A man stood on the stairs dressed in black, dominating the landing space, his face masked by a balaclava. He beckoned the priest up the remaining flight of stairs.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ Father Dan asked, trying to remain composed, placing his hands in his coat pockets to hide their shaking. The tall individual put his hand on the priest’s elbow and walked him to a vacant property. The clatter of their footsteps on the bare floorboards reverberated around the shell of a building. The previous tenants’ wallpaper was still visible, with the outline of family picture frames leaving their mark.
‘Someone wants to speak to you, Father. He is, how should I say, helping us with our enquiries.’
‘In the name of God, what in Heaven’s name is going on here?’ The priest attempted to wrestle himself free to make his escape.
‘Sorry, you can’t do that. This man needs you, and so do I.’
A man sat tied to a chair, stripped to the waist, his head bowed. His chest rising and falling was the only evidence of life. Another male stood threateningly in the corner, his off-white vest splattered with blood.
Father Dan knelt in front of the man on the chair and gently lifted his bloodied chin. His face was saturated with blood and one eye swollen, already turning purple. Although he seemed unconscious, his hands hanging loose from the thick rope tied around his forearms shook incessantly. Fingernails lay strewn on the bloodstained floor, ripped violently from their roots.
‘In the name of God... Dixie,’ Father Dan screamed in shock. ‘What is the meaning of this? Untie this man immediately, he needs a doctor.’
The masked man lifted the priest under the armpits and pulled him to the entrance of what had been a bathroom. ‘Father, Dixie here has information that I require. Now, if he doesn’t provide it, I’m going to kill him,’ he whispered menacingly. ‘You may convince him to tell me what I need to know. You can hear his confession and then give him the last rites ... just in case.’ A strong smell of cigarettes and stale beer came from his breath.
‘Are you crazy? You’ll never get away with this. I’ll go straight to the police. This is...is utterly evil,’ Father Dan stuttered.
‘Listen, holy man, of course I’ll get away with it. It’s what I do. It’s my job.’ His smirk was visible through the mask as he lifted Dixie’s head by the hair and tried to shake him awake.
Father Dan was beginning to take in his surroundings to observe what evidence he could. The accents weren’t local – Liverpudlian, he thought. He could see a chipped tooth and a large Roman nose through the mask. The rope around Dixie’s arms was commonly used by builders.
‘And I don’t think you’ll be going near the bizzies. See, I may not come across as an avid Catholic but I know some things. I know that once you hear his confession, which you will, you won’t want to fall foul of canon law and break the sacramental seal. Latae sententiae?’
The masked man tapped Dixie on the back of the head with a Browning pistol then cocked the gun and pushed it hard behind Dixie’s ear.
‘Hear his confession and give him the last rites. The lad will relax after that and we can all go home. I’ll be in the hall. And don’t try anything – the windows are shuttered.’ He nodded to his colleague to follow him as Father Dan knelt in front of the unconscious Dixie. ‘Sweeeet sacrament divine... Sweet sacrament divine.’ He mocked menacingly, as he moved toward the hallway.
‘Dixie, Dixie Clark.’ The Priest spoke softly as he wiped Dixie’s face with an old handkerchief he’d found in his coat pocket. ‘Dixie, it’s me, Father Dan. Can you hear me, my friend? In the name of God, what have they done to you?’
Dixie raised his head slowly and stared confusedly at the priest. He scanned the room, realising he hadn’t just woken from a bad dream. His predicament came flooding back and he began to panic, his body shaking as he tried to free his bound arms. The thick rope tearing at his skin. Blood continued to pour over his only functioning eye as Father Dan tried unsuccessfully to stem the flow with what cloth material he could find in his pockets.
‘Dixie, its Dan. Father Dan. What’s happened, son?’
Dixie let blood drip from his mouth. The congealed clot dropping onto his bare chest. ‘Father, I don’t know. They said I set up Quinn by speaking to the polis ‘cause Ah worked in his office, heard stuff. Lot of shite, honest to God. You’ve got tae help me. Ah don’t know what tae tell them. A’ve not done fuck all, sorry, Father.’ He continued to shake as his tears mixed with his blood.
‘Five minutes, holy man. I’ve got my work to do. Hurry it up’ the masked man called, ominously.
‘Father, Ah need to be at the Town Hall. Terence is playing in an orchestra. I promised him I’d be there. Imagine my boy in an orchestra.’ He attempted to smile though he was clearly in pain. ‘He’ll be brilliant. I’m proud as fuck. Sorry Father.’
‘Its okay, Dixie. Don’t worry, I’ll get you there, I promise.’ Father Dan held Dixie’s blood-covered hand. At first Dixie flinched with the pain but then he relaxed, which seemed to reduce his shaking.
‘Dixie, would you like me to hear your confession and receive Holy Communion? Once we’ve done that, you can tell these thugs what you know – anything you know – and they’ll let you go. He’s told me this will then be all over.’
‘Ah knew you’d save me, Father. All the hours spent fixing your wonky cupboards finally paid aff.’ Dixie attempted to laugh. A mixture of snot and blood came from his nose and landed on the priest cheek.
Father Dan removed the white stole from his pocket, kissed the embroidered cross and placed it around his neck. ‘In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,’ he recited, as he made the sign of the cross on his friend’s, bloodied, forehead.
‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been ages since my last confession. These are my sins...’ Dixie was slipping in and out of consciousness and was almost incoherent. ‘Ah love my children with all my heart. Ah haven’t given them all that they wanted, but Ah gave them everything ah had... And Gracie, Father, lovely Gracie...’ He raised his head and opened his functioning eye as far as he could. ‘Ah’m not getting out of this, am Ah, Father?’
Father Dan’s eyes filled with tears, which ran down his cheeks and mixed with Dixie’s on the stained floor. ‘You’re a beautiful man, Dixie Clark, but the good Lord isn’t getting you just yet. We will say an Our Father and I will give you Holy Communion. Then please tell these people what you know, and I’ll take you to the Town Hall to hear Terence play, okay?’
‘Ye know, I think it’s that idiot Nails. He never liked me since school. He’s done this.’
‘Our Father, Dixie.’
‘Our Father, who art in heaven...’
Dixie fell unconscious again though he appeared more settled. He stopped shaking and his breathing returned to normal.
Father Dan placed the Holy Eucharist in his open mouth and wrapped his rosary around Dixie’s swollen fingers. He removed his stole and wiped his parishioner’s face clean of blood, using every inch of the sacred garment as tears blurred his vision.
Dixie’s head slumped and his chin rested on his chest. Father Dan stood, kissed the stole, and placed it in his pocket. He faced the masked man. ‘I’ll wait at the bottom of the stairs and take him home when you’re finished with your questions.’ He spoke firmly, seeking out the dark eyes behind the mask.
‘No you won’t, holy man. You’ll head home. You’ll be followed, so don’t go anywhere else. Your phone lines have been cut as a precaution. Go to the bizzies and you won’t be able to provide such solace to those in need ever again.’
Father Dan placed his face directly in front of the masked man’s, almost touching his large nose. ‘I’ll never hear your confession because you will burn in the fires of hell. I have preached every Sunday about evil, sometimes doubting myself. Now I know it really does exist. Thank you,’ he whispered. He turned and looked at his friend, desperate to help him. ‘Just as I know God is present in this room.’
‘Get him out of here.’
Returning to the bathroom the masked man sat on the edge of the bath, placed the barrel of the gun ominously under Dixies chin, and raised his head forcibly from his bloodstained chest.
‘Right Dixie Clark, this is what will happen. You’ll tell me what you heard when working around my friend’s office, agreed?’
Dixie slowly focused his thoughts. He was now settled and accepting whatever fate awaited him, continually reciting the Hail Mary repeatedly in his head. ‘Aye, nae problem.’ He whispered.
‘And that new lawyer friend of yours.’ He rubbed the gun menacingly from Dixie’s swollen jaw to his bleeding template. ‘You can tell me everything you know about him as well lad, can’t you?’
‘Aye, nae problem.’
‘Good lad, Dixie Clark. We’ll get this cleared up then, eh. Then we can put your shoes back on, get you cleaned up. Once we do that, we’ll all calmly walk out of this dump and let you go, just up the street. You can walk home from there, lad. Does that sound like a plan, Dixie?’
Dixie was now controlling his breathing. He knew to engage his brain he had to ensure his thoughts were as clear as possible. Only his imagination, he thought would allow him to survive this situation and return safely to his loving family.
Feeling totally helpless, Father Dan hurried from the close and along the dimly lit street, glancing frantically behind him, looking for shadows. He was sure someone was watching him from the occupied house. There seemed to be figures at each corner he turned, darting in and out of the darkness, or watching him from static cars, tracking his every step. He made his way to his chapel and immediately knelt and prayed before the marble altar, his eyes fixed on the sacrifice of his Saviour hanging high above, forlornly, from the Cross. Clutching his bloodstained stole tightly he prayed for his friend, he prayed for the challenge of faith placed before him. He prayed for guidance to do the right thing.