Helter Skelter Page 9

  Robert studied the man going through the basic paces. To his surprise Keane was a good teacher and Robert realised he must be a trained coach.

  ‘Now you try, but first put these on.’

  He handed Robert a narrow pair of eye goggles and palm gloves. Thinking of David and Goliath, Robert decided to be David and accepted them without demur. He noticed the glint of satisfaction in the priest’s eyes as he did. The man wore neither. A right competitive bastard, thought Robert. Now it was his turn to play, and he practised under the priest’s expert eye, listening and learning from his corrective comments and instructions.

  After ten minutes, the priest announced that Robert was ready and the first game started. At first he set an easy pace, putting Robert at his ease, but before long he steadily upped it and Robert found himself flying around the alley at breakneck pace to keep the volleys going. Twice the ball hit him, with a stinging pain that made him gasp, but thankfully it didn’t hit him in a vulnerable spot. He needed to learn to avoid the ball and his opponent’s voice jarred in his ears.

  ‘Take care, man, the ball must be going at fifty miles an hour. Be glad I am not going at full pelt. The top speed is about a hundred.’

  Patronising bastard, thought Robert but, as the priest called the first game over, the novice reflected that at least he was still on his feet. Sweat was rolling off him and his armpits and back were damp. He was glad of a moment to quickly wipe his face with a towel.

  ‘You see, Mr Grainger, you Anglo-Saxons lack the Celtic passion. The will to fight and win at all costs. That is the point of this wild game that my ancestors invented.’

  ‘Game two then?’ Robert replied evenly.

  ‘Of course, if you are ready,’ the priest responded, apparently trying to hide a smirk.

  Chapter 28

  Fermanagh, Ireland, June 1658

  All around Abraham the sound of sawing and thrashing carried on apace, as the workmen felled the larger stands and coppiced the smaller trees. The smell of wood burning in the charcoal stacks was everywhere, as the burners waited patiently for the colour of the smoke emitted from the fire-hole to change from white to blue. This was the sign that the charcoal was ready for quenching.

  They had started stripping Cuashin Wood in April as soon as spring sloughed off the skin of winter. Bram had to give credit to William, for the notion was his. It had become apparent that Liam Durkin, the prospective purchaser of Drumnooran, had insufficient funds to meet Abram’s price, so William proposed harvesting the timbers to make up the deficit. It made sense as both Liam and Abram saw the timber as their possession and therefore sharing the proceeds of its sale, so that the exchange of ownership could proceed, was in both their interests.

  William had soon proved to be a first-rate factor. It was easy to find buyers for the prime timber, as shipyards were busy building fighting ships to increase the Navy presence in the West Indies where it was harassing the Spanish colonies and had recently overrun Jamaica. He had also found a contact in County Armagh, who supplied charcoal to the new iron furnaces that had sprung up there, and reached a deal to supply him for the rest of the year. The pace of clearance had increased accordingly. Bram reckoned they would finish the work, if the weather held fair, within ten days. It was time to finalise arrangements to complete the sale of his holding and plan their departure from Ireland. His heart soared at the thought of returning to Kent. Although England was still under the military control of the Cromwell’s Protectorate, a recent letter from his brother spoke of increasing calls for change and greater liberty.

  Resolve grew in his breast. He had not told Alice of his plans for fear that the hope it would engender might yet be cruelly dashed by unforeseen events. But now he knew that the time had come to tell her. They would return home and he would honour his word and take the priest with him. Bram felt confident that all would be well. Deliverance was at hand and Alice needed to commence packing!

  Chapter 29

  Bunder Alps, Switzerland, 6 October 2014

  After a time Johann rounded the passengers up and back into the helicopter for the next stage of the trip, the denouement of their visit.

  The Eurocopter rose steeply and within ten minutes had ascended to the three thousand metre-high summit of Diavolezza. The peak was partly enveloped in cloud and the mountain below them was visible only as glimpses stolen through the fast-moving mist. The youngish passenger, whose name was Pascal, turned towards Johann, locking his glance onto him. The eyes were a very pure shade of green and Johann found them slightly disconcerting to look into. The man bellowed over the noise.

  “What does the name Diavolezza come from?”

  ‘The Diavolezza was a she-devil, the spirit of the icy wastes who lured men to her fastness,’ Johann shouted back.

  The man laughed loudly. ‘My kind of girl! Tell me more!’

  ‘She became enamoured of one such visitor, a handsome young hunter called Aratasch, and as he followed her higher and higher up the mountain, he slipped and fell to his death. In her grief she called out ‘mort ais Aratsch, mort ais Aratsch’ and so the glacier received its name. Under the icy touch of her grieving fingers, the glacier pushed down the sides of the mountain and into the valley, sealing his body forever in its grasp. I tell you this story because now a twenty-first-century devil is threatening this region, the spectre of climate change which is destroying her glacial world. Look there!’

  As the helicopter banked sharply, Johann pointed to an isolated slab of ice clinging to sides of a cirque, or circular depression, high on the mountain side.

  ‘That is a remnant of a small glacier that, hard to credit, was used as recently as 1995 for summer skiing. So please don’t tell me that climate change is a fiction.’

  His guests could see the ski masts, which once would have poked through the thick cover of snow, now isolated and rusting, jutting up from bare rock some distance away.

  One of the older passengers asked.

  ‘What are those wavy patterns on the ice?

  ‘Well observed,’ commented Johann. ‘They are ablation marks and record the surface melting patterns of the ice. When you see those you are looking at the death mask of a glacier!’

  Twenty minutes later , as the chopper manoeuvred in to land at the small Alpine airport at Engadin, Johann considered his guests, gathering up their expensive digital cameras and overcoats, and disembarking They were an odd bunch. Usually it was scientists or politicians who made the trip but this group were businessmen. The payee on the invoice was named as the Wallonian Circle, which was an odd moniker. At various times he had heard Dutch and German as well as English being spoken. Still, they paid well and the revenue would go to fund the research his Institute undertook. What’s more, it was important that the world knew what was happening, for time was running out. Businessmen should be sitting up and asking questions and this lot were clearly ahead of the game. And as far as he could see, the younger man, Pascal, was the driving force behind the exercise.

  Chapter 30

  Maynooth, Ireland, 3 October 2014

  The second game initially followed a similar pattern but two things had changed. Firstly, Robert was getting the measure of the alley - where he could reach, in what time and how to handle the shot when he got there. In short he was finding his stride. And secondly, he was starting to spot predictability in the other man’s style. Luring the priest with a feigned stock response to a service, Robert upped his speed and, pulling an underarm shot, astutely blasted the ball low into the far corner of the wall. The priest skidded to catch the back ball but failed. Robert had scored his first point. Taking the service he scored a further three points before the priest regained the upper hand, but not before Robert had made him break sweat.

  ‘That’s more like it lad, but it’s not good enough!’

  The priest spoke through gritted teeth. And he was right; he won the second game twenty-one to nine.

  In the third game Robert called up all his resources. The priest wa
s correct again, he thought. It was a crazy game but Robert was getting a taste for it, taking risks that meant he impacted with the floor and walls several times. The performances were by now more evenly matched and the priest was raising his game to compensate. The only sound, apart from the ball smacking the surfaces, was their gasping and grunting as they hurled themselves around the alley. The services switched rapidly and the score reached fourteen to twelve in the priest’s favour.

  By now, in the viewing gallery, a crowd had gathered and from the shouts and comments Robert, to his surprise, found that the priest was not the only one with supporters. The end came fast and unexpectedly. Keane served a particularly fleet and low service, but Robert managed a fast retrieve to hit it back hard in the middle of the wall where it ricocheted awkwardly, almost straight back at him. The priest lunged to catch the shot and the two men met in the air, their heads colliding with a crack before both protagonists crashed. A roar filled the alley and, after seeing stars, everything went black for Robert.

  When he came around he was lying on the floor and someone was holding his shoulders. The priest was kneeling beside him, splashing water over his face. Robert looked up to an array of anxious faces that surrounded him.

  ‘Mr Grainger, are you all right?’

  Robert saw the priest’s eyes, narrowed with concern, watching him. Blood was trickling down the man’s face from a gash above one eyebrow. Good, thought Robert, with weary satisfaction.

  ‘Is this the way you interview all your prospective students, Father Keane? I am surprised you have any left at all.’

  The row of faces erupted in laughter at this crack and the priest extended an arm.

  ‘Call me Andre, and welcome to the Maynooth hardball team, Robert, you have just qualified!’

  Chapter 31

  Tyrone, Ireland, September 1658

  Abraham Wainwright’s anxiety rose steadily as they travelled further away from the junction with the Tummery Road, which was the main route to Omagh. They had left it by taking a small side road on the north side, some two miles beyond Dromore, exactly as instructed and it took them into increasingly wild countryside. He knew they must be approaching their destination yet could see no sign of habitation and beads of sweat surfaced on the nape of his neck. He was all too aware that the two carts, piled high with belongings, offered rich pickings to any brigands.

  ‘Lads, I don’t like the feel of this. Show your pistols so no one takes us for a convoy of nuns!’

  William, who was sitting on the second cart alongside Alice, heard his call and pulled his firearm up from under his legs. Liam Durkin, the man who was buying the farm, emerged from under cover of the cart and took his place alongside Bram. The original plan had been to complete the sale of land in the town of Enniskillen, but a week ahead of the chosen date the agent for the commissioner sent notice that it was to take place near Omagh instead. So Bram and Liam were obliged to change their plans. Liam, as a native Irishman, was particularly put out at having to travel so far from home and expose himself to challenge. Native Irish were more likely to be stopped and questioned as to their identity. Both men had no choice in the matter but Bram saw some advantage in it. It was on the way to Larne, their port of departure from Ireland, so the business could be done en route and afford them an earlier start than otherwise. But of course leaving completion to the last minute left no room for legal complications should such arise and was therefore an additional risk.

  The road swung eastwards as they passed a wood and then Bram caught sight of their rendezvous, the burned-out ruins of an old manor house. As they approached he worried about a double-cross and whispered to Liam to hop off, run back to the other cart and speak with William.

  ‘Mind that both of you keep your pistols primed and handy but concealed from view. Just in case,’ he said.

  As they pulled up, in the shadow of some trees set back off the road, Bram ordered William to stay with the carts and protect Alice, while he and Liam walked to the ruin, entering it through a broad archway. The commissioner’s agent and his clerk were waiting for them in a courtyard within the shell of the building. The agent, Charles Murtagh, was a portly man, with a head of short, curly fair locks, a red weather-beaten face and a keen look in his eyes. He was well-dressed with shiny brogues and Bram recognised his type. A sharp operator, outwardly a pillar of respectability but in reality a man who cut corners for personal gain. The clerk was a thin-faced, black-suited youth holding a pistol which he pointed brazenly at the arrivals. Despite this blunt gesture of distrust, the agent made a passing attempt at pleasantries, explaining that he felt it safer to conduct his more unconventional business away from the public gaze.

  ‘I apologise,’ he said, ‘for the inconvenience of this detour but we are safe from interruption here and our business need not detain us long.’

  He was right about that. He worked speedily, checking the main heads of points with Liam and Bram. The last thing he wanted was either party being dissatisfied and returning to harass him. What’s more, as they perused the paperwork, he insisted they backdate the document to further frustrate any possible future attempt to scrutinise the matter.

  ‘Let’s lay a false trail, my friends, to fox any inquisitors who may be on my tail!’

  Once the transaction was duly signed and witnessed, however, his demeanour changed. As soon as the ink was dry he rolled up the deeds and withheld them, addressing them coldly.

  ‘Gentlemen, enough pleasantries. I will speak plainly. I am beset by ill humour today. I could get you both hanged for this, the frame of mind I am in. I wonder would I not be better advised handing you over to the militia in Enniskillen and telling them how you have sought to bribe me? Just to throw my enemies off the trail, you see. But fortunately for you I am an honourable man. But there is a difficulty. My expenses are rising every day, what with the risks I am taking. So I know you won’t mind paying a surcharge for my efforts.’

  He stared at them boldly and expectantly. Bram had expected as much and offered him a tithe more but the man was greedy and demanded half as much commission again on top of the original agreed sum or there was no deal.

  ‘This sort of thing is getting too risky. It is as simple as that’.

  Liam and Bram protested that they simply did not have such funds at their disposal and an argument commenced. After five minutes the agent lost his temper and shouted.

  ‘You are both a waste of time! To Hell with you! Go to Connaught if you don’t want to pay up!’

  With that he stalked towards the door-less portal of the old building, with his clerk in tow. Before he reached it, however, he stopped and turned.

  ‘Gentlemen, you sorely try my patience but I am a Christian soul so one last chance! I will accept one quarter but not a penny less! Well, now, what do you say?’

  Bram didn’t have enough money even for that and anger rose in him as he sensed his dream of escape evaporating before his eyes. At that moment all were startled by a figure, appearing unexpectedly in the portal, which grabbed hold of the agent from behind, and placed a knife to his throat. Bram couldn’t credit what he was seeing. The assailant was Alice, who had evidently been eavesdropping and was in no mood for half measures. Her eyes were wide in desperation as she screeched determinedly.

  ‘You black-hearted bastard! I’ll not have this. We are honest folk and you treat us ill. You can roast in Hell for this! I’ll not see our plans thwarted. We will be away from this hell hole of a country on the agreed terms or die on this spot now!’

  Her frame was shaking violently but her grip was firm. She scraped the knife lightly on his throat so that a trickle of blood flowed.

  ‘Do not mistake me sir! I have slit the throats of both calf and pig and will not hesitate in your case!’

  Murtagh called out in fear.

  ‘For God’s sake woman, this is but negotiation in a matter of business! Let’s do nothing foolish. I am sure we can agree this. Stop her Mr Wainwright!’

  For a sec
ond Bram pondered on whether they might yet reach agreement. Then he reached a swift decision. Pulling forth his pistol, he moved fast to Murtagh’s side and shot the man sideways through the ear, grabbing the deeds as he tottered. The clerk stood aghast, the pistol still in his trembling hand, and watched his master fall. Liam, quick to action, dispatched the clerk with a single shot through the forehead. The youth fell backwards from the impact, his head cracking open with a sickening crunch and blood pouring out in a torrent.

  Grabbing hold of Alice, Bram turned her face away from the scene and embraced her tightly. At that moment William entered the yard with his pistol drawn. Bram spoke urgently.

  ‘William, fear not, all is well here. Now, take Alice outside and leave this to us!’

  Bram and Liam conferred quickly. The Irishman seemed amused and observed drily.

  ‘Your wife beat me to action only by seconds. He was a bastard through and through. They both were.’

  Then they discussed what they should do next. Their best hope was that Murtagh had kept their assignation secret. All his precautions indicated that this was probably the case. So it was unlikely anyone else knew of it. Their task therefore was to bury the bodies well and make their escape. The agent’s cleverness was his undoing. If any questions arose later they could point to the date on the deeds as evidence that they had no hand in his demise.

  They worked swiftly, burying the bodies thoroughly some distance from the ruin, and deep enough so the foxes and wolves wouldn’t unearth them. The party next retraced their steps back to the Tummery Road, glad not to encounter anyone on the way. They were met there by a companion of Liam’s who was waiting by prearrangement with a spare steed. With a firm handshake Liam and Bram went their separate ways. The two Irishmen spurred up their horses at once and cantered away. As the two carts rattled off along the Omagh road in the opposite direction Bram stole a sideways glance at Alice. Meeting his gaze Alice smiled and Bram knew she would be alright; that they would be alright.