Mulligan's Yard (45 page)

What next? she wondered. Another funeral, once the doctors had finished poring over Eliza’s remains. Strange how she had managed to look beautiful even when dead, the head wrapped in a
piece of linen, curls breaking free to occupy that alabaster forehead. Then, once the burial was over, another wait, Margot and a birth, an unwanted child.

Amy checked herself. The baby would be a piece of tomorrow, a step towards the future. ‘We shall love him or her, no matter what,’ she mumbled. But first, this other business, the
matter of the lunatic intruder. She stood up and carried the gun into the kitchen. God forbid that James should use it.

‘Wake Moorhead,’ James said.

‘Now?’

‘Yes.’ He picked up the weapon, examined it, loaded it, left it broken. ‘He must take my car and fetch the police.’

Amy turned to leave the room once more, then stopped in her tracks. ‘He has never driven a car. Mind, he did work the land for many years, so he has used a tractor.’

‘There you go, then, problem solved.’

‘But what if . . . ?’

‘What if gets nothing done,’ replied James. ‘What if is a hide into nowhere – another of Mammy’s sayings.’

She obeyed, returned to the kitchen and sat in silence with two men, a gun and a bubbling kettle. James made tea, flinched in unison with her when he saw the pain caused by hot liquid against a
cut mouth. ‘Will I cool that down for you with more milk?’

She shook her head, allowed her eyes to rest once again on the guardian. ‘No, thanks. The police will be looking for him, no doubt.’ Her gaze lingered on the hideous, now snoring
figure on the flags.

‘Yes, there’ll be enough evidence in the shed and on his clothes to arrest him. I was thinking, I wonder where people get these strange ideas regarding religion.’

She didn’t know, couldn’t have cared less.

‘Taking little bits of the Bible, usually Old Testament, then blowing them up out of all proportion.’

‘He spoke of wise virgins,’ replied Amy eventually. ‘Killed Eliza because she had been to London, the city of sin, then dismissed Margot because of her . . . well . . . she is
swollen.’

‘And so he turned to you.’

Amy placed the cup in its saucer on the fireguard. ‘There was no reason, no sense. How would he have managed to drag any of us to Texas?’

James thought for a few moments. ‘They are preparing for the end of the world,’ he told her at last. ‘The end of the world will be dictated by the Supreme Guardian, who may
very well instigate mass murder and suicide before changing his identity and running away with the profits.’

Amy sighed, picked up her cup. ‘Mass hysteria, mass suicide – why do they listen?’

He lifted a shoulder. ‘Who knows?’

A sleep-bewildered Eric Moorhead wandered in. ‘Has summat gone on?’ he enquired, one hand brushing over snow-white hair. ‘Bloody hell – pardon me, miss – what the
heck’s happened in here?’

James and Amy were both too tired to relate the full story. ‘Go to Bolton,’ said James, ‘to the police station. Tell them that Peter Wilkinson is here, at Caldwell
Farm.’

‘Aye, right.’ He moved towards the body on the floor. ‘Snoring like a pig,’ he commented.

Amy looked at James. ‘Tell Moorhead what he needs to know, please.’ She went out to wash her face and comb her hair. Chill water bit into her cut lip, but she continued to splash her
face. Anything touched by that evil man must be cleaned as vigorously as possible.

The reflection in the mirror showed a white face, a drained skin. She lit a second lamp, watched the light as it danced over furniture and gave life to inanimate objects, shifting the shadows,
turning, twisting. The dresser had more life in it than Eliza did. And Margot, poor little Margot, alive and in shock.

She wept softly into a towel, fighting the sobs as best she could. Through the window, a black sky was peppered with stars, each a tiny hole punched into navy velvet. Was heaven up there? Was it
anywhere? Would Father, Mother and Eliza live on? Oh, God, please keep them, she prayed inwardly.

When she came down again, Moorhead had gone, while Wilkinson, muted by that single blow from a massive fist, remained blissfully unaware of his surroundings.

‘I gave Moorhead tea and toast,’ said James, ‘then told him the rudiments. He knows that Eliza is dead and that this man killed her. You should go to bed.’

‘No.’

‘Amy . . .’

‘No.’ This was her house; she could go to bed, stay up, dance a jig if she so chose. He made her feel like a child in the presence of her father, because some instinct kept telling
her to obey him without question. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, James, but I want to see this through.’

‘Of course. Shall we make more tea?’

She drew a hand across her forehead. ‘I suppose so. Anything that will keep us awake until the police arrive.’

A groaning sound emerged from Wilkinson’s throat. In a flash, James snapped the gun into active mode and pointed it at the intruder. ‘Don’t move,’ he warned.

James, don’t—’ begged Amy.

‘Give me some credit,’ came the reply. ‘Right.’ He addressed Wilkinson now. ‘Sit up with your back against that wall.’

Slowly, the man eased himself into a sitting position. His jaw, probably broken, hung out of line with the rest of his face. When he managed to focus fully on James, his eyes burned bright with
undiluted hatred.

‘The police are on their way,’ James informed him.

Wilkinson tried to speak, but damaged bone prevented him.

‘You will be behind bars within the hour.’

Do they not know who I am and why I am on this earth? Why can they not understand that my future lies with an educated female who will bring good breeding stock into the Light? The people of
Makersfield need intelligent women to care for their children, women who could teach whole generations to honour the Eternal Light, to praise the Lord and—

It is the devil’s creature. There he sits with a gun directed at my head, his face hardened against me. The Burton-Massey girl frowns, too. And I can say nothing because the brute has
broken my jaw. It was all meant to be, all dictated to me as I sat within the circle of Light, while I meditated. The papist knows nothing; he is steeped in mistakes made by Rome, errors passed
down the years as if they were edicts from God Himself.

Prison? They cannot imprison me, have not the ability to contain my righteousness and my wrath. Does this Irishman believe that I shall hang? The Light will intervene, will show me what I
must do to break the chains of humankind, for I am beyond and above the judgement of mere mortals. I have done no wrong: I merely removed obstacles.

‘I think he’s clinically insane,’ said James. ‘He may well finish the rest of his days in an asylum.’

Amy had nothing to say.

‘You must beg forgiveness,’ James added. ‘Pray for yourself, Wilkinson.’

The guardian could feel his eyes bulging even further than normal, as if they sought to escape their sockets. What did this man know of penitence, prayer, forgiveness? Catholics were all the
same, drunken louts who produced too many ragged children and huge profits for distilleries and breweries.

James lowered the gun. ‘You understand that you have murdered Eliza? That you placed Margot in danger? Can you not grasp that you have done wrong and that you will be punished by the law
of this land? The Light is not true, Peter.’

At the sound of his given name, the man snarled, causing pain to shoot right through his head. He was Guardian Wilkinson and no-one should use his first name unless specifically invited.

‘I know people in America, good men who have investigated claims from Texas. A dry land, as you know, where desiccated vegetation burns quite frequently. From accidents of nature and from
men with matches, your Light has grown. As we speak, the Supreme Guardian is on the verge of arrest for fraud.’

‘Liar,’ managed Wilkinson, though the effort almost killed him.

‘No, Peter. I tell the truth and only the truth.’

Wilkinson blinked. There was something in James Mulligan’s voice that was almost hypnotic. He felt much as he had when contemplating the Light, when meditating. So this was one of
Mulligan’s gifts from the devil.

‘Hear me, Peter. Look at me, look at Amy. She is not a bad person. You cannot believe in your heart of hearts that it is right to drag unwilling young women across the Atlantic ocean; nor
can you truly believe that any such person would go voluntarily. You are in a dream, Peter. You are the one out of step. The rest of us walk different paths, but the rhythm is much the same. Peter,
the Temple of Eternal Light in Texas is under siege by the police who are trying to get people out before it is too late.’

Wilkinson emitted a single sob. Lies, lies, more lies.

‘It is true,’ James insisted. ‘It’s all over for you and for the rest of those poor, misguided souls.’

A sliver of doubt insinuated its way into Wilkinson’s brain. Was the true temple under siege? No, this was all part of a plot drawn up by men such as this, the unchosen. He moved his head,
winced as pain shot through his jaw once more.

A car drew up outside, then another. Four policemen entered the kitchen, truncheons on alert, feet battering the floor as the beefy men took away James’s gun and dragged Wilkinson to his
feet. He was arrested there and then, his rights read aloud before handcuffs were employed.

Moorhead waited until the back door had closed. ‘Well, there’s nowt as queer nor folk,’ he announced, before plodding up the stairs and back to the warmth of his bed.

Alone, Amy and James drew breath as if for the first time in over an hour. ‘I should not wish to repeat that experience,’ said James.

Amy rose and placed her hands in the small of her back, where a stiffness had been born as a result of sitting in such tension. ‘Will he hang?’ she asked.

‘Probably not. He may well be judged too insane to plead one way or the other.’

There was an awkwardness between them now, as if the sudden disappearance of Peter Wilkinson had forced them to face life all over again. ‘I’ll do all I can,’ he said softly.
‘Funeral and so forth.’

‘Thank you.’

‘And you were brave there, Amy.’

‘So were you.’

He lowered his chin and his voice. ‘No. Nothing brave about a big man hitting a little man. Broke his jaw, too.’

‘He was better off asleep,’ replied Amy. ‘Will you go home now?’ she asked.

‘No. You will not sleep. Neither shall I.’

They repaired to the parlour and set the fire, each busy with kindling, coal and paper. Huddled in coats, they sat each side of the fireplace, oblivious to puffs of smoke and crackles of wood.
‘It’ll warm up in a minute,’ James announced hopefully.

‘This room never gets warm,’ she answered.

‘Then I shall send someone to look at the flue.’

‘Not today, James, not today.’

‘All right, so.’

They slept fitfully, both uncomfortable in a chair, each uneasy in the other’s company. It occurred to Amy in one semi-conscious moment that this was the first time she had spent a night
with a man, and that she felt no fear of him. What she did feel was inexplicable, a sort of dependence that she objected to, a sense of belonging with him, almost needing him.

For his part, James watched, watched while she slept, pretended not to be awake when she looked at him. It was the sort of game a twelve-year-old might play, peeping at a girl, acting silly,
imagining a kiss, an embrace.

At about six o’clock, they gave up and made breakfast. Amy managed a slice of toast and three cups of tea, while James, plainly a country man, ate bacon and eggs. When his plate was
cleaned, he spoke. ‘Moorhead can take Mona to the shop and the children to school,’ he said.

‘But—’

‘But we shall see what the day brings, Amy. I have to go to the Grange to see the workmen, but apart from that I intend to be here with you.’

‘Thank you.’ The words sounded hollow, unsure.

The house got to its feet eventually, Moorhead concealing yawns as he fetched wood and coal, Elspeth looking covertly at the young mistress and Mr Mulligan, her head filled to the brim with
tales her husband had uttered on rising.

At eight o’clock, Elspeth answered the door and allowed Gordon Jones into the parlour. Dr Jones had cared for the Burton-Masseys for many years, and his heart almost broke when he saw Amy,
so pale, so tired and so alone. Ah, no, here was Mulligan, a fine chap, a rock of a man. ‘Mr Mulligan.’

‘Dr Jones. We have had quite a night of it.’

‘So I understand,’ replied the doctor. ‘Rumour has it that you were arrested.’

‘I was.’ James told the tale while Amy, her face whiter than bleached linen, sat close to the fire.

When he had heard the full story, Dr Jones squatted low on his heels in front of Amy. ‘There has been a development,’ he said softly. ‘Something I think you should
know.’

Oh, God, not more bad news? She tried to smile at the visitor, failed completely. ‘Is Margot worse?’ she asked tremulously.

‘Margot is very well,’ answered Gordon Jones. ‘I was with her an hour ago and she is in fine fettle, eating everyone’s breakfast.’

‘Good.’

Dr Jones glanced at James. ‘Amy, this is about Eliza.’

‘Eliza? But Eliza is dead.’

‘Yes.’ The doctor took hold of Amy’s hands. ‘The staff at the morgue examined your sister’s body. There will be more detailed investigations, but they did not have
to look hard to find out that Eliza was . . . Amy, your sister was already dying.’

Amy frowned. ‘I don’t understand. He killed her – that man, the one who was here.’

‘Yes, yes, he did.’ The doctor cleared a lump of agony from his throat. ‘Your sister’s skull was damaged. There was a growth, Amy, a cancer on her brain. It was large
enough to be visible.’

She inhaled suddenly, a hand to her mouth.

‘Eliza might well have been dead within months.’

‘No,’ she insisted. ‘There was nothing wrong with – with her.’

James turned and looked through the window. How much more could this poor woman take?

‘Oh, my God,’ she breathed. ‘Oh, God . . .’