The Last Days (28 page)

Tying the horse to a tree on the slopes above the hamlet, Pyke made his way down the hill, using cover from the oak and beech trees to keep himself hidden, until he was less than fifty yards from the Magennis cottage. From there, concealed behind a hawthorn bush, he spent the next hour watching the various comings and goings. Shortly after settling, he witnessed an adolescent dressed in labourers’ clothes emerge from the cottage and disappear along the track heading east out of the hamlet. Later, he was followed by a slightly older girl. Pyke had watched with interest when a much older man, wearing a cotton shirt tucked into coarse trousers, appeared in the doorway, stretched, looked around him and then disappeared back inside the cottage.

In that time, Pyke did not see any indication of Davy Magennis’s presence, but he knew this was no guarantee that ‘the big man’ was not there.

From what he had been told about the father, Pyke did not imagine that the man would easily give up information about his family, nor did Pyke think he could be tricked or fooled into doing so.

Pyke pushed open the door and stepped over the threshold. In the middle of the orderly room was a fire with stumps of cut wood and turf glowing in the metal grate and, above, a hole in the roof for a chimney. Next to the fire, an older woman attended to a saucepan filled with milk and wilted green leaves. Nearby was a solid wood table surrounded by tree stumps for seats. On the table, next to a pool of dried candle wax, there was an open prayer book. Bedclothes were tossed carelessly around the earthen floor.

‘Can I help you?’ a male voice said, from behind him. The woman looked up at him, startled. Pyke turned around to face who he presumed was Andrew Magennis and saw at once that the old man had noticed his pistol. ‘Aye,’ he said, slowly, his eyes not leaving Pyke’s. ‘Will you leave us alone for a moment, Martha?’

He was a wiry man of about sixty, but his apparently slight build and taut frame belied his age. Aside from his paintbrush moustache, which was flecked with grey, the rest of his hair was still dark. His piercing, almost translucent eyes gave no intimation of what he was thinking.

Once Martha had left them, he said, ‘I don’t take kindly to strangers bringin’ weapons into my family’s home.’

Pyke allowed the man’s hostility to subside before he said, ‘Is Davy here?’

Magennis did not seem surprised by Pyke’s mention of his son’s name. ‘No.’

‘Mind if I look around?’

‘I mind, sure I do, but I don’t reckon I can stop you.’

Pyke conducted a very brief search of the small cottage but found no one.

‘Has he been here recently?’ They were standing on opposite sides of the wooden table.

‘No.’

‘How well do you know John Arnold?’ Pyke asked, trying to throw the older man off balance with his questions.

‘What’s he got to do with anything?’

Pyke realised that Magennis had probably not heard the news.

‘Would you say that the two of you are friends?’

‘Not friends,’ Magennis said, frowning. ‘Him, the Grand Masters, they like givin’ orders but none of ’em know what it’s like, actually havin’ to live alongside the papists.’

‘When was the last time you saw Davy?’

‘Davy? A year back, maybe more.’ Magennis shrugged.

‘Where was that?’

That drew a determined sigh. ‘Mind telling me why you’re interested in Davy?’

‘A year back, you say?’ Pyke said, ignoring the question.

‘This was just after he’d been thrown out of the police? For beating a Catholic man to within an inch of his life during a riot in Monaghan?’

Magennis did not seem to be impressed by his knowledge. ‘What do you need from me? You have all the answers.’

‘So let me tell you what else I know,’ Pyke said. ‘I know Davy wasn’t prosecuted for that particular crime. I know he got that job in the first place because Arnold arranged it. I know that a man called Fitzroy Tilling came to this house in person, as a favour to Arnold, to sign Davy up. Do you want me to continue? I know your other son Stephen fell in love with a Catholic girl, ran away to London and had a child. I also know that Stephen, Clare and the baby were murdered in their lodging room in London. The baby was strangled and discarded in a piss-filled metal pail. I know Davy was seen in London around the same time. I don’t know but I can only guess that Davy hated Stephen for running off with a Catholic and siring a half-Catholic child. All of you did, no doubt. Except Davy took your pronouncements of hate literally, didn’t he? I can imagine Davy sitting here in this room listening to you telling stories of Catholic rapists and whores. I can make other deductions, too, but I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you what those might be.’

This time Pyke kept his anger in check, guessing it would have no effect on the older man’s attitude. Pyke wanted answers but he also needed proof of Davy Magennis’s involvement. If Pyke could nail Magennis, he could implicate Tilling - and therefore Peel.

Magennis took a while to prepare his response. ‘You know a lot, but then again, you know nothing.’ He pulled out a stump to sit down on, and motioned for Pyke to do the same. ‘For example, do you know where you are right now?’

‘A hamlet near Loughgall.’

Magennis nodded. ‘You talk of our hate as though it’s something other-worldly, monstrous even. But what about the hate that’s been turned against us, for no other reason than we’re proud, God-fearin’ Orangemen? If you know so much, why don’t you tell me about the time when, two hundred years back, Irish papists led by Phelim O’Neill marched into Market Hill, a few miles from here, and started gleefully killin’ all the good Protestant men, women and children they could lay their hands on, ended up murderin’ thirty thousand, three-quarters of all the Protestants in Ireland.’

His voice was trembling a little. Pyke decided to let him finish.

‘Let me tell you the story of this wee place. We call it the Diamond. Twenty-four years back, I was a strapping lad, like you, just startin’ off in the world, a new wife and child to protect. Thing was, we’d suffered terrible losses to the papist Defenders over the previous few months. One fellow on the Jackson estate, he’d had his tongue ripped out, his fingers cut off one by one. They’d sliced his wife’s breasts clean off her chest. Mutilated his wee boy. Things were gettin’ mighty tense, to be sure. Both sides started to gather themselves, the Defenders, looking to run us off our land, and our boys, Orange boys and the Peep o’ Days, skirmishin’ a little, just tryin’ to hold the line. The Defenders massed yonder at Tartarghan an’ we gathered up on that whinny hill on the other side of the river. One of their lot was killed and when the magistrates heard of it, they joined together with three Catholic priests, to try an’ make the peace. Some agreement was reached but the papists were itchin’ for a scrap and they started to move into the fort up on yonder hill. Later, they ran down the hill and attacked Dan Winters’ pub, tried to set it alight. But we were ready for ’em, we were stronger than ’em, too. We fought ’em hand to hand, and killed maybe thirty of ’em before they finally saw sense, and retreated to lick their wounds.’

At some point during the telling of the tale, it was transformed from a story of hate and recriminations to one of unfettered masculine glory.

Pyke allowed his stare to drift over the man’s shoulder. ‘And thirty-year-old tales of bravado and killing are somehow more important than your own flesh and blood?’

‘ “You are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people He claims for His own to proclaim the glorious works of One who has called you from darkness into light.” First book of Peter, chapter two, verse nine.’

‘Do those sentiments help you to deal with the death of your son?’

Magennis stared at him through narrowing eyes. ‘Stephen was lost to us long before he died.’

Pyke slammed his fist down on the table so hard the prayer book jumped. ‘He didn’t die, he was murdered. Killed. Stabbed. Don’t you understand? Your grandchild, too.’

Just for a moment, the words seem to dry up in the old man’s throat.

‘Did Davy kill his own brother?’

‘No,’ Magennis said, with little conviction.

‘Did he kill the baby?’

‘He’s impressionable but he’s not a monster, the big lad,’ Magennis said, less sure, trembling more acutely.

Pyke had to resist reaching out and grabbing hold of him. ‘Can you imagine what it must have been like? How delicate a newborn is?’ He waited until Magennis looked up at him before adding, ‘Your flesh and blood.’

‘What is it you want from me?’

‘I want to speak to Davy.’

‘And who, exactly, are you?’

Pyke ignored the question. ‘Whereabouts did Davy go, after he’d been dismissed from the constabulary?’

The old man stared at him with steely eyes. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Did he stay in Ireland?’

Magennis just shrugged.

Pyke thought about Davy Magennis, hiding out in the yard of a Sandy Row terraced house. Alone and afraid.

‘I think he might need your help.’

The old man’s eyes narrowed. ‘Need my help? How would you know that?’

‘Is there a particular church that he liked to frequent?’

‘A church, you say? Davy never was one for prayin’.’

‘Your family in Belfast tell a different story. Reckon Davy spent most of his time in a church praying.’

‘You been to Sandy Row?’ The old man sounded alarmed.

‘Davy was stopping there until very recently. He left in a hurry, I was told. I think he might be in trouble.’ Pyke felt himself sigh. ‘All I want to do is ask Davy a few questions.’

‘That right?’ The old man stared at him with suspicion. ‘I suppose that’s why you’ve got the pistol.’

‘Look, I’m not the one who got Davy into the mess he’s in.’

Pyke could feel the old man’s animosity but there was something else in his stare, too. Fear, perhaps. Sadness?

‘You were askin’ about a church,’ the old man said, after about half a minute’s silence.

Pyke nodded.

‘I don’t know about any church in particular but you could have a look for him in the vicinity of Market Hill.’

‘Does he have family or friends there?’

Andrew Magennis crossed his arms and said nothing. ‘Is that where he went after he was thrown out of the constabulary?’

Magennis stared at him without emotion.

‘Why might Davy have gone there?’

The old man’s expression remained resolute, intent on concealing whatever feelings Pyke’s questions had provoked.

 

But Pyke did not find Davy Magennis in any of the churches or meeting rooms in Market Hill. Nor did anyone in the town admit to knowing him. When he asked about churches in the outlying area, he was told of one about two miles north of the town, on the road to Hamilton’s Bawn.

It had turned into a warm, sunny day. A cooling breeze blew gently off the lough and a few clouds drifted harmlessly across an otherwise unbroken vista of blue. The air felt light, even balmy, as Pyke led his black horse up to the perimeter of the old church. It was the kind of day that should have made him feel lucky to be alive, but Pyke was bothered by something he could not quite fathom.

As soon as he stepped into the draughty old church, which was pleasantly cool out of the sun, he saw a young man kneeling down at the altar at the front of the building. It was a dour place, with clear rather than stained-glass windows and an unusually low ceiling.

Pyke did not make any attempt to conceal his presence. He walked down the aisle and came to a halt only a few yards away from the place where the priest was kneeling. The man looked up at him, startled.

He stood up, rearranged his cloak and dog collar, and smiled. ‘Simon Hunter.’ He held out his hand. ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.’ He spoke in a crisp English accent.

‘Pyke.’ He shook the priest’s hand, not seeing any reason to conceal his identity.

The priest continued to smile. ‘Well, Mr Pyke, what brings you to Mullabrack?’

‘I’m looking for a big man called Davy Magennis.’

The priest’s good humour vanished. Lines of concern appeared on his brow. ‘Davy, you say?’

‘Big man. At least six and a half feet tall.’

The priest continued to look at him, unsure what to say.

‘You know him?’

Very slowly, the priest nodded his head.

‘Do you know where I can find him?’

Again, the young priest nodded.

‘Well, can I speak to him?’

‘I’m afraid that would be impossible.’

Pyke looked deep into the man’s concerned face and imagined the sheltered, comfortable upbringing that had produced it. ‘You might not believe it, but I think he might need my help.’

‘A few days ago, I would have agreed with you.’

The priest ran his fingers through his wavy hair. He seemed upset, as though Pyke’s request had put him in a difficult position. Neither of them spoke for a while. Finally the priest told Pyke to follow him. Outside, the yard was dotted with graves. It was cool in the shade provided by giant oak trees. They came to a halt next to what appeared to be a recently filled grave. Pyke understood what the priest had been trying to tell him. He felt angry and cheated but managed to ask what had happened.

‘Davy showed up here about a week ago. He wouldn’t tell me his surname.’ The priest wiped sweat from his brow. ‘He didn’t make a great deal of sense. I could see he was deeply troubled by something. I let him stay in the church. I wouldn’t usually make such an allowance but he was insistent. He assured me he didn’t feel safe anywhere else.’ The priest looked away, faltering. He tried to gather himself. ‘The following morning, I came to see if he was still here, and ask if he wanted any food or drink, and, well, I found him . . .’ Pyke could see tears building up behind the young man’s eyes. ‘I found him lying on the floor at the front of the church surrounded by his own blood. There was a knife on the floor next to his hand. He had cut his own throat, or so they reckoned. Two officers from the constabulary and the magistrate were here by midday. They asked me who he was. I told them what I told you, that I only knew him by the name Davy. None of them recognised him. In the end, they decided it was most likely a suicide and since there wasn’t any way of identifying him, the magistrate said it was probably best that we give him a Christian burial, even if what he had done was a mortal sin in the eyes of God.’