Safe House Read online

  That was Rory. Never used a short word if a long one would do.

  Delia Cassidy had her tweezers ready. “Lie on the couch and I’ll just take a wee look at that foot again.”

  Liam lay on the couch with his foot dangling over the arm, as before, trying not to cry out while Delia Cassidy removed the Band-Aid and probed his foot gently with her tweezers again. “What will the boy do to be safe?” she asked her husband over her shoulder.

  “Go to the IRA,” said Rory, butting in. “They’ll protect him.”

  Delia Cassidy looked up sharply. “Hush your mouth with the IRA. The only thing they’re good for is killing innocent people.”

  Jack Cassidy shook his head. “The boy must go to the police. There’s no other way, or this time tomorrow he will be stone dead for sure.”

  “Are you mad?” said Delia Cassidy. “Are you out of your mind, man? The police are worse than the I.R.A! Aren’t the police all Protestants? I wouldn’t trust them with the cat. They’d be just as likely to hand the boy over to a gang of Protestant thugs! Hold still, Liam. There’s the tiniest wee bit left in there and I almost have it.”

  “Ouch!” The biting pain made it hard for him to hold still.

  “Aye,” said Jack Cassidy, “but there’s a few Catholics in the police force, not many, you’re right, only a few percent maybe, but the lad will be safer with them than here with us, a sitting target for those murdering butchers. He might not be so lucky next time.”

  Delia Cassidy held up the tweezers for Liam’s inspection. “There! See? The Last piece, I’m sure. I’ll put on a fresh Band-Aid and you’ll be as fit as a butcher’s dog, as my father used to say. It might be a good idea to walk on your heel whenever you can, so the Band-Aid doesn’t come off. We don’t want dirt getting in there and causing infection.”

  Jack Cassidy said, “Eat some breakfast, boy, and then get a bit of rest before the police get here.”

  Liam ate a small bowl of cereal but couldn’t face the plate of toast, butter and marmalade in front of him. He stretched himself out on the couch. It felt good to lie down. He was exhausted. Everything ached.

  Delia Cassidy said, “The police will take their own sweet time.” She put on her raincoat. “I’m away to the church. I’ll not be long. Back before the police get here. I want to light two candles for the repose of the souls of your poor unfortunate mum and da.”

  Candles.

  Liam closed his eyes. Delia Cassidy was like his mother, and most of the women in the parish, lighting candles in St. Anthony’s church, pushing them into the spiked candleholders, crossing themselves, bowing their heads in prayer. Fiona Fogarty had made it a habit, dropping a coin into the collection box and lighting a candle after Mass every Sunday without fail.

  “Why do you always light a candle, Mum?”

  He is nine years old.

  “It’s for a private intention.”

  “What’s a private attention?”

  “Private means it’s a secret between me and God. Lighting a candle is a prayer asking God for something.”

  “What are you asking God for, Mum?”

  “Never you mind. It’s private. That’s why it’s called a private intention.”

  He watches the way her dark hair falls into her eyes, watches how she flicks it back with a shake of her head. Her hazel eyes are permanently anxious, it seems, because she has to make do with very little money. Liam is old enough to understand that it is always a struggle for his mother to find the rent and put meals on the table and clothes on their backs. And yet she never misses her candle conversation with God after Sunday Mass, even though coins are scarce.

  She bends her head in prayer. Then she crosses herself and the ceremony is over for another week.

  Liam said, “Could I ask for a private attention too? Would I have to light a candle? I could ask God for a bicycle. Do you think He would listen?”

  “It’s intention, not attention. God is always listening. No, the candle is not important; you can ask for whatever you want. But that doesn’t necessarily mean you will get it.”

  “If the candle isn’t important, why do you light one then?”

  “It’s a symbol, that’s all, a symbol of hope and remembrance.” She thinks for a second. “And gratefulness,” she adds.

  “What’s a symbol, Mum?”

  The next Sunday he stands at the altar without lighting a candle and asks God for a bicycle. Six months go by before his da brings home a second-hand bicycle from “The Spinning Wheel,” John Joe Murphy’s sports shop in Ballymurphy.

  “You’re right,” he tells his mother. “I didn’t even need to light a candle.”

  …last day together…

  Their last day together:

  He walks with his mother to the ten o’clock Sunday morning Mass, her last. As they approach St. Anthony’s he hangs back, looking for his friends Rory and Sean. He no longer sits and kneels with his mother in a pew; he is much too old for that. Instead he joins Rory and Sean at the back of the church where they stand with the latecomers, and then, when no one is looking, slip away to share an illegal cigarette behind the presbytery wall.

  His da never goes to church services. He spends the last Sunday morning of his life over at Maloney’s Pub earning a bit of extra money helping Declan Maloney install new toilet bowls in the two lavatories.

  In the evening, after Liam gets home from Youth Circus, they sit down to one of Liam’s favorite dinners: tuna casserole. Canned tuna is cheap and so is packaged pasta. Throw in a handful of chopped broccoli, finish with a golden cheese crust, and enjoy.

  They talk. His da asks Liam about his day at Youth Circus and about his friend Nicole. Liam blushes. His mum rescues him by asking his da about his day working at Maloney’s Pub, and his da asks her if there is any more of the casserole left in the dish because a man gets remarkable hungry on his knees all day installing toilets.

  Their last meal together.

  For his mum and his da it is their last meal ever.

  He lay on the Cassidy couch with his eyes closed, foot throbbing, ribs aching. Thinking about his mum and his da made him want to cry, but he couldn’t cry. It was like there was something inside that was wound up tight and no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t let it go.

  Rory answered the telephone. “It’s the police,” he told Liam. “They’re on their way. Ten minutes.”

  The police arrived. Just one, in plain clothes. He did not take off his hat. He asked Liam a few questions about the men who had killed his parents. Liam told him what he knew. The policeman didn’t ask about the man who had shot at him through the Cassidy kitchen window. Instead he told Liam to put on his shoes and coat and come with him to the police station; Inspector Osborne wanted to ask him a few questions.

  Delia Cassidy, back from the church, said to Liam, “Jack and I will go with you. Rory will mind the house.” She packed clothing and a sandwich in a packsack. “You had better take this. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if the police decide to keep you out of sight for a while.”

  The policeman drove them to the police station.

  The small office was crowded with only five people: Inspector Osborne, Jack and Delia Cassidy, a pleasant-faced young woman named Miss Tovey from the Children’s Welfare office, and Liam.

  Osborne. Protestant name, Liam guessed.

  When the inspector had finished introducing everyone he sat behind his desk and turned his attention to Liam, seated in front of him on a hard chair.

  The expression on the face of Delia Cassidy, seated beside her husband and to the side of Inspector Osborne’s desk, seemed to say, “Never trust a policeman.”

  Inspector Osborne was a tall man, slim, with blue eyes, short gray hair, and a neat ginger mustache stained by the nicotine of many cigarettes. He wore a smart bottle-green police uniform with a white shirt and black tie.

  Liam hated uniforms: They usually spelled trouble. This uniformed police inspector intimidated him.

  The inspec
tor tried to put Liam at ease, smiling encouragingly. “Now, Liam, tell me what happened exactly as you remember it. Take your time. You were asleep, you say, when two men broke into your home.”

  Delia Cassidy said, “Filthy butchers. Animals are what they were, not men.”

  The inspector raised an eyebrow. “Liam?”

  “What kind of men would massacre two innocent people in their bed?” asked Delia Cassidy.

  The inspector turned to her politely. “I would like to hear the story from the boy, Mrs. Cassidy, if you don’t mind.”

  Liam was very tired. He talked haltingly. Inspector Osborne listened attentively, quietly interrupting to ask an occasional question.

  After Liam was finished, the inspector, amid interruptions from Delia Cassidy, asked him further questions about the two killers, especially the big one who had taken off his mask.

  Liam described him.

  “You say that this same man, the one with the mole, later tried to kill you in the Cassidy home?”

  “The window will need to be replaced,” said Delia Cassidy, “and the wall is destroyed with…”

  “Please, Mrs. Cassidy!” Inspector Osborne glared at her.

  Liam said, “He shot at me through the window. I ran out of the house and he came after me on a motorbike. I spent the night hiding in the cemetery.”

  “The individual who shot at you, did you see his face?”

  “No.”

  “The man on the motorcycle, did you see his face?”

  “No.”

  “Who else could it be?” asked Delia Cassidy. “Wasn’t it the devil himself?”

  The inspector’s patience had come to an end. “Mrs. Cassidy, I will have to ask you to be quiet or you must wait outside. How can I interview the boy if you insist on interrupting?”

  “Hmmph!” said Delia Cassidy.

  “So, Liam, you cannot actually say that the man who fired at you and the man who chased you on the bike was the man with the mole on his face, the same man who was responsible for the deaths of your parents?”

  “No, but it was him, I’m sure.”

  The inspector turned to include Jack Cassidy and Miss Tovey. “When it comes to proving something, when it comes to saying that you know it was the same man, that you recognized him, well, the courts are very reluctant…”

  Liam said, “You don’t believe me?”

  “Yes, Liam, I believe you. I think it was the same man. But thinking and knowing for certain are horses of a different color, you see?”

  “No, I don’t see.”

  The inspector sighed. “Liam, you are obviously in great danger. If you stay where you are then he is sure to try again.” He turned to the Cassidys. “You must leave things in my hands. I will take care of the boy. You cannot protect him. Your home is a dangerous place for him now. I want him under police protection. Do you agree, Miss Tovey?”

  “Miss Tovey nodded. “Of course, inspector. Liam comes first. We must protect him.”

  The inspector directed the same question at the Cassidys.

  Jack Cassidy said, “It’s the only way.”

  Inspector Osborne turned back to Liam. “I want to send you to a safe house.”

  Liam must have looked alarmed because Miss Tovey, with a sympathetic smile, said, “It’s a secret house in the city, Liam. You will be perfectly safe there, I promise.”

  Inspector Osborne said, “You will live there until we have the killer in jail. Miss Tovey is right. You will be safe there. Nobody will know where you are. Nobody. We tell no one, not even Mr. and Mrs. Cassidy. Not even your family.”

  “Got no family now.”

  The inspector’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “No grandparents?”

  Liam shook his head.

  “No aunts or uncles?”

  “Nobody.”

  Delia Cassidy looked at her husband with raised eyebrows. Jack Cassidy nodded to her.

  “He has no one but us,” said Delia Cassidy.

  The inspector pulled a face and bit his lower lip. “In any case, the only ones who know where you are will be myself, the police driver, and the two staff members who work in the house, Fergus and Moira Grogan. They are entirely trustworthy.” He stopped and narrowed his eyes. “They would be like an aunt and uncle. How do you feel about that?”

  Liam shrugged. He had never had an aunt or an uncle, so he didn’t know what they would be like.

  Inspector Osborne stood. “I will have you taken to the safe house. But first I’d like you to spend a few minutes with our identification man. He will work up a picture on the computer from your description of the man with the mole.” The inspector fingered his mustache and said to the Cassidys. “He is sure to belong to one of the militant Loyalist gangs. If all goes well we should have these killers in custody by the end of the month.” To Liam he said, “Do you think you can pick your mole man out of a line-up?”

  “That’s when you line up a bunch of people and—”

  “He wouldn’t see you. You would be in a separate room looking through a one-way window. What do you say?

  Could you do it?”

  “Sure.”

  “Good boy. And if we can persuade him to talk, we will have the other one too.”

  …safe house…

  The computer identification procedure over, he waited in the inspector’s office for a car to take him to the safe house. Jack and Delia Cassidy sat with him; Miss Tovey had gone.

  The inspector was out of the room.

  Delia Cassidy said, “Tell the boy, Jack.”

  Jack Cassidy put an arm round Liam’s shoulders. “When this is all over, when they catch these killers, we want you to know that our home is your home. It will be waiting for you. Understand?”

  Liam nodded. “Thanks,” was all he could say.

  Jack Cassidy handed him a worn leather wallet. “Here. Keep this. It has a little money in it for emergencies and our telephone number, in case you forget it. Call us if there is anything you need and we will see you get it. Will you do that?”

  Liam nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

  The police inspector came back and the Cassidys said goodbye. Delia Cassidy said, “The inspector promised me you will want for nothing at the safe house: new clothing, soap, toothbrush, books to read, everything.” She hugged him. “Be brave, lovey.” Jack Cassidy smiled sadly, started to say something, but stopped and squeezed Liam’s shoulder. They left.

  Liam and Inspector Osborne were alone in the office. The inspector sat down behind his desk. “The car will be here any minute.” He smiled.

  Inspector Osborne seemed an okay person, but Liam still did not quite trust him: He was a policeman, after all, and a Protestant. A Protestant Loyalist: loyal to the queen of England. Which was the same as English, not Irish. You couldn’t be English and Irish: one or the other but not both. But he felt less intimidated, especially if he made an effort to see the man and not the uniform. He said, “Why did they kill my mum and da? Do you know? They never did anything to hurt anyone. They were good people. It makes no sense.”

  “You’re right. It makes no sense, Liam. Your parents are two of five retaliation killings in the past week. We think a paramilitary group is out to revenge the killing last month of John Spencer in the Maze prison. You have heard of the Maze prison?”

  “Yes.”

  “Spencer was a Loyalist paramilitary chief, sent to jail for his crimes. An IRA prisoner stabbed Spencer to death in the prison yard.”

  “But my da had nothing to do with that!”

  The inspector sighed. “True. Retaliation killings make no sense. Those seeking revenge don’t really care who they kill as long as it is one of the ‘enemy.’ Do you understand?”

  Liam thought he understood. So the killings were more or less random. They could have targeted any Catholic; it would have made no difference to the killers.

  Inspector Osborne said, “Dan Fogarty was well known. He was a community leader and a peacemaker. Everyone knew your
father. The price of fame in Belfast is sometimes death.”

  That was what Jack Cassidy had said, Liam remembered. There were Prods who did not want peace, who only wanted the Catholics out of the North of Ireland.

  Liam hated the killers. The hate was a deadly cold snake inside him, aching to strike. His father was the best of all fathers, the best in the whole world, the sort of man who wouldn’t do a bit of harm to anyone, always happy, even when he had nothing much to be happy about. Liam knew only a little about his da’s activities, about how he spoke out for the rights of the poor and unemployed in the North of Ireland, no matter whether they were Prods or Catholics; he knew that his father saw no important differences between them. They were all doing their best, he always said, Protestants and Catholics alike, to find work and bring up their families. It was just a few who were to blame for the violence and the hatred, a handful of ignorant thugs who knew no better.

  His da tried to reason quietly with young hotheads who believed that tit-for-tat violence in the North of Ireland must go on day after day, month after month, year after year, who believed that things would never change. “There’s an old Irish saying,” his da would say to them with a smile. “If nothing ever changed there would be no butterflies.”

  He tried to see the good in everyone; he was a man who seldom lost his temper, not like Liam’s mother Fiona who became upset and angry every time someone was killed by a gang of terrorists, or by a car bomb, or by the police, or by the British army soldiers. Her anger expressed itself in tears and explosive wails of distress that left her eyes red. His da would comfort her in his calm, quiet voice, and a reassuring arm around her shoulders.

  He would have his own room, Inspector Osborne said.

  The police driver drove him around the city, north, east, south and west, before finally pulling up at a big old house. By now it was dark. “Got to make sure we’re not followed,” the driver explained to Liam, who was half-asleep on the backseat. It had been a long day, and with no sleep last night in the Ludlow sepulcher, he was exhausted. They entered the house quietly by the back door, Liam carrying his small backpack.