papers and files and books. But it was a bright room. The big windows let in the pale midwinter light and the dust that hung in the air showed how rarely the place was cleaned. A man in his sixties stood at the window looking out. He leant on a walking stick. In Dublin, thirteen years earlier, during the War of Independence, the Black and Tans had thrown him from the first floor of a solicitor’s practice in Leeson Street. His legs had been broken in too many places to ever mend properly. Ever since, he had been more comfortable standing up than sitting down. Through the window came the noise of cattle being driven through the town to the market place. Emmet Brady had listened to Stefan without interruption. Now he paced slowly in front of the window, while Stefan sat on a chair in front of the desk the solicitor only used to pile papers on.
‘There is a simple solution of course, Stefan. You could convert.’
‘Is that all there is?’
‘It would certainly be the end of it.’
He watched Brady limping slowly up and down. The old man was thinking hard, but what he was thinking wasn’t what Stefan wanted to hear.
‘Are you telling me they can do this, Mr Brady?’
‘No, of course I’m not.’
‘But — ’
‘But it doesn’t mean I’m telling you they can’t.’
‘It’s one or the other surely?’
‘You know the law better than that. A wife would be another option.’
‘What?’ Despite everything Stefan laughed.
Brady stopped, grimacing as pain shot down his leg, then paced again.
‘You’re not unattractive. Admittedly your employment prospects are slightly uncertain right now, but then you’ve a bit of land coming to you up at Kilranelagh one day. A good Catholic girl would do the job nicely. Maybe it’s time you put off the black armband, metaphorically speaking.’
‘I hope the fact that you think it’s funny is a good sign, Mr Brady.’
‘I don’t think it’s funny at all. But why not convert?’
‘I can’t convert to something I don’t believe in.’
‘You mean you’d rather not lie.’
‘I shouldn’t have to lie.’ Stefan turned in the chair, angry again.
‘You shouldn’t, I agree, but what if Father Carey and the bishop take this all the way to the Four Courts? What if the Church drags you into a courtroom and persuades a judge that the interests of your son would be best served if he lived with his uncle and aunt. I’m not saying they can or will.’
‘But it’s possible,’ said Stefan quietly.
‘Stick with the question. Wouldn’t a lie be better?’
‘I suppose it ought to be.’ He said the words with a frown. It wasn’t easy to know why he felt he couldn’t even contemplate that. Why should it matter so much, if one simple lie could take the vindictive curate off his back? Emmet Brady had stopped again, rubbing his leg as he watched him.
‘You did promise the boy would be brought up as a Catholic.’
‘And he is.’
‘And you’re a fit man to do that?’
‘I’m his father.’
‘How many of us have ever really been fit for that?’ The solicitor smiled, setting off again, pacing up and down in front of the window.
Stefan shifted uneasily in the chair, following Brady’s movements as he walked back and forward. The constant motion was irritating him.
‘Let’s look at you, Stefan. You’re a guard who’s on suspension for assaulting a priest. That’s quite some place to start, wouldn’t you say?’
‘What’s being a guard’s worth? I’d probably be better out of it.’
‘No, that won’t do.’ The old man halted abruptly, shaking his head. ‘You have to stick with the job, at all costs. You’ll be back in what — ’
‘Six months. That’s what the Commissioner said.’
‘A man with a job is better than a man without one. A Garda sergeant with a blot on his record is better than a man who looks like he was kicked out. Hitting Father Carey is the biggest thing they have against you. The rest adds up, but on its own it wouldn’t amount to much. No one’s going to take you to the High Court brandishing a copy of
Stefan’s lips tightened. It wasn’t Brady’s business or anyone else’s.
‘Is the curate right about that?’ insisted the old man.
‘If that’s how you want to put it.’ Stefan shrugged.
‘It’s not about how I want to put it, it’s how a barrister in the Four Courts would put it, when he describes you taking your four-year-old son into the synagogue, so that you could make arrangements for a sex session with your Jewish mistress. That’s what he might say. How does it sound?’
Stefan knew the courts; he could hear the words.
‘I see, and it’s even worse if she’s Jewish, is it?’
‘You need have no doubt that there are judges who would think exactly that. It’s a side of our Free State no one would want to admit to, but this isn’t about what’s right, Stefan. It’s about what you might have to deal with.’
The implications were sinking in. The man he had come to for help was making it sound worse than the Commissioner or the Garda Chaplain.
‘How does Carey know?’ The solicitor started to pace again.
‘He doesn’t. A good guess, that’s all.’
‘Come on, you said he’d written to the Garda Chaplain about you, even before this. He told him to feck off, but it doesn’t mean our curate hasn’t been busy elsewhere. Who else has he talked to? Who else knew?’
‘One other guard. Dessie wouldn’t — ’
‘For God’s sake, man, I hope you’re a better detective than that! You’ve lived in a Garda barracks before. Do you really think there’s a single guard at Pearse Street who didn’t know what you were up to?’
Stefan couldn’t help laughing. Who had he been kidding?
‘So who would Father Carey have talked to?’
‘Maybe my inspector. Inspector Donaldson. He’s a real Holy Joe. You know, Mass every day, novenas, the Knights of St Columbanus, the lot.’
‘Well, aren’t you the lucky one? So are there any more?’
‘Any more what?’
‘Any more women you’ve been fucking. Any affairs? Have you got a string of mistresses? Do you spend your evenings in a whorehouse? They need to find all the reasons they can to prove you’re not a decent man to bring up a Catholic child. If they go for it they won’t hold anything back.’
‘There’s been no one else, not since Maeve died.’
‘All right, next question. Do you believe in God, Mr Gillespie?’
‘What?’
‘If I was their barrister, I’d ask. You can always lie.’
‘This is crazy.’
‘You bet it is! Come on! Do you believe in God, Mr Gillespie?’
‘I was brought up to believe. I believe in what Christianity — ’
‘Do you believe in God? Yes or no.’
‘I don’t, but I — ’
‘There are no buts in the witness box. If I were you, I’d say yes. If you don’t, the next question will be how can this court believe a word you say? Didn’t you just swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God? Why did you do that if you don’t believe in God?’
