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
