Maureen knelt over Baxter’s crumpled body and examined the wound on his forehead. “Bloody bastards—” She looked at the choir loft where Flynn played the bells. Gallagher took her wrist and locked on a handcuff, then locked the other end to Baxter’s wrist. Gallagher cuffed Murphy’s wrist and led him to the Cardinal. Gallagher knelt, then passed the cuff through the arm in the throne and gently placed the cuff over the Cardinal’s blood-streaked wrist. Gallagher whispered, “I’ll protect you.” He bowed his head and walked away.
Father Murphy slumped down on the top step of the raised platform. The Cardinal came down from the throne and sat beside him. Neither man spoke.
Megan came out of the stairwell carrying her brother in her arms. She stood in the center of the sanctuary looking around blankly. A blood trail led from the stairwell to where she stood, and the trail became a small pool at her feet. Hickey took Pedar from his sister’s arms and carried the limp body down to the chancel organ. He propped Pedar Fitzgerald against the organ console and covered him with his old overcoat.
Gallagher unslung his rifle and went down to the crypt landing. He shouted to the police who were cautiously examining the gate. “Get back! Go on!” They disappeared to the sides of the sacristy.
Megan remained standing in the pool of blood, staring at it. The only sounds in the Cathedral were the pealing bells and the persistently ringing telephone.
Brian Flynn watched from the choir loft as he tolled the bell. Leary glanced at Flynn curiously. Flynn turned away and concentrated on the keyboard, completing the last bar of “Danny Boy,” then began “The Dying Rebel.” He spoke into the microphone. “Mr. Sullivan, the pipes, please. Ladies and gentlemen, a song.” He began singing. Hesitantly, other voices joined him, and Sullivan’s pipes began skirling. “The night was dark and the battle ended.The moon shone down O’Connell Street.I stood alone where brave men parted,Never more again to speak.”
John Hickey picked up the ringing telephone.
Schroeder’s voice came over the line, very nearly out of control. “What happened? What
Hickey growled, “Shut up, Schroeder! The hostages are not dead. Your men saw it all. The hostages are cuffed now, and there’ll be no more escape attempts. End of conversation.”
“Wait! Listen, are they injured? Can I send a doctor?”
“They’re in reasonably good shape. If you’re interested, though, one of my lads has been hurt. Sir Harold Baxter, knight of the realm, bashed his throat in with a rifle. Not at all sporting.”
“God … listen, I’ll send a doctor—”
“We’ll let you know if we want one.” He looked down at Fitzgerald. His throat was grotesquely bloated now. “I need ice. Send it through the gates. And a tracheal tube.”
“Please … let me send—”
“No!” Hickey rubbed his eyes and slumped forward. He felt very tired and wished it would all end sooner than he had hoped.
“Mr. Hickey …”
“Oh, shut up, Schroeder. Just shut up.”
“May I speak to the hostages? Mr. Flynn said I could speak to them after the press—”
“They’ve lost the right to speak with anyone, including each other.”
“How badly are they hurt?”
Hickey looked at the four battered people on the sanctuary. “They’re damned lucky to be alive.”
Schroeder said, “Don’t lose what you’ve gained. Mr. Hickey, let me tell you, there are a lot of people on your side now. Your speech was … magnificent, grand. What you said about your suffering, the suffering of the Irish —”
Hickey laughed wearily. “Yes, a traditional Irish view of history, which is at times in conflict with the facts but never inhibited by them.” He smiled and yawned. “But everyone bought it, did they? TV is marvelous.”
“Yes, sir, and the bells—did you see the television?”
“What happened to those song requests?”
“Oh, I’ve got some here—”
“Shove them.”
After a short silence Schroeder said, “Well, anyway, it was really incredible, you know—I’ve never seen anything like that in this city. Don’t lose that, don’t—”
“It’s already lost. Good-bye, Schroeder.”
“Wait! Hold it! One last thing. Mr. Flynn said you’d turn off the radio jammer— ”
“Don’t blame your radio problems on us. Buy better equipment.”
“I’m just afraid that without radio control the police might overreact to some perceived danger—”
“So what?”
“That almost happened. So, I was wondering when you were going to shut it off—”
“It will probably shut off when the Cathedral explodes.” He laughed.
“Come on now, Mr. Hickey … you sound tired. Why don’t you all try to get some sleep? I’ll guarantee you an hour—two hours’ truce—and send some food, and— ”
“Or more likely it’ll be consumed by the flames from the attic. Forty long years in the building—Poof—it’ll be gone in less than two hours.”
“Sir… I’m offering you a truce—” Schroeder took another breath, then spoke in a cryptic tone. “A police inspector gave you a … a status report, I believe….”
“Who? Oh, the tall fellow with the expensive suit. Watch that man, he’s taking graft.”
“Are you considering what he said to you?”
“As the Ulster Protestants are fond of saying, ‘Not an inch!’ Or would they now say centimeter? Inch. Yes, inch—”
“It’s a fair solution to—”
“Unacceptable, Schroeder! Don’t bother me with it again.”
Schroeder said abruptly, “May I speak with Mr. Flynn?”
Hickey looked up at the loft. There was a telephone extension on the organ, but Flynn had not used it. Hickey said, “He’s come to a difficult passage in the bells. Can’t you hear it? Have a little consideration.”
“We haven’t heard from him in a long time. We expected him at the press conference. Is he … all right?”
Hickey found his pipe and lit it. “He’s as well as any young man can be who is contemplating his imminent death, the sorrow of a lost love, the tragedy of a lost country, and a lost cause.”
“
“Schroeder, you understand Irish fatalism, don’t you? When they start playing melancholy songs and weeping in their beers, it means they’re on the verge of something reckless. And listening to your whimpering voice will not improve Brian Flynn’s mood.”
“No, listen, you’re close—it’s not lost—”
“Lost! Listen to the bells, Schroeder, and between their peals you’ll hear the wail of the banshee in the hills, warning us all of approaching death.” He hung up.
Megan was staring down at him from the sanctuary.
Hickey glanced at Pedar Fitzgerald. “He’s dying, Megan.”
She nodded hesitantly, and he looked at her. She seemed frightened suddenly, almost childlike. He said, “I can give him over to the police and he may live, but …”
She understood clearly that there would be no victory, no amnesty for them, or for the people in Northern Ireland, and that soon she and everyone in the Cathedral would be dead. She looked at her brother’s blue-white face. “I want him here with me.”
Hickey nodded. “Yes, that’s the right thing, Megan.”
Father Murphy shifted around on the throne platform. “He should be taken to a hospital.”
Neither Megan nor Hickey answered.
Father Murphy went on, “Let me administer the sacrament—”
Hickey cut him off. “You’ve got a damned ritual for everything, don’t you?”
“To save his soul from damnation—”
