The Brothers' Lot - Kevin Holohan [34]
Con and Lar shrugged at one another and climbed up into the passenger side of the cab. The motor hawked and retched into life and the heavy truck lumbered away, leaving the Brothers staring after them in a cloud of filthy smoke.
Brother Loughlin watched the truck pass out the gate and turn up Greater Little Werburgh Street, North, with smug satisfaction. “I think that puts an end to that.”
“But why were they here at all?” asked Brother Boland. “What depot did they come from? Who sent them?”
“Matter a damn! They’re gone now and that’s all there is to it! There’s no big mystery in it,” snapped Brother Loughlin impatiently. He strode away toward the yard.
“Maybe he’s right,” said Brother Tobin.
“Yes. Just a silly mistake,” concurred Cox.
“No! No! No! They are part of it! Don’t you see? Any outsiders could be part of it! How can we be safe?”
“I think you need a little lie-down, Brother,” said Tobin, and glanced meaningfully at Cox and Mulligan.
“Yes, Brother. It’s been a trying episode. You should take a little rest for yourself,” the latter murmured, trying unsuccessfully to keep the condescension out of his voice.
“Blackguards! They’re all blackguards! Good God! Where did I leave my cash box?” Brother Boland glanced around and then hurried off toward the monastery.
13
After tea, alone in the dark, Brother Boland listened carefully to the oratory. It breathed its silence into his own. It seemed to be waiting. It was ready for his prayers.
He rubbed the beads of his rosary together and opened and closed his lips rapidly. He was not entirely aware of what prayers he was reciting. They were coming more from his fingers and his lips than his mind. His mind was flinging unclear worry and anxiousness in the direction of the Lord in the hope of remedying whatever was lurking in the silence. It was indeed a great gesture of faith in the Creator’s omniscience that Brother Boland expected Him to understand any of the inchoate rattle his mind was putting forth.
Brother Tobin sat on the edge of his cot and regarded Saint Dearbhla while he tried to move a stubborn piece of the word “breast” from between his teeth. On his knees lay Where the Trade Winds Call Love. He had already given himself heartburn by eating the buxom hussy draped shamelessly across the pirate captain on the cover. He vowed to burn covers in future and concentrate on eating only the words.
He had to get this sliver out of his teeth. That was what she wanted, all those shameful words consumed by the bile of his innards and shat out to the sewers where they belonged. It was at moments like this that Tobin wondered what had ever happened to the letter he’d sent to the Pope detailing his devotions to Saint Dearbhla and requesting permission to start his own Brotherhood, Holy Hoplites of Saint Dearbhla.
“Get away out of that and leave me alone!”
Brother Cox brushed another half-glimpsed imp off his shoulder. He shivered. He was cold, chilled to the marrow. That was it, he thought, ignoring as best he could the creature that seemed to be forming itself out of the shadows. All he needed was a little something to warm himself up. Then he’d be fine. He didn’t necessarily need a drink; he just felt like one.
When the high-pitched squealing started, Brother Cox had no idea what to make of it. Then he started to wonder if it was coming from the thing in the corner. He looked to see that the shadowy homunculus was halfway up the wall, hanging on in an unnatural, sticky, viscous way that put a little catch of disgust at the back of his throat.
He wrenched his cell door open and hurried down the corridor, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the redemptive point of light at the top of the stairs. He would not turn around and make eye contact with whatever was leering off the walls at him. Just down the stairs, out through the monastery, and a hot whiskey or two— and he’d be fine. Then he’d be able to sleep.
“Where the hell were you until