“Now then, darlin”, what about a little kiss?” he demanded.
She pulled away from him in a panic, hands reaching out blindly and cannoned into the trestle table, knocking it over, soup spilling out across the floor, plates clattering.
As Father da Costa fought to get towards her, O’Hara laughed out loud. “Now look what you’ve done.”
A soft, quiet voice called from the doorway, cutting through the noise.
“Mickeen O’Hara. Is it you I see?”
The room went quiet. Everyone waited. O’Hara turned, an expression of disbelief on his face that seemed to say this couldn’t be happening. The expression was quickly replaced by one that was a mixture of awe and fear.
“God in heaven,” he whispered. “Is that you, Martin?”
Fallon went towards him, hands in pockets and everyone waited. He said softly, “Tell them to clean the place up, Mick, like a good boy, then wait for me outside.”
O’Hara did as he was told without hesitation and moved towards the door. The other men started to right the tables and benches, one of them got a bucket and mop and started on the floor.
Father da Costa had moved to comfort Anna and Fallon joined them. “I’m sorry about that, Father,” he said. “It won’t happen again.”
“Meehan?” Father da Costa asked.
Fallon nodded. “Were you expecting something like this?”
“He came to see me earlier this evening. You might say we didn’t get on too well.” He hesitated. “The big Irishman. He knew you.”
“Little friend of all the world, that’s me.” Fallon smiled. “Good night to you,” he said and turned to the door.
Father da Costa reached him as he opened it and put a hand on his arm. “We must talk, Fallon. You owe me that.”
“All right,” Fallon said. “When?”
Til be busy in the morning, but I don’t have a lunchtime confession tomorrow. Will one o’clock suit you? At the presbytery.”
Til be there.”
Fallon went out, dosing the door behind him and crossed the street to where O’Hara waited nervously under the lamp. As Fallon approached he turned to face him.
“Before God, if I’d known you were mixed up in this, Martin I wouldn’t have come within a mile of it. I thought you were dead by now – we all did.”
“All right,” Fallon said. “How much was Meehan paying you?”
“Twenty-five quid. Fifty if the priest got a broken arm.”
“How much in advance?”
“Not a sou.”
Fallon opened his wallet, took out two ten-pound notes and handed them to him. “Traveling money – for old times” sake. I don’t think it’s going to be too healthy for you round here. Not when Jack Meehan finds out you’ve let him down.”
“God bless you, Martin, I’ll be out of it this very night.” He started to turn away, then hesitated. “Does it bother you any more, Martin, what happened back there?”
“Every minute of every hour of every day of my life,” Fallon said with deep conviction and he turned and walked away up the side street.
From the shelter of the porch, Father da Costa saw O’Hara cross the main road. He made for the pub on the corner, going in at the saloon bar entrance and Father da Costa went after him.
It was quiet in the saloon bar which was why O’Hara had chosen it. He was still badly shaken and ordered a large whisky which he swallowed at once. As he asked for another, the door opened and Father da Costa entered.
O’Hara tried to brazen it out. “So there you are, Father,” he said. “Will you have a drink with me?”
“I’d sooner drink with the Devil.” Father da Costa dragged him across to a nearby booth and sat opposite him. “Where did you know Fallon?” he demanded. “Before tonight, I mean?”
O’Hara stared at him in blank astonishment, glass half-raised to his lips. “Fallon?” he said. “I don’t know anyone called Fallon.”
“Martin Fallon, you fool,” Father da Costa, said impatiently. “Haven’t I just seen you talking together outside the church?”
“Oh, you mean Martin,” O’Hara said. “Fallon – is that what he’s calling himself now?”
“What can you tell me about him?”