It had taken her several days to work up the nerve to step back into history. She’d even cancelled the trip several times, but she’d finally dared to go. Subconsciously, she’d been expecting tour buses and travel guides, but instead it was quiet, almost as she remembered. She’d been born later, in 1960, but Ferns hadn’t changed much at all in the intervening twenty years.
She parked her car on the edge of the village, carefully locking it with the village children looking on, and wandered into the village. The inhabitants were warm and friendly; finding a room at the local inn had been easy. Some of the children had begged for a ride in her car – a vehicle fifty years out of place – but she’d refused. There would be no petrol in Ireland for a long time yet; in 2015 the Irish had been fanatical about converting to hydrogen-powered cars.
Dear Mary, she thought, as a middle-aged man entered the room. The Innkeeper and he used to be good friends, of course, and she kicked herself for forgetting it. Time seemed to slow down around her as she stared at him; her grandfather as a young man.
He still had the same twinkling smile she remembered; a face that was warm, with a twinkle in his eyes. His beard was brown; the grey she remembered would develop over twenty years. Behind him, a little girl, no more than three at most, toddled behind him; her mother. Her grandparents had only had one daughter.
She was so distracted that she didn’t notice her grandmother coming up. “Is there a problem dear?” She asked. It wasn’t the subdued hostility of a person who’d grown up in a world of unfriendly child molesters, but a genuine warm concern. She’d died of cancer in 1970; ten years after her granddaughter had been born.
“Grandmother,” she whispered, and fainted.
Three hours later, Mary was in the odd position of bouncing her mother on her knee. Her grandparents had been delighted to see her, once they’d seen the photographs and artefacts she’d brought with her. One of them, the George Cross her grandfather had won on the Somme, lay on the table, next to an exact copy. They’d been chilled to see it; the scars on the Cross were exactly the same.
“So I have great-grandchildren now,” her grandmother said. The coloured photographs were a marvel to them – even though they’d tut-tutted at Cassie’s dress – and they’d thumbed through them. “When are they coming to see us?”
“I’m not sure,” Mary admitted. “They should have been on holiday, and then someone had the idea of bringing them back to school so they could learn more about this era.” She smiled. “They made a fuss about that.”
“Well, they’d be welcome,” her grandfather said. He’d gone very quiet when he’d seen the George Cross, even though she’d refused to talk about their future. “Who is Eileen going to marry again?”
“Shamus McManus,” Mary said, and set off a round of chuckles. Her father’s father was in the room; he’d been equally stunned to know his children’s future. She took a breath; the room was full of tobacco smoke. She had tried to warn them about that.
“If you don’t mind, I need to go for a walk,” she said, and hurried out, sinking onto a bench. It was all too overwhelming; she felt as if she were jet-lagged, but time-lagged. This little village wouldn’t change too much, but then…
“Are you alright?” A male voice asked. She looked up to see a young man in a priest’s formal robes. “I’m Father Brennan.”
The shock that ran through her body must have shown on her face, for he instantly grew more concerned. She stared at him; his voice was different, his face was young, but it was unquestionably the same person. He’d been young when he’d come to Ferns, she remembered, and he’d remained there for over sixty years.
“I know you,” she said, and he looked astounded. “I know you, Father.”
“I don’t see how,” he said, and smiled down at her. The smile was the same; warm, comforting, manipulative… and chilling. How had she been fooled the first time? How had her family been fooled? How had everyone been fooled? With the wisdom of sixty years, she looked though the mask and shuddered.
“Father, do you believe in predestination?” She asked. “Do you believe that we always walk the same paths time and time again?”
“The Church believes that God knows the future as easily as he knows the past,” he said carefully. She understood now; he hadn’t wanted to be a priest at all. “If you swear to pray in the future if He gives you something, he will know if you will keep your promise.”
“But if someone was to do something wrong in the future, might God still hold it against them if they died first?”
Father Brennen shrugged, losing interest in the conversation. On one level, she sympathised; he had to argue with older parishioners who understood more than he did. On the other level, had it been this even that had…
“I’m sorry,” she said. “In some ways, it could be said that I’m doing your soul a favour.”
“I beg your pardon,” he said. He didn’t understand. She reached into her bag and pulled out the pistol; Sean had been issued it when young thugs had been attacking police officers. She shot him once, through the head, and dropped the weapon on the ground. She didn’t resist when the police officer arrested her; she even helped him to use her phone to call Dublin. Her Grandparents asked her why, but she refused to answer; they would never have understood.
British Embassy
Dublin, Ireland
25th July 1940
Heekin had been offered the use of the British Embassy for as long as he wanted, along with Ambassador Darter. He wasn’t certain if Hanover had sent him a women who was so idealistic out of a desire to help or hinder him, or if he’d been simply getting rid of someone who had to have been getting on his nerves.
After all, she’d been getting on his nerves.
“Prime Minister,” he said, into the mobile phone, wishing that they had the bandwidth to mount a videoconference system, “Mary McManus has been remanded into our custody, but De Valera wants her to stand trial.”
“I see,” Hanover’s voice said. At least they’d gotten the connection strong enough for a proper conversation; Ireland would be dotted with phone masts soon. The Isle of Man, which hadn’t come through the time warp, had been just as astounded as Ireland, but at least they’d adapted better without the threat of civil war.
“Under the limited information I have, I can hardly make a decision,” Hanover continued, brushing aside Heekin’s thoughts. “The Police hadn’t turned up any reason for her actions; have you been able to interview her?”
“I’m afraid so,” Heekin said. He scowled down at the transmitter. “She was apparently abused by the priest she killed, Father Brennen, in 1970. After seven years of hell, she came to Britain as a seventeen-year-old on a work program, married at twenty-one and moved to Edinburgh. Father Brennen himself apparently died in 1990; we found some records in the Internet archives to confirm that. She saw the tour trips to Ireland and… well, you know the rest.”
Hanover scowled. “The Police did find out how she got the weapon,” he said. “It was issued to her husband during the worst years of 2011, when we had the uprising. He never gave it back and no one caught him; clerical error.”
“Prime Minister, what do we do about it?” Heekin asked. “De Valera wants her to stand trial here, but she’s a British citizen and she did have good cause. He’s also worried about a scandal; there are bound to be plenty of others who would want revenge. Hell, sir, what about Americans such as Nixon, or Willy Horton, or who?”