Death at Christy Burke's (13 page)

That was good news, even if it had issued from the mouth of a nasty piece of work like McCrum. Brennan would have to stop in at the Joy, see when Finn expected to get out.

“Well, I have to be off,” McCrum declared. “Take care of yourself, Frank. Pleased to meet you, Monsignor. Brennan.”

Brennan and Michael nodded at the man, who put his glass down and left the pub.

Michael turned to Frank and asked, “Is he a regular patron here?”

“No, no, he makes the rounds. Stops in here once in a while, then moves on to the next place.”

“I didn’t appreciate the tone or the content of his conversation!”

“Motor Mouth McCrum, they call him. Pay him no mind. Nobody does.”

The company was more pleasant after that, and Brennan was kept on the hop, so to speak, as the pub filled up in the late afternoon. And here came the curly top who had gone away disappointed from his first session at the bar.

“What can I do for you today, my dear?”

She gave him a mournful look and said, “Not much, as we established here the other day. So just give me something to drown my sorrows, Father. Blot out the pain.”

He laughed. “What would work for you, do you think?”

“A John Jameson and make it a double.”

“Ah. Certainly. My own drug of choice, as it happens.”

“Star-crossed in every way,” she lamented, and took her glass to a table near the window.

Next up were several members of a local hurling team and, just when he had taken care of them, he heard a familiar voice.

“Lord t’underin’ Jesus, b’y! Would you look at that!”

Brennan’s head jerked up at the sound of the over-the-top Cape Breton accent. The MacNeil. Monty’s perennially estranged wife, Maura MacNeil. Brennan had known she was coming to Dublin, but hadn’t expected to see her so soon. He started to formulate a greeting but, as always, she got ahead of him.

“Brennan, I’ve seen you in a bar, at a bar, crawling towards a bar, clinging to a bar, slumped over a bar, too many times to count. So why should I be surprised to see you behind a bar? Now you’ve got the perfect opportunity to get your face under the taps and suck the place dry. Well done.”

“Now there’s a skinful of abuse!” the curly top exclaimed. “Sounds as if she crossed the ocean just to denounce you in a public place.”

“You have no idea,” Brennan replied.

Then he heard the voice of a child.“There he is, Mum! What’s he doing? Selling
booze
?”

It was Monty and Maura’s little girl, Normie. Every head in the pub swivelled to the child and then to the bar. But Brennan didn’t have time to respond to their curious stares because Normie launched herself towards him. He went out to meet her, picked her up, and twirled her around.

“Normie! Bless you. It’s wonderful to see you in Dublin. I’m so glad you’re here.” He put her down and ruffled her auburn curls.

Then she went to the door and took custody of a baby stroller; she pushed it towards the bar. Little Dominic raised a sleepy head and caught sight of Brennan. The baby’s eyes widened and he emitted a peal of joyous laughter and stretched his arms out to Brennan to be picked up. Brennan scooped him out of the stroller, held him aloft and wiggled him in the air. The baby giggled and grabbed two fists full of Brennan’s hair.

Everyone in the bar enjoyed the scene, and one of the Five Sorrowful Mysteries exclaimed, “Isn’t he a dote! Look at all the dark hair, and those black eyes. He’s the spit out of his father’s mouth! And the little coppernob. Would anyone believe I used to have red hair just like that? She’s an angel.”

Maura MacNeil spoke up again. “I’d ask what you’ve been up to, Brennan. But at least I can see you’ve found employment.”

It was all too much for the Jameson-loving woman with the curly hair. “Your man’s been behaving himself, I can attest to that,” she said to MacNeil. “You wouldn’t believe the line he gave me when I engaged in a bit of harmless flirtation with him. He was having none of it. Sent me packing. You’d have been proud of him.” She turned to Brennan. “Lovely children.”

She picked up her Jameson, downed it, waved in the direction of the bar, and headed for the door.

Shite!
Brennan called after her, “No, wait, you’ve got it all wrong. Really . . .”

But she was gone.

Maura MacNeil raised her eyebrows and regarded Brennan with amusement.

Michael O’Flaherty looked as if his head was spinning. Brennan saw him direct an uncertain smile at MacNeil. “Hello, Mrs. MacNeil! Welcome to Dublin. Brennan is standing in as his uncle’s curate, you might say. Doesn’t he look as if he was born to the job?”

“He missed his true calling, Monsignor. But I guess we all knew that.”

“My true calling has never looked so good, celibacy and all,” Brennan retorted. “Imagine having someone like you tormenting me from morning till night. At least I’ve been spared that,
Deo gratias
.”

She said to him, “So do your job. Pour me a drink. I’ll sit quietly with it and promise not to torment you until I need another. How’s that?”

“Best result I can hope for, I suppose. What can I get you?”

“Harp?”

“Pint?”

“Half. I have the children to think of.”

“Me too!” Normie piped up. “Can I have a glass of beer?”

Affectionate laughter greeted the child’s words.

“How about ginger beer?”

“Is it good? Do you drink it?”

Laughter again.

“Em, well, I’ll have a glass of it now, with you.”

“Great!” She turned to her father, who had just come in the door. “Daddy! I’m going to have ginger beer!”

“Good idea, sweetheart.”

He leaned down and kissed his daughter on the top of her head, and she grinned up at him.

Brennan looked at them and felt the same exasperation he always felt when he contemplated the Collins-MacNeil family and their troubles. He didn’t have to look at Maura MacNeil again; he was well familiar with her fine qualities. Was Monty daft? What more could a man want? What was it going to take for him to get off his arse and return to the fold? Gentle priestly counselling hadn’t been effective. Giving out to Monty and calling him a bonehead hadn’t brought results either. What would Brennan have to do to smarten the man up? Take him by the throat and roar into his face? Brennan had to concede that reconciliation had become a little more difficult when MacNeil learned she was pregnant with Dominic, and Monty not the father . . . But still. Life is short. Work it out, and get on with it.

In the meantime, Brennan poured the little one her ginger beer. He poured one for himself and for Monty, and a Harp for the MacNeil. He raised his glass to them all.
“Sláinte!”

Michael

“Not often I can say this, lads, but I’ve been invited to Belfast.” Brennan made the announcement to Michael and Monty when the three of them met at Monty’s hotel before heading out for the evening on Monday.

“You don’t say! What for?” Michael asked.

“They’re putting on a concert for peace. It’s being organized by a committee made up of Protestants and Catholics, moderate Loyalists and Nationalists, and those in between and all around. The music will be a mix: everything from traditional Irish to rock to opera and classical. The performers will be donating their time to the cause of sanity in the North of Ireland. Leo Killeen is involved. He gave me a call and rather grudgingly asked if I’d like to take part.”

“Why grudgingly?” asked Monty. “Doesn’t he like the sound of your voice? Is he afraid you won’t waive your usual exorbitant performance fee?”

“Those could be factors, but I don’t think so. He himself has little choice about attending, but I got the impression he’s reluctant to drag the rest of us into it.”

“Why? Is he worried?” Michael asked.

“He didn’t say as much, Mike. He’s just back from there, and wanted to pass the word along.”

“Back from where, Belfast? What was he doing there?”

“Didn’t talk about it, except for the concert.”

“What will you be singing?” Monty asked.

“I’ll be doing ‘Comfort Ye, My People’ from the
Messiah
. They’ll pair me up with a Protestant cleric, who’ll be doing another number right before me.”

“Well, now,” Michael said, “that’s quite an honour. I look forward to hearing you. When do we go?”

“I told Leo nothing short of the
real
Messiah returning to earth would keep you from attending, so the plan is we’ll head up there the day of the concert, Sunday the twenty-sixth, spend the night, and come back the next day.”

“Leo’s got me pegged already!”

“You’re an open book, Michael.”

“True enough. So . . . this is the twentieth. It’s only six days away. Should we be making reservations for a place to stay? It’s high season, after all.”

“It’s Belfast, Mike. And Leo is going to line up accommodations for us.”

“Lovely. What else can we look forward to by way of music?”

“We can look forward to — and this will explain why I so readily agreed to attend — Leontyne Price as the headline performer. I’ve only seen her once before, in New York, and I am very, very keen on seeing her again. She’ll be brilliant.”

“Great,” said Monty. “Count me in. As a member of the audience. Something tells me this wouldn’t be the right gig for a lot of ‘ain’t got no hope’ blues numbers.”

“Em, no. That would be sending the wrong message, as they say.”

“There
is
hope,” Michael insisted, “and this concert will prove it! Or, at least, events like this will demonstrate that people on all sides, ordinary people trying to get on with their lives, want peace, want the various factions to back off and let the wounds begin to heal. Wouldn’t it be grand if whoever captured the American minister made the first gesture of goodwill by releasing the man, and issuing an apology to all concerned.”

Michael saw Brennan and Monty exchange a look. Michael could read it all too well:
Wouldn’t it be grand if there was more than a snowball’s chance in the fiery furnace of hell that the preacher will be released, and peace will reign.
Well, hope was one of the three theological virtues, along with faith and charity. Michael would continue to hope for the best, no matter how hopeless the situation might appear to others.

But for now, another night on the town. This summer’s vacation was turning into a social whirl for Michael O’Flaherty. He and his friends would be attending a dance that night. Not a disco by any means, but a dance at the clubhouse of St. Peter’s church in Phibsborough. Maura MacNeil would be coming with them. She and her two little children were staying at the convent with Kitty Curran. But for this evening Kitty had arranged to have someone, a niece of one of the sisters, pick up the MacNeil kids and take them to her home to play with her own youngsters, so Maura could attend the dance.

There was trouble between Monty and his wife, Michael knew. They had separated some years back. She had become involved with another man after that, and Michael had little doubt that Monty too had enjoyed some attention from the opposite sex. It was Michael’s understanding that Monty and Maura had been close to a reconciliation when, at the age of forty-two, she discovered to her consternation that she was carrying a child from the other relationship. The baby was born last summer. That had put the kibosh on the reconciliation, at least so far. None of that was the fault of the little lad himself, of course. Dominic. An angel down from heaven, no matter the circumstances of his birth. Monty and Maura had two older children, Tommy Douglas, who was in his late teens, and Normie, who had just completed grade four at the St. Bernadette’s Choir School in Halifax. If their parish priest, Father Burke, had his way, Monty and Maura would put their problems behind them and move back in together and carry on from there. But that wasn’t likely to happen on this trip; Monty had his hotel room, and Maura and the children were staying with Kitty Curran at the convent. Well, Michael would keep them all in his prayers.

In the meantime he was looking forward to the dance. The event was to raise money for the church’s service to the poor. Brennan said his uncle Finn supported this charity with regular donations. However ill-gotten his gains might be, Finn must have been using at least some of his money to redistribute wealth in his corner of Ireland. So Michael and his friends could do a good turn at St. Peter’s and have a bit of fun while they were at it. They would have a couple of drinks at Christy’s first, then head over to the clubhouse at St. Peter’s.

The gentlemen set out on foot for the convent to meet their “dates.” The place was just off Parnell Square, not far from Christy Burke’s. In these more liberal times, they had no trouble getting admitted to Sister’s room, where they were greeted by Maura MacNeil. Maura was not as thin as a fashion model by any means but nobody should be, in Michael’s opinion. Michael wouldn’t have called her overweight either, just comfortable. Her hair was to her shoulders, soft brown with a few silvery threads. Her eyes were grey and had a bit of an almond shape to them. A sweet face, though he knew her speech could be a little pointed at times!

Michael asked her about her plans, and she said she was finishing up her maternity leave and would be returning to her job as a professor at Dalhousie Law School in September. So this was the perfect summer for a leisurely trip to Ireland. She would be in Dublin for three and a half weeks. Normie was having the time of her life so far. The older boy, Tommy, was home in Halifax, spending a lot of time on the road with his band. Dads In Suits, Michael thought they were called.

Maura asked what had been happening, so they filled her in on the misadventures of Finn Burke and his pub.

“Very well then, let us get on with things. Kitty and I were preening ourselves for the evening ahead. Where were we, Kitty?”

“How do you like it?” Kitty twirled around to show off a flowery skirt and pinky-coloured blouse. “It’s not often I shop for new clothes but it’s so warm, I just had to get something lighter. Shouldn’t have left my summer wardrobe in Rome, but who knew oul Dublin would be so steamy?”

“Tell me about it. It’s hotter than Scotch love over here,” Maura commiserated. “Now let me see this, Kitty. You look
fahbulous
,
dahling! And I have just the thing to complete the outfit.”

She picked up her handbag from Kitty’s desk and rummaged inside it. “Here we go. I got these in Grafton Street. They’re clip-ons. I bought them for Normie, but they are
you
!”

She clipped an earring on each of Kitty’s ears, and everyone laughed, because they were indeed kitties, little silver kittens stretching their paws up for balls of wool that were the clip-on part of the earring. They were sweet; Michael hoped she’d get to keep them. Perhaps Maura would find another pair for her little girl. Maura stepped back and regarded Kitty again.

“You’re all buttoned up here. Let’s loosen you up a bit. Unbutton this one and expose yourself to the four winds! You’re with friends here.” Well, Kitty did look a little stiff with only her top button undone. Another one open would not offend modesty.

Maura reached over and playfully undid the second button on Kitty’s blouse. Kitty’s hand shot up to her chest, and she fumbled with the button.

But not before Maura saw what was there. Michael saw it too. He recognized the marks for what they were: burn scars that must have been made by the tip of a cigarette.

Michael felt faint. He’d heard Kitty had endured some tough times during her foreign postings, but he’d had no idea it was this serious. He didn’t know what to do or say.

Maura looked appalled. “Kitty! I’m so sorry. I . . .” She put her hand on Kitty’s arm and was obviously struggling for words.

“Oh, no worries,” Kitty said, but not in the voice Michael was used to hearing. He stared at her, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes. As if she were ashamed! What is wrong with this world, when someone who has been the innocent victim of brutality is made to feel shame and humiliation on top of everything else? Whoever had done this to Kitty should be on his knees in shame and repentance from now to eternity.

Fighting tears, Maura turned to Monty and gave him a look Michael couldn’t read. But Monty could. He said, “Gentlemen, why don’t we go downstairs and wait until the ladies are ready to join us.”

“Yes, certainly. Good idea, that’s what we’ll do,” Michael babbled, then wanted to bang his head on the doorpost for being so gauche.

The men left the room. Brennan closed the door quietly behind them. They went downstairs and out of the building, then stood awkwardly on the grounds of the large stone convent. Brennan lit up a smoke.

They stayed silent for a few long minutes. Then Monty spoke up. “What happened, Brennan?”

No reply. Brennan smoked and stared into the distance.

Michael asked, “Was it something in Africa? I know she’s done a few stints in the missions there.”

“Well,” Brennan answered with obvious reluctance, “it’s true she had some rough postings in Africa, but for this injury we have to turn to the death squads in El Salvador. They hurt her very badly. She was raped and abused. Several nuns were. Some were murdered. As you probably know from the news stories a few years ago.”

“Oh, God help her and save her. Did she tell you this, Brennan?”

“No. I was visiting in Rome at the time, and I saw her when they brought her back. The sight of her, the look in her eyes, it will haunt me till I draw my last breath. She knows I know, but she doesn’t talk about it.”

Michael wished he were alone so he wouldn’t have to put on a brave face in front of the other guys. How could any human being be that vicious and depraved? A sister of the church, serving in a foreign country, trying to help its people. Well, that was the problem, wasn’t it? Helping the poor and disenfranchised didn’t sit well with those in power. Michael couldn’t help but wish Kitty had confided in him. As a friend. But he was a man. He hoped she didn’t think men were all the same, brutish and out of control. No, of course she didn’t. But it was perfectly understandable that if she were going to confide in anyone, it would be a woman.

They fell silent again. Fifteen minutes or so later, the women emerged. Maura signalled with her hand that the men should go ahead, so the three males made off for Christy’s pub. They went inside, found a table, and ordered drinks for all. Not long after they were settled, the women came in, Kitty’s eyes dry and clear, Maura’s red from weeping. Michael wanted to say something but he couldn’t think of anything appropriate so he sat there like a dummy.

Kitty smoothed things over. “All right, that was a long time ago. Let’s not sit here with long faces on us.”

Nobody knew what to say. Kitty continued, “And I’ve had my therapy. With, may I add, a very handsome Roman psychiatrist. Dr. Sandro Sabatini!”

“I know Sandro,” Brennan said. “I can see where a woman’s gaze might alight upon him and rest there a while.”

“Of course he looks like a turnip compared to the fine specimens of manhood gathered around this table,” Kitty declared loyally.

“Well, you don’t need him here. You’re on safe ground in holy Ireland,” Brennan replied. “But let’s not leave the subject of your foreign travels entirely. Tell them the one about Africa, the priest, the bishop, and the great fecking bug.”

Michael noticed that one of the regulars seemed quite attentive to their conversation. Tim Shanahan. Michael could not escape the notion that Shanahan was a priest; he had a priestly air about him. If he was, this tale should be of interest to him. Maybe they should invite him to join them. Michael was about to raise a welcoming hand when Shanahan caught Michael’s eye, reddened, and turned away.

Kitty embarked on her story. “You’d have to know Charlie Kehoe and Vincent Walsh to really appreciate this. Charlie and Vince were two priests serving with me a few years ago in a small village in Tanzania. They were devoted men of the church but they were also practical jokers, each with the other as his primary target. The latest development up to this point was Charlie’s coup at the football stadium. Vince Walsh is an Irishman who grew up in London. He was, and is, a devoted supporter of the Arsenal football club and not at all enamoured of rival clubs, particularly Manchester United. Well, somehow Arsenal and Manchester United arranged to take part in a goodwill tour to sub-Saharan Africa, exhibition games, what we call friendlies. Leaving out apartheid South Africa, needless to say. Charlie Kehoe got wind of the fact that some of the players would be making an appearance at a village near ours, where there was a rudimentary football stadium in the works. Charlie told Vince it was Manchester United coming, and he just happened to have a Manchester jersey on hand. Would Vince like to wear it as a friendly gesture towards the visiting team? The last thing Vince wanted to do was don a Manchester United shirt, but, what the hell, he was nowhere near England, and none of his fellow Arsenal fans would catch him out, so why not welcome the Manchester fellows decked out in some of their gear? The two priests gathered a bunch of young people from the village and drove to the stadium.