Death at Christy Burke's (19 page)

Shanahan cleared his throat. “Yes. I awoke to find her in my bed. She certainly hadn’t been there when I went to sleep! She had left the school a year or so before this. One day, the class filed in and Sabine wasn’t there. I never heard from her or her family; I went to their home a couple of times to inquire but nobody answered my knock. Anyway, on this occasion, I woke up to find her, unclothed, in my bed with . . . her hands on me.”

Michael steeled himself not to react.

“It was at that point, the other day, that you decided you’d heard enough. I have to warn you. It gets a lot worse, though not in the way you’re expecting.”

Michael sat silently and waited for things to get worse.

“I reached for my clothes, held them against myself and went outside the room to dress. I returned to the bedroom and grabbed my bedsheet, wrapped it around her from behind, picked her up and placed her on the chair in my room. She looked up at me as if nothing untoward had happened. ‘Victor told me you’d like it,’ she said to me.

“‘Victor is wrong, Sabine. This is wrong. You know that. Go out there and put your clothes on. I’m taking you home.’ The sooner I got her out of there, the more likely Victor would realize nothing had happened.”

“Who was Victor?”

“Her brother.”

“Oh!”

“I took her home, all the way trying to persuade her that this kind of behaviour was wrong, it went against everything she’d been taught, she was better than this, it would ruin her life, on and on. I knocked at her family’s door. No response. But they were in there, I could tell. Finally, I opened the door and gave her a gentle shove into the place, then left.

“I learned soon afterwards, however, that it wasn’t her home anymore. She had a new place of residence. But her family would have delivered her there, I knew. Her brother, you see, with the connivance of their mother, had sold her —
sold her!
— to a child trafficker. To be his whore and his slave, whatever he wanted her to be. He owned her; he could sell her if he chose to. He pimped her out and took the profits. A thirteen-year-old girl. Naturally, they had taken her out of the school. That was the end of higher education for Sabine. She still saw her mother and brother. No problem for them. Well, they had gained great riches from the sale of her. They got a television, and the mother got a cordless phone. Which didn’t work, of course, but she had it on display. The brother got a brand-name sweatshirt and a pair of track shoes. The pimp tarted Sabine up in trashy western clothing, hung jewellery on her, and made her the envy of some of the other girls at the school. So we had a devil of a time trying to keep the other girls in school and out of danger.

“The whole episode — that man buying the girl — tipped the balance of power in the area. This thug, who owned Sabine, was in ascendance. He was making a name for himself in child-trafficking circles in the region, and was making enemies along the way. One of those enemies was a powerful figure in our community who had acted as a protector of our parish; we could not have functioned without the goodwill of this individual. Now he — our man — was forced into a defensive position. Violence erupted sporadically and looked as if it would get worse. I was so disillusioned by it all, by a mother selling her child for a couple of shoddy western consumer items, and by the lack of appropriate reaction in so many members of the parish, I fell into a depression, took to drinking — something I had a weakness for but had always controlled until then — and I walked out on them. Just left them. Feck ’em, was my attitude.

“I think I told you I broke my leg while building the church. The fracture took a long time to heal, and I developed a bone infection. It got so bad I started taking a morphine derivative for the pain. I obtained the drug from the mission hospital and kept it in a very secure location while I was there, and that’s all I took with me when I left. My supply of drugs. I got on a freighter to Lisbon, started drinking, and went on a months-long bender. I couldn’t get a prescription for my medication but it was no problem getting heroin on the street. That was the beginning of my addiction to smack. Eddie Madigan keeps me supplied. At my request. Otherwise, he doesn’t deal heroin. At all. I’m desperate to get off it. I’ve tried methadone, but I’m a backslider. I hope to try it again.”

“Tim, I am truly sorry. About Sabine, about your mission there, and about your addiction. I apologize again for the way I treated you the other day.”

“Michael, don’t even think about that again. Little wonder you stopped up your ears when I began that sorry tale. I can’t bear to hear myself repeat it. You were so kind to me when you found me in my flat, lying there in my own filth.” Tim’s voice broke, and he looked away. Then he got up from his chair, stood in front of Michael, and put his hand out for Michael to stand. Tim put his arms out and embraced him. “Thank you, Michael.”

When they were seated again, Michael said, “How can I help you, Tim? I mean help you take up your vocation again.”

“Oh, they’re not on fire with the Holy Spirit over at headquarters when it comes to reinstating Father Shanahan as a parish priest. Drinking priests are one thing; heroin users are quite another. And if I ever succeeded in getting off that, there’s still the Africa shambles on my record.”

“But surely they understand that wasn’t your fault.”

“It’s not that simple to them.”

Michael had the impression that there was more, that Tim was being evasive, but he was not about to interrogate the man after all he’d been through. He did, however, offer a suggestion. “I’m wondering, Tim, if being a priest, celebrating the Eucharist and performing the sacraments, would build up strength in you. The grace of our Lord working in you to help fight your demons, so to speak.”

“It’s a lovely thought, Michael.”

“Are there any other complications in your life? Besides those we just discussed?”

Tim smiled. “Aren’t those enough? But if you’re asking whether I’ve hooked myself up with a woman, the answer is no. The temptations have been there, but no.”

Because he still saw himself as a priest, now and perhaps more fully again in the future.

Michael got up. “I’ll leave you now, Tim, but I’ll see you again soon. On familiar ground! Was that by any chance your sister and niece in Christy’s yesterday? A family resemblance, I thought.”

Tim’s face lit up. “Yes! My sister Meg and little Susie. She’s a dote, isn’t she?”

“I’m sure she is. All I saw was a tiny fist outside the blanket.”

“I’ll introduce you next time she’s in.”

“Wonderful. All right, then, Tim. See you soon.”

“Pray for me, Michael.”

“You don’t even have to ask.”

Michael would indeed pray for Father Tim Shanahan. But he would do more than pray. That same afternoon, he was on the bus to Drumcondra to see the Most Reverend Thomas O’Halloran. When he spotted his destination, he got off the bus and headed for the brick palace, as it was known: the home of the Archbishop of Dublin. He had called ahead and introduced himself to the receptionist on the phone as a visiting priest, and had secured an appointment for two-thirty. He walked under the rounded arch of the entrance with five minutes to spare and gabbed with the receptionist, Florrie, until it was time to be shown into the bishop’s office.

Thomas O’Halloran was a giant of a man, nearly a head taller than Michael and maybe seventy pounds heavier. His face was beefy but handsome under his thick grey hair. The bishop was dressed in a black clerical suit, light grey shirt, and Roman collar, with a pectoral cross on a silver chain. He waved off Michael’s approach to his ringed hand and bade him sit in a comfy chair by the window. Michael gave a little spiel about his frequent visits to Ireland, and they shared a laugh over the things tourists wanted to see and local people never did.

“I’m going to Belfast on Sunday,” Michael said. “Not as many silly tourists up there. You may have heard about the concert they’re putting on, for peace.”

“Ah, yes. You’ll want to watch yourself while you’re in Belfast, Monsignor. We’re all on edge over the disappearance of the American minister.”

“I know. I’ve been very concerned. If this follows the usual course, Catholics will be targeted in response.”

“That may be happening already.”

“Yes, I’ve seen the news coverage. The riots, the violence —”

“I’m referring to something a little more specific than that.”

“Oh, no! What’s happened?”

“There may have been another disappearance. We’re not sure. We’re trying to find out, but it’s difficult.”

“Another disappearance? A Catholic, you mean? Kidnapped as a swap for Mr. Odom?”

“We don’t even know that. There is a person who has not been heard from since around the time the American vanished. But it’s not at all clear. The situation is ‘fluid,’ as they say. If it’s true, it could be just the beginning of reprisals and counter-reprisals — Catholics, Protestants, people at risk on both sides. It’s unbearable to think about.”

“Who is it, the person who is missing?”

“Oh, I can’t tell you that, Monsignor.”

“Of course not, Your Grace. I apologize. People tell me I’m too nosy for my own good, and they’re right.”

“No apology necessary, Michael. I understand your concern. It’s just that none of this is public and the . . . the family wants it kept that way. These things spiral out of control once they turn into a media circus.”

“They certainly do.”

“Please keep this confidential, Michael. I shouldn’t even have mentioned it, but it’s in the forefront of my mind.”

“I won’t say a word, I promise you.”

The archbishop returned to small talk for a few minutes, and then it was time to bring the conversation around to the real purpose of the visit.

“I’ve met an interesting man this time out, Your Grace. Tim Shanahan.”

“Ah.”

“I understand he’s a daily communicant at St. Saviour’s.”

The bishop nodded, then sat silently, waiting for whatever was to come.

“He strikes me as a good man in spite of his difficulties. And I believe he is still utterly committed to his vocation.”

“So you’re here to plead his case, are you?”

“I confess that I am, Your Grace.”

“The situation with Shanahan is complicated. You mentioned his difficulties, by which I take it you mean his addictions.”

“Yes, I’m aware of his dependence on drugs.”

“Where did you meet him, Michael? At Mass? Or . . .”

“Em, well, we actually became acquainted at an establishment owned by the family of . . .”

“You met him at Christy Burke’s.”

“Correct.”

“That doesn’t do him a lot of good in terms of appearances, as I’m sure you can appreciate, Michael. Christy’s is a popular spot. Many’s the Dublin man and woman who sees Father Shanahan, day after day, at his regular place at the bar.”

“But if he were to resume his position as a parish priest, that would cut way down on his pub hours. The man needs company, and he finds it at his local. Like so many others. I just think being accepted again by the priestly fraternity would help motivate him to work very hard at overcoming his troubles with the drink and the drugs.”

“But that’s not the only problem with Shanahan. There’s the political angle as well.”

“Oh? What would that be now?”

“There was a fiasco in Africa. We had a great deal of fence-mending to do there after he abandoned his mission. Walked out on his congregation just as they were making great strides. Left his church, his school, and disappeared into the drug dens of Lisbon. The Africans were less than happy, and some major diplomatic efforts were called for as a result.”

“Wouldn’t the furor have abated by now, though?”

“Do you mean it’s time they got over it?”

“Well . . .”

“All those deaths? I wouldn’t expect them to get over it any time soon.”

“Deaths?” What was the bishop talking about?

“Ah. I see you haven’t been provided with the full story, Michael. I’ll leave it for Tim Shanahan to enlighten you, if he sees fit. Then perhaps you’ll understand the position I’m in. Otherwise, I hope you’ll have a pleasant and a grace-filled stay in Dublin, and perhaps I’ll see you at the Pro.” St. Mary’s Pro-Cathedral was labelled “Pro” because it was only serving as a
provisional
cathedral for the Catholics of Dublin. They had been turned out of their “real” cathedral, Christ Church, when it was taken over by the Protestants at the time of the Reformation. “Provisional”— for five hundred years!

“Yes, I hope to see you there, Your Grace.”

“Thank you for coming in and introducing yourself, Michael, and be assured I do appreciate your efforts on your friend’s behalf.”

And with that, Michael was back on the street in Drumcondra. Wondering who had died in Africa, and what role Tim Shanahan had played in “all those deaths.”

Brennan

“Tell me about solicitor-client privilege.”

“Well, I see we’re not going to waste any time on small talk today,” Monty said to him.

Burke waited. He and Monty were seated in Bewley’s, having a spot of breakfast on Friday morning and watching the people passing by on Grafton Street below them. Or at least Monty was people-watching; Burke had something else on his mind.