Death at Christy Burke's (30 page)

Brennan

Finn wasn’t talking, but Brennan knew something was up. And he intended to find out what it was. When he met Leo Killeen last year in New York, Leo had spoken to him freely about episodes in the past. Leo’s past and that of Declan Burke. And he had done so because Brennan was Declan’s son. Never mind that Declan had never unburdened himself of any of that history to Brennan. Leo obviously felt he could confide in the first-born son of his old comrade-in-arms. Brennan intended to trade on that now. It was late, half-eleven. Would Leo still be up? If not, Brennan would catch him tomorrow. Ah, good. When he arrived at the priests’ house in Stoneybatter, Leo’s light was on. Better still, Michael O’Flaherty’s was not. Brennan knocked at the door and hoped Leo would hear it. No response. He tried again. A few seconds later, he heard footsteps coming down the stairs.

Then Leo’s voice on the other side of the door. “Who’s there?”

“Leo, it’s Brennan Burke.”

The door opened a crack, and Killeen peered out. “Are you by yourself?” he asked.

“I am. What’s wrong?” Leo didn’t reply. “Em, may I come in?”

“Right. Of course, of course. Come up.”

Brennan didn’t speak again until they were in Leo’s room with the door closed behind them. “After you left the pub today, two fellows came in. Finn stared them down, and they took off.”

“What did they look like?”

Brennan described them, and Leo seemed to file the information in his mind.

“What’s going on, Leo? You made a hasty exit from here the other night without a word of explanation. All you said to us was ‘pray.’ Next time we see you, you and Finn are in conference behind the bar, and you’re gone again. And two individuals who look like paramilitary types appear in your wake. What the hell is going on?”

Leo looked into Brennan’s eyes but still did not speak. Then something in his expression changed; he seemed to have made a decision. He gestured to Brennan to have a seat, then he walked over to the television set, picked up a videotape, and quietly inserted it into the VCR.

“What is it, Leo?”

“I haven’t seen it yet myself. But I have a fairly good idea. Whatever it turns out to be, when you walk out of here, never, ever let on you saw it. Do we understand each other?”

“Do you even have to ask?”

“All right then.”

Leo picked up the remote control and pressed a button, then perched on the edge of a chair near the machine and stared at it.

The screen was blue, then snowy. Suddenly it showed a man sitting on a straight chair, his arms bound behind his back. Sweat was visible under the arms of his shirt. He appeared to be in his sixties, with a full head of straight hair and large, very white teeth. They looked false. The man was to all appearances an American. He had a beard, and his hair had lost the blow-dried, styled look it had in the official pictures. He looked more gaunt than he had in the news photos, but there was no doubt about his identity: the Reverend Merle Odom, from South Carolina, U.S.A.

The setting was an old basement with a stone foundation; grass and earth could be seen in the cracks between the stones. There was a dirty window high in the wall. What looked like a horse bridle hung on a spike protruding from one of the cracks. The room was brightly illuminated, incongruously, by fluorescent light. There was music being played in the background, an accordion and a snare drum keeping a peppy beat; Brennan made out the words “fight” and “north,” the names “McKelvey” and “O’Neill.”

The captive was not wearing a blindfold. The reason for this became clear a moment later, when a man entered the room from stage left. The man, who looked skinny in his baggy T-shirt, was wearing a black balaclava over his head.

He started in on a conversation that had obviously begun earlier. His voice was that of a fairly young man. “I don’t understand why you say such nasty things about the Holy Father. The Pope.”

Leo looked over at Brennan. “There’s a problem for us, right there.”

Brennan nodded. The young lad’s accent was Dublin, not Northern Ireland. An international incident.

They tuned back in and heard Odom deny he had ever maligned the Holy Father.

“But I saw you up there with the Reverend Ian Paisley,” the Irishman said. “That same Paisley who disrupted the Pope’s talk at a grand meeting somewhere on the continent. The European Parliament, I think it was. I watched it on TV. Pope John Paul was about to speak, and Paisley started shouting and held up a sign saying the Pope was the Antichrist!
Our
man, all in white, cool as a cucumber with a little smile on his face, was just standing there waiting for the ructions to die down. Standing there as wise and as patient as God while
your
man made a horse’s arse of himself.”

“Well, I didn’t hear about that particular incident.” Odom had a strong southern drawl.

“My question is: what have you and Paisley got against the Pope?”

“Well, of course I have nothing personal against the man himself. It’s what he represents, the authority he claims to have.”

“Sure somebody has to have authority. Otherwise who knows what’s right and what’s wrong, what’s true and what’s false? And there’s thousands of churches and they all say different things.”

“
Sola scriptura
, my friend!”

“What?”

“The Bible is our sole authority.”

“But where does it say that in the Bible?”

“Say what, my friend?”

“Say that the Bible is the only authority, like.”

“I think you’re under a misunderstanding, brother.”

“Well, now, I just mean it can’t be the only authority, can it? You say the Catholic Church is wrong and that nobody should follow its teachings, but you’re following them yourself. Because it was the Catholic Church way back in time that got together and sussed out which books belong in the Bible and which books don’t. If you don’t believe that, then you might think some of the books that are in the Bible now aren’t really the word of God. And that some other book is out there, that is the word of God and you’re missing it. So you must think the church was right about that.”

The Doctor of Theology in the dimly lit room in Dublin absorbed the theology lesson, as did the American preacher.

Odom was silent for awhile, then said, “But you don’t believe all the fighting and bombing and killing that’s going on over here is just about religion, do you? Seems to me there’s a lot of politics and history involved that goes beyond people’s choice of how they serve their Lord and Saviour.”

“When Catholics are oppressed and the Protestants fight hammer and tongs to keep the country divided, then I have to say we’re fighting to protect our religion as well as to unite the country under the flag of the Republic! Tea?”

“Pardon me?”

“Would you like tea now?”

“Uh, could I have a cup of coffee?”

“Sure, you can have coffee with your tea.”

“But I don’t want tea. I want coffee.”

“And have it you will. When I come back with your tea.”

The young man got up and left. The butt of a handgun protruded from his pocket. The music could be heard again, something about the “lads” and “Crumlin Jail.” The American, strapped to the chair, stared straight ahead. Leo pressed fast-forward until the young fellow returned to the scene, bearing a tray of sandwiches and biscuits. Odom’s tea. With a steaming mug of coffee.

“Thank you, much obliged!” Odom said.

“You wouldn’t think of tryin’ anything funny when I untie your hands, so you can eat . . .”

“No, I won’t do anything, I swear! I just want to chow down!”

The young fellow bent over the preacher and untied the straps, then retied them around his chest, so he was still imprisoned in the chair. Odom ate as if he hadn’t had a meal in days. Perhaps he hadn’t.

“Thank you. This really hits the spot.”

“You’re welcome. You see, Mr. Odom, we don’t want to cause you any hardship. Not like the hardship being suffered today and every day by a bunch of fellows who shouldn’t be in prison. Fellows who aren’t criminals at all, but are soldiers fighting for their country.

“So here’s the thing. All we’re asking you to do is make a little statement on the tape here, saying you’re being well treated and you’ve got faith you’re going to be released, just as soon as the British occupation forces do the right thing and release a list of political prisoners that we will give you to read.”

The minister looked at him warily. “But what kind of things did these men do, that got them into prison?”

“They were patriots, fighting a just war.”

“But what would happen to, uh, the Protestant population in Northern Ireland if the Catholics take charge of the whole country?”

“Nothing’s going to happen to them. They’ll have all the civil rights they denied our people all those years. So now it’s time for you to play your part in history.”

Odom’s hand shook as he put it up to brush back his hair. Brennan Burke was overwhelmed with compassion for the man. He looked over at Leo Killeen. Leo’s face was rigid with tension.

“What ha —” the American began, then cleared his throat and started again. “What happens to me if they don’t agree to release the prisoners? My wife, she’s not well. Please, let me go and I’ll speak publicly on behalf of any of those prisoners who . . .”

“It doesn’t work that way, Mr. Odom. We think you’ll be much more convincing speaking from that chair. When your taped statement is played in America, when they see you strapped to a chair looking a little scared and a little desperate, they’ll raise a great hue and cry to have you released. The president will give the word, behind the scenes maybe, and . . .”

“My government won’t do that. They’ll say they don’t negotiate with, uh . . .”

“Terrorists, Mr. Odom?”

“Well, I just mean that’s what they’ll say. That’s not my word.”

“Your government makes deals with terrorists every day.”

“It does no such thing! America stands for freedom around the world. Sometimes in order to give people freedom, America has
to —”

“Negotiate with terrorists. It always has done. In your case, your congregation will put the pressure on. They won’t care about a few Irish prisoners of war. Let ’em go, they’ll say, and send the Reverend Mr. Odom back to us unharmed!”

“How do I know that if I do what you say, you’ll let me go?”

“You’ll just have to trust us on that. Now you’ve had enough for tonight. I’ve got a blanket and pillow for you here. I’ll be back tomorrow morning with your lines all written out for you and —”

A loud bang cut short the Irishman’s speech. His head swivelled to the left. He took a step back and fumbled for the gun in his pocket.

“Don’t even think about it. Stand back against the wall. Now.”
(“Nye.”)
The voice was low and calm, the northern accent harsh. Merle Odom stared with fear and alarm at this new element in the room.

There was another loud noise. It sounded as if the new arrival had kicked closed the door he had just kicked open. He came into view, the right side of his face to the camera. A man in early middle age, with greying fair hair and light-coloured eyes, he looked as cool and collected as if he had happened upon a tea party. In spite of the warm weather, he wore a bulky jacket.

“Sit
dyne
, Clancy.”

Clancy! The fellow reported missing in Dublin, nephew of the Bishop of Meath. He hadn’t been kidnapped; he was the kidnapper. God help the bishop if this gets out; God help the boy’s family.

“Jesus,” Clancy pleaded on the tape, “don’t be giving him our names! But never mind: he won’t tell. He’s a good fellow —”

“Sit down, I said. You’re not givin’ the orders here. Your name isn’t all he knows, is it, Clancy?”

Odom leaned forward in his restraints, perspiration forming on his forehead and temples. “I don’t know anything, honest to God I don’t!”

“Aye, you
dew
. Unfortunately.” The man turned to the prisoner as he spoke, and reached inside his jacket.

Odom’s eyes bulged in terror; he struggled frantically in his seat. “I have nothing to do with what’s going on here!”

“Aye, you do. Now. I’m sorry.”

“I’m just a tourist. I hardly even know Ian Paisley!”

“Fuck Paisley.” The man drew a gun from his jacket and held it down by his side.

Odom cried out, “No! You can’t do this! I’m an American —”

The shot made Brennan jump. “Oh God!”

When he looked at the screen again, Odom was slumped to the side, a bullet hole between his eyes. A sound of sobbing came from the corner of the room.

“Had to be done, Clancy. Thanks entirely to you, you little Free State bollocks, and your band of fellow gobshites. What the fuck were you thinking, coming up here and snatching the man off the street, setting in motion all this turmoil?”

“We didn’t plan it! I went up to Belfast on the train to see a couple of the lads from Dublin, who’d gone up there to work. Me and, well you know the fellow I mean — he had to be up early in the morning because he works in a restaurant, and he’d just got himself a car — so we were out and about early, driving past the Europa, and there he was. Odom. We recognized him from the news picture with Paisley. The opportunity was there for us, too good to pass up! Lift the man from the street and trade him for Donovan and Buckley and Whalen. Get them out of prison.”

“Didn’t you think of the repercussions of something like this, you bollocks?”

“I didn’t expect —”

“You didn’t think ahead. And then, when you did some thinking, you came up with a bad idea. You used this house without permission. You brought Odom down into this room, past all the items we have stockpiled right there.” He pointed to the door. “Do you think, if we’d let the man go, he would have kept his gob shut about all that firepower that’s going to be used against his fellow Protestants in Belfast? I had to kill him. You left me with no choice. I should have made you do it. Now I’m thinking I should give you the same treatment.”

“No, Des, don’t do it! I won’t say a word. For the rest of my life, I won’t, I swear it!”

“You’re fuckin’ right, you won’t. Because I’ve got other plans for you, for the rest of your life.”