Death at Christy Burke's (4 page)

“Good afternoon, Fathers. Sister. Here for the funeral?”

“We are,” Brennan replied.

“I think you’d be better to pull over and walk the rest of the way. Through traffic is being rerouted around the town, but anyone here for the funeral had best go on foot. There will be no place to stop your car up ahead.”

“All right. How far are we from the church?”

“A mile or so. But there’s trouble.”

“Oh?”

“They’re not letting us through.”

“Who’s not letting us through?”

“The RUC. The Orangemen are on the march. The funeral procession is going to be held up.”

“What?”

“I can’t tell you any more right now. Because that’s all I know.”

“Thank you. Appreciate your help. We’ll head up there.”

It was a brilliant sunny day, and the four new arrivals joined the throngs of people gathering for the funeral. The closer they got, the thicker the crowds. There must have been two thousand people on hand. The streets were lined with three-storey houses and shops in pastel colours, with chimney pots at each end of the buildings’ roofs. A short distance away Brennan could see a tall spire topped with a cross. That would be St. Áine’s, the only Catholic church in town. It was then that he heard a rhythmic pounding. The Lambeg drum, the traditional drum in the Orange parades. He thought they didn’t carry it much anymore, it was so heavy. Well, they were wielding it here today. Loud and insistent, primitive and threatening, it seemed to alter the very beat of his heart. He sent a murderous look in the direction of the sound.

“Let’s see if we can find the funeral cortège,” Michael said. “Try to spot Father Killeen. Brennan, we’ll follow you.”

They all fell in behind him as he moved forward. He heard a cacophony of accented speech in the crowd, as people from the Irish Republic mixed with their separated Northern brethren. Nobody objected as the priestly contingent passed them in the queue. There, up ahead, was the hearse, and the rest of the vehicles halted behind it. Flanking the hearse on either side was a line of men dressed in camouflage jackets and dark berets; black balaclavas covered their faces. Directly ahead of the hearse, and stopping it in its tracks, was a barricade manned by armed members of the Royal Ulster Constabulary. And on the other side of the barricade were three armoured personnel carriers, each one a squat and menacing presence with its massive steel plates, its pipe-like gun pointed away to the side. A slightly built grey-haired man in vestments of white stood before it, in animated conversation with two enormous British soldiers who loomed over him.

“There’s Leo!” Brennan announced, and charged ahead.

“Let’s see what this is all about!” Michael exclaimed as he followed behind.

“Michael, the less said the better,” Kitty warned him. “You don’t know these people.”

“She’s right, Mike, keep that in mind,” Monty echoed.

“Oh, I’ll not be saying a word. No worries there.”

They stopped and observed the vested priest at the barricades. Leo Killeen. Now there was a man with a past; Brennan wondered how long it took
him
to be cleared at the border. Before taking Holy Orders in the church, Leo had been issuing orders as a commander in the IRA, and one of those under his command in the 1940s was Brennan’s father. Declan Burke was a formidable man by any reckoning and, ever since Brennan had met Leo the year before, he had marvelled at the notion of Leo being in command of Declan and keeping him in line. Did Leo even weigh a hundred and forty pounds? Well, he was certainly having his say now, in a strong Dublin accent.

“No, the Mass cannot be put off any longer. The man’s family has to be at Belfast airport in two hours’ time. It has to be now. Let us through. The man has a right to a decent Christian funeral in his church, and a decent burial outside it. Halt the march, and let us pass.” The words were mild, but Brennan could hear the metal beneath them.

“I can’t let you through, Father. I have my orders. You’ll have to turn them back. Return to the table and come up with an alternative plan. I’m sorry.”

“No, we won’t be turning back. Get those bowler-hatted, drum-beating gobshites to turn back. This is a young lad’s funeral. Take a look at his mother, why don’t you. What sort of a man prevents a mother from burying her son?”

“There’s nothing I can do.”

Father Killeen turned then, and Brennan could see the cold white anger in his face.

“Leo!”

It took a couple of seconds for Leo to recognize him. “Brennan!”

He joined Leo at the barricades and the two men conferred, then Brennan returned to the head of the crowd and caught the eye of one of the women.

“What can I do for you, Father?” she asked him.

“Could you get us a table and round up as many loaves of bread as you can find? And a bottle of wine and a cup?”

“Sure there’s a bakery right in the square, and I’ll duck into the off-licence for the wine. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

“Bless you!”

She turned and ran down the street. People made way for her, and she returned a few minutes later with the wine and a silver goblet. In her wake was a man holding a small wooden table above his head. There were gasps from the crowd, and murmuring, as they realized what was happening: the Mass was going to take place right here, right now. Behind the man with the table came a little girl, pulling a clanking cart behind her. The cart was stacked with loaves, and people moved to help her with the load. Michael, Kitty, and Monty sprinted to the bread cart, and began helping people shred the loaves into tiny pieces. They put the hosts in a large basket. More baskets appeared, and the work went on at a frantic pace.

Brennan rejoined Leo to serve as an altar boy. Turning his back on the army of occupation, Father Killeen raised his right arm, made the sign of the cross, and the requiem Mass began, “
In ainm an Athar agus an Mhic agus an Spioraid Naoimh. Amen.
” In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Quiet descended on the congregation, almost in a wave. The only sounds were the voice of the priest, reciting the ancient prayers, and the Lambeg drum on the other side of the barricade, its pounding rhythm marking the enmity that had blighted this island for centuries. The orange sashes and bowler hats came in sight, and a loud rumbling started among the worshippers. Brennan looked into the congregation and saw Kitty leave Michael’s side and climb up on the concrete base of a light pole. The base was wide enough to stand on if she leaned against the pole for support. From her perch Kitty faced the crowd, placed her hands together in prayer, then spread them out and lowered them. Keep the noise down, she was telling them. You’re at Mass. Ignore the interruption. The crowd fell silent again.

The men in balaclavas and berets lifted the coffin from the hearse and draped it with the Irish tricolour. With quick, efficient movements, two of them assembled a folding stand and placed the coffin upon it, then they all arranged themselves around it.

By this time, a news van had pulled up. The film crew emerged and began to record the scene: Father Killeen dwarfed by the armoured cars behind him, the IRA honour guard, the grim-faced Orangemen marching on the other side, Sister Kitty standing on her concrete platform and urging the crowd to silence.

At the consecration, the great crowd fell to its knees. Priests and altar servers came forward from the crowd to distribute communion. The drumming never let up. Priest and acolyte did their best to ignore it, and the huge congregation followed the Mass as if it were their first. Or their last. When Father Killeen lifted a ragged piece of bread and spoke the words of consecration, suffusing the bread with the real presence of Christ, a feeling of unearthly peace came over Brennan, as it often did during the most sacred moment of the Mass. The strife, the hatred, the ugly backdrop of tanks and guns receded from his consciousness. It was as if a veil had opened between the seen and the unseen world, for an instant in time, and rays of brilliant light bathed the worshippers in front of him. The joy for Brennan at these moments was indescribable. This was what it was all for; this was why he had become a priest and, despite his many struggles, remained a priest.

When the Mass was nearly over, one man emerged from the honour guard and strode towards the light standard where Kitty stood. He swiftly discarded the balaclava and beret, revealing a hard-looking face incongruously topped by strawberry-blond curls. He drew a sheaf of papers from his pocket. Father Killeen gave a quick shake of his head. The man kept on. Killeen said, “No, Dermot.” The British soldiers behind the barricade seemed to snap to a new level of alertness; they gripped their machine guns more tightly. Dermot hesitated, then turned and leapt up on the concrete base with Kitty. A soldier took aim, and the gun on one of the tanks rotated slowly to the front until it was levelled at Dermot and Kitty. Brennan’s heart missed a beat. He saw Michael O’Flaherty’s mouth form the word “No!” Dermot hesitated, then shoved his papers into Kitty’s hand and hopped down. He and his cohorts moved off to the side and stood in formation with their hands behind their backs. The British soldier lowered his weapon, and the tank gun was turned aside.

Kitty, alone on the makeshift podium, shuffled the papers, obviously trying to absorb what they said. Brennan saw the Dignan family looking up at her. It seemed they were pleading with her to read what she had been given. As the television camera captured every word, she spoke of the short and intense life of Rory Dignan, from his days as an altar boy and student and loving brother to seven siblings to his calling as a Volunteer for the Irish Republican cause, from the kindness and humorous banter he always displayed to the depth of his commitment to a united Ireland.

“And it was in that struggle that Rory came to know at close hand the terrible sectarian slaughter perpetrated by Loyalist paramilitaries, aided and abetted by their masters in the British . . .” She stopped and scanned the text, flipped to the next page and resumed reading, “Then, Rory was the victim of scurrilous and baseless accusations that he was involved in the factory bombing in Dungannon in May of this year. Absolutely false. Rory was innocent, as anyone who knew him would realize. But his innocence did not save him from being targeted and hunted down by the very same forces that did the factory bombing, a put-up job, a Reichstag fire, so to speak, to make it look . . .” Her voice came to a halt again, then she turned the page and finished with, “Rory was a beloved son and brother, a faithful Catholic who never missed his Sunday Mass, who looked upon his life and work as service to God, and who now will be carried by the angels of heaven to his new home with God the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, and with the Mother of God and of us all, the Blessed Virgin Mary. May she and the saints receive him, and may perpetual light shine upon him.”

It was only after the Mass had ended, the marchers had drummed their way out of sight, and the procession had made its solemn way to the gravesite and seen Rory Dignan committed to the earth that Brennan and Michael were able to make their way through the throng to Kitty. Monty emerged from the crowd and joined them.

Brennan could see the effort Michael made not to fling his arms around her in relief.

“Kitty,
acushla
, you put the heart crossways in me!” Michael exclaimed. “I thought they were going to blow you away! When you got up there and that fellow leapt up with you, and the guns were turned on you —”

“Michael, my darling, I’ve survived the Congo, I’ve survived El Salvador. And do you know how I survived? By being the biggest, yellowest chicken God ever created.” Brennan, behind her back, shook his head. Nothing yellow about this woman. But Kitty kept up the fiction. “They’re not going to waste government property — bullets — on a harmless little oul nun in holy Ireland. If I thought they would, I’d have been hiding myself under a rock at the arse end of the congregation.”

“But it wasn’t the holy Irish who had their guns trained on you; it was the British Army.”

“It wasn’t me they had in their sights, Michael; it was that ruffian Dermot they were after. And they didn’t even pop him. So stop your fussing. Ah, here comes Father Killeen. It’s time we all introduced ourselves.”

Michael spoke up. “It’s almost like the days when our people had to sneak out in the fields to have Mass, Father. You’re a courageous man, and it’s an honour to meet you. I’m Michael O’Flaherty.” He put out his hand, and Father Killeen shook it.

“Michael. I’ve heard your name from Brennan. We meet at last.” Leo turned to Monty. “Mr. Collins, welcome to Ireland. Better late than never at all.”

Leo and Monty had met in New York, when Leo flew over to straighten some matters out for Brennan’s father after the shooting. Leo had taken Monty to task, him with the name of Collins and never having set foot in Ireland. The New York shooting, an eruption of Irish history on American soil, and now Mass at the barricades with tanks facing them; was any of this likely to engender in Monty an attachment to the land of his forefathers?
Let’s hope things don’t get any worse
, Brennan said to himself. He half expected a wisecrack from Monty about Leo and guns and trouble, but no. Even Monty, who had seen it all in the criminal courts for over twenty years, hadn’t seen anything like this. He appeared to have been left speechless by the spectacle today.

Michael O’Flaherty said to Leo, “I have been attending Mass for seventy-one years, and saying Mass as a priest for forty-five years. Never, ever has the Mass moved me as profoundly as it did today.”

Leo nodded. Obviously, there was a world of conversation O’Flaherty wanted to open up with Killeen, but this was not the time; Leo was a man with a lot on his mind.

Brennan

When Brennan arrived at Christy’s the day after the tank-and-
barricade Mass, Finn had a set of keys in his hand and appeared to be on his way out. Standing in his place behind the bar was a young man in his twenties, with very short auburn hair and a close-cropped beard. His light brown eyes had a humorous look about them.

“Ah. Brennan. You caught me on the fly,” Finn said. “Sean will be taking care of business while I’m out.” He made the introductions. “Brennan Burke. Sean Nugent. Brennan is my nephew, Sean, but you don’t have to take any guff off him. Feel free to toss him out if he gets scuttered and starts a row with somebody.”

“I’m well able for him, Finn.”

“Knew you would be. Brennan, come round the back with me for a minute.”

Brennan followed his uncle into the darkness behind the bar. Finn turned to face him.

“This vandalism has me concerned, Brennan.”

“As well it might.”

“I’m afraid the fellow has targeted one of the faithful here. I don’t know which one. But I’m afraid it might go beyond that. One of the lads could be in danger if this gouger thinks he’s a killer. And obviously I don’t want somebody coming in and shooting the place up, or setting fire to it.”

“Have you called in —”

“I don’t want the guards nosing about in here.”

Why not?
Brennan wondered. But he knew from long experience there was no point in asking.

“So, would you help me out here? Keep your ears open. If you hear anything, let me know. Don’t get me wrong; if anyone has got himself into trouble, it’s not my business and it won’t go any farther than here.” He pointed to himself. “I don’t care what they’ve done; I won’t be informing on them. My concern is what might be done
to
them, by this unknown quantity with the paint can. Who knows what kind of weapon he might use next?”

“I’ll do what I can for you, Finn, certainly. I can hardly fault you for being concerned.”

He fixed his eyes on his uncle’s dark lenses as if he could penetrate their obscurity. But he could not, which, he had always assumed, was the point. If the eyes are the windows of the soul, Finn apparently preferred to keep his soul, pure or impure as it might be, hidden from public view. And, of course, the shades afforded him the opportunity to scrutinize the eyes of others while remaining inscrutable himself.

“But,” Brennan asked him, “aren’t you the most obvious target here?”

“It’s not about me. We’ve covered that ground already. Look elsewhere.”

“Very well. Who do you have by way of regulars that I should be observing?”

No reply.

“Finn. The messages refer to someone who is known for spending his time here, not a blow-in who stopped by for a pint and never darkened the doorway again. Now, who drinks here?”

“Well, I have four in particular who call the place home.” Brennan waited. “Frank Fanning. I have to say I value his custom.”

“All right. Fanning’s a pisshead. Who else?”

“Tim Shanahan. Tim takes a drink, but he’s a gentleman. An intellectual.”

“So. He might have bested somebody in an argument. Judging by the quality of the graffiti, that wouldn’t be hard to do. Go on.”

“Jimmy O’Hearn. Lives on a boat out there in the harbour. And there’s Eddie Madigan. He was with the guards. Now he isn’t.”

“Why not?”

“There’s been talk of corruption. I don’t believe it. Whatever it is, it’s unknown to me.”

“What can you tell me about the other three, or any of them, that might account for the slander spray-painted on your wall?”

“Nothing. If I knew, I’d know. And I wouldn’t be bothering you about it. I’m hoping you’ll hear something I’ve never heard.”

“Well, they’ve got their faces hanging over your bar day in and day out. If your ears haven’t picked up anything, my chances are slim.”

“Maybe so. Give it a try.”

“I will.” He understood his uncle’s concerns, and wanted to help him out. But it was not in Brennan’s nature to go probing into other people’s lives. He was a fiercely private individual himself, and was quite content to see others keep to themselves as well. Michael O’Flaherty, on the other hand, loved to gab with people and get their stories. He would be ideal for this assignment, unless and until it took a turn that might prove to be dangerous. Brennan would put O’Flaherty on the case. He tried not to think of it as fobbing the whole thing off on his friend and pastor. It wouldn’t hurt to have Michael distracted from the case of the missing American preacher; no good would come of that, and no good would come of Michael associating himself with it in any way. Brennan returned to the subject at hand. “I’ll have the others listen to the pub talk as well. Michael O’Flaherty is someone people open up to. The kind, sweet face on him.”

“I know what you mean about him. Just as long as he doesn’t . . .”

“I’ll caution him to be discreet. He’ll understand.”

“Very well then.”

After they emerged from behind the bar, and Finn had taken his leave, Michael O’Flaherty arrived. Brennan introduced him to the young barman.

“Nice to meet you, Monsignor.”

“Good to meet you, Sean. Please call me Michael.”

“Okay. What can I get for you, Michael?”

“A pint of Guinness would go down nicely, I’m thinking.”

“Two would go down even better,” Brennan said.

“Coming up.”

Brennan and Michael sat at the bar and took delivery of their drinks.

“Now, you don’t sound like a local boy,” Michael remarked to Sean. “Would you be from County Cork by any chance?”

“I would. The fellows here are forever slagging me about my Cork accent. Better dan soundin’ like a Dub, I’m after tellin’ dem all!”

Michael laughed at his imitation of the broad North Dub accent. “I know Nugents in my home town. I’m from Saint John, New Brunswick. That’s an old port city, in fact the oldest city in Canada, and it —”

“Sure I know it well.”

“You’ve been there?”

“No, but it’s familiar to me even so. I had an uncle over there. He was my grand-uncle, really. And up until the week he died we were getting letters from him, telling us all about it.”

“I may have crossed paths with him. You never know. I grew up on Waterloo Street, right across from the cathedral. The faces you’d see around that church, Sean, you’d swear you were in Ireland. And most of the Nugents, as far as I know, originated in Cork or thereabouts.”

“You’re right. They would have. And from what my uncle had to say, it sounded as if history followed the Irish people over there and wouldn’t let them go.”

“There’s something in that, for sure. When I was a lad we — the Catholics — stayed well inside when the Orangemen were on the march. We were told to keep our doors and windows locked when the parades wound through the city. I remember it all too well.”

“Ah, yes. You’d want to be far from all that, so.”

“But the Catholics weren’t angels either. A gentleman of my acquaintance was among those who painted one of the rooms in the Admiral Beatty Hotel green from floor to ceiling on St. Patrick’s Day!”

“I suspect there was drink taken,” Nugent replied with a smile.

Might as well get the investigation under way,
Brennan decided. But O’Flaherty got there ahead of him. Which wasn’t a bad thing at all; O’Flaherty needed no urging to relieve Brennan of the task.

“Do you work nights as well, Sean, or just the day shift?”

“I do both. Nighttime’s a lot livelier.”

“I can well imagine!” Michael said. “A busy place in the evenings, I’m sure. Better earnings behind the bar. But you’ll want to watch yourself on the way out at night. You don’t want someone getting in your face with a can of spray paint! Finn has told us about the vandalism. A nasty business, by the sound of things.”

“Sure I’m not worried about being here at night. I’d be well able for him if I found him at it. But he must have come in the dead of night because nobody ever caught a glimpse of him.”

“What time do you open in the morning?”

“Half-ten.”

“And Finn leaves . . .”

“Last orders are at half-twelve, with thirty minutes’ drink-up time. So he wouldn’t get away before one in the morning.”

“That leaves a span of around nine hours for the fellow to creep up on the place and do his dirty work.”

“On some days, not even that, Michael. Kevin, our cleaner, would be in well before opening time. But he didn’t come in every day.”

“Kevin? Who would that be now?”

“Kevin McDonough. Used to give the place a complete mop-up a couple of times a week. But he called in yesterday to say he’s giving up the cleaning job. He’s in line for bigger and better things, is Kevin. His band was brilliant at the Tivoli, and they’re booked for two more gigs. Tonight and tomorrow. They’ll hit the big time, no question about it.”

“Good for him! What kind of band does he play in?”

“Rock band. Call themselves the Irish Problem.”

“Maybe we’ll buy a ticket, eh, Brennan?”

“Sure.”

“Enjoy rock music, do you, Father?”

“I’m a fan,” Michael claimed. “You, Brennan?”

“Me too.” In his case it was the truth.

Michael

The investigation was on! Brennan told Michael that Finn had requested his assistance in the Christy Burke’s graffiti case, had asked him to keep his eyes and ears open. And now Brennan had asked Michael and Monty to do the same. Of course he chided Michael for muscling in on the first interrogation. But Brennan was obviously just taking the mickey out of him; Michael’s initiative had not hurt his chances of promotion. Brennan had a warning, though: “Now you know Finn wants this kept
sub rosa
. . .”

“Don’t be worrying about that, now. I’ll be discreet.”

“Carry on then, lads.”

“Does that mean you’ve deputized us, Brennan, me and Sergeant O’Flaherty?” Monty asked.

“Just don’t tart yourselves up in police gear, all right? No little tin badges, gadgets hanging off your belts, none of that. Do I make myself clear?”

“We’re undercover, you’re saying.”

“Well, plainclothes at least. And for tonight, that means no Roman collar.”

They were standing in Brennan’s digs in the working-class area of Dublin known as the Liberties. The area was a little rough, and the two-storey brick building where he was staying needed some major repairs, but none of that seemed to bother Brennan. They had just met his cousin Ciaran, who lived in the building with a couple of other Augustinian priests. Tall, dark, and bearded, he appeared to be in his early forties; he had a good sense of humour and a devotion to the poor. He was interested to hear about the graffiti investigation, and wished them well on the night shift.

That was how Monsignor O’Flaherty ended up with his eardrums nearly splitting open at the Tivoli Theatre in the Liberties, listening to the Irish Problem, surrounded by young people, some of whom appeared to be on drugs. Not that they were behaving badly. They seemed happy and good-natured. What was the word, mellow? Well, there were worse ways to be than mellow.

“Are they any good?” he shouted into Monty’s ear. “I can’t tell for the noise!”

“They’re great!” Monty shouted in return.

Well, he would know. He played in a band himself. Not a hard rock band, or at least Michael didn’t think so. But it was something else you didn’t dress up for. Blues, that was it. Here, the guitars seemed to scream, and the drumbeat was loud and incessant. The vibration went right to the very heart of him. Kevin McDonough was the lead singer and when they did a “quiet” number, Michael could tell the lad was talented. He was tall and skinny with dark hair cropped in front and longer in back. They all had that haircut.

“And now for all you traditional music fans out there,” Kevin announced. “There’s whiskey in the jar!”

Grand! That was a song Michael knew and liked. The Knights of Columbus were known for a rousing version of it after lifting a few jars of their own. Wait a minute, what was this? That guitar was distinctly rockish, and the drums — was it the same song? Yes, apparently so. But it wasn’t bad. And it wasn’t long before Michael found himself singing along with the chorus. And joining in the wild applause at the end. Monty gave him the thumbs-up.

When the concert was over, Michael, Brennan, and Monty stood in the lobby with a couple of dozen teenagers, mostly girls, waiting for the band. A squeal issued from the mouth of one of the girls, and there was Kevin, followed by the other — what would one call them? The other Irish Problems?

“Oh, Matt!” a young girl called out. “Would you ever be givin’ me a ride in the band bus? You don’t even have to have the wheels goin’.” This was met with loud shrieks of laughter from the girl’s friends. Matt was the bass guitarist; Michael saw him lean over and whisper something in the girl’s ear. She covered her mouth with her hand and giggled.

“Kev!” another girl shouted. “Will you sign my ticket? Make it out to Sheena, with love from Kevin? Or just your name would be good too.”

He smiled at her and scribbled something on her ticket, signed a couple more autographs, then excused himself. Brennan took the opportunity to approach the singer and introduce himself as Finn’s nephew. He introduced his companions as well.