Death at Christy Burke's (9 page)

“No, no, I’ll be out for good behaviour, but you needn’t shed any tears at my departure. I’ll be sure to drop in for a visit. Keep an eye out for me that day, O’Reilly. I’ll be dressed as a prison warder, and I’ll have my face painted a bright, glowing red!”

Finn turned to his nephew. “Do you know what we’re on about, Brennan?”

“Would this be the helicopter escape in 1973? It made the news in New York.”

“Sure it made news around the world. And I, the humble prisoner you see before you today, was right here on the ground when it happened.”

“Were you now.”

“Yes, I was here. For a short stint on trumped-up charges, then as now. I was in the exercise yard when I heard the rotors of a helicopter approaching. Never to my dying day will I forget the sight of it. I’m looking up. We all are. And we see it coming out of the sky towards the prison and, Jaysus, isn’t it heading right for us? It’s going to land! Right here in the prison yard. And the most comical thing about it is that the man in charge of the prison that day thought nothing of it, thought it was Paddy Donegan, the minister of defence, paying a visit by helicopter. It’s right there in the parliamentary debates. Jack Lynch got up in the Dáil the next day and said, ‘The officer can be forgiven for thinking it was the minister of defence flying in by helicopter, as the minister is wont to use helicopters as other ministers are wont to use state cars.’ So I’ll be dressed as that poor, red-faced prison official on the anniversary.”

“You’re a part of history, Finn!”

“I am indeed, but as a witness only. I was as gobsmacked as everyone else when the helicopter landed in the yard, and three IRA men got on board and were lifted into the skies above the jail. What a sight!”

“How could they orchestrate such a thing? Where did they get the helicopter?”

“Hijacked it. Told the pilot no harm would come to him if he did as he was told, fly into Dublin without alerting air traffic control, and there he was before he knew it, hovering over the Joy and coming down in the yard. Kevin Mallon directed him down using semaphore! Mallon, J.B. O’Hagan, and Seamus Twomey were airlifted out. Twomey was chief of staff of the ’RA at the time. The rest of us, when we caught on what was happening, blocked the screws from getting in the way.”

He turned to the warder. “You wouldn’t bring us a pint to celebrate that day of glory, would you, O’Reilly?”

“Sorry we can’t accommodate you in the manner you’re used to, Mr. Burke.”

“Ah! The memory of it. Guess who I got a call from that day? Long distance.”

“Would it have been my oul fellow? You should have seen the smile on his face when that item of news came on the television.”

“And you should have heard him on the phone that night, Bren. He was beside himself with excitement, wanted to hear every single detail, minute by minute, who was where and who did what. And it has to be said, he had run afoul of the ’RA himself, hence his exile in America, but his heart was in the right . . . well, he was still interested in the comings and goings, and the flyings, of his former comrades.”

“All right, all right, wrap it up, Finn,” the guard said. “No offence, Father, but Mr. Burke’s history lesson is over for now. Here’s Doyle.”

So Brennan was shown around by Doyle, who seemed friendly enough. Not every guard, or prisoner, they came across was as genial. But the other officials did nothing to stop them, and Brennan saw the cell blocks radiating out from the centre, the tiny, cramped cells, and the place where young Kevin Barry was hanged in 1920, at the age of eighteen, for his role in the War of Independence. Brennan wondered which cell his own father had been in, back in the 1940s, a few years prior to his midnight voyage to the Americas.

“A lot of history in this place, Father,” Doyle said. “A great many patriots were executed here during the Troubles in the twenties. Well, you probably know all that. Doesn’t happen anymore. The last was in 1954.”

“Glad to hear it, Mr. Doyle. Thank you so much for taking the time to show me around.”

“You’re welcome, Father. I’ll show you out now.”

The Naas Road. That was the location of the other family business, Burke Transport. Larry Healey must be connected with the company. Brennan decided to hop on a bus rather than pester his cousin for a loan of his car.

It wasn’t long before he was standing in a parking lot in an industrial estate off the Naas Road, dwarfed by several enormous tractor-trailers, at the headquarters of Burke Transport Company. There were vehicles of every size, ranging from eighteen-wheelers to utility vans. Most bore the Burke logo but a couple, he noticed, were plain white and had no licence plates on them. He looked into the open door of a garage and saw a green van undergoing a paint job; the new colour appeared to be a flat black. He headed for the door of the office building to ask after Larry Healey. A young red-haired girl at the reception desk smiled at him and said she would page Mr. Healey. She did, and a minute later a short, muscular man in his forties came into the foyer, wiping his hands on a rag.

“Gentleman inquiring after you, Larry.”

“What can I do for you, sir? Em, Father? You’ll understand if I don’t shake your hand.”

“That’s quite all right. Call me Brennan. I’m Declan’s son. He was before your time, but you may have heard the name.”

“Oh, yes. The name’s well known to us here. He ran the place in the 1940s.”

“That’s right. Could I speak with you for a bit?”

“Sure.” Healey nodded in the direction of the parking lot, and the two of them went outside.

“You may know, Larry, that Finn has landed himself in a spot of trouble and is currently a guest of the warders of Mountjoy Prison.”

“I’d heard that.”

“I was in to see him and he said he’d be grateful if you’d pay him a visit. He finds the time long, you know.”

A smile flitted across Healey’s face. “Is that right? Well, I’ll be sure to pop in and say hello.”

“Thank you, then, Larry. I won’t keep you now.”

“How’d you get here, Brennan? You came from the city centre, did you?”

“I took the bus.”

“No need of that.” He gestured to all the vehicles standing in the lot. “I’ll grab a set of keys and run you into the city.”

Healey returned with his keys and directed Brennan to one of the white utility vans. They got in and drove to the centre of town, engaging in small talk about Dublin and about Larry’s extended family, some of whom had immigrated to various places in Canada and the U.S. Brennan thanked Larry when he let him off.

“Don’t mention it. I’ll swing round to the Joy now. I expect Finn will want to see me without delay.”

Michael

Young Nugent was tending bar when Michael walked into Christy’s on Friday.

“Ah! Sean. They found you.”

“They didn’t have to, Michael. I heard the news and reported for duty.”

“You’ll have a lot of hours to cover with Finn off the job.”

“I’ll put in a bit more time than usual, but I’ve been talking to Brennan; he and I will spell each other off till Finn returns, or, well, till we see what’s going to happen. Brennan tells me he’s doing some teaching up at the seminary in Maynooth; his work here will be a bit of a change of pace for him.”

“It will indeed. Where are your regular customers today?”

“They’ll be making their way in soon, I expect.”

“Well, I’ll have a glass of juice, if you’d be so kind.”

“Orange?”

“That would be grand.”

Michael took his drink to a table and sat down. He lost himself in the mix of horror and foolishness that provided fodder for newspapers all over the world.

“Michael!”

Michael looked up and saw Father Leo Killeen standing at the bar with a newly poured pint in his hand.

“Leo! Will you join me?”

Leo sat, took a sip of his pint, and nodded at Michael. “I thought I’d stop in and see if Brennan was here. Take a walk up the street and pay Finn a visit.”

“He’s not here, but I’d be happy to accompany you if you like.”

“Very good. We’ll wet our throats for a few minutes, then head out.”

The two priests indulged themselves in a bit of church chat. What parish was Leo in? Aughrim Street in Stoneybatter, in the northwest part of the city. Church of the Holy Family. Did Michael know it? He had been to the church once. Beautiful stained glass and a lovely altar, and he knew they had an Irish-language Mass. Yes, it was Leo who usually said the Irish Mass. How long had Leo been there? Since the Vikings landed, or so it seemed. Did he live in a parish house? He lived in a house owned by the parish, on the same street as the church, but not a rectory as such. Where was Michael staying? A bed and breakfast owned by people he had met in his role as tour guide.

“Why don’t you move in to my place in Stoneybatter? There are just two of us there now. We’ve got a vacant room. Our third resident is away in the missions.”

“Well now. Are you sure? I have to confess I’ve been feeling a little guilty, taking up a room at the B and B in prime tourist season. My hosts have been so kind. But I’d like to free the room up for them.”

“It’s settled then, Michael. Let’s go.”

“Now, you mean?”

“What better time? We’ll do our prison visit and then get you relocated.”

“Thank you, Leo!”

So they took their places in the visiting room at Mountjoy Prison and made small talk with Finn Burke. As cordial as the meeting was, Michael got the impression that there were things the other two men wanted to discuss, and that Michael was an inhibiting presence. So he made his excuses and left them together. He waited out on the pavement until Leo emerged a few minutes later. They proceeded to Michael’s lodgings, packed his few belongings and, after Michael thanked his hosts lavishly, they took a taxi to Stoneybatter.

Michael’s new spot, close to the Aughrim Street church, was a terraced red-brick house with two windows up and one down, beside a door with a demi-lune fanlight. Michael and Leo went inside into a small foyer, where on one side there was a coat stand with several rain jackets hanging on it, and on the other a bureau with an oval mirror. Piled on the bureau were a couple of tweed caps, a Roman Missal, an Irish-language New Testament, and a biretta. Not hard to tell who lived in this house. The place had three small bedrooms, all now occupied. Leo introduced him to the housekeeper, Mrs. O’Grady, who assured him that if he needed anything, all he had to do was ask. She gave him the key to his room, which was airy and bright with a west-facing window. The furnishings were a wardrobe and dresser, table and chairs, and a narrow but comfortable-looking bed with a crucifix on the wall above it.

After depositing his belongings, Michael went to Leo’s room for a visit. Leo put a pot of tea on to welcome Michael to his new home, and cleared his table of papers and church bulletins, so they could sit across from one another with their teacups. They talked about parish work in Ireland and in Canada, and Leo asked about Michael’s earlier travels to Ireland. They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, then Leo said, “I hear Finn has set Brennan on the trail of the vandal who’s been defacing the pub. And you may be assisting him with his inquiries.”

“Oh, they slag me about missing my calling as Sergeant O’Flaherty, but I don’t imagine I’ll be of much use to Finn. I’d like to help him out, though.”

“A word of caution, Michael.” Leo paused to make sure he was listening. “As has been said in another context, a little knowledge is a dangerous thing.”

“The investigation is pretty low key. So far all we’ve done is sit and gab with the Christy Burke Four.”

Leo’s eyes narrowed a bit. “The Christy Burke Four? Have I missed something?”

“I mean the pub regulars.”

“And those would be . . .”

“Well, there’s Ed Madigan, Jim O’Hearn, Frank Fanning, and Tim Shanahan. Those are the four main players so far. They’re certainly the people who would know most about what goes on around the pub.”

“Which makes them the four men most likely to be implicated in any slurs sprayed on the pub walls, given how closely associated they are with the place.”

“But it’s hard to imagine them as, well, criminals, or whatever the vandal meant to imply. Even harder to imagine them as killers! They’re a genial lot, or so they seem to me.”

“They’re pleasantly plastered most of their waking hours, if they spend all their time in Christy’s.”

“Do you know them at all, Leo?”

“I’m acquainted with them. I don’t know any of them very well. I just want to urge you to be careful, Michael. If somebody in the pub is the target of these accusations, that individual will notice before long that you fellows are nosing around in there. If he has something to hide, he’ll feel threatened by your activities, and then you might be in danger. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought of that yourself.”

“I have, but I’m sure Brennan is treading softly.”

“I hope so.”

“Of course that’s partly because Brennan is not a man for poking his nose into the business of other people.”

“Unlike somebody else we could name, perhaps, Michael?”

“If by any remote chance you are referring to me, I will state only that I stand ready to put my inquisitiveness to work in the service of others. So: have you any idea what this graffiti could be about, Leo? You’re obviously concerned. Any suspicions? You haven’t by any chance had a confession in connection with this, have you? You can’t reveal it to me, of course, but . . .”

“I’ve had no confession, I can tell you that much. But I do know a thing or two about the political situation on this island. And the . . . well, our culture here. People have long, long memories, Michael, and an injury done years ago, decades ago, can still flare up today. And old bones like to stay buried. I wear more than one hat here, as you may know.”

“A biretta and a balaclava, you mean, Leo?”

“If, by that, anyone meant what I think he meant, let him be anathema.”

“Just codding you, Leo.”

“I’ll let it pass this time. But this business gives me cause for concern.”

“While we’re on the subject of serious matters, I’ll tell you something else that has me worried: this Protestant minister, the American, who has disappeared. It’s hard to escape the conclusion that he has been kidnapped. Or, well, it could be even worse, obviously. But assuming somebody has him, as a hostage, say, I wonder if a show of solidarity from the Catholic clergy, or even a committee made up of —”

Leo put both hands up before Michael finished his thought. “Stop right there, Michael. Get it out of your head.”

“You sound like Brennan.”

“You floated this suggestion to him, did you?”

“Yes. I have to say he wasn’t encouraging.”

“There’s a reason for that, Michael.”

“I just feel I’d like to make some effort, however minor, on behalf of that poor man.”

“There’s nothing you can do for him.”

“You’re knowledgeable about the . . . the politics here, Leo. What do you think is happening?”

“This man is a very public figure, a television preacher in the U.S. He was photographed in Belfast with the Reverend Ian Paisley, who I’m sure you know is a firebrand in the North. There has been a great deal of news coverage here and in the States. The stakes are high. The fact that there has been no word from or about him for over a week . . . I see this as a bad situation that could get much, much worse. Hear me on this, Michael: you do not want your name or your face made public in connection with this. End of story. Now, about this graffiti investigation you’ve taken on. That, too, could lead you into trouble.”

“Do you see the vandalism at Christy Burke’s as a political matter?”

“I see it as a possible occasion for, or a reflection of, strong feelings.”

“Strong feelings can erupt just as easily in the personal realm as in the political. I don’t have to tell you that.”

“Let me show you something, Michael. In confidence. Man to man, priest to priest.”

“Certainly, Leo.”

Leo got up and went over to his dresser, opened the top drawer, and brought out an old brown leather notebook. Michael could see papers protruding from it, yellowed and brittle with age. Leo sat down, flipped through the papers, and drew out a photograph, which he slid across the table. “There’s an unholy trinity for you, Michael.”

Michael moved the grainy black and white photo into the light and peered at it, and told himself not for the first time that the day had come when he should invest in a pair of spectacles. But he could see the three men well enough. They were gathered around the open cargo door of a large truck. One of the men stood guard with a machine gun held sideways across his body. His eyes were obscured behind a pair of dark glasses. Finn Burke, several decades younger than he was now and, Michael thought, rakishly handsome. Another fine-looking fellow, with light-coloured eyes, was glaring straight ahead; he had an armful of weaponry. They were obviously unloading a shipment of guns. The men bore a strong resemblance one to the other.

“That’s Finn,” Michael commented. Leo nodded. “And would that be . . . it has to be his brother. Is it Declan Burke?”

“Right. Brennan’s oul fellow.”

“And that . . . is that you, Leo?”

“That’s me, and those two were under my command.”

Michael said to him, “Now, you seem well acquainted with Brennan Burke . . .”

“I am, yes, ever since New York. A brilliant and talented young man, and a very dedicated priest.”

“True, without question. But not exactly a humble, pliant little lamb to be herded about at will by his shepherd.”

“And that task falls to you as his pastor. Lucky man that you are, Michael.”

“Oh, I am a lucky man to be in ministry with Brennan. Don’t get me wrong.”

“No, I understand you very well. I would be happy to work with him myself, any day of the week.”

“But what I’m getting at is . . . from what I hear, his father is even more of a . . . forceful personality.”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

“And you say you were his commanding officer. How on earth were you able to exercise authority over such a person?”

“What you see before you today, Michael, is a milder, gentler Leo Killeen than the Leo Killeen who was Officer Commanding of the Third Battalion, Dublin Brigade of the Irish Republican Army. What you are seeing now is the New Testament version, perhaps I could say.”

Leo Killeen was as wiry then as he was now, with cropped dark hair and dark eyes. He had an intense look about him. The expression on his face, and his posture, bespoke command. No question, Killeen was in charge.

“Who took the photograph?” Michael asked.

“Someone who should have stayed home that day.”

“Oh?”

“An informer.”

“So you fellows got caught with the guns?”

“No. We didn’t.”

Michael was silent for a moment, then said, “What happened to the man with the camera?” He looked into Leo’s brown eyes, which didn’t flinch.

“He should have known better,” was all Leo said.

That was all he said, but was there an underlying message? That this is the kind of situation one might find at the end of the search for the Christy’s vandal? Or the televangelist from the U.S.A.?

“How long after this incident did you enter the priesthood, Leo?”

“Oh, it would have been ten years or so after that. I’ve been a priest for over thirty years now.”

“How do you reconcile what you did then with what you do now?”

“That’s why there’s a sacrament of reconciliation, Michael, so we can put ourselves right with God. No matter what we’ve done, as long as we are truly repentant.”

“Are you, though, Leo? I get the impression you still have your hand in, or at least are still connected with the Republican movement.”

“Nothing wrong with being sympathetic to the goal of a united Ireland. Nothing wrong with ministering to those still active in the movement. I regarded myself as a soldier in a just war, Michael. A war against those who occupied our country. But do I approve of the violence and the killing that are being done in the name of the movement? No, I do not. Am I repentant about some of the actions I myself took in that war? Yes, I am, and I am most grateful to the man who was my confessor and spiritual director in those years of transition from soldier to priest. And I wasn’t the only one by any means, Michael. There were several former Volunteers who became priests or brothers. It was a strongly Catholic movement after all.”

They drank their tea in silence.

Brennan

Something looked different at the black church, Brennan noticed when he arrived at Christy Burke’s on Friday after a morning of prayer with the Augustinians. It took a second for him to realize what the difference was. All the rubbish bags that had been piled up around the building were gone. Brennan smiled as he pictured a white, or maybe a black, unmarked utility van pulling up to the site, and a short, muscular man heaving bags of rubbish into the cargo hold before taking off for parts unknown.