by Mick Moran
“Yes. It looks like it was. But’ he gave me no hint as to what he needed to see the man about. In fact, he said he wished he could tell me more but he couldn’t. I know that he called at the man’s house that same evening. He stayed for about an hour. After he left that house no one’s seen him since.” We thought he’d gone back up north.”
“I’ve heard,” Brendan continued, “that some up there think that his leaving had something to do with the murder of that man called Michael O’Malley.”
They both shook their heads. That was obviously news to both of them. “I can’t see Martin having anything to do with the murder,” said Jimmy. “But you seem to know more than we do.”
Brendan smiled. He could see they were both astonished at how much he knew. “I like to know my customers,” he said, “and Michael, I mean Martin was a good customer. Andy, you were his neighbour back home. Did you know him there?”
“No. He left before I was born. It’s his brother that has the farm next to ours: a great man. He couldn’t do enough for us when my father died. And even now, whenever we need help he’s there.”
“Did he ever talk about Martin?”
“No. I never heard Martin mentioned. It was after I came over here that I learned about Martin’s past and me his next door neighbour.”
“I,” said Brendan expectantly.
“Well, I never knew until my landlady told me that one time Martin was seen as a hero for standing up to the Black- and –Tans. And she lived a long way from us.”
“He was more than just a local hero then. I knew there was more to Martin than met the eye. Did she talk about him a lot?
“No. Not much.” Andy shook his head. “But I think she knew a lot more about him than she was prepared to tell me.”
“What makes you think that Andy?”
“I don’t know. It was just the impression I got sometimes.”
“Did you ever hear your neighbours talk about him?”
“No. Not a word.”
“Strange, and, as you said he was a hero once. Even years after the event, you’d expect it to be talked about at least sometimes. Do you think something else happened that made people want to forget about him altogether?”
“Maybe. Maggie, my landlady, said the civil-war that came after was something no one talked about.”
Brendan was again ahead of them. He knew, at least a little, of Martin’s involvements in the civil war. A few nights previously Paddy Casey, when slightly the worse for drink, had told him about Martin being blamed for the murder of Paddy’s uncle and the recent discovery, thanks to Paddy’s sister that they’d got it all wrong. After telling him, however, Paddy had regretted doing so. He had revealed a family secret and begged Brendan not to breathe a word of it to anyone else. Brendan, of course agreed. Pub landlords hear many things that are best kept to themselves. But, it was an interesting story and, without betraying Paddy, he wished to know more.
“Was Martin involved in the civil-war?” he asked
“I don’t know. I asked Maggie that question and she said she didn’t know. She said she lived too far away to know. But, the way she said it made me think that she knew something she didn’t want to tell me.”
“Excuse me,” interrupted Brendan. “I’ve a customer the other side.”
“We need to go anyway,” said Jimmy. “Thanks Brendan you’ve been a great help.”
“Ah, you’re welcome. Nice meeting ye both. I hope the job is all right.”
Brendan moved to the other bar.
“Teresa,” he welcomed. “How are you?”
“I’m O K.”
“Will you have a drink?”
“No thank you. I can’t delay. You asked me to let you know if I found out anything about Martin. Well, I believe I have.”
“That’s good. But, will you excuse me a minute. I must catch those two lads before they go.”
***
“Good,” said Brendan, as Andy and Jimmy were about to leave, “ye’re still here. If ye can wait a little longer, I have someone the other side that, I think, would like to meet ye.”
They both nodded.
“Come through this way.” Brendan lifted the latch and they both followed him through the bar area.
“Teresa,” he explained. “These two lads know Martin well. Andy was his neighbour.”
Seeing Teresa’s jaw drop Brendan stopped mid sentence. She looked stunned. He turned to the lads. They were equally shocked.
“You you’ve met before,” he stuttered.
This time, however, Teresa composed herself.
“Yes. We’ve met.” She forced a smile.
Both Andy and Jimmy remained silent, waiting for Teresa to make the next move.
She did “First of all,” she said, “let me apologise for pretending to be someone else. I think, Andy, you knew immediately.”
“Yes…yes,” stuttered Andy looking all embarrassed. Then composing himself somewhat he apologised. “Sorry,” he said, “about the way I behaved. I don’t know what came over me. I was expecting to meet Martin’s niece. But…”
“Never mind.” Teresa stopped him. “I deserved it. I should have been honest with you.”
“I’m sure you had your reasons,” intervened Jimmy.
“Thank you Jimmy. You’re very understanding. Yes there was a reason for it; a reason that I’m afraid I still cannot explain.”
“You were saying,” reminded Brendan, relieving the awkwardness, “that you have some information about Martin.”
“Yes. Maybe. This might interest you boys too.” She turned to Andy and Jimmy.
“Excuse me,” interrupted Brendan. “I have a customer at the other bar.” He didn’t go there. He simply took a few steps in that direction and shouted, “I’ll be there in a minute.” Then, turning back he apologised. “Sorry about that. Go on Teresa.”
“There is a man that fits Martin’s description in hospital in Coventry,” she told them. “I had a phone call this evening from the priest in Broadfield: Father Downey. You boys will know him.”
Andy and Jimmy both nodded. “He got a call,” she continued, “from the hospital, or maybe it was from the police; I’m not sure. The man is unconscious but something was found on him, a church newsletter I think, with the address and the priest’s phone number on it. The priest had my phone number. He wondered if I could help in identifying the man. He’s anxious to know if it is Martin. But I can’t do it. I never met the man.”
“I’ll do it,” said Brendan without hesitation. “I’ll do it in the morning before I open up. I know you boys could do it. But, it’s your first day in the job. If one of you gives me a ring, I’ll tell you if it’s him and how he is.” Brendan got a card from under the bar and handed it to Andy.
After they all left Brendan hurried to the other bar. He didn’t like keeping customers waiting. However, to his surprise, there was no one there.
Cha
pter 14. Martin in Hospital.
“I’ll be leaving you on your own this morning Mary,” said Brendan.
“If I’m not back before you go don’t worry. Just lock the door after you.
Brendan trusted Mary Frain. She had been his cleaner for a good many years. She just did a few hours each morning.
“Right O,” she replied. “Something wrong?”
“I’m going to see a man in hospital in Coventry. He’s unconscious. They don’t know who he is, but I’m told that there’s a possibility that he is a man who used to be a customer of ours: Michael O’Malley: a nice man. If it’s him I hope he pulls through.”
“Please God. Well, good luck.“
It was a bright sunny morning. The low February sun was dazzling. Otherwise driving conditions were perfect. The rush period over, traffic on the wide Coventry road was light. Adjusting the sun-visor, Brendan thought it was good to be out on the open road for a change. He rarely got out of the Pub these days.
The car, however, was not performing well. The engine was coughing and spluttering. A service was long overdue. The car was used so little that maintenance was neglected. It was over a week since it was last used. He hoped that when it warmed up the engine would perform better. But it wasn’t happening.
The sign showed 40 mph. Brendan’s car couldn’t even reach thirty. All the traffic was passing him. When yet another car appeared in his rear view mirror, although unnecessary on that duel-carriageway, Brendan drew closer to the side in anticipation of it passing. It did not do so. In fact the gap between them widened. That driver was maybe having similar problems to himself thought Brendan.
Then he noticed the high reading on the temperature gauge. The radiator must be short of water again. Maybe that was the problem. Why hadn’t he thought of that? It had happened before. But, this time he was prepared. There was a can of water in the boot. He pulled in to a lay-by.
Steam was coming from under the bonnet. He shut the engine down and remained seated. Experience had taught him to wait until the radiator cooled down before removing the cap.
Brendan thought about the hospital visit he was about to make. He was feeling a little apprehensive. On the previous evening he was convinced that the offer to make the visit was the right one. Now he was less sure. Hospitals brought back bad memories. It was five years since his wife died in hospital. He hadn’t been in one since then.
The car that had been following passed. It was a black estate car. As it drew level it seemed to slow down. Was it going to stop? Maybe the driver would offer to help. No. Instead he accelerated away. Nothing wrong with his engine, thought Brendan dreamily.
They were on a long straight part of the road. Shielding his eyes, Brendan watched the estate car until almost out of sight, where it seemed to turn off the road and stop. There wouldn’t be another lay-by so close. Perhaps he was having car trouble after all.
After topping up the radiator Brendan set off again. The engine ran much smoother. He had temporarily cured the problem. But, he must get it seen to. Passing the black estate car, which was parked on the grass verge, Brendan considered stopping to ask if he could be of any assistance. He slowed down, but couldn’t see the driver. Perhaps he’s having a nap, thought Brendan, best leave him be. Brendan needed to get on.
***
Brendan explained his business to the girl at reception. She was very helpful.
“Yes,” she said. “The intensive care unit. I’ll find out if you can see him.” She picked up the phone.
“I was told I could visit at any time.”
“It’s just that they may ask you to wait if there’s a procedure being carried out.”
“It’s O K,” she said, putting down the phone. “Just go up. The nurse will be expecting you.”
The nurse, a large middle-aged woman, met Brendan with a friendly smile. “I’ll take you to him,” she said.
Brendan followed her silently, feeling more and more uncomfortable passing sleeping or unconscious patients attached by wires and tubes to bleeping, blinking machines.
“He’s still in a coma,” she informed him, when they reached the patients bed. “He won’t respond, but you could try talking to him. You never know what a familial voice would do. Oh! I’m sorry. I’m jumping ahead. First of all, do you recognise him?”
His head was in a bandage like a turban. A tube was clamped to his mouth, presumably to keep him breathing. Wires snaked from his head and chest to monitoring machines. Brendan had started to hope that it was not Martin. However, there was no mistaking, it was definitely him.
Martins face could be recognised anywhere.
“Yes. It’s Martin. What happened to him?”
The nurse shook her head. “We don’t know. At first we thought he was involved in a road accident. But, his injury is not consistent with that. He has just one head injury. If he was hit by a car we would expect many more injuries.”
He was assaulted, thought Brendan. “Do the police know?”
“Yes. They’ve been informed,” the nurse replied. “They’ll need to speak to him when he regains consciousness.” “If he regains consciousness,” she added. “They’ve been here. They talked with the ward sister. She could tell you more, but, I’m afraid, she’s not here today.”
Martin showed no awareness of Brendan’s or anyone else’s presence.
Brendan turned to the nurse. “You said talk to him. Do you think he will hear me?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. Possibly. Talking to him, though, especially by someone he knows, is thought to be good, like I said, a familiar voice, you never know.”
“What can I say?”
“Anything. Call him by his name. Tell him who you are.”
Brendan moved closer to the bed. “Michael.” Brendan deemed it best to call him by the name he’d always known him as. Aware that he’d told the nurse that his name was Martin, he whispered. “I’ll explain later.”
The nurse, however, was distracted by the sound of an alarm by another bed. “I’ll have to leave you,” she said. “I’ll be back shortly.”
Alone with Martin, Brendan repeated “Michael. Michael O’Malley. I’m Brendan: Brendan from The Antelope. Remember me?”
There was, of course, no response. Not even a flicker of an eye. Nevertheless, Brendan continued telling Martin that he hoped he would be better soon. He said many Antelope customers sent their best wishes-a white lie, but he knew it would be true if they knew about Martin- and hoped for a speedy recovery.
The nurse returned. “What did you say his name is?” she asked, Producing a notebook and pen from her pocket.
“Martin. Martin Prendergast.”
The nurse started to write in her notebook. “You called him Michael?” she queried. “Would that be his middle name.”
“Maybe. He’s always been called Michael in my pub. By the way, I run a pub. But, I was told recently, on good authority, that his real name is Martin.”
“It’s for our records. I’ll put Martin Michael. How’s that?”
Brendan thought for a fe
w seconds. “No,” he said. “On second thoughts, I don’t think his middle name is Michael. I’d just put Martin.”
“O K,” she agreed reluctantly. “An address?”
“No. Sorry. He lived up in the north of England. He was just down here, for a day or two, he said, on a bit of business.”
“Previously. He did live down here for a number of years. I got to know him well then: a nice quiet man. I don’t know why anyone would want to hurt him.”
As Brendan left the Hospital, a young man who had stopped at the door to light a cigarette asked politely, “have you got the time please?”
“A quarter past twelve,” replied Brendan checking his watch.
“Thank you.” As Brendan walked towards his car the man walked with him. “It’s a nice day.”
“Yes.” Brendan was not in the mood for small talk. He was not in the pub then.
The man, however, was not giving up. “Been visiting someone?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“So was I: my father. He’s not well at all.”
“Sorry about that.”
“It’s O K. Was it a relative you were visiting yourself?”
“No. A friend.”
“You seem upset. Is he not very well either?”
“No. He’s unconscious.”
“Oh dear. An accident, was it?”
“Yes.”
“Has he been unconscious long?
”
“Over a week.”
“Do you think he’ll get better?”
“I don’t know,” replied Brendan curtly. “My car’s this way,” he said following the path to the right.
“So is mine: a bit further on,” said the man, still accompanying him.
“Is he in intensive care then?”
“Yes.” Brendan had reached his car. Not looking at the man he opened the door and got in.
“I hope he gets better.”
Brendan wasn’t listening. He slammed the door.
Putting the key in the ignition switch, watching the man walk away, Brendan felt slightly guilty about being so short with him. After all, he thought he was only making polite conversation.
Only then did it occur to Brendan that there was something strange about what the man said. The man’s words, which he had ignored when spoken, were still going round in Brendan’s head. The man said his car was further on than Brendan’s, but, how did he know where Brendan’s car was? Strange man. Had he watched Brendan arrive in the car park? And why was he so interested in Brendan and his business in the hospital?
