by Anne Emery
“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 courage
ous 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.
Chapter 2
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.”
