by Anne Emery
“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.
As soon as he closed the pub’s door behind him, he heard his name called from the bar. “Hello, Brennan!” Sean said. “I have a message for you here.”
“You know you’re spending too much time at your local when they start delivering your mail to you there!”
“True enough.”
He handed Brennan a folded slip of paper. Brennan opened it and read, “Request visit with Father Burke. Finn.”
“I’ve been called to assist one of my parishioners,” he said. “I’ll have to take a stroll up there before the day’s out.”
“Em, it sounded a bit more urgent than that, Brennan, the way Finn spoke on the phone.”
“Ah. I’ll go right now. Thank you, Sean.”
Brennan left the pub and took a brisk walk up the street in the sunshine to the Mountjoy Prison. He stated his business when he got there, and once again found himself in the visiting area across from his uncle Finn. Finn looked tense. A man in uniform hovered nearby.
Finn addressed his visitor. “Thank you for coming, Father Burke.”
“All part of my calling, Mr. Burke.”
“It keeps my spirits up, seeing visitors.”
“I’m sure it does.”
“My friend Larry came to see me, after you kindly provided him with my change of address.”
“Good.”
“Larry’s a great help around the place. Tidies up, hauls away old rubbish . . .”
“Right, yes.”
The prison guard walked to his perch at the end of the room. Finn leaned forward in his seat, looked at Brennan intently, and spoke in a voice Brennan could barely hear.
“When you went to the black church, what did you see there?”
“Nothing of note.”
“You carried the sacks of . . . rubbish . . . from the pub and deposited them by the church.” Brennan nodded, keeping his eyes on the man across the way. “You thought that looked like a good place to leave the bags.”
“I did, yes.”
“Because . . .” Finn prompted him.
“Because there was nobody around and . . .”
“And?”
“It couldn’t do much harm. The place looked more like a rubbish tip than the grounds of a church. A few more bags wouldn’t look out of place. What are you getting at, Finn? Is there a problem?”
“What else was there?” Finn’s voice was so low now that Brennan had to rely on lip-reading to follow the conversation.
“There was . . .” He pictured the scene in his mind, then shook his head. “Just old, broken furniture, other bags of rubbish. Looked as if nobody had cleared the place out in recent times.”
“And there was an abandoned refrigerator, or freezer . . .”
Yes, a banged-up freezer with refuse stacked on top of it. Brennan had added Finn’s things to the pile.
“Right.”
Finn stared at him for a few seconds, then said, “And you don’t know what was in it.”
“No. The lid was closed, weighed down by all the bags. I didn’t give it any thought. At the time.” He was giving it some thought now.
“Brennan.”
Brennan was perfectly still. He didn’t like where this seemed to be going.
Finn said, “Pay attention to me here. You must promise me, you must swear to me, that you will say nothing about this conversation. Not to anyone. Do you understand me?”
He stared at his uncle without speaking.
“Not to the gardaí.” He stopped and waited for Brennan’s assent.
Brennan responded with a single nod of his head.
“Not to Leo Killeen.”
Brennan hesitated. Finn waited.
Finally, Brennan said, “All right.”
“Not to Michael O’Flaherty, not to Monty Collins, not to a living soul.”
What was coming? But Brennan had a very good idea of what it was. And if Finn, if anyone, was going to entrust his secrets to him, he had to give his assurance that the matter would remain confidential. He made a vow. “You have my word, Finn.”
Finn looked at the prison warders and at his fellow inmates. Their attention was elsewhere. He said to Brennan, “The vandal is dead. His body had been stuffed into that freezer.”
Brennan had known it was coming, but it was still a shock.
“Nobody is to know about this until I find out what is going on, who this man is, or was, and who had the motive to put two bullets in the back of his head.”
“This is dreadful.”
“Larry Healey found the body when he picked up the items you placed there. He put all the bags in the van, then took the precaution of looking inside the freezer. I’ll spare you the description he gave me. He has transported the body . . . elsewhere. For now. That is how it’s going to be, until you hear otherwise from me.”
Brennan stared at Finn, his mind racing. He was aiding and abetting someone in the commission of a criminal offence. Whatever it was called, it was a crime. And there was a moral dimension that he would have to sort out as well. But for now . . . was there any chance his uncle was wrong? “Finn, how do you know this was the man who defaced the pub? Couldn’t it be some other . . .”
“The body was badly decomposed — Healey had quite a time with it! Wrapped it up in big sheets of plastic — packing material we have in the vehicles — and got it into the van. But the man’s clothing was splattered with green paint. It’s him, Brennan. I don’t know his name, but he’s the vandal. We have to find out who he was, who he was writing about, and who executed him and dumped him there. The killer obviously chose the side of the church for the same reason you did: piles of rubbish left there, the freezer, and nobody interested in it. I have no idea what’s going on, but it involves my pub and my clientele. I want to know this before the peelers do. There’s not much I can do from here, and I can’t have anyone else knowing about it.”
Brennan had just been promoted from property crimes to the murder squad. The assignment was even less palatable to him now, but he could no longer entertain thoughts of staying on his bar stool and leaving it all up to Michael O’Flaherty. Brennan had no illusions about his own qualifications for the job; he had been inches from the body and had not even known it was there.
He had
to make an effort to concentrate when Finn began to question him again, after checking once more to see who, if anyone, was paying attention. A few glances came their way. Finn waited until they refocused on their own affairs. Then he opened a new line of inquiry. “When you did the cleaning up for me . . .”
“Yes . . .”
“Downstairs, the cellar, all that. Did you happen to notice where a couple of bricks had, em, come loose?”
“I’m not sure whether I noticed that.” Brennan tried to get his mind off the dead man, and to recall his exploration of the tunnel beneath the pub. Yes, he could picture the loose bricks now.
“There was something in there,” Finn said, then mouthed the words, “A gun. Black.”
That struck a chord with Brennan. He had heard something about a black gun. What was it? He tried to remember, as Finn watched him intently from across the table. Then he had it: Kevin, the young fellow who used to do maintenance work at the pub in the mornings, had with some reluctance told Brennan about a gun, black in colour, which had been hidden in the tunnel. Kevin had been curious about it and had looked for it the day after one of the graffiti incidents, but it wasn’t there. Well, there was no point in getting Kevin in trouble by telling Finn about the young lad’s interest. The gun was gone, and Kevin McDonough hadn’t been the one to take it.
All Brennan said was “There was nothing like that in the cellar. Nothing in that cubbyhole. It wasn’t there.”
The news was not well received. Finn looked disturbed, and continued to be preoccupied until Brennan got up and took his leave.
Michael
“Either your mirror is being kind to me, or I really do look quite handsome for an oul fella.” It was Saturday and Michael was on a shopping excursion. He looked over his shoulder at the sales clerk, a young woman with wavy brown hair nearly to her waist.
“Sure, the colour sets off your eyes, sir,” she said.
“Father.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I’m Father O’Flaherty. I’m usually dressed in black.”
“Ah. Well, the light blue in the shirt. It suits you, Father. And the tweed jacket has the blue and the grey, like —”
“Like my hair, you’re thinking. Admit it now.”
“No, I wasn’t thinking that, honestly. The grey goes well with the blue, that’s all.”
“True, it does. And my hair’s as white as . . . where could I get myself a white flower for my lapel?”
“Just round the corner. At Morley Bloom’s. I’ll pop over there and get one for you, Father, if you could mind the shop for a bit.”
“Lovely! I will, yes.”
Michael moved over to the counter and assured a couple of arriving customers that the “boss” would be back in a minute. It wasn’t much more than that when she returned with a white rose in her hand. She attached it to his lapel, patted it into place, and stood back.
“The perfect touch,” she announced.
“Thank you, my dear! I’ll just stuff my old clothes in the shopping bag. Now, what are the damages?”
Well, that cost me a packet, Michael said to himself as he emerged in Nassau Street late that afternoon. But it was worth it. And wasn’t it kind of Morley to send him the white rose as a gift! Everyone was kind over here, God bless them and save them. And it had been years since he had treated himself to a little sartorial elegance. Brennan and Monty would have something to say about this, and they’d be sure to tie it in with the evening ahead. Yes, they were just like two little brothers. Best to ignore them. The three men and Kitty Curran had plans for an evening of music together. In fact, Monty was going to provide the music himself. Michael hailed a cab and asked the driver to take him to Christy Burke’s. The driver was nearly the same age as Michael by the look of things. No retirement for some of us.
“Mountjoy Street,” the fellow said.
“That’s it.”
“Bit of trouble over there lately. There’s no respect for property these days. But I suppose Finn’s grateful it’s not something worse.”
Before Michael could formulate a reply, the driver leaned on his horn and swerved suddenly to avoid a lorry taking a wide turn in front of them. Michael was thrown against the door.
“Are you all right there?”
“I’m fine, no worries, thank you,” Michael assured him.
“Where would you be from now, sir? You sound Irish but there’s a little bit of something else there.”
“You are correct. I live in Halifax, Nova Scotia. A few short hours away from here on a seven forty-seven.”
“Sure, you’re right. It’s just the next parish over!”
They kept up the chatter until they reached Christy’s and Michael bade him a warm goodbye. He went inside and found Brennan and Monty seated at a table near the door.
“Michael!”
“Good afternoon, Brennan.”
“We nearly gave up on you. Sit down. What will you have?”
“Em, let me see now.”
“Well, aren’t you going to sit?”
“Certainly, yes, yes. I’ll put my order in and join you in a jiffy.” Nothing to say about my attire? “Good day to you, Monty.”
“Hi, Mike. What have you been up to?”
Wasn’t it obvious? Or did he see Michael O’Flaherty dressed in Donegal tweed every day of the year?
“I’ve been shopping!”
“Oh! What did you buy?”
“Are you two blind, or are youse blind drunk? I have a new suit of clothes.”
“We know, Mike, we’re just taking the mickey out of you,” Brennan said. “You look very dashing. And, I would guess, you’ll be next to irresistible in the eyes of any persons of the opposite sex who catch sight of you tonight.”
“Oh, go on out of that! I was due for some new garments, so might as well go for quality, eh? Are you not teaching today?”
“I did, this morning. The schedule varies from day to day, which suits me fine.” He raised a glass of whiskey and smiled.
Everyone was in place again, Michael noticed. But then, he was becoming a regular himself! He was greeted by O’Hearn, Madigan, Fanning, and Shanahan. The four targets of investigation.
Frank Fanning scoped out Michael’s new look, then cast a critical eye over Monty and Brennan. “You’re making your companions look a little shabby there, Michael.”
“Can’t be helped, Frank. Some of us are meant to stroll the boulevards in splendour!”
The Cobblestone pub was in Smithfield Plaza on the north side of the Liffey. The area was a mix of rundown Georgian houses and jarringly modern buildings. The pub was on the corner; the upper storeys were a cream colour, the ground floor a dark green with multi-paned windows. Michael and his friends squeezed their way inside. There was a traditional music session underway, with fiddlers and a mandolin player sitting around a table between the end of the bar and the front windows. Brennan kept walking, so Michael and the others followed him. A blues session was taking place in the back room, where there were a few dozen people seated and others standing. Monty had met some of the musicians earlier and, one way or another, found himself invited to be in the spotlight with a borrowed guitar and the harmonica that accompanied him everywhere he went. Unlike Michael, he knew the dress code. Michael was the most formal person in the room, in his new ensemble, with a skirted and white-bloused Kitty a close second. Monty was wearing a pair of faded jeans and a grey T-shirt and he looked as if he hadn’t shaved for a day or two; he didn’t look out of place. Brennan’s appearance was much the same. Well, no matter.
They all ordered drinks. Monty got up, introduced himself, and expressed his appreciation for the opportunity to perform. He announced that he would be doing a few numbers by a fellow by the name of Muddy Waters. This met with approval from the people scattered throughout the pub, so the name must have been we
ll known. Monty’s first song was “You Can’t Lose What You Ain’t Never Had.” It was hard to think of Monty as a respected barrister and solicitor while he was singing this earthy music. Michael particularly enjoyed a sad song called “St. James Infirmary.” Things got down and dirty after that, when Monty launched into “Hoochie Coochie Man.”
Michael realized he had been gazing at Kitty while the blues wailed on in the pub. What a lovable face she had, full of mischief and fun. She could look very serious too at times, very thoughtful. She must have been a pretty girl in her day and she was pretty now. Mid-fifties, he knew. A good fifteen years or so younger than Michael himself. His mind wandered to a place he rarely allowed it to go. What would his life be like now if he had not given himself, body and soul, to the celibate priesthood of the Catholic Church? What would it be like if he were a “regular guy” and had met Kitty Curran, and she had not become a nun . . . Go on out of that, O’Flaherty; this is your last whiskey of the night!
He looked over and saw Brennan’s eyes on him. Now there was a man who knew a thing or two about the world of women. A fine priest he was; Michael wasn’t judging him. Brennan had come to the priesthood a very worldly young man, unlike Michael; hard to give it up once it becomes a habit. But Brennan had undergone a profound religious experience recently after an episode of unchaste behaviour, and he seemed to have embarked on a new life of priestly purity. God had handled the Brennan Burke situation masterfully, in Michael’s opinion. Michael sent a little mea culpa to the Man Above, for being so presumptuous as to pass judgement on His actions. Brennan had gone on a road trip to Italy with Monty and had fallen into the arms of a woman when he was there, breaking his priestly vows. This wasn’t the first time but, to be fair to Brennan, he had had very few of these lapses in the quarter century he had been a priest. And the guilt that was invisible to others, thanks to Brennan’s cool exterior, was evident to Michael when they had become well acquainted. When Brennan came home to Halifax after his Roman holiday, he was haunted by his sinful actions and seemed fearful that he had put his priesthood in jeopardy. A talented musician, Brennan had been composing a new setting of the Mass, the Missa Doctoris Angelici, dedicated to St. Thomas Aquinas. After the Italian adventure, he seemed to have lost his ability to write music. But God had a surprise in store for him. Instead of punishing him, and taking away his musical gift, He did the opposite. He showered upon Brennan His love and grace, and enabled him to compose music of unearthly beauty, as if to say, “There. That is what I have given you. What have you given Me?” That was the way to handle Brennan Burke. Michael had come upon him on his knees, arms straight out as if on the cross, in silent prayer and repentance, when he thought he was alone before the altar at St. Bernadette’s. His knees must have been black and blue for weeks, so much time did he spend kneeling and thanking God and promising never to fail Him again! Michael had faith in Brennan. Well, time would tell.
