White Church, Black Mountain

by Thomas Paul Burgess

  He put the phone down and looked hard at Eban.

  “One condition: when you’ve done, you’re going to meet with our psychiatric people for an evaluation. You’re in need of some serious help my friend.”

  Eban burst out laughing. He threw his head back and roared. It was the funniest thing he’d heard all day. He gradually became aware of how that must appear to the senior policeman across the table. Eventually he gestured sideways with his head.

  “And what about Harvey… my big white rabbit?”

  20

  When they entered the interview room, the harsh light from the overhead fluorescent strip was enough to make Eban blink and squint.

  “Did you say interview room or interrogation room?” he said sardonically.

  “We don’t do that kind of thing.”

  Eban raised his eyebrows cynically.

  “Here, I mean.”

  Watson had taken off his jacket which he hung on a peg behind the door, and was now rolling up his shirt sleeves. He’d brought with him a pillow for the small of his back, which pained him like a toothache when he sat for too long.

  Eban, seeing this, crossed and hung his own overcoat on top of Watson’s jacket. He returned to the table and began to arrange his files in front of him again.

  Watson observed this uncomfortably. For a moment the policeman considered crossing back and removing his coat from under Eban’s.

  Maybe placing it on his chair back. But he knew how this would look.

  Certainly insulting.

  Possibly weak.

  Instead he sat down and watched this enigma across from him busy himself in preparation for he knew not what.

  He saw how the sweat stuck to Eban’s clothes. Thought he caught a whiff of fetid arse crack from him. Wondered about fleas and lice; the parasites that may now be crawling from this man’s rag into the very fabric of his Donegal tweed jacket.

  He suppressed a shudder.

  The office was a standard enough affair.

  Almost identical to the one in which Eban had seen the fat man answering questions on his journey to Watson’s room.

  There was an elaborate recording device on the desk between them and a file of blue-lined A4 paper for Watson to make notes. Two biro pens, one red, one black, sat on top.

  Eban thought that the conicaled, cushioned walls seemed acoustically designed to deaden or muffle noise, for some reason that he couldn’t fathom. They reminded him of a padded cell.

  Maybe just his imagination.

  Because he had imagined this room and this exchange many, many times before.

  In his dreams.

  In his fantasies.

  “What, no two-way mirror?” Eban feigned disappointment.

  Watson ignored him.

  Instead he cleared his throat and pushed the record buttons on the desk machine. Then, looking at his watch, he made a note of the time on his pad and began, in a rather officious tone.

  “Just to take you through the standard operating protocols, as a general rule, cases are examined in chronological order starting with the earliest – but there are some exceptions. We sometimes review cases out of sequence; maybe because an elderly relative is in poor health, or because a number of violent events are linked…”

  Eban was not looking at him, but rather removing a pen and paper from one of his own folders.

  He began to write.

  “Say that again,” he suddenly fired at Watson; more an instruction than a request.

  “What?”

  “The bit about violent events being linked.”

  “Well, you obviously heard me the first time.”

  Eban stopped writing and looked up.

  Slowly, he smiled at the detective with what seemed to Watson to be some degree of perceived advantage. Like a chess player who has surrendered his piece, safe in the knowledge that he is three moves ahead of his opponent. Watching him, amused, like a cat with a mouse.

  As cryptically as he could manage, Eban said, “You see, Detective Watson: you’re making breakthroughs already!”

  Dan Watson became aware that he was being drawn into some sort of mind game.

  He found this irritating in the extreme.

  “Yes, we make exceptions within stated protocols, or – as in your case – against all our better instincts and judgement, we may do someone a special…” He paused for effect. “Call it a family favour.”

  The sarcasm was not lost on Eban, who batted it back. “And I’m eternally grateful.”

  Watson returned to his procedural preamble rather wearily. He knew it off verbatim.

  “In order to ensure consistent professional investigation standards, the HET has developed a process through which every case is taken. Firstly, Collection and Assessment. This includes the recovery and examination of existing records and exhibits. Secondly, Review. Here cases are examined to determine whether any further investigative or evidential opportunities exist. Next…”

  He looked up from the notes he’d been writing as he spoke, and paused for effect and emphasis.

  “… and in cases so deemed applicable and warranted, reinvestigation may be judged to be necessary. If the review finds any new evidence or possible lines of inquiry, these are followed up and criminal charges may be brought.”

  The detective was making it clear that he would remain final arbiter of Eban’s petition.

  Eban was beginning to become impatient. “Look, is all this really necessary? I’m interested in a resolution. In justice… I imagine you’d call it ‘closure’.”

  Watson carried on, undeterred. “In some cases a resolution could involve judicial proceedings. For all families it will include the provision of a written report addressing the specific questions they have asked.”

  “And my specific question is: where is that man? Is he alive or dead?” Eban was deliberately confrontational in tone. “And what do you propose to do to find out?”

  Watson raised his voice a little to convey both authority and disdain. “The Historical Enquiries Team has full support from within the police service and maintains close links with other agencies including the police ombudsman for Northern Ireland, Forensic Science Northern Ireland and the Northern Ireland Office.”

  Eban shrugged his shoulders. “So what are we waiting for? Let’s get started.”

  Dan Watson looked at him as he would an idiot child.

  “Just so as I’m clear, Mr Barnard: you want us to investigate the serious assault or possible murder of someone currently unnamed… in 1970? If I authorise a team – a very overworked and under-staffed team, I might add – to take this on, will you drop this nonsense concerning your responsibility for the murder of your brother?”

  Eban placed his pen on the desk, folded his arms and sat bolt upright. “Absolutely not!”

  “Then I’m not sure that I’m prepared to help you with this.”

  For a long moment Eban said nothing. He glared straight at the detective with barely disguised rage. Then, disconcertingly, slowly, he began to smile.

  As before, some inner calm that he had not thought himself capable of, until today, was seeping through him.

  Dousing the fires.

  Calming his nerves.

  Eventually, he spoke.

  “Oh come on Watson! Aren’t you even a little intrigued? Won’t you dig just a little? God knows what you think of me, but I’m not mad you know. What was it Sherlock Holmes said? ‘Whenever you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains – however improbable – must be the truth.’”

  He was beaming at the policeman now. Clearly enjoying the game. “Elementary really… you should know that.”

  Watson fought an urge to punch this man in the face. But Eban Barnard had never looked more like his dead brother Alex than at this precise moment. Worse still, Watson couldn’t shake the feeling that this man was toying with him. Pushing his buttons for the fun of it.

  It made him angry.

  He abruptly shot out a long le
g and kicked the wire wastepaper basket across the room. It clattered into the metal filing cabinet, startling Eban.

  It had the desired effect.

  In an eye-blink, Dan Watson came from behind his desk, drawing himself up to his full six feet three inches.

  “Suppose you tell me what the fuck you’re playing at?” He rolled his shirt sleeves further up in a menacing manner.

  Eban was not cowed. “Suppose I do… will you sit still long enough to listen; to hear me out?”

  Watson smiled. He loosened the top two buttons on his shirt, pulled down the knot in his tie and with deliberation, returned to his seat. He plumped the cushion on his chair and – pushing himself back – stretched out his long legs and crossed his feet on the desk top.

  He made a little spire with his fingertips beneath his chin. “Shoot.”

  “You might not like what you’re going to hear.”

  “Goes with the territory.”

  Eban too adjusted himself in his chair, getting comfortable, settling in for a long session, warming now to his task.

  “Are you a churchgoing man, detective?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Me neither…”

  As he spoke he was taking out newspaper clippings from one of his folders and arranging them so as they now faced the policeman.

  “… but that’s where it all begins – or rather, ends – for me: in church.”

  Watson bent forward and read aloud. “The Newry Reporter, August 1991.” He looked up at Eban quizzically.

  Eban spoke dryly, by way of explanation, “It’s from my collection.”

  “First 1970; now 1991? Do you mind telling me…?”

  Eban chuckled and pointed at him. “The Historical Enquiries Team… right?”

  Detective Watson did not appreciate the pun.

  Watson continued to read aloud. “Groom-To-Be Defies ‘Get Out’ Order: One of the six Newry men who have been ordered by the IRA to leave Ireland by noon on Saturday says he is being wrongly accused and will not leave. With an apparent stalemate in negotiations, two local men have claimed sanctuary in Newry Cathedral and continue with their campaign to have the threat of IRA violence against them lifted. I remember this; it was in all the papers… but what’s it got to do with you, or with Alex, or this mysterious ‘victim’ from 1970 for that matter?”

  Eban could taste vindication.

  At last he had the captive audience that he had dreamed and schemed and ached and suffered for. He pulled his chair closer to Watson and leaned right across the table. He rested his upturned hands under the glare of the powerful desk lamp. And for a moment, he seemed to trace the deeply ingrained lifelines that criss-crossed his palms. As if he were searching for something there.

  When he spoke, it was in little more than a whisper.

  “I spent some time there, in that cathedral – with them, I mean; babysitting them, you might say. God knows they needed it…”

  The reminiscence seemed to grip him and Dan Watson saw that this strange, troubled man was being transported by the recollection of things past.

  When Eban spoke again it was as if he were talking to himself.

  He looked right through the police officer.

  Right through the walls of the room.

  To somewhere he was compelled to return to.

  “What is it they say, detective: no good deed goes unpunished?”

  21

  Outside Newry Cathedral,

  August 1991

  Sledger zipped up his Adidas top full to the throat and pulled his baseball cap down low.

  He sucked air in through his nose, into the back of his throat, hocked up from deep within and spat.

  The green phlegm resembled wallpaper paste.

  He did a little dance on the balls of his feet, to keep warm.

  The evening light had faded early.

  Beside him stood a smaller man.

  Similarly clad in green, gold and white sportswear, he dug his hands in his pockets and retracted his pink, shaven penis-head back into his shoulders like a tortoise foreskin.

  Gold ear studs and neck chains on both men sparkled in the Lucozade street lights.

  This was their third night on watch.

  They stood below a savage wall mural asserting From the Ashes of ‘69 arose the Provos. Two enormous figures – balaclavaed and clutching AK-47s – made the point more forcefully than any words could convey.

  Tootsie, the smaller man, craned his neck and looked upward at the glow illuminating the stained glass window, high in the basilica above them. Occasionally it revealed a momentary or passing contour. The objects of their attention moved in shadows and silhouettes across a square of light, set in the stone walls of Newry Cathedral.

  Tootsie became animated.

  “Was that one, Sledge; was it – was that one?”

  The organ grinder grinned at the antics of the monkey. “I told you… calm the fuck down.”

  “Never mind calm down! They’re fuckin’ hoods!”

  Tootsie seemed to consider something for a moment, and suddenly, with indignation, announced, “I was baptised in there you know!”

  The heavyset man smiled. “I heard you were an altar boy.”

  “Certainly I was… what about it?”

  Sledger turned to him and smiled slowly. “Altar boys take it up the arse.”

  Tootsie pulled a shape in front of him, all shoulders and neck pushing forward in mock bravado. “You’re not too big for a slap!”

  Sledger raised his eyebrows and grinned through nicotine-stained teeth, with ‘as if’ derision. “Away and get some sleep… you’re hallucinatin’ again.”

  “Away yerself! I’m on ‘til two o clock. Seamy will take over from me then.”

  “Away home. They’ll hardly come out now, after all their pissing around.”

  His tone dropped menacingly and he spoke as if to himself. “They know well enough what they’ll get when they do.”

  “Who’s gonna do them, Sledge… are you gonna do them?

  The small man’s rat-like features were earnest.

  Excited. “I’ll fuckin’ do them if you want?

  Sledger did a little dance on the balls of his feet again to keep warm.

  He looked like he might be sparring with an invisible opponent. “Remember you tried to get us season tickets for the match at Parkhead against the Huns? Remember the length of the waiting list?”

  Tootsie, puzzled, nodded his assent.

  “Well…” Sledger rose up on his toes and stretched his neck, extending his head left and right. There was a cracking sound. “… Get in fucking line.”

  The small man became animated again.

  “Look… LOOK! There’s one of the fuckers now!”

  He pointed at the window and gesticulated wildly. He cupped his hands and shouted.

  “Go on, you scumbag cunts… you can run but you can’t hide. You’ll have to come out some time!”

  22

  For five days now the nerves of Newry town and the surrounding environs of the border counties had been stretched snare-drum tight.

  The usual suspects had mobilised.

  Marginals, wannabes, hangers-on, under flags of convenience.

  Rabble-rousers.

  Wasters and chancers.

  Young men with nothing better to do.

  And genuine, 100% psychopaths.

  All desperately seeking a catalyst.

  All primed for a knee-jerk reaction.

  All craving the catharsis of recriminatory violence.

  Reckless excess was abroad and draped in the pseudo-credibility of ‘community justice’.

  Local law and order was in limbo by decree of the Provisional IRA Army Council.

  A virtual no-go area had been created.

  And dozens of Sledgers and Tootsies had loudly declared allegiance to their community by perversely turning upon their own.

  Incidents of insidious and actual intimidation had become commonplace.


  Thanks to the strategic employment of ‘suspect devices’, a relentless, round-the-clock constriction of the arteries of roads, streets and estates surrounding the cathedral rendered the town virtually paralysed.

  It was a parochial, insular, dirty little squabble and it required understanding as such.

  In that regard, Eban Barnard, some forty miles away in Belfast – under-informed and out of his depth – was inadvertently about to make a very bad call.

  “You can’t be fuckin’ serious?”

  “Look Eban, I can tell you anything you want to hear, right? But the bottom line is, we’re in over our heads here!”

  “You’re telling me!”

  Philip Walters was getting annoyed now. He knew well enough what he was asking.

  Barnard wasn’t making it any easier.

  He nuzzled the telephone closer into his shoulder with his chin and tried again to keep his voice low, but he couldn’t help but sound somehow conspiratorial.

  Did Barnard think for a moment that he wanted this shit-storm to be dropped in his lap?

  For his staff to be locked down in some bloody cathedral, minding some shit-scared kids who had called down the wrath of the local heavies?

  He sighed deeply and began again. Appealing now in more conciliatory fashion.

  “Besides… isn’t this supposed to be what community relations work is all about?”

  It was the only card he had and he’d played it early, far from confident that Eban Barnard gave a good fuck as to what community relations work was supposed to be about.

  Eban looked again at the urgent fax Walters had sent him.

  The manager sensed an opportunity in the pregnant pause at the other end of the line and rushed to take it.

  “Families Against Intimidation and Terror – they do good work, Eban; they run a support service for fellas who’ve been intimidated out of their own areas. The two lads holed up in the cathedral, they’re both seventeen; they’ve already been beaten with iron bars and baseball bats in their own beds for God’s sake!”

  He didn’t know if this was true but it sounded good.

  Another silence followed.

  In for a penny, in for a pound… thought Walters, and screwed up his face as he delivered the medicine. “There’s something else… just so as you know: the IRA say they were committing ‘crimes against their community’.”