Sinéad backed away from him, lay down on the couch and pulled herself into a semi-foetal position.
Conor McVey had heard enough.
He bellowed at Eban. “FOR CHRIST’S SAKE, MAN, YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE HERE TO HELP!”
the colour drained from Eban’s face in a moment of realisation followed by contrite self-awareness. McVey had his hand on his back again. The beleaguered custodian regained his composure, hissing at him, “I need to speak to you alone… NOW!”
He gestured toward the antechamber and both entered, pulling the chintz curtain that acted as a separator behind the two rooms. Of those remaining in the vestry, only Mrs Connolly spoke.
“You can make your own bloody tea, mister!”
*
The sacristy was a small room, overly packed with vases, candles, crockery, religious artefacts, PE equipment and a few theatrical props and pillows in a large wicker basket.
There had been an attempt to impose some kind of order on this untidy storeroom, but all had come undone since the arrival of the refugees.
The space was lit with paraffin lamps, bathing it in a warm orange glow.
A small wall-mounted sink and toilet were hidden behind another hung sheet acting as a partition. Two blue-and-white striped deck chairs were arranged opposite each other.
Conor McVey motioned for Eban to sit in one before sitting himself and leaning forward.
He was still obviously irate. Keeping his voice at a conspiratorial hush, he spoke. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
For a moment Eban considered standing up and walking straight back to his car.
He regathered his poise. “Look, friend, I didn’t mean to get off on the wrong foot with you here…”
McVey was somewhat chastened and reined himself in. “Let me be clear: I… we appreciate this, right? There will be other people here. You’re relieving my shift; then somebody will come to relieve you. Okay?”
McVey’s face was still close to his.
Eban drew back a little, still faintly ashamed and a little disorientated with all that had happened since his arrival at the cathedral.
Conor spoke again. “You got the letter from FAIT… right?”
Eban remained silent. It was starting to get awkward.
McVey was becoming exasperated. “You do work in community relations, right?”
Eban said nothing and began to rub his temples.
“Well, for God’s sake, say something.”
Eban finally spoke, honestly if a little defensively.
“Look, friend, I can tell you anything you want to hear, right, but the bottom line is: I’m out of my fucking depth here!”
“Well, they’ve been in here almost a full week now. So what did you think was going on here exactly?”
“They told me – I thought – that I had to babysit some Catholic kids who had called down the wrath of the local heavies.”
Conor McVey sneered sarcastically.
“Why don’t you set up a soup kitchen while you’re at it? Give out a few blankets and condoms and maybe teach us how we shouldn’t keep coal in the bath.”
Eban felt wounded. “I don’t think that there’s any need for that… to speak to me like that I mean.”
There was an awkward silence. It seemed to last forever. It was broken by McVey who sighed heavily, his whole body suddenly seeming to collapse in on itself.
Eban noticed the change in the man. “Are you okay? You look shattered.”
Conor melted somewhat. “I’m sorry. No sleep.”
Unfortunately, Eban Barnard’s propensity for ill-advised jokes to lighten the atmosphere at inappropriate times was never far away. “Guilty conscience?” He smiled.
An ice-cold, side-on glance from the beleaguered McVey told him how far off the mark he was.
“Coffee,” he said. “And lots of it. Caffeine – or you could try to get some sleep. Good luck with that!”
Eventually he extended his hand. Eban shook it.
“We do our best for fellas like these.”
He nodded at the babble of voices rising in the main room. “Those intimidated out of their own areas. The two lads in there are still in their teens… they went to work last week when they were told not to. It all kicked off after that.”
Eban spotted an opening to redeem himself. “Christ… they’re lucky to have a job around here at all.”
McVey’s lack of response suggested that he might just have taken this as another patronising remark. “They work in a scrap metal yard.”
Eban pushed on. “The radio – the IRA – says they were selling drugs to kids… were they?”
Conor McVey guffawed aloud.
“That’s rich, coming from them! It’s the paramilitaries who control the drugs! Anyhow, I don’t believe it; sounds like a handy excuse to me. This has more to do with laying down the law; setting an example; pissin’ on their territory… marking it out.”
“And the church…?”
McVey looked vexed and bent in lower, hushing his voice.
“The parish priest, Cudden, and the Cardinal himself… well, they mysteriously can’t be contacted. Suddenly nobody knows who’s in charge down here. There’s something – I don’t know – sinister going on. The rest of the church is locked; closed off to us. What you see is what you get.”
“Where’s the ecumenicists when you need them most, eh?” said Eban acerbically.
McVey wasn’t laughing. His tone was grave.
“Let’s be clear about this: they know what they’re doing. Their failure to get involved is something less than a neutral act. No condemnation of the mob’s actions… no moral leadership to the community… it’s being taken as tacit approval.”
Eban hadn’t expected that. A sin of omission. As so often in the past, moral ambiguity; ethical ambivalence from the men in black had fashioned a vacuum. And hatred had rushed in to fill it.
“But we’re – they’re – safe while they’re in here… right?” he asked anxiously.
Conor McVey paused longer than Eban would have liked.
Then, as if to convince himself as much as Eban, “Sure… sure… sanctuary and all that…”
Eban looked unconvinced.
McVey continued, speaking so as he might hear himself say the thing aloud again. “I mean, it’s a church for fuck’s sake!”
“Strange… that’s what my boss said.”
Both men looked directly at each other.
There could be no disguising their discomfort.
Each wondering what precisely they had got themselves into.
*
The moment was broken by Ruairí, who had been listening at the curtain, unseen.
He seemed to be relishing their disquiet.
He stepped into their space. “This is front-line stuff, gentleman: people get hurt; vigilante justice holds sway.”
He announced this with the swagger of a documentary-maker.
He was clearly enjoying himself.
Eban noted that he was more confident, more articulate than he might have expected.
And how his striking blue-green eyes burned with intensity and an intelligence that may or may not be malevolent.
Conor looked embarrassed. “Sorry Ruairí, I didn’t see you there.”
“People are wondering what all the talk is about. You’re making them nervous.”
“Then I suppose we should introduce Mr Barnard to his charges for the evening.”
Conor and Eban stood up and all re-entered the main vestry area.
As they pushed through the curtain, Eban felt a tug on his arm. McVey had pulled him momentarily back. He whispered quickly in his ear, “You might keep an eye out for young Sinéad. She’s well on in her pregnancy. I’ve been trying to get her to go home, but she won’t leave him.”
Ruairí jumped up on the couch and gestured at the two men.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the troubleshooters…I give you the Lone Ranger and Tonto of conflict resolution.
”
Sinéad scolded him. “You’d think you would need all the friends you could get right now.”
Ruairí appealed to the men in mock solemnity. “You are fighting against dark forces, are you not?”
He jumped off the couch, and finding a half-deflated football in a corner of the room, flicked it adroitly over to Anto, who trapped it on his knee and began to juggle with it.
Conor busied himself orientating Eban.
“Coffee and tea-making over here… sleeping bags in here… toilet just in here…”
He lifted his coat from the seat back. “Well, I’ll be off.”
Again, there was a hollow silence.
McVey was already moving toward the door.
Walking backward, almost tripping over an Adidas kit bag, he announced to all assembled, “Eban here will make sure everything goes fine. Len Kennedy will be along in twelve hours for the next shift.”
Eban blurted out, surprised, “Twelve-hour shifts! Whose fucking bright idea was that?”
Everyone stared at him. McVey glowered. “I thought we already had this conversation?”
Eban again seemed contrite. He gathered himself. “Right… you’re right.”
“See me to the door Eban, will you?”
He grabbed up some belongings and pushed them deep into a rucksack.
The two young men, Sinéad and Mrs Connolly had silently drifted toward the entrance.
They stood in a little semi-circle.
There were collective goodbyes to Conor McVey, with hugs from the women and affirmations from the council worker to ‘stay strong’.
Eban slid back the long latch-bolt. It grated with a metallic screech.
Anto shouted from behind them, “Still, it could be worse, eh Conor? I’d hate to be an Orange bastard stuck in the middle of all of this!”
The comapny immediately broke into laughter. Eban alone did not find it funny.
He hissed his concern to the departing McVey.
“What did he mean? What did he mean by that?”
Conor smiled. “Relax. He’s only winding you up. If you knew him… look, you’ll soon get to see what he’s like. Now I need to get some sleep… this lack of any decision from the diocese – to evict them or not from the church grounds – it’s doing my head in.”
Eban felt panic rising. “What if the clergy show up when I’m here? Sure, they’ll take no heed of me.”
Conor McVey was strangely Zen-like at the prospect of his own bed. “Don’t panic… don’t worry… remember, this is largely a morale-boosting exercise for them.”
He nodded back over his shoulder. “Keep their spirits up, but be careful…”
Eban’s eyes widened in alarm.
McVey noticed. “I mean sensible; be sensible – keep the door locked and keep strangers out in the hallway. One door in; one door out.”
With that, he was gone.
*
Eban swung closed the huge door behind him and bolted it.
It took a considerable effort.
It was fully seven feet tall and set solid into the arched stone surround that framed it.
He turned with some trepidation to face his new roommates.
Ruairí Connolly looked directly at him, puffed out his cheeks and exhaled resignedly.
Eban looked toward Anto, who rolled his eyes and looked heavenwards.
Taking a deep breath, Eban Barnard rubbed his hands together in a mock-efficient, businesslike manner. He shot for casual bonhomie.
“It looked like rain earlier; might keep the thugs off the streets, eh?”
“What, you think the Provos don’t have umbrellas?” said Ruairí.
“Aye – green, white and gold ones,” added Sinéad.
“Semi-automatic ones,” offered Anto.
Eban crossed to the window and pulled aside a makeshift paper blind so as to look out. Suddenly there was a surge of baying and howling from the street below.
Eban reeled back ignominiously and stumbled, catching hold of the table for support and sending cups and saucers flying.
Mrs Connolly had recommenced chain-smoking. She said wearily, “Don’t go near the windows. Anyone will tell you that.”
They all added, in mocking unison, “Yeah, don’t go near the windows.”
Eban felt stupid.
“Right… of course… don’t go near the windows.”
He looked at his watch. “Christ, it’s after twelve. Do these people not have somewhere else they’d rather be?”
Anto offered cold comfort. “The bars and clubs are closing now. There’ll be some hijinks from here on in.”
Mrs Connolly stubbed out a butt and rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands.
“They’ll be out with the megaphone again soon. The filth they scream up here at us… I hate that the most.” She nodded at Sinéad. “She shouldn’t have to listen to that.”
The uniformly grim prospects ahead of them forced Eban to reach for something.
Anything.
“Still, as long as the police are there, we’re alright. I mean, they’ll keep ‘em in line, eh?”
Anto flashed amused surprise. “You’re a long way from home.”
Ruairí was pulling the sleeping bag up under his chin.
“The feds go about two or three o’clock; sometimes earlier if there’s trouble somewhere else. Did nobody tell you that, mate?”
There was a piercing howl of static and white-noise feedback from the megaphone in the street below. A chant started up. Feral voices.
“Connolly, Connolly, Connolly… out, out, out!”
Eban reached into the overnight bag he’d brought and took out a wrinkled handkerchief.
He began to dab his brow.
“No. Nobody told me that.”
29
The Historical Enquiries Offices,
Police Service of Northern Ireland
Belfast, 2014
Sergeant Sam Coulter stood outside the door of Interview Room 1, observing, unnoticed through the glass door panel, the two men who sat opposite each other.
His boss, Dan Watson, sat with his back toward him.
Hunched over, occasionally looking up from his notes.
Pausing with his pen held above the pad. Seemingly in deep concentration, never interrupting the steady stream of words pouring from the other man across the desk.
Coulter could see the man’s face clearly.
Knew who he was and ostensibly why he was here.
His aspect was a portrait of absorption. Animated and intense.
Coulter marvelled again at the similarity of his features with those of his brother, Alex Barnard.
They might have been twins.
He looked at his watch.
They had been at it in there for pushing two hours without a break.
It must have been something that had captured Dan Watson’s imagination, for the Detective Inspector was disinclined to remain sitting for any amount of time due to the discomfort he experienced with his back.
Although his professionalism dissuaded him from breaking the punter’s flow when it was established, Coulter was about to knock on the door and enquire whether his boss wanted him to stand in for him while he took a break.
A polite cough of introduction from behind distracted him.
He turned around to see Officer Helen Totton standing with a tray holding cups, saucers and a coffee pot.
“I just thought I might get a quick word with him,” she ventured.
Coulter didn’t like the woman.
Ever since she’d arrived in their unit, it seemed to him that Helen Totton had been overly familiar.
Too self-confident.
Had pushed herself forward at every occasion and paid a little bit too much attention to her appearance.
Now there were the rumours beginning to circulate about her ambition to fast-track her career. To become overly friendly with senior officers.
He moved past her and gestured that she should
follow him. “Don’t interrupt them.”
She seemed disappointed.
“Any idea what all the fuss is about?”
“Fuss?”
“Well, everyone says that the punter is the brother of an old friend of Dan’s. His former chief, in fact… Alex Barnard?”
Coulter had been long enough in the game to recognise that she was fishing.
“What about it?”
“Nothing… just… I dunno… they’ve been in there a long time.”
“That’s not unusual.”
“I’m working late, so when Dan is done could you let him know I called by?”
Coulter hated her easy familiarity. “Detective Inspector Watson will be going home when he finishes up. Mrs Watson is expecting him.”
He felt that she banged the tray down on the kitchenette counter with just a little too much gusto.
*
Helen Totton returned to the staff rest room and sat flicking through the in-house magazine until the last of her colleagues had left.
When the room was empty, she dug into her tunic pocket and produced a cheap, disposable mobile phone.
She activated it and pressed speed-dial.
The line clicked at the other end.
“Cecil, it’s Helen… they’re still in there together. No… nothing. Yes, yes of course.”
She hung up and pocketed the mobile, replacing it in her hand with her own iPhone.
She activated the camera so as to view her own image on the screen.
Producing an ice-pink lipgloss holder, she pouted and reapplied.
30
Emily watched the children dutifully line up in the playground and file in holding hands, two by two.
The juniors in some ways presented the greatest challenge to her and her colleagues. But they offered the greatest rewards.
These little people, still forming as characters; still with so much potential, representing so much hope for the future.
But as Emily watched the dry leaves blow around the empty yard, hopeful was not how she was feeling.
Rosemary had got to work on her over recent days, rendering Emily gloomy and self-critical about her life in general, her displacement from the certainties of her home country and her lack of luck in love. When she pulled that mother hen routine, Rosemary seemed to assume she was acting in loco parentis. She spoke to Emily like she was a child, particularly in regard to the matter of Eban Barnard and his visits to her room.
White Church, Black Mountain Page 12
