White Church, Black Mountain

by Thomas Paul Burgess

  The phone buzzed again in his pocket.

  Christ, she was one horny bitch!

  Eban Winston Barnard talked on.

  39

  The Cardinal’s Residence,

  Diocese of Dromore

  August 1991

  There were three figures seated around an ornate oval table.

  They sat in shadow, the dimly lit lamps barely penetrating the gloom of the chamber.

  The two petitioners appeared to flank their superior.

  Or so he seemed, by virtue of the high-backed, immaculately tooled and carved oak-and-leather chair that he sat in.

  It resembled nothing less than a throne.

  The heavy man sat back, deep into its recesses.

  He rubbed at his temples beneath a shock of unkempt steel-grey hair.

  It was clear that he had been disturbed from his slumbers.

  Tall, well-stocked floor-to-ceiling bookcases covered every wall in the room save for those housing the doorway and the black slate fireplace.

  An imposing portrait of the Sacred Heart of Jesus hung above this, the Christ gesturing toward that odd little red mound, surrounded by thorns and blazing with celestial light.

  The first priest cleared his throat and spoke.

  “Eminence, we must consider the bigger picture.”

  His confederate followed swiftly. “Hearts and minds, Eminence… hearts and minds.”

  The Cardinal pinched the bridge of his nose where his spectacles had previously rested.

  “My God, I feel like Pilate going before the mob.” He seemed perplexed. “This is really too much…” he protested.

  The first priest saw an opportunity. “Then give them Barabbas!” he exhorted.

  Again his colleague spoke. They were clearly a well-rehearsed double act on matters of lobbying. “And on a simple technicality – the building… we are not insured, Eminence.”

  The Cardinal seemed thoughtful. He turned it over in his mind for a moment. “People are watching. Only today I saw it on the television news. Public opinion and all that.”

  “The world has no interest, Eminence. It is a storm in a tea cup,” said the first priest, careful to ensure that this did not sound like an admonishment.

  “The clergy at the cathedral gave full access to the men’s families. But they became concerned that their supporters were coming and going in a way which was incompatible with the cathedral’s role as a place of worship.”

  “It is also the effects of the activities of their supporters on cathedral routine,” said the other.

  “The focus of the campaign has changed, Eminence.”

  “When the two men entered, they were asking protection and sanctuary be provided by the church against threats to their lives. As the situation has deteriorated however… well… the premises have been used as a faculty from which to plan and run a campaign by non-church groups.”

  “You asked us for counsel, Eminence, and we are now of the view that the men and their families must choose… choose between running such a campaign and having the protection of the church.”

  “Remember your flock – your own people… these are difficult times for the church,” added the second.

  They worked him like two sheepdogs.

  Nipping and snapping at his heels.

  Driving him toward the open gate.

  The Cardinal leaned forward in his chair.

  The priests could see from his expression that they had misjudged the extent of their immoderation.

  “Do not suppose to lecture me on the challenges facing Mother Church…”

  Both were contrite. “No Eminence,” they whispered.

  “… nor on the hearts and minds of Christian people.”

  The first priest stole a cautious glance at his comrade. It seemed to say, ‘tread warily’.

  “Of course, Eminence.”

  “Again – who is the parish priest caught up in all this down there?”

  “Father Cudden; a very…” – the Priest chose his words carefully – “able communicator, Eminence. We are in constant contact with him.”

  The stout man sighed heavily and shook his head. “This is a very delicate conundrum.”

  “But a civil matter, Eminence; ultimately a civil matter nonetheless.”

  The Cardinal lifted his spectacles from atop a sheaf of papers, and squinting at the pages asked, “And the petition?”

  The first priest was caught momentarily unawares and scurried hastily through his notes.

  “Ahhh… let me see… from the county of Tyrone; a Father Frank Connolly. An uncle, I believe. A peripheral concern, Eminence… left his best behind him in the Missions.”

  He allowed himself a smile of smug superiority.

  The Cardinal, seeing this, reached across the table and snatched the priest’s cuff. He turned the man’s hand over, palm up.

  “And your best, Ambrose – where might we locate it, eh? In the Blackfriars library or the reading rooms of some theological college, nursing a sherry or a fine cognac perhaps?”

  The man was instantly ingratiating in his clarification. “Eminence, I simply meant—”

  “Quiet now,” the Cardinal interrupted. “I’m tired and I have devotions later.”

  The two Priests began to shuffle and gather their papers together. The second tentatively pressed home his brief. “And your decision, Eminence?”

  The Cardinal retuned to massaging his temples wearily.

  “We all three know what will happen to them on their expulsion. The absence of war does not guarantee the peace.”

  “These things are happening every other day, Eminence.” He made it sound paltry. Of no significance. He made it sound like the most natural thing in the world.

  “Have these two young men attended confession… sought forgiveness?”

  The two priests spoke in unison. “No, your Eminence.”

  He sank back into the recesses of his chair. “The ignorant neither forgive nor forget; the naive forgive and forget; the wise forgive but never forget.”

  The priests sensed an opportunity.

  “These young thugs… they urinate in the flower beds…”

  “Condoms in the sacristy… they mock us.”

  “And what of compassion?” asked the Cardinal, as much to himself than the men.

  “The compassion of our Lord Jesus Christ and the Holy Mother Church is infinite,” intoned the first. The second fingered his rosary and nodded in agreement.

  The Cardinal was silent.

  The men gathered up their briefcases and moved toward the door.

  The Cardinal called after them. “Be in no hurry to turn them out. There is no witness so terrible, no accuser so powerful as the conscience which dwells within us.”

  He rose and tied the belt of his silk dressing gown around his girth.

  “You shall have my decision in the morning.”

  40

  Inside the Cathedral Vestry

  5am

  Anthony Francis Gatusso seemed to possess the ability to move between states of high excitement and anxiety, to complete comatose REM repose at the drop of a hat.

  If people did not know him any better, they might have assumed that his capacity to slip into sudden dreamless sleep suggested the clear conscience and easy demeanour of a complete innocent.

  Now he sat propped up on his elbows inside his sleeping bag, blowing smoke rings into the air above his head. Seemingly oblivious to his plight and to all those around him.

  Eban’s eyes stung from the smoke and the exhaustion.

  He flicked through the well-thumbed copy of The Pan Book of Horror and Ghost Stories that one of his predecessors had left behind.

  The cover showed a severed head in a bucket.

  Looking at Anto, he wondered at his charge’s apparent indifference to his plight.

  He wondered how that might feel?

  No baggage. No regrets.

  Burn it all fucking down. Laughing all the while.

>   Ruairí sat on the couch, going through Sinéad’s rucksack, apparently looking for something. The girl emerged a little unsteadily from the toilet area, wiping her mouth.

  Eban surmised that she had just thrown up again.

  The outside noise seemed to have abated somewhat.

  There was an almost peaceful silence, the first time he had consciously noted this since his arrival.

  The radio droned on, on low volume. Talking heads mumbling incoherently.

  Suddenly the moment was shattered by the blaring, self-important theme tune that indicated news at the top of the hour.

  Anto reacted first. “Eban, mate… turn that up will ye?”

  Eban reached across and twisted the dial. It was BBC Radio Ulster. The local bulletin.

  No-one spoke.

  No-one needed to.

  *

  By the time the weather forecast had begun and before Eban could turn down the volume, all had in some way made their peace with the updated news.

  The forces reigned against them had conceded nothing.

  Instead they had ratcheted up their campaign another notch.

  If either of the men were wounded by this, they did not show it.

  Ruairí Connolly’s face was a stone mask of concentration on nothing in particular.

  Anthony Gatusso continued to blow smoke rings.

  Only Sinéad Farran seemed moved by the reports.

  She winced as if someone had struck her across the face and returned to ravenously gnawing on her fingernails.

  Eban was lost for something to say.

  Instead he moved over to the large stained glass window and looked below.

  Ruairí saw him. ‘Eban, stay away from the window.”

  Suddenly, unexpectedly, the room detonated.

  Four hammer-blows fell heavily on the outside of the door.

  Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!

  For a moment the whole interior seemed to sway like a ship in a storm, then right itself again.

  All three young people looked instantly terrified.

  First at the door.

  Then at Eban.

  He felt the weight of their fear and expectation and it rocked him back on his heels.

  Sinéad grasped at her belly. In terror. In protection of her unborn.

  Eban moved slowly, tentatively, falteringly toward the door.

  He paused before placing his hands on the large metal bolt that held it closed. Leaning forward, pushing his whole weight against it.

  “Who’s there?” His voice was shaking.

  “It’s me, Mr Barnyard; Ruairí’s mother. I’ve some groceries!”

  The relief was real.

  All physically deflated. As if a stopper had been pulled on them and the air rushed out.

  Anto cackled with mock bravado.

  Ruairí said, “Christ, Ma!” rebuking with his tone.

  Sinéad let out a little whimper of respite.

  Eban smiled and pulled the loose sleeve of his shirt across his brow.

  He took a deep breath and with both hands began to slowly slip the heavy bolt back.

  It squealed with grating compliance.

  “I’ve someone here with me.” Her tone held enough uncertainty to freeze Eban’s actions instantly.

  Both Ruairí and Anto bounded toward him, shouting, “NO, EBAN… NO… HOLD IT!”

  Eban stood like a statue, petrified.

  Eventually he found his voice.

  “Who’s out there?”

  A conciliatory voice responded.

  “It’s Father Sean Cudden, son – the family priest – and Councillor Molloy. Look… we want to help.”

  Eban was momentarily perplexed.

  His thoughts were colliding.

  All the actors in this tableau seemed to know one another.

  To know what was going on.

  Except, that was, for him.

  He had felt at a constant disadvantage since he’d arrived.

  It had irritated him.

  It had made him impatient.

  As if this whole affair was some elaborate choreography being played out by performers who knew well their parts. Knew the boundaries. The acceptable and unacceptable modes of behaviour. The lines that could and could not be crossed.

  It made him angry, and in this moment of fear and panic and hesitancy, he greedily fed off it. Righteous indignation replacing indecision and dread expectation.

  He needed to take control of himself and the situation.

  He did so by ignoring those around him for the first time since he’d arrived and – taking a deep breath – continued slipping the bolt back slowly.

  Bracing his shoulder against the wood.

  Cracking the gap a little.

  On the other side of the door stood Councillor Terry Molloy, still in Armani pinstripes.

  Beside him a stick-thin man, head-to-toe in black.

  An almost spectral figure, wearing clerical garb, completely bald and with piercing blue eyes.

  Mrs Connolly had her gaze cast down to the floor. A reluctant stooge and penitent. A Trojan Horse.

  Eban stepped away from the portal, allowing them entry.

  The priest quickly swept over the threshold.

  He wore a full-length cassock in the traditional style, buttoned from neck to hem, and clenched a rosary wrapped tightly around his knuckles.

  Sensing the indecision in the company, and seeing his chance, Father Cudden immediately claimed authority over the circumstances.

  “Ahhh, Mr Barnard, isn’t it? I’d like a word with you.”

  He made it sound officious.

  Accusatory.

  He abruptly motioned to Eban to follow him to the corner of the room.

  There he stood, arms folded and demeanour solemn, inviting a conspiratorial parley.

  Terry Molloy followed a few steps behind him like a bullwhipped puppy.

  Eban noted this as it seemed somehow absurd. Incongruous.

  Ruairí Connolly moved as inconspicuously as the cramped conditions would allow to the fringes of the gathering.

  The priest spoke first, reinforcing the notion that he was indeed on home ground.

  “I’ll come straight to the point, Mr Barnard. In the absence of any senior church authority here, I have been asked by local residents to bring this situation to a swift conclusion.”

  Eban somehow sensed that the man was bluffing. That he was acting unilaterally. He gathered his courage and spoke up to call his bluff.

  “I’ve been given strict instructions not to leave these lads unaccompanied until my colleagues arrive tomorrow morning.”

  Cudden let out a snort of derision. He looked across at Councillor Molloy and both smiled with intent.

  “The presence of these two lads in this cathedral is a blasphemy, pure and simple… and as for that one” – he gestured with his head toward Sinéad – “carrying one of their litter out of wedlock… they shouldn’t be here and that’s all there is to it!”

  Eban was taken aback at the man’s bitterness.

  At how he spat out the words.

  He felt he should say something in Sinéad Farran’s defence.

  “Steady on Father… Suffer little children, eh?”

  The priest, who had been looking around the room with an expression of extreme distaste, suddenly focused on him. The man was seething. His stone-cold blue eyes boring into Eban.

  “Is that supposed to be funny?” he demanded.

  It sounded like a challenge.

  In that moment, Eban was positive that he abhorred this individual.

  For he recognised in him the kind of man he had come to revile throughout the entirety of his frustrating life in his sorry homeland. The browbeater, the tormentor, the oppressor, the bully.

  “I see very little to laugh about here.” Eban’s mouth was like a sand box, but he said this with an unmistakable tone of defiance.

  Of challenge.

  Of confrontation.

  It was not
wasted on the priest.

  He theatrically took a step backward and methodically looked him over, head to toe, with all the qualities of a bone-deep scan.

  “Do I know you?” he remarked, running his long, bony fingers over his smooth pate.

  “I doubt it, but I think I know you… or the likes of you.”

  Molloy stepped in threateningly. “Careful, friend… you’re out of your depth here.”

  The priest leisurely raised a hand to placate Molloy, the man now searching for and drawing from some well of pseudo-magnanimity.

  He turned to Eban, grinning.

  “Look, what we have here are two bad boys, right? Now myself and Councillor Molloy have had a word with…” he paused for effect, “certain interested parties, and they tell me that if these two come out now and take their medicine like men…” – he shrugged – “then that will be the end of it.”

  He smiled like a polecat and shrugged and raised his open-palmed hands in offertory.

  The most reasonable man in the world.

  Eban’s face flushed. He clenched his fists by his side.

  “Am I to understand that you are negotiating on behalf of the IRA?”

  Again Molloy moved forward threateningly. “Oh, is that the way you want to play it?”

  Father Cudden held out an arm, barring his way. He spoke like he might to a child.

  “Terrance, huusssh now… shuusssh… that’s a good fellow.”

  All the while, he never broke his mesmeric stare on Eban, his tone more pragmatic now.

  “Look, didn’t I baptise one of them myself? All I’m saying is… it would be over very quickly and things would be back to normal again – sure, isn’t that what we all want here?”

  “I don’t think it’s what they want.”

  Eban nodded to Ruairí, who had now moved closer to the three men. “Is that what you want?”

  The priest could see that his opening gambit was not working.

  He had not expected this night watchman, this babysitter, to prove so obstinate.

  His agitation was showing and for a brief moment the mask slipped.

  He leaned closer to Eban and spoke in a lower tone, conspiratorially. “Look… sure, what’s a bullet in the leg? They’d be out of hospital and home in a couple of days and—”

  Ruairí was standing close behind the priest now. With all the sarcasm he could muster, he spoke.