White Church, Black Mountain

by Thomas Paul Burgess

  *

  He looked up at the ski poles standing against the wall, behind his own bedroom door.

  Soon he would submit his thesis, and following a surely successful viva voce, he could at last be with his darling Michael.

  Wonderful, dangerous, flamboyant, hot, sexy Michael from Berne.

  They had met last summer when Pascal was touring art galleries in Vienna and – after a whirlwind romance culminating in an explosive consummation in a mountain cabin in Klagenfurt – he had fallen irredeemably, head-over-heels in love.

  Only with Michael could he be himself.

  Rolling cigarettes on his chest in bed the morning after. Tobacco getting caught in his damp chest hair.

  Laying naked on the sheets, getting hard awaiting his return from the bathroom.

  Locked in motion, licking the salty sweat from his face, from his underarms.

  Soon they would be together again for skiing at La Plagne.

  Through letters, emails, phone calls and Skype, there had been talk of moving together to Sitges near Barcelona.

  And so his days of exile in Ireland would be over.

  But before that… his ‘coming out’ party. To his housemates at any rate.

  In the three years he had been at 15 Donnybrook Avenue, Belfast 9, he had thrown dozens of small dinner parties but never once invited any of the others.

  Soon he would shock them all by throwing one of his most lavish and announcing to Eban, Emily and Rosemary that he was a raving, steaming, rampant, proud homosexual.

  It would be worth it to see the look on Rosemary’s face.

  He smiled to himself and stood up, crossing to pull the blinds before retiring.

  The main front door remained unbarred as Eban Barnard had yet to return.

  In the street below, across from the house, sat the silver BMW 6 Series he had passed on his way in some time ago.

  In the front sat two men.

  One wearing a denim jacket, the other a bright red hooded top.

  The man in the denim jacket had smiled at him.

  Pascal thought he looked quite handsome in a sort of ‘Action Man’ way.

  Closely cropped hair, wide forehead, strong jaw with stubble.

  Like some sexy army squaddie.

  That was some three hours past.

  As he looked down he caught some movement in the front seats.

  That’s an awfully long time to be sitting out there together… maybe they are lovers; perhaps one of them married and conflicted over his sexuality, he thought.

  Il n’est rien de réel que le rêve et l’amour, he momentarily mused, before pulling the drapes closed, turning out the light and climbing into bed with faint fleeting notions of a fantasy threesome.

  42

  “It’s the legs that go first, they say.”

  “The mobility.”

  “That or upstairs.”

  “The wits.”

  “The common sense.”

  At eighty-five years of age, Eileen Breslin had heard it all before.

  As she pushed her trolley around the Iceland frozen goods supermarket, clutching her stash of discount coupons held together with an elastic band, she stopped for a word here and there with the shelf-stackers and her fellow shoppers.

  She had to be selective in her purchases of course.

  Only the less bulky items. So no heavy tinned goods or large glass bottles.

  HP Sauce; Zoflora disinfectant; a Veda loaf; those Hovis digestive biscuits that Joe liked.

  She’d have to go to Tesco’s for them.

  Then to the Post Office to pick up her pension. (Mustn’t let it lie or build up to a noticeable sum. You never know… they might take it back off of you.)

  Then to Dan Gilroy’s for her cut, mixed soup vegetables.

  Then home again.

  The walk to the bus stop.

  The ‘wee dander’ around the shops.

  It was at the very hub of her well-being.

  It got her out of the house.

  Got ‘a bit of fresh air’ blew around her.

  It helped tire her out. Helped her sleep better.

  It was about independence.

  ‘Not being a burden to no-one’ became her mantra.

  But most of all, it was about getting her day in.

  Long, unending days when nothing seemed to happen.

  No-one seemed to call.

  Well, maybe you might see the young parish priest two or three times a year.

  And someone might drop by to collect your envelopes if you couldn’t make it to Mass.

  There were the soaps.

  And the Hallmark channel. But all they seemed to show were repeats these days.

  And her books.

  Her reading.

  Where would she be without her books?

  Maeve Binchy, Cathy Kelly, Marian Keyes.

  It wasn’t that Anne was inattentive.

  A bad daughter.

  Not at all.

  A better daughter you couldn’t want or wish for.

  Anne made sure she wanted for nothing.

  A hard worker too.

  She stayed on late working at those council offices so many nights, and for no thanks.

  But she wasn’t a girl you could talk to.

  Really talk to.

  She kept so much bottled up inside her.

  Too much.

  Like her father, God rest him.

  It wasn’t healthy.

  Maybe it was why she had never married.

  But they never talked about that.

  When they did talk, it was mostly about Joe.

  Sure, wasn’t Joe worse off than any of them?

  It kept her going.

  She needed her wits about her to look after poor Joe.

  Couldn’t go under until she was sure he was sorted out.

  She knew that a fall or stumble at her age could end in disaster.

  A broken arm or hip and… well, she would no doubt go downhill very fast after that.

  And who would be there for Joe then?

  Couldn’t expect Anne to do it.

  Wouldn’t be right.

  She walked slowly, scouring the ground in front of her for raised manhole covers or uneven pavement slabs.

  Amazing, the pound coins and 20ps you’d find lying at your feet just by looking down.

  She would go to see Dr Kelly and maybe the chiropodist later in the week.

  She could pick up Joe’s prescription for his medicines, get her ears syringed and her feet done and it would get her out and about.

  A bit of fresh air.

  Put the day in.

  Joe still went through a powerful amount of dressings.

  And now he had a notion of some wee girl again.

  After all these years.

  She wanted to ask Anne if it was a good idea.

  To be opening up all that hurt again.

  About marriage and children and families and whatnot.

  After how things had finished with Delores and how depressed he’d been after it all.

  Knocked him right back, it had.

  Had to see the ‘big doctor’ about depression and all sorts.

  Anne just said that Joe was an adult and deserved a life as much as anyone else.

  Sure, didn’t she know that already… but that wasn’t the point.

  She wasn’t a mother.

  She didn’t understand.

  It would be good to get back in.

  Get a bit of dinner on for the both of them coming in.

  Have a cup of tea and a lie on the sofa with the rug around her.

  Watch Loose Women and maybe nod off for the afternoon.

  43

  Interview Room 1,

  The Historical Enquiries Offices,

  Police Service of Northern Ireland, Belfast

  The evening shift had signed in.

  The morning shift had signed out.

  And still this man talked on.

  Dan Watson had g
iven Alex Barnard’s brother the benefit of the doubt.

  He had gone the proverbial extra mile.

  He had forgone his fish-and-chip supper from the café across the street.

  He had crossed his legs rather than take a piss break.

  And he had ignored the considerable charms of Helen Totton, who was clearly up for it by dint of her numerous appearances at the interview room door and her several suggestive text messages.

  Enough was enough.

  He waited for a pause in Barnard’s story.

  None seemed forthcoming.

  He marshalled some gravitas to his tone.

  “Right Mr Barnard, I think I’ve heard enough. Thank you for taking the time to apprise me of your story regarding the two youths in Newry Cathedral. I’ve given you the better part of three hours and honestly I have to say that we seem no closer to understanding why you came in here in the first place, or what any of this has to do with Alex Barnard.”

  Watson rose to his feet, shuffling the pages in a manner conveying finality.

  Cut off in mid-sentence, Eban Barnard just stared at him open-mouthed.

  “I’m sure you’ve got somewhere to be right now… I know I have.”

  Eban whispered, almost imperceptibly, “You gave me your word.”

  Watson continued tidying things up and appeared not to hear him.

  “However, we could have some information about that 1970s assault that you may be interested in.”

  Eban lashed out with his right foot, kicking angrily against the desk. A stapler and a Sellotape dispenser fell to the floor.

  “YOU GAVE ME YOUR WORD!” he exploded at the man.

  “AND YOU SAID YOU’D EXPLAIN WHY YOU’RE DEFAMING ONE OF THE FINEST POLICE OFFICERS I HAVE HAD THE PRIVILEGE OF WORKING WITH!” Watson was surprised at how quickly he’d lost his temper. This man had a way of getting to him.

  The door opened and Sam Coulter stood halfway into the room.

  “Everything alright sir?”

  Watson flushed, a little embarrassed, but was determined to press on with his resolution.

  “Yes Sam, sorry… Mr Barnard will be leaving now.”

  “You gave me your word.” Eban seemed hurt, crestfallen.

  “Will you show him out please?”

  “But I was almost done,” he protested. “Don’t you see? I was almost at the point I wanted to make – about me… about Alex… about all of this…”

  “Go home Mr Barnard, and think long and hard about your brother’s life and his sacrifice… his legacy.”

  Eban sat bolt upright.

  He seemed unaware that his hands clasped and released, clasped and released the arms of the chair repeatedly.

  “Well if it’s his legacy is so important to you, let me finish. Let me finish what I started.”

  Watson looked unconvinced.

  Coulter hovered awkwardly.

  Desperate, Eban seemed to be suddenly fighting for his life.

  “Or I swear to God, I’ll drag his name, his reputation, everything you” – he nodded at Coulter – “and you ever thought honourable about him, through all the muck and the mire of this godforsaken hole of a country.”

  Both policemen looked stunned.

  It was as if Alex Barnard himself was sitting before them. Threatening them with the destruction of his very own memory.

  “How would you do that?” asked Sergeant Coulter quietly. He had now come fully into the room and closed the door behind him.

  “By taking all this to the newspapers.”

  “All what?”

  Eban closed his eyes tightly in frustration and pressed hard against his temples with the palms of his hands. “

  “That’s precisely what I’ve been trying to tell your genius inspector here!”

  Coulter looked across at Watson, who rolled his eyes heavenward.

  “How you killed your brother? “

  “Yes,” croaked Eban. “Yes.”

  There was a long silence in the room.

  Eventually Watson spoke.

  “I’m busting for a pee. When I come back you’ve got a half-hour, you get me Barnard? Thirty minutes; no more.”

  Eban seemed to be wiping tears from his eyes.

  “Sam will sit in with us – d’ya hear me, Sam: thirty minutes; you can time it. All this… nonsense is brought to a conclusion by then… or never.”

  With that Detective Inspector Watson left the room and headed in a hurry to the toilets.

  *

  On his return, Helen Totton was waiting at the bend of the long corridor.

  Watson unconsciously sucked in his gut and flared his nostrils. He grinned at her and feigned an exaggerated apology.

  “Sorry… sorry hon, I couldn’t get away. I’ve been stuck with this creep all evening. How you been doin’?”

  She furtively looked up and down the corridor before slipping an arm around his waist and leaning into him.

  “I thought your shift finished hours ago?” he breathed.

  “Didn’t you get my texts?”

  “Yeah, but like I said, this guy Barnard is a nut job.”

  “Then kick him out.”

  “Not as easy as that… look, I’ve gotta get back in there.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why isn’t it as easy as that?”

  “Well, you know he’s Alex Barnard’s brother, right?”

  “Your old boss?”

  “Yeah… well, he’s convinced he murdered Alex!”

  She furrowed her brow quizzically. “Wasn’t Alex Barnard…?”

  “Yeah, South Armagh Brigade… so we’re trying to get to the bottom of all this.”

  “Maybe he’s just looking for attention?”

  “No… no, it’s more than that… says he can ruin Alex’s reputation… his memory…”

  “Why would a brother do that?”

  “Your guess…”

  “Didn’t Sam mention some assault case way back in the 70s?”

  Watson paused. The detective in him caught the overly curious nature of her inquiry.

  She saw it and smiled, withdrawing her interest, changing the subject. “Anyway…”

  “Anyway, I’ll be done in about thirty minutes. You up for a drink?” He squeezed her buttocks together with one big hand.

  “Is the Pope a Catholic?” She playfully tweaked a nipple through his polyester shirt.

  *

  When Watson had gone back in, Officer Helen Totton returned to the staff social area and immediately located her throwaway mobile phone.

  Hitting the speed-dial, she briefly apprised Councillor Cecil Herringshaw of all she had been told and what she had not.

  The man at the other end moaned aloud.

  A low, bovine rattle.

  It was exactly as he had feared all along.

  44

  Inside the Cathedral Vestry

  6.02am

  Pink fingers of cloud were beginning to spread across the early morning sky.

  The barbarians still at the gates.

  But another night survived.

  They had been laughing amiably at Eban Barnard’s ignorance of Mother Church.

  Initially startled by the loud ringing of the Angelus bell at 6am, their new compatriot – believing the chimes to signify the top of the hour – had reduced them to paroxysms of laughter by trying to set his watch to the strikes.

  Ruairí had silently nudged Sinéad, who in turn elbowed Anto.

  They watched Eban’s bemusement turn to confusion as the chimes reached fifteen and counting.

  All three could hold it in no longer. They exhaled with gales of laughter.

  “Yeah, that’s right Eban – eighteen o’clock!” mocked Anto.

  “Have you never heard of the Angelus, Mr Barnard?” asked Ruairí a little too snidely.

  “You should be on your knees Eban,” laughed Sinéad.

  “Aye… you’d know all about that Sinéad,” Anto shot back.

/>   “Fuck you, dickhead!” came the knee-jerk response.

  “Anytime; anytime…” he goaded her.

  Ruairí ignored both of them. “So what’s it like, Eban?”

  Eban felt wary. “What’s what like?”

  “Being an Orangeman?”

  The other two sensed a change in Ruairí’s tone and stopped jousting.

  Eban felt instantly defensive. “Who says I’m an Orangeman?”

  Anto smelled blood. “Well, you look like one.”

  “What’s an Orangeman look like?”

  “You.”

  Eban felt a little hurt.

  After the earlier dramas he had come to believe that he had earned a reprieve from this kind of adolescent blood sport.

  “Can you see the horns from there?” he retorted defensively.

  Sinéad chipped in. She circled the seated Eban, apparently looking for bony protrusions.

  “Yeah, something like that. I wouldn’t be great on Protestants myself. What was that song we used to sing when we were kids…?”

  She cleared her throat and sang in a high-pitched, fragile voice.

  The tune, a nursery-rhyme cadence.

  “Proddy-woddy-green-guts never said his prayers, grab him by the leg and throw him down the stairs.”

  “Charming,” said Eban, not bothering to conceal his sarcasm.

  “You’re welcome,” she replied, tartly.

  Eban could see they were goading him.

  Whether out of boredom or malice he was unsure. But it irked him and his response was to take the offensive.

  “Well, as it happens, you’re not far off… the closest I got to all of that was the Pride of Ibrox Flute Band.”

  Ruairí sat off to the side, alone.

  He had been bemoaning the tardiness of his mother’s return with their breakfast, but this seemed to get his attention.

  He looked more closely at Eban Barnard as he spoke, but said nothing himself.

  Anto too had become more interested. “You mean the flip side of those losers outside?”

  He was referring to the Volunteer Robert Sands Republican Flute Band, who had periodically joined the protesters outside. They would lend their support to the siege by striking up with gusto, –The Merry Ploughboy, Kevin Barry and The Soldier’s Song.

  Eban smiled, pleased at their interest. “Exactly.”

  “Fuck… I wouldn’t have pegged you for one of them.”

  Eban was warming to what he took to be a newly-achieved street credibility among his charges. He drew his chair up closer to the young men.