White Church, Black Mountain

by Thomas Paul Burgess

  He pushed back further into the shadows.

  Voices…

  Shouts…

  Running feet echoing, the sound beating back and forth off the walls of the back alley.

  A young man crying… praying… and with a confusion of dawning recognition… dread expectation… pitiful resignation… the frenzied assault on the door ceased.

  Silence.

  Then he heard a scuffling noise and his attention was drawn to the top of the wall.

  Over the wall that he had earlier climbed appeared a leg.

  Drainpipe denims.

  A black Chelsea boot.

  Torn and bloody from the jagged glass atop.

  The young man, astride the wall now, pulled himself unsteadily erect.

  His hands cut and bleeding.

  He looked about nineteen, long frizzy copper hair and sideburns. He wore a denim jacket.

  Teetering, his hands a gory mess as he pushed down on the unyielding broken bottle necks for balance.

  Eban hardly breathed.

  He silently prayed to the God of DC Comics for invisibility, and bit his bottom lip hard.

  The man was making a different noise now.

  He was crying like a child.

  “No mister… mister… please… NO!”

  Suddenly the back door heaved and gave way, swinging wildly on one hinge only and falling forward into McGrew’s back yard.

  “It wasn’t me mister… I never done nothing… mister… don’t… PLEASE! DON’T!”

  Eban pushed himself tight back against the wall.

  He could see two silhouettes framed in the doorway.

  Did that mean they could see him?

  Both men were laughing and jeering.

  Drunk with the adrenaline pump of pursuit and relishing the spoils of the hunt.

  One had scrambled over the fallen door and into the yard, grabbing and pulling down on the hanging leg above.

  The ginger-haired man – caught now behind enemy lines – let out a plaintive a cry of such pain and anguish that Eban considered making a run for it.

  Some deeper reason borne from fear and his complete concealment kept him still and unseen.

  “Grab his other fuckin’ leg Fish… grab the bastard!”

  “I can’t, he’s kicking me. Yer dead, Taig… yer fuckin’ dead wee lad!”

  Eban knew then.

  Could see what was coming.

  He closed his eyes tight but the young man’s screams stabbed right on through.

  Painting his unconscious with the images of the castration as vividly as if he’d watched it all wide-eyed.

  “Yoohooo! Ride ‘em cowboy… yoohoo!”

  “Yeeehaw! Yeeehaw!”

  The two men ran up and down…

  … back and forward…

  … pulling and tugging on a leg…

  … each side of the wall.

  The glass ripped and tore again and again as the flailing scarecrow, helpless, bounced and bumped along.

  His screams burned into Eban’s very soul.

  The men were laughing, excited, out of breath.

  The screams stopped.

  There was a slipping, sliding noise and a dull thud.

  “That’s one Fenian won’t be breeding like no rat!”

  “Leave him, Fish; I’m away… let’s get the fuck out of here!”

  Eban Winston Barnard opened his eyes just in time to see his brother Alex kick the ragged heap that had fallen from the top of the wall and now lay close at his feet.

  They walked off, laughing.

  He could still hear them snigger and joke as he cautiously stepped over the body which lay between him and the only way out of this nightmare.

  A low moan, pitiful, rose from the prone shape.

  A faintly steaming pink-and-red mess seeped from the torn fabric and flesh between his legs.

  Blood pooled beneath him.

  The man’s head turned slowly and he looked up.

  Eban could see pink bubbles of saliva rise and fall in his mouth and nostrils.

  He looked directly at the boy standing above him.

  “H-e-e-e-l-l-l-p-p-p m-e-e-e…”

  The man’s eyes rolled back in his head.

  Eban ran.

  And whilst running, gagged and swallowed hard and often.

  And pushed the horror, down, down, into the pit of his stomach.

  No-one knew he was there.

  No-one ever would.

  He ran. And ran.

  Through the crossing of the white church.

  Under the shadow of the Black Mountain.

  Back amongst the little fortresses of common love.

  46

  Inside the Cathedral Vestry

  6.54am

  “You bastard. How can you live with yourself?” It was Ruairí who reacted first.

  Sinéad looked genuinely shocked but reached for perspective. “Ruairí, Eban was eleven years old, for Christ sake.”

  “So what’s stopping him now then?”

  Anto too looked shaken. “He’s right… you’ve got to give him up.”

  Eban looked ashen and empty.

  It was done.

  “He’s a policeman now – really high up… a senior one.”

  Ruairí was incredulous. “He’s what?!”

  “Oh man… you have soooo got to give him up,” said Anto.

  “You think I don’t know it? It’s never just as easy as that.”

  “Why not?” Ruairí demanded

  “He has – or had – a family. His life’s a mess… his wife left him… took the kids… he lives alone in a little village, Markethill it’s called; big white house on the outskirts, stone lions in the driveway. You couldn’t miss it….”

  As he spoke, Eban, incredibly, could hear himself sound almost apologetic on Alex’s behalf.

  As if his big brother was not here to defend himself.

  It seemed a puzzling paradox.

  Most of his life he had hated his brother for what he had done.

  Now, in the first time of telling, he struggled as these strangers passed judgement on Alex.

  It felt like someone else were speaking and he was merely listening.

  “He’s done really well for himself, you know, but he drinks – drinks heavily… maybe to forget for all I know. Despite everything I worry about him… what he might do all alone up there, with his police-issue revolver… all that regret… all that denial.”

  Ruairí was fuming.

  “You said you’ve never talked about it. How do you know he regrets anything? He’s an RUC man isn’t he? Those bastards have hardened their hearts. How do you know he regrets any of it?”

  “I know he’s a deeply unhappy man.”

  “Fuck him!”

  Anto agreed, marshalling righteous indignation.

  “What about that young guy… what about the life he never had?”

  Eban eyed him sceptically. “You want them to lock him up, you mean… get him put away?”

  “Maybe that’s what he wants, in his heart… save him from himself; set him and yourself free,” suggested Sinéad, curling a lock of hair around her finger.

  Eban’s voice faltered. His eyes were red and sore.

  “We all know that’s not the way it works. I couldn’t do it… all these years I couldn’t do it, and I still can’t do it now.”

  Sinéad stood up and crossed to the window. Looking out on the new day, she placed a hand on her unborn child and spoke back over her shoulder.

  “Eban, I’m not a religious person – how could you be after all we’ve been through? – but Ruairí’s mother has a saying: ‘Act as if ye had faith, and faith will be given unto ye.’”

  Ruairí, hearing the mention of his name, felt compelled to respond.

  To fire off something about religion being the opium of the masses.

  Or insisting that his mother be left out of it.

  But he somehow realised that he had nothing left.

 
Barnard’s story had shocked him.

  And like Eban’s, his tank was empty.

  His passion was spent.

  He felt like he hadn’t slept for centuries.

  His anger had been replaced by great waves of gloom sweeping over him at the prospect of another day in this fuck-awful room… in this fuck-awful world.

  It had sneaked up on him from nowhere.

  Anger was energy, but at this moment he felt that all his energy had been dissipated.

  Barnard would move on.

  His brother would remain unaccountable for his crime.

  But they would stay and nothing would change.

  Or they would go and everything would change.

  The world pressed hard down upon him.

  All he could manage was to intone the weary mantra that had sustained them since taking up residence in this cathedral a hundred lifetimes ago.

  “Sinéad… stay away from the window.”

  The girl looked at him and caught something of his despondency. She moved toward him with concern in her eyes, “You alright darlin’?”

  “Just tired.”

  “Well come on and we’ll grab forty winks before your ma arrives.”

  She took his hand tenderly and led him into the antechamber, pulling the curtain behind them.

  For the first time in his shift in the cathedral, Eban felt like he was intruding.

  His thoughts turned to the life he would soon return to.

  He considered telling someone – anyone – about Alex.

  But there was simply no-one he felt he could confide in.

  No close friend.

  No lover.

  No confidante.

  Some kind of judgement on the life he had chosen for himself, he supposed.

  Even if there was someone he could talk to, just like these young people, they would doubtless insist that he act on the information.

  That young man was dead, as best he knew.

  Murdered in the most horrendous manner.

  And Alex and his friend Fish were responsible.

  The fallout from such a revelation would be shattering for all concerned.

  RUC Chief Superintendent accused of sectarian murder… key witness and accuser is his younger brother.

  He had visualised it a million times.

  And a million times pushed it away, back into the dark, back into the shadows of the past.

  *

  Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Anto cross to the sacristy curtain and listen for a moment. When he was sure they were asleep, he returned and began to collect together his belongings, putting them in a rucksack.

  Eban smiled. He tried to change the mood. “Is that the dirty washing bag? Does Mrs Connolly take those away and bring them back clean then?”

  Anto did not look up as he spoke. Just continued to place his items in the rucksack, occasionally sniffing a pair of socks or underpants and discarding them.

  “Sit down there Eban, I want to have a wee chat with you.”

  Eban did as he was asked and Anto pulled up a chair beside him.

  Smiling, he said, “What the fuck are we doing here Eban? You and me I mean… have you asked yourself that?”

  “Oh… only about every five minutes.”

  “You and I know, right: the people in this town, they don’t care what happens to me, Ruairí and Sinéad… I mean… the three of us… we’re just scum to them.”

  Eban nodded his head. “A whole town frozen and useless in the face of brute force… it’s hard to believe.”

  “Yeah… sure, some of them are frightened, but most just don’t care. Do you follow me?”

  Eban disagreed. “I still believe most people are fundamentally good. They’re just scared.”

  Anto sighed patronisingly, or as you might do when trying to explain something to a child.

  “Ah, Eban, Eban… maybe you’re right… maybe you’re right. Now take Ruairí – they say Frankie was a prince, but it’s Ruairí; I mean he’s smart like Frankie was, but more so… ye follow me? Sure, he’s an arrogant ball-breaker, but he’s always managed to stay above it all, you know? Even at school, in sports, he would only ever wear a Liverpool shirt cuz they played in red. He said red was the colour of the blood of the workers or something, and how all the great working class teams and soviet teams played in red.”

  Anto laughed as he spoke, and shook his head at his friend’s eccentric principles.

  “Nobody knew what the fuck he was going on about! He wore a James Connolly badge; used to joke it was his Uncle James on account of the name and that… joined the Workers’ Party when he was fifteen… he was different. Sledger hated him for that.”

  Eban was surprised. “You knew Sledger at school?”

  “Oh sure, we knew all those guys.”

  “So what’s your point?”

  Anto stood up and threw the rucksack over his shoulder.

  “Look mate, make no mistake: we did it – did it all… everything they said and more – and it was mostly Ruairí’s idea; like, always… but like he says, who the fuck are they to sit in judgement of us? I’m no fuckin’ good… I can admit it… never have been. Reform school… probation… suspended sentences, but whatever they do to me, they don’t get to say that… they don’t get to judge me.”

  Eban began to realise what was happening. Panic began to rise.

  “You can’t be serious. Sledger; Molloy…they’ll eat you alive out there.”

  Anto moved toward the door.

  “It’s Ruairí they really want. Maybe the both of them can get away to England. Maybe they’ll settle for me.”

  Eban felt a surge of responsibility. He remembered why he was there in the first place.

  He made a move to block Anto off.

  The young man was having none of it.

  “I’m doing this so all scores can be settled by me… through me.”

  Anto saw the astonishment in Eban’s face.

  “Look mate, I’m nineteen and I feel like I’ve been running away all my life. Sometimes you can get tired of running. Sometimes you’ve got to just stand still. You should think about that Eban… time to stop running.”

  Eban felt shamed and dumbstruck.

  Anthony Gattuso was handing out lessons for life.

  There was a pause when Anto placed his hand on the door bolt.

  He took a deep breath. “Aren’t you gonna say something inspiring?”

  Eban was momentarily speechless.

  The young man seemed surprisingly upbeat, considering his certain fate. How could he have misjudged this character so prejudicially? He felt such a sense of respect for what appeared to him to be a courageous act of self-sacrifice.

  “I can only thank God it’s you and not me,” was all he could manage.

  “Tut-tut Eban… must try harder.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Thank me. For what?”

  “For doing the right thing. For Ruairí’s sake… for Sinéad’s…” He felt like he might break down, and swallowed back the rising swell. “…For mine.”

  The young man turned on his heel and walked back to where Eban stood.

  He looked deeply into his eyes. “For you… what did I do for you?”

  “Maybe gave me the courage… to act on what I saw – back then, I mean.”

  Anto smiled. There was something about his smirk that didn’t seem quite right.

  “Oh, don’t thank me… thank your brother.”

  If this was some joke, Eban didn’t get it. “What… what do you mean?”

  The young man pushed his face close to Eban’s. His breath stank of nicotine, his clothes of sweat. “The first thing I do when I get out there is to tell those animals about your cop brother.”

  He was still smiling.

  “Who he is… what he does… what he did… where he lives…”

  Affecting a whiny tone, Gattuso mimicked Eban’s earlier confession in the cruellest of imitations.

  “‘A
ll alone in a little village, Markethilll it’s called; big white house on the outskirts, stone lions in the driveway. Sure, you couldn’t miss it.’”

  Eban winced like he had been punched in the stomach. His mouth fell open.

  “They’re always interested in that kind of thing. Sure, you never know… they might be so pleased that they take it easy on me.”

  Anto crossed to the door again, pulled up his rucksack on his shoulders and turned one last time.

  “So no thanks necessary. Wish me luck.”

  Eban watched him go as the consequences of what he had shared with these strangers sank in.

  He had unburdened himself at last, but at what cost?

  He moved slowly to the window.

  Below, but out of his vision, Eban could hear shouts and scuffles as Anthony Gattuso sought to broker safe passage for himself.

  Car doors slammed as he was swept up and away by the South Armagh Brigade of the IRA.

  47

  Interview Room 1,

  The Historical Enquiries Offices,

  Police Service of Northern Ireland, Belfast

  2014

  The mood in the small interview room strained the containment capabilities of its four grey walls.

  As did the information just imparted.

  In silence, Watson looked at Coulter.

  Both men immediately knowing what the other was thinking.

  If Eban Barnard’s story were true, then – as a purely police matter – Chief Superintendent Alex Barnard’s assassination would have to be reopened and reinvestigated in the light of new evidence.

  Similarly, the serious assault on Joseph Breslin.

  And there was no way of doing this without redress to Eban Barnard, his story and the subsequent besmirching of their colleague’s hard-won reputation and proud legacy.

  Alex and his as yet unidentified accomplice would warrant a charge of attempted murder.

  Even posthumously, it was a disaster of epic proportions.

  At the time, Alex Barnard’s murder had been a major coup for the Provos.

  And a major security fuck-up for their own people.

  In post-conflict Northern Ireland, Sinn Féin would have a field day.

  Accusations of cover-ups and collusion would rain down upon their collective heads and the matter would be used as a political stick to beat the Unionists into submission on the establishment of a ‘Truth Commission’.