White Church, Black Mountain

by Thomas Paul Burgess

  At the back of his mind though, he wondered whether he didn’t quite enjoy the opportunity to pull rank under the circumstances of their estrangement.

  He might yet have the final word, the last laugh, regain some semblance of control.

  Recoup his hard-pressed dignity in the matter.

  But none of that explained her behaviour with the Barnard file, and that matter was beginning to push his bruised ego into the ha’penny place.

  When she didn’t reply, he quickly followed up with an SMS message to her iPhone.

  His tone was softer, more of an appeal than an order, but he did mention the distinct possibility of disciplinary action, should an outstanding matter of protocol breach not be addressed.

  His phone pinged almost immediately with a response from her.

  Try it… and see what happens.

  Attached to the communication was a grainy photograph of his face screwed into a gurning mask as he ejaculated over her tits.

  53

  22 Rosapenna Street looked virtually identical to the row and rows of new-builds that surrounded it.

  Fixtures and fittings were modern and utilitarian, but residents sought to bring their own sense of place with the addition of white balustrades in gardens, hanging plants, carriage wall lamps and overly ornate wrought iron gates.

  A few gable walls had Free Dan O’Neill and Happy 21st Bridget spray-painted on them as if performing the role of a municipal message board.

  The private lives of every resident seemed to play out behind vertical blinds, the modern alternative to old-fashioned net curtains. They flickered like inverse cinema screens with flashing images projected from gargantuan LED TVs.

  Satellite dishes popped out of house fronts like toadstools.

  A people pacified through hash and bread and circuses.

  “They don’t build slums you know… they make them,” Archie Adams was fond of saying back at the office.

  The Housing Executive seemed to acknowledge that tenants invariably looked after their properties more conscientiously if they resembled modern versions of the redbrick back-to-backs they had grown up in.

  A little bit of garden front and back. And a decent spend on heating and insulation.

  Social housing allocation had long been identified as the single issue that had galvanised the civil rights movement in the 60s, and by extension resulted in the onslaught of the Troubles themselves.

  A succession of poor decisions reflecting UK housing policy in the 60s and 70s further exacerbated the problem, with large impersonal estates of tower blocks and maisonettes just aching to become ‘no-go’ areas from which guerrilla campaigns could be fermented and expedited.

  The city fathers had learned a hard lesson, and now it was rumoured housing estates were planned with security force consultation in regard to exit and entry routes, with containment in mind.

  Nowadays, even here in the Republican heartland of ‘The Bone’, some families still bought into post-Thatcherite aspirations of home ownership, purchasing their property from the authority and therefore, it was imagined, the civil responsibilities that went along with this.

  The Breslin household differed from most of their neighbours in one significant respect.

  A large square electrical transformer box sat squat in the space next to their house.

  It was surrounded by rusting metal railings about four feet high, and contained a yellow warning stencil featuring a black triangle and a squiggly line supposed to denote a lightning bolt.

  Danger. Electrical Current.

  But this did not deter the local kids from scaling the fence and covering the box with graffiti and sometimes fly posters.

  Just because it was there.

  Just to show they could.

  Anne Breslin worried that it would give all at number 22 terminal cancer.

  Its insidious hum secreting invisible tumours into their bodies as they slept.

  *

  ‘The Bone.’ The Marrowbone, or Macháire Botháin.

  It was still a Republican stronghold, but the second coming of this area was a far cry from the brooding warren of streets that Eban Barnard remembered as a boy.

  Looking across the dark, empty playing fields and down onto the valley of brick back-to-backs, notorious for their self-declared autonomy.

  He remembered murky nights in those playing fields, huddled around the dilapidated shell of the sports changing rooms, drinking illicit home brew with the other underage boys.

  Then, it had all appeared to him as a dimly lit, moon-glow vista.

  Smoulder rising from the chimney stacks in a grey pall and hanging low over the roofs. Cloaking the area ethereally in a translucent moon-mist, backlit by orange street lamp glow. Like burnished copper fire chasing silver smoke.

  Now, as he stood outside the Breslins’ front door, the memory of this caused him to recall a trip to the cinema. Something about simply walking into Mordor…Orcs and all.

  Eban had simply walked into Greater Ardoyne.

  He looked quickly around him.

  It was past dusk, and properly dark.

  Perhaps he should come back in the morning.

  But since he had obtained Joe Breslin’s name and address from Watson he could think of little else.

  Joe Breslin was the last part of the jigsaw.

  Could he really go another night without meeting with the man who had haunted his waking and sleeping hours for all of his adult life?

  The fact that he had survived.

  Was alive.

  Flesh and blood.

  Telling Joe Breslin that he had been there when it happened. Actually been there!

  That he’d seen it all and knew who had done this terrible thing to him.

  And that he’d run away and left him to die.

  What might be achieved by such a reunion?

  Repentance?

  Forgiveness?

  Since his diagnosis it had all seemed more urgent, if that were even possible.

  All these thoughts tripped through his mind as he stood there summoning up the courage to knock on the front door of 22 Rosapenna Street.

  Before he could move toward it however, he heard the sound of a chain being loosened and a bolt snapping back.

  A thin, prim woman stood in the doorway.

  She was too busy buttoning up her coat and rooting in her bag to notice him at first.

  She had turned to pull the door closed behind her when he spoke.

  “Oh… hello,” said Eban rather timidly.

  Anne Breslin jerked around suddenly, startled.

  “God bless us and save us!”

  “Sorry… sorry if I scared you there. Would Joe be in?”

  She stared at him suspiciously, not responding.

  “Joe? Joe Breslin? Am I at the right house?”

  “Who’s asking? Are you the police?”

  “No, no… nothing like that.” Eban realised that he hadn’t thought this through.

  Who indeed was he?

  He saw from Watson’s file that Joe lived with his mother and sister.

  “Are you Joe’s sister?”

  Anne was angry now. “Look, the police were here earlier – you’ve no right to be harassing my brother like this!”

  Eban was perturbed that the PSNI had apparently been here before him. He wondered what they’d said about him to Joe, if anything.

  “I’m not police; I’m…” He paused, wondering what to say.

  How to explain, standing here alone in the street. Trying to reach a man who he thought he’d seen murdered by his brother some forty-odd years ago.

  It had begun to rain.

  “I’m a journalist,” he lied. “I’m an investigative journalist doing a programme on unsolved crimes. Spotlight – you’ve heard of BBC Spotlight, right?”

  Anne looked at the stranger standing before her and was unconvinced.

  The man seemed a little wild-eyed and a tad too desperate.

  Not like someone wi
th a professional detachment, there to do a job.

  “My brother isn’t seeing anyone,” she stated firmly. “He’s not interested and doesn’t want all this brought up again.”

  She tugged the door handle toward her once to make sure the lock had engaged and turned to go.

  “Please…” said Eban pathetically. He put out his hand to touch her arm but withdrew it before doing so.

  Something in his tone made her pause and look back.The man had tears in his eyes. He looked like he was on the verge of breaking down.

  To her complete surprise, it somehow touched her.

  “What did you say your name was?”

  “Barnard. Eban Barnard.”

  “Well Mr Barnard,” she said with a little more empathy, “Joe has had a hell of a day with the police and all; he’s not come out of his room. Maybe tomorrow—”

  “I was there.” He heard himself blurt it out… for better or worse.

  “Excuse me?”

  “The night it happened. I was there.”

  Anne felt her insides tighten and freeze up. She took a few steps backward, clasping her hand to her chest.

  “Who the hell are you… what do you want with us?”

  She thought about making a run for Tommy Sweeney’s house next door, but saw that the lights were off and he was out. She could make a grab for her mobile phone at the bottom of her bag… but call who?

  “Look, mister… if I was you I’d get out of here while you still can; before I call somebody and—”

  “I was eleven,” pleaded Eban. “I was only a boy…”

  Anne calmed down a little.

  “Well, why did you wait until now to come forward?”

  “I thought he was dead… I thought your Joe was dead…”

  The rain beat down harder. Anne was overwhelmed and struggling to know how to react to all of this.

  “Why don’t you tell the police?”

  “I did… but I don’t trust them.”

  She looked again, hard, into his face. She liked to believe that she was good at reading people. Good at looking beyond the obvious.

  “Why did you lie? Why did you tell me you were a journalist?”

  “I don’t know… what could I have said? I shouldn’t have…” Eban looked away from her gaze and down at the ground.

  She took a chance.

  “I can’t let you in the house; I can’t let you talk to him. He’s… delicate. Easily upset… you can imagine. Then there’s my mother…”

  “Then you listen to me and tell him… tell him… for me… please… please…”

  Big tears rolled down Eban’s face, obvious even in the rain that was hammering down.

  Anne Breslin fished into her bag and found an umbrella. Opening it, she crossed closer to him.

  “Well, don’t stand there in the rain like an ejit! Get under this!”

  He moved tentatively closer to her, pulling in his neck, scrunching up his shoulders, leaning in but careful not to touch her.

  “We can go down to Henry Joy’s for a coffee. It’s just down the road,” she said.

  Eban smiled in gratitude and relief. He would have prostrated himself on the wet pavement in front of her if required to do so.

  “I feel safe there,” she said, reminding him of boundaries.

  Making clear that this was her area.

  Her domain.

  Anne moved off with Eban trying to keep up, leaning in under the umbrella whilst clutching his collar at the throat.

  54

  Henry Joy’s was a typical working class Belfast pub, and as such shared many of the facets of similar establishments in the North of England.

  A large screen showing sports events, pool tables, gaming machines, dart board – it was set up for live Irish traditional music and karaoke later that evening.

  The only significant differences from other hostelries were the framed declaration of Irish independence, the portraits of The United Irishmen and the Glasgow Celtic flags that adorned the walls.

  As with most bars and clubs in the northern and western suburbs of segregated Belfast, it never took long to ascertain which side of the fence you found yourself on.

  The pub was relatively quiet when they entered.

  Just two or three men dotted around the place, variously sipping pints of porter or lager and studying the racing form.

  The barman acknowledged Anne right away.

  “Hi Patsy,” she called. “Two coffees please.”

  Eban could see Patsy and a couple of the customers clock him.

  Anne noticed this too and flushed a little.

  She had never been in here before with any man other than her brother.

  If only they knew what brought her here now with this unkempt, dishevelled-looking stranger. She steered her way through the tables to the back of the bar where it was dark and quiet, save for the rain beating down on the flat roof over their heads.

  Patsy arrived at the table with the coffees.

  “Do you think I could get a whiskey?” asked Eban “A Bushmills?”

  “We’ve Powers and we’ve Jameson’s,” announced Patsy gruffly.

  Eban, realising his faux pas, bit his lip. “Anything’s fine, thanks.”

  He looked at Anne. “You don’t mind, do you? It’s been a hell of a few days.”

  He could see that she was studying him again. “Look, Mr Barnard… this isn’t a social occasion,” she chided. “Say what you came to say and I’ll be on my way.”

  Eban Barnard proceeded to recount the whole story from start to finish, omitting only those details surrounding the incident with Joe that he felt were too much for his sister to hear.

  At no time did Anne Breslin interrupt or request clarification.

  She simply sat there listening, the only indication of emotion being when her eyes grew wider here and there at some detail or other. But she kept any strong feelings she might have had held firmly in check.

  Eban related the incidents in a completely different manner to how he had done with Detective Inspector Watson.

  After holding on to his secret for so many years, he had now recounted it to two strangers in almost as many days.

  When he spoke to Anne he did so cognisant of the fact that he was speaking to Joe Breslin’s sister.

  To a proxy for Joe himself.

  He found that it came out easier.

  He found that for once, this was not about him.

  *

  When he had finished they sat in silence for a long while. Both simply staring at the table in front of them whilst the slot machines whirred and bleeped quietly across the bar.

  When she eventually spoke he was surprised by what she said.

  “And what happened to Sinéad and Ruairí?”

  It had not been the reaction he’d expected, and it threw him somewhat.

  He had just told this woman that he had witnessed her brother’s terrible assault, that his own brother had been responsible, that his own carelessness led directly to that brother’s murder and that the police might even now be colluding in covering the whole thing up.

  And yet she had inquired only about the well-being of others.

  Strangers she had never met.

  This woman’s compassion was heartening.

  She had come here with him – a man unknown to her – to hear his story and without judgement. Now she seemed to show understanding for the blighted lives of these two young outsiders.

  “It doesn’t end well,” Eban sighed.

  “That’s been my experience,” she said wearily and with a half-smile.

  He saw how it instantly changed her face.

  “When I tried telling Ruairí what had happened – about Anto leaving I mean – he was adamant we keep it from Sineád.

  ‘I’m going out after him… it’s me they want,’ he said.

  “I grabbed his arm. ‘What would that achieve? You can’t… Anto made me promise not to let you go.’”

  “Ruairí just said
that he didn’t believe me; said it wasn’t Anto’s style.

  “I asked him not to go, for Sineád’s sake… for the sake of the child. He laughed at that.

  ‘I believe, Mr Barnard, the polite terminology is cuckold. Although around here we just say, cheating wee whore,’ he explained.

  “Some things made more sense to me after that of course, but in case I didn’t get it, he added, ‘Well, when you’re buying your girl chocolates and your best mate’s fucking her it kinda puts a different perspective on things…’”

  Anne Breslin looked uncomfortable with the language Eban was using, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Why did he go along with it?” she asked.

  “That’s what I said,” cried Eban. “‘If you knew, why were you going through with the wedding; why were you all playing out this… this… charade?’

  ‘Less people get hurt that way,’ he said. ‘Things can stay the way they were.’

  ‘And the baby…?’ I asked him.

  ‘It’s Anto’s of course… we never mentioned it, but I’m sure he knew that I knew. Anyway, that’s why he’s out there now… some fucked-up mea culpa…’

  ‘No… it’s more than that – he… loves you… like a brother,” I told him.

  “Ruairí laughed at me. ‘Ha! Like the older brother I never had. Except I did of course… didn’t I, Eban?’ He told me he remembered the first time he noticed – really noticed – it was a Halloween party. ‘The big ejit went in a white sheet with Brussels sprouts stuck all over it…’

  Eban smiled. “I remember Ruairí was laughing now as he was telling me.

  ‘He went as a snotty handkerchief of course. She went as a little devil… even had horns and a tail. God… she looked like sex on legs… stunning, ya know? As usual… at the centre of everything… she can’t help that, it’s just her way; she drinks in the attention, but she uses it to manipulate people… In a way I don’t blame her – don’t blame Anthony either; he just can’t keep it zipped up… never could. They were dancing together… more than usual… something between them – of course, the more he drank, the louder he got.What are you doing with him? You should be with me – innocent enough really, but there was something more in it… he’s such a fucking competitor where women are concerned, you know? She never meant anything to me; he means more to me than any of that… he’s my mate. He’s worth ten of her.’