White Church, Black Mountain

by Thomas Paul Burgess

  “I told him that Anto wanted them both to make a go of it across the water, with the kid… I think he saw it as the best end to all of this,” said Eban.

  “Sineád came back in about then… she’d been sleeping. ‘God, I went out like a light and still feel exhausted… where is everybody? Where’s the Italian scallion?’ she asked.

  “Ruairí gave me a look. ‘He’s gone,’ he said.

  “She got a bit alarmed. ‘Gone? How can he be gone… gone where?’

  “Ruairí gave me that look again. ‘Sly bastard,’ he told her. ‘Made arrangements with Conor McVey and Eban here to slip out with a few of the FAIT ones, to… where, Eban… Scotland?’

  “I picked up the thread of course. ‘Scotland, yes…’ – Ayr, I think I said. All set up… best to do it this way… easier to go unnoticed.

  “She was clearly hurt. ‘But he never said anything… never said goodbye…’

  ‘You know what he’s like, Sineád: does what he wants, when he wants,’ Ruairí told her.

  ‘Just need to get you, Ruairí and the baby out the same way,’ I added.

  “He glared at me. ‘That’s still to be agreed.’

  ‘Then let’s get it agreed,’ she said. ‘We can always send for Anto when we get settled, isn’t that right Eban…?’

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ I told her. Well, what could I say?

  “She seemed pleased at this. Like it was over at last. ‘D’ya hear that Ruairí: Eban agrees. Look, they’ve won, Ruairí… they always win. Leave it be… let it go… nobody cares. They’ve won.’

  “Ruairí wasn’t having any of it. ‘I care,’ he said. ‘There’s a dishonourable tradition of Connollys taking the boat, for as far back as you want to go. Frankie went there; he was just about my age… he was gonna be somethin’. Losing yourself in the drink and the songs… we’re all monsters to them anyway; you know about that, right Eban?’

  “I felt like I was being pulled back and forward between them. Each wanted me on their side.”

  Eban took a drink from his glass and swished around the remainder in the bottom.

  “Sineád wasn’t listening to either of us. She’d gone to the window and pulled back the blind. She seemed to be smiling… talking to herself. ‘Anto, you cute hoor… I might have guessed…’

  “We’d all said it so many times by then that it just came out automatically.

  ‘Sineád, come away from the window.’

  ‘It’s getting light,’ she said. ‘The moon is hiding… the stars are hiding too…’

  “All Ruairí said was, ‘Jesus… I could go a pint.’

  “I remember she looked straight at him. ‘You never see the sky anymore, Ruairí – you’ve always got your baseball cap pulled down—’

  “It happened so quickly after that. Suddenly, high and to her right, there was the crash of broken glass and a thud. I looked down and saw the red snooker ball roll across the floor in a little arc and come to rest against her foot. She bent down to pick it up and held it up to show us. She tilted her head in curiosity… the way a child might do…”

  Eban could see from Anne Breslin’s face that she knew what was coming.

  “We both screamed at her: ‘GET AWAY FROM THE WINDOW!’ but it was too late. Just as she realised the danger, the window exploded all around her, showering her with broken glass and snooker balls. I’ll never forget the image of her raising her hands to protect herself and the baby… never.”

  “Merciful Jesus,” whimpered Anne.

  “‘Anthony!’ she screamed. ‘Anthony!’”

  Eban shook his head at the memory. “I never told any of that to the police, you know… it’s nobody’s business but their own.”

  As he drained his third whiskey, Anne Breslin could see that this man was suffering.

  Would probably suffer for the rest of his life.

  The bar was filling up with evening punters, many of whom could not resist a look in the couple’s direction, eager to see Anne Breslin’s new man.

  “I need to get back to my mother and our Joe,” said Anne.

  “And will you tell him you met me… that we talked?”

  “Look Mr Barnard, I can’t promise you anything. He’s been in a terrible state since them policemen called… keeps going on about somebody called ‘Fish’.”

  At first it didn’t register with Eban.

  He was crestfallen that despite everything, Joe Breslin’s sister might still yet not seek absolution on his behalf.

  Then it hit him. “What… what did you just say?”

  “That I can’t promise you—”

  “No, not that – that name: Fish.”

  “What about it?”

  “I’ve only ever heard it used once before: on the night that they… hurt your brother.”

  Anne Breslin went ashen. “You can’t mean… you don’t believe he was here today…with our Joe… oh my God!” She put her hand up to her mouth in alarm.

  “Do you know anyone of that name?”

  She wasn’t listening. Her mind was in turmoil. “Is he a policeman as well, like your brother?”

  “I don’t know… it could be nothing. Maybe just a coincidence.”

  She stood up, knocking against the table, making it squeal across the floor as she pushed her seat back. “I have to get back to him. Oh my God, poor Joe!”

  Eban was concerned that he had distressed her. “I want to help if I can.”

  “Haven’t you done enough, bringing all this back to our door?”

  Eban had been trawling the dark recesses of his memory for things deliberately abandoned there.

  Compartmentalised.

  Ignored, because to do otherwise was to return to that night.

  To the pub.

  In the dark.

  Listening to Joe Breslin’s screams.

  He thought of Alex’s many friends.

  A braying, cart horse of a young man with bad skin and wild yellow hair.

  Anne turned to go, then stopped abruptly and raised a hand as if divining something from the atmosphere around her.

  “Wait… I work in the City Hall; there’s a Councillor Henning… Hemingway… something thing like that. I think I’ve heard people call him—”

  “Herringshaw,” Eban said. “His name is Cecil Herringshaw. People call him Fish.”

  55

  Pascal Loncle was in his element.

  It had taken the last evening and most of today, but it was worth it.

  Mackerel on toast with salted cucumber and horseradish for starters.

  This to be followed by Moroccan fish stew.

  Then to conclude, chocolate mousse with fiery ginger shortbread and candied orange peel.

  Arabic coffee and amaretti biscuits for afters.

  As a Frenchman he felt a certain obligation where the wines were concerned.

  And in truth, his trepidation regarding the paint stripper that his guests might pitch up with reinforced his belief in the necessity for total control of proceedings.

  He had chosen a perfectly respectable 2010 Chateau Ste. Michelle dry Riesling, and pushed the boat out a little on a showy 2011 Pinot Blanc d’Alsace.

  He was on a tight budget. The reds had proved more problematic.

  The Terres Dorées Beaujolais l’Ancien Vieilles Vignes was good with both meat and fish.

  But he had gone to the New World for a Californian Pinot Noir, and now worried about the wisdom of his choice.

  Fortunately, he had always kept a well-stocked drinks cabinet in his room.

  It was one of the things that gave him that debonair, continental joie de vivre that so impressed Emily and Rosemary.

  He had a German Eiswein and a Vin Santo from Tuscany for dessert wines.

  One of his own concoctions, an Earl Grey martini, would get the evening kicked off splendidly. Then later, and at the appropriate time, a Lini Labrusca Rosso Lambrusco in lieu of champagne.

  After all, he reasoned, his ‘coming out’ announcement was
something that merited a toast.

  Pascal moved around the place settings that he had arranged, straightening cutlery and re-folding napkins.

  The large kitchen table had been dragged into his room and placed alongside his work desk, making an admirable dining space when covered by his quality linen table throw. But it would be a tight enough squeeze, elbow to elbow.

  A pewter candelabra that had been in his family for years made a splendid centrepiece.

  As he stood in the glow from the candles he could not escape the notion that it would all ultimately prove to be pearls before swine. He could have enjoyed the dinner party so much more had he invited Andreas and Luis from college.

  But Pascal had always been fastidious in keeping his private life and home life separate and he was not about to change that now.

  Save for his emancipatory declaration of course.

  Now, on the threshold of his announcement and subsequent departure for a new life far from the parochial prudery and small-mindedness of Northern Ireland, his spirits dipped a little.

  In a way he felt sorry for them.

  Rosemary would never move on beyond the narrow parameters of library, church and parlour that defined her existence.

  Emily was just too indecisive for her own good and would continue to fret about the road not taken until all roads ended in a single impasse.

  And Eban Barnard seemed like an angry, sad man who could just as easily slip between the cracks and find himself on the streets, homeless and friendless.

  It would be his treat.

  His parting gift to them.

  His ‘Babette’s Feast’. A celebratory, revelatory farewell.

  *

  He assumed that a primarily fish-based meal was the safest option.

  To listen to Rosemary Payne, it was clear that she liked to think of herself as quite the bon viveur in matters of cuisine.

  Although Pascal had observed no evidence of this, based on the stodgy lentil-and-pasta concoctions she cooked and consigned to the freezer compartment.

  Emily had claimed repeatedly that she was in fact vegetarian.

  But Pascal had observed her eating bacon butties and chicken salads on a number of occasions.

  Her concept of what actually constituted ‘meat’ appeared highly selective.

  Eban Barnard, it seemed, would eat anything put down in front of him and appeared to have a particular penchant for kebabs, pizzas and Indian takeaways.

  Pearls before swine indeed!

  He stirred at his fish stew, simmering away in the large ceramic casserole dish, and took off the kitchen apron that was protecting his evening wear.

  A broad navy pinstripe with open-neck shirt and scarlet cravat.

  A quick check of his watch confirmed that his guests were due within the next half-hour.

  He plated up the mackerel on toast and delicately arranged the garnishes of salted cucumber and horseradish in the most decoratively appealing style.

  It had been an overcast, barren kind of Sunday.

  The kind that Belfast seemed to do so well.

  The prayers and doleful hymns of the German Lutheran congregation below permeated the house, the wind-driven organ whining away as air was forced across its reeds.

  The day would have dragged like so many other Sundays had he not been so busy in the kitchen.

  The others had kept to their rooms, save for Rosemary, who had left to attend a church service with the local Anglican congregation; something she did periodically throughout the year. Pascal suspected that it helped her maintain a sense of her Home Counties Englishness, despite her protestations to the contrary.

  Eban had left and returned early with the Sunday papers, as was his wont.

  Emily moved back and forward in her room above, as if singularly engaged in a task that involved moving items from one location to another.

  Perhaps from wardrobe to suitcase?

  Inevitably it was Rosemary who arrived first, and ahead of time.

  Her cheeks were flushed, either with excitement, an afternoon sherry or too much make-up.

  “Ooooo Pascal,” she enthused wafting air up to her face in a demonstrative and theatrical manner, “the smells… the smells!”

  “Ahh, Rosemary… you are most welcome… let me take that from you…”

  He gestured to the tartan Irish tweed wrap that she was wearing around her shoulders and she struggled to release the gold pin brooch that fastened it at her neck.

  Eventually doing so, she produced a bottle from its depths and handed both to Pascal.

  “It’s from my best ever batch… I’ve been saving it for a special occasion.”

  She handed over a bottle of her elderflower wine, lovingly cultivated earlier that summer in the small shed at the bottom of the garden.

  It had been decanted into an old Black Tower Liebfraumilch bottle, and she had tied a red ribbon around the neck.

  Pascal took it from her gingerly, all the while feigning reverence and gratitude. “So kind… so kind.”

  While she busied herself flagrantly looking around his room, he slipped it surreptitiously behind the fire screen.

  “My word, what a great pleasure it is to at last be invited into the sanctum sanctorum of Dr Pascal Loncle!”

  “Not quite Doctor yet Rosemary… I have my viva voce in a few weeks and—”

  “Oh, you’ll fly through that, darling,” she admonished, placing a hand on his arm and letting it stay there. “I just know you will.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to try an aperitif before dinner?” he asked, moving to the drinks cabinet.

  When he crossed back with her martini, he noted that Rosemary had changed the handwritten place settings around so as to be sitting opposite him.

  Pascal pretended not to notice, but died a little inside.

  He had intended an altogether less demanding evening’s social intercourse, conversing face to face with Emily Atkins.

  Rosemary Payne took a sip of her cocktail and her features tightened into a delighted smile, rendering her appearance comparable to that of a podgy Chinese peasant boy.

  “Mmmmm… this tastes divinely depraved. You must be wary of inebriated ladies in your rooms after dark, Dr Loncle.” Her grin became ever more rictus. Her eyes disappearing entirely behind slits.

  There was a knock on the door. Thank God, thought Pascal, and moved to open it.

  He was well aware that his fellow housemates planned their movements around the place based on auditory information.

  Like human bats they acted on what they heard from above, below or next door.

  The toilet flushing and bathroom door closing might – following a decent pause for etiquette’s sake – automatically solicit a flurry of activity from elsewhere in the house.

  Footfalls on the stairs and the front door slamming would convey perhaps that the kitchen was now free.

  So he fully expected to see Emily Atkins standing in his doorway, having for decorum purposes judged sufficient time to have passed since hearing Rosemary enter his room.

  Instead he found Eban Barnard swaying a little and clearly just the right side of inebriation.

  Eban stepped forward without saying a word and thrust out a hand in a rather formal manner. Pascal took it and the other man pumped enthusiastically whilst handing the host a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape that he’d purchased in Tesco along with the Sunday Times.

  “Pascal… good of you to have me,” he said and stepped by him into the room.

  “Come in, please…” Pascal said rather belatedly.

  All of this rather perturbed the host.

  In the first place, he had been unsure whether Eban Barnard would attend his party at all.

  And as he had been working in the kitchen most of the day, he was fairly sure that Eban had not left since returning earlier with the newspapers.

  Therefore, he would have had to be in his room, drinking alone all day.

  Like a startled cat, Rosemary Payne stiffened immed
iately on seeing Eban.

  She too had been expecting Emily.

  “Oh… good evening Eban,” she half-heartedly greeted him, and turned her back on him immediately, ostensibly to consult Pascal’s bookcase.

  “Good evening Mizzzz Payne,” replied Eban, hoping that some reference to her marital status or a pun on her surname might further convey his barely concealed dislike of the woman.

  Pascal sensed this immediately, and practised host that he was, sought to lighten proceedings.

  “I do hope that you have brought good appetites with you?”

  Eban crossed the room to where the man was standing. “I could eat a horse and chase the jockey!” he said, smiling and slapped Pascal heartily on the back.

  Pascal laughed good-humouredly, hiding his surprise.

  He had never seen Eban act like this before.

  The alcohol seemed to have freed up some inhibitions in him and Pascal noted that he spoke now with a much more identifiable working class Belfast twang.

  Rosemary rolled her eyes to the ceiling, hoping that Pascal would see this and so she would be vindicated in everything she had previously told him regarding the obvious shortcomings and thinly concealed vulgarity of their housemate.

  “Eban, can I get you a drink?”

  Pascal was about to move the party on by saying something witty about how he should really patent his famous Earl Grey martini when Eban spoke over him.

  “Would you mind very much if I had a whiskey instead?”

  Pascal followed Eban’s gaze and saw that it was fixed on his slowly depleting bottle of Laphroaig ten-year-old single malt.

  He silently cursed himself for failing to conceal this before his guests had arrived, and enthusiastically assured Eban that it would be no problem.

  No problem at all.

  They stood around facing each other in a small arc, variously looking into the bottom of their glasses or at their shoes.

  The short silence seemed interminable.

  Even though they had been housemates for a considerable period and had interacted with each other on any number of occasions on a variety of domestic issues, the incongruity of this social context seemed to render them momentarily incapable of social mores.