by Anne Emery
“Feel like a beer and a night of down and dirty blues at the Shag?”
An elderly woman standing next to Monty gaped at him in horror. No way to speak to a priest of God on Holy Thursday; Monty could see her point.
The priest of God leaned towards Monty and said, sotto voce, “All I want in this world is to fall into my bed, sink into a dreamless sleep, and not regain consciousness until three o’clock tomorrow.” Tomorrow being Good Friday. “Sitting in a smoky bar, guzzling beer, and hearing fellas sing about being all alone and out of work and riding a boxcar to the next parole violation is the last thing I need. So, the appeal is irresistible. See you there.”
Brennan
Brennan walked into the Flying Stag, popularly known as the Flying Shag, after exchanging his priestly vestments for a pair of jeans and a faded T-shirt that bore the immortal words of Saint Augustine: Da mihi castitatem . . . sed noli modo. Give me chastity . . . but not yet. The Flying Shag was located in a down-at-heels strip mall in a suburb of Halifax; the other establishments were a laundromat, a cheque-cashing service, and a pawn shop. Monty and his blues band, Functus, were launching into one of their signature pieces, the Muddy Waters classic “You Can’t Lose What You Ain’t Never Had,” when Brennan arrived. He saw some people he knew, regulars at blues night, and they invited him to join them. He lit up a smoke, caught the eye of the waiter, and ordered a round for the table.
Brennan had received a jolt that morning when he read the news: a decorated Air Force veteran by the name of Lieutenant-General John J. Patriquin had turned himself in, in connection with the death of Alban MacNair. If there had been any doubt in Brennan’s mind, there was enough in the newspaper article about Patriquin’s wartime exploits to identify him as the man who had followed Brennan and Terry to Germany and made his startling confession on a park bench in Berlin. Where MacNair fit into the picture, Brennan didn’t know. But coming so soon after the Berlin episode, it would be a safe bet that MacNair had a role somewhere in the Keller-Patriquin drama. Brennan said a quick prayer, the latest of many, for Leni Baumann and her little daughter, Imke.
Then he returned to the present, to the Flying Shag bar, where Monty and the other members of Functus were wailing on about busted motors and busted lives, loneliness, failure, and heartbreak, the trials and tribulations of the bummed-out and the jilted, the boozers and the junkies. Brennan could sympathize with all of them. He lifted his glass of draft and poured a good few ounces down his throat. And then, looking at Monty, he thought inevitably of Normie. And he felt the remorse all over again. Guilt over his failure to keep his word to his little AA counsellor, who had staged such an endearing intervention to save him from himself. Guilt over his failure to meet Meika Keller and possibly save her from taking her own life.
He put his glass on the table, pushed it away.
The band took a break after a searing rendition of “St. James Infirmary Blues,” and Monty came over to Brennan’s table. They all made small talk for a few minutes, then the other people at the table got into a discussion about the impending bankruptcy of a dejected-looking man across the room.
Brennan said to Monty, “You’re in fine voice tonight. Appropriate, I suppose. We’re in the penitential season liturgically, and I’m listening to the blues. Fits the mood, no question.”
“True enough.”
Monty said no more for a few seconds, then, “I take it that, if you went back for a second trip to Germany, you learned some history there.”
“I could have learned it — some of it — here in Halifax the night of February sixth, if only I’d honoured my commitment to meet with her . . .”
“But Brennan, it was a minor transgression, a mere instance of forgetting, something we all do every day. Who could have foreseen the consequences? It’s not as if —” Monty looked down at the table “— you had any warning.”
“The fact that she wanted to talk to me at ten o’clock at night should have been warning enough.”
“Still, nothing that would have had bells tolling in your mind, giving an intimation of what she was about to do.” Monty looked up then. “You know that it . . . it’s been ruled a suicide.”
“Oh, I had that sussed already.”
“You found out in Germany.”
Brennan nodded. “I tracked down her daughter.”
“Her daughter?!” Monty looked poleaxed. “But . . .”
Brennan waved it off. “Later,” he said. Then, “If only I’d met with Meika that night —”
“You couldn’t have known.” Then Monty looked Brennan directly in the eye and said, “I have no such excuse. I received a warning. One night in Belfast. An IRA man. He warned me that the case I was working on could cause harm to people I knew in Belfast — the people I knew in Belfast of course were members of your family.” The words came out in a torrent, as if Monty was afraid that if he stopped, he’d never be able to get started again. “And the guy mentioned you. And I laughed it off. I made a joke. Because, Brennan, the only thing I knew you had done was go into a bar posing as an American tourist, and that’s the image that came to me. So, I laughed.”
Brennan had heard that the warning had been dismissed with a laugh; that had eaten away at him while he sat in his cell in prison. Here, now, was the simple and understandable reason.
Monty continued, “I had no idea that there was another, well . . .”
“Exploit? Escapade? Ill-advised venture?”
“Action you had taken. Taken to protect your family. I only found out when it was obviously too late.”
Too late by the time Brennan was behind bars.
“My case was a righteous one,” Monty said.
“It was, I know that.”
“But if I had heeded the warning and waited, waited till you had left the country . . . Christ, when I read about the fallout from all that, I just . . .” Monty took a deep breath and said, “Brennan, I’m sorry for my part in all that. For what I did. More sorry than you will ever know.”
But, at last, Brennan did know. He could see it etched in his friend’s face: deep regret, true remorse. He said to Monty, “You were only a bit player in all that, Monty, somewhere off stage without a script. I was the victim of my own misguided attempt to save a member of my family, and then I fell into the hands of a brutal police force and an unjust system of justice.” Brennan fell silent for a moment, then said, “Do you remember the words? Averte faciem tuam a peccatis meis, et omnes iniquitates meas dele?”
“Is that my penance?”
“No, it’s the Miserere mei.” The words meant “turn thy face from my sins, and put out all my misdeeds.” But it wasn’t Monty’s penance.
“You’ll be singing it tomorrow afternoon, if you are still a member of my choir.”
“I am indeed. I . . . I’ve missed it.”
“And it has missed you.” He reached for his glass and then withdrew his hand. He summoned the waiter and said, “A Keith’s for Monty here. And a ginger ale for me.”
Monty raised his eyebrows, and Brennan gave him the official line. “It’s nearly twelve, and you know what I turn into at midnight: a priest boozing it up on Good Friday.” But that wasn’t the reason. The reason was Normie, and her love and concern for the weak, flawed man — the flameout — who was her priest. He didn’t know how long he’d last without the stuff. Months? Weeks? Days? But he would do his best for her, for as long as he was able. The beer and the ginger ale arrived, and he said to Monty, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow.”
Brennan raised his glass to Monty, and Monty raised his. They clinked their glasses and drank together.
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank the following people for their kind assistance: Joe A. Cameron, Rhea McGarva, Joan Butcher, Bill McKillip, John Elliott, Peter O’Brien, and Kishan Persaud. Thanks as always to my astute and sharp-eyed editors
, Cat London and Crissy Calhoun.
1996 was a period of change for Halifax, the police, and the military. I have done my best to use the titles, designations, and locations that were current during the months in which the story is set. The death penalty was not removed from the National Defence Act until 1998.
I would like to emphasize that the people I have thanked here gave me much-needed information for this story, but they are not responsible for the opinions or perspectives voiced by my characters! This is a work of fiction, and any liberties taken in the interest of story-telling, or errors committed, are mine alone.
Copyright
Copyright © Anne Emery, 2020
Published by ECW Press
665 Gerrard Street East, Toronto, ON M4M 1Y2
416-694-3348 / [email protected]
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any process — electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise — without the prior written permission of the copyright owners and ECW Press. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover and text design: Tania Craan
Cover image and author photo: © Mick Quinn/mqphoto.com
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Title: Postmark Berlin : a mystery / Anne Emery.
Names: Emery, Anne, author.
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20200159186
Canadiana (ebook) 20200159194
ISBN 978-1-77041-387-0 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-77305-465-0 (PDF)
ISBN 978-1-77305-464-3 (ePUB)
Classification: LCC PS8609.M47 P68 2020 DDC C813/.6—dc23
The publication of Postmark Berlin has been generously supported by the Canada Council for the Arts which last year invested $153 million to bring the arts to Canadians throughout the country and is funded in part by the Government of Canada. Nous remercions le Conseil des arts du Canada de son soutien. L’an dernier, le Conseil a investi 153 millions de dollars pour mettre de l’art dans la vie des Canadiennes et des Canadiens de tout le pays. Ce livre est financé en partie par le gouvernement du Canada. We acknowledge the support of the Ontario Arts Council (OAC), an agency of the Government of Ontario, which last year funded 1,737 individual artists and 1,095 organizations in 223 communities across Ontario for a total of $52.1 million. We also acknowledge the contribution of the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit, and through Ontario Creates for the marketing of this book.
