by Anne Emery
“Jesus, Ronan, the life you’ve lived!”
“You have no idea.”
“Did you ever get the treatment you needed?”
“I got exactly what I needed. Checked myself in to the nearest facility in Dundalk. A pub with which I was well familiar. Had a wash. Even washed my clothes while they were still on me. Then proceeded to get rat-arse drunk. There was a television set in the bar and, inevitably, the news came on and one of the stories was about a prisoner who had escaped from the Kesh. They showed a photo of what I looked like on better days. Most of the punters made no connection between the skinny, scrofulous gobshite sitting in Phelim’s bar in Dundalk and the able-bodied soldier of the bold IRA as was shown on the telly. One fellow made me, though, gave me the eye across the room and raised his glass to me. I figured he was on the run, too. Later, on his way out, he stopped beside me and wished me ádh mór. Good luck.”
“And after that? You got back in the saddle, so to speak?”
“Not for long. They caught up with me the next year, so I was back in the Kesh where I did my time and was released. Fought again. Saw friends die, saw enemies die, saw families devastated . . . on both sides of the conflict.”
He wound down and seemed to turn inward. He would have quite a reel of past adventures, Monty imagined.
After a minute or so, Ronan got back to the conversation. “I will go to my grave believing the Republican cause was, and is, a just cause. That does not mean it was always fought in a just manner, as we all know. Some of the atrocities committed in the course of this war are and always will be indefensible. Unforgivable. And of course this includes acts committed by my own people as well as those committed by our enemies. But even allowing for the rightness of our cause in redressing a longstanding oppression of our people, even given all of that, I figure the people have had enough. Enough? There’s a bit of British-style understatement for you, Monty! Too many lives lost, too many limbs lost, too much destruction, too much hatred, on all sides. This was all going full bore up until the ceasefire five months ago. So with a few like-minded individuals, I’m trying to bring an end to it.”
The ironic tone in which Ronan had recounted the story of his harrowing prison break had given way to agitation, as he returned to the tensions of the present day.
Monty said, “You are trying to bring the war to an end, but others are not ready to relinquish those Armalite rifles.”
“You said a mouthful there.”
“So do you think maybe your own security . . .”
“Is at risk from the Loyalists, the Brits, and my own people?”
“Right. Do you think it is?”
Ronan caught Monty’s eye in the mirror. “I know it is.”
Chapter VIII
Monty
On Sunday, February 12, Maura came to Belfast with a group of professors and students from the University College of Dublin law school. They would be meeting up with their counterparts from the law school at Queen’s. February 12, 1995, was the sixth anniversary of the death of Pat Finucane, a well-known Belfast solicitor. Finucane was murdered at the age of thirty-nine by a Loyalist paramilitary group, and a demonstration was planned in front of Belfast City Hall, calling for a full public inquiry into the murder. It was not a city government matter, but this was a highly visible place in the centre of town. Monty and Maura had decided to take part, and they arranged to meet up with Father Burke after he said his noon Mass at Holy Cross. Monty found a parking spot a few blocks away from the checkpoints where “civilian search units” searched all vehicles entering the city centre. He and Maura walked to Donegall Square, which was dominated by the City Hall, an enormous Baroque revival building in light-grey Portland stone with columns, carvings, cupolas at the corners, and a large central dome in green copper. Brennan was waiting for them on the front lawn.
“I can see why they call this an ‘Edwardian wedding cake,’” Monty said, looking at the building.
“That’s a fair description of it,” Brennan agreed. He turned then to Maura. “How are things at the law school, Professor MacNeil?”
“Wonderful, Father Burke. The students are keen to learn the law so they can get out and make a difference in the world, give a voice to the disadvantaged and the unpopular client who would otherwise go unheard.”
“God bless you, my dear. Even the unpopular defendant is entitled to a defence. The international corporations, the offshore banks. As unpopular as they are, they must be grateful to have you at their side.”
“You haven’t been listening, Brennan. A common failing in certain members of the opposite sex, I find. It is clear that you haven’t heard a word I have said in all the five long years I have known you. My formative legal years were spent with the Dal Liberation Army. You may know it better as Dalhousie Legal Aid in Halifax. I would rather eat warm, raw, three-weeks-past-its-best-before-date haggis and die a horrible death with you looking on, pale and faint, than represent the offshore banks and their co-conspirators in corporate greed.”
“Ah.”
Nobody who had been in the presence of the MacNeil for more than five minutes, let alone five years, could be left in any doubt about what end of the political spectrum she was on. But Brennan enjoyed winding her up.
“This excursion to City Hall is not about me, though, is it?” she said. “One of my students has a sign for me. I’ll see if I can spot her.”
They approached the elaborately styled building, its light-grey stone dazzling in the afternoon sun. There were several hundred people, and the organizers shepherded them into formation, four abreast, for the march along the street in front of the hall. People carried signs featuring the handsome face of the lawyer, who had been gunned down in his home in front of his wife and children. Finucane had represented Irish Republican defendants in some high-profile cases. Several of the signs accused the Royal Ulster Constabulary, the British Army, and the intelligence services of collusion in the lawyer’s death.
“What do you think, Brennan? Is there anything to that accusation?”
“Without question.”
“Really!” Monty was surprised, not so much by the fact that, in the dirty war in the North here, such a thing might be true, but by Brennan’s unequivocal reply. Monty knew there was a long-running conflict in the soul of the priest when it came to the troubled history of his homeland. He came from a staunch Republican family and he shared their view that Britain should be out and the partition between North and South should be ended, but he spent many a sleepless night wrestling with his conscience about what methods were or were not just in that struggle. Monty knew the bombings committed by the Republican side disturbed him as much as those committed by the other. And Brennan often weighed his words before speaking them. Not on this occasion.
“It’s a well-known fact here,” Brennan said. “Certain units of the army and the spooks and certain elements in the police force are in cahoots with Loyalist paramilitaries. Everybody here knows what side they’re on. You must have heard about the Miami Showband massacre.”
“Sounds like the title of a very bad movie.”
“It does. But it was real. In 1975, the band was returning home to Dublin after a gig in County Down. But they had reckoned without several members of the UVF, one of the Loyalist paramilitaries, setting up a fake checkpoint and stopping the band on a pretext. Some of these UVF men were also members of a locally recruited regiment of the British Army, that being the Ulster Defence Regiment. They shot and killed three members of the band and wounded two others. So you’re no safer as a musician here than you are as a lawyer, Collins.”
“My God!” said Maura.
“The guys who killed the band members were soldiers?” Monty asked.
“Some of them were, yeah. As for Pat Finucane, everyone knew Pat was under threat from the Loyalists. For years. Threatened with death. Word is the security forces let it happen. Peo
ple go farther than that: they say the security forces were in on it from the start.”
“Jesus.”
“Imagine yourself back home in Canada, and the police decide you have to be disposed of, because you represent killers and sex offenders.”
“The police don’t like it, but they know that’s the justice system, that’s my job. It’s a well-known principle that lawyers are not supposed to be identified with their clients’ actions just because the lawyers provide the representation to which the clients are entitled!”
“Well said, counsellor. But that didn’t help Pat Finucane. Not here.”
“There’s Andrea!” Maura said and moved towards a young dark-haired woman struggling with three signs.
“Hi, Maura. I brought one for you and one for —” she looked at Brennan in his collar and settled on Monty “— your husband? I don’t have one for you, Father.”
“That’s all right. I’ll walk with youse anyway.”
So the three of them joined the chanting protesters marching back and forth along the busy thoroughfare. There were two television crews on hand and a small group of other reporters. One man was treating the news media to a diatribe about collusion between the state and the Loyalist paramilitaries, and the media’s apparent failure to keep the matter in the headlines.
People walked by and expressed their support; drivers beeped their horns and waved, joining in the chorus: “Justice for Pat!” “Executed by the state!” “Full inquiry now!” But the mood changed abruptly. The demonstrators turned to the sound of marching feet and angry voices in the street outside City Hall. A crowd bore down on the Finucane protesters, bellowing at them and waving Union Jack flags. Police materialized as if out of nowhere, some in caps and bulletproof vests, another unit minutes later in full riot gear with helmets, shields, and batons. But no heads were cracked on this occasion. The police showed restraint, merely standing in rows between the two rival groups, keeping them apart. The Loyalists got their message out nonetheless, as red-faced men shouted that the demonstrators were “dirty fuckin’ Fenians” and that “the fuckin’ IRA lawyer deserved every one of those fourteen bullets!” Then one of the Loyalists caught sight of Father Burke in his collar. “Fuck the Pope, you fuckin’ papish!” The priest’s black eyes fastened on the man with a look that consigned him to the flames of hell for all eternity.
The protest marshals urged everyone to stay focused on Pat Finucane and his family and not let the event be hijacked by the kinds of individuals who revelled in his death.
Walking away from City Hall after it was over, Brennan remarked, “I believe it was Newton who said, ‘For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.’”
“Looked to me more like matter and anti-matter,” Maura replied.
“All too predictable, but still it was a good idea to have the demonstration here in the city centre instead of keeping to the Falls Road. Disruption, yes, but also more publicity. So,” he looked around, “where are you parked? Outside the restricted areas, obviously.”
“Yeah, just a few blocks down from here. So, how are things with you, Brennan? I’ve been so busy with my tractors, I’ve neglected my social obligations.”
“I thought you’d never ask, Montague. I got a call from head office.”
“Oh?”
“Head office for you, Father, would be . . .” The MacNeil looked to the heavens.
“Close enough. I snagged the job in Rome. I start in September.”
“You what?!” She stopped in her tracks and stared at him. Monty had not mentioned to her the possibility of Brennan’s appointment to the Roman church because, well, there was no point in bringing it up if it wasn’t going to happen.
“I’ve been appointed choirmaster at Sancta Maria Regina Coeli in Rome, where they do all the wonderful old music. Palestrina, Victoria, Gregorian chant. The music of the spheres.”
“Oh my God!”
“Ah, now, there’s no need of that. I’ll still answer to ‘Father.’”
“When did this come up?”
Brennan looked at Monty. “When was it I first mentioned it? Just after Christmas?”
Maura gave Monty a look he could interpret from long years of experience. It said, You knew about this and didn’t tell me?
“So,” Brennan asked, “are youse going to miss me?”
“Your absence will be noted,” Monty acknowledged.
“Men! Of course we’re going to miss you.” She didn’t hide the fact that she meant it. Brennan Burke had become a fundamental part of their lives since they had met in Halifax five years before. They had been through agony and ecstasy together, and he had become such a close friend he was more like family. The stars would be dimmed, the music would be in a distinctly minor key, without him. But Monty would rather be flayed alive than say so.
Maura had no such inhibitions. “How long . . . does this mean you’re finished in Halifax?” The look on her face was one of consternation.
“Not at all. A one-year term while the present choirmaster is serving in Munich. I spend one year lording it over the quaking choristers at Saint Mary Queen of Heaven and then I return to Halifax, the Roman coming home in triumph.”
“That sounds more like it. And like you.”
“Looking forward to it, I imagine,” said Monty.
“I am. But I’m also looking forward to my time here in the old country. I hadn’t planned on two spells away, but Dennis Cronin has been most accommodating.” That was the archbishop back home in Halifax. “And he promised not to bring in a banjo-playing, hootenanny type of choir director to fill in for me at the church or at the choir school.”
“Well, you’ve got it all under control,” Monty said. “And if you need someone to help you out in Rome with ‘Ag Críost an Síol,’ give me a call and I’ll be on the next flight out.”
“I’ll do that, though there must be some Irish lads loitering around in Rome. There’s an Irish-language confessional in Saint John Lateran Basilica, so that suggests Irish-speaking sinners in the eternal city.”
“With one more on his way. Congratulations, Brennan!” Maura leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. He put his arm around her and gave her a hug, looking as if he could already hear the ethereal sounds of Palestrina soaring to the Roman skies.
* * *
Near the end of the following week, after three days of tedious paperwork and interviews out at the Canadian Earth Equipment plant, Monty found the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Well, some would call it a brass pot at best; some would call it a pot of a different kind and colour altogether. But to Monty it was pure Au, atomic number 79, one of the few atomic numbers that had stayed in his mind after high school chemistry. And it all came about because of Emmet Crowley, the sole criminal lawyer at Ellison Whiteside. When Monty arrived at the office on Thursday morning, he found the place abuzz with the news that Crowley had disappeared. Monty recalled his attempt to strike up a collegial relationship with Crowley, his offer to assist the criminal lawyer with some of his cases. But Crowley had never taken him up on the offer. Monty remembered him looking distracted, busy, harassed. Now, it seemed, there was a reason why the lawyer had been frazzled. Monty’s colleagues today revealed that Crowley had run afoul of the Law Society of Northern Ireland and was facing disciplinary action. Now he was gone. Rumour had it he had fled to New Zealand, with funds belonging to a client.
It was clear from the talk around the office, and not just the talk today, that the firm frowned upon criminal matters, and that the partners had been putting some pressure on Emmet Crowley to stop taking criminal clients and to limit his practice to corporate law and civil litigation. Now the criminal lawyer had left, but the criminal files were still on his desk.
Later that day, Muriel Whiteside rapped on Monty’s door. “Good afternoon, Monty.”
“Hello, Muriel.” She was a stylishly
dressed woman in her late forties, one of the founding partners of the firm.
“You’ve heard the news, I expect, that Emmet Crowley is no longer with us.”
“Yes, I heard.”
Monty waited to see if she would elaborate on the reasons for his departure, but she merely kept calm and carried on. “As you probably know, his preferred area of practice was criminal law.” Her good, respectable Ulster face said it all when she pronounced the words “criminal law.”
“Right, I knew that.”
“Well, not surprisingly, given his hasty departure, he left a few files unfinished. Cases that have not yet run their course.”
“I see.”
“A couple of them will be going to court quite soon and, from what we understand of the complaints lodged with the Law Society, he never briefed a barrister about these upcoming court matters. Actually, what I think happened is that he had a barrister lined up for one or more of the cases and then there was a dispute. Whatever the situation, the files need to be dealt with straight away. All this is by way of asking whether you would be interested in taking them over.”
Is the Pope a papist? “I would be very interested, Muriel, thank you.”
“I thought you would. We here at Ellison Whiteside are moving away from that line of work. We won’t be taking on any more criminal cases, but we will honour the clients to whom we have already committed ourselves. A couple of these involve petty crimes, theft and a bar brawl.” She rolled her eyes.
“Bring ’em on. I’ve done lots of those in between the murders and the sex crimes.”
“Yes, I can imagine. Now among these files there are three of a different order altogether.”
“Yes?”
“Terrorist offences.”
Old Monty had hit the big time in Belfast.
“Would you like to come with me to Emmet’s old office? You’ll see what’s there.”
