Though the Heavens Fall

by Anne Emery

  “Go wash them again.”

  “Okay.”

  Katie drew Clare out of her room and said Dermot was with his mates and they had about an hour before Darren would be home, so the five of them piled into the car and went shopping for pet supplies. Great care was taken to choose the proper bed but there was no contest when Normie spotted, so to speak, one in a leopard skin pattern.

  “I’m going to put him on it when we get home!”

  “All right, Timmy,” Katie cautioned him, “only don’t be gutted if he doesn’t take to it right away. Cats do pretty well as they please.”

  “He’ll love this bed!”

  “He will. It’s just that he may do a bit of wandering before he settles on it.”

  “Aye, all right.”

  When the mission was completed Monty and Normie bade goodbye to the Flanagans, large and small, two legged and four, and headed out for Monty’s safe, lovely flat in tony south Belfast.

  “Gary and those guys are really mean. And they’re bad. They’re always fighting, and they’re always scaring Timmy. And they said —” She stopped speaking and stared out the side window.

  “They said what, sweetheart?”

  “Something gross to me. And something even more gross about Katie. And I’m not going to tell you what it was.”

  That suited Monty; he didn’t want to hear it.

  Chapter XXII

  Brennan

  Lying in bed on Saturday morning a week after the shooting, Brennan wasn’t sure whether he had even been asleep. His morning thoughts were the same as the thoughts that consumed him during the night: anxiety over Ronan’s condition, and rage over the attempt on his life. Brennan had been spending most of the daylight hours at the hospital, and Ronan was getting better by the day, no question about it. Then another thought jabbed him like a dagger, a selfish thought: what if, in the news coverage of the shooting and of Ronan’s recovery, there had been more than a passing reference to Brennan himself. He had avoided looking at any of the news, but Gráinne had told him reporters had been asking her and other family members for interviews. What if there had been a reference to Brennan as one of the people present with Ronan, one of the witnesses to the shooting, and the reporters had obtained a photo of him? What if the secretary at Saint Matthew’s church saw his picture and could now identify him? But there weren’t any photos of him here in Belfast, were there? Was that his most pressing concern right now? No, obviously not. His most pressing concern was his need for sleep so he wouldn’t be prey to this sort of unreasonable, paranoid, self-centred fantasy. He sank into unconsciousness.

  When he arrived at the hospital later that morning and was walking towards Ronan’s room, he spied one of his favourite people in the known universe. His sister Molly, over from London. She was almost two years older than Brennan but they looked like twins, with the same black hair and dark eyes, though his were black and hers were blue. Like everyone else who’d been in to see Ronan, she was trying to put a brave face on things.

  “Molly, a stór mo chroí, bless you!”

  “God between us and all harm!” They embraced and held on for a good long moment. “Brennan, darling, thank God he lived through it and you weren’t hit.”

  “Pretty grim, it was.”

  “I know, and him trying to bring peace to this tragic patch of earth. I’ve been talking to the family, as you might imagine. Mam is in an awful state, and Da would like to launch a rocket from New York Harbour. Terry is looking at flights for himself and Patrick.”

  “Tell them to hold off. There’s no point in them visiting Ronan until he can enjoy their company. And tell them as well to be planning a trip to see me in Rome when I take over the choir in the fall. You and Paddy and Terry and all the rest of them. After all, it’s the eternal city; that will make us all feel immortal.”

  “I’ll give them the word. But I’m here till tomorrow and I’m delighted to see you, in spite of the circumstances. Shelmalier is giving a presentation tonight on work she’s been doing for her dissertation. I had been planning to attend, but she understands entirely if I miss it under the circumstances.”

  “What’s the subject of your lovely daughter’s presentation?”

  “Shakespeare and Freud. It’s a Shakespeare weekend at Oxford.”

  “Ah. She’ll be brilliant, as she always has been. You tell Shelmalier that you uncovered a deep, unconscious need to hear her speak, in rhyming couplets. And that her uncle Brennan sent you packing. Spend some time with Ronan today and then off with you, back to England in time for Shelly’s event.”

  “Well, maybe that’s what I’ll do.”

  So they spent part of the morning beside the sick bed and then enjoyed a few hours together in the city before she left for a standby flight back to England.

  Sitting at Ronan’s bedside again that evening, Brennan contemplated the excruciating boredom of lying in a hospital bed. This, in addition to the pain and anxiety the patient had to endure. But the boredom: whenever he thought of people serving time in prison, the thing that struck him most forcefully — even more, perhaps, than the loss of freedom, the loneliness, and the fear of violence — was the sheer, unending boredom. He could not bear to be locked up, deprived of his regular life and activities, and left to languish in the day to day, hour to hour, minute to minute mindless tedium of it all. He immediately sent up an Act of Contrition for being ungrateful, ungrateful for his health and for the richness of the life he had been privileged to enjoy. He expressed contrition for his momentary forgetting of all the people in the Royal Victoria Hospital in Belfast who were suffering, whether from wounds or other mishaps or illness.

  Ronan and Gráinne’s daughter Aideen came in then, greeted Brennan and leaned over her father, kissing him gently on the forehead. Brennan had seen her early in the week when she came to Belfast from university in Galway to be with her dad. She told Brennan she had been here at the hospital in the afternoon, when there had been a steady stream of visitors, including Father Alec Reid and the Reverend Clark Rayburn and some leading lights of the Republican movement. Brennan heard footsteps and turned to greet another well-wisher, but it was one of the nurses. She beckoned to Brennan to step outside.

  “There are a couple of gentlemen down in the lobby asking after you, Father.”

  Brennan felt a surge of apprehension. “Oh?”

  “It’s up to you of course. If you’d rather not be interrupted . . .”

  “No, I’ll go down and see who they are. Thank you.”

  Who would be coming to see Brennan at the hospital, at night? Another family member in town to see Ronan, looking for some advance warning about his condition before venturing up to the ward? That sounded like something Brennan himself would do! But what if this was something about Brennan himself? He was about to find out. He left the room and got into the elevator for the ground floor.

  Two men stepped forward when he walked out into the lobby. He had never laid eyes on them before. One was in his fifties, distinguished-looking and well turned out in a jacket and tie. The younger fellow had muscles bulging against his black nylon jacket; he had the look of a boxer who had taken a few too many jabs in the face but was well able to get his own back, in or out of the ring. What were they after?

  The older man — Brennan mentally christened him the executive — said, “Father Burke. Sorry to intrude on you here at the hospital, but we were wondering if you would accompany us outside so we can talk for a few minutes.”

  “Who are you fellas?”

  “We’re taking care of things for Ronan now,” the man replied.

  Taking care of what things? Were these new bodyguards? Did the other two get in the soup for letting Ronan go to the bar without them? But it was Ronan’s choice, and he’s the boss. Brennan didn’t know who these men were. And given the unsettling events of the past week, he thought it would not be out of lin
e to make some inquiries. “If you could hold on for a second, I’ll be right back.”

  The executive nodded, and Brennan went back to the elevator, took it one floor up, got out and asked the nurse on the desk if he could use her phone. She agreed, and he punched in the Andersonstown number.

  Gráinne answered, and he reassured her immediately. “Nothing to be concerned about, acushla. I’m calling from the hospital, and Ronan is resting comfortably, as they say. But there are two men in the lobby asking me to go off with them for a little chat, and . . .”

  “What do they look like?”

  Brennan described them, and Gráinne said, “If they are who I think they are, you’ll be safe in their company. Not everybody would be!”

  He thanked her and the nurse and returned to the lobby of the hospital.

  The executive had a look of amusement on his face as if he knew exactly what Brennan had been up to, but he made no reference to it. He merely said, “If you’d come outside with us, Father, we could get into the car and away from this place for a few wee minutes.”

  One more wee test before Brennan left familiar ground to go off with two strangers in a vehicle. He’d give them a little linguistic challenge to see what foot they kicked with. And he’d do it with a bit of humour, if possible. He looked to the executive and said, “Chonaic mé ar an Aifreann thú uair amháin, nach bhfaca?”

  The man laughed and replied, in the language of the oppressor, “You may indeed have seen me at Mass, Father, if you were at Saint Paul’s in the Falls. You may even have seen me serving Mass for Father Sweeney, if one of the regular altar boys had the football that day.”

  Brennan smiled and nodded in acknowledgement. With that, he allowed himself to be escorted to the front seat of their car; the exec took the wheel and the boxer sat in back.

  The driver pulled away from the hospital and said, “Before we take you back to the hospital or to Andytown, we’d like you to accompany us somewhere else for a few minutes. Won’t be long.”

  “Whereabouts are we going?”

  “We’re just taking a wee spin and we’ll stop in at the house of a friend. We’ll take you wherever you’d like to go straight away after that.”

  Brennan wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that. A public place, a public house, was likely out of the question, but he’d give it a try.

  “We might stop in somewhere to wet our throats before we get to . . . wherever we’re headed?”

  “That might not be a good idea right now, Father, but I think we can safely assume there will be some cans or a bottle or two on hand at the house we’re going to. If not, I’ll have one of our lads make a run to the off-licence for you.”

  “Bless you.”

  They hadn’t driven very far before they pulled up in front of a nondescript brick terraced house. They were still in west Belfast. There was not a soul to be seen in the shadows of the street. He made to open his door, but the driver put a restraining hand on him. “Two seconds, and we’ll go.” The boxer got out, and Brennan watched while he surveyed the area, while keeping a hand in his right pocket. Then the driver said, “Good. Let’s go.”

  Brennan was led into the sitting room of the house. Everything about the room was dark: the carpet, the walls, the furniture. The only light came from a low-watt bulb in a table lamp. The curtains were drawn. Two new friends rose from their seats when Brennan entered the room. One was short and wiry, in his late forties, with a pleasant, intelligent face and a quick smile; he was dressed in a sweater, shirt, and tie. The other was the equivalent of the boxer who had accompanied Brennan in the car. Muscled and wary. Brennan decided to label him the brawler.

  The smaller man spoke up. “Thank you for coming to see us, Father Burke. We won’t be keeping you long. Is there anything we can get you? Tea? A drink?”

  “What would you have in the way of a drink?”

  “Whiskey, cans of Harp, wine, I think.”

  “A Harp and a good, healthy shot of whiskey would do me the world of good.”

  The boxer left the room and returned within seconds, carrying a bottle of Powers whiskey and a tray of glasses. He poured a generous splash in each of the glasses and passed them around. He also handed Brennan a can of Harp.

  Brennan took his first mouthful of the whiskey and savoured the golden liquid before letting it slide down his throat. Uisce beatha. The water of life. He followed that with a taste of the beer.

  After his moment of pleasure, he tuned in to what looked like a board of inquiry. All four men had arranged themselves on seats across from him. They placed their glasses on the coffee table and gave Brennan their full attention. The small man in the sweater gave his name as Cathal. Or, rather, he said, “You may call me Cathal.” The names of the others were not announced, or invented.

  Cathal said, “I understand that your cousin is on the way back to good health, Father Burke.”

  “He is.”

  “Is maith sin. The peelers don’t have anyone for the shooting yet.”

  “Chances are they never will,” said the executive who had been at the wheel for the spin over. “Not when it’s one of ours that gets shot.”

  “So,” Cathal continued, “it falls to us to find whoever it was who tried to assassinate Ronan Burke. We take a greater interest in the welfare of our people than do the members of the Royal Ulster Constabulary.”

  Brennan felt no need to wonder who “we” were.

  “So anything you can tell us about that night, what you saw, who you saw or heard would be most helpful.”

  “Some of it’s a blur.”

  “Understandably,” Cathal conceded. “Let’s take it bit by bit. What made you decide to go to the Banned Flag that night?”

  Brennan thought back. “We were at the house, Ronan’s, and talked about going out. I think Ronan made a little joke about being off the drink, and the fellows at the Banned Flag not holding it against him.”

  There was knowing laughter on the other side of the room. “It’s been low tide for the drinks industry since Ronan took the pledge,” the executive remarked. “Lots of men on the dole. He’d best not count on their votes if he gets an elected assembly!”

  “I’m sure he won’t hold it against them. So anyway, he said that’s where we were going, and that’s what we did.”

  “Right. So you went by car, with Fegan at the wheel.”

  “I didn’t catch the fella’s name,” Brennan lied, in case he might be putting Fegan in danger by confirming his presence.

  “Now who else would have known you were going to the Flag?”

  “Nobody that I’m aware of. Just family, you know.”

  “Ronan’s family?”

  “Right. Lorcan was at the house. Ronan invited him along, but he couldn’t come. He was on the phone to a pal of his arranging a birthday party. For his sister-in-law, I think it was.”

  “Who was he on the phone to?”

  Brennan shook his head. No idea.

  “All right. Anybody else?”

  “Gráinne had gone out, so I don’t imagine she knew.”

  “Did you note anything unusual on your way there?”

  “Nothing stood out that I remember.”

  “So you got to the Flag, and Fegan parked the car on a street nearby? And you walked from there to the bar?”

  “No, he . . . we were dropped off right at the door.”

  “Did you notice anybody around as you walked to the door?”

  “You have to remember that I’m a blow-in here. I wouldn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. But Ronan didn’t react to anything. We just went inside, and there was a roar of greeting for him. A lot of slagging about his being off the drink.”

  “The lads blackguarding him a little? All in good humour?”

  “That’s what it was.”

  “So you sat where?”
/>
  “At one of the tables in the back of the place.”

  “Who did Ronan talk to?”

  “I didn’t know any of the people there, of course, but he seemed to have a word for everybody. There was an old fella sitting in the window. What was his name now? Seemed to fancy himself a bit of a guardian. I remember seeing him there on a previous visit to the city here.”

  “That would be old Shammy.”

  “Of course, yes, that’s his name.”

  “He’s permanently planted at that table, takes it upon himself to keep watch on the street.”

  “Right. And I’m trying to bring it back now . . . He said something just before it all happened, before the smoke bomb was thrown inside. Shammy made a comment about someone outside. Something disturbed him about the fellow, but he wasn’t specific. I think he said the man was wearing a cap. And there was something about a car.”

  “What did he say about a car?”

  “I can’t . . . maybe that it hadn’t stopped. Or the engine was running. If there was anything more than that, I don’t recall. I’m sorry.”

  “No, you’re all right, Father. You’re grand. Now what else happened?”

  “There was a noise, the place began filling with smoke, and everyone bolted for the back door. The . . . device had come in the front door, so . . .”

  “So everybody piled out the back. Tell us what happened at that point.”

  “I heard the gunshots. Ronan fell. I dropped down beside him. Prayed with him, tried to encourage him. He had a white paper sticking out of his shirt pocket. I thought that might serve as a white flag, but then I figured that might make me a target! Like those priests in the massacres a few years back. The ambulance came, and the peelers. We were taken to the hospital. Ronan and the barman, Jimmy, and I went with them.”

  Cathal looked at the man in the jacket and tie, who gave a slight nod.

  “Thank you then, Father. We’re grateful.”

  The boxer spoke up then. “It’s well known that Ronan used to drink at the Banned Flag and still pops in for a glass of whatever he takes now. So, if he wasn’t followed there . . .”