Once In, Never Out

by Dan Mahoney

  McKenna figured that Kevin, a man with two sons in prison, didn’t like cops, no matter where they were from. Or it could have been that Kevin also felt uncomfortable, and possibly even guilty, about sitting with the man who had connected his IRA with his niece’s death.

  However, once McKenna had dismissed Kevin’s attitude as something that he would just have to endure, he still dreaded sitting casually at the dinner table with Meaghan’s closest family while they talked about her life and death.

  As it turned out, McKenna had nothing to worry about. After Bridgette brought in the stew, she sat down and began the conversation by bringing the Mahers up to date on what had been happening in the old neighborhood in their absence. It was the most astounding casual dinner chitchat McKenna had ever heard. Bridgette described random sectarian killings, assassinations, and maimings as casually as if she had been talking about the weather, another one of those things you can do nothing about.

  McKenna and the Mahers learned that Joe McGuckin, a nice boy and a former neighbor of theirs, had been killed by British soldiers when he had tried to run his car through a checkpoint set up almost in front of their door. After his untimely death, it had been discovered by the soldiers that poor Joe, aged nineteen, had an Astra pistol, some detonators, and a detailed blueprint of the Tennant Street RUC station hidden in his stolen car.

  Then there was the case of Frankie Dunne and David Kelly, another two fine kids who used to live in The Falls. The RUC had implicated the lads in three killings. From what McKenna could gather, Dunne and Kelly had been caught by the peelers after the two had gleefully treated one of the Loyalist pubs, King Billy’s, to a few bursts of automatic fire from their Armalites last July 12th. The Prods inside had been busy celebrating their victory over the Catholic forces at the Battle of the Boyne, a battle that took place on July 12, 1690. Three dead, nine others shot, and the lads had been sentenced to twenty-five years and sent to the Maze Prison, where most of their mates were spending their time.

  Then there was Bobby Morrisson. It was rumored that he had been seeing a Prod lass from the Crumlin Road, a real case of improper and unwise dating as far as Bridgette was concerned. He had last been seen alive leaving an Andersonstown pub in Catholic West Belfast, but he had apparently been lifted and tortured by one of the Prod paramilitary groups, because his horribly mutilated body had been found on the Belvoir Golf Course in Protestant East Belfast.

  Terrence McAliskey had also been killed. Everyone knew that he had been an IRA soldier, but the Prods weren’t to blame for his death. It seemed that the RUC had picked him up on one of their routine bogus trumped-up charges and Terrence had agreed to shop his friends to get out from under. He had been released by the RUC and sent out, but that hadn’t been good for him. Word travels fast and hits hard in West Belfast. Terrence’s body had been fished out of the River Lagan, shot once in the back of the head.

  Finally, there had been the case of Roy Fitzsimmons, an errant Ballymurphy lad who liked to watch other peoples’ tellies in the comfort of his own home and drive other peoples’ cars until the petrol ran out. Then he would just leave the car anywhere and lift another to take him wherever he was going. All that would have been forgiveable if Roy had been man enough to travel to East Belfast to pursue his penchant for larceny, but he hadn’t. He stole from his neighbors and they knew what to do about it.

  As everyone knew, complaining to the RUC would have been futile. Those blighters were concerned only with terrorism, not the crime in Ballymurphy, and they only appeared in the neighborhood in heavily armed convoys, backed up by the Brit soldiers. So the good Ballymurphy folks brought their complaints to the IRA and Roy was dealt with, kneecapped last August and also shot in his right elbow for good measure. Roy’s punishment transformed him into the scrupulously honest left-handed lad with the limp, a source of no further problems for his neighbors.

  Throughout Bridgette’s reporting of the neighborhood news, McKenna made a point of asking no questions nor making any comment as he enjoyed his stew. He had many, but he kept them to himself under Kevin’s gaze.

  After a while McKenna noticed that Thomas was paying as much attention to Kevin as Kevin was paying to McKenna. There was more tension in the room than he had noticed while he had been eating. McKenna realized that Kevin was staring at him in order to avoid Thomas’s accusing gaze. As Ryer had said, the two men didn’t get along, and at the moment, Thomas had quite a grievance with Kevin’s politics. McKenna suspected that the only thing holding the hostility under the surface was the presence of the men’s wives.

  McKenna’s suspicions were buttressed after dinner. Bridgette cleared the dirty dishes away by herself, with no offer of help from Peg; one of the sisters would always be there to keep their men on best behavior.

  Their plan broke down over dessert, over McKenna’s second piece of pie. It was a homemade peach pie with a brown-sugar crust. McKenna thought it was the best thing he had ever tasted and was plotting his third slice while he listened to Bridgette lamenting the closing of the Harland and Wolff shipyard, a move that would raise the Catholic unemployment to somewhere around 40 percent. Then, out of the blue, Thomas asked, “Detective McKenna, have you heard that Martin McGuinn has denied that the IRA is responsible?”

  Suddenly, McKenna thought the pie didn’t taste that good after all. “Yes, I heard that,” he answered, turning to give Ryer his cue.

  “Then that’s the way it is,” Kevin said, staring Thomas full in the face for the first time that day. “If Martin said it, then it’s true, so it is.”

  “Bollocks!” Thomas retorted, dismissing Kevin’s conviction with a wave of his hand while keeping his attention fixed on McKenna. “Besides, it’s a question I’m asking to a man who knows the answer. Detective McKenna, would you be clearing this matter up for us?”

  Peg was holding Thomas’s arm and Bridgette grasped Kevin’s, like two dog handlers straining to keep their pit bulls apart. Both women had their mouths open, but they couldn’t find the commands.

  “Da, I don’t think Detective McKenna wants to talk about this right now,” Ryer said with authority.

  No good. “Mind your manners, Ryer. Remember, it’s your father you’re talking to, not a sniveling Sunday school class,” Thomas admonished in measured tones. “I asked a question that needs answering now, not later. I’ve the right to know, and so does the rest of this sotted, murderous, godforsaken country.”

  McKenna still had his hopes pinned on Ryer until the priest gave him that sorry-but-what-can-I-do shrug, so he turned to Peg. Still no good. She was in a panic, clutching her husband’s arm, but he had placed his free hand over hers.

  It was apparent to McKenna that, for the moment, Thomas was in charge. All eyes were focused on McKenna. There was no way out for him; the question had to be answered. “I don’t know if McGuinn is lying or not, but I do know that the man who did the Iceland bombing was once in the IRA. However, it did strike me as strange that the IRA didn’t immediately claim responsibility for the bombing.”

  Thomas turned his full attention from McKenna back to Kevin. “What’s that you folks say? Once in, never out?”

  Kevin stared back for a moment, then appeared to shrink under Thomas’s righteous scrutiny. “Maybe he was INLA,” he offered.

  McKenna thought it best to keep himself in the conversation at that point. “INLA?” he asked.

  “The Irish National Liberation Army, another bunch of thugs,” Thomas explained, still staring at Kevin. “It’s the commie version of the IRA, so it is. Same program with a different name.”

  “It’s not the same. I’d have none of them for mates,” Kevin protested, then placed both his hands on the table in front of him, palms up. “But I’ll tell you one thing, Thomas Maher. When I find out who killed our Meaghan, I swear that I’m going to kill him with these hands. IRA or no, trust me to kill him if I can.”

  Now what? McKenna wondered. Kevin was saying exactly what McKenna didn’t want to hear and he kn
ew what the next question would be. Then Bridgette took charge. “There’ll be no more talk of killing in this house tonight, Kevin,” she said, standing up as she spoke with her voice rising. “Thomas doesn’t want to hear it and neither do I. No more, I say.”

  The leash had been yanked hard and Kevin heeled, but only for a moment. He picked up his fork and picked at his pie until Bridgette sat down again. Then he turned to McKenna and asked the question, the one with the answer that Bridgette did want to hear. “You know who did it, don’t you?”

  Seeing that Bridgette wasn’t going to be any help, McKenna turned to Peg and found the same expectant look on her face. Once again, Ryer remembered the role he was to play and jumped to McKenna’s aid. “I asked Detective McKenna the same question. He has some idea, but he doesn’t know for sure who did it.”

  “All well and good, Ryer, but now I’m asking,” Kevin said. “Do you know, McKenna?”

  So much for the plan, McKenna thought. But the family has a right to know. “I know who did it, but I can’t tell you right now. Soon, but not now.”

  “And why is that?” Kevin asked.

  Time to face up to this guy, but how do I do it without stomping on his toes? I might need him and his connections later on. “Because I’m gonna get him, not you. That way there’s less trouble for everybody.”

  Kevin glared at McKenna, then appeared to take the rebuff in stride. “Then tell me this, at least. Is he a Belfast man?”

  “He once was, long ago. That’s all I can tell you right now.”

  There was a long minute of silence. All eyes were on McKenna until Peg Maher announced, “It’s time we were all getting to the funeral home. Meaghan’s waiting for us.”

  It was as if the recess bell sounded in kindergarten. All except McKenna pushed their chairs back and stood up. Ryer gave McKenna an encouraging pat on the back and then Kevin smiled at him and said, “It doesn’t take a genius to tell that I can be a bullheaded pain in the arse sometimes.”

  “I’m no genius, but no, it doesn’t,” McKenna answered cautiously.

  Then Kevin offered his hand. “I understand that you’re in charge and everything’s to be done your way. But if you’ll be needing any help from me and mine, don’t hesitate to ask.”

  McKenna stood and formally shook Kevin’s hand, knowing that he was contemplating a deal that Rollins would never countenance. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

  “Good. And I’m hoping you’ll be finding it in your heart to join us for dinner again tomorrow.”

  Another dinner like this one? McKenna thought. Poor Kevin’s gone over the edge. Duty’s been done and I’d rather spend a couple of hours picking fly shit out of red pepper with boxing gloves on and a gun to my head. “Thanks for the offer. I don’t know about tomorrow, but we’ll be sure to do it again sometime.”

  Twenty

  They took two cars to the funeral home in the adjoining Andersonstown neighborhood, with Ryer and McKenna in the rented car following everyone else. By the time they left the Hughes home, the rain had stopped and night had fallen.

  There were a few things about nighttime Ballymurphy that aroused McKenna’s curiosity, but only his. One thing was the sound of gunfire in the distance, but everyone else ignored it as they got into the cars. Another was the darkness; although there were streetlights lining the block, none were lit. As Ryer drove, McKenna couldn’t help but notice that most of the West Belfast city streets were as dark as country roads. “Is there a problem with the electricity here?” he asked.

  “No, the electric’s fine. The IRA likes to work in darkness, so they shoot out the streetlights,” Ryer explained, then offered his apologies for his dismal performance during the dinner show.

  “You did well enough,” McKenna answered. “It was a good showing against a strong cast of characters.”

  Then the driver of a car approaching them from the opposite direction flashed his high beams. “He’s telling us that there’s a police checkpoint ahead,” Ryer explained.

  “Is that a problem?” McKenna asked.

  “No, just an unpleasant delay.”

  As they rounded a curve in the road, there it was. There were four constables standing in front of their two armored RUC Land Rovers, which were blocking the road. The constables were backed up by a squad of troops with automatic weapons at the ready.

  Ahead of them, Kevin stopped his car, got out with his papers in his hand, and approached the constables. The Mahers and Bridgette remained in the car, all unmoving and staring straight ahead. McKenna noticed that the troops were always moving, but they managed to keep Kevin and his car under their guns. One of the constables approached Kevin’s car, looked inside, but said nothing to the occupants.

  It was over in under a minute. Kevin got back into his car, the Land Rover was backed up, and Kevin was waved through.

  “That didn’t look too unpleasant,” McKenna observed as the Land Rover was placed back in a blocking position.

  “That’s because there’s women in the car and Kevin’s got local plates,” Ryer explained. “We’re in a different boat, two men in a car with rental plates.” He reached into the glove box, took out his rental agreement, then pulled the car up to the roadblock. He shut off the engine and removed the keys.

  “Good luck,” McKenna told him as Ryer left the car to talk to the constables.

  McKenna took his passport from his pocket, then placed his hands in front of him on the dashboard. He kept his eyes straight forward, but couldn’t help noticing that at least three of the moving soldiers had rifles aimed at his head. He also saw that the constable examining Ryer’s rental contract was a large and well-built sergeant, obviously a tough customer.

  The sergeant returned Ryer’s papers. McKenna thought everything was going fine until the constables placed Ryer against one of their Land Rovers and frisked him. That action surprised McKenna and annoyed him on both a professional and personal level. In New York, frisking a member of the clergy in full regalia would certainly be a bad career move.

  Then it was McKenna’s turn. Ryer remained with the other constables by the Land Rovers as the sergeant approached McKenna in the car. He looked all business and distinctly unfriendly as he gave the interior a good look with his flashlight. He ignored McKenna until he was satisfied the car contained nothing of interest to him, then he shined the light on McKenna’s face.

  McKenna didn’t like that, either, but he kept his eyes forward and said nothing.

  “Do I know you?” the sergeant asked.

  “No, I don’t think we’ve ever met.”

  “You an American?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What are you doing in Belfast?”

  “At the moment, I’m going to a wake.”

  “The Maher girl?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Terrible business, that. What are you, one of her American relatives?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Please exit the vehicle, slowly,” the sergeant ordered.

  McKenna did as he was told, then handed the sergeant his passport.

  The sergeant didn’t bother opening it. “Turn around and place your hands on the roof of the car,” he ordered.

  Once again, McKenna did as he was told and was frisked by a cop for the first time in his life. It was something else he didn’t like.

  “What’s this?” the sergeant asked, squeezing McKenna’s pocket.

  “A detective’s shield,” McKenna answered without turning around.

  It was then that the sergeant opened McKenna’s passport, turning to the first page. “Good Jesus! You’re Detective McKenna!” he exclaimed. “Why didn’t you say so?”

  “Just wanted to see how you gentlemen operated,” McKenna said without moving.

  “Well, turn around, man. I’m sorry about all this.”

  McKenna turned to find that the sergeant had his hand offered. He looked at it for a second, then shook it.

  “I’m Roger Forsythe,” th
e sergeant said.

  “Pleased to meet you,” McKenna answered, relieved to see that the soldiers had lowered their rifles. However, they still kept moving, circling the car.

  Forsythe noticed McKenna’s interest. “They’re trained to present a moving target,” he explained. “You’ll never see soldiers here standing in one place for too long.”

  “I see.”

  “I guess all this must seem a little extreme to you, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, I’ll admit that it does.”

  “Well, don’t take this as an apology, but we had eight men murdered by the IRA last year. Two of them at roadblocks, just like this one.”

  “I understand. I don’t think I’d want your job.”

  “I’m not too happy with it either, but it isn’t easy to get work here,” Forsythe said, then waved Ryer over to the car. Ryer looked shocked when Forsythe said, “I’m sorry about your sister, Father.”

  “Thank you, kind of you to say so.”

  “Are you believing McGuinn?”

  “I don’t know,” Ryer admitted.

  “Well, I’m sorry all the same.”

  “Thank you,” Ryer said. “Can we go now?”

  “Sure.”

  Ryer got behind the wheel, but McKenna remained outside, measuring Forsythe.

  “Is there anything I can do for you?” Forsythe asked.

  “Maybe there is. What time do you get off?”

  “Midnight.”

  “Would you mind showing me around town after you get off?”

  “That depends on what part of town you’d like to see,” Forsythe said suspiciously.

  McKenna understood that Forsythe wouldn’t want to be driving around Catholic West Belfast, especially at night. “The Shankill,” he said.

  “The Shankill? That’s my neighborhood.”

  “Better yet. Will you do it?”

  “Maybe, but first would you mind answering a few questions?”