by Dan Mahoney
“No.”
“I assume by your name that you’re of Irish ancestry.”
“I’m half-Irish, as far as I know.”
“As for that half, do you know what part of Ireland they came from?”
“No idea.”
“Would you mind telling me your religion?”
“Catholic.”
“Practicing?”
“Most of the time.”
“What’s your opinion of the Troubles?”
“I think it’s crazy that people are killing each other over religion.”
Forsythe considered McKenna’s answer for a moment. “So do I,” he said. “It’s not gonna do much for my popularity, but you can meet me at the Springfield Street station at midnight.”
“Thank you,” McKenna said. The two men shook hands again and McKenna got back in the car.
“What was that all about?” Ryer asked after they had cleared the roadblock.
“Education. While I’m here, I might as well learn as much as I can. Get to see this crazy situation here from both sides.”
“Suit yourself,” Ryer said. “Wouldn’t mind seeing what it looked like on the other side myself.”
“You wanna come?”
“I’d like to, but I’m sure your constable wouldn’t be too crazy about being seen driving a Catholic priest around The Shankill.”
“You could change your clothes, you know.”
“Wouldn’t make any difference. In The Shankill they’d still know I was Catholic.”
“You gonna tell me now how that’s done?”
“Sure. In Belfast we make a science out of telling a person’s religion from how he looks, how he talks, and how he walks. They’d have me in a second.”
“Really? You all look and sound the same to me,” McKenna said. “I know the Protestants consider themselves to be British, but everyone just looks Irish to me.”
“You’re wrong there. Everyone in Northern Ireland is a British citizen, but the Protestants consider themselves just as Irish as the Catholics.”
That was news to McKenna. “So what are the differences?” he asked.
“Facial features, for one. The Protestants have higher cheekbones and their eyes are shaped a little differently than ours. Then there’s the hair. Lots of them have sandy-colored hair and you’ll notice there’s a lot of red hair among the Catholics. But there’s more. Catholic men and Protestant men even walk differently.”
“I hadn’t noticed that.”
“You would, if you lived here. Catholic men walk with a light, jaunty step and the Protestants tend to swagger when they walk. They’re generally bigger than the Catholics, too. More broad-shouldered.”
“How about the speech?” McKenna asked. “Forsythe sounded about the same to me as Kevin did.”
“Same Scotch-Irish brogue, but there are some small differences. Some people here can listen to you talk for a moment and tell what part of town you’re from to within a few blocks.”
“I see. What part of town you’re from pins down your religion.”
“Exactly.”
Ryer’s information gave McKenna a few things to think about and assured him that the priest had made the right decision. He shouldn’t go to The Shankill with them.
An unexpected sight greeted McKenna and Ryer when they arrived at the funeral home. There was a line of people at the front door that stretched around the block.
“They’re not open yet,” Ryer said. “Don’t open until seven.”
McKenna checked his watch. Six-fifty. Then he spotted Kevin’s car down the block and saw everyone get out. The Hughes and the Mahers walked to the front door, greeting many people in line along the way. Kevin knocked on the door and they were admitted.
“You wanna go in now?” McKenna asked.
“No, let’s wait a little while. I’m not really looking forward to this.”
“Why so many people?”
“Don’t really know, but I will say I’m shocked. Maybe it’s a little silent protest against the violence.”
“Showing solidarity with the victim’s family?”
“Maybe. Or maybe the IRA thought it was a good idea to have a crowd here.”
Either suggestion sounded plausible to McKenna. He knew there was a sizable peace movement in the North that included both Catholics and Protestants. But the reason for the crowd could just as easily have been to show support for the IRA and widespread belief in McGuinn’s denial of IRA involvement in Meaghan’s death. In either event, he was glad for Ryer’s decision to wait a while before going in to the funeral. Like Ryer, he also wasn’t looking forward to seeing Meaghan’s body again, especially in the presence of her family. He decided to use the time to pick Ryer’s brains some more. “You know, you’ve never discussed your politics,” McKenna said.
“That’s because the situation is so hopeless up here that I don’t even like thinking about it.”
That wasn’t good enough for McKenna. He needed more insight into what made Mulrooney tick, what hatreds had made him become the monster he was, and he was close to his quarry’s roots. He could understand why Ryer wouldn’t want to talk about his views on the conditions in Belfast, a place he had put behind him, but McKenna reluctantly decided to push the man for information and insight. “I don’t blame you. With the IRA bombing all the public buildings and murdering every Protestant they can get their hands on, I can see how you’d want to keep it all out of your mind.”
McKenna had struck a chord with Ryer. “You’re right. I’m certainly sick of it all, but you should know that the UFF and the UVF have murdered way more people than the IRA has in Northern Ireland,” he said indignantly.
“What’s the UFF and the UVF?”
“The Ulster Freedom Fighters and the Ulster Volunteer Force, two of the larger Protestant paramilitary organizations. You’ll find that they use initials for everything here.”
“How many of these paramilitary organizations are there?” McKenna asked.
“Quite a few that I know of, but I really haven’t been keeping track. I know that besides the UFF, there’s the Ulster Volunteer Force, the Red Hand of Ulster, and lots of splinter groups that are even crazier. They’re all outlawed terrorist organizations, but making them illegal hasn’t slowed them down.”
Much of Ryer’s information was news to McKenna. He knew that the Protestants in the north were organized and very militant, but he hadn’t read much about their level of violence. Why’s that? he wondered. “Are the Protestant paramilitaries doing retribution killings?” he guessed.
“Supposedly. Every time the IRA blows something up, the UFF or one of the other groups goes out and murders some Catholics.”
“Why do you say ‘supposedly’?”
“Because, if you asked one of them, they’d tell you it’s not just revenge. They like to think of their murders as a sort of population control.”
McKenna had an idea where Ryer was heading, but he kept a blank look on his face to encourage the priest to keep on talking.
Ryer did. “You see, the numbers are very important here because the Brits say they’ll get out when the majority wants that. Right now Catholics are about forty percent of the population, but according to the statistics, they generally have four kids while Protestant families have three. I’ve read projections that by the year 2010 we’ll be the majority here.”
“Meaning that they’d vote the Brits out then?”
“In theory, but it really couldn’t happen until around 2030 when the kids get to voting age.”
“And what happens then? They vote to have Northern Ireland leave the U.K. and join the Republic?”
“Maybe, but I hope not.”
Ryer’s statement stunned McKenna. “I thought that’s what the IRA was fighting for. A united Ireland, thirty-two counties.”
“That’s what the IRA is fighting for, but the idea doesn’t make much sense once you think about it. It would be just too much trouble and I’m sure that everyon
e in the South knows that. They know it, but they won’t admit it.”
That was another stunner for McKenna and ran contrary to everything he had heard on the subject throughout his life in New York. “Are you sure about that?” he asked.
“Certain. A united Ireland is something everyone in the Republic pays lip service to, especially the politicians from both our parties. But according to a public opinion survey I read, the Troubles in the North only place fifth on the list of national concerns in the South. Reunification is regarded as something that will probably happen eventually, but hopefully not now.”
“Why’s that? Because the Protestants would fight?”
“That’s just one of the reasons, but it’s a big one. The Protestants say they’d fight to prevent any kind of affiliation with the Republic, and I believe them. They’re well armed, well trained, and just the thought of being the minority in a united Ireland drives them crazy. One of their mottos is, ‘No Surrender, Not An Inch!’ They’ve been holding all the cards for so long that they think that’s the way it’s supposed to be.”
“So it would be a civil war?”
“One of the bloodiest imaginable. Until you get really around this town, you can’t possibly have any idea how much both sides hate each other. Besides making living in the North unbearable, any attempt at reunification would also be a financial disaster for the South. Tourism just might be the biggest industry there now, so think what would happen if the bombs were going off in Dublin instead of here.”
And it didn’t take long for McKenna to reach a conclusion. If the paramilitaries brought the war south to Dublin and engaged in the types of terrorist bombings the IRA was doing in the North and in England, it wouldn’t take long for tourism to dry up. The Irish economy would be wrecked. “Doesn’t the IRA leadership recognize how bad it would be?” he asked.
“Sure they do.”
“So, what’s their attitude?”
“That there has to be a war for unification sooner or later, and sooner is better. Once the Brits are out, they’ll be ready to go to war. They know it will be horrible, but according to them it has to be.”
“You still haven’t told me your position,” McKenna observed. “Surely you must have some optimal solution for all this.”
“No, sadly I don’t. The way things are right now here, I don’t think there is a solution.”
“Remember, I said an optimal solution.”
“Okay, here’s one. If the Protestants would agree to equal rights for the Catholics, no discrimination in employment, and proper political representation, then the Catholics would agree to keep Northern Ireland as part of the United Kingdom.”
That sounded simple to McKenna. “Would anyone go for that?”
“I don’t think the majority of the Protestants would. Power sharing was tried here by the Protestant government in 1972, but the paramilitaries and people like Ian Paisley rebelled and brought the government down. Like I told you before, they’re too used to having all the power and may never share.”
“And the Catholics? Would they go for your arrangement?”
“Many of them would. The last public opinion poll was held in 1972, and at the time 39 percent of the Catholics polled stated that they preferred remaining part of the U.K. rather than reuniting with the Republic.”
“What do you think the percentage would be now?”
“Probably lower since the troops arrived. They’re pretty heavy-handed in the Catholic neighborhoods and have caused quite a bit of resentment against the British government. They were originally sent here to protect the minority from the majority, but since the IRA campaign the general feeling in the Catholic neighborhoods is that the troops have sided with the Protestants.”
That might be because the Protestants aren’t shooting at them and blowing them up like the IRA is, McKenna reasoned, but kept that thought to himself.
The funeral home had opened and the line outside had already gone down considerably as the people had moved inside. Some were already leaving, leading McKenna to conclude the scene inside must be like one of those heads-of-state wakes, with mourners lined up for a brief look at the body and a quick prayer.
“You ready to go in?” Ryer asked.
“No, but let’s go.”
Ryer locked the car and they walked past the line into the funeral home. A few people recognized Ryer and nodded solemnly to him on the way in. Nobody said a word.
The funeral home boasted two chapels, but Meaghan was the only one being waked and the sliding doors between them were open. More floral arrangements adorned the large room than McKenna had ever seen at any wake.
As McKenna had expected, Peg and Thomas Maher stood to one side of the coffin. The mourners on line went two by two to the kneeler in front of the coffin, stared at the body while they said a short prayer, and then got up and were greeted by the Mahers and thanked for coming. Some of the mourners then took a seat among the many rows of chairs lined up in front of the coffin, but most left to make room for others. All appeared to be going very smoothly and it looked to McKenna like the Mahers were holding up as well as could be expected.
Ryer left McKenna at the chapel door, went right to the coffin and knelt in front of it, looking at his sister’s body for a few minutes as everyone in line waited silently. Then he bowed his head and sobbed silently. When he got up, he hugged his parents, then escorted them to a seat in the front row and took their place next to the coffin. He was on duty.
Then came the moment McKenna had been dreading. Ryer waved him over. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and self-consciously walked to the coffin.
As McKenna stood over the coffin, he marveled at the skill of the Icelandic undertaker. He had dressed Meaghan in a white gown. White gloves disguised the fact that her fingers were missing and somehow he had also corrected her loss of teeth to such an extent that he had placed a slight smile on her face. Lying in her coffin, Meaghan looked like a young angel. However, despite all the skill lavished on her appearance by the undertaker, she still looked like a dead angel—if there was such a creature—but certainly not an angel who had been lying in a morgue freezer for the past two weeks. Still, the pitiful sight of the young girl brought tears to McKenna’s eyes.
McKenna knelt and prayed, but not for Meaghan. Judging from the size of the crowd, Meaghan would receive enough prayers that evening to send her on her way. Instead, he prayed to the Old Testament vengeful God for luck and guidance in catching her killer. When he finished, he stood up and took a final look at Meaghan, fixing the sight of her forever in his mind.
McKenna wiped his eyes and stood next to Ryer who surprised him with a hug. “Thank you so much for everything you’ve done,” Ryer whispered into his ear.
“So far,” McKenna answered.
Ryer released McKenna and searched his face, perplexed. “So far?”
“There’s lots more to be done,” McKenna explained. “Don’t thank me until I’ve finished my job.”
“Sounds to me more like a mission than a job.”
“Okay, my mission,” McKenna conceded.
“Fair enough, but you should try and put that out of your mind for now. The next couple of days should be devoted only to Meaghan. It’s a time for healing. Justice and vengeance can come later.”
“Oh yeah? What do you think Meaghan would say to that?”
It was a question Ryer hadn’t been expecting, so he took a moment to think about it. Then he smiled. “Our Meaghan had a bit of a temper. I think she’d say, ‘Thanks so much for bringing me home, but don’t be wasting too much precious time with this nonsense. Go get the monster who did this to me before he hurts someone else.’ That’s what she’d say.”
“I thought so.”
“You staying for a while?”
“For a while.”
McKenna left Ryer and walked around the room, inspecting the floral arrangements that had been sent. He found from the notes of condolences attached that many had been sent
by persons and organizations he had expected to be represented there. There were flowers from the cardinal in New York, from the prime minister of Ireland, from the Ballymurphy Civic Association, from the Belfast City Council, from Thor and Frieda Eríkson, and from Owen Stafford.
Then there were the ones he hadn’t expected. He hadn’t told Ray in which Belfast funeral home Meaghan would be laid out, but his friend had found out anyway and had then passed the word. There were flowers from Ray Brunette on behalf of the NYPD, flowers from Chipmunk, and to his surprise, a nice arrangement from Brian and Angelita McKenna.
McKenna saved his inspection of the largest and most impressive floral arrangement for last. The piece was composed of green carnations arranged into a massive Irish harp, so he already suspected who sent it. Kevin was standing next to it, apparently waiting for him.
McKenna went over, nodded to Kevin, and opened the note attached to the harp. It read, “Please Accept Our Deepest Expressions of Sympathy and Innocence” and was signed “Martin McGuinn.”
“Is there another note?” McKenna asked Kevin.
The question surprised Kevin, and once again, he eyed McKenna shrewdly. Then he reached into his pocket and passed McKenna a small envelope.
McKenna took it and saw that it was addressed to him. The note inside read, “I hope you can trust me and believe me. It wasn’t us and we’re not responsible.” This note was also signed “Martin McGuinn.”
McKenna put the note in his pocket and said, “You know, I wouldn’t mind meeting this Martin McGuinn.”
“Now isn’t that a coincidence,” Kevin answered straight-faced. “Someone just told me this very night that he wouldn’t mind meeting you.”
Twenty-One
McKenna offered his apologies to Ryer, explaining that something had come up and he needed to leave. However, further explanations weren’t necessary. Ryer had seen McKenna talking to Kevin and he wasn’t stupid. “Something to do with my uncle?”
“Indirectly.”
“Then be careful. They’ll seem pleasant enough and they’ll be sure to fill your head with blarney. But remember, they’re killers.”