by Anne Emery
The tunnel was accessible by a ladder, which had seen better days but served the purpose. Brennan climbed down and found himself in a passage about six and a half feet high and five feet wide. He cursed his decision to set out for the day in his black clerical suit, which was now grey with dust. He’d have to send it to the cleaners. But he put it out of his mind for the time being. The walls of the tunnel were made of stones and bricks, and the ceiling was covered with sheets of plywood, propped up by posts along the sides. He shone his light ahead and tried to estimate the tunnel’s length. It was hard to tell. About twenty feet from where he stood, the floor seemed to slope upwards. Not surprisingly it felt damp, and he could hear water dripping somewhere. But he didn’t have time to stand there and soak up the ambience; he had a job to do. Good thing he wasn’t claustrophobic, given that he was enclosed in a jerry-built confined space several feet under the ground. It was like being in the catacombs in Rome, except he didn’t expect to see any saints buried down here. He walked forward a few steps and noticed an opening in the wall to his left; he peered in and saw some old uniforms and caps wrapped in clear plastic. And ammunition belts, the kind worn diagonally across the chest. He moved ahead and found another opening on his right. Well! That one was interesting; there was a stash of rifles in it, a couple of pistols, and an old-style machine gun. A Thompson? There was a nickname for those, he seemed to recall. What was it? Something from the Al Capone days on the other side of the Atlantic. A “Chicago typewriter,” that was it. Interesting find, but Brennan couldn’t claim to be surprised, in light of his family’s history. He continued his exploration. He came to a part of the wall where the bricks were loose, and he removed one to take a look. His light didn’t show anything, but he put his hand in anyway and felt around. Nothing.
The next opening contained a collection of stone Celtic crosses, statues that had a pagan look to them, and others that brought to mind St. Patrick. Other images were of women in robes: Druids perhaps? Many of these items were unfinished, eyes or hands yet to be carved. The tools of the trade were there as well: grinders and power saws of some kind, and jugs of chemicals. One statue, of a young woman whose fingers were missing, was clean and new-looking on one side, drab and old on the other. Being restored? No. Brennan looked more closely. It was the opposite. Brand new items were being doctored to look ancient. The words of the arresting officer came back to him: “. . . forgery, using a false instrument . . .” It wasn’t long before he came upon what must have been the false instruments, if that meant, as he now suspected, false documents. In the next hole in the wall were papers piled on a wooden crate, along with a fountain pen and a packet of green paper discs, the round seals you see on the bottom of official documents. Brennan saw a heavy black object with a handle and what appeared to be a round stamp; he had seen this kind of thing in lawyers’ offices. A notary stamp. He picked up a piece of paper and saw that it was a title deed with no details filled in. He affixed one of the green seals to the page, slipped the paper into the black notary stamp, and pressed down on the handle, then read what had been impressed upon the paper: “James Shackleton-Gore, Notary Public, City and County of Dublin.” All of this would be of great interest to the gardaí. But the guards weren’t going to see it.
What was Brennan supposed to do with all this stuff? He couldn’t transport it in a cab; might as well wrap it up in a big red bow and present it to Garda HQ. But first things first; he needed bags to pack the stuff in. There were burlap sacks in the basement and, if those did not suffice, he was sure there must be bags of some sort upstairs. He would climb up and check. But first he wanted to make sure he had everything. He walked deeper into the tunnel until the floor began its upward slope. The ceiling didn’t rise at the same level, so he had to crouch as he made his way forward. Then he came to a dead end, a big slab of concrete. The foundation of another building? No. Brennan could see gravel and hardened lumps of cement on the floor. The slab had been formed down here and put in place to close the underground passage. Evidently, the tunnel had originally continued and, given the upward angle, opened somewhere outdoors. This tended to confirm what Brennan had heard in whispers when he was growing up in Dublin: that there was an escape route built underneath the old IRA drinking spot.
An hour later Brennan was upstairs, standing inside the doorway of the pub with several extra-large, very heavy plastic rubbish bags full of statues, uniforms, papers, other miscellaneous items, and guns. There was nothing left in the tunnel. He had closed and locked the trap door, replaced the carpet over it, and heaved the filing cabinet back into its spot on the rug. But his work was not yet done. He had to find a place to stash the goods. He didn’t have a car with him; he had arrived on foot. So he looked out the window and surveyed the territory. Across the street was a church known as the “black church,” which, he knew, was no longer being used. There was a pile of rubbish bags and debris beside the wall of the building. That might provide at least a temporary holding place for Finn’s things. The police would likely search the entire area, particularly if they found nothing in the pub itself. But they would start with the pub. Brennan decided that was his only hope for now. He hoisted two bags onto his back and was about to open the pub door when he saw two men approaching. He flattened himself against the wall inside. And felt like the villain in a bad vaudeville production; all that was missing was the cheesy moustache.
“Closed till noon,” one of the men read aloud. “It’s past that now.”
“Fuck! As if I didn’t have a thirst on me that would drop a camel. Well, there’s nothing for it but to come back later.”
“Or go to Gallagher’s.”
“No, we’ll stick with Christy’s. Finn had to run out somewhere. He’ll be back.”
Brennan heard them walking away. A few seconds later, the coast seemed clear. He opened the pub door, stepped outside with his bags, glanced to the left and to the right, and tried not to look any more shifty and vaudevillian than necessary. Best to present himself as if he lugged heavy loads of rubbish, or illegal goods, out of Christy Burke’s pub every day of the week. He crossed the street to the side of the church, where he saw an old table with a broken leg, a scarred, paint-spattered bookcase, even a badly dented deep freezer with bags of garbage piled on top. There was other refuse littering the ground. People were obviously using the old church property as a rubbish tip. Brennan dropped his load on top of the pile. His bags were clean and shiny; the others had dust and leaves and bird shite on them. He wished he could age the bags the way Finn had aged his newly manufactured “ancient” artifacts, but he didn’t have that option. He did the best he could and walked away. As far as he could tell, no one had observed him. But there was no way of knowing whether curious eyes watched from the windows of the other buildings in the street. He was nervous when he had to make a second run with the long, awkward parcel of rifles under his arm. They shifted within the bags, and started slipping out, and he nearly lost the whole consignment in the middle of the street. But he managed to keep them covered, then deposited them with the other objects in the pile of debris at the old church.
He was just straightening up when a car appeared at the corner. Brennan tried to resist looking at it, but he couldn’t help himself. The occupants paid him no mind, and he walked away with relief coursing through him. He went back for the rest of the bags and dumped them in place.
He returned to the pub, satisfied that there was nothing else he could do to clean up the crime scene. He checked his watch. More than two hours had passed since Finn’s arrest. It was time to open up. And he didn’t have a barman, didn’t have young Sean’s number. But Brennan himself knew his way around a glass of porter and a jar of whiskey. He could pour a proper pint if called upon to do so. Not, however, while dressed in a dusty, dirty clerical suit and Roman collar. It wouldn’t do to be seen covered with dust and dirt even if he didn’t have a job to do and an obligation to look presentable while doing it. He called Mont
y Collins at his hotel room.
“Hello?”
Brennan sent up a Te Deum that Collins was there to take the call. “Monty. How quick can you get moving?”
“What’s happening?”
“I’ll fill you in when you get here.”
“Here being?”
“Christy’s. Can you go over to my place first? Tell them to let you into my room. Get me a T-shirt and a pair of pants, and bring them to the pub.”
“Should I even inquire why you are stranded without clothing this early in the day, Father? I’ve known you to be déshabillé following a night of debauchery, but . . .”
“I’ll explain when you get here. Oh, and bring me my soap.”
“You and your soap. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been three hours and twenty minutes since my last shower. Were you toilet trained too early as a child, or what? I’ve never met anyone so —”
“Fuck off and get over here.” Brennan hung up the phone and looked around the bar to see what he should do to prepare for the day’s custom. By the time Monty arrived, twenty-five minutes later, he had everything set to go.
“Thank you,” he said to Monty, as he grabbed his soap and clothing and made a beeline for the men’s room. “I’ll be right out, and we’ll open up.”
“We?”
“You heard me.”
He left Monty in a state of bewilderment, went in to the loo, stripped down, gave himself a thorough soaping and a good rinse, then put on the black T-shirt and casual pants Monty had provided. He emerged, drying his hair with a handful of paper towel, and said, “All right. Open the door and remove the sign I put out there. Oh! Hold on.”
Monty waited while Brennan went back into the jacks. There, hanging over the door to one of the stalls was his filthy clerical suit. Evidence that would tell against him if it were left on the premises. He grabbed it, balled it up and carried it out of the washroom and over to Monty. “Shove this in a bag and take it up the street. You’ll see St. Joseph’s Convent School. Stash it out of sight somewhere on the property.”
Monty looked at him, gobsmacked. “This is getting weirder by the minute. This is your suit? A spoiled priest outfit, by the look of it. What happened to it? And why do you want —”
“Go along with me on this, Collins. I’ll explain it all to you later.”
“Yes, Father.”
Monty took the suit, turned, and went to the door. He opened it and announced that Christy’s was once again in business. Then he departed on his unlikely mission with the spoiled priest outfit, and the spoiled priest got on with his tasks.
“What does a man have to do to get a drink in here?” The voice came from a short, unkempt fellow standing by the bar.
“What’ll you have?”
“I’ll have a pint of Guinness. That is, if you’re able for it.”
“I am,” Brennan assured him, and took his place behind the bar that had been manned by a Burke since Anno Domini 1919.
Brennan picked up a pint glass and set it under the Guinness tap at an angle of forty-five degrees, reached for the tap handle, pulled it all the way back, and poured about three quarters of a pint, then put it aside to settle. When he decided the time was right, he put the glass straight under the tap, poured until a dome appeared at the top, and handed it to the man. A perfect two-part pour.
He served a couple more patrons and found himself adapting quite comfortably to the routine.
Monty returned following his errand, looked towards the bar, and gaped at his friend. “Brennan! After a fraction of a second of astonishment, I now see this as completely normal. Why wouldn’t you be behind that bar? You look utterly at home there.”
“I am. What can I get for you?”
“I’ll have a Singapore Sling with a cherry and a twist.”
“Coming right up.”
He poured a Guinness and, when it was ready, handed it to Monty. “Here you are, my lad. That will be 170p.”
Monty pulled out a five-pound note and said, grandly, “Keep the change, my good man.”
“I intend to.” Brennan stuck the bill in the cash register.
“Now. Will you tell me what the hell is going on? Where’s the previous generation?”
“My uncle is indisposed today.”
“Would a hair of the dog cure his ills?”
“Nothing I can do for him here. You may be able to help.”
“Not legal difficulties!”
“He was arrested this morning. But I can’t get into it now . . . What can I do for you, sir?” he said to an elderly gentleman who was waiting serenely by the bar.
“Tullamore Dew, if you’d be so kind.”
“Certainly.”
He turned to the array of bottles behind him and poured the man his drink. He took the payment and made change as if he had been doing it all his life.
“How many bartenders do you figure have their doctorate in theology, Brennan?” Monty asked.
Brennan smiled. “They’re all theologians, I’m thinking. All the good ones anyway. Philosophers, psychologists —”
“Good heavens!” Now it was Michael O’Flaherty. “Brennan! What’s going on? I couldn’t reach either of you on the phone so I thought you might be here. But I never would have guessed . . . Why are you behind the bar? But then, why wouldn’t you be? You fit right in there!”
“Where’s Finn been hidin’ you?” The speaker was a young woman — well, younger than Brennan; she may have been forty — with short curly black hair, freckles, and bright blue eyes.
“He’s had me in training,” Brennan answered. “It took a while for me to get the hang of it. I’ve been out of things for a time.”
“You mean the kind of time Finn himself goes away for, couple of years at a stretch, that sort of thing?”
“You said a mouthful there.”
“Ah. So is there anything else you’ve been missing? Are you in need of a refresher course in life’s other pleasures perhaps?”
“Well now, there’s a story there as well. I —”
He was cut off by a crashing noise, then a shout. What now? The door was opened and a squad of guards poured in. Again. This time the lead man was brandishing a paper.
“Everybody out! We have a warrant to search this place. The officers will accompany you outside. Don’t take anything with you except your own belongings.”
“You!” one officer addressed Brennan, who scowled back at him. “Open the cash register.”
“A robbery, is it?”
“It will all be returned to you, every punt accounted for. Open the cash and step away from the bar.”
Brennan looked over at Monty, who was reaching for the cop’s paper. Monty said, “Could I have a look at that, guard? I’m a lawyer and, for the time being, I’m Christy Burke’s solicitor. I’d like to see the warrant.”
The guard hesitated, then handed it over.
Monty skimmed it, frowning, then handed it back. He looked at Brennan, who nodded, Yes, Finn’s in the soup. The cop folded the paper and stuffed it in his pocket. “All right, everybody. Make your way outside.”
Everyone filed out under the watchful eyes of the gardaí, then gathered outside in the bright midday sun. Brennan, Michael, and Monty passed the evicted drinkers, some of whom were peering in the windows, trying to see what the police were up to.
Michael started to speak but the young woman with the curly hair got there first. She was looking up at Brennan with a smile playing about her lips. “Now which one of the Burkes are you?”
“Brennan. Declan’s son.”
“Declan would be . . . Finn’s brother?”
“Right.”
“So where have you been? More important, where might you be tonight?”
“Probably behind the bar if the guards leave us in peace.”
She noticed Michael then, and said, “Who’s this fine fellow now? Another new face in the neighbourhood.”
“This is Monsignor O’Flaherty. Visiting from Canada.”
“Hello, Monsignor.” Then to Brennan, “How do you know the monsignor?”
“I’m his curate.”
“Well, yeah . . .”
“I mean curate in the true sense of the word. He’s my pastor, I’m his priest.”
“You’re having me on.”
“I’m not.”
“No!” she cried.
Brennan nodded.
“I’m gutted,” she said. She shook her head and walked away.
He smiled after her for a second or two, then took the opportunity to ask Monty about the search warrant. “What are they looking for?” He tried to sound casual as he contemplated the fact that whatever they were looking for, he had snatched it from their grasp before they could make their move.
“Guns,” Monty replied, “and artifacts of some kind, manufacturing or craft-making equipment, a variety of things.”