Death at Christy Burke's

by Anne Emery

  Finn’s place was in Drumcondra, a neighbourhood situated roughly north of Christy Burke’s pub, not too far away but not so close that Finn would be looking at “the office” every time he stepped outside his front door. He lived in a semi-detached red-brick house with a flower garden in the front. Brennan pushed the door open when they arrived; no formality in this family.

  Michael and the others followed Brennan to the front room, where they saw Finn practically knee to knee in conversation with Leo Killeen, who was in his black suit and Roman collar. Their chairs were facing each other; there were glasses of whiskey on a table beside them. The two men turned at once when the others entered the room, and tension was visible in their faces. Finn made an obvious effort to break the mood. He stood and moved towards the visitors.

  “Come in, come in. Have a seat. I’ll get you something to drink. Oh! Who’s this now? Some new faces.”

  Brennan made the introductions. “Maura MacNeil, wife of Monty here. This is Normie, and Dominic.” Normie greeted Mr. Burke, and the baby, awake now, stared at him with wide-open dark eyes.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Maura, if I may call you Maura.”

  “You may indeed, Finn.”

  “And what a charming young lady you have here. And a handsome little boy.”

  “Thank you, Finn. I am delighted to have the children in Dublin with me. Oh! Leo! Wonderful to see you again.”

  “You know this gentleman?” Finn asked, surprised.

  “Leo and I will always have New York. Eh, Leo? We met in the big city, Finn, when your brother had his trouble at the family wedding.” When Declan got shot, and Leo went over to sort out some ancient history, is what she meant.

  “Ah, yes,” was all Finn said.

  Leo had risen and was holding his arms open to herself. They embraced and then stood apart, smiling at each other.

  “Some changes in your life since I saw you last, my dear.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “How old is he?”

  “He’ll be a year next month.”

  “Ah. Well, hello there, Dominic. Hope you’re enjoying your stay in Dublin.”

  “He’s having the time of his life, Leo. And you remember Normie.”

  “I certainly do. You’re a world traveller, Normie. I met you in New York. Now I see you in Dublin.”

  “I’ve seen a whole lot of the world, Father Killeen. I love seeing new places.”

  “That’s the way to be, Normie, good for you. What have you liked on this trip?”

  “We went to a place called Glendalough, and there’s this little church made out of stones and I want to build a tiny one just like it in my backyard when I get home.”

  “Excellent idea. You build it and get Father Burke to bless it.”

  “Okay!”

  Turning to her mother, Killeen asked, “How long are you here, Maura?”

  “Till the middle of August.”

  Finn went over to Michael. “Welcome to my home, Monsignor O’Flaherty. I’ve come up in the world since you saw me last. A little more space here than in my previous, rather cramped quarters. But there’s nobody bringing me three meals a day, so I’ve had to order out! Where’s Sister Kitty this evening? I thought she might be with you.”

  “She’s feeding the poor in spirit and body tonight, Finn, working at a soup kitchen run by the nuns of her order.”

  “Well, let’s see if we can save her a few scraps, and you can drop them off to her.”

  “Oh, that would be grand. Lovely place you have here. I’d never have taken you for a gardener.”

  “And you’d have been right, Michael,” Finn replied with a little smile. “The one next door takes care of that. She wants my half to look as good as hers. I pay for the flowers; she does the work. Everybody’s happy.”

  Brennan wondered briefly whether he should give Finn a little report on what he had learned so far: the whiskey glass and the signs of a vehicle outside the pub the night of the latest graffiti — like Finn, Brennan knew it was the last graffiti — scraps of information about the regulars from McDonough and Nurse McAvity, which Finn likely knew anyway. And O’Flaherty’s vague allegations about Madigan, Shanahan, and drugs. But it was Finn who held the most concrete information, held the evidence in the form of a corpse. What had Finn done, or ordered done, with the body? Brennan did not want to go into the whole thing now. And it looked as if Finn had other things on his mind, things to be hashed out with Leo Killeen.

  But this was a social occasion, and Finn was the host. He took orders for drinks, and Brennan helped him serve his guests. Soon everyone was seated in the front room with glasses in hand.

  “So, Leo,” Maura asked, “will you be entertaining us with tales of the old days the way you did in New York? I don’t live on the edge myself, so I have to get my excitement second-hand, from guys like you and Declan.”

  “Ah, that was just an oul fellow shuffling down memory lane,” Leo said to her. But for Leo, Brennan suspected, memory lane was maybe just around the corner.

  Brennan saw Michael turn to place his drink on the table beside his chair and pick up a news clipping that had been lying there. It was a photo of Father Killeen saying Mass in Endastown with the massive armoured vehicles looming over him from behind.

  “Did you see this, Maura?”

  Michael handed her the news photo. Normie peered over her mother’s shoulder at the picture; Maura’s mouth dropped open at the sight.

  “Oh my God!” she exclaimed. “What are those, tanks?”

  “Armoured personnel carriers,” Leo answered.

  “Is that you, Leo? It is!”

  “Mmm.”

  “And look over to the side, Maura,” Michael said. “Who do you see?”

  “There’s a woman, higher than everyone else. What’s she standing on?”

  “The base of a light pole.”

  “She’s reading something. Wait a minute! That’s not Kitty!”

  “It is. And Brennan is the altar boy. You can just see the back of his head.”

  “Right. I see him now. But what was Kitty doing standing up there?”

  “There was a flap about the eulogy the boy’s family and comrades wanted read at the funeral. Too inflammatory, wasn’t that it, Leo? And who was that fellow who handed the papers to Kitty?”

  “I had to do some negotiations to get this funeral approved,” Leo said. “One thing the bishop would not allow was the eulogy as first written, filled as it was with accusations that the British Army and the security forces in County Armagh connived in, or carried out, political murders, including that of Rory Dignan himself. And Dermot Cooney, a young Republican firebrand, was expressly forbidden to read the statement. He tried to, as you may recall, Michael, but I ordered him to stand down. That’s when he shoved the papers into Kitty’s hands to be read. Bless her, she had just hopped up there to signal to the crowd to be quiet. She had never seen the statement before but did her best to edit out the inflammatory bits.”

  “A glimpse of the real Ireland, 1992,” Maura remarked.

  “The North of Ireland, anyway. Just across the border.”

  “I’ll stay on this side of the border, thank you very much. Though I have to ask: has there been much spillover from the Troubles here in the South?”

  “One of the worst atrocities of the current Troubles, so far, took place right here in Dublin,” Leo replied. “Well, here and Monaghan. Eighteen years ago, 1974. A bombing operation that was remarkably sophisticated and well-coordinated, particularly for its time. So we can draw the conclusion that it wasn’t done by a crowd of amateurs. Four bombs. Thirty-three people, thirty-five if you include two babies in the womb, were killed by UVF — Protestant Loyalist — car bombs. Three hundred were injured. Terribly injured, some of them. But you’re right, it’s the North that is living this hell day after d
ay.”

  “This much I know: the atrocities are not all committed by the one side.”

  “No.”

  They sat in silence for a long moment.

  Then everyone’s attention was caught by Dominic, who let out a wail, whereupon his mother produced a little set of colourful toy keys from her bag, and the baby sat on the floor and busied himself with those. His sister joined him and kept him company.

  Monty had got up and was standing by the mantelpiece looking at a bunch of photos. Finn invited him to take a closer look, and Michael joined them. This was his family, Finn explained to them, his wife, Catriona, and their four children. Catriona had died eight years ago, and the children were grown and living on their own. There were pictures of Finn’s grandchildren as well. Michael expressed condolences for the death of Catriona. Another photo, in black and white, showed a man and woman with five children, ranging from a babe in arms to a girl of eleven or so.

  The photo was well known to Brennan.

  “You know that fellow, Mike.” Leo pointed to a little boy of nine or ten with dark hair and dark eyes; he was dressed in shorts and a jersey.

  “It’s got to be Brennan. Is it?”

  “It is. In his Gaelic football attire. They couldn’t get him to wear anything else, if I remember correctly.”

  “Were you any good at it, Burke?” Monty asked.

  “Wasn’t half bad,” Brennan replied.

  “He was good,” Finn confirmed, “but not as good as the lad down the street from him. Sammy Coogan. They played together in the neighbourhood and at school. Sammy’s the football manager for the Rebels now. Well, I’m sure you’re aware of that, Brennan. Won the All-Ireland Finals two years in a row.”

  “I’ve been following Sammy’s career. Brilliant!”

  “Who are the Rebels?” Maura asked. “In the sports context, I mean!”

  “Cork senior footballers. Have you ever been to the People’s Republic of Cork, my dear?”

  “Not yet. But next trip for sure.”

  “Anyway, that’s young Brennan with the family. Declan and Teresa and the five children, just before they immigrated to New York. Their youngest, number six, was born over there.”

  “And who’s this?” Michael asked. “He sort of looks like Brennan, if you could imagine Brennan with a great big grin on his face and a bouquet of flowers in his hands, but this was obviously before his time.”

  “Nineteen twenty-two,” Finn replied. “That’s my uncle Davey. What a character he was!”

  “He looks it.”

  “One of his friends snapped this picture the day his bride, Maisie, was due home from England. She’d been working over there, saving some money, and was expected back at Christmas time. They were planning a Christmas wedding, and Davey was fixing up an old house he’d bought for the pair of them. But with her away and distractions at home, namely his cronies on the hurling team and in his local pub and some other, em, activities, well, the house took a while to get itself renovated.”

  “I hope those activities didn’t include squiring another young lady around town while Maisie was away,” Maura said.

  “Oh, no. There was only one girl for Davey. He was crazy about her. But he was a little on the slow side getting the place done up. Well, word came by telegram that she was coming home a couple of days earlier than expected. Panic set in. He had cupboards to refurbish, floors to refinish, walls to paint, curtains that were supposed to be made from fabric she had chosen in the summer. You can imagine. So Davey drafted all his teammates and his drinking pals and got them to work on the house. He yanked his sister away from her job in a typing pool someplace and set her up with their grandmother’s old sewing machine, trying to get the curtains done. Him standing over her grabbing the pink curtain material as she stitched it up, him going at it with the iron, scorching it no doubt, then trying to get it in place over the windows. Can’t you picture him at the ironing board, breaking into a lather of sweat? And there was drink involved. Half the lads were scuppered and making a bollocks of the job. And the clock was ticking away, and the ship was making its inexorable way across the Irish Sea with Maisie aboard.

  “This picture is him standing in front of the place. If you look behind him, you can see the curtain rod and the curtains sagging in the front window. Something had gone wrong there. And here’s Dave with a bouquet of flowers ready to present to her along with all the excuses he had ready to go about why the matrimonial home was a shambles. For now. But how it would be fit for a queen in very short order.”

  Everyone had gathered in front of the photo during Finn’s recital of the young bridegroom’s woes.

  “Looks as if he maintained his sense of humour, though,” Michael remarked. “You can see a twinkle in those eyes.”

  “Oh, she’d forgive him anything, by the look of him. Who wouldn’t? What a sweetheart!” Maura exclaimed.

  “God love him,” Finn muttered.

  “So, how did it go? What happened when she got home?” Michael and Maura asked at once.

  “He was dead.”

  “What?” Everyone turned to Finn in disbelief.

  “Two hours after that photo was taken, Davey was scraping old paint from the front door, and he was shot in the back.”

  Maura had her hand to her mouth; she looked as if she were about to cry. Michael obviously felt the same way. “God rest his soul!” Michael murmured. “A lovely young man like that. What a terrible waste. Who shot him?”

  “The Free Staters. It was during the Civil War.”

  “How terrible!” Maura exclaimed.

  “It was a revenge killing. IRA fellows from Davey’s street had done the same to a Free State man, father of five, the week before. That’s the way things were during the Civil War.”

  In a country that had endured its share of tragedy over the course of hundreds of years, the Civil War may have been the worst tragedy of all, as Brennan saw it. The old IRA had fought the War of Independence and, against all odds, prevailed against the British Empire. The British withdrew from Ireland for the first time in seven hundred and fifty years. The country was granted the status of a free state, like the Dominion of Canada. Ireland, at long last, had a government to call its own. But there was a price to be paid. The country was still within the British Commonwealth, and members of the new government were required to swear an oath to King George V of England. Not surprisingly, that was utterly unacceptable to diehard Republicans. And six of the thirty-two counties were excluded from the deal. Michael Collins, in signing the Anglo-Irish Treaty in 1921, believed he had signed his own death warrant. And he was right. General Collins was assassinated by his former comrades in 1922. The Civil War between the anti-treaty IRA and the fledgling Irish Free State — the Irish Republican Army versus the National Army — raged for nearly a year, pitting Irishman against Irishman.

  “Your neighbour, your drinking companion, your brother,” Finn said, “you never knew who would be next.”

  “Someone fundamental to your world was gone from the world in an instant,” Leo agreed. “Happened all the time.”

  Everyone was silent after that. Until the jangle of the telephone made them jump. Finn rushed into the kitchen and grabbed the receiver.

  “What?” he barked into the phone. He listened for a few seconds, then said, “No. We haven’t. That ought to tell you something.” He slammed the receiver down.

  Leo Killeen’s eyes followed him as he came back into the front room. Finn returned the look, then sat down, picked up his glass, and polished off the whiskey.

  “What’s going on?” Brennan demanded.

  Finn looked from his nephew to his other guests.

  “You can trust everybody here, Finn.”

  “I know that, Brennan. It’s . . .” He glanced at Leo. “It’s the Merle Odom situation. The television preacher who was . . . who disapp
eared from Belfast.”

  “What’s happening?”

  “Nobody knows where he is. We don’t know where he is.”

  Brennan had his own speculations as to who was included in that “we,” but he was not about to ask. Not in front of the guests. The implication, though, was that Finn Burke and Father Leo Killeen would be expected to know where the American was, to know who had snatched him from the street.

  “So,” Brennan said, “you haven’t heard anything that might explain his disappearance.”

  “Not a thing.”

  “The repercussions of this —”

  “Have already begun. There are pitched battles going on in the streets of Belfast right now. A church near the Falls Road was fire-bombed. People retaliated by setting fire to a shop in the Shankill area. Rival gangs are going at each other all over the city. Leaders on all sides are trying to put a lid on it.”

  “All sides?” Leo inquired, with an edge to his voice.

  “Well, some of the para leaders are egging their people on. What would you expect? And I hear there is a great deal of pressure being brought to bear on the authorities here and in the North, pressure from the Americans to get this solved.”

  “I’m going up there,” Leo announced.

  “You’re what?”

  “Finn, this has got to be contained. The man has to be found. Whoever has him must be convinced to produce him, alive, now! I don’t want to think about the forces that might be unleashed if he’s found dead.”

  “If we don’t know who has him, Leo, we can hardly persuade them to do the right thing.”

  “But I’m thinking if I go up there, and put the word in a few ears, and the word spreads around, to splinter groups . . .”

  He wound down and stared at the wall.

  Brennan looked at Michael O’Flaherty. Michael’s eyes were pinned on Leo Killeen. Dying to hear more about Leo’s mission but fearful for his safety; it was all there in Michael’s face. But Mike was smart enough to know he was far out of his element, and wise enough to keep his questions and his fears to himself. Brennan could see that every person in the room felt the same way. Even little Normie appeared disturbed. She was a sensitive child; her eyes went from Finn to Leo and back, seeking understanding, or perhaps reassurance.