by Anne Emery
God love and protect Michael O’Flaherty, Brennan thought. O’Flaherty was a highly intelligent man, with decades of experience as a priest and confessor; in the confessional one hears people own up to the most despicable behaviour. Michael was a man who believed in the existence of evil; he had even assisted at an exorcism! But he had a blind spot, and that was Ireland, his ancestral home.
“Michael,” Brennan cautioned him, “nothing good is going to come out of this. It could be even worse than you imagine.” Particularly if it’s not just the Reverend Merle Odom, but Bishop Clancy’s nephew as well. “I would like to share your optimism, but I cannot. International attention hasn’t deterred the factions in the North from violence in the past, and it’s not going to now. It may have the opposite effect; increased publicity may make it harder for people to back down. They’ll feel they have to make a point. Only evil will come of this.”
Michael looked more and more dejected as Brennan went on. “I suppose you’re right, Brennan, but I don’t like to give up all hope. It goes against my nature.”
“I understand that, Michael, but I don’t want to see you setting yourself up for disillusionment. Do you remember the story Finn told us that night at his house, about the young bridegroom Davey? We were all wondering what happened when his bride got home and saw the trouble he’d run into trying to fix the house up for her. What happened was, he disappeared from the story. Took a bullet in the back. A revenge killing, for something he hadn’t personally done. Do you remember what Leo said? ‘Someone fundamental to your world was gone in an instant.’ That’s the way it was, and that’s the way it is now, in certain parts of this island.”
They were silent as they cleared the table, and headed out for the afternoon.
Order had been restored in Christy Burke’s by the time Brennan and Michael arrived; all four regulars were in place. That man McCrum was seated at a table near the bar, but his mouth was not in gear, a relief to all present, no doubt.
Frank Fanning looked scrawny, and there was a yellowish cast to his skin. Seeing him now, Brennan could not conceive of him as the would-be bomber of the Apprentice Boys Memorial Hall. The whole plot was inconceivable, not to mention what would have happened in the wake of it. But whatever Fanning had done, or tried to do, Brennan’s heart had to go out to him today. He looked like hell.
Michael O’Flaherty obviously thought so too. Michael had been rocked by the news of what Fanning had been plotting in Derry, but Brennan knew he had become fond of the regular crowd here in the bar, in each case seeing the man behind the flaws and weaknesses. Michael was looking at Fanning with sympathy.
“Frank!” Michael said. “We haven’t seen you in a while, or at least I haven’t. You’ve had us all concerned.”
“Ah, well, I was in the hospital, Michael.”
“Oh, is that so, Frank? And you didn’t tell anyone? Are you all right now?”
“I’m fine. But the doctors don’t agree with me. They’re saying there’s something wrong with my liver. They’re saying I drink too much. Not the sort of thing I was going to call in and announce here at Christy’s! Doctors these days, they’re all about fourteen years old and they don’t know a thing about the world or the people in it. Feck ’em!” He took a long sip of his pint, put down his glass, and sighed with pleasure.
“That will put the roses back in your cheeks, Frank!” Jimmy O’Hearn assured him. “It kept many a working man going in this city for years, so it did.”
Brennan saw Tim Shanahan exchange a look with O’Flaherty. Whatever his own personal habits, Shanahan wouldn’t be a man to buy into the legend that the jaundiced yellow of a liver-damaged drinker would be cured by more drink.
Michael and Brennan sat at a table and were joined by Shanahan, who said, “Good to have our foursome back again.” His tone suggested that he was quite aware of how that foursome might appear to the rest of the population.
“Indeed,” affirmed Michael, and Brennan agreed.
Turning to Brennan, Shanahan said, “I was wondering whether you were aware of the Russian choir that’s performing this evening. I know you’re a musician yourself.”
“No, I hadn’t heard. What’s the word?”
“It’s the St. Gennady Russian Orthodox Choir.”
“I know them; they’re brilliant! Didn’t even know they were in town.”
“They are. You can hear them at the Jesuits’ church at seven o’clock.” He stopped and seemed to give it some consideration before he spoke again. “I’m going. We could go together if, well . . .”
“Perfect, Tim. Leave from here at, what, half-six?”
“Good. You, Michael?”
“No, you fellows go ahead. The music, and the language, would be wasted on me!”
Shanahan nodded and smiled, then returned to his place in the universe of Christy’s pub.
Michael opened his mouth to say something, but everyone’s attention was caught by an exclamation from Mr. O’Hearn. “Well, here’s a sight we rarely see! Father Killeen!” O’Hearn stood and raised his glass to Leo Killeen as the priest entered the pub and closed the door behind him.
“Jim,” Killeen said and nodded.
“What happened, Father? Is everything all right over at the Glimmer Man?”
Michael looked at Brennan and asked, “Glimmer Man? I think I’ve seen that place.”
“Most likely. It’s a pub in Stoneybatter. Leo’s local. He’s not a big man for the drink, but when he has a drop, he has it there.”
A little joke at Leo’s expense. But O’Hearn’s expression was one of concern, not jocularity.
“Have no fear, Jim,” the priest assured him. “The Glimmer Man hasn’t come to grief.”
O’Hearn looked relieved.
Leo caught sight of Michael and Brennan and greeted them. Brennan started to pull out a chair for him, but Finn appeared at the bar and looked at Killeen.
“Good afternoon, Leo.”
“Finn.” Whatever passed between them did so without another spoken word, and they both disappeared behind the bar.
Frank Fanning said, “It’s not often you see Leo Killeen in this place. I tell Finn it’s just as well not to have two old soldiers in the same trench in case the enemy comes storming in! Grand fellow, Leo, very dedicated to his vocation. As he was to his previous vocation! He’s not a big drinker but he’s good company and a fine storyteller if he knows you’re on the right side of God and politics. But he can be intense, can Leo. He’s been known to leave more than one man trembling in his wake. In church, I mean, in the pulpit or in the confessional. He doesn’t even raise his voice. Just has a sixth sense about what you’ve been up to. Well, he’s seen it all, in both his incarnations.”
If Leo came rarely, what brought him in today? What were Leo and Finn talking about behind the bar? Brennan didn’t get a chance to ask. Leo emerged and walked out of the pub with nothing but a distracted little salute to those assembled.
A party of young women came in then, celebrating the return of one of them from Liverpool, and their high spirits and witty conversation kept everyone entertained. Motor Mouth McCrum’s eyes glittered at the girls as he passed by on his way out of the pub. Later on, after the young ones straggled out, Michael finished his drink and prepared to leave. Brennan curbed the temptation to question Finn about the visit from Leo; if either of them wanted Brennan to know what was going on, he’d find out soon enough.
Seconds after Michael departed, the door opened again, and two men entered the pub. One was heavy-set with fair hair buzzed short on his round skull. The other was thinner and darker, with the same close-shaved head. In spite of the mild, sunny day, they both wore dark blue windbreakers and had their hands in their pockets. They peered around at the patrons, then looked at Finn. He didn’t invite them to have a seat. He directed his dark glasses towards the two men, and they stared back. After a
few seconds of this, they turned and left. It wasn’t long before Brennan heard a car start up and drive away.
This time, he got up and approached the bar. “Who were those fellows, Finn?”
“Don’t know.”
“You don’t know them, and yet you —”
“I didn’t like the look of them.”
“They got the message.”
“They’d have been expecting it.”
“Whoever they were.”
It was the mirror image of the scene Michael O’Flaherty had described, when O’Flaherty had walked into a pub somewhere on the other side of the border. The locals took one look at him and froze him out. How were people able to recognize each other this way? Natural enemies circling around each other in the wild.
Brennan shook his head and returned to his seat.
It wasn’t long before Brennan and Tim Shanahan were on their way to the Jesuits’ church in Upper Gardiner Street. As they walked along, Tim chatted knowledgeably about the sacred music of the Roman and the Orthodox churches, the use of Church Slavonic in the Orthodox liturgy, the timeless beauty of Gregorian chant, and other subjects dear to Brennan’s heart.
Tim looked over at Brennan. “Michael may have told you I’m a priest, though currently out of service.”
“He did, Tim, but he didn’t have to. I’d have known you anywhere as my brother priest.”
He gave Brennan a thoughtful look and said, “Thank you, Brennan.” He was silent for a minute or so, then, “I’m not sure whether he told you about the troubles I’ve brought upon myself . . .”
“He told me you ran into some difficulty in Africa and he made a vague reference to drugs, but he did not go into any detail. And you have my word on that, Tim. Michael loves to chat.” Shanahan smiled at that. “But he knows how to keep a confidence.”
“I believe that of Michael. He’s a lovely man and a very compassionate priest. Since he did not tell you — bless him — I will: I’m a heroin addict, Brennan.”
Brennan turned to him, and Shanahan met his gaze, then averted his eyes.
“I’m truly sorry to hear that, Tim. If there is anything I can do to help you, now or in the future, I will. All you have to do is ask.”
“Thank you, Brennan. You have no idea how much it means to hear you say that.”
Brennan found himself hoping fervently that, whatever the pub graffiti was about, it wasn’t about Father Timothy Shanahan.
They walked in companionable silence until they reached the Church of St. Francis Xavier. There was a sign posted outside, giving notice of another event of interest to Brennan, an evening devoted to the spiritual exercises of St. Ignatius Loyola. Tomorrow, Friday. He would try to attend.
He and Shanahan went inside. It was one of Dublin’s neoclassical churches, with four Corinthian columns and a pediment at the altar. But the music was about to transport them far from neoclassical Europe. The Russian choir took its place in the sanctuary, thirty men in black suits and white collarless shirts. From their first bass note, it was as if everything had ceased to exist except the sound.
The magnificent harmonies, the dark colours of the music, the drone of the bass, the deep, sonorous timbre of Russian music had a mesmerizing effect on Brennan, and stayed with him as he knelt to pray in front of the Blessed Sacrament after Tim Shanahan had said goodnight and the choir and spectators had left the church. As sometimes happened to him when he was deep in prayer, Brennan had an experience that was not of his making. On these rare occasions, he was presented with realities that could not be grasped with the intellect alone. He realized that he was in the presence of the Blessed Trinity, or it was present in him, in his soul. He felt that he could perceive God as three persons in one, inseparable, equal and of one essence. It was something he struggled manfully to explain to his seminary students, but the truth of it was beyond the power of the unaided human mind, including his own even after these experiences. As St. Augustine said, “If you’ve grasped it, it isn’t God.” But he knew with absolute certainty that whatever he was experiencing, it was real. The best he could do was quote St. Teresa of Avila: it was like feeling the presence of someone in the dark. At other times, he was not in darkness, but was flooded with an interior light so brilliant that he knew it was not of this world.
It was music that made him receptive to this state. No surprise there. Augustine again: music was meant to lift the spirit from the corporeal to the incorporeal realities; it prepared the soul for contemplation of eternal truth.
But there was a price to be paid, as there was for everything. Some of his experiences were not of the ecstatic kind. Some were bleak intimations of evil in the world; some filled him with dread. Usually, his forebodings came to naught: the feeling passed, and nothing happened. Occasionally, though — rarely — it seemed his premonitions were of events that would come to pass.
The peace concert in Belfast, the high B-flat, the maledizione! What had he seen in his mind’s eye that night? He didn’t know. But it disturbed him, particularly now, after being in an altered state of mind. Was something going to happen? Was the Apprentice Boys Memorial Hall going to be attacked after all, unleashing unimaginable retribution? Would some other monumental institution be the target? Or would it be something on a smaller scale? Was it the Merle Odom crisis, come to its inevitably bloody conclusion? Could it be a premonition of something personal, something unrelated to the sectarian mayhem in this country? Or was it nothing? Was it just Burke himself, with his deep sensitivity to music, reacting to Verdi’s aria as the composer would have wished, with dread and foreboding? Who wouldn’t be disturbed, at night in Belfast, surrounded by armed soldiers and police, knowing why such a show of force was required?
But Belfast wasn’t the only location that had him spooked. He hadn’t liked the look of that pair who came into his uncle’s pub that afternoon and seemed to be casing the place. He would have written off the incident, would probably have forgotten it altogether, if Finn had not stared them out of the room from behind those obscuring lenses of his. Finn knew they were trouble. Well, it was time for Finn to speak up. Who were they, and what was going on?
It was just after ten o’clock. Brennan had been on his knees for more than an hour with no awareness of the passing of time. He got up, rubbed his knees, left the church, and headed for Christy Burke’s. There was a soft mist, and the air smelled fresh. When he got to the pub, primed to confront his uncle, he found not Finn but Sean Nugent behind the bar. Shite! Wouldn’t you know?
But wait, what was Sean saying to him?
“If you’re looking for a pint, I’m your man. If you’re looking for your family, he’s down below.”
“What would he be doing down there at this time of night?”
“Em, he didn’t say, but I expect we’ll be seeing him shortly. What can I get you tonight, Brennan?”
Brennan started to speak, then saw the barman’s gaze move to the door of the cellar; Nugent gave somebody a nearly imperceptible nod. Brennan turned and saw a big man with thick dark hair and black-framed glasses; he was looking at Nugent as he closed the cellar door. The man was wearing a long, bulky raincoat, which struck Brennan as being a little too heavy for the mild misty evening. The fellow’s eyes surveyed the assembled drinkers before he left the pub.
Sean returned to his duties. “A pint for you, Brennan, or a Jameson?”
“I’ll have a pint, if you’d be so kind, Sean. Make that two, would you?”
“Certainly.”
He poured two pints and handed them to Brennan. Brennan paid for them, then said, “I think I’ll go down and pay a social call on my favourite uncle.”
“Oh, Finn won’t be long, I’m sure, so maybe you should just —”
“No worries. He’ll be pleased that I made the effort.”
Something in Sean’s expression suggested otherwise, but Brennan was not deterre
d. Grasping the two pints in his left hand, he went to the cellar door, opened it quietly, walked through, and closed it behind him. He started down the stairs. There was a faint light coming from the nether regions of the building, but the steps and most of the cellar were in shadow. He descended in silence. When he got to the bottom he heard a couple of clicks, then a metallic clanking sound. The sounds came from the tunnel.
He walked to the open hole in the floor, tightened his grip on the two pint glasses in his left hand, grabbed the top of the ladder with his right, and climbed down. He stood in the tunnel and peered down its length. There, with a kerosene lantern flickering overhead, was Finn, shoving a large brick into the face of the wall. He sensed Brennan’s presence and whipped around.
“Jaysus! Brennan! Are you fucking daft?”
“Evening, Finn. What’s daft about dropping in to say hello to my elders? Save you from climbing those steep stairs. I’m just being thoughtful.”
“You are in your bollocks.”
“What are you up to? Restocking the shelves? Need any help?”
“Feck off and don’t be pestering me here. Take yourself upstairs. I’ll be right behind you.”
“Too crowded up there, Finn; the place is filled with nosy parkers. You know what they’re like. Better to talk down here in private. I’ve brought you a drink.”
“I see that. Talk about what? You’ve discovered who was the target of the slurs painted on my wall? You’ve nicked the fellow who killed the vandal? Could that be it?”