Death at Christy Burke's

by Anne Emery

  There was another loud noise. It sounded as if the new arrival had kicked closed the door he had just kicked open. He came into view, the right side of his face to the camera. A man in early middle age, with greying fair hair and light-coloured eyes, he looked as cool and collected as if he had happened upon a tea party. In spite of the warm weather, he wore a bulky jacket.

  “Sit dyne, Clancy.”

  Clancy! The fellow reported missing in Dublin, nephew of the Bishop of Meath. He hadn’t been kidnapped; he was the kidnapper. God help the bishop if this gets out; God help the boy’s family.

  “Jesus,” Clancy pleaded on the tape, “don’t be giving him our names! But never mind: he won’t tell. He’s a good fellow —”

  “Sit down, I said. You’re not givin’ the orders here. Your name isn’t all he knows, is it, Clancy?”

  Odom leaned forward in his restraints, perspiration forming on his forehead and temples. “I don’t know anything, honest to God I don’t!”

  “Aye, you dew. Unfortunately.” The man turned to the prisoner as he spoke, and reached inside his jacket.

  Odom’s eyes bulged in terror; he struggled frantically in his seat. “I have nothing to do with what’s going on here!”

  “Aye, you do. Now. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m just a tourist. I hardly even know Ian Paisley!”

  “Fuck Paisley.” The man drew a gun from his jacket and held it down by his side.

  Odom cried out, “No! You can’t do this! I’m an American —”

  The shot made Brennan jump. “Oh God!”

  When he looked at the screen again, Odom was slumped to the side, a bullet hole between his eyes. A sound of sobbing came from the corner of the room.

  “Had to be done, Clancy. Thanks entirely to you, you little Free State bollocks, and your band of fellow gobshites. What the fuck were you thinking, coming up here and snatching the man off the street, setting in motion all this turmoil?”

  “We didn’t plan it! I went up to Belfast on the train to see a couple of the lads from Dublin, who’d gone up there to work. Me and, well you know the fellow I mean — he had to be up early in the morning because he works in a restaurant, and he’d just got himself a car — so we were out and about early, driving past the Europa, and there he was. Odom. We recognized him from the news picture with Paisley. The opportunity was there for us, too good to pass up! Lift the man from the street and trade him for Donovan and Buckley and Whalen. Get them out of prison.”

  “Didn’t you think of the repercussions of something like this, you bollocks?”

  “I didn’t expect —”

  “You didn’t think ahead. And then, when you did some thinking, you came up with a bad idea. You used this house without permission. You brought Odom down into this room, past all the items we have stockpiled right there.” He pointed to the door. “Do you think, if we’d let the man go, he would have kept his gob shut about all that firepower that’s going to be used against his fellow Protestants in Belfast? I had to kill him. You left me with no choice. I should have made you do it. Now I’m thinking I should give you the same treatment.”

  “No, Des, don’t do it! I won’t say a word. For the rest of my life, I won’t, I swear it!”

  “You’re fuckin’ right, you won’t. Because I’ve got other plans for you, for the rest of your life.”

  “Anything! Anything, Des!”

  “Good. Get up.”

  Clancy came into view, no longer wearing the balaclava. His red hair stuck out all over his head. His green eyes were locked on Des.

  “Here’s the way it is, Clancy. Are you listening to me?”

  “Yes!”

  “As of today . . . no, as of the eighth day of July, when all this started, you and your fellow amateurs are members of a brand new, hitherto-unknown-to-the-authorities splinter organization. You should be enjoying this, Clancy, you’re the latest split in the movement! You’re going to call yourselves the ‘Republican Irish Volunteer Force.’ Like it?”

  “Sure. Sure I do, Des.”

  “Why’d you break away from the mainstream Republican movement, Clancy?”

  “Uh, because we, uh, it . . .”

  “Because you don’t agree with the policies of the Provisional Irish Republican Army, correct?”

  “If you say so, Des.”

  “Because the Provos aren’t getting the job done.”

  “Well, now, I wouldn’t want to —”

  “Yes, you would. You’re out of patience with us. We’re a bunch of poofs, and we just sit around pulling ourselves, and you want action and you want it now. And that’s why you took matters into your own hands. What are the Provos, Clancy?”

  “Um, well, we’re . . . I mean they . . .”

  “What’d I tell you?”

  “But . . . won’t I get killed for saying the ’RA are poofs? Or, you know, I’ll get punished?”

  “Chance you have to take, Clancy. It’s a risky business you’ve embarked on. A great big fuck-up. Now I’ll ask you again: what are the Provos?”

  “The Provos . . . are a bunch of poofs.”

  “And what do we do?”

  Brennan, watching this, felt he was back in school, with the priest grilling him for answers, a strap nearby if needed. This man had been to the same school. All the Irish had.

  “What do we do?” he repeated, when Clancy fumbled his lines.

  “Sit around pulling ourselves. Yourselves.”

  “And what do you want?”

  “We want action and we want it now.”

  “Right. That’s your story, and God and Mary help you if you ever forget it. Now assist me in disposing of this poor sad bastard here.”

  “Oh, my God, Desmond,” Clancy sobbed. “I can’t bear to touch him. None of this was his fault.”

  “That’s right. You’ll think twice next time. Get his legs. Now!”

  Leo switched off the machine and looked at Brennan. Neither man spoke. They had just witnessed the murder of the first victim of this boneheaded kidnapping plan, but likely not the last. How many others were now fated to suffer in the wake of this killing? It didn’t take long to find out.

  Leo jabbed another button on the remote, and the television screen lit up with an RTÉ news bulletin from Newry, a well-known trouble spot just north of the border. The body of the Reverend Merle Odom had been fished out of Carlingford Lough that morning. Because of the location, near the border, there was much discussion on the news as to where Odom had been killed, in the North or in the Irish Republic. He had been shot in the head. The scene switched to the Reverend Ian Paisley addressing a crowd on what appeared to be the front steps of a church. “The Reverend Merle Odom was a man of God, a man of family, a man of courage. I am proud to have considered him a friend. His death is an atrocity. I call upon the authorities to hunt down his killers and bring them to swift justice. How many more murders and bombings will it take before the IRA terrorists are shut down for good?”

  The next to comment was the Cardinal Archbishop of Armagh, who offered condolences to Mr. Odom’s family and his congregation on behalf of the Roman Catholic Church in Ireland. He expressed confidence that the police would solve the matter and bring the perpetrators before the courts. The bishop was followed by a spokesman for Sinn Féin, which added its voice to the condemnations of the shooting.

  There were a few more commentators, then the program moved on to the next bit of unwelcome news. “Rioting broke out in Belfast and other centres today in reaction to the news of the American evangelist’s death. A street battle erupted in front of a hastily painted mural in the Shankill Road. Seven people were taken to hospital.” The camera zoomed in on a gable wall on which was painted the picture of a priest in a Roman collar, lifting the chalice during the Eucharist. Except that, when the camera got closer, Brennan could see that the chalic
e was in fact a pint of Guinness.

  “Those fuckers!” Brennan exclaimed. Then it got worse. The crosshairs of a rifle were shown superimposed on the white square at the priest’s throat. How is this ever going to end?

  The coverage turned to the rioters, some in black balaclavas, some with their faces bare, contorted in rage. Other factions pushed back. One man, in a group held behind a barricade, jabbed his finger in the direction of the mural. “That’s fookin’ sacrilege, that is!”

  The scene switched to another man, with a scarf over the lower half of his face, and an Ulster Freedom Fighters insignia on his jacket, waving a submachine gun around. “This,” he shouted, “this is the only language the Fenians understand!”

  Back at the news desk, the presenter started to introduce a new item about a by-election in Cork, then said, “Oh! We have just received word of a new development in the Merle Odom story. A group calling itself the Republican Irish Volunteer Force has claimed responsibility for the killing of the American preacher. We have Matt Dempsey on the line. Matt? What can you tell us about this organization?”

  “Not much, I’m afraid, Aideen. No one I spoke to had ever heard of the RIVF until this communiqué was issued.”

  “What does it say, Matt?”

  “It says, ‘The Reverend Merle Odom was killed because he supported the oppressors of the Catholics of the Six Counties.’ The RIVF says it intends to take the struggle for a united Ireland to a new level unless progress is made in the release of political prisoners and the reduction of British troops in the North of Ireland. A Provisional IRA source, who refused to give his name, said that he had never heard of this group, and that the IRA condemned the killing of Odom in the strongest terms.”

  “Thank you, Matt. And now . . .”

  Brennan was overcome with a feeling of dread. He seized upon the notion that his feeling at the peace concert was a premonition of the American’s death. It probably was no such thing but if he could think of it like that, he could tell himself that the premonition had already come true, the event had occurred, and there was nothing else to the omen. But never mind that. You didn’t have to be a mystic to experience a feeling of dread with all this going on.

  He and Leo Killeen prayed together for the soul of Merle Odom, for his family, for Bishop Clancy and his nephew, and for the people of Ireland, then Brennan said a sombre goodnight to Leo and returned to his place in the Liberties.

  The dark night seemed endless. Brennan had no sleep. He tried the repetition of prayer. Didn’t work. He tried drink. No effect. There was no escape from the images he had seen on the television screen and the images that played across the screen of his own mind: hatred distorting the faces of his countrymen, bullets tearing through their flesh.

  Chapter 13

  Brennan

  There was no rest for him the following day. He had promised to visit some inmates in the Joy and assist them with various difficulties, and he was glad he did, but it took up much of the day and drained the small reserve of energy he had left. There was the evening program he didn’t want to miss at the Jesuits’ church in Gardiner Street, the presentation on the spiritual exercises of St. Ignatius. It was fascinating, and he did his best to stay sharp and take in what he was hearing, but when some of his fellow priests invited him to a get-together afterwards at a residence near the church, he should have said no. He did say no to the offer of a drink but he stayed on and socialized until nearly two in the morning. One of the fellows called a taxi for him but he waited outside, and it never showed up. He decided he might as well walk till he spied another one. All he could think of was getting to his room. As soon as he got in the door, he would dive onto his bed and pass out. He had not had a moment of sleep the night before. His collar was hot around his neck but he was too lazy to reach up and take it off. His steps were heavy and his eyelids half-closed as he plodded through Summerhill in the blackness. He always had music running in his head; this time it was Mozart’s dark, brooding “Kyrie in D Minor.”

  There were very few people out at this time of night, at least along this route: the occasional drunk delivering himself of a song or a soliloquy, or lurching about in the street, a few drugged-out young lads, or a couple having a snog in a doorway. When he got to the “Christe Eleison” in the Mozart, he heard the sound of a scuffle, then a shout and a string of curses. A cry of pain, and more cursing. He peered ahead in the dimness and saw two bodies writhing on the pavement. One staggered to his feet, pulled the other upright, and drove his fist into the fellow’s face. Then he put his hands around the man’s throat.

  “Hey!” Brennan shouted, and ran towards them. “Back off, you!”

  He grabbed the aggressor and pulled him backwards. The fellow whirled on Brennan and took a swing, catching him on the left side of his face. The force sent him reeling back against the brick wall of a building. He launched himself off the wall towards his attacker, who had thrown himself down on the victim again. Brennan tackled the fellow, and they ended up wrestling on the ground. The victim of the beating managed to roll over, get up, and scuttle away. Brennan held his attacker down and got a good look at his face. A young lad of about fifteen.

  “Settle yourself down there,” he told him.

  The boy said, “Fuck off, or I’ll kick your head in. I don’t care what kind of collar you’ve got on; I’ll send you to hell.”

  “That’s not going to happen, so put it out of your mind. Get yourself under control, so I can let you up.”

  “It’s not up to you to let me do anything.”

  “Under the circumstances, it is.”

  The young fellow’s breathing slowed a bit, and Brennan thought it might be safe to ease up. He started to let go, the kid made a move, and Brennan gripped him again.

  “What was that all about? You and that man.”

  “Nothing to do with you, whoever the fuck you are. I don’t care if you’re the Pope himself; it’s none of your business.”

  “I make it my business when I see somebody being assaulted.”

  “The louser deserved it.”

  “Why?”

  “He was trying to take my spot.”

  “What spot is that?”

  “You can’t see it, can you?”

  Without taking his eyes off his captive, Brennan replied, “I didn’t notice anything.”

  “Right. That’s what’s good about it. Hard to see. Let me up.”

  Brennan released his hold on him, ready to apply it again if need be. But the boy just sat up, rubbing his arms where Brennan had held them in an iron grip. Brennan took him by the left arm, gently this time, guided him to the curb, and sat him down. Brennan sat beside him.

  “Tell me about your spot.”

  “Number one, it’s hard to see. Number two, it’s warm in there at night because there’s a heat vent. And number three, it has . . .”

  “It has what?”

  “Free delivery.”

  “Of?”

  “Dregs from old bottles. Food from the restaurant. They throw out perfectly good food at closing time. Goes into those bins.”

  Scavenging for scraps of rubbish.

  “So this is where I sleep, and nobody takes it from me.”

  Brennan took a quick glance down the alley where the boy was looking. There was a grimy-looking chip shop and a bar that Brennan would not have entered even if it was selling the last glass of Jameson whiskey on the planet.

  He studied the lad. Not a hard-looking fellow at all. A soft face, really, with golden hair and big green eyes. But he was filthy.

  “How long have you had this place?”

  “Weeks. I got it off an oul nutter that croaked. They took him away, and I moved in.”

  “Do you have a family here in Dublin?”

  “Sure, right over there. See them propped up behind the bins? Oh, no, guess not. Guess I don’t
have any then.”

  “What happened?”

  “My oul man fucked off, that’s what happened. Found a new mot and he’s living with her and not with us. Hope she goes on the batter some night and puts the eyes out of him. My ma couldn’t afford to keep us all in the place we had, so they put her in a council flat where there’s no room for me and the four sisters I’ve got. Ma took over the big room for her and the new boyfriend, so my sisters have the other room and the sitting room, and even if they didn’t I couldn’t be in the same house with that fucker she calls my stepfather. Because I’d fucking kill him some night, just like he tries to kill me every time he beats the shite out of me. But what am I telling you this for? You don’t give a fuck.”

  “I do. What’s your name?”

  “Right. So you can grass on me to the peelers.”

  “I’m not going to report you. My name’s Brennan. Yours is?”

  He said it grudgingly, but he said it. “Aidan.”

  “All right, Aidan. Let’s find you something good to eat, and then get you a shower and a bed for the night. Then we’ll see what we can line up for you in the morning. Later this morning, I should say.”

  “And lose my fucking spot that I just had to fight for?”

  “What I have in mind is something a little more sheltered than your regular space. The council workers . . .”

  “Don’t be telling me about social workers. They keep trying to get me back with my oul one in the flat, and I go back and two days later, Ma and the stepfather are roaring at me again that I’m no fucking good, and I have to leave. I’m better off on my own.”

  How bad must it be, Brennan wondered, that sleeping on the streets of Dublin is better?

  “Well, I’m not going to leave you here in the street.”

  “Yeah. You are. Because it’s nothing to you what I do.”

  “On the contrary, it matters to me a great deal what you do.”

  “Yeah, right. You’re a good Samaritan walking the streets of Dublin City at three o’clock in the morning. I’d say you’re out here because you got ossified, and they locked you out of the church house. Right? Now you’ve got to sleep rough too!”