I Hear the Sirens in the Street

by Adrian McKinty

  I went back to the borrowed Beemer and sat there.

  The mystery caller had known about this all along.

  I see through a glass darkly. She had seen through it. She’d seen through it to the other side, but was leaving it to me to do something about it.

  There was only one thing to be done.

  I knew the drama that would erupt if I asked for official permission to go.

  The Chief. The Consulate. DeLorean. The Americans. Especially the Americans.

  The case would be taken away from me.

  The case would vanish into the ether.

  We’d never find out who killed Bill O’Rourke. Perhaps someone would, but not us.

  “No, not us,” I said aloud.

  I drove to Carrick RUC and found Kenny Dalziel among the pay stubs in the sub basement. I told him that before the marching season got going in a month or so now was as good a time as any for me to take my personal days all at once.

  He said that he’d sound it out with the Chief.

  Half an hour later the Chief called me up to his office and declared that I looked as if I needed a break. He recommended Blackpool, which was bracing and inexpensive at this time of year.

  I told him that that sounded like a great idea.

  I told Kenny I was taking five working days and a weekend exemption from riot duty. I told them that Crabbie was in charge of CID and he should be paid for the week as an acting sergeant. Kenny baulked at that until I said that I’d pay the extra four quid out of my own pocket.

  I went back upstairs and told Crabbie about the acting sergeant thing and he was as pleased as I’d hoped. I didn’t tell him about the mirror. Not yet. No point dragging him in until we saw where it all led.

  I called Emma McAlpine and said that I had to go out of town for a few days but I’d really like to see her when I got back.

  “That would be nice,” she told me.

  I ordered Emma flowers from the same place I’d got them for Gloria.

  I drove to Grant’s Travel Agency in Carrickfergus and had them book me a flight to Boston. Tomorrow at noon from Heathrow.

  I’m not a superstitious arsehole but just to be on the safe side I found out when the next Mass was going to be …

  27: HIGH MASS

  Coronation Road was the last street in Greater Belfast before the country began and the field behind it felt like another world. A littoral. An Interzone. A DMZ. I put a barley stalk in my mouth and listened to the commingling of music from radios and stereos and from far up the lane a piper practising his scale. The gable graffiti said “God Save the Queen”, and “No Pope Here”, but on this particular April evening Coronation Road belonged to neither Queen nor Pope but to a Jewish girl from Brooklyn called Barbra Streisand. The current UK no. 1 album Memories was warbling from several underpowered hi-fi speakers with most of them repeating the title track, but one preferring Streisand’s melancholy duet with Neil Diamond: “You Don’t Bring Me Flowers”. We could be over-egging the theoretical custard here, but for me these torch songs were desperate cries for help from Coronation Road’s female population. Streisand’s mezzo soprano expressing what they couldn’t express from their marriage prisons: longings about foreign travel and roads not taken and above all about their men who were once buoyant and funny and now were aged characters brought low by unemployment and sickness and the drink.

  I was hungry. I hadn’t eaten as an act of contrition. Tonight I would take the sacrament of penance and in a state of grace I would go to America.

  It was dusk now and the colours were from another latitude: the barley a bold yellow, the sky an epic Sicilian red. I walked past two children playing hide-and-seek behind a burnt-out car. The field had become a dumping ground for bombed vehicles, and these warped and twisted hulks of steel and aluminium possessed a strange, minatory beauty. I touched the side of a Reliant Robin that had been turned inside out by the apocalyptic power of Semtex. A kid put his finger to his lips. I nodded. I won’t turn you in, son.

  I reached the street and said hello to my two terrace neighbours, Mrs Campbell and Mrs Bridewell, while Barbra brought her rendition of “Memory” to a histrionic, emotional climax and the ladies dabbed at their cheeks. The sky, the song, the tear: the moment carved with such precision that I knew that it would scratch the iris of my mind’s eye decades from now. If the Lord spared me…

  I checked under the Beemer and drove to the chapel.

  Revenge is the foolish stepbrother of justice. I understood that. I had lived with that thought for eight months. Ever since that night on the shores of Lake Como. What I had done then was a crime, and it was also a sin. No one cared about the crime, but tonight I was going to confess to the sin. To the act itself and to the feeling of satisfaction I got when I thought about what I’d done.

  I parked the car and got out.

  The chapel was ancient and barely used, covered in moss and yellow ivy. It lay now in the shadow of Kilroot power station. Only in Ulster could a charming piece of coast like this have been blighted with such a Soviet-style monstrosity. “Kilroot” is a derivation of the Irish Cill Ruaidh meaning “church of the redheads”. The Redheads were the local Celts and supposedly Kilroot had been founded as a parish in 422 AD, which predated St Patrick’s mission by a generation. At that time Ulster, and indeed Ireland, was a land of pagan, poetry-loving, warring, tribal kingdoms. Not much had changed.

  Father O’Hare was only twenty-two. He was nine years my junior, but he was an old soul. In defiance of Vatican II, and for the benefit of the five other aging parishioners, he conducted the mass in Latin.

  The ancient words comforted us.

  When the service was over I entered the confessional.

  Father O’Hare saw old Mrs McCawley to her car and returned to the chapel.

  He entered his side of the booth.

  He slid across the partition.

  Only the carved wooden lattice protected me now.

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” I told him. “It has been nearly a year since my last confession.”

  I confessed to the mortal sin of murder and the venial sins of pride, lust and adultery. I confessed that I did not regret what I had done and I told him that I would do it all again.

  He listened and did not approve.

  Technically, he should not have offered me absolution until I had explained that I was sorry for these and all the sins of my past life, but Father O’Hare was no sea lawyer and couldn’t afford to be too harsh with his tiny congregation.

  “Misereatur tui omnipotens Deus, et dimissis peccatis tuis, perducat te ad vitam ternam,” he said. “Indulgentiam, absolutionem, et remissionem peccatorum tuorum tribuat tibi omnipotens et misericors Dominus. Amen. Dominus noster Jesus Christus te absolvat: et ego auctoritate ipsus te absolvo ab omni vinculo excommunicationis, (suspensionis), et interdicti, in quantum possum, et tu indiges. Deinde ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis, in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.”

  Outside the confessional it was a different world and we exchanged unembarrassed pleasantries.

  “It was the lovely day today, wasn’t it?”

  “Aye, it was indeed, Father, although I heard it was going to be cold tomorrow.”

  “Oh, and my roses just coming through!” he said, and shook his head.

  “I won’t see it. I’ll be in America.”

  “America? A holiday?”

  “Something like that.”

  I drove home and, absolved and at peace, I called McCrabban.

  I told him about the mirror and the note and what I was planning to do. He was silent for a long time.

  “Don’t do this, Sean. The whole thing smells. Pass it up the chain of command,” he said, finally.

  “Why did you become a detective, Crabbie? Truth and justice, right? If we pass this up the Yanks will take it, the Brits will take it. We’ll never get the truth. Never.”

  “This is a game being played on another level, Sean. A game you play caref
ully. Pass it up and our job is done.”

  “You know what will happen, Crabbie. It’ll vanish. The higher ups and the Americans will make it vanish and we’ll never find out what happened to Mr O’Rourke.”

  “You don’t know that for certain, Sean.”

  “You said it yourself, mate, this whole thing stinks.”

  “At least tell the Chief.”

  “The Chief’s a company man, I won’t be out of his office before he’ll be on the phone to the FBI.”

  Crabbie hung on the receiver for a long time, thinking. I knew he was conflicted. He wanted to talk me out of it, but he wanted to know, too.

  “So, what’s your plan?”

  “Find out what Mr O’Rourke has hidden away in that safety deposit box and retrieve the evidence. Fait accompli, mate. No interference from Special Branch, goons, FBI or anyone else.”

  “And then what?”

  “Depending on what I find, we’ll take it from there.”

  “Let me go with you,” he said suddenly.

  I considered it for a second or two. It would be great to have him with me, but it would selfish to drag him into the black pit of banjax if it all went wrong.

  “No, Crabbie, if this shit fucks up, it’ll be my head on the block and mine alone.”

  “What could go wrong?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s why I should go with you. You need me, Sean.”

  “I do need you, Crabbie, but I don’t need you catching any flak from this. I’ll retrieve the evidence from the box and see what it is and then we’ll talk.”

  “I’m your mate, Sean, I should be there to help.”

  I was touched. “I know, Crabbie. And that’s why I want to keep you out of it. You’ve got a family to look after.”

  Another long period of silence before a hurt and worried and confused McCrabban said: “Okay.”

  “Thanks for understanding.”

  “You sure you know what you’re doing?”

  “No.”

  “Take care, Sean.”

  “I will.”

  I hung up the phone.

  Coronation Road was quiet. I poured myself a pint of vodka and lime. I flipped on the UTV news: a shooting in Crossmaglen, a suspicious van in Cookstown, an incendiary attack in Lurgan – nothing that serious. I went upstairs, packed and set the alarm for six.

  28: AMERICA

  Of course I’d been before. New York in ’78 when I’d stayed with my old girlfriend Gresha for two weeks in the West Village. Happy days. It was the New York of The Ramones and Serpico and CBGB and Dog Day Afternoon. Gresha’s then boyfriend was a fuckwit who had not been cool about me staying in the first place and hated me after I’d gone to the fridge and eaten his ‘Reggie Bar’. “I got that at the Yankees’ home opener, man. I’m not into material possessions, man, but that is going to be a collector’s item one day, man.” When Gresha banged me for old time’s sake I didn’t feel a bit bad about it.

  This trip was to Boston. Bus to Dublin. Dublin to Shannon. Shannon to Logan. I flew Aer Lingus and sat in the smoking section and watched Ingmar Bergman’s Fanny and Alexander. It was so long that it hadn’t actually ended when we touched down.

  The whole Irish-American thing did not manifest itself at Logan Airport or at the Avis where I got myself a huge brown ’71 Robert Bechtle style Buick. I stayed the night at a Holiday Inn in Revere, and on hearing my accent the desk clerk asked if I was from Australia. At ten o’clock that evening I was idly flipping through the TV channels when there was a knock at the door. It was a prostitute who was also from our own fair island and who’d been sent here by the manager so that we could “cheer each other up”. She was a chubby girl from Mayo with black hair that she had misguidedly dyed platinum. She said that she had come to America in 1979 after she’d seen the Pope conduct an open-air Mass at Phoenix Park. I poured her a glass of Maker’s Mark from the mini bar and asked her her name. She told me it was Candy which seemed unlikely. She asked if I wanted to have sex with her and I told her that I was very tired having just arrived today. She told me that a quick hand job would ensure that I would get a good night’s sleep and would only cost ten dollars. She had big peasant hands that looked as if they could wring the neck of a chicken without any bother at all and I said thanks but no thanks and gave her five dollars for her trouble.

  She thanked me for the drink. I had read The Catcher in the Rye and was prepared for the desk clerk or manager to come barging in five minutes later demanding full compensation for his girl’s time, but no one came and no one bothered me and I slept until seven the next morning.

  I shaved and dressed in black jeans, a white shirt and a black sports jacket.

  I bought a map and drove the Buick north on Route 1A towards Newburyport. Before reaching town, I took a mini diversion to find the O’Rourke homestead. I was surprised to discover that in the weeks since Mr O’Rourke’s body had been sent home, his house had been completely cleared out, filled with rented furniture, and was now on the market. There was a lock box on the front door and the number of a realtor who would let you see inside.

  I called the realtor from a payphone at the gas station and asked if I could see it this morning. How did ten suit me? I wondered if she had an earlier appointment, and she said no. I said that ten would be no problem.

  I drove to a place called the Village Pancake House just over the town line in Ipswich. I got the pecan pancakes and they were excellent.

  The realtor was a large bubbly woman called Buffy. She had blonde, curly hair and a perma-tan, and she was wearing a light blue leisure suit that made her look like a member of a cult.

  She showed me inside the O’Rourke residence.

  My hunch about the rented furniture proved correct.

  All the late Mr O’Rourke’s effects had been cleared out “and the house fumigated”, Buffy assured me.

  “What happened to Mr O’Rourke?” I asked.

  “I heard that he wasn’t well and that he went home to Ireland to die.”

  I told Buffy that I was a keen gardener and she showed me a completely empty greenhouse in the back yard – as empty as Sir Harry McAlpine’s had been.

  I thanked Buffy and drove next to the VFW post. I wanted to talk to O’Rourke’s mates and I’d brought that roll of five hundred dollars I’d found behind the mirror, which I wanted to leave as a donation to his fellow veterans. I parked outside the small, white clapboard building and tried the door, but it was locked.

  I got a coffee roll and a coffee from Dunkin’ Donuts on Route 1 and waited for any of O’Rourke’s VFW buddies to show up, but no one did. It was obviously way too early. I ate the coffee roll; it was great and made up for the coffee itself which tasted like it had been percolated through a tube previously used for stealing petrol from parked cars.

  I drove back to O’Rourke’s house and rang the doorbell of the neighbours on either side. The Browns were not at home, but his other neighbour, Donna Ferris, a home maker in her forties, told me that Bill was an amazing guy. A very proud man. A great neighbour who could fix just about anything.

  “You wouldn’t believe what he went through when Jennifer died. She was in so much pain. He tried to take it all on himself. They should have given that guy a medal.”

  I told her that they had given him several medals, and this was news to her.

  I asked her about his work for the government and she said that he never discussed it. She said that she was devastated to hear about his death. That he was the most honourable man she knew.

  “Most people these days don’t even know what the word ‘honourable’ means,” she said.

  At lunchtime I drove into Newburyport and found the Ten Cent Savings Bank. The main branch on State Street was not the one that contained the safety deposit boxes. I had to go to the adjunct branch on Jefferson Street; but I knew that already.

  I had a toasted cheese sandwich at Fowles Diner and found a review of Fanny and Alexander in an old Boston Globe
someone had left lying around. The reviewer liked the film, but didn’t say what happened at the end.

  I walked down to the little harbour and strolled along a pier that had rows of lobster boats and fishing smacks. An attractive lady with a screaming infant asked me the way to the McDonald’s. I told here I was a stranger here myself and she hazarded a guess that I was from Down Under. “Belfast,” I said, and she smiled and wished me a pleasant trip.

  I found an Irish pub called Molly Malone’s. It was an embarrassing explosion of kitsch and sentimental Oirishness. Comedic leprechauns jostled for space with photographs of the dead hunger strikers and framed newspaper headlines celebrating infamous bombings. There was a collection tin for the IRA on the bar and posters that said things like “Death to the RUC”, and “Death to the Brits”. No Mick with any self respect would ever drink in a place like this, which was why it was packed to the rafters.

  I went next door to a dive bar and got a bottle of Sam Adams for a buck fifty. I knew that I was only delaying the inevitable, so I gulped my brew and went back outside.

  Jefferson Street.

  The Ten Cent Saving Bank’s adjunct branch was a brown concrete single-storey structure that had all the aesthetic charm of a nuclear fall-out shelter. But perhaps that was the point. Your stuff will be safe here even in the event of the apocalypse …

  I took out my key and walked boldly inside.

  You had to go past a clerk who was sitting behind bullet-proof glass.

  He was a thin, bald man with a comb-over and a caterpillar moustache that conveyed a great well of sadness. He was reading The Parsifal Mosaic by Robert Ludlum.

  The boxes, presumably, were in a room to his right behind a locked metal door.

  “Key number,” the man said.

  “Twenty-seven,” I said.

  “Let me see it, please,” the man said.

  I took out the key and passed it under the partition. He examined the key and looked at something in a book and passed the key back.

  “Do you have any identification, Mr O’Rourke?”