by Anne Emery
“That’s where the prison is.”
“Aye, the Kesh. Now, the lad who told the story in O’Grady’s was named Vincent. Who would that be now?”
“Well, chances are he’s local if he drinks at O’Grady’s and was out with his girlfriend in this area. Would your Auntie Assumpta know, I’m wondering?” Monty asked Katie.
“She’s lived here her entire life. She probably knows everybody.”
“Any chance she would welcome an impromptu visit?”
“Sure, she loves company, only . . .”
“Only what, Katie?” Monty asked.
“I haven’t been out to see her in months, maybe a year. And now I just turn up on her doorstep.”
“How would you have got out here? She probably knows you don’t have a limousine at your service.”
“She’ll be thinking I do, when she sees me pull up in a car.”
“That’s what you’ll tell her. ‘Hello, Auntie. I was touring the countryside and I thought I’d pop in for a cup of tea. Oh, don’t mind old Monty here. He’s only my driver, don’t you know.’”
“Ha, ha. She’ll not likely fall for that. See along there, a road to the left? Turn up there, and it’s not long before you’ll see the old farm.”
A minute or two after making the turn, Monty saw a white house with a black slate roof and smoke coming out of the chimney.
“Would you look at thon place now,” said Hughie. “It’s not a patch on what it was.”
There were a number of farm buildings, some ancient and made of crumbling stone. Like the green fields all over Ireland, these fields were squared off by stone walls. But the walls, like the buildings, were in need of repair. A black-and-white sheepdog came bounding towards the car.
“There’s Lulu!” The instant Monty came to a halt in front of the house, Katie was out of the car and hugging the animal. The dog wagged her tail and barked excitedly. It was obvious they were old pals.
Monty stood in the darkness and breathed in the cool February air, pungent with the distinctive aroma of a turf fire. He didn’t see any animals other than Lulu and a few birds pecking at the ground.
The front door opened, and a tall woman with shoulder-length white hair emerged and called out to her visitors. “Katie Flanagan, a leanbh mo chroí, how lovely to see you! Come in, come in.” She gave Katie a kiss and a hug, then spotted Malone. “Hughie Malone! Out on good behaviour, is it? Or on compassionate grounds?”
“Sure, they declared me harmless. I took umbrage at that! But nobody was interested; they let me go and turned to more urgent matters.”
Just a bit of banter or a history with the criminal justice system?
With Lulu at her heels, Katie started in to the house, then turned to Monty and said, “This is Mr. Collins. Monty. I’ll explain him when we’re inside.”
“No need, a stór, no need. Come in, all of you. How’s your mother?”
“Ah, she’s not very well,” Katie replied. Hughie gave Monty a look that suggested he held a second opinion about the diagnosis.
Assumpta brought them into a sitting room where she had obviously been reading by the fire; a book and a pair of glasses sat on the arm of a big leather chair. “Pull up those chairs, and I’ll wet the tea.”
“Let me help you, Auntie Assumpta.” Katie got up and followed the older woman into the kitchen.
“Where d’you get your turf, Assumpta?” Hughie called out.
“Now you know better than to ask me that, Hughie!”
“Right, right. I withdraw the question.”
“Good man.”
“How much do you burn in the run of a week?”
“The pensioner’s dilemma, Hughie. I have to get by on a few quid a week but, because I’m not out of the house working, I need the fire to keep me warm all day. But I’m well fixed for fuel. That pile on the left there will do me for two days.” There were bricks of turf, roughly cut from the land, stacked up beside the fireplace.
“Have you enough for the rest of the winter?”
Assumpta poked her head around the corner and said, “Did you see the turf shed at the end of the drive? It’s full to the rafters. That ought to do me, with a bit left for next year, God willing.”
“Things are crumbling away out there, Assumpta. You need a man about the house.”
“Are you offering up yourself to me, Hugh?”
“Ah now, don’t be putting notions into an oul fella’s head.”
“You’re incorrigible, Hughie Malone.”
“That’s what my teachers all said in school.”
“If only they could see you now.” She shook her head and went back into the kitchen.
Hughie got up and roamed about the room, pulling books out of Assumpta’s shelves. Monty could hear the young woman and the old chatting in the kitchen, and then there was the whistling of the kettle. A few minutes later, Katie came in carrying a tea tray, and Assumpta came in behind her with a plate of sweets.
Monty stood and said, “I didn’t introduce myself properly, Mrs. Flanagan. My name is Monty Collins.”
“You’re helping wee Katie find out what happened to poor Eamon, she tells me. She is grateful to you, and so am I.”
“I’m not sure I’ll be able to get to the bottom of it. I wish I could offer you some assurance but I just can’t.”
“Sure you’ll do your best. Nobody can ask more than that.”
“Now the latest piece of information we have is that, on the night Eamon died, there was a man in a car out here somewhere, and he had a confrontation of some kind with a young guy who was with his girlfriend. Sounds as if the young couple had been enjoying a bit of privacy . . .”
“Aye, and a rub of the relic!” Hughie laughed.
The young woman caught the eye of the old, and they both shook their heads as if to say, from long, weary years of experience, Boys will be boys, even when they’re past seventy years of age.
“Yes, Mr. Collins, you were saying? Before this oul baste spoke out of turn.”
“The first anyone — anyone in O’Grady’s at least — heard about this was when Vincent came into the bar just after reaching the legal drinking age a few months back.”
“Lad was more interested in his mot than in the drink, by the sound of it,” said Hughie, “and wasn’t used to the stuff. So on his first day in O’Grady’s he had a few too many and started blethering to a mate of his about this incident with the car.”
Monty said, “I have to admit, Assumpta, all this sounds pretty thin. A car on the Ammon Road the same night as Mr. Flanagan’s death.”
“And the same night as the shooting,” Hughie put in.
“Right. So that’s all we have to go on, that and the young guy’s first name. Vincent.”
“From around here?”
“Seems likely.”
“Well, it wouldn’t be Vincent McDonnell. He has a lady friend, yes, because he was widowed some years back. But he’s not young at all. It would have to be Vincent McKeever. Couple of years older than you, Katie. Well, eighteen, if he reached drinking age this year. And there wouldn’t be much privacy in his house, with seven children, the parents and the old gran all living there.”
“Thank you, Assumpta. What would be the best way to get in touch with him, do you think?”
There was no need to state the obvious, that a knock on the door of his family home would not likely induce the young man to speak freely if he had been a witness to a questionable incident, or had been in a confrontation with those who may have been involved.
“Leave it with me. He does some work for the farmer up the hill there, and he walks by here quite often. I’ll find a way to approach him without causing him any undue alarm.”
“Perfect. I really appreciate your help with this, Assumpta.”
They stayed on and chatted
for a while beside the fire, then took their leave.
Assumpta put her arms around the young girl and said, “Call up to me again soon, Katie. It does my heart good to see you.”
“I will, I promise. I’m so happy that I got to see you today.”
“And tell your mam I have her in my prayers.”
“I will.”
“Mind yourself, Hughie.”
“I will.”
From there, they drove out the Ammon Road to the spot where Eamon had died, a narrow bridge over a deep gully. The river was more like a brook, with jagged rocks lining its banks. Monty estimated the height of the bridge over the rocks as thirty feet or so. It was not surprising that anyone falling, jumping, or being thrown from the bridge would sustain fatal injuries. There were good straight stretches of road at both ends of the bridge so, presumably, a pedestrian would have been able to see the headlights of a car approaching from either direction. And an attentive driver should have been able to see a person standing there, depending on how dark his clothing was. One thing was certain: if you were the driver and you hit someone, you’d sure as hell feel it and hear it, even if you hadn’t seen the person until it was too late. Did the car keep on going after Flanagan was hit, if indeed he was hit that night?
Chapter VI
Brennan
When Brennan got off the bus in Andytown on Thursday after his day at Holy Cross, he walked to Ronan’s place and nodded to the two security men in their car. He let himself in with his key. There wasn’t a sound in the house, but Ronan must have been home or the bodyguards would not be there. Or maybe they would, to make sure nobody got into the house in Ronan’s absence. Brennan went up to his room to change his clothes, and he heard a sliding sound from the floor below, followed by the sound of a door or a drawer being closed. Then, “Gráinne?”
“It’s Brennan,” he replied and headed down the stairs.
Ronan emerged from a room that Brennan had never seen open; he’d thought, to the extent that he’d considered it at all, that the door led to a closet. “What are you up to now, Brennan?”
“Not a thing. Just came from Holy Cross.”
“Get something to wet your throat.”
“I think I’ll do that.” He went to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a generous helping of John Jameson. “Do you miss the drink?” he asked Ronan.
Ronan gave him a shrewd look. “Wouldn’t you?”
“I would.” Brennan peered behind his cousin and saw what was a small office with a desk, chair, and filing cabinet. “Well, I’ll let you get back to whatever you’re doing, Ronan.”
“Step inside, Brennan. The headquarters of a one-man investigation unit. Or perhaps reparations unit.” Brennan raised his eyebrows and waited for enlightenment. “I’ll explain. Go to the kitchen and get yourself a chair. I’ve never had the need for more than one.”
Brennan grabbed a kitchen chair and set it down opposite Ronan at his desk. Ronan looked at him, took a deep breath, and said, “I’m speaking to you in confidence now, Father Burke.”
Brennan imagined there were many, many aspects of Ronan’s life that were confidential in nature. He said, “You needn’t have any concerns, Ronan. Anything you tell me stays between you and me. Sinn féin, so to speak.”
Ronan gave a little laugh. The words simply meant “we ourselves.”
“Thank you, Brennan. As you know, I’ve been working for an end to the conflict. And, if you’ll forgive a bit of ego, I’m hoping to take a leading role in whatever kind of peace process we can achieve.”
“No forgiveness required, Ronan. You have the ability, the dedication, and the personality to get along with others, including some who will be terribly difficult to deal with.” He did not add and you’re courageous enough to take the inevitable risks.
“Go raibh maith agat again, Brennan. So I have this little office where I keep records of some old matters I would dearly love to see put to right. For now, I’ll just burden you with one of these matters.”
He opened a drawer and drew out a file folder stuffed with papers. He took out several pages and smoothed them out on the desk. Brennan saw rows of grainy photographs with handwritten notes beneath each of the pictures.
“Dublin and Monaghan,” Ronan said.
“Oh, God.”
“Nobody has ever been arrested for it. Not one single soul. Even though they know who did it.”
Brennan was painfully familiar with the atrocity. In 1974 three car bombs went off in Dublin city centre and one in Monaghan. It was the worst atrocity — in terms of body count — of the Troubles. So far. Thirty-three people were killed, nearly three hundred injured. Women, children, men, including a young husband and wife and their two little girls. The entire family. Another casualty was an unborn, full-term baby. So, thirty-four dead.
“I was in Dublin a couple of weeks after that,” Brennan said, “a long-scheduled visit. The images I saw, and the first-hand accounts I heard, still feature prominently in my nightmares. One of my closest boyhood friends was killed in Talbot Street, a lad on my Gaelic football team. Paddy Healey. I was dark of hair and eye, and Paddy was a little blondy fella, so we were known on the team as chocolate and vanilla. When we were grown, I’d still drop in and see him whenever I was in Dublin. And one of my cousins, on my mother’s side, walked away from the Parnell Street bombing with minor injuries. Minor physical injuries, major psychological damage.”
“An old love of mine was killed in Talbot Street,” Ronan said, “and I knew several of the injured in the other two streets. A fella I know, a fireman on the scene, still to this day can’t walk down a street past a line of parked cars without getting a case of the nerves. Imagine how many people are like that.” Ronan stabbed his finger at the gallery of photos. “Everybody knows somebody who was killed or wounded. And everybody knows these are the bastards who did it. There were eyewitnesses who saw the cars before the explosions and were able to identify the men in the cars. The Garda Síochána —” the police force in the Republic of Ireland “— have the information, had it straight away. They brought the evidence up here to the North, because of course all the killers were operating out of the North. So the Gardaí brought the evidence here, handed it over to the RUC, and nothing was ever fucking done about it. The UVF finally claimed responsibility for it two years ago.”
“The police here have evidence against several known mass murderers and have not seen fit to arrest them.”
“Doesn’t sound like the renowned British system of justice, does it? And then there is the matter of the timing and the technical sophistication of the bombs themselves. All of which, according to the experts, including British experts, was way beyond the capability of the Loyalist paramilitaries in 1974.”
“Which tells us they weren’t operating on their own.”
“It’s widely believed that elements of the British security forces were involved in it. There are all these shadowy units of the military, which had members of the Loyalist paras under their direction. Sabotage, assassination . . .”
“Sounds like the plot of a bad Hollywood film.”
“I wish that’s all it was. And these organizations, and their agents, weren’t shy about crossing the border and carrying out some of their missions in the South. I’ve heard it said that the intention of the plotters was to unleash a civil war involving the South.”
“God help us.”
“And if they got it started, they were confident that they could crush the other side.”
“Our side.”
“Crush us all, yes.”
“I can’t even think about it. And I can’t bear to think about Paddy Healey’s family, and the families of all the other people killed and injured, waiting for justice after more than twenty years.”
Ronan gave a bitter laugh. “They’ll be waiting till the Second Coming.”
“Will th
e peace process help or hinder their cause?”
“There was a peace process in the works at the time of these attacks, if you recall. The Sunningdale Agreement. Power-sharing and a role for Dublin at the table for the first time. The Loyalists couldn’t have that. Ian Paisley didn’t think much of this ‘hands across the border’ business. He memorably said, ‘If they don’t behave themselves in the South, it will be shots across the border.’ Well, it was bombs across the border. And of course the agreement was part of the death toll of the bombings. It died along with all the human victims.”
Brennan gestured towards the papers on the desk. “So, Ronan, what’s all this in aid of?”
Ronan tapped his finger on the photo of one of the suspects. “Blown up by his own bomb in 1975.” The next photo: “Shot to death by his fellow Loyalists in 1975.” Two others had been “taken out by our lads.” Another had died in 1989. Someone else was in prison for another murder. “And then there’s this individual.” The picture was a colour snapshot, cropped to show only the man’s face. From the brightness of the image, it was clear that the photo had been taken outdoors. Ronan glared at the slitty-eyed slab of a man and said, “He has been living in Scotland, a long self-imposed exile. Uses another name over there, apparently. But rumour has it he’s back in town.”
“Marked to be taken out by our lads, I wonder?”
“I’m a man of peace now, Brennan. What I want is this fucker arrested by the forces of law and order and prosecuted in a blaze of publicity.”
“Who is he?”
“His name is Brody MacAllan. I’ve been digging into this for some time, talking to people here and in the South, and I have a witness who got a good look at a man in one of the bomb cars that day. He couldn’t put a name to him and never saw him again until a couple of years ago. My witness, Liam, works at the ferry terminal at Larne. I know him through our shared interest in Republican politics and . . . related activities. So, two years ago, he’s on the job at Larne, and he sees a man in a car boarding the ferry for Scotland, and the man looks familiar but Liam can’t place him. By the time he realizes where he saw him before, the ferry is pulling away from the dock. But he talks to a co-worker and looks into the boarding information and, with one thing and another, comes up with MacAllan’s name. My research tells me that nobody by that name has been lingering here in Belfast for the last twenty-one years, so I’m thinking he bolted across the sea after the bombings and made the odd surreptitious re-entry into this country. Liam caught him out returning to Scotland. Anyway, Liam passes the information on to me, and I get in touch with one of our lads who is waiting things out in Glasgow.”