Though the Heavens Fall

by Anne Emery

  Monty

  Monty had been engaging in a bit of B-movie dialogue when he told Sammy Dean Moffitt that he would be leaving an envelope in his desk drawer that would reveal the true facts, if anything happened to Monty as a result of his prodding of the UDA. But after the series of events that unfolded two days later, he felt as if he really was playing a part in a film. And he chided himself for having written off old Hughie Malone as a crackpot. Monday began with a call from the Crumlin jail, a request for him to go and see his client. When he was face to face with Sammy Moffitt, Moffitt told him he would be contacted by somebody who “owes me, big time.” Then, late in the afternoon as he was reading about the tensile strength of metals for his Canadian Earth Equipment case, Monty received a cryptic phone call. The caller instructed him to go to a payphone on Waring Street near the Royal Ulster Rifles Museum at five o’clock and wait for a call. Somebody apparently distrusted the phone lines at Ellison Whiteside.

  It was a short walk from his office so, a few minutes before the appointed time, he headed out, feeling he should be attired in a trench coat and fedora. He walked to the museum, found the payphone, and loitered, hoping nobody else would come by to use the phone. And of course someone did; an old gent made straight for the booth. Monty took out some coins and pretended to fiddle with the apparatus. He made a “does nothing work at all these days?” gesture and pretended to try again. The man sighed and muttered and moved off. Two minutes after that, the phone rang, and Monty grabbed the receiver. A man spoke to him with a smoker’s voice and an accent so thick Monty could barely make out the words. But he got the essence of it: at half eight that night, he was to go to the corner of Sandy Row and the Donegall Road and wait for a black taxi with a patch of body filler on the bonnet. He was to get in. End of instructions. Click. It occurred to Monty that if this was the guy who had the information for him, he could have simply delivered it over the phone. But, then again, maybe not. Who knew where the caller was, or who else was there? And it could be that, before handing over sensitive information, the fellow wanted to see the whites of Monty’s eyes, wanted to see for himself “who wants to know.” After all this go-ahead, even though he felt foolish doing it, Monty really did write a summary of the situation and leave it in a sealed envelope in his office.

  That night at twenty-five after eight he was standing on Sandy Row where it met the Donegall Road. It wasn’t left up to the imagination to discern which side of the sectarian division he was on. The murals were fiercely Loyalist. Precisely at eight thirty, a black taxi pulled up. There was a small area of grey body repair filler on the hood. He peered inside. The driver was the only person in the car. He was heavy-set and bald. He didn’t speak but gestured with his head for Monty to get into the back seat. With some misgivings, Monty did just that.

  The cabbie drove off into the gloom, and Monty lost track of all the twists and turns on the way to a destination unknown. They finally stopped beside a row of dark-windowed buildings. The driver wasted no time on small talk. “Your client told me to tell you this, so I’m tellin’ you. Then me and him are square. You can tell him that from me; I’ve paid my debt to him in full. Fritzy O’Dwyer was a Fenian bigot and a one-man Provie death squad. He was culling Loyalists and innocent Protestant civilians, so somebody — I don’t know who — eliminated him. And if you think you’re going to do something about that, think again. The RUC won’t be happy to see you. It’s well known that they had no patrols on in that area that night. Coincidence? No, I don’t fuckin’ think so. If you want to know the truth of it, I think it was the security forces themselves that leaked to somebody where the psycho Provie bastard was going to be that night. They wanted him gone, a lot of people wanted him gone, he’s gone. And nobody’s cryin’ in their pints over it, despite all the blubberin’ that was done over his grave in the Milltown Cemetery.”

  It was explosive information the guy was giving him, even with the rote denial, the assertion that he didn’t know who had killed the IRA man. The implication was that the security forces of the state itself had a hand in the murder, that it was not a routine sectarian killing after all, but a summary execution. This was dangerous information to pass around. No wonder there were so many cloak and dagger manoeuvres leading up to this meeting. How much of this could Monty ever use in his claim for damages over Flanagan’s death? He hoped he wouldn’t have to go that far. He left that hanging for now and got onto the subject of the car.

  “There was a man killed right after that shooting, hit by a car and knocked off the bridge.”

  “Bad night to be out walking on the Ammon Road.”

  “What kind of traffic would be out there at that time of night?”

  “Nobody would be out there just driving around. There’s nothing there, especially that late. A few houses with everybody asleep. Fenian houses. Maybe somebody going to pick up some drunken Taigs from O’Grady’s bar. But not a well-travelled road.”

  “What’s the name of the owner of the car that was shot up that night?”

  There was a long silence, but the cabbie eventually spoke up. This was the key bit of information he had been told to give Monty, so that the cabbie could pay off his debt to Moffitt. And so that Moffitt could pay off his debt to Monty. “Fellow’s name was Colman Davison.”

  “Was Davison involved in the shooting?”

  “Not bloody likely if it was his car that got shot in the arse end by the shooter.”

  That was Monty’s thinking as well. A paramilitary man who had just shot someone to death would have had a gun in the car, not just a flick knife, to point at an interloper like Vincent McKeever. But the bullet holes in the rear bumper suggested that he was there, that he had come upon the scene.

  “What would a Loyalist Protestant be doing out on that road at night if there was nothing along there but Catholic homes and a Catholic bar?”

  “How the fuck should I know? My work is done here. My debt to your client has been paid in full. Understand?”

  “I do.”

  “And you never breathe a word of this wee spin in my taxi. To anyone, ever.”

  “Agreed.”

  The taxi pulled out, travelled a short distance, and stopped at the corner of the Shankill Road and Battenberg Street. The driver said no more, just waited for Monty to get out, and then he drove away. Monty looked around him. Once again in a Loyalist enclave. He had no idea how far he was from home. Where were the taxis when you needed one?

  Chapter XXIV

  Brennan

  The brilliant music at the Clonard Mass for peace inspired Brennan to new heights in his work at Holy Cross Girls’ School. What joy it was to return to his work at the church and school after taking a week off to keep Ronan company as best he could. The girls gave him a big cheer on his first day back, and they seemed keen to learn the new pieces he had selected for them: the Byrd Mass for Four Voices and some of the most dramatic and poignant movements of Handel’s Messiah, those suitable for the female voice. If only life could be filled with such beauty every day. On Monday as he listened to the sweet sounds of the girls’ voices, he thought ahead to the next adventure, the stint as a choirmaster in Rome. He had reams of great music in mind for that choir. He snapped back to the present and showered the Holy Cross children with the praise they so richly deserved.

  He stayed in Ardoyne for a pub supper and a couple of pints, then returned to the house in Andersonstown, where he met Tom and his bride, Aoife, coming out the door.

  “’Bout ye, Father Burke?” asked Aoife. “Are you recovering well from the shock of what happened?”

  “I’m fine, thank you, Aoife. It’s Ronan we’re worried about.”

  Tom said, “I’ve seen a big improvement in Da these last couple of days.”

  “Yes, thanks be to God.”

  “Listen, Father,” said Aoife, “we’re just heading home, and we’re having a few people in. Why don’t you join us?”
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br />   “Well, now . . .”

  “Don’t stop to think about it. Just say you will.”

  “All right. If you call me Brennan, I’ll join the party.”

  “Good, Brennan. It’s just a wee walk round the corner.”

  “I’ll go up and change into civvies for the occasion. Be right down.”

  He was quick but by the time he went downstairs again, Aoife was gone.

  “I sent her on ahead,” said Tom, waiting by the door. “What do you make of the situation, Brennan? Nobody’s come after me. Or you.”

  “You’d know the ways of the world here better than I do, Tom, but I’d like think we’re off the hook.”

  “They obviously couldn’t identify me, or they’d have dragged me out of my bed at gunpoint. I’m thinking they realized that nothing was stolen from the church, nobody was hurt, and they’ve moved on. They’ve bigger fish to fry, have the peelers here. So we may be all right.”

  “Deo volente,” Brennan replied. God willing.

  “That sort of cock-up on my part really pisses me off, though, Brennan.”

  “None of us can be at the top of our game every time, Tom.”

  “Aye, I know. But with so much at stake, I mean my entire future! My plan is to go out to work every morning and come home every night to Aoife and our weans like a normal man living in a normal country. I studied accounting, for Christ’s sake! I want to buy a house instead of renting one. And we want to have more kids, me and Aoife, a whole pack of them. That’s not going to happen if I get lifted for doing something daft and get sent to the Kesh for the rest of my days.” He walked ahead and opened the door and waited for Brennan to go out ahead of him. “So I guess my brother is right, that I have selfish motives for standing with my old fella and his peace process, instead of keeping the war going till we finally win. If ever we could.”

  He looked over at Brennan and said, “But I’d be a hero in my own way, when you think about it. Out-breeding the other side, so we’ll be able to out-vote them.”

  “Sure you’re right, Tom. We have heroic warriors in our history and heroic drinkers. Why not heroic, em, breeders?”

  “Shagging for Ireland!”

  “Good on you, my lad. And it will all be done with the blessing of Holy Mother Church and a Thirty-Two County Irish Republic.”

  “Brilliant! We’ll get my mural started tomorrow.” They shared a few more laughs, avoided any further discussion of their worries, and arrived at a typical Belfast brick house a few minutes’ walk from Ronan’s. They went inside and heard Pink Floyd playing on a stereo. A dozen or so people were sitting around with drinks, talking over the music.

  “Youse’ll have us evicted!” said Aoife, as she went to turn the volume down. “Was it you that turned that music up, wee Brian?”

  Her little girl and boy, aged around two and three, stood in the centre of the room. Two pairs of immense brown eyes stared up at the young mother.

  “No, Mammy!” the boy said.

  “I know, angel,” Aoife assured him and gave both children a hug. “Time for bed now. Suas libh.” Up with youse. She pointed to the stairs, and up they all went.

  Brennan walked over to a side table where there was a display of photos. He recognized many from his own side of the family but he knew nothing about Aoife’s first husband, who was shown in a posed portrait with Aoife and the first baby. Tom came up beside Brennan and said, “That’s Enda. We were all in the same school, him and Aoife a few years ahead of me.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He died in a premature explosion.”

  Brennan was familiar with that expression. It meant the man had died while setting a bomb. A bomb that would have exploded at another place and time, blowing up property and possibly human beings, if all had gone according to plan. He refrained from comment.

  “It was right after he died that Aoife found out she was pregnant with their second.”

  Brennan couldn’t think of anything to say that would not be a platitude, in the face of yet another pointless death in the dirty war in Ireland.

  “I know,” Tom said, reading Brennan’s thoughts. Then, “So, what’ll you have, Brennan? We’ve Guinness in the bottle, we’ve whiskey, wine, pretty well everything.”

  “A glass of whiskey would go down nicely, Tom.”

  “Coming right up. Let me introduce you around.” He made some introductions and then got him his whiskey. “I hear more people upstairs. You can meet them when they come down.”

  Brennan chatted with the other guests and enjoyed the to and fro of the conversation. Aoife came back downstairs and poured herself a glass of red wine.

  A young man came into the house then, and he looked familiar. A friend of Tom’s or Lorcan’s, Brennan knew.

  “Ah,” said Aoife, “here’s the shy and retiring Mr. Lalor. We missed you at my sister’s hooley, Carrick.”

  Right, Brennan remembered him now.

  “And,” said Aoife, “you missed the chance of a lifetime, you and Lorcan, to do a lovely duet. A much softer, sweeter song than you fellas used to do when you were punk rockers screaming the house down as the Gobscheiss Militia. This is a song I composed for my sister. ‘Poor Oul Soul.’ It’s going to be top of the charts, and everyone’s going to remember where they were the first time they heard it. Except you, because you weren’t there. But Lorcan did a heroic job of it all by himself.”

  “Ah, I’m sorry I couldn’t be there, Aoife. Something came up. But I’ll be first in line with a fistful of pound notes when the recording hits the shops!”

  Brennan remembered hearing something about the party a while back. Lorcan had mentioned it. Right, not easily forgotten; it was the night of the ill-fated outing at the Banned Flag. If only Ronan had crashed the sister’s party instead of going to the Flag.

  “Well, you’re here now,” Aoife said to Carrick. “Here’s my song if you want to see it, words and music.”

  She pulled open a cabinet drawer and withdrew a sheet of paper. Brennan could see staves of music and lyrics written in.

  Carrick took it from her and looked it over. He hummed the melody and then announced to the room. “This is brilliant, and I can do it justice. Would youse all like to hear it?”

  The response was a resounding “Aye, give us the song!”

  So Carrick stood with the sheet of music in his right hand, and his left arm out towards his audience, and he did indeed give them the song.

  Come all ye old and lonely ones that never were a wife

  Take heart from oul Fiona here who ne’r gave up on life.

  At this point, he assumed a face of vaudevillian tragedy and clutched his heart. He started up again.

  The poor oul soul as you can see has not much to commend her

  Weighing in at fourteen stone, you’d need a tractor to upend her.

  His expression was now one of wide-eyed astonishment at the wide-bodied woman who was the subject of his lament.

  With a face on her like a smackèd arse and a shape like a sack o’ shite

  She’d lost all hope of a date for the dance, let alone a wedding night.

  His audience began to clap along and stomp their feet.

  But just before the clock struck twelve on the day that she turned thirty

  An oul geezer hobbled up to her and said, “My name is Bertie.”

  A cheer went up around the room.

  So all ye lonely girls out there, don’t sit in your room and hide.

  Even poor oul Fiona Mary has been taken for a bride.

  Carrick gave a lewd wink and was met with catcalls and whistles from his listeners. They all joined in the chorus.

  Yes poor oul Fiona Mary has been taken for a ride!

  Brennan laughed in spite of himself at the doggerel verse and the antics that accompanied it. When it was over and the roars of appro
val had subsided, he approached Aoife and congratulated her on her song. “I’m a musician myself. My choirs perform the works of Mozart and Handel and Palestrina, but we are always looking for new compositions.”

  “Ah, now, Father, I’m nothing special. I wouldn’t dream of putting myself forward like that.”

  “How did your sister take it? Not the most flattering portrait, when you think of it.”

  “Why don’t you ask her yourself? I’ll introduce you.”

  He experienced a moment of alarm. And guilt. The poor sister was in the house while the slander was being sung about her. But Aoife took him by the hand and led him upstairs. The door was open to one of the bedrooms and she went inside, with Brennan behind her. “Here she is, the poor oul thing.” She pointed to a woman sitting at a desk. “Fiona, this is Father Burke, Brennan Burke, a cousin of Tom’s. Father, meet the sad but brave Fiona Mary Davitt.”

  Fiona rose from her seat. Brennan couldn’t help himself. He burst out laughing, right in the woman’s face. Far from a fourteen-stone sadsack with a face like a smacked arse, Fiona Davitt was tall, slim, black-haired, and stunningly beautiful.

  He said to her, “Where are my manners, Fiona? Let me assure you and Aoife that I would not have been laughing if you in any way fit the picture your sister painted in her verse.”

  “Consider yourself absolved, Father. Isn’t she bad?” She inclined her head towards her sister. “Just wait till you turn thirty, you little minx. And see what I’ll have to say about you!”

  “You’ll get me back, I know it. Just promise me you won’t do it on live television!”

  “I may do it at the BAFTAs or on Oscar night. Ye won’t know till the day comes, will ye?”

  Aoife turned to Brennan. “Fiona is an actress. She’s performed on the stage here in Ireland and in London, and she’s made two films as well!”

  “Ah. Congratulations, Fiona. Good for you.”

  “Thanks, Father. It’s loads of fun while it lasts. But I have other plans now.”