Though the Heavens Fall

by Anne Emery

  Brennan was all but weeping with relief. It was psychological torture, undoubtedly, but it was an immense relief to learn that the person who had tried to kill Ronan would walk away unscathed. Of course, now Ronan would have to come to terms with what Brennan had just learned: one or more of his partners in the peace process had advance knowledge of the 1974 bombings and was prepared to kill — to kill Ronan — to cover it up.

  “And by the way, Brennan,” said Mick, turning to face him, “I was never going to shoot you, no matter what you did. But we knew you would try to stop what was going on, and we didn’t want you, well, walking onstage and interrupting the play.”

  “All right, lads, let’s get rolling,” Cathal said and walked out of the room, followed by Mick and Brennan.

  When they got down to the kitchen, Francis was standing in the middle of the room with his hands like vises gripping the arms of the captive. Craig was still hooded but there was no sign of injury.

  “Amach leat,” Francis said to him. Out with you. He propelled him out the door. He and Mick eased the man into the back seat. Everyone else got in, and Cathal started the engine. Brennan heard the sound of a door being closed and looked back to see a man leaving the farmhouse. Brennan had never seen him before. He walked towards the other car in the yard and got in.

  No one spoke on the drive back into Belfast. Somewhere on the east side of the city, Cathal turned into a dark side street and pulled over. Mick opened the door and helped the captive out. He untied Craig’s hands. Francis leaned out the car window and said, just in case a warning was still necessary, “You’re alive because we let you live. You’ll stay alive as long as we allow you to go on living. Remember that and govern yourself accordingly.”

  Thank Christ, if Christ was still listening, that they had let the man live, in spite of what he had done. Craig yanked the hood off his head and took off like a bat released from hell, like a still-healthy young man. He did not look back.

  Chapter XXVIII

  Brennan

  The morning after the interrogation, Brennan awoke with a fierce need to get away from Belfast. He knew just where to go. After a couple of phone calls that Tuesday to make arrangements, he scribbled a note to Ronan and Gráinne, packed his things, and headed for the train station. It would be a long journey, not by North American standards but certainly by Irish standards, from the North of Ireland to the southern tip of the island. He took the train from Belfast to Dublin and another from Dublin to Waterford; he then boarded a bus to Dungarvan and hired a taxi to take him to Cappoquin. He gazed through the cab window at the Knockmealdown Mountains. Dominating the slope above him was the tower of a grey stone Gothic Revival church. As the car climbed the hill, the other stone buildings came into view.

  He would be spending the next couple of weeks in silence and prayer at the Cistercian abbey of Mount Melleray in County Waterford. Brennan could feel the tension melting away as he shook hands with the guest master and was welcomed into the contemplative community of monks. The serenity of the interior of the church, the sublime chanting of the Divine Office, the stillness outside — all this combined to provide him with the peace, rest, and spiritual renewal he sorely needed after the past tumultuous weeks in Belfast. After witnessing the attempt on his cousin’s life, and having a hand in the ghastly interrogation of the suspect, this was exactly the way to restore himself physically and mentally for the welcome challenge ahead of him in Rome, at the church of Sancta Maria Regina Coeli, Mary Queen of Heaven. Father Burke sent a fervent prayer of thanks to the God of love and mercy for delivering him from the turmoil and danger of Belfast, and he prayed for those who would know no rest until the much-needed peace was established. Yes, he thought in gratitude, this was the way to glide gently to the end of his sojourn in Ireland.

  Monty

  Monty would have to tell Brennan about his night-time encounter with Carrick in the car park, but that would have to wait. He had received a voice message from Brennan saying, with no detectable trace of irony in his voice, that he was entering a monastery and he would be out of touch for a while. He didn’t know how long. Well, Monty couldn’t blame Brennan for getting out of Belfast. But Brennan wasn’t the only one who was having a break. Monty and Maura had come up with a half-formed plan to spend some time travelling around the country south of the border. Easter was coming, and Maura and Normie both had holidays. By bringing along a box of documents and a Dictaphone, Monty was able to get away for a few days with the family. So a little tour of the Irish Republic (“such as it is at this moment in history,” his Burkean acquaintances would surely add) would be just the thing.

  But first he had a job to do. As soon as he got to the office on Tuesday morning, he arranged to have the writ served and notice given to the insurance company in the Flanagan case. This would set in motion the lawsuit over the hit and run. He beamed up a prayer of thanks that Colman Davison had had insurance on his car at the time of the incident. Davison had fourteen days to issue a memorandum of appearance, stating that he would be defending the claim. Monty assumed that Davison, or his solicitor, would get his papers in on time, in order to avoid a summary judgment being entered against him. As soon as Monty saw the memorandum, he would have his statement of claim ready to go.

  After sending out the initial paperwork — firing the first shot, as it were — Monty turned his attention to the bigger picture, the situation surrounding him in Belfast. In the wake of the “Framework for Agreement,” the news was filled with talk of peace in the war-ravaged North of Ireland. Voices that formerly thundered across the sectarian chasm, like that of Old Saint Nick Sproule and John the Baptist Geddes from the Loyalist side and, well, people Monty had met in the company of Ronan Burke from the Republican side, were speaking in courteous and cautious tones about coming to an accommodation. There was a peace rally scheduled that evening in the gymnasium of a west Belfast school, and Ronan would be giving a speech, the first since his injury. It was just getting underway when Monty arrived, and there was standing room only at the back of the gym. Security was tight all around the gathering, and Monty noticed that Carrick was part of the security detail. But the mood was upbeat.

  A good-looking blond fellow in his thirties stepped out of the wings and took centre stage and was greeted with expressions of surprise and enthusiastic applause. Two young girls near Monty looked at each other, eyes wide, and one said, “Did ye know he was comin’?”

  Her friend shook her head. “Nobody did!”

  The man gave a warm and witty introduction to Ronan, which was met with more applause and roars of approval. Ronan got up to speak, and there was an anxious moment when he looked as if he were going to fall. He put his hand on the back of a chair to steady himself and then walked to the microphone and greeted the crowd. “Thank you, Bertie.” Ronan looked out at the audience and said, “Sorry, folks. He’s not going to be speaking my lines.” And everybody laughed.

  Monty leaned towards two men standing nearby and said, “Excuse me. Who was that?”

  “Ah, you’re not from here. America?”

  “Canada.”

  “Toronto?”

  “No, about an eighteen-hour drive from there.”

  “Whoa! Right, big country. Anyway, that’s Bertie Breannacht. You may have seen him in the fillums. Ronan’s slagging him about being the stand-in for Gerry Adams.”

  “Doesn’t look much like him!”

  “No, no, he’d read out Gerry’s words when Gerry’s voice was banned.”

  “Banned?”

  “Aye, they only lifted the ban a few months ago, after the ceasefire.”

  Monty had heard about media censorship here and in England as well, but he had obviously missed the details. “What’s the story? I hope you’ll excuse my ignorance.”

  “Sure you’re grand. They had a ban on the radio and television. Wouldn’t let certain people’s voices be broadcast. So for some, they broug
ht in actors to say their words. Like Breannacht there. The ban covered a dozen or so groups, including Loyalist paramilitaries, but nobody was fooled by that. The real targets were Republicans. The Shinners. The Provos. That’s who they were really after.”

  Monty felt as if he had lost his bearings. “Who placed the ban on all these groups? When?”

  “It was the Iron Lady and her government who put the ban in place, back in 1988. Thatcher. It covered all of the U.K., and the radio and television had no choice but to obey it. You’d not be hearing Sinn Féin, Gerry Adams, Martin McGuinness.”

  Up on the stage, Ronan was saying kind words about the other luminaries involved in the peace process. Monty said to the man beside him, “But Adams is the president of Sinn Féin, a political party with elected members. It’s their job to speak, even when it’s not election time. Anyone who doesn’t agree — and their numbers are legion! — talks back to him. It’s . . .” It was unthinkable that a political party back home in Canada would be forbidden to speak.

  “They really had it in for Gerry. Even before the ban, when the BBC was still allowed to interview him, the reporters were instructed to make sure they sounded hostile!”

  “Sounds positively Stalinist.”

  “But it wasn’t just here. They were banned in the Free State, too.”

  “The Republic of Ireland went along with Thatcher on this?”

  “They did it first.”

  Monty shook his head and turned his attention to Ronan’s talk. He had just asked Gráinne to stand, which she did with good grace, and he thanked her for her support, political and personal, over the years. “And I wasn’t always the easiest man to live with. I was an awful bollocks with drink in me. But I’m trying to be a wee bit more civilized now!” This was met by gentle laughter around the room. He then turned to the documents that had been released on February 22, the framework that had been hammered out by the Irish and British governments. The documents spoke of a permanent end to violence; they promoted forbearance and reconciliation. The acknowledged differences among the various traditions were to be negotiated exclusively through peaceful political means. There was talk of a new assembly.

  One man called out, “You’ll have my vote, Ronan!” And this was greeted with another round of applause. If a representative assembly could be created in this battle-scarred little territory and if this audience was any indication, Ronan Burke would be one of the frontrunners in the first election.

  When it was over, and everyone was filing out, Monty heard a clacking noise and turned to see a trainload of little kids coming towards him. A clacking of the train wheels and the “Choo-choo get out of the way, youse!” from the children. It was in fact a wheeled trolley, the kind of thing you’d use to move a supply of books from place to place in a library. Pushing this conveyance was none other than Tomás Burke, with a little kid’s engineer cap on and a repertoire of train sounds to complete the picture.

  A little boy turned to a much smaller girl and said, “Your da’s name is Thomas so he’s Thomas the Tank Engine!”

  “Nah, I’m just Tom the Caboose!” The way he said it made it the funniest-sounding word the children had ever heard. They squealed with delight and repeated it over and over, “Caboose! Caboose!” then collapsed into fits of laughter.

  “What are youse blackguardin’ me about, ye wee skitters? Caboose just means the train’s bum! Nothing funny about that!”

  In case there was a child so young that he or she had not yet had the word “bum” added to his or her vocabulary, the oldest boy on the train made sure there was no misunderstanding. He bent over and pointed to his own rear end, and this set them off in hysterics again. When the train pulled into the station, Tom gently lifted the children off one by one, whispering to each that he or she was going to be the caboose from now on. So, even as they grumbled about the journey ending, they couldn’t help dissolving into giggles. Tom put two fingers in his mouth and emitted a loud whistle, which brought the parents around to collect the passengers. He then departed the station with two dark-haired little kids, a girl and a boy, one hoisted up on each shoulder. Monty had seen them before: Aoife’s kids, Tom’s stepchildren.

  Monty gave a moment’s consideration to approaching Tom and hinting around about the warning delivered by the family friend, Carrick. But this was not the time; he was not going to interrupt the children’s fun. And he wasn’t about to approach Ronan himself to fish for information, not at this celebration of Ronan’s recovery from an attempt on his life. If there was nothing to Carrick’s insinuation, Tom or Ronan would wonder what Monty had been smoking. If, on the other hand, the family knew something about the events of November 1992, they would hardly open up to Monty about it. So that left Carrick. As much as Monty dreaded bringing the matter up again with this rather dubious individual, he didn’t see any alternative. He walked to the back of the room where Carrick was standing watch. Without preamble, Monty said, “I’d like some clarification about that warning you gave me, Carrick.”

  Carrick looked around him, then leaned in and said, “I’m trying to protect people, not inform on them.”

  “But you mentioned Brennan. That makes no —”

  “I haven’t seen him. If you’re in touch with him, tell him to pack up and get the first flight out.”

  “Out of where?”

  “Off this island. Easy enough for him, maybe not so easy for somebody else.”

  “But —”

  Carrick looked past Monty to the door and raised a finger as if to say, “Just one second.” To Monty all he said was, “I’ve work to do here.”

  Monty shook his head as he walked away. What is going on here? Brennan should flee the jurisdiction? He’s already south of the border, in the Republic. And who did Carrick mean by somebody else? Maura? Is that what he meant, that he knows she’s tied to work, and our daughter is in school in Dublin? Does he know all that? But there are extradition treaties, so a flight from the jurisdiction would be no guarantee . . . And anyway, Maura and Brennan didn’t do anything illegal, so this wouldn’t be a case of fleeing the law. Had their identities been revealed? Were they in danger from Loyalist paramilitaries? From people involved in those bombings over twenty years ago?

  Chapter XXIX

  Monty

  Monty made an effort to put his misgivings aside, as he and Maura carried through with the plan to enjoy some holiday time in the Republic. They did not neglect their Easter duties, at least not entirely, and attended Easter Sunday Mass at Saint Fin Barre’s Cathedral in Cork City. And the Easter Bunny found them, to the delight of little Dominic and his older sister, who did nothing to discourage her little brother’s belief in the altruistic and indefatigable bunny rabbit. And there was something else about the trip, too, above and beyond the Easter egg hunt in the hotel room and the Easter chocolate binge. Brennan Burke had been trying for years to light a fire under Monty, figuratively speaking, to get him to look into the Irish side of his heritage. After touring various Michael Collins sites in Cork and in Clonakilty, and enjoying a pint in the Four Alls in Sam’s Cross — the pub where the Big Fella drank — Monty was keen to establish some kind of link, however tenuous, with the Collins family of West Cork. He would certainly be investigating the matter. From County Cork, he and the family made their way up through the middle of the country, through counties Tipperary, Laois, Kildare, and on to Dublin, delighting the kids — and not just the kids — with stops at numerous castles along the way. Some were in ruins, some had been restored, all were standing wonders of the medieval age.

  Normie, as always, had a plan. “We’ll move here, Daddy, and buy one of those castles and put the stones back up on it, fix it all up, and live in it, and invite everybody we know to come and stay with us. Right, Dominic?”

  “Yeah! Live in a castle!”

  “There’s one right in Dublin,” Normie said. “We’ve been to it loads of times.”
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  “We go there!” her brother boasted. “It’s up the hill!”

  They eventually arrived in Dublin, north side, not castle side, and Monty stayed on for a while before returning to Belfast. And now was the time for the questions he had put off during the family trip. He steered the conversation in the direction he wanted it to go, hoping not to raise any alarms in doing so. “I wonder how Brennan is getting along in the monastery.”

  Maura snickered at that. “Him, of all people, living as a monk!”

  “Let’s hope it’s one of the monasteries where they make their own brand of liquor.”

  “It is now, I’ll bet.”

  “And maybe he’s slipping in some country and western hurtin’ tunes along with the Gregorian chant.”

  “Somehow I doubt it.”

  “I can’t believe you two went off and did that Ruby and Duane routine in east Belfast.”

  “Neither can I. It was a little unnerving but we enjoyed the comedy of it.”

  “But you could have been dragged out of there and never seen again, if any of those guys had caught on. That’s a Loyalist heartland.”

  “Yeah, but nobody twigged to us. We pulled it off. I could be looking at a new career. Undercover spy with MI5. Or country music gal with my own TV show.”

  “Did anyone seem suspicious of you, though? Seriously.”

  “Not at all. You know how you can feel that something is off? There was nothing like that. Nobody in the Iron Will bar had a clue that we weren’t a pair of bumpkins from Kentucky. I’m sure they’ve seen gauche tourists before.”

  “Any police on the scene?”

  “Police? What do you mean?”

  “Just wondered if there were any patrols or coppers stopping in for a wee dram.”