Death at Christy Burke's (17 page)

“She’s about this high.” He put his arm out, indicating a person about four and a half feet tall. “I was working in Togo, in western Africa, running a small parish there. I’m sure it’s dawned on you that I was — I am — a priest.” Michael nodded. “We built a tiny church, a wooden shed really, and the local men built us a steeple. They were great about pitching in and helping after I fell from the roof and broke my leg! It was obvious to everybody there I wasn’t much of a carpenter. Anyway, the church: it wasn’t Chartres, but it was ours! There was an adjoining building, made of corrugated steel, which served as a school for girls. There was already a local academy for the boys. I was the parish priest and principal of the girls’ school. There were two other teachers, a nun named Sister Josephine and a young woman named Rosalie who had completed part of her education degree at Alexandria University. Both were Togolese, as was Father Amegashie, a newly ordained priest who did sort of a circuit around the area. Wonderful young lad. Bright and fearless. Not afraid to stand his ground with the powers-that-be in the region.

“Anyway, the young girl. Sabine. Skin the colour of milk chocolate, great big dark eyes that stared in wonder at the world around her. She had a gap between her two front teeth that made her adorable whenever she had a grin on her face, which was often. She had her hair up in two pigtails high on her head, so they looked like horns. I made the mistake of saying to her, when one of my superiors was visiting, ‘I see you’ve got your devil horns on again today.’ Father Lafitte admonished me for comparing this African child to the fount of all evil. But she got a kick out of it when I said that. I started calling her Beelzebub, which cracked her up because of the sound of it.

“Not only was she sweet and funny, she was a top student at the school. She became a whiz at math, she had a flair for science and experimentation, and she wrote beautifully in her own language and in English. Her composition and her handwriting were excellent. We also taught the students life skills. As out of fashion as it sounds, the girls were taught to cook and sew and care for young children. But we also taught them some accounting, some carpentry, a lot of things that were considered the prerogative of the men and boys. We gave them a smattering of politics and economics. Had to tread carefully there. But the idea was to help the girls grow into capable, independent women who could fend for themselves and resist being dominated and exploited. We weren’t always popular.

“Sabine, as I say, was very good with words. She began to write poems and stories. Said she wanted to write a book. I thought we could put together the kids’ stories and poetry in a volume and publish it. Self-publish it, I mean. Send it away to a printer and then sell the copies to earn a bit of money for the school. The project was going well until it came time to choose an illustration for the cover. As bright as she was, Sabine had no talent as an artist. She was terrible. All the girls were asked to contribute a picture, done in paint or crayon, for the cover. We made a contest out of it. Their names were on the back, so you couldn’t tell by looking who had done which picture. Then the girls were to vote on the best one for the cover. Well, some were excellent, some mediocre, and Sabine’s was atrocious. The worst by far. We had them all spread out on a table, so the children could look them over and cast their votes. Sabine kept pointing to hers as the best, and she tried to convince the others. When another little one laughed at the picture and said it was horrible, Sabine pushed her down and ran out of the school.

“But later that day, Sabine came back and said to me, ‘My picture is bad-arsed, banjaxed, God-awful, isn’t it, Father?’

“I started to laugh, couldn’t help it, and made a mental note to be more careful in my speech around the students. Sabine started laughing too. Then she said, ‘But I’m good with letters, right?’ I allowed as how she was. ‘So can I write the title on the front?’ I said she could.

“Well, we got it ready for the printer. I looked it over, checked her title for spelling and all that, and sent it off. Only after it came back did I hold it in a certain light, and look at it a certain way, and discover that she’d scattered letters about that you could barely see. But if you did, they spelled out ‘Beelzebub.’ Jaysus and Mary be good to us, I thought, imagine if the bishop or the head of our mission or somebody sees that, I’ll be crucified. I waited in fear, but nothing happened. And the little divil never said a word, just gave me an angelic smile every time the book was mentioned or passed around. I loved her for it. I loved her anyway. I thought of her as a little sister, almost a daughter.

“Now skip ahead a year or so. I was lying in my bed one night, fast asleep, having a dream. The kind of dream we all have, I’m sure, Father, even — or especially — if we live a celibate life. There was a hand between my legs, and it wasn’t my own. It took me a few seconds to wake up and realize there really was somebody with me. A girl, stark naked. I jumped away from her and saw her face in the light. It was Sabine.”

“Stop right there!” Michael commanded. He felt as if he’d been kicked in the stomach. Hearing about this dear little child from a man who loved her as a father. Now the man turned out to be a child molester. And it sounded as if he was about to blame the victim! And he thought Michael would want to hear this pornographic story? He got to his feet and looked down at Shanahan.

“Bear with me, Michael, please!”

“I don’t want to hear any more of this filth. Have you no shame about yourself at all?”

Shanahan stared at him. He looked as if he was about to be sick. Then he got up and bolted from the room without looking again at Michael. He yanked the door open and fled down the stairs. Michael stood in the centre of his room, trembling with anger and disgust.

Michael wasn’t in the mood for the daily boozers at Christy Burke’s, or not for half the contingent anyway, but there was good news, and he didn’t want to be churlish enough not to celebrate it. Well, good news was a relative term in these circumstances. Finn Burke, he who was scheduled for trial several months down the road on charges of fraud and other criminal acts, had been released on bail. And he had invited the Halifax crowd to his house for dinner that evening. Brennan said he would pick up Michael at Christy’s for the party.

So Michael stopped and purchased a nice, though economical, bottle of red wine and proceeded to Christy’s to await Brennan’s arrival. He said hello to Jimmy O’Hearn. There was no sign of Frank Fanning, which was unusual, but it was the other pair — Shanahan and Madigan — that Michael was concerned about. And he was relieved to see they weren’t on the premises. Michael signalled to Sean that he wouldn’t be having anything, and he sat at a table by himself.

Oh. There at a table in the back was Tim Shanahan.
Father
Shanahan as he was and always would be. Ordination confers an indelible stamp on the man who becomes a priest; no matter what happens after that, no matter what shabby or evil deeds the man commits, that imprint is there for all time. Thou art a priest forever. In this case, it was a man who had taken advantage of a young girl in his care. It was almost incestuous. And if anything happened in that bed, given the child’s age, it was statutory rape. Had Shanahan blurted out his tawdry tale in the hearing of someone at Christy Burke’s? Had the listener been so revolted that he spray-painted lines about guilt and perpetrators on the walls of the pub? But even as low a specimen as he was, Shanahan could not be termed a killer. No doubt Shanahan had destroyed or killed the little girl’s spirit in a sense, but Michael could not imagine the graffiti artist being that sophisticated in his accusations. It was all beyond Michael at the moment, and he wished he could put it out of his mind. He would not be able to recount this squalid story to Brennan; he would feel soiled even repeating it. He’d tell Brennan that Shanahan had some kind of difficulty in Africa. Period.

And there he was, drinking whiskey, and he had obviously had a skinful. He was with a man and a woman. He spotted Michael. Would there now be a scene of drunken belligerence? Michael was all too familiar with that scenario, people who couldn’t hold their liquor and revealed themselves as mean drunks. Michael turned away and hoped for the best.

Things were quiet at the Shanahan table for a few minutes, then Michael heard Tim’s voice. He looked over, but Tim was not addressing Michael. He was regaling his companions with poetry, and Michael could see a pink bundle on the woman’s lap; a tiny fist emerged from a blanket. The woman brought it to her mouth and kissed it. In profile the woman bore a striking resemblance to Shanahan. A younger sister? As Michael tuned in to Tim’s words, he recognized the poem by Yeats, “A Prayer for My Daughter,” and Michael had to admit he had never heard it recited so beautifully:

I have walked and prayed for this young child an hour

And heard the sea-wind scream upon the tower,

And under the arches of the bridge, and scream

In the elms above the flooded stream;

Imagining in excited reverie

That the future years had come,

Dancing to a frenzied drum,

Out of the murderous innocence of the sea.

How could a man like Shanahan make Yeats’s poetry come alive in such a way; how could he pray so eloquently for a little baby girl, when his own history with a young girl might be counted among the storms and screams that Yeats saw as threats to his daughter as she grew?

Michael decided to wait for Brennan outside. He got up and left the pub without a word to anyone.

Brennan

Brennan borrowed his cousin’s car to transport the crowd to Finn’s house. After adjusting the radio to his liking — no sooner had he started than he had to come to a screeching halt to change channels and spare himself the unbearable sound of a singer whose voice cracked in a jarring attempt to switch to a falsetto — he made the short trip to Christy’s to pick up Michael O’Flaherty. Michael climbed aboard, and they headed for the convent, where they were to meet Monty, Maura MacNeil, and the children.

Mike was uncharacteristically quiet in the car. A few minutes passed before he said, “So, will you be reporting to Finn on your investigation tonight?”

“I’m not sure, Mike. I guess it will depend on whether the opportunity presents itself. Tonight or later; we’ll see. I’ve got all the bits of information stored in my head, such as they are. Have you picked up anything new since you spoke with Bill McAvity?”

“Em, no, well, not much of anything.”

One glance at his passenger told Brennan that Michael O’Flaherty had something on his mind.

“What is it?”

“Just something I heard. That Tim Shanahan had difficulties in Africa.”

“What sort of difficulties?”

“I don’t know. Not really.”

Whatever it was, Mike knew and didn’t want to discuss it. Well, Brennan was not about to interrogate the man on the way to a dinner party. It could wait.

But Mike spoke up again. “I got the impression there might be drugs involved.”

“How do you mean?”

“That Shanahan may have a drug problem.”

“What makes you think that?”

“It’s just that, em, you know what Bill McAvity told me about Madigan — that there are rumours he was taking payoffs from drug dealers.”

“Right.”

“It could be true, that he is involved in the drug trade.”

“I see. And Shanahan? Where does he fit in?”

“Could perhaps be using drugs.”

“Supplied by Madigan.”

“Could be.”

“What class of drugs are we talking about?” He looked over at Michael again. The man looked miserable. “Something more than a bit of weed on the weekends, I take it.”

“I suspect so, yes.”

The Collins-MacNeils were waiting outside when Brennan and Michael arrived, and little Normie waved excitedly when she spotted the two priests in the car. A dear little girl she was, with her auburn curls and beautiful hazel eyes. She wore a delicate pair of eyeglasses, and Brennan was well aware that it was considered indelicate to mention them. The baby, Dominic, was fast asleep in his mother’s arms.

Women and children were given priority for the available seat belts; Dominic had a special seat of his own, which his mother rigged up in the back. Michael and Monty squeezed into the car, and they proceeded to the dinner party.

Finn’s place was in Drumcondra, a neighbourhood situated roughly north of Christy Burke’s pub, not too far away but not so close that Finn would be looking at “the office” every time he stepped outside his front door. He lived in a semi-detached red-brick house with a flower garden in the front. Brennan pushed the door open when they arrived; no formality in this family.

Michael and the others followed Brennan to the front room, where they saw Finn practically knee to knee in conversation with Leo Killeen, who was in his black suit and Roman collar. Their chairs were facing each other; there were glasses of whiskey on a table beside them. The two men turned at once when the others entered the room, and tension was visible in their faces. Finn made an obvious effort to break the mood. He stood and moved towards the visitors.

“Come in, come in. Have a seat. I’ll get you something to drink. Oh! Who’s this now? Some new faces.”

Brennan made the introductions. “Maura MacNeil, wife of Monty here. This is Normie, and Dominic.” Normie greeted Mr. Burke, and the baby, awake now, stared at him with wide-open dark eyes.

“A pleasure to meet you, Maura, if I may call you Maura.”

“You may indeed, Finn.”

“And what a charming young lady you have here. And a handsome little boy.”

“Thank you, Finn. I am delighted to have the children in Dublin with me. Oh! Leo! Wonderful to see you again.”

“You know this gentleman?” Finn asked, surprised.

“Leo and I will always have New York. Eh, Leo? We met in the big city, Finn, when your brother had his trouble at the family wedding.” When Declan got shot, and Leo went over to sort out some ancient history, is what she meant.

“Ah, yes,” was all Finn said.

Leo had risen and was holding his arms open to herself. They embraced and then stood apart, smiling at each other.

“Some changes in your life since I saw you last, my dear.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“How old is he?”

“He’ll be a year next month.”

“Ah. Well, hello there, Dominic. Hope you’re enjoying your stay in Dublin.”

“He’s having the time of his life, Leo. And you remember Normie.”

“I certainly do. You’re a world traveller, Normie. I met you in New York. Now I see you in Dublin.”

“I’ve seen a whole lot of the world, Father Killeen. I love seeing new places.”

“That’s the way to be, Normie, good for you. What have you liked on this trip?”

“We went to a place called Glendalough, and there’s this little church made out of stones and I want to build a tiny one just like it in my backyard when I get home.”

“Excellent idea. You build it and get Father Burke to bless it.”

“Okay!”

Turning to her mother, Killeen asked, “How long are you here, Maura?”

“Till the middle of August.”

Finn went over to Michael. “Welcome to my home, Monsignor O’Flaherty. I’ve come up in the world since you saw me last. A little more space here than in my previous, rather cramped quarters. But there’s nobody bringing me three meals a day, so I’ve had to order out! Where’s Sister Kitty this evening? I thought she might be with you.”

“She’s feeding the poor in spirit and body tonight, Finn, working at a soup kitchen run by the nuns of her order.”

“Well, let’s see if we can save her a few scraps, and you can drop them off to her.”

“Oh, that would be grand. Lovely place you have here. I’d never have taken you for a gardener.”

“And you’d have been right, Michael,” Finn replied with a little smile. “The one next door takes care of that. She wants my half to look as good as hers. I pay for the flowers; she does the work. Everybody’s happy.”

Brennan wondered briefly whether he should give Finn a little report on what he had learned so far: the whiskey glass and the signs of a vehicle outside the pub the night of the latest graffiti — like Finn, Brennan knew it was the
last
graffiti — scraps of information about the regulars from McDonough and Nurse McAvity, which Finn likely knew anyway. And O’Flaherty’s vague allegations about Madigan, Shanahan, and drugs. But it was Finn who held the most concrete information, held the evidence in the form of a corpse. What had Finn done, or ordered done, with the body? Brennan did not want to go into the whole thing now. And it looked as if Finn had other things on his mind, things to be hashed out with Leo Killeen.

But this was a social occasion, and Finn was the host. He took orders for drinks, and Brennan helped him serve his guests. Soon everyone was seated in the front room with glasses in hand.

“So, Leo,” Maura asked, “will you be entertaining us with tales of the old days the way you did in New York? I don’t live on the edge myself, so I have to get my excitement second-hand, from guys like you and Declan.”

“Ah, that was just an oul fellow shuffling down memory lane,” Leo said to her. But for Leo, Brennan suspected, memory lane was maybe just around the corner.

Brennan saw Michael turn to place his drink on the table beside his chair and pick up a news clipping that had been lying there. It was a photo of Father Killeen saying Mass in Endastown with the massive armoured vehicles looming over him from behind.

“Did you see this, Maura?”

Michael handed her the news photo. Normie peered over her mother’s shoulder at the picture; Maura’s mouth dropped open at the sight.

“Oh my God!” she exclaimed. “What are those, tanks?”

“Armoured personnel carriers,” Leo answered.

“Is that you, Leo? It is!”

“Mmm.”

“And look over to the side, Maura,” Michael said. “Who do you see?”

“There’s a woman, higher than everyone else. What’s she standing on?”

“The base of a light pole.”

“She’s reading something. Wait a minute! That’s not Kitty!”

“It is. And Brennan is the altar boy. You can just see the back of his head.”

“Right. I see him now. But what was Kitty doing standing up there?”

“There was a flap about the eulogy the boy’s family and comrades wanted read at the funeral. Too inflammatory, wasn’t that it, Leo? And who was that fellow who handed the papers to Kitty?”

“I had to do some negotiations to get this funeral approved,” Leo said. “One thing the bishop would not allow was the eulogy as first written, filled as it was with accusations that the British Army and the security forces in County Armagh connived in, or carried out, political murders, including that of Rory Dignan himself. And Dermot Cooney, a young Republican firebrand, was expressly forbidden to read the statement. He tried to, as you may recall, Michael, but I ordered him to stand down. That’s when he shoved the papers into Kitty’s hands to be read. Bless her, she had just hopped up there to signal to the crowd to be quiet. She had never seen the statement before but did her best to edit out the inflammatory bits.”

“A glimpse of the real Ireland, 1992,” Maura remarked.

“The North of Ireland, anyway. Just across the border.”

“I’ll stay on this side of the border, thank you very much. Though I have to ask: has there been much spillover from the Troubles here in the South?”

“One of the worst atrocities of the current Troubles,
so far
, took place right here in Dublin,” Leo replied. “Well, here and Monaghan. Eighteen years ago, 1974. A bombing operation that was remarkably sophisticated and well-coordinated, particularly for its time. So we can draw the conclusion that it wasn’t done by a crowd of amateurs. Four bombs. Thirty-three people, thirty-five if you include two babies in the womb, were killed by UVF — Protestant Loyalist — car bombs. Three hundred were injured. Terribly injured, some of them. But you’re right, it’s the North that is living this hell day after day.”

“This much I know: the atrocities are not all committed by the one side.”

“No.”

They sat in silence for a long moment.

Then everyone’s attention was caught by Dominic, who let out a wail, whereupon his mother produced a little set of colourful toy keys from her bag, and the baby sat on the floor and busied himself with those. His sister joined him and kept him company.

Monty had got up and was standing by the mantelpiece looking at a bunch of photos. Finn invited him to take a closer look, and Michael joined them. This was his family, Finn explained to them, his wife, Catriona, and their four children. Catriona had died eight years ago, and the children were grown and living on their own. There were pictures of Finn’s grandchildren as well. Michael expressed condolences for the death of Catriona. Another photo, in black and white, showed a man and woman with five children, ranging from a babe in arms to a girl of eleven or so.

The photo was well known to Brennan.

“You know that fellow, Mike.” Leo pointed to a little boy of nine or ten with dark hair and dark eyes; he was dressed in shorts and a jersey.

“It’s got to be Brennan. Is it?”

“It is. In his Gaelic football attire. They couldn’t get him to wear anything else, if I remember correctly.”

“Were you any good at it, Burke?” Monty asked.

“Wasn’t half bad,” Brennan replied.

“He was good,” Finn confirmed, “but not as good as the lad down the street from him. Sammy Coogan. They played together in the neighbourhood and at school. Sammy’s the football manager for the Rebels now. Well, I’m sure you’re aware of that, Brennan. Won the All-Ireland Finals two years in a row.”

“I’ve been following Sammy’s career. Brilliant!”

“Who are the Rebels?” Maura asked. “In the sports context, I mean!”

“Cork senior footballers. Have you ever been to the People’s Republic of Cork, my dear?”

“Not yet. But next trip for sure.”

“Anyway, that’s young Brennan with the family. Declan and Teresa and the five children, just before they immigrated to New York. Their youngest, number six, was born over there.”

“And who’s this?” Michael asked. “He sort of looks like Brennan, if you could imagine Brennan with a great big grin on his face and a bouquet of flowers in his hands, but this was obviously before his time.”

“Nineteen twenty-two,” Finn replied. “That’s my uncle Davey. What a character he was!”

“He looks it.”

“One of his friends snapped this picture the day his bride, Maisie, was due home from England. She’d been working over there, saving some money, and was expected back at Christmas time. They were planning a Christmas wedding, and Davey was fixing up an old house he’d bought for the pair of them. But with her away and distractions at home, namely his cronies on the hurling team and in his local pub and some other, em, activities, well, the house took a while to get itself renovated.”