Death at Christy Burke's (40 page)

It was clear to Brennan that Father Killeen was as formidable as a man of God as he had been as a commander of the Irish Republican Army.

“So, Brennan,” Leo said lightly, “does all this tempt you to take on a new ministry?”

“Not sure I’d be up for that sort of encounter with my parishioners.”

“All in a day’s work, Father.”

“How do you manage it, Leo?”

“Hate the sin, love the sinner, Brennan. Nothing new in that. I’m with them in their goal but not in their methods. Not anymore. And whatever they’ve done, they know I’ve done the same. And that my work now is the salvation of souls, theirs and my own.”

“I understand you that far, Leo. But Desmond . . . Never as long as I live will I get over seeing him shoot that man in the head. And now, all the rioting and uproar. How will it ever be resolved? They’re never going to catch anyone for it.” Brennan was silent for a long moment, trying to take it all in. “But then, that’s not our job, is it?”

“No, it is not. The Killeens are not informers, the Burkes are not informers. We don’t turn people in to the authorities. Brennan, you and I listen to confessions every week. How many grave sins do we hear and carry around with us, knowing we will never utter a word to a living soul, knowing that those sinners — in some cases criminals, even murderers — may never be brought to earthly justice, and will certainly not be brought to justice by you or by me?”

“I know,” Brennan said quietly. He too had heard the confessions of murderers in his time as a priest. “I know.”

Michael

It was driving Michael nearly to distraction wondering who that man had been at Leo’s in the afternoon, and what Leo and Brennan had to discuss out of Michael’s hearing. Brennan had left without stopping in to see Michael again, so whatever it was, he did not want to be questioned about it. And he knew Michael would not have been able to resist asking! But Brennan and Leo would not have excluded him without a good reason. That, however, only made it more maddening; what in heaven’s name was going on? Well, if he was meant to know, he’d know. Sometime. For now, he would do a bit of laundry and cleaning up, then head for his regular drinking spot later on.

When he dropped in to the pub that evening, it was packed. Nothing like hot summer weather to entice people into a dingy, smoky bar! Speaking of smoke, Brennan was there with a burning cigarette hanging from his lips, almost forgotten by the look of things, as he stared at a Gaelic football match on the television. He had on a pair of faded jeans and a T-shirt that said something in Italian, and he looked as if he had been ensconced in Christy Burke’s pub for about twenty years. Everyone was glued to the coverage, including O’Hearn, Fanning, and Shanahan at the bar. Michael didn’t break their concentration to say hello. He joined Brennan and two other men at their table and tuned in to the action. Dublin was playing Kerry. Michael arrived just in time for a Dublin goal, and shouts of joy reverberated off the walls of the pub. It didn’t take long before Michael too was hooked. A pint of the black stuff appeared in front of him, and he lifted it without taking his eyes off the screen.

Michael became aware of someone standing by his chair and, when there was a break in the action, he looked up and saw Maura and Kitty.

“Oh! Good heavens!” He got to his feet.

“We’re not going to get much action out of this pair, Kitty,” Maura said. “Holy priests of God that they are and, typical men, sitting in a bar swilling booze and staring at the game on television. Just our luck. Let’s dump them.”

“Sure, you’re right, Maura. Ten minutes after we’re gone, one of them will say to the other, ‘Did you see that? He picked the ball up directly from the ground. His foot didn’t touch it at all, at all! Em . . . wasn’t there somebody else here?’”

“‘Wha? Not that I ever noticed.’”

“They didn’t notice us standing here, they wouldn’t notice us gone.”

“No!” Michael protested. “Stay. I’ll get you a chair. Two, I mean. Brennan?”

“Eh? Oh. Evening, ladies.”

Only then did Brennan remember the cigarette, with the ash nearly an inch long on it. He took one last drag from it and ground it out in the ashtray. A roar went up from the crowd on the television as a Dublin player got a yellow card, and all eyes swivelled to the TV. Then Brennan looked at the women again and started to get up.

“You’re a wise pair,” Maura said then, and turned to grab two chairs from the next table. She hoisted them over the heads of two fellows at the table. They didn’t even notice.

“I’ll get those,” said Brennan.

“I’ll help you,” Michael insisted.

“Never mind. I have them. We’re not helpless, are we, Kitty?”

“Indeed we are not. Nor are we here to while away the entire night,” Kitty declared. The women sat down. “I have a message for you boys from Leo Killeen.”

“Oh! We saw him earlier today.”

“Well, earlier today, Michael, Leo hadn’t yet been put on the spot with respect to the music for the Mass at the Pro.”

“Mass?”

“You remember Mass, don’t you, Monsignor?” Maura put in. “The Holy Eucharist? Historians say it predates the development of the game of football, at least as we know the game today. In fact —”

“No, I mean, yes . . . Em, is there a particular Mass that Leo —”

“Ah,” Kitty said. “I see. You haven’t heard about the big do happening at the Pro-Cathedral Thursday night. A special Mass for peace. The red hat will be there, and herself from the house in the park” — she meant the president of Ireland, whose official residence was in the Phoenix Park — “and the archbishop and clergy and all the angels and saints. Well, you get the idea, so you won’t want to miss it.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world. What a lovely idea.”

“Anyway, Leo is tied up with the preparations tonight, but he tried to call you and you weren’t there, so he tried me. Thought I might be seeing you.”

Michael tried to look nonchalant, but he was pleased that someone would relay a message to him through Kitty, pleased that his friendship with her was an established fact in certain circles in Dublin. “Right. So, what’s this about the music?”

Only then did Brennan give his full attention to the conversation.

“Leo’s got his knickers in a twist —” Michael’s face must have registered his surprise at Sister’s language, because she laughed and said, “Let me rephrase that, Monsignor. Father Killeen has raised a question about the selection of music for the liturgy on Thursday night. There will be Latin, all well and good, and English, all right again, but there is nothing on the program in Irish. There will be remarks in Irish, but he thought there should be some Irish-language music. The liturgical director was harried and busy and said to Leo, ‘Fine,
Ag Criost an Siol
, but I don’t have time to rehearse it. Sing it yourself.’ Leo, not being one to back down, said, ‘I will.’ So, he’s on at the Offertory.”

“And?” Brennan asked.

“And what do you think? Leo needs you to help him out.”

“I will. With bells on. And incense wafting about my person.”

“How about you, Michael? Can you sing?”

“Well, I —”

“He can, Kitty,” Brennan answered, “and I don’t say that lightly about anyone.”

“I can believe it!”

“I’ve heard Michael and I’ve tried to encourage him to sing parts of the Mass at home. But more to the point, he’s a brilliant Irish speaker. Much better at it than I am. Tell Leo, if I don’t see him first, that the three of us will sing it. I’ll take care of collecting the music, and I’ll call him with a rehearsal time. Killeen, O’Flaherty, and Burke will make their debut together at the Pro-Cathedral.”

“What’ll you call yourselves?” Maura asked. “The Holy Trinity? I guess that’s taken.”

“No, that would work,” Brennan replied.

“Brennan! Say an Act of Contrition before you utter another word!” Michael commanded him.

“All right, Maura, our work here is done.” Kitty got up, and Maura did the same.

“Where are you going?”

“To the Abbey, Michael. We have tickets for the theatre.”

“Oh! What are you going to see?”

“
A Month in the Country
. A Turgenev play, adapted by Brian Friel.”

“Ah.” Michael had no idea.

“So, gentlemen, we shall take our leave of you,” Maura said. “But we look forward to your performance on Thursday night.”

Brennan turned back to the Dublin-Kerry match. Michael did the same, but with mixed feelings. He wanted to see the football, but he would love to have tagged along with Kitty and Maura. Not to the theatre without a ticket, though, so the game it would be.

The peace Mass was something to look forward to, Michael thought as he walked home to Aughrim Street after celebrating Dublin’s victory over Kerry in the final seconds of the match. He hoped to find Leo Killeen at home so he could ask him all about it. But Leo was not in residence when Michael arrived. He would have to catch him later.

It was not until after confessions on Sunday that Michael finally had a chance to ask Leo Killeen about the Mass. Leo filled him in on the plans and the list of attendees, which, as Kitty had announced, included important figures in the worlds of church and state.

“If you need any help with the preparations, Leo, just give me the word.”

“Thank you, Michael. I will. Em, while I have you here, and since you’ll be pestering me about it anyway . . .”

“Yes?”

“I made a call in relation to the question you were asking yesterday.”

About Madigan. Good! Who was Leo’s source? A policeman? An intelligence officer? Some kind of Special Branch operative? That was a question Michael was not about to ask. He merely said, “Oh! What did you find out?”

“Nothing.”

Michael tried to mask his disappointment. “We know the incident happened, though,” he prompted.

“Just because something happened doesn’t mean people are willing to blather on about it. The person I spoke to, who is knowledgeable about these matters, left me with the unmistakable impression that this incident was extremely embarrassing to the authorities here, and the fact that they had to give something up to the Brits only underscored how embarrassing it was. Madigan was carrying a false passport, had a whole fictional identity set up, but the British authorities found out who he really was. Inevitably. A garda from Dublin trying to blow up a storeroom full of secret files held in England and pertaining to Ireland, well, it’s just beyond the pale. Get it out of your head. My man had nothing to tell me and I have nothing to tell you.”

But in fact Leo
had
told Michael something he hadn’t known. “I understand,” Michael said. “Was there any damage from the attempt to, em, blow things up?”

“No, security caught him just after he’d lit the fuse. A makeshift effort, some inflammable material he tried to shove under the security door. It likely would have fizzled out before it did any damage. A desperate manoeuvre. We’re not privy to whatever was in that room, so we don’t know what Madigan was after. End of story, Michael. Now, could you do something for me? Could you take my noon-hour Mass tomorrow? I have to go out of town.”

“Gladly, Leo, certainly. And thank you for your efforts on my behalf.”

“I’d like to say you’re welcome, but the words would stick in my throat.”

“I thank you nonetheless. And tomorrow I’ll be at the altar, twelve o’clock sharp. Where are you going?”

“I’m not telling you!”

With a curt nod, Leo turned and went on his way.

Michael now had a new perspective on the Eddie Madigan incident. Madigan had tried to blow up the secret archive! He had done his best to make things go smoothly, establishing a false identity, working on Abigail Howard to admit him to the file room so he could get his hands on the documents. But when it all fell apart, he crossed the Rubicon. He got hold of explosives and went in with the hope that what he couldn’t remove, he would destroy. Or had that been his plan from the beginning? Either way, Madigan must have known he himself would be destroyed in the fallout. What was he so desperate to hide?

This train of thought brought Michael to something he had heard a while ago about the ex-cop or his family, that there were strained relations between the Madigans and somebody else. Where had he heard it? He tried to recall. It was Nurse McAvity. That’s who had told him. Bad blood, he’d said, between the Madigans and another family. If Michael could find out what that was about, he might be able to explain the bombing attempt. It was time for another interrogation.

It was early evening when he set out for a brisk walk to the bus terminal in O’Connell Street and found the bus that would take him to Camden Street, to the pub where some of the United Irishmen had gathered to plot the 1798 rebellion. Good. There was Nurse McAvity in the same seat he’d been in when Michael had found him before. “Bill!”

McAvity looked around and stared at Michael, as if trying to place him. The penny dropped when he focused on the Roman collar.

“Monsignor . . . O’Flaherty, is it?”

“That’s right. Michael.”

“Of course, Michael. Have a seat. Can I get you anything?”

“I’ll have whatever you’re having.”