Death at Christy Burke's (23 page)

The old walled city of Derry is situated high on a hill. Michael looked up at it from the bus terminal below. He, Brennan, and Monty had made a snap decision after the concert not to return to the Republic in the morning, but to extend their car rental and drive on to Derry. Kitty had to go back to Dublin, so they dropped her off at the train station. Nobody knew where Leo Killeen had got to. That left three for the excursion to Derry City. Michael was keen on tracking down the lead on Frank Fanning’s whereabouts. Brennan obviously considered it a bit of a fool’s errand, but why not have a look around Derry? And Monty was up for a tour. Michael had other ambitions as well, but for now he would concentrate on the Fanning situation.

The first round of interrogations was not productive. Michael had shown Frank Fanning’s picture around the bus station in Belfast, but nobody could say whether they had seen him. So the trip started out with little promise. But things perked up when Michael persuaded Brennan to drop him off at the Derry bus terminal. One of the girls there recognized Fanning from the picture. She had no idea where he went when he left the station, but one of the taxi drivers might know. It took nearly an hour, but Michael’s patience was rewarded. One of the drivers had taken Frank on more than one occasion to the Foyleside Centre for Longterm Care. Michael was pleased to make the announcement to Brennan and Monty when they returned from a drive around the county to collect him at the station.

Most of the population of Derry lives outside the city’s walls, Catholics typically Cityside and Protestants Waterside, which was east of the River Foyle. The population was about seventy-five to eighty percent Catholic, which made it an uncomfortable fit inside the border of Northern Ireland. Here, too, there was a “peace line” in certain parts of the city to keep the warring factions apart.

Michael had not spent a lot of time here, but had occasionally included a quick visit on his bus tours over the years. He knew enough to direct Brennan from the bus station to the Bogside, where they reserved a room at the Abbey Bed and Breakfast.

The Bogside, as the name implied, was a low-lying area beneath the walled city. It was a Catholic enclave, where the current Troubles had erupted more than twenty years ago. Michael and his companions checked in at the bed and breakfast, chatted with the proprietors for a few minutes, then went out for a stroll. The area was thick with history. They headed first to Free Derry Corner. In January 1969, civil rights marchers were attacked by a Loyalist mob a few miles outside the city. People believed the Royal Ulster Constabulary had done little to protect the marchers, and rioting broke out when the marchers arrived in Derry. The police reacted with brutality; they entered the Bogside and began beating people up. The Bogside responded by erecting barricades to keep the police out. That’s when the famous white gable wall was painted with the words “You are now entering Free Derry.” Then, that August, there was the Battle of the Bogside between residents and the RUC after a Protestant group known as the Apprentice Boys marched close to the Catholic area. Things deteriorated to the point where the British sent in the troops. It was a mark of how dire the situation was that Catholics were relieved to see them. At first, anyway. The army had been in the country ever since.

Michael saw where the Rossville Flats had been, the scene of the infamous Bloody Sunday in 1972, when thirteen civil rights marchers were shot dead by British soldiers. A fourteenth person died of his wounds later on. Michael and his friends walked along Rossville Street to the intersection with William Street, “Aggro Corner,” where the British Army and the RUC repeatedly clashed with the residents of the Bogside. People had a nickname for the rioting, which broke out at expected times of the week: the “Saturday and Sunday matinees.”

The three visitors looked up the hill to the city walls. Just inside the walled city and looming over the Bogside was the Apprentice Boys Memorial Hall, a strongly fortified stone building in the Scottish baronial style, with spires and a tower on the side. A high fence rose from the wall in front of the building to protect it from missiles that might be lobbed from the ghetto below and, presumably, to protect the Bogside from whatever the modern-day Apprentice Boys might want to rain down on the Catholics.

But Michael and his companions weren’t there to relive history. At least, Michael wasn’t. He had a destination, and that was the Foyleside Centre for Longterm Care. The other two begged off, pleading prior commitments at the Bogside Inn. Michael made arrangements to meet them there in the pub after his mission, then struck out on his own. He had no idea how to find the care centre, so he availed himself of a passing taxi.

When he arrived at the centre and approached the reception desk, he smiled at the large, capable-looking woman sitting there and tried his luck with the name Fanning.

“Excuse me. I’m looking for a patient here, and I believe the name is Fanning. I’m sorry I don’t have any more information than that.”

The woman eyed him for a few seconds, wondering, no doubt, why he was there if he didn’t know who he was looking for.

“I was asked to come,” Michael claimed, “by an older lady whose words were hard to make out over the telephone. She had a stroke, and that affected her speech. You know how it is.”

“Well, Father, the only Fanning we have is Dolores Fanning and there’s nothing wrong with her speech, I can tell you. If she wanted you to visit, you’d be left in no doubt about the matter. And if she didn’t, she’d make that perfectly clear as well.”

“Oh, it wasn’t the patient herself who called. It was a relative . . .” Michael wasn’t used to lying. He wished he had Monty with him. Not that Monty was a liar — Michael didn’t mean that — but he had a way of using words that could lead the other person to the conclusion Monty wanted to plant in the person’s mind. And he could do it with diplomacy. A lawyerly skill.

But the receptionist relented. “Dolores Fanning is in room 128.” She pointed to the corridor. “Just along there. You can’t miss it.” She smiled then, and said, “Good luck, Father.”

Michael arrived at room 128 and peered inside.

“Who’s there?” a female voice called out.

Michael stepped into the room and saw a woman who looked to be in her late eighties seated in a wheelchair. She was facing the window, but her knobbly hands worked furiously to turn the chair around. The woman had thin wispy hair tied up in a bun and wore glasses with heavy dark frames.

“Could I help you there?” Michael inquired.

“No, you could not, unless you could do something to get my legs working again. Oh, a
sagart
. Maybe you could take me to Lourdes for a cure!”

“Em, well, I’m sorry I can’t do that. But if there’s anything I can get for you, or any way I can make you more comfortable . . .”

“Not likely, but thank you for asking, Father. That’s more than I get from some, including my own family.” Her glasses had slipped down her nose; she moved them into place and peered at Michael. “How come I’ve never seen you here before?”

“Well, I’m not from here actually . . .”

“I can hear that in your voice, Father. Not a northerner, and yet here you are.”

“Are you Mrs. Fanning?”

“I am.”

“Well, I’m inquiring after Frank Fanning. I understand that he comes here from time to time to visit someone. Would that be you by any chance?”

“It would not. I’m not related to anyone named Frank.”

“Oh. And you don’t know Frank at all?”

“I do not. You say he comes here?”

“Yes, or so I’ve been told.”

“Let’s ask the one down the hall, then.” Mrs. Fanning wheeled herself over to her bed and grabbed a cord hanging near the pillow. She yanked on it, then yanked again.

You’d think she was ringing the bells at Notre Dame Cathedral
.

“Takes her forever to get here. I’ll be dead and covered with cobwebs before I ever see . . . Oh, here she is.”

A tall, thin young nurse had come in the door. “Yes, Mrs. Fanning? You rang?”

“I did. Father —” She turned her face towards Michael. “What’s your name?”

“O’Flaherty.”

“Father O’Flaherty here has a question. He’s wondering about a fellow called Frank Fanning. Ever hear of him?”

“Oh, yes. Mr. Fanning comes by to see Donal Fegan in room 220.”

“Ah. Thank you,” Michael said. “Has Mr. Fanning been in lately, if I might ask?”

“Let me see now. I saw him recently, I know . . .” She thought about it, then said, “I’m sorry, I just can’t remember when it was.”

“Could I go up and see Mr. Fegan?”

“Certainly, Father. I’ll take you to his room. See you after a bit, Mrs. Fanning.”

“I won’t be here holding my breath. Good luck with your inquiries, Father O’Flaherty. If you happen upon a local priest wandering about the grounds, you might suggest he start making regular visits to the long-suffering Catholics in this place.”

“I will indeed, Mrs. Fanning. Thank you for your help, and God bless you.”

“Oh, He already has, as you can see. Good day, Father.”

Michael followed the nurse out of the room. When he estimated that he was out of earshot, he said, “Bit of a handful, is she?”

“She keeps us on the hop, to be sure, Father. Now a word about Donal Fegan. If you haven’t seen him before, a bit of warning might be in order. He’s on life support. Well, you may know that.”

“No! I don’t know anything about the man. I’ve just been trying to locate Frank Fanning.”

“Mr. Fanning has been very good to Donal. He comes to visit every month like clockwork. He’s from the South, but he makes the effort to come. Donal doesn’t get many other visitors. None, really.”

“What a shame.”

“Aye, it is, Father. Even though he can’t communicate, still, you’d think the members of his immediate family would . . . Ah, I shouldn’t be talking out of school. Up these stairs, and we’ll find Donal’s room right at the top.”

She led him to room 220 and went in. “Good morning, Donal. Somebody here to see you. It’s Father O’Flaherty, a friend of Mr. Fanning. I’ll leave you now.” She smiled at Donal Fegan and at Michael, then left the room.

Lying on the bed was the emaciated form of a man. He had dark hair and a growth of beard; his green eyes were open. He made no response, verbal or otherwise, to Michael’s approach or his words of greeting. Michael gently took his right hand. Again, no response. The man was alive but not sentient, what people called — Michael always recoiled at the word — a vegetable. A framed photo on the bedside table showed a rugged young man standing in front of a block of flats, with a large dog at his side. There was also a scrapbook with Donal’s picture on the cover. Michael picked it up and opened it. It was filled with greeting cards and press clippings. The articles were testimonials to a promising young man struck down in the prime of his life. Donal was twenty years old when he suffered terrible injuries — severe brain damage and a broken neck — in a single car crash on a country road. The accident occurred in July of 1984. The injuries brought an end to Donal’s dream of returning to school to complete his education, after which he had planned to marry his long-time sweetheart and raise a family. He had hoped to start his own business as an electrician. His teachers spoke of a boy who had the potential to be whatever he wanted to be, and his priest said Donal had always been helpful around the church, making deliveries and doing small repair jobs. Michael looked at the shattered figure on the bed and felt the sting of tears in his eyes. He made the sign of the cross over him and began to pray. Donal Fegan couldn’t hear him, but it was Michael’s belief that his prayers were heard in a sweeter and a better world, a world in which Donal would be received with loving arms. When he finished his prayers, he gave Donal’s hand a little squeeze again, then left the room.

God love Frank Fanning,
Michael thought,
for travelling by train and bus on the first Friday of every month to sit by this poor fellow’s bedside and give him the gift of companionship.
Frank would be well aware that the Fegan boy didn’t even register his presence, but that didn’t deter him from making the trip.

It was not till Michael was back in his room replaying in his mind everything he could recall about Fanning that he remembered something that should not have slipped his mind, something he certainly should have twigged to when he saw Donal Fegan lying motionless in his bed. How could he have forgotten? But it was just one of many bits of information he had scribbled down after his talk in the Bleeding Horse with Bill McAvity, and it went something like this: “Frank F doesn’t drive. One day, just not driving anymore. Lost licence, perhaps drink driving. Spot of trouble up North. Never behind wheel again.” As Michael saw it, Frank Fanning must have been the driver in this accident. If so, his trips to Derry were part compassion, part guilty conscience. A guilty conscience well deserved. Or might there be more to it? All Michael had seen were the news stories pasted in Fegan’s scrapbook, stories that understandably would portray the young victim in the most favourable light. But what if Fegan bore some responsibility himself for the accident? Michael didn’t know how that could be, if Frank had been at the wheel. Time for a chat with Monty. Michael left the B and B and headed for the big two-storey drinking spot that was the Bogside Inn. It took a few seconds but he found Monty and Brennan at a table with empty pint glasses in front of them.

“Ah. Michael. We were just finishing up.”

“Good timing. I’ve a question for you, Monty.” They all left the pub together, and Michael told them what he had discovered at the Foyleside Centre for Longterm Care. “So, Frank Fanning is carrying a heavy burden of guilt. But, Monty, you’ve dealt with accident cases, have you not?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Is it possible someone else could be at fault for an accident, by distracting the driver’s attention or something like that?”

“Sure. Might be kind of hard to prove now, with Fegan in the shape he’s in. Or they could have been drinking together, Fegan knowing full well how much Fanning had to drink and getting in the car with him anyway. I had a case recently in which the plaintiff, the passenger, was catastrophically injured. Something like poor Fegan. But his damage award was cut in half because of his contributory negligence.”