Death at Christy Burke's (46 page)

Michael

Christy Burke’s pub was in mourning over the arrest of Jimmy O’Hearn. Michael wasn’t about to divulge anything he had learned from O’Hearn; he regarded their entire conversation as a confession. But he listened to the others, and murmured sympathetic replies. The sympathy was genuine despite the dreadful things Jimmy had done. Hate the sin, love the sinner.

Michael left Christy’s around suppertime to get ready for Mass at the Pro and returned in the evening. There was a note tacked to Christy’s door, announcing a traditional music session that night in the pub. Inside, the mood and the conversation were much as they had been earlier on. But Michael wanted to get away from that. This was a big night, the night of the peace Mass, and he wanted to enjoy it. He also intended to enjoy his last evening with Kitty Curran, who was flying back to Rome the next morning. So far he had avoided thinking of her departure, but now it was almost here. He chose a table at the back and sat by himself until Kitty, Maura, and Brennan arrived. Brennan, like Michael, was in his Roman collar, and the two women were wearing their churchgoing clothes as well.

Brennan took orders for soft drinks and went to the bar. Finn said he’d bring them over, so Brennan returned to the table. Leo Killeen arrived then, saw the group at the back, and joined them.

“Leo!” Frank Fanning called out. “I was reading about you today in the papers. They’re still calling you the IRA priest. Nothin’ ever goes away, does it?”

“And they’re still calling this the IRA pub, so it’s only fitting that I should be able to get a drink in here, and a quick one at that. The press can call me the divil’s priest, for all I care. Bunch of jackals. I pay them no mind.” He turned to Michael. “Congratulations are in order, I hear. Well done, Sergeant O’Flaherty!”

Maura and Kitty stared at Michael.

Brennan leaned over and said, “Word’s out, Michael. You were there with O’Hearn when the guards arrived. You solved it. Good job.”

“I don’t exactly feel elated over it. Jimmy O’Hearn! Just shows you what we’re all capable of.”

“Of course,” Brennan said, “we don’t know why the vandal singled out O’Hearn in the first place, or what was so grievous about the accusation that Jimmy killed the man over it.”

Michael avoided Brennan’s eyes and, after an uncomfortable few seconds, he murmured, “It was a personal matter.” He looked at Leo. “Not political, after all. I suppose that’s a relief in a way.”

“Your intuition was correct, Michael.”

“Not much glory in being right, Leo. Poor Jimmy. And God bless and save his poor family.”

“But we have other things on our minds tonight,” Brennan reminded them after a moment.

“That’s right,” Michael replied. “A beautiful Mass. Something to hold on to when tomorrow comes.” Michael’s eyes rested on Kitty across the table.

Finn appeared with the drinks and announced that they were all on the house.

“Thank you, Finn,” said Brennan, as he lit up a cigarette and took a puff. “But I must say I was hoping Kitty would be buying all the rounds, given that it’s her last night with us here.”

“Is it now, Kitty?” Finn asked. “Where are you off to?”

“I’m going back to the Vatican City, Finn, to dry out after all my drinkin’ with you lot.”

“Will you be back to Dublin any time soon?”

“I’ll make a point of it.”

Michael was emboldened then to speak of their next encounter. “Let’s stay in touch so we can meet here again, Kitty. It’s been lovely seeing you.” That was an understatement, but what else could he say, really? Best to stick to practical matters. “Dublin’s only a five-hour flight from home. For me, anyway. How long is it from Rome?”

“I can get here in three hours. Just a short hop.”

“And there will always be a bed for you at the house in Stoneybatter, Michael,” Leo assured him.

“There you go then. We’ll meet here. Or maybe I’ll be called to Rome on urgent business for the Holy Father. I’ve never received a call from the papal apartments in the first forty-five years of my priesthood, but there’s always hope.”

“I’ll have a word with him on your behalf,
acushla
,” she assured him.

“Don’t be listening to her, Mike!” Brennan exclaimed. “I’ll bet she says that to all the fellows she hooks up with. The Pope probably doesn’t even take her calls anymore.”

“Ah, now, Brennan, I’m sure the Holy Father has left standing orders for Kitty’s calls to go directly to his private quarters.”

“If he has, it’s only because she’s got him bamboozled, too,” Brennan replied. “Look at her.”

Michael did. Her eyes sparkled at him, and his heart was filled with love for her. How he would miss her when she left for Rome. Well, there was a postal service and telephones, and there was no law, civil or canonical, against making full use of them. To maintain contact with a friend.

Brennan was still going on, “A woman out with three men in a bar. What does she get up to in Rome? We can only imagine. She’ll leave you with a broken heart, Michael.”

“What was it Daniel Patrick Moynihan said?” Maura asked. “To be Irish is to know that in the end the world will break your heart.”

Brennan took in a lungful of smoke and exhaled it. “He was right. Walk away now, Michael.”

“About that next visit to Dublin, Michael,” Kitty said, “any chance you’ll be able to get away on your own, without your little brother tagging along?” She gave Brennan the evil eye, then returned her gaze to Michael. “You and I and Father Killeen will have a much more spiritually uplifting sojourn if we don’t have to put up with this unholy reprobate.”

Michael laughed and looked at Leo, but it was obvious the banter had gone over his head. He appeared to be preoccupied.

“All right, lads,” Kitty said, “
ad altare Dei
. Let’s hope the grace of God descends on one and all, so there’ll be an end to the senseless killing on this island.”

The young barman, Sean Nugent, walked in then and went behind the bar with Finn.

“Does this mean you’ll be joining us at the Pro, Finn?” Michael asked.

Brennan turned to look at his uncle.

“No,” was all Finn said. He shared a look with Leo, but no words were spoken.

The five Mass-goers headed out into the soft misty Dublin night: Kitty and Maura, Brennan, Michael, and Leo.

As usual, O’Connell Street was thronged with people walking, talking, partying, celebrating a football or a hurling victory. But it wasn’t all
ceol agus craic
, music and fun. Michael couldn’t miss the stepped-up police presence. Everyone was conscious of what had happened to the Protestant minister from the U.S., and the explosion of violence in the North as a result. How many more people would fall victim to it all before it ended? The event in Dublin, the peace Mass, was meant to bring Irish people of all faiths together, but it was obviously first and foremost a Catholic ceremony. A ceremony that might not be seen in a positive light by everyone on the island.

Brennan was visibly tense as they crossed the wide thoroughfare and headed east to the church.

Michael asked quietly, “Brennan, are you expecting trouble at the Mass tonight?”

“I don’t know what to expect,” he answered.

Michael’s mind returned to the night of the concert in Belfast, the spine-tingling high note at the end of Leontyne Price’s aria, in which she prayed for peace and cursed those who profaned the sacred places. Was that high note still reverberating in Brennan’s mind? What had he seen, or experienced, that night?

“Brennan, that night in Belfast, what exactly did you —”

Brennan replied in a voice that was barely audible. “If I knew, don’t you think I’d tell you, Michael? Tell everyone?”

They walked along Cathedral Street to Marlborough Street, where the police presence was even more pronounced. A large crowd stood outside the church, illuminated by television lights. A stout man with thinning auburn hair and a large silver cross on his chest was speaking to a TV reporter. The man looked exhausted — perhaps he’d been putting a lot of time into this event — but he gamely answered the reporter’s questions.

“Who would that be now?” Michael asked Leo.

“Bishop Clancy.”

Brennan turned towards Leo, and the two exchanged a glance. Was there something significant about this bishop? The name was familiar to Michael. Then he had it. “Ah. From Meath. I’ve read some of his articles on scripture, and learned a great deal from them. I recognize him now, from his photograph. He’s aged a bit. But haven’t we all?”

“We have indeed,” said Leo.

Michael heard the reporter thank Bishop Clancy for his time. Then she caught sight of Leo Killeen and his companions and headed their way with her cameraman.

“Father Killeen! Father Killeen! Some people thought you would be speaking tonight, but you’re not on the list. Have you been silenced by the powers that be?”

Leo didn’t bother to say “no comment.” Nor did he announce that he would be addressing the congregation in song.

He and Michael and their friends waited patiently in the queue as every person entering the church was searched and scanned with a metal detector.

Finally they were in, and the Mass began. The ritual and pageantry of the occasion were heightened by the participation of the cardinal and the archbishop, dozens of sisters, priests, altar servers, and ministers of other faiths, joined by the president and prime minister of Ireland and members of the diplomatic corps. Incense rose to the heavens as a representation of prayer, and the church was ablaze with candlelight. The church’s Palestrina Choir sang the Mass, the beautiful
Missa Papae Marcelli
.

And at the Offertory, the “Blessed Trinity” of Fathers O’Flaherty, Killeen, and Burke walked to the altar and turned to face the congregation for their musical contribution,
Ag Criost an Siol
. Michael noticed a number of faces that were familiar to him from his time in the city. One was a striking young woman with black curls and bright blue eyes. Someone from the pub, he recalled. He saw her do a double take when she noticed Brennan. Right, Michael remembered. There had been some confusion in her mind about just who Brennan was. And why he wasn’t available to attractive young females in Dublin! Now she knew for sure; he hadn’t just been putting her off. Michael saw a smile spread across her face at the sight of Father Burke. Michael had to smile himself.

Brennan gave his fellow Trinitarians their notes, and Michael and Leo backed him up as he sang of death, rebirth, paradise, and grace. Never had Michael loved the Irish language as he did that night. It meant the world to him to be singing in the Pro-Cathedral in Dublin alongside Brennan Burke, with his beautiful voice, and Leo Killeen, with his complex history as a rebel and a priest. Killeen’s voice, although perfectly in tune, was rough around the edges, and it added something raw to the sound, something that made the performance all the more heartfelt. Michael tried not to commit the sin of pride by dwelling on how pleased he was to be singing in the presence of the leading lights of the Irish church and state. It only got better when Brennan invited those in the congregation familiar with the piece, and the old language, to join in a reprise of the hymn. Michael sneaked a glance at Kitty Curran and saw that she was singing along. All those voices filling the church with their ancestral language was the most moving sound Michael had ever heard.

As the Mass neared its conclusion, no one missed the significance of the
Agnus Dei qui tollis peccata mundi, dona nobis pacem
. Lamb of God, who take away the sin of the world, grant us peace.

Security was tight as the clergy and dignitaries filed from the church, followed by the people of Dublin. The cardinal and the bishops were whisked away in heavily guarded limousines. Other clerics left in squad cars. Leo Killeen was hailed by his fellow Dublin priests, and introductions were made all round. The media stayed until all but a few stragglers had left, then packed up for the night.

When they were once again among the regular Dublin crowds in O’Connell Street, Brennan’s mood seemed lighter. Nobody discussed plans for the rest of the evening; like old horses plodding back to the barn, they set out in the direction of their local. Leo Killeen filled the others in on the personalities, the politics, and the foibles of the high personages they had seen at the Pro.

The city was dark, and the street lamps cast warm, bright haloes in the Dublin mist. Michael wondered if it was just him, but he was a little spooked by a car that had been travelling slowly behind the group and then stopped a block back of them in Parnell Square West. Michael glanced at Brennan but he did not show any sign of being on edge. Nor did Leo, who would be most familiar with what looked right and what looked wrong on a Dublin street at night. Michael turned and took a quick peek at the vehicle. He didn’t know one model of car from another; all he knew was that this one was middling in size and silver in colour and had its low beams on. He could not make out how many people were in it.
I shouldn’t be so jumpy
, he told himself,
especially if nobody else is
. He turned to Kitty and Maura, and joined their animated conversation.

“What are you two gabbing about?”

“Nothing, Father,” Kitty replied in the tone of a sly schoolgirl caught talking in the classroom.

“We were just saying how lucky we are to be in the company of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” Maura said, bowing her head in the direction of Fathers Killeen, Burke, and O’Flaherty in turn. “And we have the Holy Mother with us as well.” She put her arm around Kitty and pulled her close.

“Well, isn’t that lovely of you, good Catholic girls that you are.”

“Actually, all slagging aside, we
are
blessed to be in your company,” Kitty said then, “and your singing was beautiful!” Maura nodded in assent. Michael basked in the glow of Kitty’s words.

“Leo,” he said, “you should be doing more of that. You sounded wonderful.”

“He was brilliant,” Brennan agreed. “I want to sing that piece again, and I want you with me when I do, Leo. You, too, Michael.”