Chapter XXIV

’Twas down by the glenside, I met an old woman.

A-plucking young nettles, she ne’er saw me coming.

I listened awhile to the song she was humming,

Glory O, Glory O, to the bold Fenian men.

Peadar Kearney, “Down by the Glenside”

“Brennan, I’m going with you. Obviously. My son is missing. I’ve run out of leads here, so he must have followed through on his threats to shag off to Ireland. I don’t know how I’ll ever come to terms with the fact that he would run away, that I didn’t take the threats seriously, that I failed him so utterly … But what if he didn’t run? What if —”

“You’re not coming with us. If Finbarr is in Ireland, Terry and I will find him. If we have to make the rounds all over the island, it will be too hard on you. Stay in London with Shelmalier; it will be better for both of you that way. And you have to be here if he calls.”

Molly was not happy about it. How could she be? But whether she stayed in England or undertook the journey to Ireland, she would be going through hell until her son was found. A directionless and frustrating journey around Ireland would only add to the pain and distress.

“I’ll give you a couple of pictures of him to show around.” She went into her room and came back with an envelope of photos. Brennan looked through them and had to stifle a laugh. There was Terry with his middle finger raised to the statue of Oliver Cromwell.

“Do you want to sort these out before I take them?”

She waved her hand at them. It was a pointless distraction so he took the whole collection. Once again he tried to reassure her, then he and Terry left the flat.

Terry had booked the flight to Dublin for that Friday evening, and they landed in Ireland’s capital just over an hour after leaving British soil.

Their first stop — the first stop for any member of the Burke family visiting Dublin — was Christy Burke’s pub on Mountjoy Street. Christy’s name was stamped in gold letters on a band of black that ran around the cream-coloured building. Christy, Brennan’s grandfather, had bought the place in 1919. It had served as a drinking hole and, at times, a hiding place for the Old IRA during the war against the British from 1919 to 1921.

Christy’s son, Finn, had worked the bar alongside the old man until his death in 1970, and Finn took over then as owner. He usually worked the bar himself and today was no exception. If, as had often been said, Brennan was at times a stony-faced individual, his uncle Finn was made of granite. He gave no sign of recognition when his two nephews walked in. What made the man even harder to read was the dark glasses he always wore, day and night, in or out of doors.

“Finn, a couple of pints for a pair of weary travellers.”

Finn nodded, said, “Lads,” and began the two-part pour for each of the glasses.

When the Guinness had settled, Brennan took a sip and sighed with pleasure. Was there a pint anywhere in the world to equal this?

“The blessings of God on you, Finn.”

“And on you, Father. Count yourself blessed as well, Terrence.”

“Go raibh maith agat, Finn.”

“Now what brings you boys my way?”

They told him about Molly’s missing son, and their hope that he might be located in Ireland. But Finn, who was known to be in the know about Republican matters in the South and in the North of Ireland, had not heard a whisper about Finbarr.

Brennan and Terry told their uncle a bit about the young fellow and filled him in about their parents and other family members in New York. Finn gave them a rundown on the Dublin contingent. Everyone was doing nicely except their great aunt Rosaleen; she had not been well, and Finn thought that seeing Father Burke would do her a world of good.

“I’d love to see her.”

“Grand. I’ll ring and let her know.” Finn picked up the phone and dialled. ‘Hi yeh, Bronagh. How’s she doing today? Oh, she’ll be fit to be tied about that. She’ll be hearing the roar of the crowd through her window, and her not able to go and watch it.” Finn said to Terry and Brennan, “I’ve got Rosaleen’s nurse here. The doctor told Rosa she’s not able for walking over to Croke Park and up into the stands for tomorrow’s match against Limerick. And, what’s that? She had to miss a performance of Shadow of a Gunman last week at the Gate Theatre. Put her on for me, can you, Bronagh?” Next thing Brennan heard was his uncle reciting poetry. Mangan, was it? “‘O my dark Rosaleen, do not sigh, do not weep! The priests are on the ocean green; they march along the deep.’ They are indeed. Would I lie to you? One, at least. Father Brennan Burke is on his way to you. Good, my dear. See you Sunday, and Brennan will see you sooner.”

So Brennan had a quick smoke, finished his pint, and set off on his errand of mercy. That was fine with him; he had always liked old Rosaleen. Terry elected to stay at the bar.

Brennan made a stop at the hotel to change into his clerical suit and collar and headed out on foot to see the youngest sister of his grandfather, the late Christy Burke. Rosaleen Burke McCarthy was in her early nineties. You could see the iconic Croke Park stadium from the pavement in front of her north side house, and he knew from past experience that one could indeed hear the crowds when a Gaelic football or hurling match was on. When Brennan arrived, a nurse opened the door and greeted him. “You must be Bronagh,” he said and introduced himself. She led him to the old lady’s bedroom, announced his arrival, and withdrew.

A frail-looking Rosaleen was lying in her bed, thin grey hair fanned out on her pillow and a pair of out-sized eyeglasses skewed across her face. She was hooked up to some sort of apparatus that was delivering fluids into her arm. Neither of them mentioned it.

“Brennan, aren’t you a fine man now, and very much a priestly man in your appearance. It does me good to see you.”

He bent and took her free hand, and kissed her on the cheek. “Rosaleen, I’m happy to be here. What can I get for you, anything?”

She motioned him to come close again. “Send yer one out for something. A loaf of bread. No, a box of chocolates from Butler’s across town. And when she clears the threshold, pour me a glass of Tullamore’s, would you?”

“Em, are you allowed to mix your fluids in that way, Rosa?”

“I’m ninety-one years old, Brennan. I can sit out in the sun all day, or the rain or the snow. I can smoke twenty fags a day, sniff cocaine, or shoot heroin into my veins. I can tattoo an image of King Billy on my arse and sit on it till the moon turns blue. I can lounge around in Christy’s bar, God rest him, and sink pints from morning to night, if I so choose. Doesn’t make any difference now. You’ll find the whiskey and the glasses on a side table in the sitting room. You’ll find me here when you’ve poured me a generous helping, and one for yourself.”

“Yes, dear.”

Brennan handed the nurse some money for chocolate for herself and for her patient and waited until she, reluctantly, left the property. Then he did his great aunt’s bidding and went into the sitting room. It could have been a set for a film on Irish life. There was a picture of the Pope, and another of John F. Kennedy speaking in New Ross, County Wexford, a few months before his assassination. There was a print of the famous painting of the Mass Rock, a winter scene with a priest in his vestments raising the sacred host over a rock used as an altar in penal times when the Mass was outlawed. The faithful knelt in the snow. A party of scouts was approaching from the right, warning of the Redcoats, the British, advancing on them with rifles in hand. On another wall was a photo of the Dublin All-Ireland Gaelic football team of 1983. Breaking with these themes was a large colour newspaper photo of a dashing man in sunglasses. He looked familiar. Brennan peered at the picture and saw that it was the Italian film star, Marcello Mastroianni. She had an eye for a handsome face, had Rosaleen. Brennan poured them both a glass of Tullamore Dew, returned to Rosaleen’s bedside, and pulled up a chair. She was sitting up, and her glasses had been righted over her eyes.

“Sláinte mhaith!” She smiled as she clinked Brennan’s glass and downed a mouthful of the golden whiskey. “Now you’re here for a short visit, you say. You’ve seen Finn?”

“I have.”

“Had a pint at Christy’s, did you?”

“Only the one, before coming to see you, Rosaleen.”

“Bless you, Father. There’s more in the taps there for you to enjoy after you’ve done your duty here.”

“I’m in no hurry at all.”

“Now, what brings you to Dublin, Brennan, when all the action is in London?”

“You’re aware then of young Conn’s predicament.”

“Oh yes. A terrible thing. He’ll need a fierce good lawyer. But if they’ve decided to fit him up for the crime, he’ll never see the light of day again. Is that what brings you over from America?”

“No, that happened after I arrived. My visit was prompted by a call from Molly.”

“Molly is a dote. She comes to me any time she’s home in Dublin. What did she ring you about?”

“My sister has made quite a name for herself in London, Aunt Rosa. She is now a person known to police.”

“Conn and Molly. Well, they are treading in well-worn footsteps. Our entire family seems to be known to the peelers. Here in Ireland and now we’re in the soup again over there. What’s brought her into their sights in this day and age?”

“They said she was promoting the interests of a forbidden organization.”

“Ah.”

“The meeting was about causing a ruckus at a statue of Oliver Cromwell.”

The old lady’s eyes narrowed behind the thick lenses. “The Irish-hating, Catholic-hating oul fiend! And him claiming to be doing God’s work while slaughtering our people. You can be sure he’s far from the sight of God now, roasting and roaring in the everlasting fires of hell.”

“I expect you’re right.”

“Exactly. And you a priest. You’d know. And you say they’re after building a statue of him?”

“Yes, way back. They started rehabilitating him, so to speak, in Victorian times. Regarded him as a hero of democracy.”

“Democracy, in your hole! Ask them in Drogheda how much democracy they got from Cromwell! Ask them in Wexford. Well, I suppose, he killed indiscriminately; there’s his democracy for you. And the Brits themselves got no joy out of him. He banned drink in England! Can you imagine it? He closed the theatres and sent out Puritan soldiers to grab women in the streets and scrub the makeup off their faces!”

But, Brennan remembered from Molly’s presentation, Cromwell had no hesitation in shipping young women to Barbados for the pleasure of the English planters. “Molly calls him a pimp.”

“Jaysus! The Puritan pimp! Good on her. And they put up a statue to the likes of him. Wouldn’t I give that the evil eye if I could see it.”

“You can see it if you like. I have a picture here.” Brennan drew out his wallet and flipped through Molly’s photos of Finbarr. He knew he also had a picture of the Cromwell statue with Terry standing beside it, giving it the finger. He held it up for his great aunt to see. She snatched it from his hand and glared daggers at it. “Loscadh is dó ort!”

She looked at Brennan and saw him struggling to translate. “Scorching and burning on you!” she said. “On Cromwell.” She made no comment on the man standing next to the statue making the rude gesture. Presumably, in her mind, any statue of the hated man would quite naturally have someone alongside it, flipping it the bird.

“There was a plan to deface it,” Brennan informed her.

“Defacing it would be too good for him. They should have cut off its head and hanged and drawn and quartered it. For starters.”

“Well, that’s what the English did, back in 1661. They dug up Cromwell’s body and held a post-mortem execution, for his role in killing the king.”

“We should have got to him first.”

“Well, there was a more extreme plan in the works than just a splash of red paint.”

“Oh?”

“Some of the lads were going to blow the statue to bits. Along with Westminster Abbey.”

The old woman raised her eyebrows but offered no comment.

“They called in a warning, and the police cleared people off. Found the bombs and disabled them.”

“Mmm.”

“The murder of the police officer occurred the same day.”

“And they’ve decided on our Conn for that. Was the shooting connected to the bombing?”

“Not sure. But the police seem to think so.”

“What’s this got to do with Molly?”

“They thought she knew something about it.”

“Did she?”

“No. Actually, I think they were just pretending to believe she knew something. Likely they were hoping to spook her into telling them about some of our people living in London.”

“What did they do to spook our little Molly?”

“Banged her up in jail for two nights”

“Tan bastards!”

“And they’ve since been round to question her.”

“Who, the peelers?”

“Not just the uniformed police, but Special Branch.”

“Special Irish Branch, you mean.”

Brennan laughed. “I suppose.”

“No supposition necessary, avic. That was the name of the organization when they created it. The Special Irish Branch.”

“Are you serious?”

“We’re talking a hundred years ago,” his great aunt explained. “The Special Irish Branch was formed in the 1880s to combat the Fenians and the dynamiters who were setting off bombs in London at the time.”

“At the time.”

“Yes, the distant past. What goes around comes around, I guess. That outfit was set up to deal with our Fenian ancestors and here they are trailing after us a hundred years later. They dropped Irish from their name, but we’ll not be fooled by that.”

“Did we have ancestors causing grief over there, Rosa?”

“Sure, your great-great grandfather Sean and his brother Tommy were not unknown to the Special Irish Branch in their day. The Fenian heart beats strong in the breast of the Burkes; you don’t need me to tell you that.”

“True enough. But our Molly has not been blowing anything up in London or elsewhere.”

“No, I’m sure that’s not what the lads had in mind when they had their council of war back in the day.”

“Council of war?”

“Oh, you know, when they all got together back in the forties. My brother had to settle them down.”

“Do you mean the time Christy and my father went down to Wexford?” The meeting Brennan had stumbled upon in 1949, after fleeing the ruins of the abbey.

“Sure, the boys from Wexford, Waterford, Carlow, that crowd. Whatever their plan was, Christy knew it would never work. But they cooked up something else. And whatever it was, I believe it was still on the agenda more than twenty years later, when they came here for Christy’s wake. I remember lashings of drink, and a lot of intense talk, and eye meeting eye over the coffin. But, whatever it was, you can be sure it didn’t involve little Molly Burke running around with explosives.

“I hope they leave her be, the Special Irish Branch, find someone else to annoy. Her, a university professor, and the mother of two lovely children, and they bang her up in jail.” Rosaleen took refuge in her whiskey. “That Sasanach she married. Sutton. I never liked him.”

“Not just because he’s English, I hope, Rosaleen.”

“Of course not! What do you think I am, a bigot? The fellow I liked in fact was his brother. Neville Sutton’s brother. I can’t recall his name now, but he was sound. He was kind, considerate, clever, and very funny. He had me nearly wetting myself laughing the times I met him. She should have married him, not that Neville.”

“Do you know her children at all?”

“Oh, yes, she’s brought them to me on several occasions. Clever as a Jesuit, that Shelmalier, and a bit of a wit she is, too. The boy, now he’s a handful. Molly will want to keep a close eye on him. He has his funny side, too, though. And a fine mimic. He had us in stitches one time doing an imitation of Ian Paisley; he had that barbed-wire Belfast voice down pat. And he does a fine take-off on his own father, Neville, that nobby English voice. He can speak perfectly well with no accent at all, can Finbarr.”

“No accent at all” must mean a strong north side Dublin accent, Brennan concluded, which Auntie Rosaleen could not differentiate from her own, couldn’t even hear.

“The lad could be an actor,” she said. “We’ll wait and see how things turn out for him.”

“Things aren’t going well for him right now, as a matter of fact. He’s missing.”

“What?”

“He hasn’t been in touch with either of his parents. Molly is beside herself with worry.”

“And well she might be.”

“That’s why I’m over here.”

“Why here?”

“He’s disaffected with his life in England, with life in England in general, and he has ambitions to assist in the struggle for a united Ireland. We think this is something he might have done, come over here. We’ll do what we can. If we don’t get anywhere here, we’ll start again in England.”

Rosaleen mulled this over. “You’ve spoken to Finn?”

“Yes, but he has no idea. Hasn’t heard a word about the young fellow.”

“That is worrisome, Brennan. If the lad is over here for patriotic reasons and Finn Burke hasn’t heard about it, well …”

“What are you telling me, Rosaleen?”

“If someone here doesn’t want Finn to know about it, it could mean someone has got the boy involved in underhanded activity, something dangerous. Or it could mean …”

“Yes?”

“That someone has taken action against him. Hurt him or … or worse. And poor Molly, God be with her. She’s joined a long list, hasn’t she?”

“List?”

“The long list of us women, waiting at home for our men to come back. How many times, over how many years, was I in my room praying the rosary for my husband, my brothers, my sons to return safely from their battles? Now it’s Molly’s turn. My heart goes out to her.”

And, Brennan realized, it was Tess’s turn as well, waiting for Conn. And if Conn somehow managed to win his case, he’d be off on further missions, Brennan knew. Tess was in for a long spell of waiting and worrying. And Mairéad O’Brien; she’d had years of living apart from her husband, only to lose him to a brutal killer in England.

“It’s the same the world over,” Rosaleen said, “always has been. I’ve always wished I’d joined up myself, Cumann na mBan, the women’s auxiliary. Or, in later years, the ’RA itself. Better to be out there in the thick of things than sitting by the window fretting and rattling the beads. But, Brennan, a chroí, don’t be wasting your time with an oul one like me. I’ll send you on your way.”

“We’ll wait for Bronagh to return so you won’t be on your own.”

She waved that off. “They haven’t got me under twenty-four-hour surveillance. Not yet, they haven’t. You’re fine to go.” She tried to heave herself out of her bed and let loose with a string of curses when her body failed her. “Get me a piece of paper and a pen out of that drawer.” She flapped her hand impatiently at the dresser in the corner. “Top drawer.”

He opened it and found a scratch pad and a fountain pen, and handed them to his great aunt. She held the pad up before her eyes and scribbled some words, tore the page out, and gave it to Brennan. “Go see the fellow at this address. It’s on the ground floor fronting the street. Go under cover of darkness and make sure nobody sees you going there. Which, I have to tell you, will be difficult because you’ll have to rap on the window to get his attention.”

Brennan took his leave of her then, giving her a blessing before he left the house.

He took a detour to his hotel to change into civilian clothes, grabbed a chicken and stuffing sandwich at a convenience store, then walked back to Christy Burke’s. There he found his brother savouring a pint and enjoying a party with several men and women at two tables pushed together near the back of the pub. Terry kissed the hand of one of the women and offered to fly her to the moon. Or at least to Cork Airport. He would be honoured to have her as his guest in the cockpit. This gave rise to some ribald comments at the two tables about joysticks and lift-off and variations of the same.

Brennan’s uncle looked out from the bar through his dark glasses. Noting Brennan’s arrival, he announced, “Behold the Lamb of God.”

“Who taketh away the sins of the world,” Brennan replied, as he tooketh his brother by the arm and prepared to take him away.

†

As far as Brennan could tell, there were no eyes on him and Terry as they approached the block of flats on Sean MacDermott Street Upper. It was late, it was dark, and many of the apartments in the red-brick building had their lights off for the night. They had no luck trying to get buzzed in so they fell back on Rosaleen’s advice to knock on the window. After several minutes, during which they wondered if they would be nicked for loitering, a hostile-looking face appeared behind the glass. Now what? Brennan had no choice but to engage in a pantomime indicating that they wanted to have a word with the fellow. So much for remaining inconspicuous. Brennan saw a Garda car slowly making its way along Gardiner Street. But, after stopping for a few seconds, it went on its way. Eventually he and Terry were, if not welcomed, at least admitted as far as the door of the flat.

A man peered at them through the crack in his door. His left hand and foot held the door firm. His right hand remained out of sight.

“What are you doing here?”

“We’re looking for somebody,” Terry replied.

“Nobody here but me and the missus in the cot. You have the wrong address. Fuck off.” He started to shut the door.

Terry put his hand out to keep the door open, and in the next instant, Brennan saw a gun pointing at his brother’s face.

“We have the right address,” Brennan said calmly, “given to us by Rosaleen Burke McCarthy, and we do apologize for waking you.”

“You’re coming from Rosaleen?”

“We’re grandsons of Christy.”

“Ah.” The man visibly relaxed. He ran his gun hand through his hair and looked around, as if wondering whether he’d be able to accommodate two guests. He jerked his head up as if to say All right, come in.

They entered a small sitting room notable for a complete absence of any personal touches. No framed photos on the side table. Nothing on the walls.

Their host was of medium height and narrow-bodied but muscular; his dark hair was sticking up as if he had been sleeping on it. Given the late hour, he undoubtedly had been. But he was fully awake, and his dark eyes seemed to catalogue every detail of his visitors. He had a black shirt and a pair of grey gym pants on. The gun was now in his right-hand pocket.

“Sit down then. What can I do for you? Drink?”

“No, no, but go raibh maith agat,” said Brennan, perching himself on the edge of an armchair.

Terry sat forward on one of the other chairs and said nothing. Brennan had to admire the native wisdom of his brother. The normally gabby Terrence Burke had the insight to know when silence was the better part of a nocturnal visit with a gunman in the shadows.

“Rosaleen thought you might be able to help us,” Brennan said. “Give us an idea where to look. We have a nephew called Finbarr. Finbarr Sutton, and he’s gone walkabout. We have to find him.”

“Finbarr Sutton? Never heard that name.”

But Brennan thought he had detected a sign of recognition on the man’s face when he gave the name Finbarr. He thought about it and said, “Or Finbarr Burke.”

“That has a better ring to it,” the man said.

“You know who I’m talking about then.” Silence from the man. “He’s young. He has responsibilities elsewhere.”

“He may have decided, as young as he is, to rearrange his priorities.”

“In what way?”

“Putting himself at the service of others, perhaps, in times of need.”

“Where?” Brennan asked.

“Not here.”

“Where?” Brennan repeated.

“Try the Occupied Territories.”

“Could you be a little more specific?”

Brennan pulled out his pen and the paper with the Sean MacDermott Street address on it and waited.

“Give me that, for fuck’s sake.” The man snatched the paper from his hand and tore it to shreds.

Brennan reached into his jacket and the man tensed. Brennan put his hands up in a I-have-nothing-to-hide gesture. “Just getting my smokes. I’ll write on the pack.”

“You won’t need to write it because I can’t give you the location. I don’t know it. All I have is the name of a publican in Belfast, Paddy Murphy.”

“Paddy Murphy. How many of those might there be? And how many using that name when their name is really something else?”

“That’s the name.”

“Where would we find him?”

“I don’t know. Try Ardoyne. Try the Falls. Give me a fag, would you? Herself smoked my last one.”

“Here, take the pack.” Brennan handed it over. “We appreciate your help. We’ll let ourselves out.”

The man lit his cigarette and waved it at them. “Mind how you go, lads.”

When they left the building, Brennan spotted a Garda car again on Gardiner Street. This time it turned the corner and cruised past them at a crawl. They affected not to notice.