Monty
Monty had spent Saturday afternoon and evening with Maura and the children, and they enjoyed treats and games and had a fine old time. He had been issued a notice that a number of his fellow lawyers would be meeting to take in a late-night session of traditional music at Morrisons bar, but he told Maura he would decline the invitation and stay home. She, however, urged him to go. His time as a solicitor in Belfast might feel endless to him, but he really had less than two more months here, and he might as well enjoy his new friendships while he could. So he hiked over to Morrisons and got in on the party. As a consequence — actions have consequences, my son — he was a little slow getting himself motivated, or even out of bed, on Sunday morning. His spouse, ever understanding, had left their bed with the words, “No point in trying to haul your sorry arse out into the land of the living, so I won’t even try.” He had fallen back asleep but now he heard her voice again, from the other side of the bedroom door. She kept repeating the same two words over and over.
“Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.”
He bolted from the bed, yanked the door open, and saw Maura staring down in horror at the Sunday paper. Her face was grey. He moved to her side and read the headlines.
Ronan Burke and Barman Shot Outside Pub
Ronan Burke, well-known Andersonstown Republican, was shot at 8:35 last evening outside the Banned Flag pub on the Falls Road. Sources at the Royal Victoria Hospital would not give any details of his condition except to say that it is “serious.” James MacColgan, 24, barman at the Banned Flag, was wounded in the shoulder; he was treated in hospital and released. A priest with Mr. Burke, believed to be a relation, attended to the fallen man, as did staff of the Banned Flag until police and ambulance services arrived.
Priest. Lots of priests around, but Monty knew it was Brennan Burke. Maura wasted no time wondering who it was. She knew.
“Hospital?” Maura asked, making an obvious effort to keep her voice steady. “Or should we call Ronan’s family first? No, we can’t add to their distress.”
“Hospital,” Monty replied.
He got himself washed and dressed in five minutes, then conscripted a neighbourhood woman, with whom he had become friendly, to take care of the children along with her own three. She had heard about the shooting and assured him he could take all the time he needed. Then he was at the wheel of the car with Maura beside him.
“Do you know where the hospital is, or should we ask —”
“Just off the Falls Road,” he told her. “Brennan pointed it out.”
Maura opened the paper and read the rest of the article. “Witnesses who declined to be named said a device was thrown into the pub just before the shooting; it was later identified as a smoke bomb. The witnesses say they saw a car speed away from the bar and travel east on the Falls Road. The shooting occurred outside, behind the building, reportedly as people evacuated the premises after the smoking device was thrown inside.”
“Jesus Christ,” Monty said, “they ran right into the trap. That was probably on Ronan’s mind even as he was leaving the building.”
“I’m sure it was. But when something’s thrown into a bar in Belfast and starts to smoke, what else are you going to do but hightail it out of there?”
“Exactly. You know you’re running a risk either way. A bomb or a hail of bullets.”
“Please, please, God, let him be all right!” Maura prayed.
Monty echoed the plea, silently, then asked, “What else does it say, anything?”
“At press time there had been no arrests, but an RUC spokesman said the police are following several leads. Mr. Burke is understood to have been, at one time, adjutant, or second in command, of the Provisional IRA’s Belfast Brigade. Recently, however, he has been an outspoken advocate of laying down arms and following a peaceful and constitutional path to resolution of the conflict. It has been speculated that he may play a prominent role if and when new governing institutions are established.”
There was no need to state the obvious: that not everybody was ready to lay down arms.
“Another headline on the front page: ‘Fragile ceasefire: will it hold?’ They’ve got quotes from various factions saying the ceasefire hasn’t been broken. It will hold.”
The traffic crawled along, stopped and started, and Monty fought down the urge to swerve out and pass. The air in the car virtually crackled with tension. But finally they arrived.
They knew they could not just walk in and see Ronan so they spoke to the nurse on duty, who directed them to a waiting area where the family were gathered. They found the two sons sitting on plastic chairs, knee to knee in intense conversation, oblivious to the newcomers. Gráinne was hunched over in her chair with a set of rosary beads in her hands. She got up when she saw Monty and Maura and came towards them. Her face was grim. Oh, God.
“Gráinne, we are so sorry,” Monty said. “What’s the word? How’s Ronan?”
“He had three bullets in him. He’s had surgery. He lost a lot of blood. Of course he’s still knocked out . . .”
Monty wasn’t about to ask where the wounds were or what the doctors had said. But Gráinne continued her report, “They told me one bullet went through the outside of his left thigh, and that will heal. But two bullets ‘perforated’ the bowel. That says to me ‘ripped through.’ But they operated on him. They said the bullets didn’t hit the liver or a major artery . . . They tried to sound reassuring, but they always do, don’t they?”
Maura put her arms around the distraught woman and said, “We’re with you all the way, Gráinne, as you know.”
“I know, Maura, thank you. Brennan was here, saying prayers and . . . prayers interspersed with curses. He’s gone for a bit of a walkabout. He’ll be back soon, I imagine.”
“We’ll just wait over there for him.” Monty pointed to a line of chairs farther up the corridor. He didn’t want to crowd the family.
“He’ll be needing a bite to eat, Brennan will. He’s been with us all night.”
Monty and Maura moved off and sat without speaking. Brennan appeared a few minutes later. His face was white, his white collar smeared with blood.
They got up and walked to him. Maura embraced him. “I don’t know what to say to you in this situation, Brennan.”
He sounded a little hoarse, a little weary, but he came up with a response. “I can’t help you with that. The etiquette here is a little different from what you’re accustomed to in the peaceable kingdom of Canada. The word ‘ceasefire’ has shades of meaning here, as well.”
A nurse came by then, and Brennan recognized her. He said, “How is he doing, Sarah, really?”
“He received some serious wounds, Father, but he got through the surgery.”
To Monty that sounded as if there had been some doubt that he would get through it.
The nurse said, “We’re all looking forward to a good outcome. And this is the best place for him, to make that happen.” It was well known that, for obvious reasons, the hospitals in Belfast were world leaders in the treatment of gunshot wounds.
The nurse went on her rounds. Monty heard the woop-woop and nee-naw sounds of emergency vehicles outside; another in the long line of catastrophes.
“Have you had anything to eat lately, Brennan?” Maura asked.
“Hospital food.”
“So you’ve had something.”
“I said hospital food, darlin’. That means no, I didn’t touch anything on offer in this place.”
“Right. So let’s get some nourishment into you.”
They headed out onto the Falls Road, found a café serving breakfast, and had the full Ulster fry. That would keep anyone going for the day. Brennan recounted the events of the night before and then returned to his vigil at the Royal Victoria.
Brennan
Brennan walked back to the hospital and sat down beside Gráinne. She looked the way he felt, utterly exhausted. She said, “The doctors told me they got the bullets out and said there were no unforeseen complications. Whatever they meant by that.”
That, in Brennan’s mind, left a whole lot unsaid; surely there were complications that a medical team in Belfast might regard as foreseeable. How had Ronan fared with those? But he didn’t have time to speculate further because he saw two men coming towards them. They were in plain clothes but you’d make them as peelers anywhere in the Western world. Here, that meant the Royal Ulster Constabulary.
“Mrs. Burke?”
“Yes.”
“I am Detective Inspector Arnold and this is Detective Sergeant Williams. We spoke to Mr. Burke when he was brought in here last night, but of course he was going in and out of consciousness. We’d like to have another quick word if we might. We know this is difficult. But is he . . . is he awake?”
“He’s only after having surgery, so . . .”
“All right. We’ll wait outside for a bit in case he wakes up soon.”
They turned their eyes on Brennan, and there was nothing for it but to make the introductions.
“Ah, yes, Father Burke. We were planning to speak with you today as well. Would now be convenient?”
“Certainly. Let’s go down that way.” He pointed down the corridor.
When they were out of sight of the family, DI Arnold said, “We’d like you to take us through the events as they unfolded last night.”
He told them everything he remembered, from the time they left the house to the harrowing moment when the shots rang out. But he simply could not provide any identifying information about the man or men who had opened fire on his cousin behind the Banned Flag bar.
Inspector Arnold expressed wishes for a swift recovery for Ronan and left Brennan a card with contact information on it. He asked Brennan to ring him if he remembered anything, however insignificant it might seem. Brennan assured him that he would. Arnold and Williams went back to check in with Gráinne. Brennan stood there after the police had left, reliving the horror of watching Ronan fall to the ground, of probing him for signs of life, of knowing that someone out there in the darkness wanted his cousin dead.