Henry Joy’s was a typical working class Belfast pub, and as such shared many of the facets of similar establishments in the North of England.
A large screen showing sports events, pool tables, gaming machines, dart board – it was set up for live Irish traditional music and karaoke later that evening.
The only significant differences from other hostelries were the framed declaration of Irish independence, the portraits of The United Irishmen and the Glasgow Celtic flags that adorned the walls.
As with most bars and clubs in the northern and western suburbs of segregated Belfast, it never took long to ascertain which side of the fence you found yourself on.
The pub was relatively quiet when they entered.
Just two or three men dotted around the place, variously sipping pints of porter or lager and studying the racing form.
The barman acknowledged Anne right away.
“Hi Patsy,” she called. “Two coffees please.”
Eban could see Patsy and a couple of the customers clock him.
Anne noticed this too and flushed a little.
She had never been in here before with any man other than her brother.
If only they knew what brought her here now with this unkempt, dishevelled-looking stranger. She steered her way through the tables to the back of the bar where it was dark and quiet, save for the rain beating down on the flat roof over their heads.
Patsy arrived at the table with the coffees.
“Do you think I could get a whiskey?” asked Eban “A Bushmills?”
“We’ve Powers and we’ve Jameson’s,” announced Patsy gruffly.
Eban, realising his faux pas, bit his lip. “Anything’s fine, thanks.”
He looked at Anne. “You don’t mind, do you? It’s been a hell of a few days.”
He could see that she was studying him again. “Look, Mr Barnard… this isn’t a social occasion,” she chided. “Say what you came to say and I’ll be on my way.”
Eban Barnard proceeded to recount the whole story from start to finish, omitting only those details surrounding the incident with Joe that he felt were too much for his sister to hear.
At no time did Anne Breslin interrupt or request clarification.
She simply sat there listening, the only indication of emotion being when her eyes grew wider here and there at some detail or other. But she kept any strong feelings she might have had held firmly in check.
Eban related the incidents in a completely different manner to how he had done with Detective Inspector Watson.
After holding on to his secret for so many years, he had now recounted it to two strangers in almost as many days.
When he spoke to Anne he did so cognisant of the fact that he was speaking to Joe Breslin’s sister.
To a proxy for Joe himself.
He found that it came out easier.
He found that for once, this was not about him.
*
When he had finished they sat in silence for a long while. Both simply staring at the table in front of them whilst the slot machines whirred and bleeped quietly across the bar.
When she eventually spoke he was surprised by what she said.
“And what happened to Sinéad and Ruairí?”
It had not been the reaction he’d expected, and it threw him somewhat.
He had just told this woman that he had witnessed her brother’s terrible assault, that his own brother had been responsible, that his own carelessness led directly to that brother’s murder and that the police might even now be colluding in covering the whole thing up.
And yet she had inquired only about the well-being of others.
Strangers she had never met.
This woman’s compassion was heartening.
She had come here with him – a man unknown to her – to hear his story and without judgement. Now she seemed to show understanding for the blighted lives of these two young outsiders.
“It doesn’t end well,” Eban sighed.
“That’s been my experience,” she said wearily and with a half-smile.
He saw how it instantly changed her face.
“When I tried telling Ruairí what had happened – about Anto leaving I mean – he was adamant we keep it from Sineád.
‘I’m going out after him… it’s me they want,’ he said.
“I grabbed his arm. ‘What would that achieve? You can’t… Anto made me promise not to let you go.’”
“Ruairí just said that he didn’t believe me; said it wasn’t Anto’s style.
“I asked him not to go, for Sineád’s sake… for the sake of the child. He laughed at that.
‘I believe, Mr Barnard, the polite terminology is cuckold. Although around here we just say, cheating wee whore,’ he explained.
“Some things made more sense to me after that of course, but in case I didn’t get it, he added, ‘Well, when you’re buying your girl chocolates and your best mate’s fucking her it kinda puts a different perspective on things…’”
Anne Breslin looked uncomfortable with the language Eban was using, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Why did he go along with it?” she asked.
“That’s what I said,” cried Eban. “‘If you knew, why were you going through with the wedding; why were you all playing out this… this… charade?’
‘Less people get hurt that way,’ he said. ‘Things can stay the way they were.’
‘And the baby…?’ I asked him.
‘It’s Anto’s of course… we never mentioned it, but I’m sure he knew that I knew. Anyway, that’s why he’s out there now… some fucked-up mea culpa…’
‘No… it’s more than that – he… loves you… like a brother,” I told him.
“Ruairí laughed at me. ‘Ha! Like the older brother I never had. Except I did of course… didn’t I, Eban?’ He told me he remembered the first time he noticed – really noticed – it was a Halloween party. ‘The big ejit went in a white sheet with Brussels sprouts stuck all over it…’
Eban smiled. “I remember Ruairí was laughing now as he was telling me.
‘He went as a snotty handkerchief of course. She went as a little devil… even had horns and a tail. God… she looked like sex on legs… stunning, ya know? As usual… at the centre of everything… she can’t help that, it’s just her way; she drinks in the attention, but she uses it to manipulate people… In a way I don’t blame her – don’t blame Anthony either; he just can’t keep it zipped up… never could. They were dancing together… more than usual… something between them – of course, the more he drank, the louder he got.What are you doing with him? You should be with me – innocent enough really, but there was something more in it… he’s such a fucking competitor where women are concerned, you know? She never meant anything to me; he means more to me than any of that… he’s my mate. He’s worth ten of her.’
“I told him that Anto wanted them both to make a go of it across the water, with the kid… I think he saw it as the best end to all of this,” said Eban.
“Sineád came back in about then… she’d been sleeping. ‘God, I went out like a light and still feel exhausted… where is everybody? Where’s the Italian scallion?’ she asked.
“Ruairí gave me a look. ‘He’s gone,’ he said.
“She got a bit alarmed. ‘Gone? How can he be gone… gone where?’
“Ruairí gave me that look again. ‘Sly bastard,’ he told her. ‘Made arrangements with Conor McVey and Eban here to slip out with a few of the FAIT ones, to… where, Eban… Scotland?’
“I picked up the thread of course. ‘Scotland, yes…’ – Ayr, I think I said. All set up… best to do it this way… easier to go unnoticed.
“She was clearly hurt. ‘But he never said anything… never said goodbye…’
‘You know what he’s like, Sineád: does what he wants, when he wants,’ Ruairí told her.
‘Just need to get you, Ruairí and the baby out the same way,’ I added.
“He glared at me. ‘That’s still to be agreed.’
‘Then let’s get it agreed,’ she said. ‘We can always send for Anto when we get settled, isn’t that right Eban…?’
‘I don’t see why not,’ I told her. Well, what could I say?
“She seemed pleased at this. Like it was over at last. ‘D’ya hear that Ruairí: Eban agrees. Look, they’ve won, Ruairí… they always win. Leave it be… let it go… nobody cares. They’ve won.’
“Ruairí wasn’t having any of it. ‘I care,’ he said. ‘There’s a dishonourable tradition of Connollys taking the boat, for as far back as you want to go. Frankie went there; he was just about my age… he was gonna be somethin’. Losing yourself in the drink and the songs… we’re all monsters to them anyway; you know about that, right Eban?’
“I felt like I was being pulled back and forward between them. Each wanted me on their side.”
Eban took a drink from his glass and swished around the remainder in the bottom.
“Sineád wasn’t listening to either of us. She’d gone to the window and pulled back the blind. She seemed to be smiling… talking to herself. ‘Anto, you cute hoor… I might have guessed…’
“We’d all said it so many times by then that it just came out automatically.
‘Sineád, come away from the window.’
‘It’s getting light,’ she said. ‘The moon is hiding… the stars are hiding too…’
“All Ruairí said was, ‘Jesus… I could go a pint.’
“I remember she looked straight at him. ‘You never see the sky anymore, Ruairí – you’ve always got your baseball cap pulled down—’
“It happened so quickly after that. Suddenly, high and to her right, there was the crash of broken glass and a thud. I looked down and saw the red snooker ball roll across the floor in a little arc and come to rest against her foot. She bent down to pick it up and held it up to show us. She tilted her head in curiosity… the way a child might do…”
Eban could see from Anne Breslin’s face that she knew what was coming.
“We both screamed at her: ‘GET AWAY FROM THE WINDOW!’ but it was too late. Just as she realised the danger, the window exploded all around her, showering her with broken glass and snooker balls. I’ll never forget the image of her raising her hands to protect herself and the baby… never.”
“Merciful Jesus,” whimpered Anne.
“‘Anthony!’ she screamed. ‘Anthony!’”
Eban shook his head at the memory. “I never told any of that to the police, you know… it’s nobody’s business but their own.”
As he drained his third whiskey, Anne Breslin could see that this man was suffering.
Would probably suffer for the rest of his life.
The bar was filling up with evening punters, many of whom could not resist a look in the couple’s direction, eager to see Anne Breslin’s new man.
“I need to get back to my mother and our Joe,” said Anne.
“And will you tell him you met me… that we talked?”
“Look Mr Barnard, I can’t promise you anything. He’s been in a terrible state since them policemen called… keeps going on about somebody called ‘Fish’.”
At first it didn’t register with Eban.
He was crestfallen that despite everything, Joe Breslin’s sister might still yet not seek absolution on his behalf.
Then it hit him. “What… what did you just say?”
“That I can’t promise you—”
“No, not that – that name: Fish.”
“What about it?”
“I’ve only ever heard it used once before: on the night that they… hurt your brother.”
Anne Breslin went ashen. “You can’t mean… you don’t believe he was here today…with our Joe… oh my God!” She put her hand up to her mouth in alarm.
“Do you know anyone of that name?”
She wasn’t listening. Her mind was in turmoil. “Is he a policeman as well, like your brother?”
“I don’t know… it could be nothing. Maybe just a coincidence.”
She stood up, knocking against the table, making it squeal across the floor as she pushed her seat back. “I have to get back to him. Oh my God, poor Joe!”
Eban was concerned that he had distressed her. “I want to help if I can.”
“Haven’t you done enough, bringing all this back to our door?”
Eban had been trawling the dark recesses of his memory for things deliberately abandoned there.
Compartmentalised.
Ignored, because to do otherwise was to return to that night.
To the pub.
In the dark.
Listening to Joe Breslin’s screams.
He thought of Alex’s many friends.
A braying, cart horse of a young man with bad skin and wild yellow hair.
Anne turned to go, then stopped abruptly and raised a hand as if divining something from the atmosphere around her.
“Wait… I work in the City Hall; there’s a Councillor Henning… Hemingway… something thing like that. I think I’ve heard people call him—”
“Herringshaw,” Eban said. “His name is Cecil Herringshaw. People call him Fish.”