‘Daddy’s dead.’
Brendan had just woken to find his sister standing next to his bed. She was still in her Danger Mouse pyjamas, large eyes alert with the importance of her news. He stared back at her, his brain still fighting the demons of his nightmares, sensing a new onslaught of nonsense from a sibling he had little time for.
But the silent house spoke loudest.
It was past eight o’clock. Past the time when school beckoned, the air alive with the outfall of breakfast banter and clashing crockery. Could he have slept through his mother’s daily appeal for peace among her brood?
Aware of a seismic shift in his world, Brendan swung his legs out of bed and took Emma’s hand, leading her down the stairs to check the source of his sister’s news. Marion Faulkner occupied the same chair as last night, Emily sobbing on her lap. Her eyes hidden behind a mask of shock, she stretched a hand towards the pair, drawing them in to her protective fold.
*
‘Okay. What do we know?’
Knowledge was their business. The two men carried nominal military ranks of captain and major, the latter dispensing with his code name Parsifal. Their role in Northern Ireland was covert intelligence. Now they sat in an interview room in Mahon Road Barracks, a table littered with papers, notepads and pencils between them.
‘All contacts secure and accounted for, sir. No further copies.’
‘I agree. With one possible exception: the boy.’
The captain’s expression did not alter. ‘With respect, sir. I was as thorough as I could be in the time I had. It was a very sensitive situation.’
‘Agreed. But there’s one thing about the boy we didn’t know then. If Faulkner gave him a copy of the file to look after he’d have put it inside something, wouldn’t he? He’s not going to say “Here boy! Here’s a secret document I want you to keep safe, so put it under your mattress with your girly mags.” We know the boy had his eleventh birthday on the twenty-first of August. He was close to his father, so what did Faulkner give him for his birthday? Again, tell me what you saw. Was there anything that stood out as being new?’
The captain closed his eyes for a moment and concentrated. ‘The newest thing was probably one of those coloured cube toys… so that’s not it. A large water pistol, but it was transparent plastic. The only thing I can think of was… but no, it wasn’t new.’
‘No?’
‘There were scratches and old sticky labels on it. A telescope.’
*
Funerals were shite. For all his youth Brendan had experienced too many of them—two to be precise. Last year it had been his grandfather, shot dead by two masked men, and now his Da, blown up by a bomb. As the eldest child he had pride of place, walking in the wake of the hearse holding his sisters’ hands. On any other day such an act would have seemed unthinkable. Now it was the right thing to do. His duty as the man in the family. The girls held tissues to occasionally dab at their faces; Brendan held his resolve to keep tears at bay. His mother trailed behind, one arm linked with his Auntie Helen in support, sharing their private grief.
It was one of those days when the weather hovered between gloom and anger. An overcast sky spoke of spitting rain, and still heavier downpours had been forecast. A chill wind gusted in Brendan’s face as the pitiful procession turned into Garvaghy Road and the church came into view. A sprinkling of sombre-faced citizens gathered on each side, some clapping briefly as the hearse glided past. He noted a cluster of his friends from school, assembled under discreet supervision into a neat row by the church gates. The press were there too, poking their cameras and microphones past a temporary barrier erected by police officers mourning one of their own. Brendan could see at least a dozen of them now, doffing their hats in respect, strengthening his pride with that small gesture.
Two men stood among a group outside the entrance to the church. Shrouded in long black raincoats, hands thrust into pockets, they watched the Faulkner family approach. Brendan recognised the shorter of the two first: the soldier who had brought him home that night, who had searched his bedroom, who had lied about ammunition to his Ma. For a moment even his Da was forgotten while the blood seemed to freeze in his legs. His memory once more assaulted by a stranger named Peter, the Englishman in a suit. Then his senses took a further battering as he looked to the soldier’s left and met the eyes he found there. Now he remembered a knife at his throat. Now he recalled a figure unmasked and his Da spitting on the ground. Now his pants were in danger again.
‘Brendan? It’s okay. Just go on in.’ His mother’s voice and a gentle hand on his shoulder helped restore normality. They followed the priest into the sanctuary of holy ground, distanced from the crowd of strangers. ‘Thank you all for coming.’
The resilience of youth should never be underestimated, and Brendan shoved the pomp of religious ceremony to a remote corner of his brain. No way was he going to let show emotion to them. But afterwards, as the coffin bearing his Da took one path and he took another, he couldn’t wait for the seclusion of his bedroom.
There he sat in his Sunday clothes, his thoughts in knots and shoulders hunched. Staring across the room at the last present his Da had given him. That had been a special day. He could hear his voice inside his head, tried to copy it, spoke the same words out loud: Keep it safe, son. Remember DBD! There’s a secret inside. Don’t open it up. We’ll do it together at Christmas, I promise.
It didn’t sound the same. And now they would never open it together. Christmas? Forget it.
Brendan hadn’t seen those men again, but felt sure they had been looking for him. Were they after his Da’s secret? Why had one of them searched his room? Why was he with the masked man like they were friends? A man who had threatened him and his Da with a knife. Did he have anything to do with the murder? The questions piled up but the answers didn’t show. At least they distracted him from thinking about the other thing.
He could hear Emma and Emily downstairs with Ma and Auntie Helen. Girl talk. Who needed it? True, Emma had been a lot better since last week, but sometimes a man just wanted time for himself. To focus.
Through a lens.
He’d never used the telescope, but his Da had. He’d had it for years—a long white metal tube with an oddly angular black and chrome fitting at the other. It swivelled on a U-shaped bracket attached to a small tripod, which his Da said was great for looking at the moon and planets. But it had to be dark for that. Something which only happened after his bedtime.
Still daylight now but it was raining hard, and even he knew the chances of seeing the moon through a rainstorm was as likely as Father Dennis becoming Pope. So what was a guy to do? Check out the secret. He jumped off his bed to lift the telescope off the chest of drawers. It was nearly level with his chin so he grabbed it by the tripod attachment, pulling the whole assembly towards him. The sudden movement caused the telescope to swing and, to Brendan’s horror, one end dropped off.
He stood in shock. It hadn’t been loose before. Now the black-framed lens stared vacantly back from the carpet, and he was left clutching one more broken toy. He held up the open tube to see inside. Nothing. Whatever secret it had held was gone.
Downstairs in the front room, his mother and auntie occupied the sofa in a protective huddle with the girls. They’d turned on the television to see if the funeral would feature on the BBC’s Good Evening Ulster programme. Thumps and bangs from the bedroom above were not unusual, but something aroused Emma’s curiosity. She slipped away from the shelter of her auntie’s arm, reaching the bottom of the stairs just as Brendan did the same.
‘What you doing?’
‘Clearing out rubbish.’ He turned away towards the back door. But his sister’s quick eyes had already taken in the tears on his cheek, as well as the object he was carrying.
‘Daddy gave you that.’
‘Yeah, but it’s rubbish. It’s broke.’ He sniffed loudly, juggling the metal assembly into a better position to work the door handle with a free hand.
Emma followed her brother outside into the rain as he headed for the nearest bin. ‘Why’s it broke?’
‘Because those bastard Brits stole my Da’s secret. That’s why! And I bet they killed him too.’
‘You shouldn’t say bastard. It’s naughty.’
Brendan lifted the lid and thrust the bits of broken telescope into an assortment of soiled jars, cardboard and unrinsed plastic awaiting local authority disposal. Damp hair plastering his brow, he stared into the mess that reflected his whole life, oblivious to the further intrusion moistening his collar. Aware of his sister’s eyes on this personal act, he retrieved the black-framed lens and offered it up for inspection.
‘You want this? It’s yours.’
She took the precious gift and followed him back inside, slamming the door to shut out the misery of the outside world. Words from the television caught their attention, and both children stood looking at the screen from the doorway, recognising their church behind a presenter’s shoulder.
Patrick John Faulkner was killed last Tuesday night while off duty, just off Loughgall Road, outside Portadown. He was forty-three, Catholic, and the only son of Neil Patrick Faulkner, who was shot dead last year by the IRA in a raid on a bar in Lurgan.
Photos of their father, mostly in uniform, appeared on the screen. Brendan felt something fill his throat. His own image now, holding hands with Emma and Emily. Then a panning shot pulled back and showed his mother and auntie before a line of RUC officers who bowed their heads.
Mr Faulkner leaves three children to his divorced wife Marion. The family have declined to comment on the possibility of this being the work of the Provisional IRA, who are widely known to have used Semtex to carry out terrorist attacks. However, the Secretary of State for Northern Ireland, Peter Gris, had this to say.
The Parliament building at Stormont. Front and centre stood a man in a suit with a thick mane of hair and light glinting off his spectacles.
It is a sad day for Northern Ireland when a policeman is cut down for exercising his duty. Patrick Faulkner was a good man who sacrificed his life protecting others. It is no coincidence that he, and others like him…
His brain could accept no more. Brendan’s eyes and ears took in the familiar voice and features of a man who had done unspeakable things to his body. That same face once again invading his private space; the silky tones pronouncing some weird tribute to his Da; a monster who only hours ago had demanded to know his secrets. How could that be?
‘NO! You’re NOT my uncle. You shouldn’t have done that! You’re a bastard Brit AND YOU KILLED MY DA!’
Four astonished faces tore their attention from the television to the screaming eleven-year-old in front of them. They watched in shock as he snatched a black object from his sister’s hand and threw it with startling force at the image of Peter Gris that filled the screen, which immediately splintered in a small explosion of glass and arcing electricity.