Death at Christy Burke's (47 page)

As they wound their way through the city to their destination, the conversation veering from the profane to the profound to the foolish, Michael noticed that the silver car stayed with them. It followed them into St. Mary’s Place, the side street that met Mountjoy Street at the corner where Christy Burke’s was situated. There was no room for doubt. And there they were, Michael and Brennan and Leo, wearing their Roman collars for all to see, at a time when a Roman collar would be a beacon for those bent on revenge for the killing of the Protestant minister. And of the three of them, the only one with a familiar face — a well-known
Republican
face — was Leo Killeen. Leo was in the last row of the little parade, in conversation with Brennan and, as far as Michael could tell, not worrying obsessively about every vehicle in the street.

Well, Michael had no intention of staying silent for another second. He dropped back until he was level with Killeen and said, “Leo, don’t look now but there’s a car following us. It’s been with us —”

“Michael, pay it no mind. Don’t turn around. Just keep walking. It’s nothing to trouble yourself about.”

“How do you know?”

“I know.”

How could Leo feel so confident walking through the shadowy streets when the threat of sectarian violence seemed to be pressing in on them? Well, the answer was obvious, or so Michael hoped: Leo had recognized the vehicle or its occupants and knew they did not pose a threat. After all, this was Dublin, not Belfast. Michael felt the tension flowing out of him. He smiled at Kitty and Maura, who were intent on their conversation with one another; he passed them and caught up with Brennan.

They were in sight of home, Christy Burke’s pub. Warm golden light shone through the windows, and Michael could hear music. That’s right, he remembered, there was a session scheduled for tonight. He could hear a lovely version of “Macushla.” Wouldn’t a pint go down nicely right now, all of them sitting around a table, basking in the glow of friendship, and love, and the grace of God still with them after the Mass for peace.

Still, Michael was going to put his foot down. He intended to escort Kitty to her convent on this, her last night in town, to say his goodbyes and make sure he had her address and phone number in Rome. So he would not be going to the house in Stoneybatter with Leo Killeen. Therefore, Michael had orders for Leo.

He turned to Brennan. “I’ve heard enough about you and your family to know that your oul da, Declan Burke, is a forceful personality.”

“You said a mouthful there, Michael. A tough old skin is Declan.”

“And yet he takes orders from that mild-looking gentleman right there.” Michael nodded in the direction of Leo, who had stopped and was peering down the street behind them. “Is that not a fact?”

“It was. Maybe it still is! How much do we really know about what these old warriors are up to?”

“Exactly. Well, you can tell Declan next time you see him that there’s been a change of command. Leo Killeen is taking orders now, and he’s taking them from Michael O’Flaherty.”

“Is that so? What orders would these be?”

Michael and Brennan arrived at the pub and waited by the door for the others to catch up. Michael raised his voice so all could hear, as he laid down the law.

“Tonight, when we finish up here, Father Killeen will not be walking home but will be tucked safely into a taxi. If he puts up an argument, I’ll dig down into my pocket and pay the fare myself. And I shall see to it —”

The scream of tires cut off Michael’s words. Everyone looked to the sound in Mountjoy Street. A small dark car came rocketing towards them. It screeched to a halt at the corner, and the back window was rolled down. It happened so fast the group on the pavement just stood and gaped.

Leo was the first to react. He turned to the others and shouted, “Get inside!”

As so often happens to people in moments of extreme danger, time slowed down for Michael. He saw a face in the car window — two faces. He recognized them. From where? A car. He had seen them in a car before. And now Michael saw the barrel of a gun.

Michael shouted, “Leo, no!”

Leo turned to the women and cried out again, “Get inside!”

Brennan made a dive in Leo’s direction, but he was too far away to reach him.

Michael couldn’t move his legs. He was rooted to the ground in shock and fear. He saw the muzzle of the gun pointing directly at Leo.
Oh, no, please God, don’t let this happen.
Michael saw the gun move and he heard a voice from inside the car. It seemed to say, “It’s that one! Now!” A northern accent. Michael heard gunfire. Two shots. He felt something hit his forehead. The car took off.

Another vehicle roared up behind them in the side street. It was the silver car that had been tailing them. There was a squeal of brakes and a man leapt out of the passenger side. Then — another shock Michael couldn’t absorb — the man straightened up and opened fire with a machine gun. As the strains of “Macushla” wafted out into the night, the man stood in the road and kept on firing at the dark-coloured car as it vanished into the darkness in Mountjoy Street. The escaping vehicle was hit several times, but it kept on going. The man with the machine gun got back into the silver car, and it sped away in pursuit.

Something trickled into Michael’s right eye, and he wiped it away. He looked at his hand. Blood.

And then reality hit him like a shot to the heart. Kitty was on the ground, blood seeping onto the pavement from a wound in her head and another in her chest. Maura was lying on the ground with her arms around Kitty. Brennan was bending over them. People came pouring out of Christy Burke’s even as the song went on inside. Someone said the guards were on their way. Michael stood there, his world blasted to pieces. How could Brennan and Maura both be at Kitty’s side while Michael was still standing there, useless?

Leo Killeen was alone in the road, his face white as a shroud. “God forgive me, it should have been me. They went for her. They had me, and they went for her.” He moved towards Kitty. “Let me see her, Brennan. Move out of the way.”

Michael saw that Maura had opened Kitty’s blouse and was applying a garment of some kind to try to staunch the bleeding. Leo looked at the head wound and then gently pulled Maura away. It was no use.

Leo turned to Michael, who was still standing there, catatonic.

“Michael, I heard them say ‘it’s that one.’ I’m thinking they recognized her from the Mass with the tanks in South Armagh. The television or the newspaper photos. They must have made a split-second calculation, that this, gunning down a woman, would cause more pain than the loss of a Republican priest. And the Republican priest would have to live with it for the rest of his days. It should have been me.”

Michael heard sirens wailing, coming closer.

Then Finn Burke was on the scene. He shouted to Leo, “The car’s abandoned up the road. They had another car waiting. They got away. For now.”

Only then did Michael realize it had been Finn Burke following them from the Pro in the silver car, watching their backs. It had been Finn Burke standing in the street in front of his pub firing a machine gun at the killers as they fled.

Michael stared at Kitty on the pavement. One hand looked as if it was reaching. Reaching for Michael? But he knew better; she had been shot in the head. All thought, all personality, all the earthly life of Kitty Curran had been extinguished by the time she hit the ground. It was unbearable to contemplate. It broke his heart.

Brennan Burke had warned him, Leo Killeen had warned him. Both men knew how misplaced was Michael’s determined optimism. They knew all too well how the unfinished history of their beloved country could erupt any minute, bringing devastation in its wake. Leo’s words came back to him, about the Civil War, “Someone fundamental to your world was gone from the world in an instant.” Michael thought he had understood. But he had understood nothing, until this moment. This is what it was like: the Troubles, then and now.

He saw Brennan comforting Maura. Or was it the other way around? Was she comforting him? He looked at Michael, then gave Maura a little nudge.
Go to Michael, a man even more in need of a woman’s consolation.
She came towards him, her face streaked with tears, her clothing soaked with Kitty’s blood. She, too, needed consoling. They all did. But there was no consolation.

There was only loss and pain and grief, of a ferocity Michael would not have thought possible. For the first time in his life, he felt utterly forsaken. How could a loving God allow this to happen, allow a woman who had served Him all her life to be annihilated by people who were unworthy to speak her name? But even in extremis, Michael counselled himself against such thoughts: every life was precious, every killing was unjustified, every murder was committed by man, not God. That’s what Michael told himself. But God seemed very remote to him as he stood in the blood-stained Dublin street and saw what was left of the woman he loved.

Michael’s life would resume, he knew. But he could not imagine how: he had no desire to take another breath, to take another step, to hear another song.

Macushla! Macushla! Your red lips are saying

That death is a dream and love is for aye

Then awaken Macushla, awake from your dreaming

My blue-eyed Macushla, awaken to stay.

I would like to thank the following people for their kind assistance: Rhea McGarva, Joan Butcher, Joe A. Cameron, Barbara Fradkin, Edna Barker, and, as always, PJEC.

In addition to my own personal research in the pubs of Dublin, Derry, and Ballybofey, I am indebted to Kevin C. Kearns for his comprehensive and fascinating examination of the history of Dublin pubs, in
Dublin Pub Life & Lore: An Oral History
(Niwot: Roberts Rinehart, 1997), first published in Ireland by Gill & Macmillan Ltd.

All characters and plots in the story are fictional, with the exception of some historical references. Endastown is a made-up town. Christy Burke’s is a fictional pub, as is the unfriendly pub Michael enters in the North. All other pubs are real. Any liberties taken in the interests of fiction, or any errors committed, are mine alone.

ANNE EMERY is a graduate of St. F.X. University and Dalhousie Law School. She has worked as a lawyer, legal affairs reporter, and researcher. She lives in Halifax, Nova Scotia, with her husband and daughter. The other books in the Collins-Burke mystery series are
Sign of the Cross
, winner of the 2007 Arthur Ellis Award for Best First Novel;
Obit
(2007);
Barrington Street Blues
(2008);
Cecilian Vespers
(2009); and
Children in the Morning
(2010), winner of the Dartmouth Book Award for Fiction and a silver medal from the Independent Publisher Book Awards.

Praise for
Children in the Morning

“This sixth Monty Collins book by Halifax lawyer Emery is the best of the series. It has a solid plot, good characters, and a very strange child who has visions.” —
Globe and Mail

“Not since Robert K. Tanenbaum’s Lucy Karp, a young woman who talks with saints, have we seen a more poignant rendering of a female child with unusual powers.” —
Library Journal

“Emery paints a poignant portrait of a girl burdened by information she was never supposed to have, and of a tormented man who, at the most critical juncture, realizes that mounting a proper defence requires fumbling around in some very dark corners.” —
Quill & Quire

Praise for
Barrington Street Blues

“The yin-yang of Monty and Maura, from cruel barbs to tender moments, is rendered in occasionally hilarious but mostly heartbreaking fashion. Emery makes it easy to root for Monty, who solves not only the mystery that pays the bills, but also the one that tugs at his heart.” —
Quill & Quire

“Anne Emery has given readers so much to feast upon . . . The core of characters, common to all three of her novels, has become almost as important to the reader as the plots. She is becoming known for her complexity and subtlety in her story construction. . . .
Barrington Street Blues
should earn Anne Emery the right to fly first class from now on.” —
The Chronicle-Herald

“This is a wonderful yarn, full of amazingly colourful characters, dialogue that sweeps across the pages like a tsunami, a story that will keep you reading late into the night, and a plot as devious as a lawyer’s mind.” —
Waterloo Region Record

Praise for
Obit

“Emery tops her vivid story of past political intrigue that could destroy the present with a surprising conclusion.” —
Publishers Weekly

“Strong characters and a vivid depiction of Irish American life make Emery’s second mystery (in a projected trilogy) as outstanding as her first. The Irish Catholic flavor is reminiscent of Robert Daley’s books and will appeal to his fans.” —
Library Journal
, starred review

“Emery has concocted an interesting plot . . . Her depiction of the gregarious Burke clan rings true . . . it is a pleasure to spend time with them.” —
Quill & Quire

Praise for
Sign of the Cross

“A complex, multilayered mystery that goes far beyond what you’d expect from a first-time novelist.” —
Quill & Quire

“This startlingly good first novel by a Halifax writer well-versed in the Canadian court system is notable for its cast of well-drawn characters and for a plot line that keeps you feverishly reading to the end. Snappy dialogue, a terrific feel for Halifax, characters you really do care about, and a great plot make this one a keeper.” —
Waterloo Region Record

“Anne Emery has produced a stunning first novel that is at once a mystery, a thriller, and a love story.
Sign of the Cross
is well written, exciting, and unforgettable.” —
The Chronicle-Herald