Back Home in Derry, page 10
‘Was he attacked?’ Dan asked through a mouthful of chocolate wheaten he was unable to resist, despite being still full of breakfast.
The inspector shook his head. ‘We don’t think so. He cracked his head when he fell, there was no sign of or any reports of a scuffle.’ He drained his coffee. ‘No, Barry was known to our patrolmen. He did get agitated when on the booze, which was frequently. Throwing stones at police cars, smashing windows. He was shot in the head while serving with a peacekeeping force in the Lebanon and never really recovered.’
‘But why attack the theatre and our daughter? And where did he get the grenade?’
‘Two of many questions we have no answers to, Mrs Delaney. We are working on it. Obviously, someone gave him the grenade, but that may not indicate any organised intent. Goodness knows, there has been enough illegal ordnance around the city from the years of IRA activity. We are almost certain your daughter was not a target, except for one anomaly.’
He offered them more coffee, they declined, he refilled his cup. He looked like he needed it. The bags under his eyes had expanded overnight and the blotches on his cheeks were also enlarging. His eyes remained lively. He spooned in several heaped teaspoons of sugar and stirred it, blinking. They waited.
‘Yes,’ he said, tapping the spoon against his teeth. ‘Your daughter told us about her failure to find any family records in Derry, and why she is here with Mr McBride. What we did pick up on your little video, Mrs Delaney, was one of the crowd just before the explosion. I’ve had it blown up. I grant you it’s murky. Do you know who that is?’
Dan joined Jas scrutinizing the blurred shape of a tall man with a familiar black curly hair bush. He was turning away as if he knew the camera was there and he did not want to be recognized.
Jas looked at Dan. ‘He looks like somebody we met recently in Ballykilty.’
‘Tommy Docherty,’ Dan volunteered.
‘Hmm, that is not the name we know him by. Patrick Gallagher didn’t always have such a head of hair, not when he was suspected of being connected with violent IRA actions in Derry and Belfast. At the very least he is a known associate of a terrorist. He is still on a watch list but has not been sighted in a decade.’
‘You think he set up this attack on our daughter?’ Jas said indignantly. ‘Frankly, that’s absurd.’
‘Really? And why is that so?’
‘When we met him, if it is this Gallagher fellow,’ Dan said while Jas was composing a reply, ‘he was a harmless mechanic. He sang with a band.’
‘What sort of songs?’
‘I imagine you know that already, inspector,’ Jas said. ‘Patriot songs console the grief-stricken, they do not necessarily incite violence.’
‘Perhaps not. But we would like to know what he was doing at the scene. And whether he played any part in steering Shanahan into this act.’
‘We have no idea,’ Jas said. ‘He didn’t know our daughter. We enjoyed his company,’ she added, looking at Dan. ‘The few times we met. He was helpful with our car accident.’
The inspector looked at them both. ‘Accident?’
‘A juvenile joyrider,’ Dan said. ‘Nicked our car. Tommy, or whatever his name is, he fixed it. And he sang damn well.’
‘What about a Miss Claire Kelly? Did your mechanic ever mention her?’
‘No,’ Jas said. ‘He was standing in for their usual singer, but that was not her name. Dana, I think. Do you remember, Daniel?’
Dan shook his head. ‘All we know is that the local priest gave her a lift up north. Her mother was dying. Although …’
‘What seemed to worry my husband,’ Jas interrupted, ‘was how Tommy knew we were coming to Dublin. I suspect now he heard it from the priest. It wasn’t a secret.’
‘That could be useful,’ the inspector said. ‘Patrick Gallagher was close to Claire Kelly. The problem is, according to our informant, and at least in part corroborated by you, she was going back to Belfast. And Patrick comes here. I think we are missing something. Meantime, just to be on the side of caution, could I prevail upon you to stay at the safe house for a few more days?’
Jas looked at Dan. ‘We do have a business appointment here with my husband’s son in a little over a week’s time. Meantime we hoped to see some of the sights. The horse show, Dublin Castle, St Patrick’s Cathedral, this Martello Tower.’
‘The Guinness brewery,’ Dan added. ‘The Leprechaun Museum. That sort of thing.’
‘And I am sure you will. But can you give us a few days grace. There was enough of a concerted effort about this to concern us. Given the Northern Irish component, both Gallagher and Miss Kelly, and the background of Mr McBride as a serving soldier in the British Army during the Troubles in Belfast, the situation clearly needs more investigation. Somebody has to be pulling the strings. We regard Mr Shanahan as a casualty of all this. We don’t want any more deaths.’
‘Of course not,’ Dan agreed.
I regret the necessity,’ the inspector said. ‘I am sure you want to get to the bottom of it too.’
‘Very well,’ Jas said, standing. ‘Can you now take us to my daughter and Mr McBride.’
‘Yes, I can arrange that,’ the inspector said, moving over to a desk and picking up a phone.
5Dublin Down
Dan’s first sight of Jack McBride was a shape lying awkwardly on his side against several large pillows. The curtains were drawn, the lighting subdued. The room was warm and there was only a sheet covering him, beneath which Dan could see the bulging outline of dressings. The nurse was whispering to his wife and daughter about the need to keep the meeting brief and not ply him with questions. Mr McBride has a severe concussion, an exacerbation of an old knee injury and second-degree burns to his back. Resting against the side of the bed was the dommyknocker.
The middle-aged nurse excused herself, saying there was an emergency, and don’t stress the patient. It was Ali who was stressed. Jas whispered to Dan that she would take her outside.
‘I’m no deaf,’ the patient said indignantly. ‘And no need to be whisperin’ as if we’re in kirk.’
Dan pulled a chair up to the bed of a gaunt man in his 40s with tidy grey hair and deep vertical lines down the sides of his mouth. He looked like death warmed up. Dan could see the sharp ridges of his shoulders and the skeletal outline of his body beneath the sheet. Half his head was bandaged, his face pale as a parsnip. He introduced himself and Dan said they would be eternally grateful for his swift action shielding their daughter.
‘Me and all, mate,’ he said, his energetic mix of fast Irish accent and Pommie public school the strongest part of him. ‘I’d have copped that grenade too.’
‘Just as well you had your dommyknocker, eh?’ Dan said, leaning sideways, feeling his back protest, tilting his glasses into focus.
‘Aye,’ McBride grunted. ‘Not heard the old shillelagh called that. The nurse told me they’re known as a leprechaun’s club down here. Came in handy, sure.’
‘So why have you got it if I might ask?’
‘My uncle loaned it to me after my accident,’ he said. ‘He reckoned it trumped a walking stick and was handy “to smite mine enemies”, which must be a Biblical quote. That was half my life ago. I wouldna be here without it. I’ll have to give it back, eventually. Uncle is very proud of his cudgel, and I appreciate now with good reason. Says it has served well the first male in many generations of the family.’
Dan swallowed the thought he owed that bastard for providing the club, or indeed for anything. ‘I knew your uncle. Ages ago.’
‘Really?’ he said, struggling to ease himself up on an elbow. ‘How is that?’
‘Dad?’
Dan looked up as Jas joined his daughter. ‘Didn’t you hear what the nurse said?’
‘Oi!’ Jack objected. ‘I’m here too, you know. Daniel’s just told me he knew my uncle. Small world, sure.’
‘Can we do anything?’ Ali asked, as he began tilting out of bed and put his hand out, grasping the thick head of the shillelagh.
‘I’m fine,’ he said, steadying himself with the club. ‘See, multi-purpose, your dommy-whatever.’
‘Daniel,’ Jas said, ‘I think we best leave Mr McBride to rest. The nurse did say.’
‘Come on?’ Jack protested. ‘I’ve got a sore head and a few bumps and blisters, and I’ve cracked my dicky knee again. I’m not at death’s door. Pull up a chair and let Daniel finish what he was telling me about my uncle.’
‘Excuse me,’ the nurse said briskly from the door. ‘Can I ask you to leave now. It’s time to check on Mr McBride’s back.’
‘Friggin nurses,’ Jack muttered. ‘Come back, Daniel, and finish the story. I need more than a bandage change. I’m bored stiff lying here.’
‘I heard that,’ the nurse said as the Delaneys moved aside. ‘Better bored than permanently stiff, wouldn’t you agree, Mr McBride?’
‘Nice one, Janice,’ Jack said. ‘I could fall for you, you keep talking dirty.’
‘Idiot,’ she said, closing the door on them.
The police driver was at reception, chatting to the receptionist. He nodded as they approached.
‘Back to the reservation,’ he said.
‘Prison, more like,’ Dan said.
‘Don’t be difficult, Daniel. The constable is just doing his job.’
‘That’s okay, ma’am. I’ve had worse duty.’
The three Delaneys piled in the back. Ali hugged an arm apiece. ‘I’m so sorry you had to get involved in all this carry-on. But it’s over now and I haven’t had a chance to say how great it is to see you both. Nothing yet about the Delaney rellies, dad, I haven’t had time, and Jack is the only good thing to come from the McBride side. You seemed to be getting on with him.’
‘We have different words for the club, but whatever you call it, that informal hockey stick was a lifesaver.’
‘And the way Jack used it, dad. It’s a long time since he was a soldier, but nothing wrong with his reactions.’
‘He runs the Derry farm, doesn’t he? Probably keeps him fit.’
‘He’s got a manager for that, mum. He uses the stick to get around.’
‘Big place?’
‘Landed gentry stuff, run-down castle, paddocks as far as the eye can see. He wants to suggest changes to do with what we think happened to your ancestors, dad, but can’t at present.’
‘His uncle?’
‘Yes. He’s convalescing in Belfast after a hip operation. And due back any day now. If you want to meet him, I’m sure it’s no problem. But first let’s try archives here, see if we can find any records on the McBrides.’
‘When we get out of detention.’
The driver glanced quickly at him in the rear-view mirror. ‘I’m sure it won’t be long, sir. Inspector Murphy says he’s making progress.’
The inspector was waiting for them at the Sandycove dining table. He told Alice he was delighted she was up and about and none the worse for the unfortunate incident. ‘Help yourselves,’ he added, nodding at tea and coffee and another plate of chocolate digestive biscuits. While Dan eyed the biscuits, Jas said she and Ali were off to powder noses.
‘Touch early for lunch,’ the inspector said, pointing Dan to a seat opposite him. ‘I do have an update regarding who may have been directing the unfortunate Barry Shanahan. Anonymous, regrettably.’
‘Really?’ Dan managed through a mouthful of these incredible biscuits; he made a mental note to ask who made them.
‘We got a tip-off about the likelihood of an incident at the Abbey.’
‘Too late to stop it. Even if it was obviously why you were so quickly on the scene.’
‘Quite so. There was no mention of a grenade, just a muffled call that somebody with a cultural grievance was planning to attack the theatre.’
‘Can you trace the call?’
‘It came from a public phone box not far from the station. Not much help.’
‘Doesn’t sound like any of Barry’s mates, calling the police.’
‘Not in their present condition. But before the boozing began, one of them could have rung. Some of them were professionals, educated men, before they succumbed to the demon drink. We understand Shanahan was an actor on the books at the Abbey. His acting never took off, we were told. The only thing he was known for was denouncing the British occupiers. His brain such as it was tended to dwell in the distant past.’
‘I know it sounds something of a stretch,’ Dan said. ‘But it could have been Shanahan himself made the call, given he had some experience of acting.’
The inspector shrugged. ‘Yes, it’s possible, but that is, like any other theory, simply speculation. I have had these displaced fellas questioned. Waste of time. They don’t remember anything about anything. We are not their mates, to put it mildly. They clam up at the very sight of the garda, sure. We have our techies working on the recording of the message, trying to winkle out any clue to the origins of the voice. To me it sounded cod “Oirish”, maybe a hint of Northern Irish. We’ll let you know if we find anything useful.’
‘If you don’t,’ Dan said, ‘you could do worse than ask our daughter to listen to the message. She’s a forensic linguist at the University of East Anglia.’
‘Of course, I knew the name was familiar. Thank you, I might just take you up on that suggestion. Leave it with me. Meantime I must leave you. A policeman’s lot, to misquote Gilbert and Sullivan, is always a busy one. Send my excuses to your wife and daughter and tell Professor Delaney I may be in touch about the recording.’
Jack McBride was screaming as the fire turned him into a human torch
‘No!’ Dan gasped, scarcely able to breathe.
McBride was screeching now, a terrible lift in the level of agony. Dan was trussed and unable to move. He was choking with the effort to break free. It was impossible. The sound was demented, the high-pitched keening of a soul suffering the torments of the fiery pit. Something was jabbing him.
‘Dan! Wake up.’
‘What?’ he said, opening his eyes.
‘You’re having a bad dream,’ Jas said. ‘Come on, get up.’
He blinked, his eyes not in focus, his brain confused as the fires retreated while the screeching continued. He’d forgotten again to take his hearing aids out and must have turned up the volume in the night. He fiddled with the damn things until they reduced to a faint hiss.
‘I’ll get you a glass of water,’ Jas said, leaving him to unscramble himself out of the sheets. He swung himself free and on to the carpet, grabbing his glasses awkwardly, his back protesting as he staggered to the windows and pulled aside the drapes. Across the road the blurred whirligig of shapes cleared as he tilted the glasses on seagulls arcing and swooping in protesting circles above a dinghy from which fishermen were hauling a large wooden crate. Bloody gulls, but at least their enhanced squawking explained what triggered the wretched dream.
Needing air, Dan risked banging the back of his hand hard against a small upper window. Craving air he belted the heel of his hand into the side of the window and the old paint released its grip. So did that side of the window. The rusted-out hinge snapped off, the small clip flipped out of its clasp and the wind threatened to take out the other hinge and the entire window with it. He captured the semi-attached window by the clip and pulled it into its socket. He sagged against the large pane below, taking in a billowy day of grey scudding clouds over the grey ruffled harbour, fishing boats dipping and rising on the swell. A blessed relief from his dream furnace. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the vibrating window against his forehead.
A hand on his shoulder. ‘Here’s your water. Come and sit down. Another concentration camp nightmare?’
‘No, thank God,’ he said. ‘It was only Jack McBride.’
‘That’s all right then.’
‘No, I didn’t mean that Jack doesn’t matter. He was on fire.’
‘Well, he’s not. Drink up and calm down.’
There was a tapping on the door. Alice called out was everything all right?
‘Your father was having one of his nightmares.’
‘Okay. See you at breakfast.’
While he tucked into the black pudding and bacon and eggs and Jas settled for a fried egg and mushrooms, Mary told them there was some news, her deep voice as grave and formal as if she was herself a newsreader on radio. Patrick Gallagher had been located at a cheap hostel near the theatre. He was distributing leaflets urging people to seize the ceasefire and intensify the fight for a united Ireland. There was no mention of using force. It was determined he was not the anonymous caller. Now there was an accord between the former enemies, namely the Republicans and the Loyalists in Northern Ireland, and no request to detain him, Mr Gallagher was free to go where he chose.
For want of any other evidence, she said, the inspector believed that Mr Shanahan may have either phoned himself or had somebody else ring the station. Without any new information to the contrary, the inspector thought the attack was probably the work of a lone nutter with alcoholic hallucinations. Inspector Murphy said if Mr Shanahan had been aiming at you, the grenade might have rolled into the Liffey.
No, she added, no doubt noting his wife’s frown, the inspector was not making light of the incident. After all, the theatre was closed for costly repairs that were going to take some time, at considerable cost to the theatre and the ratepayers, never mind the outrage of the public at this strike against what one columnist called their cultural zeitgeist, whatever that was. The inspector was grateful there was only property damage, which was rarely the case.
‘However,’ she added, ‘given your known expertise, Professor Delaney, the inspector would welcome you listening to the voice recording of the anonymous caller.’
‘I am happy to oblige,’ Alice said. ‘Then perhaps we can return to the flat and get on with what we are here for.’
