John Brady - A stone of the heart

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph," Gibbons whispered. He remembered something out of his youth, long gone now, and not knowing what else to do for O'Rourke, he started on the Act of Contrition.

On Wednesday, Kilmartin had met him for dinner in the Civil Service Club in St. Stephen's Green. After the soup, Kilmartin winked at Minogue.

"Will you take a glass of whisky with me beyond in Dwyers pub afterwards?"

"No thanks, Jimmy," Minogue murmured.

Kilmartin nodded slightly and toyed with his fork.

"It'd put me to sleep for the afternoon, so it would. Thanks anyway," Minogue offered.

"I see, I see," said Kilmartin, still observing the fork studiously. "To be sure, I understand."

The waitress clumped a plate in front of Kilmartin.

"Cod?" she said to Minogue. Kilmartin forked a piece of stringy beef.

"He flared up only the once yesterday, Loftus. But then he shut up very quickly," said Kilmartin. Minogue worked on the batter around the cod.

"Something about 'duty.' I asked him if he thought it was the duty of an officer in the Irish Army to resign his commission and work against the laws of a democratic state just because he didn't agree with the way the country was being run. I thought he was going to spit at me, so I did. But he clammed up then after a dirty big sneer at me. That's as far as we've got with that boyo."

Minogue nodded but stayed silent. By unspoken agreement, they had given up on Loftus. They had tried to lever him with news that the Yank had been caught and that he was telling all. Loftus, it seems, knew better. He said nothing. He had withdrawn, leaving a composed expression. It struck Minogue that Loftus seemed relieved now that he had done his duty.

"Some duty," Kilmartin said. "Ah, but something will turn up on this Yank, you'll see. Then Loftus'll say his piece."

Kilmartin had been wrong to date. The most that Loftus said in the days after his arrest was couched in a mixture of disdain and a half-hearted effort to explain by allusion. He soon stopped that, even, apparently sure in his mind that the audience of interrogators would never understand. That left Kilmartin to wonder if the Irish Army really would have gone into Derry in '69 like Loftus said. They had field hospitals and vehicles gathered up near the border, everyone had known that. Should they have gone in? Against the British Army, could they? Loftus had resigned within the year.

"I think maybe his trip to the States is what turned the corner for him," Minogue said finally.

"You mean all the hardware and blather they have over there? And where did it get them in Vietnam I ask you, Matt?" Kilmartin replied.

"America is a country full of savages. They don't know what they're at half the time. Look at the telly, I mean. Or should I say, don't look at the telly," Kilmartin said indignantly.

'"Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori,'" Minogue murmured.

"What?"

"It's about dying for your country."

"I have a brother out in the States. The wife is always at me to go over and have a look at the place. What about yourself, Matt?"

"I don't think so. I don't think I could manage over there at all. It's a different life entirely," Minogue replied.

Kilmartin affected to be considering some other matter and attacked the limp broccoli. Minogue waited. After several minutes' silence, Kilmartin looked up from the wreckage of his dinner. Minogue met his gravely gentle look reluctantly. Kilmartin's voice was barely above a whisper.

"Matt. What did you tell the Walshes out beyond?"

Minogue remembered Mrs Walsh dropping cup and saucer on the fireplace. A stain started in the carpet, her shaking hands reaching under cuffs for a hanky. Walsh had changed. No speech from him. He sat across from his broken wife, not wishing to be involved in weakness before a visitor. He told his wife she mustn't upset herself and she stopped. Minogue told them the truth. No, he couldn't be sure, but it was the most likely turn of events.

"How did they react, I mean," Kilmartin probed.

Minogue's anger turned the potato quite tasteless, an obstruction in his mouth. He waited, disguised in eating.

"I don't know how they reacted, Jimmy."

And he didn't. His thoughts went back to the Walshs' sterile living room, his attempt to explain the run of events to them… How Jarlath Walsh's knock on the door had probably not been heard by Allen because he was on the phone. The door was ajar, visualise. Jarlath puts two and two together and sees several things. Your son Jarlath sees credibility, a scoop if he can bring Allen to admit things out in the open. He doesn't know Allen is being blackmailed. Jarlath seems to have wanted to keep this all to himself. An exclusive. He tells nobody. He drops hints at Agnes. It's his secret, he's working on it. It's something he'll be proud of. Jarlath brings a tape recorder with him to talk with Allen, but Allen says nothing directly. Jarlath may have tried to wear him down probably, hints, winks. Allen is under terrible pressure and tells Loftus. Loftus tells him it'll be looked after.

Loftus is the one who has checked into Allen. Allen's original name is O'Donohue and Loftus trips him up on what happened a long, long time ago. So, Mr and Mrs Walsh, these people severally and individually have helped to have your son murdered. Outburst of tears from Mrs, glares from Mr: did you have to be like this, Minogue?

"And did Loftus murder Jarlath?" Mr had asked then.

Minogue can't pick careful enough words.

"We know he didn't actually kill him. He has an alibi for that night. But in law, he did, because he helped arrange it. Allen will be on the stand to testify to that."

"Who killed him…?"

"We don't know. Loftus is saying nothing at all. We doubt he'll even be induced to tell, if indeed he knows, at his own trial for capital murder. We think your son was killed by the same person who killed two Gardai within the last week."

Mrs Walsh, perking up: "And who's he?"

"We're trying to find out. We think he's American."

Minogue, leaving, had felt the cold stare on his back all the way down the driveway.

"Well, you let them know we're continuing on the case. Doing our best," Kilmartin said. Minogue shook his head. The case was technically open, but Minogue's papers had been removed, the office was being painted. Minogue wondered if Garda inspectors spent more than half their time worrying about the management of impressions for the public.

"Yes," Minogue offered. Kilmartin was suspicious again.

"Doesn't that beat Banagher though," Kilmartin went on. "His prints are not on file with the Yanks. We're going through the airline lists now. My bet is he'll turn up to be a dud as regards the passport he came in on too. We have the pictures sent out, that's all we can do. Some of the lads thought he looked familiar, but they couldn't put a finger on it. Looked kind of Irish they all said."

Minogue tried the stewed apple but turned it away after one spoon.

"Think he did it, do you?" Kilmartin said.

"Yesterday, yes. Today, I don't know. There's the temptation to shove all the pieces together, to tidy up, I suppose," Minogue said in a conciliatory tone.

Minogue wanted to allow the unspoken intimacy to drift back to them. He made an effort to leave clear answers and comments for Kilmartin. The waitress banged their plates onto the trolley. She returned and plonked two cups of tea down. Minogue looked up at her, but she had turned and gone. Kilmartin offered his packet.

"Do you want a smoke?"

"No thanks, Jimmy. I'll try and steer clear of them."

"And Allen, how long ago was it…?"

"He was thirteen at the time," Minogue answered. "He was babysitting and the parents walked in on him. I don't fully understand the wording from then, but I think it amounted to an aggravated rape on the child."