Adrian McKinty - I Hear the Sirens in the Street

The ancient words comforted us.

When the service was over I entered the confessional.

Father O’Hare saw old Mrs McCawley to her car and returned to the chapel.

He entered his side of the booth.

He slid across the partition.

Only the carved wooden lattice protected me now.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” I told him. “It has been nearly a year since my last confession.”

I confessed to the mortal sin of murder and the venial sins of pride, lust and adultery. I confessed that I did not regret what I had done and I told him that I would do it all again.

He listened and did not approve.

Technically, he should not have offered me absolution until I had explained that I was sorry for these and all the sins of my past life, but Father O’Hare was no sea lawyer and couldn’t afford to be too harsh with his tiny congregation.

“ Misereatur tui omnipotens Deus, et dimissis peccatis tuis, perducat te ad vitam ternam ,” he said. “ Indulgentiam, absolutionem, et remissionem peccatorum tuorum tribuat tibi omnipotens et misericors Dominus. Amen. Dominus noster Jesus Christus te absolvat: et ego auctoritate ipsus te absolvo ab omni vinculo excommunicationis, (suspensionis), et interdicti, in quantum possum, et tu indiges. Deinde ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis, in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti .”

Outside the confessional it was a different world and we exchanged unembarrassed pleasantries.

“It was the lovely day today, wasn’t it?”

“Aye, it was indeed, Father, although I heard it was going to be cold tomorrow.”

“Oh, and my roses just coming through!” he said, and shook his head.

“I won’t see it. I’ll be in America.”

“America? A holiday?”

“Something like that.”

I drove home and, absolved and at peace, I called McCrabban.

I told him about the mirror and the note and what I was planning to do. He was silent for a long time.

“Don’t do this, Sean. The whole thing smells. Pass it up the chain of command,” he said, finally.

“Why did you become a detective, Crabbie? Truth and justice, right? If we pass this up the Yanks will take it, the Brits will take it. We’ll never get the truth. Never.”

“This is a game being played on another level, Sean. A game you play carefully. Pass it up and our job is done.”

“You know what will happen, Crabbie. It’ll vanish. The higher ups and the Americans will make it vanish and we’ll never find out what happened to Mr O’Rourke.”

“You don’t know that for certain, Sean.”

“You said it yourself, mate, this whole thing stinks.”

“At least tell the Chief.”

“The Chief’s a company man, I won’t be out of his office before he’ll be on the phone to the FBI.”

Crabbie hung on the receiver for a long time, thinking . I knew he was conflicted. He wanted to talk me out of it, but he wanted to know, too.

“So, what’s your plan?”

“Find out what Mr O’Rourke has hidden away in that safety deposit box and retrieve the evidence. Fait accompli, mate. No interference from Special Branch, goons, FBI or anyone else.”

“And then what?”

“Depending on what I find, we’ll take it from there.”

“Let me go with you,” he said suddenly.

I considered it for a second or two. It would be great to have him with me, but it would selfish to drag him into the black pit of banjax if it all went wrong.

“No, Crabbie, if this shit fucks up, it’ll be my head on the block and mine alone.”

“What could go wrong?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s why I should go with you. You need me, Sean.”

“I do need you, Crabbie, but I don’t need you catching any flak from this. I’ll retrieve the evidence from the box and see what it is and then we’ll talk.”

“I’m your mate, Sean, I should be there to help.”

I was touched. “I know, Crabbie. And that’s why I want to keep you out of it. You’ve got a family to look after.”

Another long period of silence before a hurt and worried and confused McCrabban said: “Okay.”

“Thanks for understanding.”

“You sure you know what you’re doing?”

“No.”

“Take care, Sean.”

“I will.”

I hung up the phone.

Coronation Road was quiet. I poured myself a pint of vodka and lime. I flipped on the UTV news: a shooting in Crossmaglen, a suspicious van in Cookstown, an incendiary attack in Lurgan – nothing that serious. I went upstairs, packed and set the alarm for six.

28: AMERICA

Of course I’d been before. New York in ’78 when I’d stayed with my old girlfriend Gresha for two weeks in the West Village. Happy days. It was the New York of The Ramones and Serpico and CBGB and Dog Day Afternoon . Gresha’s then boyfriend was a fuckwit who had not been cool about me staying in the first place and hated me after I’d gone to the fridge and eaten his ‘Reggie Bar’. “I got that at the Yankees’ home opener, man. I’m not into material possessions, man, but that is going to be a collector’s item one day, man.” When Gresha banged me for old time’s sake I didn’t feel a bit bad about it.

This trip was to Boston. Bus to Dublin. Dublin to Shannon. Shannon to Logan. I flew Aer Lingus and sat in the smoking section and watched Ingmar Bergman’s Fanny and Alexander . It was so long that it hadn’t actually ended when we touched down.

The whole Irish-American thing did not manifest itself at Logan Airport or at the Avis where I got myself a huge brown ’71 Robert Bechtle style Buick. I stayed the night at a Holiday Inn in Revere, and on hearing my accent the desk clerk asked if I was from Australia. At ten o’clock that evening I was idly flipping through the TV channels when there was a knock at the door. It was a prostitute who was also from our own fair island and who’d been sent here by the manager so that we could “cheer each other up”. She was a chubby girl from Mayo with black hair that she had misguidedly dyed platinum. She said that she had come to America in 1979 after she’d seen the Pope conduct an open-air Mass at Phoenix Park. I poured her a glass of Maker’s Mark from the mini bar and asked her her name. She told me it was Candy which seemed unlikely. She asked if I wanted to have sex with her and I told her that I was very tired having just arrived today. She told me that a quick hand job would ensure that I would get a good night’s sleep and would only cost ten dollars. She had big peasant hands that looked as if they could wring the neck of a chicken without any bother at all and I said thanks but no thanks and gave her five dollars for her trouble.

She thanked me for the drink. I had read The Catcher in the Rye and was prepared for the desk clerk or manager to come barging in five minutes later demanding full compensation for his girl’s time, but no one came and no one bothered me and I slept until seven the next morning.

I shaved and dressed in black jeans, a white shirt and a black sports jacket.

I bought a map and drove the Buick north on Route 1A towards Newburyport. Before reaching town, I took a mini diversion to find the O’Rourke homestead. I was surprised to discover that in the weeks since Mr O’Rourke’s body had been sent home, his house had been completely cleared out, filled with rented furniture, and was now on the market. There was a lock box on the front door and the number of a realtor who would let you see inside.

I called the realtor from a payphone at the gas station and asked if I could see it this morning. How did ten suit me? I wondered if she had an earlier appointment, and she said no. I said that ten would be no problem.