Death at Christy Burke's Read Online Free PDF

Troubles since then. The casualty list said it all: there was aggression and there were victims on all sides of the conflict. No side was blameless. The death toll was still nearly a hundred people a year.
    In spite of it all, Michael firmly believed that peace would soon be at hand. It had to be. He prayed every night for Ireland, offered Masses for peace. He followed the news of developments like the Anglo-Irish Agreement of 1985, which brought the British and Irish governments together to pursue a solution, and the new round-
table talks involving several of the main political parties in the North. When Michael escorted his tourists around the island, he incorporated the latest news in his spiel. A turning point was near, he always said, and he believed it.
    Brennan’s voice brought Michael back to the present. He was speaking to his uncle Finn: “The negotiator you said is known to us, trying to broker the funeral across the border; that wouldn’t be . . .”
    “Leo Killeen.”
    Brennan
    The whiskey might have had something to do with it, and the Guinness consumed by the rest of them, but mainly it was compassion for the young victim of a sectarian killing, and priestly solidarity with Leo Killeen; all those factors went into the late-night decision to travel from Dublin to Endastown in the North of Ireland for the funeral of Rory Dignan on the twelfth of July, 1992.
    Finn was not amongst them. When they formulated the plan, Brennan had invited him along. But he shook his head. Not willing, or perhaps not allowed, to cross the border. Brennan didn’t ask. Again. Every time Brennan came home to Dublin, there were questions he didn’t ask.
    So he had Monty, Kitty, and Michael with him as passengers in a little black sedan he had borrowed from his cousin at the John’s Lane church. Brennan and Michael were in clerical dress. Kitty was not in a nun’s habit, but her navy suit and gold cross were the next best thing. Monty wore a dark blue tweed sports jacket with a white shirt open at the neck. A thoroughly respectable contingent.
    Traffic slowed ahead of them as they approached the border with Northern Ireland. British territory.
    “Ah, the timeless architecture of County Armagh,” Kitty remarked. A massive watchtower, surrounded by a metal cage to withstand a rocket attack, loomed ahead of them. “Did you know, Michael, they built this guard post because the police force, the Royal Ulster Constabulary, couldn’t take the chance of using the roads to get to their station? Everyone and everything had to come in by helicopter. So here’s the result.”
    “That’s what they get for putting the border on the wrong side of a Nationalist area of Ireland,” Brennan said.
    This was known in some circles as “bandit country.” The Provisional Irish Republican Army was a dominant force here in South Armagh.
    They stopped at the crossing, and a young, heavily armed British soldier emerged from a hut and signalled for Brennan to roll down his window. Brennan did so and warned himself to keep his thoughts to himself. The soldier peered around inside the car, taking note of all the occupants, and addressed them in a strong North British accent.
    “Where are you headed?”
    A few seconds went by before Brennan answered. “Endastown.”
    “For what purpose?”
    Brennan pointed to his collar. “Religious purposes.”
    “How long will you be staying?”
    “As long as it takes to carry out our religious duties.”
    “How long?”
    Brennan glared at the fellow and considered many possible replies, several of them inconsistent with his religious duties. But Monty gave him a cautionary nudge with his knee, and Brennan finally answered, “A few hours is the plan.”
    “May I see your driving licence?”
    There shouldn’t even be a border here, with this young functionary demanding to see his papers, but Brennan told himself to focus on the funeral, and not to do anything that might jeopardize their arrival. He was a