Anglo-Irish Murders (11 page)

‘Someone has to in this emasculated world. Get them over here. I want to talk to them.’

‘Who?’

‘Our backsliding countrymen. Our pack of old women. Our Quislings. Taylor, Simon and Ellis.’

‘Rollo,’ said Amiss automatically.

‘Rollo, Rollo, Rollo. Christ, you couldn’t get a more effete name than that.’

‘It’s a thoroughly traditional name in the Pooley family. His ancestor Sir Rollo no doubt tilted a pretty lance during the Crusades.’

‘Judging by his performance today, his descendent would probably respond to a Saracen onslaught by suggesting the issue be referred to arbitration.’

***

Taylor was the only one of the three to put up any defence against the baroness’ assault, for Amiss, Gibson and Pooley stoutly maintained that they were not participants, were required by their jobs to stay neutral and therefore had no case to answer. Having been denounced for being a placeman mouthing New Labour platitudes and a hopeless wimp with no pride in his country, Taylor replied smoothly that the new millennium called for new thinking and that while patriotism was acceptable, nay progressive, for those who had lived under colonialism, for the English it was regressive and must give way to a sense of being European. Her companions were profoundly grateful when an outbreak of singing elsewhere in the bar distracted the baroness from her ensuing apoplectic diatribe.

Pascal O’Shea, who turned out to be a strong tenor, provided a rousing version of ‘Phil the Fluter’s Ball’—a comic song whose speed and linguistic demands would have taxed even someone sober. Urged to reciprocate, Taylor—who explained he had once studied in Wyoming—burst into ‘Home on the Range.’

When the clapping stopped, Laochraí stood up. ‘That was inappropriate.’

‘Sorry,’ said Taylor. ‘I’m not with you.’

‘It’s the same tune as a notorious sectarian song.’

‘Not one that I’ve ever heard of,’ said the hapless Taylor. ‘I intended no offence.’

‘That’ll be “No Pope of Rome,”’ said Steeples, who had been lowering Bushmills whiskey in company with Hamish Wallace and who was increasingly cheerful. ‘Ach, Laochraí, it’s only a wee joke. Why do you take everything so serious?’

‘Quite right,’ said the baroness, ‘knock that off, Lucrezia. You can have a fight about it tomorrow. Tonight everyone sings whatever they like. Who’s next?’

Willie Hughes, who was sitting with Billy Pratt and the MOPEs, and who up to now had not been heard to utter a word in public, suddenly put down his pint and burst into ‘My Old Man’s a Dustman,’ in which several others joined enthusiastically. He grinned bashfully after the applause and said, ‘He was a dustman, you see, my old man was.’

Emboldened, Wyn Gruffudd, who had been drinking orange juice and exchanging information with Kelly-Mae about their respective cats, came in with a dreary and very long folksong in Welsh. Plucking ineffectually at his guitar-strings, Father O’Flynn delivered himself of an interminable lament from a South American peasant driven off the land by exploitative rubber-planters and then accompanied Laochraí equally dismally as she sang ‘The Four Green Fields,’ an old woman’s demand that her sons reunite Ireland by whatever means necessary.

In the ensuing depressed silence, the baroness turned to Gibson. ‘One thing that baffles me about MOPE is where they think the money would come from for a United Ireland once we’ve taken our billions away.’

Gibson smiled wearily. ‘You’ve never heard MOPE on the subject of reparations?’

‘What?’

‘Reparations for all the wrongs we’ve done to the population of Ireland since the twelfth century. Their policy towards the British has been accurately summed up as “Fuck off, but leave your wallet on the mantelpiece.” Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to bed.’

As he left, the baroness turned towards Steeples. ‘Come on Gardiner. Give us an Ulster song.’

‘Apart from the national anthem and hymns I only know one song,’ he said.

‘Save the hymns for tomorrow,’ said the baroness cheerfully. ‘Get on with the other one.’

Steeples promptly launched himself into the Orange anthem—‘The Sash My Father Wore’—to expressions of thunderous disapproval from MOPE. The baroness and several others joined in the chorus with gusto.

‘Well done, Gardiner,’ she cried. ‘An Orange a day keeps the papists away, what? Now have we any other volunteers? Simon? Chandra? Robert? What a collection of wimps you are. What about you, Oki?’

‘I would do it and gradly,’ said Okinawa, ‘had you karaoke. I need an accompaniment.’ Seeing O’Flynn gesturing with his guitar, he added hastily. ‘Only kalaoke. Please sing now, Jack.’

She drained her whiskey. ‘If you insist. I’ll give you my party piece. Flanders and Swann’s “Song of Patriotic Prejudice.”’

Amiss’ face contorted. He looked at Pooley and said, ‘Ooops.’

‘Don’t know it,’ said Pooley.

Amiss shut his eyes as she burst into the opening stanza about the English being terrific and the rest of the inhabitants of the British Isles not being worth tuppence.

Wyn coped with the verse about the inadequacies of the Welsh, though she was seen to flinch at the lines about them being underground dwellers who resembled monkeys and sang much too loudly, often and flat. Wallace laughed at the lines about the Scotsman being tight-fisted, boney and covered with hair. Then came the last verse, which dwelt on the contemptible Irish, who slept in their boots, lied through their teeth, blew up policemen and blamed everything on Cromwell and William the Third.

As her deep baritone faded away, the baroness looked around triumphantly to see several of the audience applauding loudly and the entire MOPE contingent storming out. Billy Pratt came up to her. ‘Although I consider myself British, I am devoting my life to trying to achieve peace and reconciliation. I share the hurt of Laochraí and the others and am therefore leaving.’ He jerked his head at Willie Hughes who stood up, looked at Pratt, looked at the baroness and sat down again.

Pascal O’Shea pulled himself up reluctantly, staggered over to the baroness and whispered, ‘I’m really sorry about this. And it’s not that I mind myself. Not a bit in the world. But to tell you the truth if I don’t back them up I’ll never hear the end of it.’ He lurched out.

‘Well, bugger them,’ said the baroness. ‘Somehow it’s all right for them to go on about how awful the English are but we’re not allowed to say anything back.’

Kapur came up and put his arm around her. ‘My dear Jack, you are a woman of great intelligence, but perhaps not the person I would expect easily to understand the sensitivities of those with a colonial inferiority complex.’

‘They’re not fucking colonials, damn it. Northern Ireland is part of the United Kingdom and the buggers in the south have been independent for eighty years.’

‘You are in the business of applying logic, my dear Jack. They are in the business of emotion.’

‘You’ve certainly given them a challenging trailer for tomorrow morning,’ observed Pooley.

‘What’s that supposed to be about?’

‘According to the agenda, it’s called “Confronting stereotypes: ourselves as others see us.”’

‘Doesn’t augur that well considering the stupid fuss they’ve just kicked up. These people have no sense of humour. I was trying to make them laugh.’

‘You’re a sort of magnificent walking icon of cultural insensitivity, aren’t you?’ said Amiss.

She beamed. ‘I’ve always wanted to be an icon.’

‘Whoever suggested that Sunday morning session was pretty brave,’ observed Pooley.

‘Foolhardy is how I’d describe it,’ said Amiss. ‘It was Simon actually. He claims he was hoping that by this time they’d be at the stage when there might actually be some possibility of serious communication. But I think he was probably just being mischievous.’

‘Do they have any idea what they’re facing into?’

‘No. All they have is the title. What do you think, Jack? Do you still have the bottle to go ahead with it as planned?’

‘Don’t ask stupid questions.’

Okinawa smiled. ‘I think I will have a wonderful film, Rady Troutbeck. Thank you.’

She sat down and pulled him down beside her. ‘Listen, Oki, you’re a good scout. Tell me something that’s always baffled me. This “l” and “r” business. What’s wrong with you Nips that you muddle them up?’

‘Solly, Lady Troutbeck.’

She put on her most patient expression and spoke slowly. ‘All you nips apparently say “l” when you should say “r” and vice-versa. Now surely you know that, so why don’t you simply reverse it?’

His face cleared. ‘Aa so. Now I understand. No, it is not that we reverse them.’

She was listening keenly. ‘Hah. You said “r” there when it was supposed to be “r.” Why didn’t you say “l?”’

‘As I am tlying to explain, it is random. It is just that you notice when we reverse them and don’t when we get it light. We do not speak at the flont of our mouth and we simply can’t diffelentiate between those two consonants. They come out as close as we can manage.’

‘Excellent. I like having mysteries cleared up.’ She called Amiss over. ‘I’ve sorted out all this “l” and “r” business. Oki here tells me the problem is that all Japs suffer from a speech defect. Front of mouth doesn’t work which is why it often comes out as flont of mouth. They’ve all got it.’ Amiss looked nervously at Okinawa, who smiled. ‘Cultulally we do not deal well with straight questions, but I am becoming more accustomed since I met Lady Tloutbeck. That is one of the prusses of this conference.’

‘It’s always good to have a Pollyanna around the place, Oki,’ she said. ‘Or do I mean Porryanna? Now does anyone want another drink or should we follow
les miserables
off to bed?’

Hamish Wallace, who had been gazing into his whiskey, looked up. ‘I’ll have a double,’ he said, ‘and then I’ll sing you “We’re up to our knees in Fenian blood.”’ As one man, Pooley, Taylor and Hughes got up, muttered excuses and hurried out.

Chapter Eleven

‘You’re not looking too good this morning, Robert. Up half the night, were you?’

‘Yes Philomena. And I didn’t sleep too well when I got to bed.’

‘They’re all fighting again, are they?’

‘Quite a few of them, I’m afraid.’

‘Well, do you know now, maybe the best thing—the only fella that can help you at a time like this—would be St Jude, the patron saint of lost causes. I’ll get him on the job.’

‘It’d be a good one for him, Philomena. I’d say this is the lost cause to end all lost causes. And how are things with you?’

‘Cookies, Robert. This is the new challenge to my yesness. “What kind of a hotel is this?” she asks me yesterday. “No cookies?” So I tell her I’ll do my best for her and out of the goodness of my heart I go out and buy three kinds of chocolate bars and four kinds of biscuits and she creates merry hell because I haven’t provided any Hershey bars and anyway…’

‘Don’t tell me. They’re not fat-free and lite.’

‘How did you guess? God forgive me, I’d love to stab her, only I haven’t got a long enough knife and it’d be a mortal sin. She’d try the patience of a saint.’

‘I’ll have a word with her, Philomena.’

‘No, don’t. She’d know I was complaining. And I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. I’ll offer it up for the souls in purgatory.’

‘Are you having trouble with anyone else?’

‘No. That fellow Steeples has to be given extra large portions, but I don’t mind that. And one of the others tried to get me to speak Irish, but when I told her I’d forgotten every bit I ever knew and wished I’d learned French instead, she shut up.’

She picked up his empty plate. ‘What are ye up to this morning?’

‘Being frank about what we think of each other.’

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Ye go around looking for trouble, don’t ye?’

***

‘Listen,’ said the baroness, ‘if any of you is serious about this mutual-awareness claptrap…’ She paused and looked slightly abashed. ‘That is to say, this mutual-awareness odyssey, this is the session for you to make a contribution.’

She turned her chair slightly sideways, pulled it back from the table and threw one leg over the other, revealing a flash of her familiar directoire knickers, which today were in a sombre black.

‘Now, I expect some of you aren’t going to like this—judging by the way you carried on last night. But that’s tough. We’re never going to get anywhere if we carry on with this mealy-mouthed-let’s-all-love-one-another-and-cover-up-the-hatreds-of-centuries crap. The thing to do when you’ve got something wrong with you is not to pretend it doesn’t exist but to get to the root cause and if possible chop it out.

‘Why do we hate each other so much in these islands? Tribal reasons, of course. Historical reasons. Human nature. We all need other groups to hate for defining purposes. All that’s a bonding business and not always a bad thing. It helps to bind the community together having a common focus for ire.

‘The trouble in these islands is that some people have taken it to excess. Particularly some of the mates of some of you.

‘What each of us is going to do this morning is to write down five things we most hate about each of the groups represented here. And you don’t have to confine yourself only to the ones you are not a part of. I shall enjoy filling in the five things I hate most about the English quite as much as I will the section on Irish republicans.’ She nodded towards the MOPEs. ‘At least no one could accuse you buggers of being appeasers.

‘OK then. You have the forms in front of you. Get cracking. You’ve got half an hour. And don’t whinge at me that you should have had advance notice of this. We’d have ended up having hours of argument and anyway it’s better that your prejudices come straight from the heart.’

The Sailor’s Hornpipe sounded. As Amiss slipped out, the baroness called after him. ‘And get that lazy sod O’Shea out of bed.’

***

‘McNulty here. We’ve got a problem.’

‘Big one?’

‘Well it’s not a threat to life or limb. But it could be a nuisance.’

‘Tell me, please.’

‘You didn’t tell me one of your people was joining an Orange parade.’

‘Sorry. I was surprised, because I didn’t know you had them in the Republic, but he was so matter of fact about it I thought it was OK.’

‘We only have the two. A big one in Donegal in the back of beyond every July and this little one here that escaped the republican purges.’

‘What’s bothering you?’

‘Security.’

‘But Gardiner’s only going on a short walk to church.’

‘And back.’

‘Well, I suppose so.’

‘If we’d known we could have cordoned off the disputed area.’

‘Come again? What disputed area?’

‘The hundred yards between the beginning of the village and the other side of the Catholic Church. The Slievenamná Residents’ Group is protesting that they don’t want a sectarian Orange march going that way.’

‘Isn’t there another route?’

‘It takes another half mile and the local Orange master won’t do it. Says he’s been walking that route for two centuries, that they’ve never had any trouble before and this must be all a put-up job by northerners.’

‘Is that true?’

‘Certainly, it seems to be. As far as I can gather, the Slievenamná Residents’ Group has never been heard of before this weekend and so far no one knows any residents of Slievenamná who are part of it.’

‘Oh, shit. MOPE must have spilt the beans to some of their mates.’

‘Probably.’

‘Maybe you’d better have a word with one of them.’

‘OK. Put the de Búrca woman on. I’ll see if I can persuade her to call off their hounds.’

***

‘I resent that imputation,’ said Laochraí haughtily. ‘This has nothing to do with me.’ She handed the phone back to Amiss and stalked out.

‘Interesting,’ said McNulty. ‘You know, I believe her. But maybe one of her pals is responsible.’

‘The good Father, perhaps?’

‘Perhaps. I’ll ask some more questions.’

‘May I come and see what’s going on?’

‘Give me an hour to talk to people. I’ll meet you outside at eleven fifteen.’

***

‘How dare you!’

‘It was only a joke,’ said the baroness. ‘Can’t you Jesuits take a joke?’

Followed by Laochraí, Liam and Kelly-Mae, O’Flynn stormed out of the room. After a moment, Billy Pratt went after them. Hesitantly, Hughes followed.

‘Who cares?’ said the baroness. ‘They’ll be back. It’s time for coffee anyway, followed by religion.’

She stood up. ‘See you all here at two thirty. Robert, did you put a rocket up O’Shea’s arse?’

‘He was in the bar having a Bloody Mary. Said he’d be straight in.’

‘He’s got the right idea. I’ll join him.’

***

‘What did she say?’ asked Amiss wearily of Gibson as they left the room.

‘Something about Father O’Flynn being prone to sophistry, but then what else would you expect from a Jesuit.’

‘What beats me is why they put up with her. Look at them. They’re all there—well, all except Kelly-Mae—queuing for coffee. They walk out of the room but they don’t walk out of the hotel.’

‘They don’t want to leave the conference,’ said Gibson. ‘It’s a five-star hotel, the food is free, the drink is free and it goes down on your CV. You don’t know these guys the way I know them.

‘Whatever ideals they had in the beginning are rapidly becoming eroded by the sheer joy of flitting from hotel to hotel and capital city to capital city being hailed as peace-makers by the sort of people who find them particularly attractive because they have about them the whiff of cordite.’

‘But they’re so touchy and she’s so rude…’

‘Yes, but she’s also an object of fascination to them. They’ve never come across anything like her. Sometimes I think they’ve never met a single English person who didn’t bow and scrape and apologize for existing—just like old Charlie Taylor.

‘What’s the worst our ministers have ever done to these people? Say “Tut tut, we have a slight problem about your being in government if you don’t promise to get rid of your surface-to-air missiles and maybe ease up on shooting people.”

‘History would have been different if Jack Troutbeck had been in charge. She wouldn’t have talked about the truth lying in the middle. She’d have talked about right and wrong.’

Amiss briefly tried to imagine the baroness in charge and—slightly dizzied—returned to the discussion. ‘But they’ve had countless excuses to storm out of the room and they haven’t taken most of them up.’

‘Because they’d miss the fun. Never forget how boring a lot of these events are for them. They enjoy all the perks, they enjoy the status, they enjoy the way groupies and liberals fawn on them obsequiously and the further invitations generated, but even they have to get bored with each other. I mean can you imagine what it’s like to be Liam, listening to Father O’Flynn drivelling on for the fortieth time about the imperialist struggle. And as for Kelly-Mae! Even they’re embarrassed by her stupidity.’

‘One gets the sense that Kelly-Mae has not—as they say in California—moved on with the mainstream of republicanism.’

‘You can say that again. I can’t make out if she’s stupid or ignorant or has an entirely separate agenda.’

‘Or all three, of course?’

‘Of course. Or all three.’

‘Anyway, just imagine, for instance, the three MOPEers and Kelly-Mae deciding to leave. What do they do? Call a press conference? They’re relatively low level, so it would have to be pretty interesting to get the media worked up.

‘They’re going to have to explain that they have been insulted by a woman in late middle-age who is a mistress of a Cambridge college and a very articulate one to boot, who will defend herself by saying that she is a seeker after truth and wonders why they are opposed to free speech.

‘It won’t work. And they’ll be seen by future organizers of conferences as potential nuisances. Nope. Jack’s got their measure. Can I fetch you a cup of coffee?’

‘No, thanks. I have to go out. See you later.’

***

‘Someone phoned from the hotel public phone box last night to a number which the RUC tell me belongs to a republican who spends his entire life stopping Orangemen walking in his area and now clearly has colonial ambitions.’

‘Who do you think?’

‘Dunno. The priest? MacPhrait? The American?’

‘I wouldn’t have thought she’d have had the contacts to set up something like this.’

‘Who knows.’

Coming up to the village, McNulty parked the car and they walked around the corner into the village. Their way was blocked by a line of people carrying a large banner saying ‘
RE-ROUTE SECTARIAN MARCHES.
’

McNulty approached the group. ‘Do you have a spokesman?’

‘Over there,’ said one of them, pointing to a man wearing a baseball cap backwards who was being interviewed in front of a television camera. As they came up behind him he was saying vehemently, ‘All the residents of Slievenamná want is to have their lives free of sectarian harassment and violence. Is that too much to ask?’

‘Excuse me,’ said McNulty. ‘I would like a word?’

‘I hadn’t finished. You’re interfering with my freedom of expression.’

McNulty looked fixedly at the interviewer, who said, ‘Don’t worry, Mickey. This isn’t live. We can wait.’

‘Thank you,’ said McNulty heavily. ‘We all want to avoid any trouble, don’t we? Talking to the press can come later. Now, do I understand you are the spokesman for this so-called residents group?’

‘I certainly am. I’m the democratically elected chairman of the SRG.’

‘Your name is?’

‘Micheál Ó Murchú.’

‘Aka Mickey Murphy,’ said McNulty. ‘I’ve heard of you. You’re not from here, are you?’

‘What is the relevance of that question?’

‘It would seem to be logical that the spokesman for a residents’ group should be a resident.’

‘This is not about logic. It’s about democracy. It is for the democratically chosen group to decide whom they democratically choose to be a spokesperson.’

‘In other words, you’re not a resident.’

‘So what?’

‘Can you please point me to a member of your group who is a resident of this area?’

‘No. I am the democratically elected spokesperson. You have to deal with me.’

McNulty glowered at him. ‘I’d be very careful, Mickey Murphy, before I used words like “have to” when you deal with me. Where are you from?’

‘I don’t have to answer that question.’

‘If you don’t want to be arrested,’ roared McNulty, ‘you’ll answer my questions. And civilly.’

‘This is police harassment.’ Murphy swung round to look for the interviewer. ‘You’ve seen that.’

The interviewer shook his head. ‘Look, Mickey, it’s no business of mine but if I were you I’d answer the garda’s question. They can get a bit rough down here you know.’

Murphy looked back at McNulty. ‘Am I being threatened?’

‘Take it whatever way you want. Where are you from? Or do you want to come to the station now?’

‘Derry,’ he said grudgingly.

‘So what are you doing here?’

‘I was asked.’

‘Who asked you?’

‘The residents.’

‘What residents?’

‘The residents’ group.’

‘Which takes us back to my earlier question. Are there any residents present?’

‘I can’t answer that. You’ll have to ask them.’

McNulty looked at him narrowly. ‘I’ll be back to you shortly.’ He walked over to the dozen or so protestors. ‘Which of you lives here?’ There was silence. ‘I asked which of you lives here.’ Still silence.

After about fifteen minutes, individual questioning elicited the information that all of them came from across the border.

McNulty stormed back to Murphy. ‘This is completely preposterous. You’ve no right to set yourself up as a residents’ group when there are no residents in it.’

‘Who says? We’re here to represent their interests and their legitimate right to freedom, justice and equality. We cannot stand idly by and see fellow nationalists insulted by triumphalist sectarian parades.’

A garda came running up the main street still fastening his tunic. ‘Sorry, sir. I wasn’t there when your message arrived.’