I Hear the Sirens in the Street

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 tobe 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