“No.”
“I see. Well then, let’s get moving.”
When we arrived at the Correctional Centre, I suggested that Declan go in ahead for a private visit; Maura and I would join him in a few minutes. Hoping to avoid a return to our earlier argument, I asked her what she thought of our companion.
“Formidable. Merits further study.”
“Doesn’t give much away, does he?”
“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” she agreed. “I remember you telling me about Brennan when you first met him. Said you could barely get a word out of him.”
I shook my head, remembering our first few meetings. “What a prick.”
“Halcyon days,” Maura quipped, with a hint of a smile.
When we entered the visitors’ area, I couldn’t reconcile the commanding figure I had been remembering with the sallow, black-eyed wraith behind the partition. Brennan and his father were regarding each other morosely, not saying a word. They both looked relieved to see us come in.
“Are you two just going to sit there? Talk to each other, for Christ’s
sake,” Maura chided them. “Now. Declan.” She looked at the older man but addressed her remarks to the younger. “Did your lad here give you any ideas you can pass along to us about where to start looking for the real perp? Murderous bishops? Frustrated nuns? Envious choirmasters? Temperamental sopranos? Sore losers at the poker table? Jilted lovers? Jealous husbands?” Surely that wasn’t a dig at me.
“Maura, how the hell can you laugh about this?” Brennan looked pained as he ran his fingers through his hair.
Declan turned to her. “You’re not doing a bad job there, darlin’. I’ve been pegging the same questions at him, word for word in some cases. He just sits there.”
“Look, he’s exhausted and run down,” I cut in. “Let’s ease up, all right?”
“I hear you,” said his father. “But it’s so frustrating just sitting here, not being able to help him. I asked him how it’s been for him in here. Do you know what he said to me? He doesn’t like the soap! Typical. He’s encircled by psychopaths and his nose is out of joint because he smells like disinfectant. He was always a fastidious little Christer.”
“Da. We’ll talk when I get out, all right? MacNeil, tell me something funny, without me as the butt of the joke.”
“All right. Speaking of butts, did you know I am distantly related to the Proud Arse MacNeils? So named because they were the first family in their community to have an indoor toilet. Can you claim any comparable distinction? I doubt it. No offence, Declan.” She brought out some more classic Nova Scotia nicknames and kept up a line of inconsequential patter till it was time to get Mr. Burke to the airport.
“Declan. Maura. Could I just have a word with Brennan?”
They said their goodbyes with promises of phone calls in the days ahead. When the prisoner and I were alone, I wasted no time. I had been struck by something his father had said the day before, about throwing a punch and being the object of a long-lasting grudge. “What’s the name of that greaseball you punched out at Mount A?”
He rocked forward in his chair and rebuked me with some of his old fire: “I told you I never wanted to hear about that again.”
“It’s worth looking into.”
“No, it isn’t.”
I persisted. “I’m sure you remember everything about him, so give me his name.” Silence. What had Moody Walker told me? A souvenir. “The way I heard it, this guy took something from you. Yanked it off your neck.”
“He did what?” I had his full attention.
“Was it a medal?” He stared at me but didn’t answer.
His eyes slid away from me and he focused on something in the middle distance. Replaying the scene in his mind? Had I finally broken through? He parted his lips and was about to speak. But by the time he did, he had recovered himself.
“There’s nothing there. Get it out of your head.” Then he rose, walked over to a guard, and was escorted from the room without looking back.
“Jesus. What happened?” Declan asked when he saw my face. “Is everything all right?”
We began walking to the car. “Clients, Declan. They’re all the same. Their own worst enemy.” I unlocked the car, we got in, and I wrenched the key in the ignition, then spun out of the lot like a jail-house regular.
“Well, what is it?” Maura wanted to know.
“It’s just some information I wanted from him. He won’t tell me. That’s all.”
“Do you think it’s something he would tell me?” Maura asked.
“Definitely not,” I answered, which provoked a stare and a spate of unasked questions.
We got Declan on the plane and promised to keep him posted. Then we drove to the city in silence.
The first thing I did the next morning was call a private investigator. I told him what I had heard from Sergeant Moody Walker about the fight at Mount Allison University in 1982. I wanted the guy’s name. I intended to track him down.
Ah, well I rolled in late last night.
Would you believe I would like to die now?
There was my lady lying with a man. Not another one, oh no.
Would you believe that it happens more often than not?
Here’s to all the ladies that fell for me tonight, whoever they were.
— David Wiffen, “More Often than Not”
I
The days went by, and Brennan’s physical and psychological health deteriorated with every hour he lost behind bars. My efforts to keep his spirits up were seen as the empty gestures they were. He fretted about where he would be sent to do his time, but when I tried to discuss it he tuned me out. His state of mind was not enhanced by the results of the sentence hearing: the judge told him he would have to serve eighteen years of his life sentence before he could apply for parole.
Then it was time to move ahead with the application for release. Susan and I prepared our submissions to the Appeal Division of the Nova Scotia Supreme Court. A country-wide search had netted me very few cases in which a person convicted of murder had been released pending appeal. Karl Schenk had a trunkful of cases to support the Crown’s position that Burke should stay in jail.
Decision day finally dawned. We would be facing Justice Dennis McTiernan. This could be bad or it could be good; there was no way
to predict, because he was notoriously unpredictable. The only predictable thing about him was his nickname, Dennis the Dissenter, so named for his willingness to buck his fellow appellate judges and write dissenting opinions. He didn’t always dissent in the same direction; sometimes he was for the Crown, sometimes for the defence; sometimes for the little guy, sometimes for the powerful. He had done very little criminal work before being appointed to the bench. Expecting the worst, Susan and I prepared not only for this hearing, but for an application to the Chief Justice of Nova Scotia for a review of McTiernan’s decision if things went against us, as they likely would. I decided not to share this bit of the planning with Brennan, whose mood had been alternating between depressed and belligerent in the days leading up to the hearing.
But first things first, and here was Dennis announcing his decision. I had to look at Sue to make sure I was not hallucinating. McTiernan stunned us all by ordering Brennan’s release. The conditions were similar to those imposed on him before his trial, except that the amount of the recognizance was
$IOO,OOO.
We were fortunate indeed that Rowan Stratton was able and willing to act as surety for his long-time friend. I immediately began to worry that Schenk would apply to the Chief Justice in an effort to have the decision overturned.
For now, though, Brennan was free. I drove him to my house. He sat in the car with his head back and his eyes closed as I spoke of the next few days: “I don’t think you need to deal with the rectory right now, and you certainly don’t need any attention from the press. Tell me what you want from your room. Clothing, books, music, wine, whiskey, your favourite
soap,
whatever you want, I’ll bring it to you here. I’ll get you some groceries. Then I’ll go back to work. So, sit out on the lawn and gaze at the water, go for a long walk, get tanked, or sleep all day. It’s up to you. The house and everything in it is yours. The key is on a hook under the eaves of the shed. It’s always there for the kids, just in case. I’ll stay out of your hair for a couple of days and let you unwind.”
“Where are you going to be?”
“I’ll be working long hours and going out afterwards. Getting out early and getting in late.”
What I didn’t tell him was that if I didn’t blow off steam in some way, I’d be the next one convicted of a violent crime. That night, Monday, was blues night at the home of Ed Johnson, lead vocalist for our band, Functus. If ever there was a time for singing the blues, this was it, and what I couldn’t say in words I would express through some fiery blues harp and slide guitar. I was interested to see, when I arrived, that Ed’s friend Bev was on hand, as she sometimes was, to hear the band. Bev was around my age, small, quick, and dark; very attractive in a jaded kind of way. She had made no secret of her interest in me, but I had always put her off. Tonight I was ready to take her up on her offer. There would be no Maura, no Brennan, no Declan, in my life this night.
We all wailed and swilled our way through the evening, and somebody passed around a veggie tray that contained nothing but cannabis derivatives. I stole the show with an over-the-top rendition of Bo Diddley’s ode to male prowess, “I’m a Man.” Shameless. Living it down would not be easy, but I’d worry about that later. Between numbers I made a point of pulling Bev onto my lap, wrapping my arms around her and generally being much more physical than I would normally ever be if there were more than two of us in the room. I cut back on the booze fairly early so I wouldn’t blow it. Bev and I began to get better acquainted in the back seat of a cab. I spent that night and the next at her place. I slumped over my desk during the days and had two long nights of mindless, loveless, heedless physical release. It was just what the doctor ordered.
I dragged myself to my house Wednesday evening, after another wasted day at the office. There was a light on so I knew Brennan was still my guest.
“Honey, I’m home!”
He came out to meet me. The improvement in him was astonishing. “It’s about time. I’ve been slaving over a hot stove all day and what thanks —” He peered at me. “You look like shit. Are those the same clothes you were wearing two days ago? Can’t you break down and leave a spare set of clothes over there?”
“Over where?” I said, bewildered.
“At your old place. With MacNeil.”
“I wasn’t at Maura’s.”
“You weren’t? Oh. I called over there last night and Tommy said: ‘They’re out till late.’ I assumed he meant she was out with you.”
“No.”
“Ah.”
Who was she out with, I wondered, late on a school night? “Did she call you back?”
“No. Well, not last night. She called this morning. Gabbed a lot, but she sounded like hell. Worn out. I figured that you —”
“I wasn’t anywhere near her. So. What did she say?”
“Nothing really.”
“Nothing? You just said she gabbed a lot. She doesn’t tend to prattle on about nothing. Especially if she’s worn out. It’s not her style.”
“Right. Where’s your gear?”
“Huh?”
“Your guitar, your harmonica. When you left here on Monday you were going to blues night, remember?”
“Oh, we had blues night, all right. Shit. I left my stuff at Ed’s. I hope.” I had picked up my car on Tuesday but I hadn’t gone in. Hadn’t even thought of it.
“That may have been the other call. Someone phoned last night, didn’t leave his name.”
I went to the phone. “Donna? This is Monty. Ed around? Very droll, Donna. Yeah, I was pretty wound up. Hey, Ed. Did you call here last night, about my guitar? Oh, him? No. Irish exchange student. Mature student. Listen, I’ll stop by and get my stuff tomorrow. No, no. Really. There’s no hurry. Well, if you’re coming this way, but otherwise — okay.” I hung up. “Shit. Now he’s coming over.”
“And?”
“Nothing.”
“Go get cleaned up. And put those clothes in the laundry, for Christ’s sake. I do have dinner for you.”
“Smells good. What is it?”
“Irish stew.”
“What’s in it?”
“Lamb. What else would it be?”
“Where did you find the lamb?”
“Are you well, Montague? What do you think I did, go out and
slaughter one from your herd?”
“Flock, I believe the word is. While shepherds watched their flocks by night.”
“Right. I should know that. But no, you do have a supermarket out here.”
“It’s a good walk.”
“I’m a good walker. That’s all I did. Walk, eat, sleep. Just what the doctor ordered. I feel great.”
“You look great. Big improvement over what I saw out at the Correctional Centre.”
“You, on the other hand, look knackered. Now hurry up. Before my stew is
ruined!’
I took a long, hot shower, brushed my teeth and stuffed my clothes in the hamper. Feeling considerably more chipper in fresh jeans and a comfy sweater, I sat down to a surprisingly delicious Irish stew. The doorbell rang. Ed. I nearly knocked my chair over, trying to head him off at the front door.
“Hey Bo Diddley,” Ed sang, loudly.
“Can it, Edward. I’m beat.”
“No wonder. Didn’t know you had it in you, Collins. You’re usually content to blow the harp and play guitar. But those vocals on ‘I’m a Man.’ Whoa! That’s your signature tune now, my friend. The girls sure lapped it up. Just like the old days, eh? Walked out with more than your harp in your hand after those gigs.”
“Just give me my gear and piss off.”
“Jesus. Something smells good in here. Is Bev so in love with you now that you’ve got her cooking for you? I would have taken her for a wing-nite kinda girl.”
“Bye, Ed. See you next time.”
“Can’t wait. For the blues and the social dynamics.”
Then I had to face Brennan who, I knew, had not missed a word. He was beaming, the last harrowing weeks momentarily forgotten. “B. O’Diddley. A Celtic musician, would he be?” I ignored him. But he was on a roll. “I don’t believe I’ve been introduced to this Bev. Why don’t you give her a call? This will be much better for her than the greasy chicken wings she’s used to gobbling between —”