“That’s only hurling and politics, Jimmy.”
“We’ll see about that. I could have called Kelly’s brother in and he could have given me a fit for his brother’s voice if that was all we wanted. I’m not saying I expect them to tell me a lie about it, but there’s this secrecy thing, the reputation for conniving. Like the shagging Masons. We’ll see if us old dogs can pick up a fox here, won’t we, begob?”
An old dog. If this Father Heher was sharpish and started playing professor, would Minogue be expected to spring like a loyal wolfhound and do battle with a theological brain?
“Isn’t it odd the way everything looks different without buses? You’re so used to seeing them all over the place, holding up the traffic. At least there’ll be people getting healthy exercise,” said Kilmartin as he passed a lorry at speed. “Fire the lot of them, I say. Like Reagan did with the air-traffic crowd. Then they’ll know you’re serious, so you can give them their jobs back and they won’t be so cocky again. I hope to Christ someone stands up this weekend at this bloody Ard Fheis and lays down the law about this strike business. Paralysing the capital city and not caring a damn what havoc they wreak. There’s millions of pounds being lost every day, I’m sure. Who’s running the country, I ask you? Is it they or is it us?”
Minogue had no reply. He didn’t know from one moment of James Kilmartin’s hyperbole to the next who the ‘us’ and the ‘they’ were. Paralysis. James Joyce calling the place the centre of paralysis. Should he vex Kilmartin by mentioning Joyce? Bloom, a Jew. Who would these Opus Dei people be then, in this play? All priggish Dedaluses with minds like drawn plans for medieval cathedrals, all edges and God-given certainties?
“Bollocks,” said Kilmartin. “Missed the turn.”
Kilmartin reversed at speed, the transmission whining, and drew a squeal out of the tyres as he turned on to Churchtown Road. The house was sedate, large even, stolidly middle-class.
“Here it is. Read ‘em and weep.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Upon entering the house Minogue forgot that the outside of it had looked like any other along the street. The small front garden had been tidy, the driveway clean. Additions had been made to the back of the house but the annexe could not be seen until one had taken several steps inside the gate. Shrubs and small trees had been well attended to, as though by a gardener. A replica of an old Irish cross hung on the wall in the hall, the imitation black bog-oak stark and striking. Instead of the clutter of a family-shoes or bags higgledy-piggledy next to stairs as unconscious traps for parents, the smells of cooking and carpet and clothes-the hall was a plain vestibule. What was it about the smell of floor-wax that reminded Minogue of alien life? Who would take the trouble to wax and polish floors, and why would they want to be doing it? Did they have nothing better to do, like sit around or drink or read or argue?
Finbar Drumm led them to an oversized kitchen, spotless, with no pots lying around, all new fixtures. It looked institutional to Minogue, right down to the arrangement of coffee mugs on hooks by the sink. A bearded man with very good teeth and twinkling eyes rose from his seat by the table and greeted the two policemen. He was wearing blue jeans and a short-sleeved shirt. His feet were bare. Father Heher was a man who took exercise, a man who might exert himself in many ways, Minogue believed. He looked into this healthy face as it smiled broadly.
“Joe Heher, how do ye do?” said the sunny, barefoot priest. A tight handshake, the slow vowels of a countryman from the Midlands. Drumm waved them into chairs. Everything about the kitchen and these two men was solid and clean and functional. Drumm smelled faintly of aftershave. His ruddy face and well-groomed hair suggested the same pursuits as Heher. Mens sana in corpore sano.
“I hope ye weren’t expecting any special regalia,” smiled Heher, catching a glimpse of Kilmartin’s look of appraisal. They miss nothing, Minogue thought, and they smile so readily. He was not displeased at Kilmartin’s discomfort at having to talk to a barefoot mind-reader.
“No bother at all, Father,” said Kilmartin trying to regain a solid ground of titles proper to his Ireland.
Heher was having none of it. “Joe, if you don’t mind,” he said. “I’m not one for keeping barriers of any kind. There’s tea to be had.”
“Ah no, thanks,” said Kilmartin. Minogue heard in his demur a tone of contest and rebuttal. Kilmartin placed the cassette-recorder on the table.
“A plug-in, is it?” said Drumm, ever-helpful.
“Batteries, thanks very much.”
“It’s truly a shock to think of Brian no longer with us,” said Heher. Looking intently into Kilmartin’s face and then settling on Minogue’s, his sad smile faded into an expression which Minogue guessed was to convey a deep understanding.
“Such a tragedy gives us all pause for reflection. I only hope that Brian’s death will lead to an enriching of those of us he left behind in this life.”
“He may not have headed for the next life willingly,” said Minogue. “And that’d make it the more tragic, I’m thinking.”
Heher’s eyes widened and he looked to Drumm.
“Dear God,” Drumm whispered. “Awful.”
“Burned to a crisp in the back of his car,” said Kilmartin. “Is it something he would have done himself, knowing him as you do?”
“I ask myself every day if we ever know our deeper selves,” said the now-contemplative Heher. “What fears and clouds lurk in the back of any man’s mind? For myself, I had no inkling that Brian wanted to end his life.”
“Nor I,” added Drumm. “Brian was a gifted and hopeful person. The roots ran deep.”
“He was a member of Opus Dei?” said Minogue.
“Indeed,” said Heher. The faint signs of a smile returned to flicker around his mouth.
“But he lived on his own. Is that unusual?”
“Not at all,” said Drumm. “Our calling accommodates itself to many situations. God calls where he finds you.”
Not too early, Minogue wanted to say.
“But, for example, if Brian were one of your Numerary members, he’d very likely have lived in one of your residences. Like this one, for all the world?”
Heher’s face showed well-meaning puzzlement. “I see you know a little about our work. Normally we don’t disclose information about our members: it’s enough to know that they come from all sections of society. Everyone is different, and we all have different needs. It’s very difficult to deal in terms of normal and abnormal, as Opus Dei respects everyone’s individuality and path to God.”
“We tend to think of violent crime as abnormal, even though some incidence of it might seem normal,” said Minogue.
“An interesting reflection there. Brian was not a Numerary, he was an Associate. We have no need of secrecy per se but we need some measure of privacy to ensure our apostolic effectiveness,” said Drumm gently.
“So Brian was well enough known to members of this house then, such as yourselves?”
“Oh, I teach bits of philosophy and French at Clonliffe,” said Heher.
“What exactly is your role here, Father?” Kilmartin asked.
“I’m a member of Opus Dei myself. I help with some doctrinal matters, some guidance.”
“So the Archbishop’s office always turns to you in the event that someone is enquiring about Opus Dei?” asked Minogue.
“Now you have it,” said Heher, regaining his smile. “I had the telephone call this morning and that’s how I knew to meet ye here with Finbar. They love to load me down with jobs. I think I’ll have to learn to complain better.”
Which means the exact opposite, Minogue realized. He wondered if complaining was not a mortal sin for members of Opus Dei. Did Heher flog himself the odd time too, and take cold showers?
“Form a union, Father,” said Kilmartin. “Then you’ll be set up nicely.”
“Oh, I get it,” said Heher, showing his teeth in a broad smile. “You’re referring to the bus strike, I take
