Whatever
the time of the year funerals are invariably cold
occasions. At least that is how they are stored
in and replayed from the memory bank. Looking back
over those that I have attended I cannot think of
any that were without chill. The least bit of warmth
in the body is involuntarily pushed out by the first
peel of the chapel bell, which tolls for the deceased
as they begin that final journey to the grave. Even
if the day in question was sunny nothing of the
sun bursts through when later the mind's playback
button is pressed.
Yesterday's
funeral in East Belfast for Bert McCartney was a
cold occasion in every sense of the word. Those
of us who stood outside St Matthew's Chapel shifted
from foot to foot as the funeral mass took place
inside. I watched a senior PSNI member leave the
church towards the end and walk by us. The day previous
he had appeared on television outlining the progress
in the investigation of Bert McCartney's murder.
Having been at odds with the cops all my life I
was somewhat surprised and confused by a desire
welling up inside me to bid him 'good luck' in his
effort to remove the cut-throat killers of Bert
McCartney from the streets of Belfast. While I said
nothing, the thought that he should have good luck
remained with me all day. Watching the victim's
distraught loved ones, his tiny children, and anguished
friends and neighbours walk in the cortege that
winded its way through damp streets, to wish failure
on the cops on this one would simply be to deny
justice to everyone who shed tears yesterday. The butchers
of Bert McCartney are no different from Mark Wright
and James Fisher, the two Scots Guards members who
plied their murderous trade to end the life of Peter
McBride. Why should the cops be denied the luck
needed to ensure Bert's killers no longer stalk
Belfast streets?
Watching
news coverage of the funeral later in the day, the
comments of the officiating priest may have passed
me by as eulogising words sincerely offered as a
balm to his family were it not for the observation
of my wife. She said that the sentiment 'greater
love hath no man than this, that a man lay down
his life for his friends,' showed that Bert had
more in common with Bobby Sands than those who murdered
him had. An image flashed through my mind of Bobby,
defenceless and naked in the H-Blocks, surrounded
by screws ready to tear into him. Reading Brendan
Devine's account in the Irish News of how
his friend was confronted with thugs reinforced
such imagery. Bert had stood, hopelessly outnumbered,
holding up his hands as he reasoned with his would
be killers, 'nobody deserved this. We didn't do
anything.' Reason died and hate slithered away to
cover up the evidence of its crime.
Talking
to locals as the funeral procession weaved its way
along the Mountpottinger Road, I listened as they
spoke not only of their abhorrence but also their
fear. And the source of their fear was members of
the organisation which had sprang into existence
as their defenders. I teased this out, suggesting
that the IRA had never been populated by Shankill
Butcher types and would hardly want them about the
organisation now. They accepted the logic but protested
that some republicans had visited homes in the area
telling people to stop discussing the events surrounding
the murder. One long time Sinn Fein voter mentioned
one of those named in the grapevine as having plunged
the knife into the two drinking buddies and said,
'you know yourself he is a sadistic scumbag and
has been so all his days.' I could hardly dispute
it, mentally recalling complaints that came through
regularly about the same person when prior to the
Good Friday Agreement I had staffed a Sinn Fein
office in the Lower Ormeau Road. Had I failed to
sufficiently flag it up years ago?
If
there is to be any consistency or justice, then
the same affront felt within the wider nationalist
community when Fisher and Wright were readmitted
to the British Army needs to be on public display
today. If the long stated opposition to a hierarchy
of victims is genuine then there can be no hierarchy
of murderers.
Despite
what has been said of the IRA in recent weeks, or
what motivates its leadership, it is still very
difficult to conceive of the body of its membership
as being motivated by criminal self-aggrandisement.
Some of those named as being suspects in the Northern
Bank robbery would have ability in abundance to
plan and execute the raid but they would be clueless
when it comes to thinking like criminals. The minds
they are equipped with lack criminal intent. Yet
it is indisputable that a strain of vicious criminality
does lurk within the IRA, a parasite feeding off
the legitimacy that association with the IRA provides.
Its one attitude towards the community it feeds
upon is that of the emperor Caligula, 'Oderint dum
Metuant': 'let them hate as long as they fear.'
In such circumstances it is futile to resort to
platitudes and advise those who are frightened that
there is nothing to fear but fear itself. That will
hardly dissuade the knife plungers from coming to
the door. Today's Guardian graphically described
the fear that grips the community. Yet, if the Butchers
are not tackled the tyranny of the knife will rule
over the lives of the most vulnerable in areas like
the Short Strand. There the community has been robbed
of one of its most decent members. It cannot be
fitting that those who murdered him should find
any solace or succour from within that community.
No organisation or group should shield them. Bert
McCartney's killers have no right to a hiding place.
They should be cast to the tender mercies of the
Northern Ireland Prison Service, where together
with the screws they can share common cause as having
participated in the murder of Irishmen willing to
lay down their lives for their friends.
