The Way He Was – Novel Excerpt

“Tomorrow’s coming, come what may and I believe I’ll find my way.

No one knows just what will be, but I will find some peace for me.

 Nothing’s gonna bring me down today.”

Frankie put his guitar down and looked at me.

“That’s beautiful. There’s something sort of sad about it but I love it,” I said.

“It’s a big departure from our punk and rock style, but I think it’ll sound good when me and the lads work on it,” said Frankie.

“It’s a pity it won’t be ready for tonight,” I said.

“Little sis I’m not so sure the Harp Bar is the right kind of place for it anyway, a bit too ballady for that crowd.  There’ll be plenty of more gigs in the future. Watch this space. The demo I was telling you about last year is nearly ready. This could be our time.”

“That is so exciting Frankie. You really deserve it. Proud of you bro.” We hugged.

I was staying the weekend at Sans Souci  to celebrate my recent graduation. I promised my parents that I would spend time with them and Graham said I should. He had been intending to go on a trip with Colin, so this gave him an opportunity. He needed a break as the intense study was getting to him, although he only had two more years left. We were already planning our future together. Tonight Frankie would be playing in the Harp Bar and I was sorry Graham would miss it, as he had never heard my brother perform.

“It’s a shame love,” he said, “but I can catch him the next time. By the sounds of things, Frankie has a future ahead of him as an artist. You enjoy yourself this weekend and don’t worry about me. Colin and I will be climbing mountains and having early nights. Nothing for you. “

“I love you Graham Baird,” I said, kissing the face I loved best.

“I love you too Connie, more than I can say. We’re so lucky that we found each other. Finding the right person isn’t easy,” he said.

I didn’t have his experience, but I understood what he meant. I couldn’t imagine my life without him. If girls looked at him in the street, which they frequently did, I would be awash with jealousy.

These were emotions I had never experienced before, some of them not so pleasant. I was seeing an aspect of myself that I didn’t always like. My body was raw, exposed, alive, and vulnerable at the same time.

The Harp Bar was one of the few venues in Belfast where everybody gathered together, irrespective of their religion or their politics. All you needed to be was young and to want to have a good time.

Frankie and I had two favourite places. Good Vibrations was the first, a record shop where it was a 24 hour party. When we were there, we used to imagine that this is what it must be like in normal cities. The second was the Harp. The bar itself was the home for punk rock in Belfast, but Frankie’s band  had a crowd that also loved hard rock and they played a bit of both. It was a relatively safe venue, although from the outside with its metal security grills and blacked-out windows, it looked more like somewhere you would be tortured rather than entertained. Inside it didn’t look much better, but the atmosphere was electric. It was a nightmare if you had to go to the toilets as they smelt as if several animals had died, probably drowned by the pools of urine on the floor. An occasional fight would break out, but nothing of any importance. No-one felt in danger. It was edgy and positively alive.

ROSA ( Riotin’ On Saturday Afternoon) played brilliantly, and they had to take several encores. When we came outside, the rain was torrential.

“Do you ever wonder how a place like this can run out of water in the summer?” said Aidan, as he was packing away his drum kit into the back of Paddy’s van.

“It’s a monsoon season all year round in this dump,” said Paddy, inhaling the last drag of his cigarette.

“That was a great gig tonight boys. You were all on form,” I said, my friends agreeing.

“Where’s Jim Morrison?” said Paddy. “Hey you big ride do you want to come to a party with us?” he said to Frankie who had just appeared. “Girls you can all pile into the back. Just don’t sit on the drums.”

“Maybe later,” said Frankie. “Where are you going?”

“Aidan has a free house and his Dad’s booze so that would be a good place to start.”

“I can’t,” I said. “I have to get up early and make my parents a special breakfast. I promised I’d be with them all weekend and I even feel a bit bad about deserting them tonight.”

“Aw Connie we all know the real reason you’re not interested in partying. You miss your lover.” said my friend Róisín.

Everyone laughed, and I joined in.

“Anyway I’ll give you a lift home. You can’t be walkin’ in this rain,” said Paddy.

We all squeezed in except Frankie.

“Are you not getting in the front mate?”asked Aidan.

“No lads,” said Frankie. “I’m gonna to walk. I’m really buzzin’ after tonight and I fancy a chip from my favourite van.”

“That stinkin’ chippy outside the university? Christ you would catch something just walkin’ past it,” said Róisín.

“The very one,” he said.

“I can drive you,” said Paddy.

“No, no, no, it’s fine. It’s not far. Just make sure you get my sis home safe. I may see you later. You never know.”

“Aye OK,” said Paddy, rolling up the window.

“I didn’t give him a kiss goodbye,” I said.

“Oh, for fuck sake, you two.  What are you like? You’ll both be the subject of a documentary someday on the twins that never were,” said Aidan.

“I think it’s lovely,” said Róisín. “I wish I had a big brother like Frankie.”

“Do you Róisín? Are you sure you wouldn’t just settle for having Frankie, never mind the brother bit?” said Aidan.

We were all laughing and teasing each other. I was sorry that I couldn’t go to the party.

As soon as I got home, I checked the kitchen and his room, but he wasn’t back. I went to bed intending to stay awake and wait for him, but sleep overtook me. Frankie was always a bit of a wanderer. He could have decided to go to Cliona because she was sick or even have gone to Aidan’s. It wasn’t safe to walk in the city, but we all did it anyway. Despite my good intentions, I didn’t wake early, and it was Mother calling us both for breakfast that roused me. The one thing that would eject Frankie from his bed was the smell of frying bacon, so I fully expected to see him at the table when I entered the kitchen, but there was no sign of the singer.

“I’ll go and get him,” I said to Mother.

On my way up the hall, the phone rang. It was Mark, my brother.

“Hi Connie. Don’t hang up. I know you’re still mad at me but I need to speak to Frankie. It’s urgent. Don’t tell the aged parents that it’s me but bring him to the phone. It’s important Con and I don’t have much time.”

I ran upstairs into his room. His bed hadn’t been slept in.

“He’s not here Mark.”

“Fuck. Have you any idea where he would be?”

“He walked to Queens to get chips but I assume he went to the party at Aidan’s or maybe he went to see Cliona.”

“He walked? Christ, have none of you young ones any sense? OK Connie, here’s what I want you to do. Ring Aidan and Cliona and see if he’s there or if they’ve seen him. I’ll call back in half an hour. Don’t say anything to Mum and Dad.”

“Mark you’re worrying me. What’s goin’ on?” I said, panicked.

“Hopefully nothing,” he said and hung up.

When I came back into the kitchen, Daddy asked me who was on the phone and I said it was Róisín.

“She wanted me to make some calls because she had left her handbag somewhere.”

“That girl would forget her head if it wasn’t attached to her neck,” said Daddy. “Where’s your brother?”

“Oh, he had a late night. I’ll wake him up in a bit.”

“More cold food. I don’t know why we bother cooking at all. You could just eat leftovers from the night before,” said Mother.

I called round people as Mark had instructed, but no-one had seen Frankie. I could have vomited.

“I’m going to get that boy up. This is ridiculous,” said Father on his feet.

“No Daddy. He’s not there.”

In unison, they said, “What do you mean? Where is he?”

Before I could answer, the phone rang. I got to it before they did. It was Mark.

“Well, does anyone know where he is?”

“No. I’m sorry. Mark what if something’s happened to him?”

“Look, Connie.  People are out there looking for him. I’m sure he’ll turn up. For now just say that he’s at Aidan’s. There’s no point in worrying them until there’s something to worry about. I’ll call back in a couple of hours. Make sure you answer the phone. Don’t worry.”

“Who was that? This house is like bedlam this morning,” said Father.

“Oh, it was Aidan. Frankie’s there. He’ll be back later.”

“Thank God,” said our mother. “My heart is in my mouth permanently in this city, worrying about all of you. Even in the convent, Mabel isn’t safe. The Loyalists are always attacking the place. Anyway, eat up there’s plenty.”

I forced myself to eat despite the rising nausea.

As usual, the TV was on. In the past, our parents would always have insisted that it was turned off during mealtimes. Now it was as if they’d forgotten it was even there. Half an hour later, the phone rang again. I rushed to it, hoping that it would be Frankie.

“Connie it’s me, Mark.”

“What’s wrong? You sound strange. Did you find him already?”

There was a long silence, so long that I thought he had been cut off.

“Hello, hello. Mark are you still there? Speak to me.”

“Connie, tell them that he’s missing and get Dad to call the police and report it. I’m coming over. Keep the TV off.”

He hung up before I had a chance to process anything.

“Mum, Dad,” I said.

They both looked at me, alarmed.

“That was Aidan and Frankie isn’t there. He thought he was but he’s not and Cliona hasn’t seen him either. No-one knows where he is.”

I began to cry. My parents held me and Father said,

“Look, he’s going to be somewhere but I think we should call the police and report him missing. In normal circumstances, you’d give it 24 hours. I mean he’s an adult.”

“Nothing is normal about circumstances here,” said Mother, stroking my hair. “Call them.”

During the phone call, I had to go out to tell Father what Frankie was wearing. I could see the tears sitting on his eyelids. His hands shook, and he was trying hard to hold himself together.

“Phil they’ll call round in a few hours and get more details. They said not to worry.”

The door bell rang.

“Maybe that’s him now.  I’ll kill him,” said mother, tripping as she ran up the hall. It was Mark.

“Sorry I had to ring the bell but I don’t have a key to the house anymore. Connie told me about Frankie and that’s why I’m here.”

Everything was so confused that no-one was questioning details.

“It’s good to see you son,” said Father, hugging him.

“I’ve reported it to the police but I’m sure we’re overreacting. They’ll be around later. ”

“You did the right thing.”

Mark looked as if he had not slept in days. I had forgotten to tell them to turn the TV off, and the words filled the room.

“The body of a young man has been found in wasteland in East Belfast. Police are calling for witnesses to come forward.  There are no further details at this point.”

We stood frozen.

Mark held our parents as they sank to the floor. Looking at my brother’s ravaged face, I realised Frankie had been found. The sequence of events is hazy for me. I don’t recall feeling anything, really. I couldn’t grasp it and still believed it wasn’t my brother. How could I have been sleeping while he was being murdered? It wasn’t possible.

The police arrived. There were two of them, one male and one female. We were all standing in the hall. They looked uncomfortable. Mark was behind our mother and father physically supporting them.

“We are here in relation to the call you made earlier this morning Mr. O’ Sullivan regarding your son. We just need a few more details if you don’t mind.”

“Is that my brother that they found in East Belfast?” I asked, hardly believing the words that were coming out of my mouth.

“We don’t know Miss. If we can get a few more details, things will become clearer. I know this is very hard for you all but perhaps we could sit down.”

Our mother apologised for her bad manners and led the police into the living room. Everyone sat except Mark. He stood beside the door with his hands behind his back. He didn’t make eye contact with the police. He had ossified.

“We already have details regarding your son’s height, hair and eye colour. Mr. O’ Sullivan you said that he was wearing a denim jacket, jeans and a white tee shirt with a pair of white Nike trainers on his feet.”

“It was actually my daughter who gave me the information about his clothes. Sure, I never noticed what he was wearing.”

“Of course,” said the policeman, turning to me. “Are those details correct?”

“Yes, except he has blue stripes on his Nikes and they are brand new. He didn’t have his guitar with him because he left it in his friend’s van.”

“What’s the name of this friend? Do you have his contact details? It would be extremely useful if we could have the details of all the friends he may have met that night.”

“I’ll go and have a look in his room.”

When I returned with the information, they were sitting in silence, drinking the tea that Mother had served. The senior officer cleared his throat and said,

“In order to facilitate identification and to rule out the possibility that this is your son, can you tell us does he have any identifying marks on his body?”

I wanted to scream. My brother’s not a body. He’s my soul mate. He’s beautiful, alive, and he sings.

“We can give you a photograph and you can use that to identify him,” said Mother.

It had surprised me they hadn’t asked for this initially.

“Yes, that would be very useful but it would also be helpful if there were any identifying marks on the skin.”

“Well he had a scar on his lip from when Concepta pushed him off the slide when he was little.”

“I did not,” I said indignantly. As if it mattered now.

“Thank you for that,” said the officer, “but did he have any identifying marks anywhere else?”

“He had a tattoo like this one,” I said, pulling up my skirt and showing my thigh.

My parents looked confused.

“Well, his was better than mine. It was meant to be a bird.”

“Do you think I could take a photograph of this Miss?”

The police woman photographed my leg.

“Why can’t you identify him by the picture we have just given you? It’s a recent one or has the victim been so badly beaten that he no longer has a face?”said Father.

The thought was horrific.

“As you understand, Mr O’ Sullivan, we really can’t comment at this stage. The more information we have, the quicker we can rule out your son. We will keep in touch. Thank you for your cooperation. Karen here is a family liaison officer and she’ll stay with you until we have news. We understand how difficult this is.”

“Is it necessary to leave a member of the police force here?” said Mark.

“You know the protocol Mr. O’Suilleabhain in cases such as these. I didn’t realise that Francis was your brother until I saw you here. The Irish spelling of your surname threw me off.”

They looked at each other with mutual distaste.

The policewoman was very nice and her presence seemed to help Mother. The constant crackle of her walkie- talkie was comforting in a strange way, as if we were all still looking for him.

“Connie let’s go out for a bit of air,” said Mark

We sat under the willow tree and had a cigarette.

“Are you going to tell me what you know Mark or are we going to pretend that you know nothing? The same old game.”

He started to cry huge, gulping sobs in that peculiarly wrenching way that men have when they weep. It looks as if they are trying to hold back the tears, but the water flows anyway. It took him some time to collect himself, and he was evidently ashamed of his display of grief.

Then I knew for sure Frankie was gone forever.

“I heard that a young fella had been lifted around the Queens’ area. I wasn’t sure at first that it was Frankie.”

“What do you mean lifted? By the Army?”

“No Connie. Look I don’t know how much I should tell you. The less you know the better.”

“You have no right to keep any information from me about my brother. I don’t care what organisation you are a part of. Do you think that just because you say you’re not in the IRA it makes it true? Every dog in the street knows you are.”

He looked at me for a long time before he spoke.

“Every day Catholics and occasionally Protestants are being lifted and murdered. Not usually in the university district but nowhere is safe here. Whenever I hear about something happening, I always check to see if Frankie is OK.”

“Why?”

“That’s not important. When I heard about the incident, we went out to look for him. We had been searching everywhere and then we got a tip off.”

“So they didn’t kill him immediately? Did he suffer Mark?” I was standing screaming, but it must have been someone else, not me.

“Ssssh Connie. There’s no need to know the details but they held him for a few hours before they took him to East Belfast.”

“What did they do to him?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You’re a liar, tell me.” I started to punch him.

He didn’t flinch or try to stop me.

“Look we found him and he was dead.”

“Please I need to know,” I said, kneeling before him. “Was Daddy right? Did they destroy his face?”

“Yes, he suffered Connie. No doubt. Death would have been a release. I’ll never forgive myself for as long as I live.”

“What has it to do with you?”

“I’ve said too much. Just know that the scum who did this will get what they deserve.”

“Why couldn’t you have died? Not Frankie. You know the rules of this filthy war. Frankie was innocent. He was full of light. All you have is darkness. You don’t need to tell me Mark but I know in some way you are responsible for his death. Fuck you. Will your sense of honour and revenge bring our brother back? Will that return his future to him? Will that allow me to see his face or hear his voice? You have murdered us all.”

I left him hunched over on the bench. Mark should have given me the full details. My imaginings could not have been worse than the reality, or so I thought.

Two hours passed, and the police arrived to tell us what I already knew. Mark and I bodily supported our parents. Mother wanted to see her child. The police woman led her to the sofa and said.

“Mrs O’Sullivan it might be better if you remembered your son the way he was.”

“I want to go to him, to sit with him and stroke his beautiful hair the way I used to when he was little.”

“Mammy,” said Mark, “You won’t be able to do that. He’ll be behind a glass window. You won’t be able to be with him.”

“At least he’ll know I haven’t left him. I’m going and you can’t stop me. Diarmuid are you coming?”

Father sat staring straight ahead and didn’t answer.

“Will you answer me? You’re completely useless. Our son needs us.”

“I have no sons anymore,” he replied.

“I’ll go with you Mum. Connie, you look after Dad.”

When the woman who used to be my mother returned, she had aged twenty years and her hair had turned grey.

“Mum?” I said.

She didn’t answer, but slowly made her way over to my father. They sat side by side, stunned by the horror of their new normal.

In the kitchen, Mark told me what had happened. He poured himself a whiskey and gave me one too. I almost expected Frankie to burst in and ask what we were celebrating. He was still there, still with me.

“We were led into the room and the curtain was pulled back. He had a cloth over his head and only his hands were visible. It would have been better if they had covered them as well.”

“Why?” I started to tremble.

“His fingers were broken Connie, hardly recognisable.”

“Oh my God, they didn’t leave anything of him. What did Mammy do?”

“Nothing. She slowly moved towards the glass and laid her head against it. I had to drag her away. This will be the end of them both. No parent should ever have to see this.”

“And yet if you seek revenge Mark, some other parent will.”

He didn’t answer, and I brought the tea into the two people whom I no longer recognised.

Everything is procedure. An autopsy had to be carried out and a coroner’s report produced. My father demanded a copy, but I never saw him read it.

Fourteen interminable days later, Frankie’s body was released for burial. Me, Mark, and Mabel had made all the funeral arrangements. Josefina , my other sister, was coming back from Europe but would only arrive in time for the burial. We organised the wake in Sans Souci. Frankie’s body lay in a closed coffin in our living room, where only a few weeks before he had been singing me his song.

Friends and family paid their respects, said the rosary and kept him company on his final journey. Photographs of him filled the room and Aidan had placed his guitar at the foot of the coffin. The boys played several of the songs that he had written, including the new one that he’d been working on. I couldn’t listen, unable to bear any of it. Howling for my brother, I tore myself in two with loss. I would have given anything or anyone in the world to have had him back. If I had not abandoned him that night, maybe they would have taken me too and we would be together now.

Graham had been in the house over the last few weeks and had been unobtrusively helpful, driving and collecting friends and relatives, tidying the house and ensuring that all the visitors were seen to. Even Mark appreciated his presence.

“I might have been wrong about him Connie. He seems decent for a Protestant.”

We had enough food to feed the entire British Army. Everyone arrived with sandwiches, pies, cakes, and alcohol. The wake lasted three days and during all that time, I never heard my parents speak once. Josefina and Mabel supported each other, and I had Graham to lean on. I do not believe I could have survived without him.

Frankie would be buried in the Catholic cemetery in Milltown, where our parents had a family plot. It was customary for the body to lie in the church overnight, but if we had done that, our mother would have stayed with him, so we decided to go straight from the house.

The service was in the local church where he had been baptised. Cradle to grave. The funeral was huge, overflowing onto the grounds. I have no memory of even being there. Graham introduced me to his mother and father, and I don’t know what I said to them.

My sisters, Mark, and I carried our brother’s coffin down the aisle to the waiting hearse. The sound of weeping was a fitting elegy. The boys sang him out and he would have been impressed by his audience. They clapped as we passed, giving him the standing ovation he deserved. I hoped he was still dreaming, wherever he was.

The sun shone.

“Happy the corpse the rain falls on,” muttered Father. “There’s no happiness for my tortured son, even in death.”

I held his hand, but it lay limply in my grasp. There had been TV cameras at the church, but in the cemetery we were on our own. The grave waited, an open wound upon the earth, eager to receive all twenty- three years of Frankie O’Sullivan as he was lowered into its gaping maw. Mark had still to order the headstone. I never saw what was written on it because I did not return to his grave. That’s not where he was for me. He was in the air that I breathed and the songs that I heard. He was in my schizophrenic conversations and etched into my broken heart.

There is nothing more final than the sound of earth upon wood.  My Father threw his clod in first and when my mother lifted the dirt, she moved towards the opening. Mark held her back.

“I can’t leave him like this. On his own, under the ground where he can’t see anything. What if he isn’t really dead? My son, my son.”

Her anguished pleas to an uncaring universe pierced the mourners’ silence.´

“Daddy,” I said. “Help her. “

He looked at me as if I were a stranger and returned his gaze to the ground.

It is usual after a funeral to take people for a meal or back to the home of the deceased. We could not conceive of either of these options. There had been enough talk, enough hands shaken and enough condolences heard and shared. Graham drove me and my parents back to Sans Souci. We had to help them into the living room, where they sat slumped together on the sofa, separated by their grief. They were both unresponsive. I could not persuade either of them to go to bed.

“What should I do Graham?” I wailed.

“Everyone’s exhausted. Let them stay where they are. Get some blankets and pillows for them.”

I sobbed when Graham left, but no tears fell.  I had dried up.

The months that followed passed in a haze of unreality. For me, there was the life before Frankie and the life after, but for my parents, there was no more life. Neither of them wanted to move from the house. My mother would spend days in Frankie’s room and frequently slept there. My father remained in a trance- like state, the pain devouring him from the inside out. I was seeing them every day initially, but, after a while, there seemed to be no point. It didn’t matter to them whether or not I was there. I was the wrong child. Mark ensured that they had supplies of food and Mabel prayed with them, which seemed to give my father some solace. No belief in the beyond could help my mother. Bits of her fell off daily, impossible to reattach. Frankie was a victim of our unholy war. We were not the only family destroyed by the savagery that was perpetuated in the name of religion, unity, hatred and bitterness, but there is no consolation in such company.

I had a recurrent dream. Frankie and I were children, and I was pricking his finger with a pin. I would shoot up in bed covered in sweat as he cried out. In the dark, I could see his beautiful face contorted, hear his broken voice begging for mercy, pleading with his captors to stop as they enjoyed his torture, extracting every pleasurable minute in their psychopathic ecstasy. The mangled, brutalised body of my brother, myself. The agony we suffered.

*****

Colette Lynch has been writing for two years and has produced three novels, one short story and two pieces of flash fiction. She has discovered a way of setting free the voices and people in her head. Reared in Northern Ireland during The Troubles, a lot of her fiction deals with familial and psychological conflict. She was a finalist in the 2024 WOW Women on Writing prize, came second in the 2024 Anansi Short Fiction Competition and was published in The Berlin Literary Review.