Chapter 1: First Encounter

Tony Muggivan

I first got to know Brendan O’Donnell on a cold February night in 1989. I have read all the newspaper stories, watched all the television stories, and I attended much of his trial in 1996. I have been interviewed myself many times and tried to tell his story. I am so tired of never seeing the story of what really happened. I have tried to tell it to people I hoped would record what happened. But as the years have gone by, I have recognised that I must tell the story myself. It has not left my mind, and maybe telling it will help me to leave it behind. I need to introduce myself and my family, or at least the members of my family who were involved with me, one way or another, in the life of Brendan O’Donnell. My wife’s name is Mary and I have four sons. At the time I first met Brendan, an elderly aunt and my wife’s sister, Vera O’Sullivan, were living with us at our home. Our home is a farmhouse in Derrycon. Derrycon is a townland ranging from a mile to two miles west-northwest of Mountshannon and overlooking Lough Derg, a lake on the River Shannon. Mountshannon is a village close to the shore of Lough Derg. It is about midway up the Clare side of the lake, between Killaloe and Portumna. Killaloe is a town in Clare on the south end of Lough Derg, and Portumna is a town in Galway about thirty-five miles north on the other end of the lake. At weekends, two of my wife’s brothers would visit us from where they worked in Shannon Airport. We often had a full house. However, we own a fairly large farmhouse so there was always plenty of room for everyone. The year was 1989 and the time of the year was mid-February. To be exact it was Thursday night, 16 February 1989. The weather was very cold, as it usually is at that time of the year. It was about 10.30 on a very wet night. There was a mixture of snow, sleet and rain falling. We had a big fire in the fireplace. And we needed a big fire. We were all watching a movie on TV. We were very comfortable when the dog, a German Shepherd named Tiger, began to bark outside. For the dog to bark at this time of the night was unusual. We live about a mile from the village of Mountshannon, and about a quarter of a mile in off the road that passes our house. This road has very little traffic, especially at night. Brendan, my oldest son, went out to see what was wrong and to see if some cattle had moved. I was watching the movie and didn’t pay much attention. After a few minutes, my son came back inside and said to me, ‘Give me the keys to the car.’ I found this strange and I asked him what for.

He said he wanted to go a short distance up the road and he said, ‘Trust me.’

I looked at him for a second and decided to give them to him. He was about fifteen years old at the time.

After about a quarter of an hour, he came back and told me that Brendan O’Donnell was outside. I had heard of Brendan O’Donnell. I knew that he had been due back in Trinity House detention centre in Dublin over a week before, and I had heard the reports that he had absconded. But I had never seen him before in my life.

I told my son to bring him in. He was gone for what seemed like ten minutes, and he told me later that he was trying to convince the boy to come inside.

When my son came back, bringing the other Brendan with him, I couldn't believe what I saw. He was shivering with the cold, with mud up to his knees, soaking wet through and through, looking like a bullock or a cow that had just been pulled from a bog hole.

He was very nervous.

Mary started getting some of our son’s clothes — our son, Brendan, was about the same age and size — while Vera began to cook some food for him. He said that he hadn’t eaten for days, that he was on the run from the guards, and that he was not going back to prison, no matter what. He took a bath and changed his clothes.

After he had had some food, we talked up to about two o’clock in the morning. He told us about his mother’s illnesses, her attempts to commit suicide, her death, and her burial. He told us that he had believed for a while that she was buried alive, locked inside her coffin, not able to get out.

He made me promise I wouldn't call the guards to report him. Mary prepared a bed for him and we all turned in for the night.

Next morning, I got up early and did the farm work as soon as I could. I told my wife that I was going to drive around to see if there were any guards in the neighbourhood conducting a search. I talked to different people I met, trying to get an exact story about what was being reported regarding Brendan. I met one garda car but it didn’t appear to be going anywhere in particular.

I returned home, and as I was having a cup of tea and something to eat, I had a chat with my wife about what we were doing. We were protecting a young lad whom the courts had sent to prison. Could we be up on charges? We had to find a way to get him back into the judicial system.

We decided to tell the guards that the boy was in the forest near our house but wouldn’t come out unless they would promise not to send him back to Trinity House. Now, we had to convince Brendan that this was the only way to help him. This was really hard to do with the condition he was in.

I got in contact with my brother, JJ, in New Orleans, to get advice from him. He is a social worker who in the course of his career has worked with a lot of troubled youngsters.

He told me to try to get him as much help as possible from the state as I couldn’t hide or keep him forever. Brendan was very distrustful and it took a long time to convince him that this was the only thing to do.

On another dark, wet evening, two days later, I dropped him off at the edge of the forest and told him I would go and talk to Garda O’Hara in Mountshannon. The plan was that I would come back with the guard and arrange for the two to talk.

I spoke to Garda O’Hara and he agreed to come with me as I had proposed. Brendan had already told me that he knew Garda O’Hara, but at this time I didn’t know they had a long history with each other.

When I came back with the guard, Brendan refused to come out of the forest, and an argument started. He told the guard he would never go back to Trinity House. He said, ‘You don’t know what it’s fucking like — the fucking cunts can do what they like with you.’ He said he would kill himself before he would go back.

It seemed to take a long time to get his confidence and we had to promise him that we would help him in every way. I promised that I would drive to Trinity House and find out for myself what was going on.

All three of us came back to my house. Garda O’Hara remarked, suspiciously, on how dry and clean Brendan’s clothes were. In order to protect me, Brendan said he had been staying in an old

outhouse in Whitegate. On this point, the guard didn’t seem to believe either Brendan or myself.

We talked for several hours. Then Brendan told us where he had hidden his bag of clothes. The guard and I drove to get them. It was about four miles away. Because it was now late and dark, we brought flashlights with us.

My God! When I saw the old stable, with all the holes in the roof, I couldn’t believe he had lived a week in a place like this — and in the weather we had been having.

I continued to phone my brother in New Orleans. He had a friend named Joe Carney who now worked in Ballinasloe Hospital. Ballinasloe is in County Galway and is about thirty miles from my house. Joe Carney and my brother attended university together in New Orleans and were in the same line of work. My brother advised me to contact Joe as he would be familiar with how to get help for someone like Brendan in Ireland.

Joe came as soon as I called him. After he had talked to Brendan for some time, he told me that he belonged in a mental hospital and that I should get him into one as soon as possible. Joe also talked to Garda O’Hara who was keeping his superintendent informed on what was happening.

We all agreed that we would take Brendan to a doctor and get a week’s medical extension in order to avoid his having to return to Trinity House immediately. We did this on Saturday and got the extension.

We agreed to use the week to try to get him into a mental hospital. He was in a very bad condition and was suicidal. Joe Carney told us that being suicidal made his situation critical.

On Tuesday, 21 February, I took him back to the doctor. The doctor made some enquiries about getting him into Our Lady’s Mental Hospital in Ennis, County Clare, but couldn’t get him in there. I heard later from P.J. Flannery, a member of staff from Mountshannon, that a decision had been made to have nothing to do with Brendan, but that this decision did not have the backing of all the staff. P.J., a mental-health nurse, was disappointed with it, as was at least one of the doctors.

On Joe Carney’s advice, I decided to try St Bridget’s Hospital. Next morning, Mary and I had a long talk; we saw this as our only chance to get help for Brendan. We were hopeful that Joe Carney would be able to help him if he were hospitalised at St Bridget’s.

I had very little cash at the time, and we are not very well off, even in the best of times. The cows hadn’t started calving yet and we had no milk to sell to the creamery. However, I did have eleven hundred pounds and Mary and I decided to offer it to Ballinasloe Hospital as an incentive to help him. Deciding to leave ourselves short of money, if need be, we started for Ballinasloe the following morning.

I told Brendan that I would try my best to get him whatever help I could, and he seemed ready enough to do what I asked him to do.

On the way to Ballinasloe, he became very, very agitated. I told him I had enough money to get him started with counselling and that I was not going to fail in my efforts to get him the help he needed. He wanted help.

I realised that by asking for hospitalisation he might also have been trying to avoid going back to Trinity House. I believe that this was a factor in what he wanted. But I also believe that he was capable of killing himself in order to avoid Trinity House. He was really considering only hospital or killing himself. Trinity House was not an option for him.

To my knowledge, he had never yet attempted suicide, but my brother told me that the children of suicidal parents were at high risk. Joe Carney agreed and saw his suicide threats as serious.

On the way, I asked Brendan if he wanted to visit his grandmother in Eyrecourt, County Galway, as it would not be far out of our way. From the night when he had arrived at our house, he had talked a lot about her and how much he enjoyed going to see her.

The prospect of visiting her seemed to cheer him up a little. As well as giving him the chance to visit his grandmother, I also wanted to get more information about things he had been telling me, and to see how much I should rely on his word.

When we arrived at his grandmother’s house in Eyrecourt, I could see the tenderness and love the woman showed toward her grandson. She was so happy that someone was trying to help him

that she made me feel like a saint. She confirmed much of what Brendan had told me. After a very nice visit, we left her house for Ballinasloe.

We approached Ballinasloe with high hopes of getting help. The weather was very cold that day and showers of snow had started to fall. I felt nervous visiting a mental hospital as I had never been in one before.

I told the receptionist who I was and that I wanted to get Brendan admitted right away.

We were put in a large room with about twelve men in it. Brendan sat in a corner. I stayed standing, watching these twelve men who were all staring at us. A big man stood up and slowly made his way across the room towards me. He was over six feet tall and was looking at me very seriously. He put his hand on my arm, very gently, and asked me, ‘Can I go home with you?’

I looked at him and thought to myself, ‘Good Jesus, I’m doing everything possible to get one in — not take one out.’ I looked over at Brendan in the corner. He was very pale from the cold, and shivering, but he had the beginnings of a smile on his face at my predicament.

At this point, a door opened and a doctor introduced himself to me. I told him what I wanted and he said he would talk to Brendan alone. He took him into another room and, in minutes, returned.

I was standing in the corridor now. He told me that he would have to admit Brendan. I told the doctor that Brendan had absconded from Trinity House detention centre in Dublin. He said that he didn’t care where he had absconded from — that he had to admit him. He asked who would sign the admittance forms.

I said that I would. I was so pleased, I had tears in my eyes. Brendan had previously told me that they wouldn't take him in Ballinasloe as no one wanted him or wanted to give him help.

After some minutes, another doctor came in, and the first doctor went to talk to him. I was called into his office and told that they couldn’t take him in but that there was a hospital in Galway city that would.

Now, I was almost crying with anger and I begged them to give him the help he so badly needed. He said that the place we were being sent to was a better place than Ballinasloe and was like a hotel.

I saw Joe Carney in the background and I could see the disappointment in his eyes. We didn’t speak. Nor did we need to speak.

We came out of St Bridget’s Hospital like two hungry, neglected dogs. I was shouting, ‘Fuck every doctor in Ireland. Couldn’t the stupid bastards see he badly needed help and it wouldn’t cost a penny out of their pockets if they gave it to him? What is the State paying for?’ I would hardly have gone to a mental hospital if I hadn’t needed help.

Now, I don’t think I would go at all.

Brendan was really down at this stage. He had no blood in his face. He just was so nervous, I cannot put it into words. Again he said, ‘I told you they wouldn’t help me’

We started for Galway, and, to make it more depressing, the snow started again. It was nearly impossible to drive. Brendan was getting more depressed and said it was a waste of time driving to Galway. ‘Nobody wants to help me,’ he said.

I was wondering how we would face another mental hospital and how he would handle the same kind of treatment.

I was very much afraid that Brendan would jump out of the car and run away. I was aware of his young age and his physical fitness. He didn’t seem to have anything to lose by running away. He was less than a month shy of his fifteenth birthday and a very fast cross-country runner. At one point, I had to stop the car and have a chat with him to calm him down. He didn’t want to go to Galway.

After asking directions from several people, we finally arrived at St Anne’s Hospital in Galway. During all this time, from about eight in the morning to about three in the afternoon, we hadn’t eaten anything. I was afraid to stop, fearing that Brendan might run away.

When we arrived at the hospital in Galway, we were each given a cup of tea and a biscuit, and left waiting.

I spoke with two doctors and told them all I knew about Brendan. One of the doctors called Brendan’s father. He agreed to come to the hospital.

The doctors told me that they would not make any decision until Michael Pat arrived. Later, there was another conversation with Michael Pat who said he couldn’t come to the hospital but that he was giving his permission for the doctors to interview his son.

I spoke again to one of the doctors and I asked her to ask Brendan about his sexual abuse at Trinity House. She told me he was too disturbed to be questioned. They asked me to talk to Michael Pat on the phone, which I did. Michael Pat and I had had a row at one time, and we didn’t like each other much.

The first thing he asked me was what the problem was. I said the problem was that he was supposed to come to Galway to sign the admittance papers and he hadn’t come.

When I was with the doctors and Brendan, and while the doctors were questioning him, I asked a few questions in their presence about abuse. He wasn’t inclined to answer except to say that he had been thumped. One of the doctors looked at me and I dropped the subject and let them talk without interruption.

Brendan had not yet told me the details of his sexual abuse but, from some things he said, I was fairly sure he had run away because of it. I was also convinced it played a part in his not wanting to go back.

The doctor finally said that she had spoken with the Trinity House people and that they had told her he wouldn’t lose any points for having run away.

Just as it was getting dark, we started for home. I was hungry, fed up, and feeling like a complete failure. And, I was hoping that the cows were foddered so I wouldn’t have to feed them in the dark.

I was so angry, I missed the road home between Galway city and Loughrea, and ended up in Clarenbridge. I had to retrace my steps to get on the right road.

Brendan saw how upset I was and offered to ‘go back and do every day of my sentence and fuck the bastards,’

When we got to Woodford, I decided to drive the rest of the journey home by the mountain road through Derrygoolin. Little did I know then that it would be on this mountain road that Brendan would be arrested a little over five years later after one of the biggest man-hunts ever conducted in Ireland.

Indeed, we passed the very spot where he spent his last minutes outside prison. Between that day and his last minutes of freedom, he would never get the mental health care we had so desperately tried to obtain for him on that February day in 1989.

And I tried many more times.

When we got within ten miles of home, I called my wife on the CB my son had set up in the car. I told her most of what had happened. She tried to calm me down and told me that Garda O’Hara was waiting for me at the house.

Garda O’Hara had already spoken to the doctor at St Anne’s Hospital in Galway and had already been contacted by Trinity House. The bad news was that Brendan would have to go back to the Dublin detention centre.

Later, I phoned JJ in New Orleans. He didn’t hold out any hope for Brendan if he went back to Trinity House without proper mental health care.

It was decided that Brendan would have to return to Trinity House on Friday morning, 24 February. Instructions were left for me to call the detention centre on Thursday morning to make the arrangements about transportation. I talked to an administrator at Trinity House, and to the probation officer who said that she would come to the house and talk to Brendan.

I offered to drive Brendan back — a round trip of about 230 miles. A priest, Fr Tom McNamara visited to offer his help. When he left, Brendan said to me, ‘What’s he doing here? He’s bent.’ I asked him how he knew.

He grinned and said he knew and that he had served Mass for him. It was going from bad to worse by the minute.

I never saw a child cry like Brendan cried that night. He sobbed in my arms and he even made me cry. I never thought a child could have gone through so much in sucha short life. I was very

scared that as the time got closer for Brendan to return to Trinity House, he might do something drastic. I was afraid he would attempt suicide.

I had been so busy with Brendan that I was neglecting the farm animals, especially the cows that were ready to calve. On my return from Galway, my wife had told me that one of them was missing and must have gone into the forest to calve.

Icouldn’t search the forest that night because of the weather and darkness, so I waited until the next morning.

Next day, I found her dead. She was not able to finish calving, and the calf was dead too. She was a big loss, financially as well as emotionally. I wasn’t in any state for more problems and was far from happy at knowing how both she and her calf must have suffered before they died.

Not only could I not see a light at the end of the tunnel — I couldn’t even see the tunnel.