Like many great paintings, it was the striking contrast of colours that made the picture

THE crimson red of the Gaelic football shirts; the bottle green of the police uniform.

Like many great paintings, it was the striking contrast of colours that made the picture

Side by side, young nationalist sportsmen from the Beragh Red Knights GAA club stood with PSNI officers to pay respects to a teammate and colleague who wore both colours with equal pride.

The dissident republicans who snatched away Ronan Kerr’s life hoped to drive a wedge between the Catholic community and Northern Ireland’s new look police service.

One glance at the guard of honour flanking the young constable’s coffin as it approached the chapel on the outskirts of Beragh appeared to confirm their abject failure in vivid technicolour.

Red, green, red, green, red, green: it was a colour scheme that would surely have seared the eyes of the bombers.

As the sun broke through the clouds above the grey slate roofed Church of the Immaculate Conception, the shade of the clothes was the only difference between two organisations whose relationship was once marked with tension and mistrust.

In everything else they stood as one.

Among them, children from local primary schools who knew nothing of the dark days of the Troubles.

It was only one image of countless that little over a decade ago would have been unthinkable.

First Minister and DUP leader Peter Robinson attending his first Catholic Mass.

By his side, Sinn Féin Deputy First Minister and former IRA commander Martin McGuinness walking behind the coffin of a fallen policeman.

Taoiseach Enda Kenny becoming the first Irish premier to go to a security force funeral north of the border.

Sinn Féin president Gerry Adams embracing Kate Carroll, the widow of Stephen Carroll, the first PSNI officer to be murdered by dissidents.

Yards away, Jackie McDonald, the leader of the loyalist UDA, mingling close by erstwhile republican enemies.

Sadly it was in the wake of tragedy that such tangible proof of changing times was crystallised.

Mourners had started making their way to the church, an angular white brick edifice typical of the 1970s, by early morning.

The bitter wind whipping through the quiet main street helped them on their way.

Like many Irish villages, Beragh is jumble of houses, shops and pubs.

With curtains drawn and shutters pulled down, it seemed all wanted to pay their respects.

At 11.45am the church bell struck its first note to herald the cortege’s imminent arrival.

The coffin made its solemn journey over the crest of the hill in front of Mr Kerr’s mother Nuala and his brothers and sister.

Hundreds waited the procession’s arrival but between chimes only the faint sound of birdsong and the whirr of the bell rope returning to position could be heard.

Speakers had been erected all over the grounds to broadcast the service, but few noticed until a young soloist inside broke into song as the coffin, shouldered first by policemen, then GAA officials and finally family members, was carried slowly inside.

The hour-long service was poignant and tearful.

A poem read by Mr Kerr’s brother Aaron stood out, as did Cardinal Sean Brady’s powerful address imploring the men of violence to stop.

“I never thought what was next would bring us to tears but now is not the time to weep, Ronan passed quickly and softly to sleep,” said Aaron.

But the Mass was also marked by lighter moments.

Father John Skinnader recalled the last time he saw the freshly qualified constable.

It was in the Co Fermanagh town of Enniskillen, 50 kilometres away, two weeks ago.

The young constable pulled up in his patrol car and greeted him.

Noting he had addressed him “Father John”, the priest told mourners: “I said to him you can drop the titles because when you and your brother Cathair were young cubs you used to call me Father Jack out of the Father Ted programme.”

As the coffin emerged from the chapel, the symbolic guard of honour reassembled once more.

United in mourning, but also in firm opposition against those who sought to divide them.

Noting the remarkable spectacle before him, one mourner turned to a friend and summed up the feelings not only in Beragh, but across all of Ireland.

“I just hope whoever did this to Ronan is watching.”

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