The Dead Republic (33 page)

—Well, listen, he said.—This is important. Your pals, the Provisionals, take this stuff very seriously. The chain of events that led them to where they are today. From history to here. There’s 1916, and you were there. You remember that?

—Yeah.

—Good. And the First Dáil and the Second Dáil and the men who walked out and brought the legitimacy of the Declaration with them. And handed it over, eventually, to your pals, so they can claim to be the only legitimate government of this country. It’s religious. You know that. You’re holding the chalice.

I nodded.

—So, they want to use you. Your go-ahead means everything to them. Literally everything. They go on about Marx and science but they love the religion. They love the certainty. Giving the orders. But, better than that, taking the orders. Obeying. That’s what they’re into. So, you tell them armed struggle is the one true path and they’ll be more than happy to kill anyone who tries to stop them.

I spoke now.

—You want me to say that the armed struggle isn’t the true path.

—No.

—What?

—We don’t care.

—I’m lost.

—Oh, we know.

He sighed.

—Look, he said.—It’s simple. We want you to tell us what happens. Keep in touch. Wherever they bring you.

—You want me to spy.

—That’s right.

—Turn informer.

—That’s it, he said.—But if spying fits you better than informing, that’s grand. You can be a spy.

—Why would I do that? I asked.

—Well, he said.—Because we’re in the right and the Provisionals are wrong. We’re all for elections and letting people make their own minds up.

—We already live in a republic, said the Dub; his voice beside me was a shock.—Most people down here would lean that way. Even if it is a bit of a kip.

—But we know, said the Clare man.—It’s a complicated world. And we could spend the rest of the day debating the pros and the cons of liberal democracy. So I’ll give you a more compelling reason for keeping your ears open and reporting back to us.

He stood back, a few steps.

—Henry, he said.—Look it. If you don’t do what we want you to do, we’ll let them know you’re a fraud. You were never in the First Dáil. You weren’t anywhere near the Mansion House when the Declaration was ratified, and you were even further away when the right lads walked out.

—You knew, I said.

—I’ve a degree in history, sure.

—So do I, said Campion.—Trinity, no less.

—So, there you go, said the Clare man.—We’ll tell them.They’ll kill you. And your wife will die alone.

He stepped back.

—Hang on, though, he said.—There’s the daughter. She visits the mammy too, doesn’t she? When she’s here.

I didn’t answer.

—She’s what? Sixty?

—Yeah.

—She’s your daughter too, so.

He looked happy again.

—Yes, I said.

—They’ll kill her too, he said.—Nothing surer. If they find out you’re an informer as well.

—I’m not.

—You already are, Henry, said the Clare man.—So, what have you got for us?

 

 

 

I caught my breath and the shelves stopped swaying. I made it to the desk in a line that was nearly straight.

—The papers.

The young one behind the desk pushed back in her seat. She thought I was going to vomit on her. I heard the wheels squeak, and stop.

—Sorry? she said.

—The papers.

—Newspapers?

I nodded.

—On the rack over there.

I grabbed the
Independent
and the
Mirror
, and I kept moving till I got to the first empty chair. The library was full of men, waiting till nearer teatime when they could go home. I waited myself, until the sweat dried and the shakes backed away from my hands and arms.

The five demands were easy enough to find; the hunger strike was on the front page. There were men starving themselves to death for the right to wear their own clothes, and the right not to do prison work - fair enough, I thought; the right to associate freely with other prisoners - grand as well; the right to full remission on their sentences. I’d never been sentenced to jail-time in Ireland; I’d been locked up till I escaped. And ninety days’ hard labour in America had been hard and had lasted ninety days. The final demand was the right to visits, parcels, and educational and recreational facilities. There were names too, the starving men. They were well on their way; the country was counting down. Bobby Sands. Francis Hughes. Raymond McCreesh. Patsy O’Hara. There were words from Francis Hughes, written on tissue paper and smuggled out under someone’s tongue.
I don’t mind dying, as long as it is not in vain, or stupid
. The names were vaguely familiar - I’d heard of Sands - and the fact of the strike too. They’d been on the radio, floating around in the kitchen.

I hadn’t been paying attention.

I sat beside her bed. The eye was open. I held her hand every day, in case she knew I was there. I held it just for a few minutes, and tried to feel the fingers move, press themselves into the warmth of mine, respond to the cuts and calluses - something a bit more than the pulse I could feel and see, barely, at her wrist and, when I leaned in nearer, in her neck.

We were alone. I’d looked in at Ivan. He still had life enough in him to snore. She didn’t snore; she didn’t sleep. But, still, the heart was beating. I wondered which of them would give up first, or if this was a fight, each cousin determined not to be the first to go. I looked at Miss O’Shea but saw nothing like determination.

The nurse, the fat beauty, told me that Ivan hadn’t woken up since the day before, that he hadn’t eaten in three days.

—What does that mean? I asked.

—Only what I’m telling you, she said.

—I mean, is he on the way out?

—God sure, Mister Smart, aren’t we all?

Then it was darker in the room. There was a man at the door. His gaze went straight past the nurse. He didn’t see her.

I knew I was right to be frightened.

This was two days after the G-men had told me that I was their informer. My new career was about to start.

The nurse didn’t know he was connected, but he was virtually the first man who hadn’t gawked at her since she was fourteen. She knew he was dangerous but she wasn’t sure why. She might not have recognised the ideology, but I did. I’d slept in ditches with men who’d cried in their sleep for an Ireland free. She wanted to go. Her common sense was screaming but her vocation wouldn’t let her budge.

He stepped into the room. He seemed to be alone but I knew he wasn’t.

—Out, he said.

—Are you talking to me? she said.

His jacket creaked. He took another step.

—It’s alright, I told her.—He’s here for me. We’ll only be a minute.

—Do you know this man? she asked.

—I do, yeah, I lied.—It’s grand.

—Are you sure?

I was already out on the corridor, and so was he. He held my elbow, lifted me along. He carried me down the stairs, giving me speed I hadn’t had in years. He was hurting me. But it didn’t matter. A part of me - a big part - was delighted. We were falling into each other’s traps, but I was the one who knew it.

We were in the hall, near the front door. Past oul’ ones on Zimmers, through the smell of soup and piss.

The back of another car. No pillowcase over my head this time. My escort pushed me in and slammed the door. Then he got in behind the wheel.

There was another man sitting beside me. I knew him.

—
A chara
, he said.—How are you?

—Grand, I said.—
Go maith
.

—Good.

I’d read enough in two days to know I wasn’t going to be shot. Not on this trip. The man beside me was the voice, one of the important faces. There’d be no one killed while he was near.

—Would you be up for a drive? he said.

—Where to?

—Bodenstown, he said.

—Grand, I said.

Bodenstown was a graveyard near Sallins, in Kildare. The big grave in the yard belonged to Wolfe Tone, the leader of the United Irishmen, who’d given the Brits a scare in 1798. The march to Bodenstown had always been a big date on the republican calendar. I’d stayed away in 1918 because I was a wanted man and by 1919 I’d had enough of marching.

—It’s not June, I told the man beside me.—Is it?

I wasn’t sure.

—No, he said.—It isn’t.

—It’s not Sunday.

—Aye, he said.—It is.

—Oh, I said.—Grand.

—One day must be like the rest of them beyond in the home, he said.

The small talk wasn’t natural. He looked out his window as the car flew down the hill, through Sutton Cross and along the Strand Road, through Baldoyle.

It was up to me.

—Terrible business, I said.

—What’s that?

—The hunger strikes.

—Aye, he said.—Difficult.

—Difficult?

—Aye.

I began to feel a sneaking admiration for some of the men I’d shot in the head. There was obviously more to informing than just listening. My arm was hopping, sore, where the bollix driving the car had gripped it as he’d hauled me out of the nursing home.

—Is your belt on, Henry? the man beside me asked.

The beard was back. It was dark but well managed, like a Protestant hedge.

—No, I said.

—Best put it on, he said.

We’d gone past the airport. I didn’t know where we were. We drove on country roads that suddenly widened, the hedges fell away, showing off new, unfinished housing estates, before the car dived back into the country and the gloom of the high hedges.

—How is she? he asked.

—The same, I said.

—Tough business. And Mister Reynolds?

—Deteriorating, I said, a bit surprised as the word came out.

—Sad.

—Yeah.

—A good man.

—Sometimes.

—Ach, that’s all of us.

—Why are we going to Bodenstown?

—Same reason we always go to Bodenstown, Henry, he said.—To renew our vows.

—It’s not June, I said.

—Aye, right enough.

—What make of car are we in?

He looked a bit lost, annoyed. Then amused.

—D’you know what? he said.—I don’t know, myself.

—Toyota Corolla, said the driver.

—There you go. Toyota. Why d’you ask?

—Just wondering, I said.—I was thinking of investing.

—Tired of the bus, hey?

I looked at him.

—You’ve been watching me.

—Aye, he said.—You’re a popular man.

I was in trouble.

I tried to read my own face, tried to see what he’d be looking at. Made sure no shock or fear got through. Felt no heat beneath the skin. Skin so hard and weather-beaten, a knife couldn’t have got through it, let alone embarrassment or terror.

I looked out my window. I gave it twenty seconds.

I’d seen no one following me, nobody standing near the house or sitting behind a paper in a car - like a Toyota - as I passed. Except the unemployed and the junkies. Men and boys I knew to see and nod to; men, I knew, I’d written off. Maybe the spy was one of them, shooting heroin for Ireland. Pretending to be worthless. Fitting right in and doing a good job.

—What colour is it?

—The car?

—Yeah.

—Can you not see for yourself?

—The name for it.

—Silver, said the driver.—It’s a bit on the dirty side.

—A wee bit, aye.

—Less conspicuous, I said.

—Aye, said the man beside me.—Unless there’s too much of the dirt. Then it becomes noticeable.

—Like a suit, I told him.—In my day. No suit at all and you were stopped by the rozzers.Too flamboyant and you were stopped as well. It’s the balance.

—Right enough.

I felt my chest loosen as I spoke. I knew what I was talking about. I was safe in the words.

There were no more housing estates. The driver was taking us by the scenic route, hugging the hedge on narrow roads that hopped and twisted beneath us. There was something else I began to notice. He’d slow down, almost stop, on some of the straighter stretches, and wait before putting the foot down again. I sat up, to see better. There was another car, about two hundred yards ahead. It was approaching a bend. It slowed down, or seemed to. Our driver slowed. Then I saw lights, once, the hazard lights. The car disappeared around the bend and our car started going at a decent clip again.

—The car ahead up there, I said.—Is he scouting for us?

—Spot on, aye, said the man beside me.—Looking out for the peelers.

—I thought so.

—Did you put the belt on, like I told you, Henry?

—No.

—Do that, like a good man. We need you alive for a wee while yet.

He gave me a smile full of teeth. Then he dropped the lip over them.

—I’ll tell you why we’re on our way, he said.

The car and the sudden heat - it was a quick, hot day; I was fighting my eyelids, dropping into sleep. He rolled down his window. Then he leaned across me and rolled down mine.

—There we go.

He sat up again.

—That’s a bit better.

The air was good. I was awake again and on the case. We passed pig shite and a crowd of cows, then hedges too wild to see over. I could hear soft branches scrape my side of the car.

—So, he said.—The hunger strikes.

One of the blanket men, Bobby Sands, had stopped eating on the 1st of March, at midnight - I knew that now - and other men had joined him, one by one. No man had died yet but the country was waiting.
They won’t break me because the desire for freedom, and the freedom of the Irish people is in my heart
. An M.P. in the north, Frank Maguire, had died, and there was talk of running Sands in the by-election. I’d read the morning’s paper. Two days on the trot. I was bang up to date.