The Dead Republic (41 page)

—I suppose I am, she said.

—Are you even a nurse?

—Sure, the gang in here are easily looked after. Like herself. She’s lovely.

—She hasn’t budged in years.

—What have you for us?

—Is that really glucose?

—Of course it is. She’d be dead if it wasn’t.

—Is she even alive?

I stood up.

—She is, of course. Calm down.

—Fuck off.

—None of that.

She pulled me back down beside her. It was desperate, so easy. She could have cracked my neck or broken my back. She could have put me across her lap and slapped my bony arse.

—Talk to me, she said.

—What happened Campion and the other fella?

—Before my time, she said.

—What happened them?

—One of them emigrated to Australia. And the other one is - he’s important.

—So you’re who I talk to.

—That’s right.

—And what if I don’t?

She shrugged, but she didn’t smile.

—Life goes on, she said.

I could stand up and walk out.

—There’s dissent in the leadership, I said.

—Thank you, she said.—What else?

—That’s it.

—Dissent about what?

—Don’t know.

—Who told you?

—No name.

—Army Council? Insider?

—Yeah.

—Dissent, she said.—It’s old hat.

—It’s serious.

—I hope so.

She stood up, patted my shoulder.

—The great fella, she said.—Look at you.

She stopped at the door.

—I’ll be wanting more. Are you with me?

—Yeah.

—Good, she said.—I’ll be seeing you here every day.

The whole place was a front, built to fool me. Even the sea-gulls outside were G-men. My wife was dead but it still killed me to know that she’d seen all that had just happened.

—Sorry, I said.—Sorry.

Wars were won or lost, or they just stopped, but a struggle could go on forever. Wars were dreadful but a struggle was always noble - especially when the enemy was one of the world’s big armies and you were just a couple of hundred men and women. When you could point back to when it had started, past Vietnam and the Second World War and the War of Independence, to 1916, and further still if necessary, to the Fenians and the Famine and the United Irishmen, to pikes and wigs and the French Revolution and Cromwell and Drogheda, to Elizabeth and the first of the plantations and the Norman landing in 1169, and up again through Cromwell back to Thatcher. By 1985, it was eight hundred and sixteen years of struggle.

Where was the dissent? Thatcher had united the country more than anyone else had ever managed. People who didn’t give a shite about the north felt the sweat climb out of their necks whenever they heard the voice.
A unified Ireland was one solution - that is out. A second solution was a confederation of the two states - that is out. A third solution was joint authority - that is out.

It wasn’t just the message; it wasn’t really the message - very few actually cared. It was the voice, the reminder of who and what we were. Nothing. No blacks, no dogs, no Irish. We were nothing and Thatcher told us that every time she spoke. She was in her hotel bed in Brighton when the hotel blew up all around her. She lived and climbed out, a bigger, sharper version of herself. There would be no solution. The murder was there, like the rain, sad but Irish. It was part of what we were, a big, sore lump on the tragedy. With the Guinness and the crack - we sold it.

It was August before I saw the man with the beard again, on a hot, glaring day. His face was yellow-white, and shining wet. The beard itself was dirty and the man looked very sick.

—Henry.

He’d knocked on the door, although I knew he had a key.

—What happened you? I asked.

—Can I come in?

The way he moved, I quickly knew: he’d been shot. I looked out as I shut the door, but there was no trail of blood running along behind him, or the echo of a gunshot.

—You’ve been shot, I said.

—Aye.

—Are you alright?

He didn’t answer but I heard him choke a groan. He was wearing a tweed jacket, on the hottest day of the year. He’d forced his right arm into it. The pain should have killed him but something more urgent was keeping him upright.

I had to get rid of him but there was nothing I could do. It was the first time he’d been shot; I could tell that.

—You’re doing well, I said.

—Aye. Thanks.

—I gave them your message, I told him.

I was hoping he’d give me the next one and go.

—Good man, he said.

Saoirse was home.

He looked at the bedroom door.

—Would you mind if I lay down for a bit.

—No, I said.—Fire away.

She was asleep, five steps and a wall away. She’d come to the house fresh off the plane, a few hours before. I’d told her my soldiering days were over. This man’s accent would tell her I’d lied. That, and the fact that he was carrying himself like a bad actor. When it came to carrying bullets bad actors always did it better than the good ones.

Saoirse hadn’t stayed with me before. She had her own place, a flat or something, that her Uncle Ivan had given her years before. But she’d had an extra room built onto the back of my house, along with the jacks and everything else. That was where she was now, asleep, inhaling the new paint.

—Go on ahead, I said.

—Right, he said.—Right.

I heard him sit down on my bed. I heard no gasps as he escaped from the jacket.

I sat, and accepted that they were going to meet. I didn’t care. I closed my eyes and listened for significant noise from outside. Screeching brakes, or fat breath climbing over the back wall. I even listened out for helicopter blades.

He’d come on his own, despite the new wound locked into the sleeve. He wouldn’t have gone to bed without warning whoever was waiting for him outside.

He was alone.

He slept for three hours. I heard him wake and groan. The bed creaked as he put his shoes back on. He looked no better when he came back into the kitchen.

I listened for creaks from the other bed. But she was still asleep. There was still a chance he might be gone before she woke. I’d take his message and show him the door.

He held himself like he was trying to get as far from the wounded shoulder as he could - as if he could stop owning it. He was trying to hide, and he was frightened.

—What happened you? I asked.

—Ach, some rogue shot at me.

—He didn’t miss.

—Aye. He didn’t.

—A cop?

—Some loyalist scut trying to make a name for himself. Came up beside me on a wee Honda.

—Alone?

—Aye.

I didn’t believe him.

—And you were alone?

—Aye, he said.—On my way down to the shop.

He was fitting himself into the ordinary life, going for a bottle of milk and a packet of Tayto. The bullet was one fact, a straightforward event in the life of a militant republican, there to be believed - I could stick my finger in the hole. The other fact, the one he was trying to create, was a different hole. The fact that he could be left alone, to walk the streets and be shot, to get across the border two days later, one-armed; the fact that he wouldn’t be missed; the fact that he wasn’t hiding from his own people, and that this was regular business - I wasn’t going to stick my finger in that one. The man was lying.

He looked at the front door.

—This is delicate, he said.

He was talking more than he wanted to; he was killing the pain with confession.

—Only a few people know I’m here, he said.—And my wife.

—You’re married.

—Aye. She helped me over the wall.

He was definitely giving me more than he wanted to; I could see it on his face. He was close to crying, sentimental; he wanted to sing the ballad of his missis. But he snorted, and shoved back the moment.

—No one knows you’re here, I said.

—Not true.

—Listen, I said.—I don’t trust this.You’re sneaking around like a fuckin’ tout.

Only the shoulder was keeping him back.

—There’s only one tout in this room, he said.

—So, why am I still alive?

—You’re useful.

—A messenger boy.

—No, he said.—Your time’s coming.

—I’m eighty-four, for fuck sake. I’m not immortal.

—You will be.

—No, I said.—I won’t.

He grabbed me with his good hand and pulled me to his chest.

—You will, he said.

His roar took all the room and everything in it. Like a bull being cut into parts - it was much more than that. And he was falling on top of me.

I was grabbed by Saoirse. She’d whacked his shoulder - I was catching up - and she was pulling me out from under him.

He was on the floor and he wasn’t moving - except his mouth; he was trying to swallow the roar, gobbling it back before it went too far and gave him away.

—What’s happening here?

Saoirse examined my jumper, felt the sleeves, made sure I was still in there.

—Who is that man?

She stopped patting my jumper - a present from her. It was navy, with a deer’s head on it.

—You told me you were finished with them, she said.—I think he’s injured.

—He’s been shot, I told her.

She got down beside him. I cursed the fucker; he was taking her attention.

—I don’t see blood.

—It happened a few days ago, I told her.

—You old fool.

And the man on the floor laughed. Or tried to. He was still in agony but bringing it under control. She still knelt, but well back from him.

—Why don’t you leave him alone? she said.—He’s an old man.

—Ach, he said.—We’re old friends. That right, Henry?

—That’s right.

He was sitting now. He already looked like a man who didn’t need help.

—I was just going, he said.

—That would be nice, she said.

He turned his head slowly. He looked at her but he spoke to me.

—We’re willing to talk, Henry. Will you remember that?

—Yeah, I said.—You’re willing to talk.

—Aye, he said.—No matter what’s being said and done.

—Fair enough.

—What is this? Saoirse asked.

She was furious, upset. She tried to stand up quickly, to get there before he did. But - I saw it - her moves were stiff.

—I’m away, he said.

If the house was bugged, he’d just delivered the message himself. But I wasn’t sure he knew that. He walked out without letting us see his face. He left the door open.

—You promised me, she said, when she knew he’d gone.

—It’s nothing, I said.

—You’re as bad as she was.

She went into the new room and came back out quickly with her case.

—Will I call a taxi for you?

—No, thank you.

She didn’t close the door either.

I turned on the radio. I lay back carefully on the bed. I closed my eyes. I drifted, but the radio stayed with me. The news came on. The big story that day was the shooting. A leading republican had been shot by a loyalist paramilitary. The gunman had fired only one bullet before making his getaway. A burnt-out Honda 50 was found in an alley off the Shankill Road.

I got up and made it to the fridge. I took out the eggs I’d bought for her.

He’d delayed the news. As the bullet dug into him, he’d seen the chance and grabbed it. They’d got him off the street and they’d washed the blood off the road before the R.U.C. or the Brits came in after the bullet’s echo, looking for the body. (The kid on the Honda would have been sent there by a man who knew a man who wore a uniform.) But there was no body. There was nothing. It had been a quick decision - his. Republicans would control their own news and have a laugh at the fuckers, even as he bit on his shirt cuff to stop himself from roaring, before they got him off the street. And by hiding behind the decision, he’d been able to sneak away.

I was making it up but I knew it was true.
We’re willing to talk, no matter what’s being said and done.
He’d risked his life for that.

My omelette was a dry oul’ thing but I ate it.

The victim’s condition was said to be stable. His wounds were not life-threatening.

 

 

 

—Saoirse’s over again, I told the woman in the bed.

It came natural now, the talking. Even though I knew I was being recorded. It didn’t matter. I could talk to her and no one else.

—We had a bit of a row, I told her.—She doesn’t like me being involved.

Involved
- I tried hard not to sound as if I was reading one of Ford’s scripts.