The Dead Republic (42 page)

—You know yourself, I said.—A lad came down from Belfast with a message for me. It was a bit awkward.

I sat up - that wasn’t easy. My back cried for the back of the chair.

—So, anyway, I said.—She walked out. Has she been here to see you?

—No, she hasn’t, said the woman behind me - the nurse.

I looked at my wife.

I didn’t have time to lean forward.

—Die, love, I said.—Will yeh?

—Did I hear you right?

—Or wake up and blink or something.

She stood behind me.

—It must be hard.

She sighed.

—What was the message, Henry?

—I want to talk to someone else.

—What was the message?

I looked behind - my neck cracked. She wasn’t there; she’d gone.

—I’ll only tell the top man, I told Miss O’Shea.

I stood. I used the side of the bed to help me.

—D’yeh hear me?

I bent down - that came natural. I went down to her lips. Someone had put Vaseline into the corner creases. My own lips were a lot drier than hers. I kissed her. I looked into her eye and I kissed her.

And I saw it - something. In her far ear, the one I hadn’t really seen since they’d put her into the bed against the wall. The bed was on wheels. I grabbed the rail above her head, and pulled. I made sure I didn’t bring the glucose down on top of her. The bed slid away easily enough. The castors squealed on the lino. I pulled the bed again. I’d enough room now. I looked at the door, before I started. There was no one there, I could hear no urgent feet.

I got around the bed. I could look down across her forehead, at the bridge of her nose, the slope that was still lovely. She was no more dead than I was, not from where I stood now. I was delighted, and annoyed; I’d let myself be ruled by the position of the chair. I’d never wandered from it. She was still there, still alive, under the bedclothes. It was like looking down from the summit of a mountain as it took over the world below and spread out and became the coast. Her feet, sticking up, Howth Head and Dun Laoghaire. This was the best thing I’d done in years.

I kept going around the bed, and I saw it. A grey plastic wire, running from the edge of the bed into the mix of tubes and wires that I’d thought were there to keep her alive. I didn’t touch the wire. I pulled the bed - a few inches, enough to let me get under the glucose tube and around to the side that was against the wall. I held the rail and bent down and followed the grey wire up, off the bed, along her neck - there was a thin strip of flesh-coloured tape holding it tight and well hidden. To her ear. I bent right down now, further than had become normal.

—Ah, I groaned,—fuck—

Right into her ear.

—Sorry, love, I said.

I whispered to her, over the tiny microphone I saw sitting right behind the little mound that guarded the beautiful hole - it was still beautiful.

This was the best thing I’d done.

I kissed the lobe. I barely touched the skin, so there’d be nothing to hear back in Harcourt Street.

Then I spoke into the mic’s ugly little silver head.

—You’ll have to talk to me, lads, I said.

I carefully lifted the head out of the ear. It came easily - it was just sitting in there, its burrow. I took a corner of the tape; I was even more careful. I pulled it away, slowly. I watched the old skin lift with it. I felt it myself, in my back, as I bent right down so I could see exactly what needed doing. The last corner gave up, and the tape came away with the wire. I had the mic in my fingers now. I dropped it to the ground. I found it again, just at my foot. I stood on it. I’d smash it and they’d have to come and get me.

But then, as I put more of my weight on the bug under my foot, I realised: if I killed the bug, then they could kill its hiding place. I took my foot off it. I hauled it up - it was weightless - by its flex. I brought it up to my eyes. It didn’t look too bad, just dusty. I rubbed it on my sleeve. Then I put it back where I’d found it.

He was standing against a car - a red Fiat Strada. He was in good shape and clearly earning more money.

—Campion went to Australia.

—Jesus, Henry, he said.—We’re supposed to be the ones spying on you.

—How’s he getting on?

—Grand, he said.—So I hear.

—Good.

—Sure, he’s no Provos or the other mad feckers to contend with down there.

—He’s a cop still?

—That was the deal.

—And you’re doing alright yourself, I said.

—I’m grand. Will we go for a jaunt?

—No, I said.—No fucking around.

—You’re in charge, Henry.You’ve the info, so you call the shots. He patted his trouser pockets, like he was looking for his smokes. But he’d the red, slapped face of a man who’d given them up.

—What have you for us?

—Just a message, I said.

—Good.

—You haven’t heard it already, no?

He shook his head once, just slightly.

I planted my arse beside his, on the bonnet of the car. The heat bit sharp, but I stayed where I was. He hadn’t moved, to put space between my hip and his. We were old pals.

It had been a good day. I’d kissed my wife. I’d taken a deep breath and oxygen had rolled into corners that had been flat and stagnant for years. I was a big man today, not the ghost of one. It was all clear, in front of me; I knew what I was going to do.

—We’re willing to talk, no matter what’s being said and done.

—That’s the lot, is it?

—That’s it, I said.—Does it make sense?

—I’d say so.

 

 

 

I rang her Dublin number. She never answered. I rang her American number and waited for Benjamin to pick up the phone. But he didn’t. Her machine and her realtor’s delivery -
Hi! This is Seer-she Smart-O’Shea
- were gone.
I’m not here right now but I’m not far away!
I phoned every night but no one picked up and nothing behind the ringing clicked.

The Special Branch nurse was still up at the home. She was
Yes Henry, No Henry
, none of the old snottiness. I asked to see my wife’s file and she trotted off to find it. I sat at the end of the bed this time, so I could look at my wife from between her feet. The nurse came back with the file and she left me alone while I found my daughter’s, the next-of-kin’s, address.

I knew the place. Kenilworth Square. I hadn’t been in that part of the city since there’d been a curfew and I’d been running for my life.

I rang the bell, and waited. I rang again. Hers was the ground-floor flat; her bay window was right beside me. I leaned out and tapped the glass. It was an old lock, easily jemmied. But I rang once more, and waited.

She wasn’t there. I left.

 

 

 

It was raining the next time. He was sitting inside his car, the window down and his elbow getting very wet. I’d just got off the bus. The car was in on the grass, behind the nursing home gate.

—You’re back on the smokes.

—I’m an eejit, he said.

I nodded at the two baby seats in the back of the car, behind him.

—Is it twins you have?

—That’s right.

—That would explain the smoking.

—Not at all, he said.—I’ve another four. I’m only after coming from a parent-teacher meeting. You’re lucky I made it. Get in out of the rain there.

—No.

—You’re the boss.

—How did it go?

—The meeting?

—Yeah.

—Great, he said.—The eldest. She’s college material. So they’re saying, her teachers.

—That’s good.

—Great school. I’ve a message for you.

—Okay.

—I gave your one to my people and they’re keen that you get this one back to your lad.

—What is it?

—We’re listening.

 

 

 

—She’s not in her flat, I said.

I was sitting in my old spot, so I could hold Miss O’Shea’s hand.

—I’ve been out three times and she hasn’t answered. Or her phone. It just rings out. And something about the curtains. They haven’t been touched, they’re hanging the exact same way every time I’ve been there.

I squeezed the hand.

—She could be gone back to America but she’s not answering that one either. Or her husband. Or her answering machine. Or the fuckin’ dogs.

I put her hand back up on the bed.

—I know what it is, though.

I stood.

—She doesn’t want to be found. It’s in the fuckin’ blood.

 

 

 

—We’re listening?

—That’s what he told me, I said.—We’re listening. I remember every word.

We were in the supermarket, H. Williams, staring down at the rashers. I was there for the rashers; he was the one who’d come up and stood beside me. He was out of the jacket now, in a tight, black T-shirt. The angry, mad stiffness was out of his body. We stood shoulder to shoulder, two clueless men sent out to do the shopping.

—Traditional or maple-cured? I asked.

—We always go for the traditional at home, he said.

—Same here, I said.—I once hijacked pigs for Ireland, did I ever tell you?

—Is that right?

—Yeah. Me and the man who signed the order to have me shot.

—Tough times.

—Good rashers. So, am I going to say anything back to them?

—Aye. You are.

I leaned down for the rashers; the effort nearly sent me falling in beside them. I managed it, though. I had the pack in my basket and started to walk away. He was right up beside me, my body-guard. I came to a crossroads in the aisles and I knew something, immediately.

—You’re not on your own this time.

There were two of them, like brothers, two days’ worth of unshaven face each. The one to the left wanted shampoo and the other, to my right, was reading the ingredients on a can of Bachelor’s peas. I didn’t think I’d seen them before but I knew exactly who and what they were.

He grabbed my arm but let go quickly when I stopped.

—Why would I be on my own? he asked.

—I just spotted the lads, I said.—I didn’t see them the last time.

—They were there, alright.

—Grand.

I knew why he was being stupid. He was worried about the last time he’d met me; he wasn’t sure of what he’d said. The two strong men were there to assure me: he was on official business.

—This is what I want you to bring back to them, he said.

—Fire away.

—A change of direction is on the cards if the right conditions can be met. Is that too long?

—No, I said.

—Don’t put it onto paper.

—Don’t worry, I said.

I’d be writing it down when I got home. I knew my limits - I did in my hole.

—But I’ll tell you, I said.—I don’t like the sound of it.

I didn’t know why I was saying it.

He smiled - he was already the politician - a well-cooked mix of reassurance and threat.

Standing up for my wife - it felt like that, and right. I spoke loud enough to spook him.

—You’re selling us down the river, I said.—Aren’t you?

His smile swerved towards threat. He knew I was powerless. Long before I did.

—How’s that daughter of yours? he said.—Have you seen her lately, hey?

Everything else fell away.

—No, I said.

—Give the message back to me, before I leave you alone.

The words were clear, carved, unforgettable.

—A change of direction is on the cards if the right conditions can be met.

—Good man.

 

 

 

I still searched for her. In case I hadn’t heard him. In case I had. In case I died if I stayed still.

A taxi to Kingsbridge.

A train to Roscommon.

A taxi.

Old Missis O’Shea’s house had been gone the last time I’d been there. This time even the gate was gone, and the posts that had held it. I couldn’t see a way into the field. The road was tarmacked now, solid where it hadn’t been before. I got back into the taxi.

—The politician, I said.—Reynolds.

—Ivan Reynolds?

—Yeah. D’you know where he lives?

—Nowhere. Since he died, like. Is that news to you?

—No.

—And the son isn’t called Ivan.

—He has a son?

—Four of the bucks.

—And none called Ivan, no?

—Only one of them.

—You just told me the son isn’t called Ivan.

—The son that matters, said the driver.—The one that took the seat when the dad left it vacant.

The house was gone but the place hadn’t changed.

—Is there a widow? I asked.—Straight answer.

—There is.

—Can you take me to her?

He started the car. I rolled down the window and listened for other engines starting. But there was nothing.

—D’you know her name?

—Peggy.

—Thanks.

—Auntie Peggy.

—For fuck sake.

He drove on roads I didn’t recognise. There was new country laid on top of the country I’d known. I gave up trying to find myself in it.

—Does she still live in the house? I asked.

—She does, said the driver.—But she’s frail enough.

—Does she live alone?

—People come in and out.

He turned off the road, over a cattle grid, through trees, and up to a house that got bigger and more familiar as we drew nearer. I wished Ivan was there with me, so I could thump his back and congratulate him. It was the old Fitzgalway house, rebuilt. Ivan had burnt it to the ground in 1920. But there it was in front of me, turrets and all.