—Sorry, missis.
—For what?
And I was back on the Arseless. Miss O’Shea hopped onto the bar. I held up the sack before I shoved it between my gut and her back.
—This money will be spent by the Government of the Republic of Ireland. Every penny will be accounted for. (Minus my 10 per cent.)—Apologies for any inconvenience. A few minutes on a dirty floor is a small price to pay for freedom. Up the Republic!
Inspiration.
I pulled the trigger and the door crumbled in front of us; the world under the roof was falling apart.
And intimidation.
We were gone, out the door, back onto the street. The stuff of more ballads.
The rebel and the rebellette then cycled out of town.
The earlier machine-gun fire had drawn the peelers.
But not before they’d taken on the forces of the Crown.
Four of them were making slow, fidgety progress, coming down from the market square. Peelers on foot or even on bikes had become a rare sight. They were deserting the outlying barracks since the burnings had started; they stayed in the towns behind the barrack walls and travelled in caged lorries or Crossleys. I looked past these four, for sight of reinforcements or machinery.
—What was that I heard about a great-looking birdie? said Miss O’Shea.
—That was called indoctrination, I said.—A bit of flattery makes great rebels. Look at Ivan.
—I’d rather not, she said.
They were on their own, the peelers, two on each side of the street. Miss O’Shea steered the Arseless straight at the two on the left. I opened fire and would have decapitated them if they hadn’t been so quick off their feet. Then she tilted us to the right and one of the gobshites, who had to hitch his pants before he ducked, took two bullets in the neck and dropped, still holding the knees of his uniform trousers. There’d be no undertaker to scrape him up; anyone touching a dead peeler would soon be needing his own undertaker.
—And, tell me, Henry Smart. Does indoctrination stop at words?
—Usually, I told her.—Don’t worry about that one, though. I’ve seen better tits on a sack.
We cycled through the square and town with nothing more frightening than cattle, dogs and the open mouths of red farmers to meet us.
—And an arse on her the size of the Congo.
I hugged Miss O’Shea. I could feel her heart as we raced past the creamery and onto the road that went north-east to Tulsk. We let everyone see the route we were taking. Outside the town and alone on the road, we turned right onto a narrow road with a beard of rough grass growing down its centre, and right again onto an even narrower road where the grass was most of the road and we were heading south now, back past the town, past small farms and broken stone walls. We rode into the dark until it was too dangerous and, in a wood behind Kilbegnet, we lay down and rode away the night on a bed of stolen stamps.
—Who’s the Jew? said Jack.
The first time I’d seen him in over a year.
In a room in Sinn Féin’s Harcourt Street headquarters. Sinn Féin had been outlawed but the office was still open and operating. The Castle needed work for its spies.
—And how are you, Jack?
—Who is he? he said.
—Who’s who?
—The little Jew you’re knocking around with.
—That might be Mister Climanis, I said.—I don’t know if he’s Jewish. He’s Latvian.
Jack snorted.
—He’s grand, I said.
—Stay clear of him.
—He’s grand, I said.
—Fucking do what I say!
He stood up, took his hat off the desk and walked past me, out the door.
—Come on.
He went up the stairs. I followed him. He kept going until he came to a ladder that brought us into the attic. A hole had been knocked through the connecting wall. We went through it. My head was clear and singing as I went through another hole into another Harcourt Street attic; the dust and darkness couldn’t distract me. But, still, I could make nothing of what had just happened.
Stay clear of him.
Had I been warned or advised? Threatened? I didn’t know. I’d no idea and nothing that would bring an idea to me. Mister Climanis was sound. I knew that much. But so was Jack. I was better off keeping my mouth shut for the time being, until I knew a bit more and didn’t feel so slapped and stupid.
—Here we go, said Jack.
He started thumping our side of the attic door with his foot. We heard someone climbing steps, a key inserted and turned by a nervous hand.
—Did you ever, when we started, said Jack,—think we’d have to go to all this trouble for a bloody pint?
We walked across the city. It was a cold, dry January day - 1920 - and it hit its coldest as we crossed the Liffey at Butt Bridge.
—You’d need more than a hat on a day like this, said Jack.—There’ll be snow before the weekend.
—There was snow in Roscommon yesterday, I told him.
—That doesn’t count, he said.—It’s a blessing there, covering up the bloody kip.
We walked through a patrol of the King’s Shropshire Light Infantry, on the Liberty Hall side of the bridge.
—That’s a hardy one, men, said Jack.—It’d put drips on the ends of your bayonets.
They said nothing but smiled back at the friendly faces.
On, to Phil Shanahan’s and we found a corner for ourselves. We nodded to secret men we knew and there were other, younger men who nodded at Jack, lads I’d never seen before. I met some of them again in later days, some I worked with, others I never saw again. All organisation men. Expendable men, and the smarter men who decided who lived and who died.
—That’s Dan Breen beyond, said Jack.
—Don’t I know it, I said.—The fuckin’ head on him.
—It’s the contents of the same head that leave me gasping, said Jack.—Sometimes I wonder what the hell we’re up to, letting these creatures loose on the country. He has half the population terrified. And I’ve to have a new ballad written about the bastard by the weekend. He wants to bring it home with him to Tipperary. It’s no exercise for a mind like mine. Writing songs about gurriers like him.
—It’ll soon be over, I said.
—It will in its hole, said Jack.—You don’t honestly think that, do you?
—It had crossed my mind, I said.
—Uncross it then, he said.—We haven’t a hope, man. Am I depressing you at all?
—No.
—Good. We cannot win and winning is not our intention. What we have to do, all we can do, is keep at them until it becomes unbearable. To provoke them and make them mad. We need reprisals and innocent victims and outrages and we need them to give them to us. To keep at them until the costs are so heavy, they’ll decide they have to go. But we’ll never beat them.
—Who are you trying to impress, Jack? I’ve heard all this before.
—I’m just reminding you. You’re too pleased with yourself. Too bloody well fed. It’s only starting, man. Those bastards in London are paying more attention to the Mad Mullah in Somaliland than they are to us. We’re going to have to go harder at it. A bit of our own Mad Mullahs. Breen beyond. Your pal, Ivan Reynolds. Yourself. The only way. The real killing is going to have to start soon. And I’m not looking forward to it. There were only eighteen R.I.C. men killed last year. Mick told me that this morning and it shocked me because sometimes it felt like a bloodbath. And look it here.
He took a newspaper cutting from his back pocket and handed it to me.
—Sent to me from Liverpool, said Jack.
A recruitment ad.
—They’re bringing in mercenaries, said Jack.—They’re going to top up the R.I.C. with hard men from Liverpool and Glasgow and Christ knows where else. Their own bloody Breens.
—So what?
—So we’re going to see a scrap like nothing we’ve seen before.
—So what?
—That’s the spirit, he said.—It’s good to see you again. I’ve missed you. Are you a father yet?
It was good being with Jack again. Talking, meandering through the day. I was back. I’d been alone too much. I had Miss O’Shea, but every word and pause was sex; every sentence was a minefield and I stomped on every syllable in the easy hope that my leg would be blown off. I lived for it. Even now, away from her, glad of the rest, I wanted her enough to stand up and run all the way to Roscommon.
—Another.
—Sacrifice.
—Awhh—
—Reprisal.
—Awhhhh—
Maithú, maithú
—
There was no one else I could talk to on my travels. I was alone and I had to stay that way and, most often, that suited me fine. But sometimes, usually in the early evening when the urge for drink and tobacco smoke was strongest, I mourned the living as well as the dead and I ached for Dublin.
—I’ll tell you, man, Jack said later that night.—The peasants will form the backbone of this nation.
—They will in their holes, I said.—They couldn’t form a fuckin’ queue.
It was the smart-arsed, giddy remark of a man who hadn’t been properly home in a long time. Dublin was a hateful kip but, Jesus, sitting now in its subversive heart, surrounded by the smoke and smell and the noise from outside, I felt the homesickness like a sudden, slow bite into my heart, because I knew that I was going to have to get up and go away again the next day.
—The R.I.C. are all decent men, Jack said now.
—Never liked them, I said.
—Decent men, he said.—It’s a job. A career. I’ve a brother in the R.I.C. Did I ever tell you that?
—No.
—Stationed in Cork. I’ve another brother a priest, the brother in the R.I.C. and we’ve our own pump in the yard at home. We’re a respectable family, the Daltons. D’you follow me?
—What happened to you? I asked.
—I’ll be respectable when the time is right, he said.—On my own terms.
—What about your brother?
—I’ve been telling him to get out. But he’s a contrary man. It was a different place when he joined up. He doesn’t understand.
He stared at the table as if his brother was on it, looking up at him in his uniform.
—Is Gandon still your landlord? I asked him.
—I’ve no landlord at the moment, he said.—I live out of a suitcase and it’s my own.
—Did you read about him saying he was in the G.P.O.?
—I wrote it, said Jack.
—Why?
He snapped his eyes away from the shine on the table.
—He’s too busy to be writing speeches, he said.—That’s my department.
I knew I had to be careful.
—I don’t remember seeing him in the G.P.O., I said.
—He was there, said Jack.
He looked straight at me.
—Other people remember him.
He took another piece of paper from his back pocket, still staring straight at me.
—Here’s something else to remember. A job for you.
He pushed the small square of notepaper over the table to me. I picked it up and read it.
A name.
—Give it back.
I slid it back over to him. He took a match from his box - Maguire and Patterson - lit the paper and dropped it into the ashtray.
—You know what to do.
—Yes.
—I know you do.
Whiskey had joined our pints. I could have stayed there with Jack for the rest of my life. The whiskey sent the world away; the night would never end.
—Listen to this, said Jack.—I picked it up this morning. Listen now.
He looked at the ceiling.
—If our opponent is to be made to comply with our will, we must place him in a situation which is more oppressive to him than the sacrifice which we demand.
—That’s what we’re up to, I said.
—Exactly, said Jack.—A lad called Count von Clausewitz wrote it. In 1832. I’ll make a few adjustments. Take out
opponent
, put in
enemy
, and I’ll credit it to Mick in the next
Bulletin
and hope that none of the foreign correspondents have read von Clausewitz recently. That’s my job, man.
—You’re feeling sorry for yourself.
—D’you know? I am. I should never have let them know I had brains. I’m a civil servant with no state, man. A pen pusher. Another thing I do, come here till I tell you. An invention of my own and I rue the day it came into my head. I bring the foreign journalists, the newly arrived lads, on tours of the city and we meet all these people on the way. Accidentally, like. Out to Sir Horace Plunkett’s place and he tells them about all the creameries being burnt down. Then on to the Shelbourne. I go for a wee-wee and three priests up from the country sit beside him, spot his accent and tell him about all the atrocities they’ve seen in their parishes. Then out we go, and who do we meet? Madame MacBride. Jesus, man, she’s a clown. She brings us off for tea with Missis Childers and the pair of them give us more atrocities. What a pair, man. They’re frightening. We end up in Vaughan’s and Ned the porter, a man of moderate nationalist views, fills him in on the sorry state of the country and what’s needed to put things right. It’s a good tour, I’ll grant you, but that’s what I am every time a new hack hits town. A bloody tour guide. But you’re the real thing, look at you. You’re the one that’ll be remembered, not me.
—You’ll be alive.
—Is that supposed to comfort me? You smug little shite. I’d die for fuckin’ Ireland. D’you hear me? I would. Today. Now. If they’d let me. You remember that name?
—Count von Clausewitz.
—The other one.
—Yes.
—Have you said your prayers?
—Yes, he said.
—Good man.
I put the gun to the back of his head and shot him. And another one for luck. The name on Jack’s piece of paper.
Away from streets and walls, the noise wasn’t much and it was gone before he settled face-down in the leaves, after first falling sideways. There was no hurry. We were miles from anywhere. Me and Annie’s dead husband. In the mountains above Dublin.