A Star Called Henry (40 page)

Who were they? Where were they? Hints were searched for and followed. What front doors were slammed after curfew? Who came and went, kept themselves to themselves? Any trace of an accent in a Hello or Thank you? The city was combed for the hush-hush men, the men who came and went. Collins’s men in the Castle, Nelligan and MacNamara, found the names of the men with curfew passes. Waiters, maids, hotel porters were courted and interviewed. Postmen took scenic routes to addresses on Morehampton Road and Earlsfort Terrace, and delivered the letters a little late, when they were sealed again and crispy dry. Names were added to names. They were examined, tested, found spot-on or off the mark. And, the night before this Sunday, they were divided amongst us, Collins’s Squad.
My
Black and Tans, he called us. We were the ones who’d do the killing.

—Hang on, said Archer.

He went to the dead man’s side of the bed. He picked up the cup that was on the small, doily-covered table, still steaming. He tasted the tea.

—Sugar!

He spat it back into the cup and poured the lot onto the bed, on the eiderdown over the dead man’s legs.

—There must have been ten spoons in it, said Archer. —How many sugars did he take?

She didn’t answer.

—You!

—I don’t know, she said.

—What d’you mean?

—I don’t know. I didn’t know him. Leave me alone.

Archer looked at me; he was slow and angry. He looked back at the woman in the bed.

—You’re supposed to be his wife, he said.

Were we after killing the wrong man?

—Well, I’m not his fuckin’ wife, she said.—And I’m no one’s fuckin’ wife.

She threw back the bedclothes and stood out of the bed. She was naked and gorgeous, bloodstained and furious. Archer looked away.

I pointed at the wardrobe.

—The clothes aren’t yours?

—No!

—Where is she?

—He said she’d gone to a funeral in England.

—Come on, I said to Archer.—Let’s go.

—What about this piece?

—She saw nothing; come on.

Rooney opened the door. Archer passed me, and out. If the woman had been dressed he’d have shot her.

I caught up with Archer. This might be a no-come-back job, Collins had warned us. And Archer’s tea-tasting had delayed us. We ran down the stairs. Across the foyer. Our boys at the door, we walked straight past them. Down the steps, onto Sackville Street. Still showing signs of damage four and a half years after the Rising. Right, towards the Rotunda. Walking. No running until we had to. A quiet Sunday morning. And fresh. A wind from the river on our backs, helping us on our way. Left, onto Findlater Place. The wind spinning rubbish in the corners. No sign of the military, no sounds from behind us. The city still off work and yawning. Left, onto Marlborough Street. Britain Street next. Right, then left onto Hill Street. Two boys ahead of us. More behind. Across the old graveyard. Temple Lane, a gate and a wall, Grenville Place, and across the street. My heart butting my ribcage. Quiet still, bells, the odd voice streets away or behind bricks and glass. Grenville Lane, Bath Lane. Door opened, a safe house. We went in, me and Rooney. The boys kept going, Archer kept going - he dropped his gun into the Black Man’s pocket and went to half-nine mass in the Jesuits’ church on Gardiner Street. The boys behind us kept going. Home, a few more streets and alleys, to their breakfasts and mammies.

We were left alone in the kitchen, with our rashers, eggs and mugs of tea.

—We should have shot her, said Rooney.

—She won’t say anything, I said.—She’ll be gone by the time they get there.

—Sleeping with an Englishman, he said.—For money.

—At least she wasn’t doing it for nothing. How’s your egg?

But I’d decided: my war was over.

 

 

I heard her mumbling, following her finger across the page. Two fingers now, right and left hands, whizzing across and down - she was reading two pages at once. I looked around the small room, made smaller by the walls of books that surrounded and dropped their dust on me. The window had gone since the last time I’d visited.

I took a book out of my pocket and put it in front of her. I’d only a few left. Granny Nash owned almost all of the woman-written books in Dublin.

—
The Lamplighter
, she read.—Maria Susanna Cummins. Never heard of her. Leave it with me. I’ll give you something if I like it. I’ll have it finished by tonight.

I pulled the book from under her hand.

—You caught me out that way before, I said.

—
Castle Rackrent
it was, said Granny Nash.—Stupid oul’ nonsense. Go on. Put the book on the table.

I did.

She picked it up and put it to her nose.

—You got this one in Terenure, she said.—O’Gandúin whispers names into the ears of the men that matter. Alfie Gandon says Hello.

She stared at me.

—You’re just like your father. And that’s no compliment.

I
couldn’t see.

—Name?

I didn’t answer.

—Name?

I didn’t answer.

And one of them, more of them hit me again.

—Name?

I didn’t answer.

Again, and again.

Then nothing. I heard nothing, no one leaving the room - if I was in a room - no one coming back. Not a whisper or shuffle. Nothing. Not a thought. Nothing.

Then a voice.

—Take off the blindfold.

My arms weren’t tied. They had been; I was sure of it. I’d felt the ropes tightening, burning. I remembered trying to pull my arms away. I’d seen the chair; I’d seen it before I’d stopped seeing. I remembered being hit with the butt of a rifle. Because I was trying to stop them from tying me to the arms of the chair. They were free now, my arms. I lifted my hands to my face. I wanted to touch where the pain was worst but I did what I’d been told to do: I took off the blindfold. I had no memory, none at all, of it being put on, the cloth over my eyes, the knot. I found the knot and pulled it off from the back, over my head.

I didn’t want to see. What was waiting for me. More. Worse. I didn’t want to see. I knew things now: I was standing up. I wasn’t sitting at all. I knew that I was standing. I could feel it in my legs. There was nothing against my back. I wasn’t tied or trapped.

I opened my eyes. I could do it. Nothing for a while. It wasn’t darkness. A wall. I was standing in front of a wall. Very close, right up to it. I could think: they are going to shoot me against this wall, they are going to execute me. Now. A word on the wall.
Fuck.
Scratched. Other words. Dates. Names. Too many. I didn’t want them.

I hadn’t budged. Not since I’d opened my eyes. I was sure of it. Long ago. I’d looked at nothing else, only the wall, only this part of the wall. I moved my eyes. They moved for me. They obeyed me. A corner. I moved my head. Wall. No colour. No door. No uniforms.

No noises. None near. Behind me. But I could hear things from far away. Laughter. Someone screaming. Pipes holding on to running water. But nothing behind me. No breath or metal.

I moved.

I turned.

No boots or shoes. My feet were bare. I felt the stone and grit. Toes had been broken. I knew that. I could feel the pain, I could see. I remembered. Purple, yellow, mangled. They had stamped on my feet. One of the first things they’d done. I knew what had happened. It made sense.

I turned slowly. More boots, more bayonets, fists, pliers, waiting for me. But I had to turn.

Nothing.

A door. A steel door. The shutter closed. The eye closed. The same grey as the door. A mattress. To my right. I went to it. Just me. My feet were crying, so far to go. The room was empty. I was going to make it. The door stayed shut; nothing outside. I was going to lie down.
I am Henry Smart.
I couldn’t move in proper steps. I could only shuffle.
I am Henry Smart.
I was cold. It was good: I knew that I was cold. I needed time. I needed time again, one thing followed by the next. Chunks of time.

I lowered myself onto the mattress. I didn’t want to fall. I wanted to do it properly.

My hands were on the mattress. I lowered my back, my head. The straw pricked my neck. And everywhere. I was naked. The door stayed shut. Pipes, running water. Behind the walls. I pulled my legs onto the mattress. A window, high up. Bars. One, two, three, four. Four. I knew: they were letting me do this. This was no escape. They were letting me rest. Watching, behind the closed door.

Granny Nash’s room.

—What’s your name then, c’nt?

—Michael Collins, I said.

Stupid. I knew when I was saying it - those days were over - too late to stop myself. I saw his arm move, the Auxie’s, and there was nothing I could do: the butt of his Webley hit me right across the eyes. And they were all over me, stamping on me, standing away, getting the kicks in. They dragged me off the ground. They pushed me against the wall. The books fell away behind me.

—Fa’king ’ell.

And I fell against more books, through this wall, and my head hit the real wall. For a while, they’d lost me - I’d gone under the books. I could tell by the way they dragged me out - they were going to murder me. They pulled my feet, climbed in at me over the books. One slid past my eyes:
Castle Rackrent.

—Which one of them did you kill!

—Which one?

—In cold fa’king blood!

—Get his shoes off.

—Get his own fa’king shoes off.

—Get your shoes off, c’nt.

I tried to hide my face with my shoulders as I bent over to untie my laces. I watched my hands. If they shook, I was guilty. If they didn’t, I was guilty. I got the shoes off quickly. I was co-operating, still thinking.

—What are you doing here?

—Visiting my granny.

—Your what?

—My grandmother.

—Where is she?

—I don’t know.

The boot went straight down. Pain so fast and pure and shocking, I didn’t know which foot. I roared. More books dropped to the floor.

I didn’t know where she’d gone. She’d been in the room when the door had come down. We’d heard tenders racing past outside - brakes, gunfire, a scream. Army boots hit the road. Rifle butts hit a front door not far from ours.

—You’re caught now, she’d said.

I knocked over books and found the window.

—They’re cordoning off the street.

—They’re very methodical, she’d said as she finished the first page and turned to the second and third.—They start at the top of the street and work their way down. House by house. Like they’re collecting the rent. You’ve five minutes if you—

And that was when her door came down.

The man in front of me now was an officer. His chest was a mess of war ribbons.

—We have you, he said.—Yes?

—I was just visiting my granny.

—At the end of the day, he said.—But what were you doing at the start of the day? We know, don’t we?

He was forty, or more than that. He’d trimmed his moustache that morning, probably while we were bumping off the secret service bastards.

—We have you.

He looked straight into my eyes.

—Yes, he said.

And he stamped down on my foot.

—Downstairs and shoot him.

I was pulled through a tunnel of boots, bayonets and rifle butts. Out onto the landing, and thrown down the stairs. There were hands to meet me and I was pulled by the hair to the next steps and pushed. Out to the street. It was lit by searchlights on armoured cars at both ends of the street. I was pushed straight into a beam.

—Now, c’nt.

I felt gun metal on my forehead. I couldn’t see anything.

—Close your eyes once, once. Close your eyes and I’ll shoot the top of your fa’king Shinner I.R.A. Irish c’nt’s head off.

I looked straight into the light.

That was then. I remembered. I’d been caught. Sunday night - how long ago? - after the killings and the other killings, that afternoon in Croke Park. In Granny Nash’s room. I’d gone there - stupid, stupid, fuckin’ stupid - to try and get more out of the Granny. Away from the safe house, out into the fury of the Tans and Auxiliaries.

The door opened. And I opened my eyes. I knew where I was. The cell. Fours walls and a mattress. A window, four bars, and a door. Now shut again.

There was a man on the floor right beside me. Getting up, face down. Coughing and groaning. There was blood coming from his mouth.

—Bastards.

He shook his head. Blood hit my legs and chest.

He was dressed. Trousers, shirt, no collar. Jacket. A cap in the pocket.

He looked and saw me.

—Jesus, he said.—And I was feeling sorry for myself. Look what they did to you.

He was twenty-four or five. His hair was long and wet but I could see a scar running a line across his forehead. It was an old one, part of himself for a long time.

I said nothing. I sat up. I didn’t know if I could talk. It was a long time since I’d spoken. I didn’t know how long. I’d lost that time. I was starting again.

—Here.

He shook himself out of the jacket and handed it out. Then he came closer and put it around my shoulders, without touching me. He sat back on the floor.

—It’s all ahead of me, he said.—Jesus. Hang on, he said.—I know you.

He looked, as if trying to see through lace curtains. He whispered. He looked back at the door first.

—You’re Henry Smart. Aren’t you?

I looked at the window.

—Aren’t you?