At the Edge of the Game (11 page)

‘Where’s the
cat?’

Heathshade
answers. ‘Put it out in the snow.’

‘You threw her
out in the snow?’

‘You can’t have
dead animals stinking the place up, mate.’

‘Where is she?’

‘Outside the
back door. What’s up with you, man?’

I find the
carcass half-buried. Heathshade’s behind me.

‘For the best,
mate. Can’t spare the food. No way.’

‘Who’s we?’

I push past
him, back into the living room. A few scraps are waiting there to form my
breakfast. The snow is only a couple of feet away from blocking out the
daylight, but still t
he sun
reaches low over blanketed rooftops, hushed after the destructive night,
spreads a mix of harsh wavelength across the walls.

The radio’s
turned down low to preserve battery power. A voice speaks in what sounds like
Spanish.

‘Turn it up,’
Heathshade says.

He listens,
head cocked sideways, a look of deep concentration. The signal fades finally,
replaced by screeching interference.

‘Well?’

‘What?’

‘Did you
understand any of it?’

‘No.’

He roars with
laughter and gives me a thud between the shoulder blades.

I need to get
away from this fool. Up the ice-coated stairs the bedroom provides respite, and
a better view of the street. It would be so good to just jump out, fall into
the deep snow, swim around in it. And, actually, there are skis in the
wardrobe, last used on the Continent during an inadequately recalled time when
a superflux of money was mine. Window won’t open. Straining against the jamming
ice lets away some adrenalin. When the window bursts free of its restraints a
splinter buries itself in the palm of my hand. Fresh, freezing-cold air pours
in. Both pleasant and unpleasant. I feel in control all of a sudden, decide I’m
going to go out and try to derive a little enjoyment from the day.

Heavy coat and
gloves should provide adequate insulation. I get out onto the window ledge and
carefully attach the skis to my feet. The drop to the snow is four or five
feet. Should be fine. I drop, and when I hit the snow I sink into it much
further than I had expected, falling backwards at the same time, so that I’m
almost completely buried to my waist.

There’s a knock
on the living room window. Helen’s exhibits disapproval.

Unwilling to go
back inside just yet I head towards the village and see if there is any sign of
activity. I would have thought the army or the police would be active by now,
directing some sort of recovery from the storm. I had not expected nothing, but
the street is silent. Everyone’s still indoors.

But there is
nothing happening in the village either. No matter. It’s good to move about
after so long confined. I pass through the Triangle and continue towards the
city centre.

On the bridge
spanning the frozen canal, there comes a low, droning sound. An aircraft. An
Aer Corps helicopter flying low over the rooftops. Its downdraught raises
glittering ice clouds. It veers around to fly towards me. Now it is close
enough for me to see the pilot within the shining glass cockpit. He wears a
deep green jumpsuit and a black helmet. He raises an arm, shows an open-handed
gesture, as though of apology. The chopper does not stop, or even slow. It
passes overhead, following the line of the canal towards the harbour. Another
helicopter shoots past after it. In a few seconds they are out of sight, but
the engine noise lingers.

It is not until long
after silence has returned that I remember my purpose and continue towards the
city centre.

I am not in the
kind of physical condition necessary to be able to travel any distance
cross-country skiing. Thin rations have seen to that. Little wonder, then, that
I am wheezing for breath, sweating under heavy layers. I struggle past the
pillars of the Odeon, down curved Harcourt Street, finally to the corner of
Stephen’s Green, recognisable by the bare treetops protruding from the snow,
and by the shallow crater where work on the Metro station was abandoned in
October.

The front doors
of the Stephen’s Green shopping centre are wide open, the show drifting into
the dark inside.

Here I queued
for food only two days ago. Nobody here now, everything quiet. If there is
nothing happening here, no soldiers or police, no big relief operation getting
underway to get the country back on its feet, then surely nothing is happening
anywhere.

I slide down the
drifting snow at the shopping centre doors. There I take off my skis and set
them against the wall to one side. The interior, lit weakly by the light
filtering through the snow-covered glass roof, is covered with rubbish. Food
wrappers, items of clothing, blankets. And larger forms some way inside that I
can’t see clearly.

There is
evidence of looting all about – broken shop windows, collapsed security
barriers, merchandise strewn about. Now I reach the first of those larger forms
- lying a few feet up a halted escalator. It is a dead Garda. Blood has spilled
down the steps, has halted in static pools and red icicles, frozen like a
winter-locked waterfall. Further up the steps are more bodies, a few in
uniform, others apparently civilians dressed in layered jumpers and coats. One
may be a child, or perhaps is simply a coat dropped to the floor. I do not look
long enough to be sure.

I notice the
bullet cases at my feet, the many pockmarks and holes of bullet impacts.

I turn and rush
towards the daylight. There are two men there with guns.

‘Hold it.’

The voice echoes
around the cold walls and surfaces.

I stand where I
am and raise my hands.

‘Who are you
with?’

Only a gasp
emerges from my throat. A boot strikes the back of my knee and my legs buckle.

‘Get down.’

Something is
poking at my head, my back. Pressing hard enough to hurt. A gun barrel.

‘Don’t shoot.’
My voice is weak.

They kick me in
the ribs. ‘‘Who are you with?’

‘No one.’

‘You think
we’re stupid? Army or Guards?’

‘We haven't got
time for this, Tommo.’

‘Army or Guards?
Answer or I’ll shoot you.’

‘Come on, Tommo,
for Christ's sake. Bring him down to Victor.’

They haul me to
my feet and push me forwards. I still haven’t seen their faces. I stumble
through glass shards, the wreckage of some smashed computers, overturned chairs
and tables, a bloody dead body sprawled at the wide entrance to Dunne’s Stores.
They direct me to the halted escalator leading to the basement supermarket. The
steps are hard to negotiate in the half-light, but the basement is lit in the
golden light of dozens of candles. They make me stand and wait at the bottom of
the stairs. Warm down here. Some of the supermarket shelves are still stocked.
About half the supermarket of occupied by stacks of boxes marked with the
European relief stamp.

But the air
smells foul.

‘Who are you,
mister?’

Two scruffy
children. No malice evident in their faces. A boy and a girl. She presses her
streaked face half obscured in his woolly coat. The sharp laughter of unseen
women echoes on the dirty tiles. The children dash down one of the dark aisles.

Shoved against
a wall, hit my head against it/ Blood that drips over my eyebrow, onto my face.

‘Griffin, ye
space cadeh.’

Both men laugh.

Fat and
red-faced, the speaker has deep creases running from the corners of his nose
all the way around his mouth, almost meeting in the middle of his chin.

‘Watch him while
I get Victor, right?’

When he returns
it’s with a man much taller than himself. This one is different, seems
healthier, more sure in his movements, more frightening in every way. He has
short thinning black hair and is clean-shaven, with heavy boots and a
fur-collared overcoat. He looks me over half-amused, half-annoyed.

‘The two of you,
get back on patrol.’

His accent is
middle-class Dublin southside.

The two slovenly
henchmen climb back up the escalator.

‘Gave you a bit
of a doing over, did they? What’s your name?’

‘George Holden.’

‘Who are you
with, George? Army or Guards?’

‘I’m just a
civilian.’

‘What were you
doing upstairs?’

‘Looking for
food.’

‘How did you
get in without Tommo and Griffin seeing you?’

‘I don't know. I
just walked in.’

He is silent
for a long interval during which the blood starts to pound through my brain so
hard I think my ears might burst.

‘Linda!’ he
shouts.

An overweight
red-faced woman emerges from the checkout area.

‘Tell Tommo and
Griffin to come back.’

She starts to
huff her way up the steps.

‘Get a move on,
Linda.’

‘Shut your hole.
I'm going fast enough.’

When Tommo and
Griffin return he gives me a hard shove.

‘What do you see
here?’ he says to them.

They look
confused.

‘Does he look
like a copper or a soldier to you? Are you thick, bringing him in here? He’s
nobody. Why didn’t you just shoot him?’

‘We thought
it'd be better if you handled him, Victor.’

‘Where were you
when he walked in here?’

They look at
their boots.

‘This happens
again, I'll throw your children out into the snow.’

‘It won't
happen again, Victor.’

‘We'll do
better.’

‘Get back
outside and do your job.’

Victor turns to
me. ‘George, are you a political man?’

I have say
something. ‘Not really.’

He shakes his
head. ‘My friend, everyone has sympathies. What I am asking you is, do you
stand with us?’

‘I don’t
understand.’

‘Think, man. Do
you support the ideal of a united island governed according to socialistic
principles?’

I dare to look
at him. ‘Of course.’

‘Good. Never
let it be said that the Unity IRA took life when it wasn’t necessary.’

I’m not sure
what he’s saying.

‘We’ll lock you
away for now. Think of it as a bedding in. Behave yourself, do what you’re
told, and you might get out of this alive.’

He puts me in a
small, pitch-dark room behind the meat counter.

Unity IRA. I’m a
prisoner of the Unity IRA.

Feel around the
walls. Junk-filled dusty shelves, boxes and sacks on the floor, sweeping
brushes and mops in the corner.

My eyes adapt to
the dark. Slivers of light penetrating from the corridor, where a sort of red
emergency lighting is in operation. It’s cold in this room. Hold my coat
tightly. I can hear shouting, guffawing.

My body rocks to
the beat of my heart. How much time has gone by? Not sure. Nor am I sure about
space. The darkness is a void whose limits may be a few feet away, or a billion
light years. Drifting now, afloat on a river. My body rotates, head over heels.
Arcing around slowly.

I emerge into
clear, fresh air, bright morning sunlight. The Salt Desert shines like ice, so
beautiful, so far below me. But I am descending, descending…

The door is
unlocked and red glare floods in from the corridor, hurting my eyes. It’s the
woman Linda.

‘Jaysus, have
you been in the dark all the time? I'll get you a candle, love. Look, I've
brought you a cuppa and some biscuits. Don’t tell the men. We’re not supposed
to give you anything. Do you like digestives? I'll leave this bucket over here
for when you have to go to the toilet, okay? We have to use the buckets outside
too. The bleeding pipes are frozen up with the weather.’

Only now do I
realise how hungry I am. All is consumed as she watches. She laughs and takes
the empty cup.

‘Can I have
more?’

‘We’ll see,
love.’

She locks the
door behind and returns in a little while with a lit candle, but no more food.

‘Please let me
go.’ I have moved myself with my plaintiveness.

‘Sorry, love.
It’s Victor you need to talk to.’

She locks the
door behind her again, and I am alone. The flickering light of the candle casts
moving shadows. I see how filthy it is in here.

But the candle
does not last long. Guttering already. The void closes in on me again.

I waken to the
sound of the door opening. While I am still half-blinded by the red lights,
someone pushes me down the corridor to a filthy toilet, where I am to empty the
bucket containing my urine. Back in my room, I am handed a cup of soup, and
left alone again in the dark. The warmth of the thick, salty soup spreads in my
belly. I feel heavy, and lay on the hard floor. Hard and dirty, but I care
little.