He was sitting at the desk but I was the officer in the room.
I got to the door, through the empty kitchen. His housekeeper was staying well out of the way. She’d lost her pulling power a few years before. I was paid by cheque these days, by Strickland, the tax and P.R.S.I. deducted, even though I was much too old to be working. I didn’t have to stand on her poxy step in the pissing rain and wait till she opened the door a chink and slid my money out to me.
I got to the door, and it hit me - I understood. The priest had been in on it from the beginning, and the beginning wasn’t the bomb. I’d known that for more than a year, but I hadn’t looked at it properly. It went back years, to the time he’d come looking for me. He hadn’t just stopped me in the village and offered me the job. He’d been told to. Before the Troubles had started again, before 1966, long before the bomb that was supposed to have brought me back, the priest - a young man then - had been told to get me the job, to keep a close eye on me. For later.
It hit me, but not enough to stop or slow me down. They’d been waiting for me when I got off the bus in Ratheen the first time; they’d been keeping an eye on me all those years, when I was gardening. And before that - back to when I came down off the plane at Shannon with John Ford.
I was still walking as steadily as an old man with a wooden leg could walk as I got to the end of the priest’s drive and kept going, onto the Main Road. The thought was mad - Irish history was all about
me
. I let go of the thought, and it scurried away happily enough. I wasn’t going after it. Irish history could fuck off; I was in love.
I fell over the wall one night. I got out from under the bike and sat on the grass till some of my breath came back. I could feel the damp climb into my trousers. But I couldn’t get up - I couldn’t manage the thing. The light was off in her kitchen. But the blinds weren’t drawn. She was standing there, watching, waiting. I rubbed my eyes, and stood. I swam a bit - my face felt gluey - and the lights and houses swerved and melted. But I stayed up. My mouth grabbed air and held it. The lawn was just a patch of grass, twelve good steps to the back door with only the empty clothesline in the way. I got there - the cold air was good on my face again - and I opened the door, into deeper gloom. There was no light at all, none from the hall or the landing above it. The house was completely dark.
My head caught up.
—Oh fuck.
There was something wrong.
She was upstairs, dying or dead. Maybe since Wednesday, the last time I’d gone back over the wall.
I made it to the light switch, beside the door to the hall. I turned on the light.
She was sitting at the table. In her Cumann na mBan uniform. She was smiling, nervous.
—Did you think I was dead, Henry?
—Not at all.
—Were you worried?
—No, I said.—Not much. Is it the same one?
—It is, she said.—Though the skirt is newer. It still fits.
—Why wouldn’t it? I said.—You were a lanky oul’ one back then too.
I sat down too - I had to.
—Hat and all, I said.
—Hat and all.
She stood up. She looked at the clock on the wall.
—It’s late enough, she said.—Come on.
She went out to the bike. She picked it up out of the flowerbed.
—I can’t manage the thing, I said.
—I’ll do the pedalling, she said.—And it won’t be the first time. You can get up on the crossbar.
—I can in my arse.
—Exactly.
We cycled through the village when the pub and the chipper were safely shut. We met no one, and nothing big got in our way. We stayed off the hill, so we wouldn’t have to hear the rattle in her chest. I held the bars and she held me. I pushed my old arse back at her and I knew it was me who gave her the power to push down on the pedals. She hadn’t cycled in years—
—Not since I became respectable.
Talking nearly killed her.
But she talked.
—What if they come along now?
—Who? I said.—The Garda?
—Oh God. What if—
—Sorry, love, I said.—I can’t hold onto the bars and talk. It’s one or the other.
She laughed. I felt the shaking in her arms.
—It’s a pity the post office is shut this time of night, she said.—We could have gone in, for old times’ sake.
—We’d never be able to ride back out, I said.
—That’s probably true.
—And we couldn’t manage the kerb, I told her.
She got us onto the new Main Road. It had been built on an easier slope; it didn’t go into the old village. She could just about manage it. I turned us onto the old road again, and we freewheeled down the hill and felt the wind grab at our clothes and cheeks. Her hat stayed on and so did I.
—Better than
The Quiet Man
, I said.
—God, yes, she said.—Those ol’ tandems are good for nothing.
—Except cycling.
She stopped at the bottom of the hill.
—I’m finished, she said.
So we swapped. She got up on the crossbar. I put the weight I remembered down on the pedal, and went. I couldn’t cycle because of the leg - but I did it.
—Still alive?
—Fuckin’ sure.
But I couldn’t take us far.
—The leg’s fucked.
—You’ve had enough.
—What about you?
—I’m grand.
—Good girl.
She got off the crossbar. I watched the pain cross her face. I looked away as she slowly assembled herself. But I stopped - I made myself look. And I loved her.
—I’m exhausted, she finally said.
—I did all the fuckin’ work.
—Always the smart answer.
We were three steps from my door.
—Will we go in?
—No, she said.
She looked at me.
—I’m not who you think I am, she said.
I looked at her.
—Fair enough.
We walked back to her house. We both leaned on the bike. I had to. This was the pain of a fresh-lost leg, and worse, every time I moved it - a new cut every step. But it didn’t matter. We struggled together, back up the Main Road.
We got onto the bed. I gave her a hand. She let me take off her second boot. She lay back on the bed in the uniform. She let the hat drop to the floor. I lay beside her. I didn’t take the leg off yet. I didn’t want to face the mess.
We lay there.
—What if they come in now?
—They’ll find two old people afraid of closing their eyes.
—They will not, she said.
I felt her head move. I felt her breath, then her lips touch the skin at my eye.
—There now, she said.
She lay back again.
—I won’t climb up on you tonight, she said.
—Thanks.
—You scut.
—Tomorrow, I said.—Get up on me tomorrow.
—I might, she said.—Are you happy, Henry?
I thought about it.
—Yes.
—Good, she said.—So am I.
We slept.
No dreams - no fingers.
We both woke up.
PART THREE
10
I waited for four years.
I was too old and wrecked for the job but no one was going to sack me. The school started to fall apart, and so did republicanism. The pub bombings had started before I was bombed, and the kidnappings. One after another, after another - Guildford, Birmingham, half the pubs in Belfast. Reprisal and counter-reprisal became tit for tat - murder was trivialised. Bank heists became the daily thing, and every housing estate knew a Provo with a red car and a stiff leather jacket. The rebel songs stopped, except in some of the pubs. Little boys stopped singing about Saxon gore and the men behind the wire. The portraits of the republican dead were taken down off the classroom walls. The Provisionals were losing but only a few of them knew it.
—They didn’t have that in our day, I said.
—What? she said.
I pointed at the telly.
—That, I said.
It was 1980. We were watching the news.
—Kneecapping, I said.
—No, she agreed.—We didn’t have that.
While the Provisionals were emptying the country’s banks, they were kneecapping kids for robbing shops.
—Did we do that kneecapping? I asked her.
It was a real question. I wanted to know. I’d shot men so their outraged pals would shoot other men. I’d fired off rounds so that people would be terrified and grateful. I’d left a dead body on a street, so that fury would drop solid and blinding onto the surrounding streets. I’d murdered men because I’d been told to.
—We didn’t, she said.
—Are you sure?
—Maiming our own? she said.—We never did that. Why would we have?
—Okay.
—We didn’t.
—Good.
—Only them that were looking for it.
I looked at her. I sat up - it took a while.
—You still believe in it, I said.—Don’t you?
—When I remember, she said.—Yes. Sometimes.
She tried to sit up, to match me.
—It’s there in me still, she said.—And what about you, Henry?
—Not really.
I’d never let her in on the secret. It had nearly killed me, but I hadn’t whispered the fact that I was one of the men that mattered. I’d been told to tell no one. I’d been reminded of that, the day before.
—
A chara
, he said, when I finally got the door open.
It needed to be taken off its hinges and given a planing - the weather had fattened the wood - but I wouldn’t be doing the job.
He was by himself. It had been more than five years, and the beard was gone. But the teeth and the accent; I knew who he was. He followed me back into the house.
—How’s the health? he asked.
—Grand, I said.
—You’re looking well, he said.
—I’m not, I said.—But I don’t look.
—That’s the spirit.
It took a while - everything took a while; nothing came quick any more - but then I knew how I felt when I saw him: delighted. I was being rewarded for my patience. I was the sleeper, being called into action at last. Miss O’Shea was going to be proud of me.
I remembered: republicans loved their tea.
—Will I stick on the kettle?
—Don’t bother yourself.
—Grand, I said.—I’ve biscuits.
—No, he said.—No.
I had Goldgrains, but so did the mice. Their droppings were all over the plate on the table. I could hear the bastards but I hadn’t seen them in years.
—I’m on my way up to Parnell Square, he said.
He looked less sturdy without the beard. He was still the man, though - even the mice were listening.
—And I thought I’d drop in, say hello.
—What’s in Parnell Square? I asked.
I remembered singing on Parnell Square, with Jack Dalton.
—Headquarters, he said.—The political wing. Has to be done.
—I bet it works, I said.
—What works?
—The shaving, I said.—I bet you can go anywhere without being stopped.
He smiled.
—I can, aye.
—The same here, I told him.—I put on a suit and they didn’t know how to find me.
—A suit would be too much for me, he said.—I’d nearly prefer to be sent back to the Kesh.
—Long Kesh?
—That’s right.
—Looks like a kip.
—It’s a kip, right enough.
It was man to man stuff and I loved every word. He pushed the door shut. It closed with a whinge.
—So, Henry, he said.—I don’t want to attract attention. So I’ll just say my piece.
—Go ahead.
I didn’t sit down. I was ready to follow him straight back out the door, to Parnell Square, to the walls of Long Kesh. I wouldn’t need a bag.
—There’s something big on the way, he said.—Something very big. It could change everything.
—I don’t like this kneecapping, I told him.
—I don’t like it myself, he said.—But listen now. I can’t give you details. And it’s no insult to you. No one knows the details. No one.
Your secret’s safe
, I wanted to tell him.
I’ll have forgotten it before you’re back in your car. Just tell me.
—The timing’s vital, he said.—And it might be a while yet. Are you fit?
I nodded.
—I am.
I could climb over walls, although I went over Miss O’Shea’s front wall these days; the high back wall was beyond me - I couldn’t look up at it.
—Good man, he said.—Ignore what you hear. On the news or from any other source. It’s a smokescreen. The armed struggle. You understand?
I nodded.
—Behind the armed struggle, Henry, there’s another struggle going on.
He was making sure his eyes were locked to mine.
—That’s where you’ll come in, Henry, he said.—At the right time. The exact right time. The word from you, Henry. You have no idea.
—What word?
—You’ll know when the time comes.
He was at the door.
—We’ll meet again soon, he said.—Keep fit. Be patient.
—I’m not going with you?
—No, he said.—Not this time.
The teeth lit the room.
—But you will.
The door was open.
—
Slán
.
I stayed where I was. I heard feet joining his feet, car doors, an engine, two engines.
—Is there anything good on after this? I asked her now.
But she was asleep. Fair play to her, she still slept with her mouth closed. Not bad for ninety-three. I wanted to kiss her but her head was right at my shoulder, tucked in like the butt of a rifle.
—I was lying, I said.—I’m involved.
She stayed asleep.
—I love you.