I got recruited when I was nineteen.
He was a fella I knew, we grew up on the same street. A shared world-view, ye could say. We grew up in the sort of place where if the Queen was on the telly you’d change the channel. My grandfather had three thousand people at his funeral and the Tricolour over his coffin. That sort of place. The family name was well known and I had plenty experiences growin up, ye could say. One time, I mind it was summer and the windows open and we’re all sittin round, just had our tea, and a soldier’s rifle slid the curtains, and then, just like in a film – slow motion – his hand reached back and then the gas canister and the room fills with smoke and my small sister screams that she couldn’t see. We washed our eyes out at the sink. That was the least of it. I seen the soldiers on the streets and all the police and from just looking round I got a political education. And yet, when I was nineteen and the fella said somethin about the Movement, still I said, What’re ye asking me for? Sure I wouldn’t know who to ask? And then he says, I’m not askin for myself, B. I’m askin you to join. Jesus, my god. I closed my eyes for a second and the world grew vast. A thousand suns and stars behind my eyes. I couldn’t believe he seen something in me beyond what I seen in myself, that I could do more than get out on the streets and throw stones. That I didn’t have to live my mammy’s life. I turned to him and says that I didn’t have to think twice about it.
I knew what I wanted and this was it.
In that moment, my new life began and I kept on with that life for many years. I lived and breathed the Movement. Even with all what happened to me. Then, just as sudden as I joined, I left. This was before the Peace, which I supported and still support, and for a long time after I felt bad that I’d went for what were purely personal reasons, not political. Now, of course, I’d say different. I know better, I understand the links and I can join the dots. It’s all about power, and the men who hold that power and all of this is political.
I was young when I joined and idealistic, ye could say. I seen soldiers strike boys against a wall. I seen children stopped and searched. I found myself becoming more and more involved. I saw a woman burnt out of her house. Passed by her as I was comin home from school and I seen her, sat on the pavement with her four weans and all that she was left for. People lived in hovels then and if we hadn’t went and fought we’d still be in hovels. People marched for jobs, houses, the vote. Ye had no respect for the law because why would ye when the law was against your own people? Later this would be used against me – why didn’t you go to the law? Anyway, I was a child when it started. You’d hear explosions while ye were at school and the school evacuated. This was the background noise to childhood. It was a war situation. But Empire never said: This is war. Their Army was on the streets and all, but it was not a war. They were adamant about that. In fact, it was seen to be our fault. And the problem is, when you’ve not got an overt war ye get something else. In an open, declared war there’s s’posed to be safeguards and so on. Certain ways how prisoners and civilians should be treated.
But in a covert war.
Sometimes, in the dark of night, when I wake and it’s always an odd number on the clock, I try to understand what was my decisions and what was fated and I know that the gods move in mysterious ways and that the biggest mystery of all is myself. I come to no conclusions in the wee small hours. And, what can I say? I could’ve done something different. I could’ve left when I was young, after all what happened, the way I was treated. When I learned he’d been under house arrest and then put out. That he got sent away. To where? The Big Man wouldn’t tell me. But I stayed in the Movement. And after, I had trouble with sleep, started to cut myself, dropped out of the university. I thought I’d go under, after I’d went to London, after I got back and after the interrogations, but I gathered the pieces of myself, hardened up, and over time became a Quartermaster. That sounds odd, I know. And no-one forced me to do it. But I made a commitment and I lived it through. There was a road and I went a long way down that road. Further than I ever thought possible. I could say it was never in me to become that sort of a person, but I’d be lyin. It’s in all of us. And my past, and everyone in it has led up to this.
You could say that violence found me. You could say that violence changed me. I lived through one undeclared war and, meanwhile, there was a whole other war happening, all around, plain as day. It was another undeclared war. It is ongoing. It involves me and every woman and girl-child every day, but it seems so normal. To a girl-child, to a woman, so normal. It still seems like this. A war waged against half the world’s population. And it continues to this day. And only one war I’ve been part of has ever had an armistice.
I was born before the Troubles began. I grew up knowin the enemy and I’ve been the enemy. I’ve carried the weapons, and I know where the weapons are hid.
And. But. There was more to it. What happened to me – my story – let’s just say it’s an old story. Ask any woman you know. If a girl survives to be a woman, she has at least one story to tell. And the war wounds to prove it.
After The Fall of W, I ache again in all the old places; the grip at the throat, the head, the shoulders, the body memory of what happened. As if time hasn’t passed and I’m back there, telling the Movement what it was like, as if I’m back in the safe house, forced to justify myself: the attack came from the front, I tell them. Yer man knew what he was doing.
Here, on this beach, looking out over the Bay, I pick up two stones. And I discover that it’s not so easy, despite the pilgrim lore, to throw one thing away and to keep another. One thing here, another there. Black-and-white, like that. Certainty, commitment. These words from the past. When I first joined up I was a teenager and they told me, quite calm, no holdin back, that there was only two places I was headed, if I committed myself, if I stayed the course, two places only: to the gaol or to the cemetery.
I’ve done the gaol.
But now I have a new weapon. I put down the gun long ago, but since The Time of the Felled Men – and what it started in me – I step forward with a knot of words in my throat. I step forward with an arrow-sling of words over my shoulder.
And I take aim: the arrow quivers in the bow.
✳
13
So, you stepped forward. You spoke up about whatever it was. That’s why you’re here?
Yes, B says. And we’re here for the same reason.
We are?
Yes.
This gives you pause. Maybe. But your story is different. And – it seems so obvious – you’re more resilient than I am.
She laughs: Ye’re more resilient than you think.
All I know is what happened after The Fall of W, after writing about it…and my own stuff…well. I couldn’t function. I couldn’t write. Or, more to the point – I couldn’t go on with what I was writing.
It triggered ye, B states this as fact.
Triggered? You look at her, searching her face. My sister said exactly that. I’m still trying to understand. Still trying to look at it head on. All these years later…
At this, B puts her head to one side, raises an eyebrow, in that way she has. I think you’ll find it was my sister. She give you one of those looks. Yes. It was my sister who said that. To me.
You have a sister?
I do, she smiles to herself. But in any case, you stepped forward yerself?
Not very well, as it turns out. And it came at a cost.
Of course…when a woman steps forward. There’s always a cost.
You’re both silent for a while and then B says: But here’s the thing: you didn’t go under. She leans forward and touches your arm, encouraging. You’re still here. We’re both here. Telling the story. That’s the most important thing. But there’s something else we need to talk about.
Uh-huh.
I’m not goin to sugar coat this. You need to look it in the face. Step into your own story. It’s no longer about the me and the you…
But…you protest. You feel a little wi
nded, a little breathless. You feel exposed, all of a sudden. You thought things were going in one direction and now she’s forcing you into another. You’d wanted to distance yourself, to find an angle on what happened that was manageable.
It’s a risk, she says. It’s all a risk. Throw the coins. Take a chance, see what comes. Step into your own story. Face facts – it’s no longer about the you.
Back in your room, you go through your old journal. The handwritten notes. It takes time to transcribe it all onto the computer. You stay up all night doing this. You miss breakfast and do not go out for a walk in the morning. You ask the nuns if you can use their printer. You approach the desk in your room, place the manuscript there; the desk covered in pages, but you can’t sit down. You cannot bring yourself to sit still. You circle round and prod the work and turn the page and try to understand how best to approach it, as if confronting a large unpredictable animal, too long in its cage. You’re not ready. You know you have to coax it out somehow, but one blow from its paw could send you reeling. Could send you back there. Could, perhaps, be the end of you. You feel resentful of B, forcing you into the dark places. Forcing you to confront your own story.
✳
THE WOMAN WHO COMES FORWARD
It’s a reckoning, people said. And there was one name I’d long reckoned with. He’s back, they said. From London. Keeps himself to himself. Lives above a shop in County D—. Invisible, yet hidden in plain sight. And what if, after twenty years, I throw dust on this invisible man? Will this dust reveal his presence, the shape of his shadow, the outline of his threat?
During this season of The Felled Men and after The Fall of W, I became obsessed, ye could say. I couldn’t eat or sleep. I kept waitin for his name to emerge. At 2 am, I’d wake and wraith through the house and blur for hours into the blue screen. His fall was only a click away, to be sure. Someone else would come forward and then it would be his turn to flail in the water, his turn in the flood.
I bought food that was pre-sliced as my hand was unsteady with the knife. I put anything really sharp out of reach. As if I’d went back to that earlier time and that younger self. In these small ways, I tried to keep watch. I tried to keep a measure of my days. I lived alone and there was no-one else to help me, although my sister tried hard.
She would ring, and, in her own way, she tried to comfort.
You’ve been triggered, she says.
Uh-huh.
It’s the technical term. She was a little defensive; she heard something in my voice.
A trigger needs a gun, I say to her.
Now, B…
Not literally, I rush to assure her. She knows I know all about guns.
You have to think about this, B. Ye have to think on it. They won’t be happy.
I don’t care if they’re happy.
They could make life difficult.
I’m used to difficult…
You know what I mean…
The Movement eats its own… I know. I know .
C’mon. Be careful, B. They think it’s all done and dusted.
It’s in the long ago…
They think wrong.
There was a worried pause at the end of the line.
On a lighter note, I say, It’s rainin men…
That it is, she says. Then her voice turns urgent: And because of that, B, because of that, you’re goin to need more than an umbrella, or somethin stronger, for protection, you yerself, I mean. Some protection, if you go ahead.
I’ll be careful. I try to sound calmer than I feel. Don’t you worry.
How can I not worry?
And of course, I was worried for myself. Because we all know what happens to a woman who steps forward.
For the woman who steps forward is a terror to behold. Her hair is a halo of snakes. The dark is a cloak about her. She is the nightmare of men who think they’re beyond nightmares and dawn cries for their mammy to comfort.
But who is ever beyond that?
For every woman who steps forward there will also be a man. This we know. Action and reaction, ye could say. But the man and the woman will take very different steps. The woman comes forward with her palms up, tentative, as if approaching a wild animal. She bites her tongue before she speaks. Her body tense, there is the grip at the throat before the words come. And there will be more than one man to step forward to meet her. A driver always has an accomplice. By contrast, his movements will be quick and decisive. He is sure-footed. He is, after all, on familiar ground. His turf, so to speak. The first man will step forward to plant a boot on her neck. The other man will keep it there.
And even though I know all this, I make plans. The time is now. And I may not get another chance. Already, in the small hours, even before it has begun, I practise sayin what will have to be said.
I keep repeatin it to myself, like a mantra and I say to all of them, after all these years: Fuck you. Get your boot off my neck.
✳
THE MASK OF A FRIEND
Today I let a man into my house. He wore the mask of a friend. This man was someone from before, from the Movement. From when I was young. He was a decade older than me.
I’ve not seen him for thirty years, and now he comes into my life. It’s a few days before the first interview; before things get really bad. He believes he still knows me from before, but I’m not sure I know him.
We meet at Queen St station. He is now a businessman, he says, over from Australia.
Ye’ve hardly changed, he says. Still with the looks, he eyes me up-and-down.
And you’ve not changed, I say. A wee white lie. Because he has changed, quite a bit. He’s stooped and his forehead extends way back. His grey hair starts at the crown. This man was older than me, as I say. I never found him attractive, physically, I mean. But he’s a charmer and sure of himself.
I see him now and I still don’t find him good-lookin. But, I figure, he’s not a bad man, basically he’s a good man. And he’s looked me up for a reason, and although I’m not sure of the reason, I hope for the best.
We walk out the station and as we turn left, past the building works and the poor soul in the sleeping bag in front of the Costa and then right on down towards the Mall, he puts an arm round my waist in a way I find too tight and too familiar but I don’t protest, the man is pleased to see me, he’s from my past, he’s a friend of sorts, why would I want him upset? We walk this way down the Mall and he’s holding me too-close and I fret a little, just a bit, back of my mind, that if someone sees us they may jump to wrong conclusions – that maybe I’m involved in some way with this man, that perhaps we’re in a relationship. I pull away as we cross near the shopping centre.
Back then he was my section commander. Now he’s a businessman in Australia. How a life changes, turns, runs off on a different track. He’s an international businessman, apparently. Something in computers. Soon to retire, he says. Briefly, I allow the thought to flare. How did he manage this: the smooth transition? After so many years in the Movement? After so many years with the guns. How did his life get so easy? A new partner, two kids, several houses. A match-flame of doubt. It flares, only for an instant, an old reflex, and then I allow it to burn out.
He says, out of the blue: D’ye remember the time on my motorbike?
I feel a web of pressure between us. The pressure of his hand at my waist.
Ye had a motorbike?
Oh, he says, and I can see he’s not pleased. Yes, he says, annoyed. And ye were on the back of that motorbike. We drove to the house. He pauses, eyes me steady. There was just you and me…
No. I shake my head. No. I don’t remember. I smile to soften the fact that I’ve no memory of this. Truly. I’m not even sure which night he means. I’m hoping against hope that it’s not the night I slept with him when his wife was away.
Because I mind, just now it comes to me, that I slept with him once, this man, when his wife was away. Just now, it comes to me, and I mind the fact of it, because it didn’t feel good at the
time. But I remember that it happened and I was glad when it was over, and he was older than me and he was my section commander. I’ve forgot anything else about it. But as we walk on down the Mall, I realise he hasn’t. He hasn’t forgot and all these years later he wants somethin from me. As we walk along, I realise he wants confirmation. He wants validation. Of what? That he can get a woman? That he’s still got his youth? That his soon-to-be-retirement will run smooth?
You sure ye don’t remember? He puts his arm about my waist again.
I’m sure, I say, trying to be casual, shrugging his arm off as I look for my keys.
He frowns and follows me up the short path to my flat. My one-bed flat on the ground floor of the tenement. I can see it’s not what he’s used to, the big businessman from Australia.
He looks around the hallway. My laundry strung high along the pulley. He has to make his way through the sheets into the living room. Well, well, he says. Not bad, he says, looking around, in a flat voice. Not good, is the implication.
I’ll put the kettle on, I say, feeling uneasy and then: Cormac’ll be home soon. I’ve not lived with Cormac for years, but suddenly I feel the need to tell this man that there will soon be another man here.
We talk about the past. People from the past. He seems to relax. I start to relax. He’s brought two bottles of red as a present. Australian wine. Top drawer, he assures me. Then he says, after we’ve had the tea, in an imitation posh voice, laughing, Shall we open the wine?
And although I know I’ll regret it, I say, Why not? Even though whiskey’s my drink. But. Just to be friendly. Just to be sociable. Just to blunt the edges. Just to feel all right with the unease this man brings into my house. He starts to drink quick and the conversation moves quick, from the past to the present, how is so-and-so, and what news of such-and-such, names from our shared past and all of a sudden he comes out with: Yer man, now, and he says the name and then he pauses, takes another sip of his wine, drums his fingers on his knee.
The Nightside of the Country Page 6