by Roddy Doyle
It was August before I saw the man with the beard again, on a hot, glaring day. His face was yellow-white, and shining wet. The beard itself was dirty and the man looked very sick.
—Henry.
He’d knocked on the door, although I knew he had a key.
—What happened you? I asked.
—Can I come in?
The way he moved, I quickly knew: he’d been shot. I looked out as I shut the door, but there was no trail of blood running along behind him, or the echo of a gunshot.
—You’ve been shot, I said.
—Aye.
—Are you alright?
He didn’t answer but I heard him choke a groan. He was wearing a tweed jacket, on the hottest day of the year. He’d forced his right arm into it. The pain should have killed him but something more urgent was keeping him upright.
I had to get rid of him but there was nothing I could do. It was the first time he’d been shot; I could tell that.
—You’re doing well, I said.
—Aye. Thanks.
—I gave them your message, I told him.
I was hoping he’d give me the next one and go.
—Good man, he said.
Saoirse was home.
He looked at the bedroom door.
—Would you mind if I lay down for a bit.
—No, I said.—Fire away.
She was asleep, five steps and a wall away. She’d come to the house fresh off the plane, a few hours before. I’d told her my soldiering days were over. This man’s accent would tell her I’d lied. That, and the fact that he was carrying himself like a bad actor. When it came to carrying bullets bad actors always did it better than the good ones.
Saoirse hadn’t stayed with me before. She had her own place, a flat or something, that her Uncle Ivan had given her years before. But she’d had an extra room built onto the back of my house, along with the jacks and everything else. That was where she was now, asleep, inhaling the new paint.
—Go on ahead, I said.
—Right, he said.—Right.
I heard him sit down on my bed. I heard no gasps as he escaped from the jacket.
I sat, and accepted that they were going to meet. I didn’t care. I closed my eyes and listened for significant noise from outside. Screeching brakes, or fat breath climbing over the back wall. I even listened out for helicopter blades.
He’d come on his own, despite the new wound locked into the sleeve. He wouldn’t have gone to bed without warning whoever was waiting for him outside.
He was alone.
He slept for three hours. I heard him wake and groan. The bed creaked as he put his shoes back on. He looked no better when he came back into the kitchen.
I listened for creaks from the other bed. But she was still asleep. There was still a chance he might be gone before she woke. I’d take his message and show him the door.
He held himself like he was trying to get as far from the wounded shoulder as he could - as if he could stop owning it. He was trying to hide, and he was frightened.
—What happened you? I asked.
—Ach, some rogue shot at me.
—He didn’t miss.
—Aye. He didn’t.
—A cop?
—Some loyalist scut trying to make a name for himself. Came up beside me on a wee Honda.
—Alone?
—Aye.
I didn’t believe him.
—And you were alone?
—Aye, he said.—On my way down to the shop.
He was fitting himself into the ordinary life, going for a bottle of milk and a packet of Tayto. The bullet was one fact, a straightforward event in the life of a militant republican, there to be believed - I could stick my finger in the hole. The other fact, the one he was trying to create, was a different hole. The fact that he could be left alone, to walk the streets and be shot, to get across the border two days later, one-armed; the fact that he wouldn’t be missed; the fact that he wasn’t hiding from his own people, and that this was regular business - I wasn’t going to stick my finger in that one. The man was lying.
He looked at the front door.
—This is delicate, he said.
He was talking more than he wanted to; he was killing the pain with confession.
—Only a few people know I’m here, he said.—And my wife.
—You’re married.
—Aye. She helped me over the wall.
He was definitely giving me more than he wanted to; I could see it on his face. He was close to crying, sentimental; he wanted to sing the ballad of his missis. But he snorted, and shoved back the moment.
—No one knows you’re here, I said.
—Not true.
—Listen, I said.—I don’t trust this.You’re sneaking around like a fuckin’ tout.
Only the shoulder was keeping him back.
—There’s only one tout in this room, he said.
—So, why am I still alive?
—You’re useful.
—A messenger boy.
—No, he said.—Your time’s coming.
—I’m eighty-four, for fuck sake. I’m not immortal.
—You will be.
—No, I said.—I won’t.
He grabbed me with his good hand and pulled me to his chest.
—You will, he said.
His roar took all the room and everything in it. Like a bull being cut into parts - it was much more than that. And he was falling on top of me.
I was grabbed by Saoirse. She’d whacked his shoulder - I was catching up - and she was pulling me out from under him.
He was on the floor and he wasn’t moving - except his mouth; he was trying to swallow the roar, gobbling it back before it went too far and gave him away.
—What’s happening here?
Saoirse examined my jumper, felt the sleeves, made sure I was still in there.
—Who is that man?
She stopped patting my jumper - a present from her. It was navy, with a deer’s head on it.
—You told me you were finished with them, she said.—I think he’s injured.
—He’s been shot, I told her.
She got down beside him. I cursed the fucker; he was taking her attention.
—I don’t see blood.
—It happened a few days ago, I told her.
—You old fool.
And the man on the floor laughed. Or tried to. He was still in agony but bringing it under control. She still knelt, but well back from him.
—Why don’t you leave him alone? she said.—He’s an old man.
—Ach, he said.—We’re old friends. That right, Henry?
—That’s right.
He was sitting now. He already looked like a man who didn’t need help.
—I was just going, he said.
—That would be nice, she said.
He turned his head slowly. He looked at her but he spoke to me.
—We’re willing to talk, Henry. Will you remember that?
—Yeah, I said.—You’re willing to talk.
—Aye, he said.—No matter what’s being said and done.
—Fair enough.
—What is this? Saoirse asked.
She was furious, upset. She tried to stand up quickly, to get there before he did. But - I saw it - her moves were stiff.
—I’m away, he said.
If the house was bugged, he’d just delivered the message himself. But I wasn’t sure he knew that. He walked out without letting us see his face. He left the door open.
—You promised me, she said, when she knew he’d gone.
—It’s nothing, I said.
—You’re as bad as she was.
She went into the new room and came back out quickly with her case.
—Will I call a taxi for you?
—No, thank you.
She didn’t close the door either.
I turned on the radio. I lay back carefully on the bed. I closed my eyes. I drifted, but the radio stay
ed with me. The news came on. The big story that day was the shooting. A leading republican had been shot by a loyalist paramilitary. The gunman had fired only one bullet before making his getaway. A burnt-out Honda 50 was found in an alley off the Shankill Road.
I got up and made it to the fridge. I took out the eggs I’d bought for her.
He’d delayed the news. As the bullet dug into him, he’d seen the chance and grabbed it. They’d got him off the street and they’d washed the blood off the road before the R.U.C. or the Brits came in after the bullet’s echo, looking for the body. (The kid on the Honda would have been sent there by a man who knew a man who wore a uniform.) But there was no body. There was nothing. It had been a quick decision - his. Republicans would control their own news and have a laugh at the fuckers, even as he bit on his shirt cuff to stop himself from roaring, before they got him off the street. And by hiding behind the decision, he’d been able to sneak away.
I was making it up but I knew it was true. We’re willing to talk, no matter what’s being said and done. He’d risked his life for that.
My omelette was a dry oul’ thing but I ate it.
The victim’s condition was said to be stable. His wounds were not life-threatening.
—Saoirse’s over again, I told the woman in the bed.
It came natural now, the talking. Even though I knew I was being recorded. It didn’t matter. I could talk to her and no one else.
—We had a bit of a row, I told her.—She doesn’t like me being involved.
Involved - I tried hard not to sound as if I was reading one of Ford’s scripts.
—You know yourself, I said.—A lad came down from Belfast with a message for me. It was a bit awkward.
I sat up - that wasn’t easy. My back cried for the back of the chair.
—So, anyway, I said.—She walked out. Has she been here to see you?
—No, she hasn’t, said the woman behind me - the nurse.
I looked at my wife.
I didn’t have time to lean forward.
—Die, love, I said.—Will yeh?
—Did I hear you right?
—Or wake up and blink or something.
She stood behind me.
—It must be hard.
She sighed.
—What was the message, Henry?
—I want to talk to someone else.
—What was the message?
I looked behind - my neck cracked. She wasn’t there; she’d gone.
—I’ll only tell the top man, I told Miss O’Shea.
I stood. I used the side of the bed to help me.
—D’yeh hear me?
I bent down - that came natural. I went down to her lips. Someone had put Vaseline into the corner creases. My own lips were a lot drier than hers. I kissed her. I looked into her eye and I kissed her.
And I saw it - something. In her far ear, the one I hadn’t really seen since they’d put her into the bed against the wall. The bed was on wheels. I grabbed the rail above her head, and pulled. I made sure I didn’t bring the glucose down on top of her. The bed slid away easily enough. The castors squealed on the lino. I pulled the bed again. I’d enough room now. I looked at the door, before I started. There was no one there, I could hear no urgent feet.
I got around the bed. I could look down across her forehead, at the bridge of her nose, the slope that was still lovely. She was no more dead than I was, not from where I stood now. I was delighted, and annoyed; I’d let myself be ruled by the position of the chair. I’d never wandered from it. She was still there, still alive, under the bedclothes. It was like looking down from the summit of a mountain as it took over the world below and spread out and became the coast. Her feet, sticking up, Howth Head and Dun Laoghaire. This was the best thing I’d done in years.
I kept going around the bed, and I saw it. A grey plastic wire, running from the edge of the bed into the mix of tubes and wires that I’d thought were there to keep her alive. I didn’t touch the wire. I pulled the bed - a few inches, enough to let me get under the glucose tube and around to the side that was against the wall. I held the rail and bent down and followed the grey wire up, off the bed, along her neck - there was a thin strip of flesh-coloured tape holding it tight and well hidden. To her ear. I bent right down now, further than had become normal.
—Ah, I groaned,—fuck—
Right into her ear.
—Sorry, love, I said.
I whispered to her, over the tiny microphone I saw sitting right behind the little mound that guarded the beautiful hole - it was still beautiful.
This was the best thing I’d done.
I kissed the lobe. I barely touched the skin, so there’d be nothing to hear back in Harcourt Street.
Then I spoke into the mic’s ugly little silver head.
—You’ll have to talk to me, lads, I said.
I carefully lifted the head out of the ear. It came easily - it was just sitting in there, its burrow. I took a corner of the tape; I was even more careful. I pulled it away, slowly. I watched the old skin lift with it. I felt it myself, in my back, as I bent right down so I could see exactly what needed doing. The last corner gave up, and the tape came away with the wire. I had the mic in my fingers now. I dropped it to the ground. I found it again, just at my foot. I stood on it. I’d smash it and they’d have to come and get me.
But then, as I put more of my weight on the bug under my foot, I realised: if I killed the bug, then they could kill its hiding place. I took my foot off it. I hauled it up - it was weightless - by its flex. I brought it up to my eyes. It didn’t look too bad, just dusty. I rubbed it on my sleeve. Then I put it back where I’d found it.
He was standing against a car - a red Fiat Strada. He was in good shape and clearly earning more money.
—Campion went to Australia.
—Jesus, Henry, he said.—We’re supposed to be the ones spying on you.
—How’s he getting on?
—Grand, he said.—So I hear.
—Good.
—Sure, he’s no Provos or the other mad feckers to contend with down there.
—He’s a cop still?
—That was the deal.
—And you’re doing alright yourself, I said.
—I’m grand. Will we go for a jaunt?
—No, I said.—No fucking around.
—You’re in charge, Henry.You’ve the info, so you call the shots. He patted his trouser pockets, like he was looking for his smokes. But he’d the red, slapped face of a man who’d given them up.
—What have you for us?
—Just a message, I said.
—Good.
—You haven’t heard it already, no?
He shook his head once, just slightly.
I planted my arse beside his, on the bonnet of the car. The heat bit sharp, but I stayed where I was. He hadn’t moved, to put space between my hip and his. We were old pals.
It had been a good day. I’d kissed my wife. I’d taken a deep breath and oxygen had rolled into corners that had been flat and stagnant for years. I was a big man today, not the ghost of one. It was all clear, in front of me; I knew what I was going to do.
—We’re willing to talk, no matter what’s being said and done.
—That’s the lot, is it?
—That’s it, I said.—Does it make sense?
—I’d say so.
I rang her Dublin number. She never answered. I rang her American number and waited for Benjamin to pick up the phone. But he didn’t. Her machine and her realtor’s delivery - Hi! This is Seer-she Smart-O’Shea - were gone. I’m not here right now but I’m not far away! I phoned every night but no one picked up and nothing behind the ringing clicked.
The Special Branch nurse was still up at the home. She was Yes Henry, No Henry, none of the old snottiness. I asked to see my wife’s file and she trotted off to find it. I sat at the end of the bed this time, so I could look at my wife from between her feet. The nurse came back with the file and sh
e left me alone while I found my daughter’s, the next-of-kin’s, address.
I knew the place. Kenilworth Square. I hadn’t been in that part of the city since there’d been a curfew and I’d been running for my life.
I rang the bell, and waited. I rang again. Hers was the ground-floor flat; her bay window was right beside me. I leaned out and tapped the glass. It was an old lock, easily jemmied. But I rang once more, and waited.
She wasn’t there. I left.
It was raining the next time. He was sitting inside his car, the window down and his elbow getting very wet. I’d just got off the bus. The car was in on the grass, behind the nursing home gate.
—You’re back on the smokes.
—I’m an eejit, he said.
I nodded at the two baby seats in the back of the car, behind him.
—Is it twins you have?
—That’s right.
—That would explain the smoking.
—Not at all, he said.—I’ve another four. I’m only after coming from a parent-teacher meeting. You’re lucky I made it. Get in out of the rain there.
—No.
—You’re the boss.
—How did it go?
—The meeting?
—Yeah.
—Great, he said.—The eldest. She’s college material. So they’re saying, her teachers.
—That’s good.
—Great school. I’ve a message for you.
—Okay.
—I gave your one to my people and they’re keen that you get this one back to your lad.
—What is it?
—We’re listening.
—She’s not in her flat, I said.
I was sitting in my old spot, so I could hold Miss O’Shea’s hand.
—I’ve been out three times and she hasn’t answered. Or her phone. It just rings out. And something about the curtains. They haven’t been touched, they’re hanging the exact same way every time I’ve been there.
I squeezed the hand.
—She could be gone back to America but she’s not answering that one either. Or her husband. Or her answering machine. Or the fuckin’ dogs.
I put her hand back up on the bed.
—I know what it is, though.