by Siobhan Dowd
‘Yes.’ Fergus grabbed the stitch of relief in his side, hobbled up to his feet, then collapsed against the rock with sobs of laughter. Tears of relief rolled unchecked. He felt Owain’s arm across his shoulders. The two of them swayed and squealed like two stuck pigs.
‘You’ve been had, Fergus.’
‘I know.’
‘What’s in the other?’
‘Let’s find out.’
Owain quickly opened the second packet. A typed list floated out, then a roll of punts. They fell about, laughing like clowns. A magpie cackled along with them. Sheep baaed as if affronted. Then the rumble of a distant truck brought them to their senses.
‘Quick. It’s the chaps relieving me. Put all this stuff back in the bag and go, Fergus.’
Together they scrabbled on the ground, pouring the contraceptives back into the ripped jiffy. Fergus stuffed them down his front, hoping they wouldn’t spill. Owain slapped him on the back.
‘Bye, Ferg.’
‘Bye.’ They grinned at each other. Fergus turned and ran, gripping his belly as if he’d a stitch. He turned round to see Owain wave his rifle. ‘You bloody bog-eyed Irish taig,’ he called. Then the truck came up. Fergus swerved into the verge, crouched, and after it had passed, jogged on.
Michael Rafters, he thought. Am I going to pay you back for this. Am I going to thump you. He got back to the Forestry Commission and stopped at the tyre. He poured out the condoms and pills and arranged them all around the rim. The bag with the inventory and punts he kept on him.
Then he crept among the pine needles to a dip in the ground. He crouched down, pulling some ferns over him for camouflage, and waited.
He watched the grubs and listened to the thrupping of finches. You and me. We’re like two rats in two cages looking across at one another. His brother Joe was dying. Cora was on her way. His own future was restored, not by any virtue of his own, but by a trick. It didn’t matter. He was free again, poised for sweet revenge. He listened out for the sound of Rafters’ Triumph. The smell of pine cones intoxicated him. The shadows of the fir trees were alive with secrets.
Thirty-seven
After an hour by Joe’s watch, there was an unexpected sound: the rusty squeak of bicycle brakes. Rafters on a bike? Then the crack of a twig. Rafters on foot? And then the man himself, less of a panther today, more of a hound on the scent. Fergus saw the glossy back of Michael Rafters’ leather jacket, bending low, then a hand reaching down into the tyre.
He sprang out of the dip, sending the fern branches flying. Launching himself at Rafters’ back, he sent the man sprawling over the tyre. He pounced on top of him. Rafters jerked and twisted. They rolled over. Fergus felt his forehead slap the tyre’s rubber and an elbow dig into his Adam’s apple. He grunted and swung himself back on top. He rammed his forearm over Rafters’ throat. In the mayhem, the silver pouches of condoms skidded and hopped on the ground. Microgynons rattled in their packs. A grouse squawked out of a thicket.
‘Bastard.’
‘Fergus—’
‘Lying toe-rag.’
Rafters struggled, but the summer of training had made Fergus wiry. He bunched a fist with his hand and brought it right up to Rafters’ nose. Rafters tried to knee him in the groin, but Fergus jerked upwards, then slammed his side down so hard that Rafters was pinned fast.
‘You and your bloody packets,’ he yelled. ‘I’ll throttle you.’
Rafters’ body flattened out with surrender. ‘OK. I get the message. I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Yeah. What else am I supposed to say?’
Fergus shook out his clenched hand. ‘OK. You’re sorry.’ He got to his feet. Rafters made a move to get up and speak again, but Fergus kicked earth and pine needles over his face. ‘Sorry isn’t enough.’
Rafters rolled onto his stomach and spluttered out the dirt. Fergus watched, arms folded. ‘Got a cough, Mr Dung-heap?’ Then he got the other packet out and flicked the edges of the punts between his fingertips. ‘Condoms, Dafters. The Pill. Since when did the IRA make bombs out of contraceptives?’
‘Yeah. Well. You and me, we’ve kept half the female population of Inchquin from being up the pole.’ Rafters sniggered. ‘Better than bombing the Brits out of the place, if you ask me.’
‘We three kings of buggered-up Eire, selling condoms, tuppence a pair… I never could remember the next line.’
‘I don’t think there was any more.’ Rafters brushed down his front and perched like a gnome on the rubber rim of the tyre. ‘D’you want a fag?’
‘No. Just tell me why.’
‘Why what?’
‘Why you got me involved.’
‘You want to know?’
‘Yeah. Couldn’t you have driven over the border with your condoms and pills and flogged them over there? Why ask me to do it?’
Rafters chuckled. ‘I did. Until three months ago, back in May, I hit a problem.’
‘What problem?’
‘A bollard.’
‘A bollard?’
‘A bollard in Roscillin, near the roundabout, right outside the police station. I was driving home from the club.’
Fergus stared. ‘Your TR7?’
Rafters looked pained. ‘Smashed.’
‘Jesus. Tragic.’
‘Telling me. Then the police came out and breathalysed me. I got banned from driving for three months. The bastards.’
May, June, July. Fergus started giggling.
‘Don’t you laugh, Fergus McCann.’
‘How’s the Triumph? Not a write-off?’
‘No. Thanks to this little bit of cross-border cooperation, it’s now fixed. Hallelujah.’
‘Cross-border cooperation?’
‘My Inchquin contact, don’t you know, says I’m the local hero. It’s the Third World down there. The local doctor won’t prescribe the Pill in a month of Sundays. And the shops don’t sell condoms for fear of the local priest.’
‘Who’s your Inchquin contact?’
‘Shush. Can’t say. But he refuses to drive over the border on account of having Form.’
‘Form?’
‘You know. History. With the Provos.’
‘Oh.’ Fergus took the elastic band from around the money and started counting. ‘You’re a mean tyke, Michael Rafters. You could have cut me in. There’s nearly a hundred punts here.’
‘Yeah. Well. Call it my revenge, not cutting you in.’
‘Revenge? What for?’
‘Throwing up over my shoe. Remember?’
‘I didn’t throw up over your shoe.’
‘You did. The time we went carol-singing. You got drunk on the Bulmers.’
‘That was years ago.’
‘Yeah. But the spew was spectacular. Besides, if I’d cut you in, I’d never have got my Triumph fixed. Or had my holiday.’
‘Your holiday?’ Fergus stared at Rafters’ bronze complexion. So much for the notion that he’d been off doing military training.
‘Marbella. Very nice.’
‘Bastard. I’ve been up and down that mountain with those bloody packets, dodging the soldiers. And all along, you were having me on. About killing the soldier up there. Not to mention what you promised about Joe.’
Rafters winced. ‘I’m sorry about that. But just so you know, I really did speak to somebody.’
‘You did? Who?’
‘Somebody I know. In the high command.’
‘What did they say?’
Rafters shook his head. ‘Nothing doing.’
Fergus put the elastic band back around the money and tossed it over to Rafters.
Rafters caught it, grinning. ‘Go on. Take twenty. Thirty.’
Fergus paused. Rafters held out the notes.
‘Go on. Buy something to cheer yourself up.’
Fergus was about to say no, then he thought of the state-of-the-art running shoes he’d be able to buy. ‘OK.’ He pocketed the money.
Rafters started gathering up the strewn p
ackets. ‘You know, Fergus, you surprised me.’
‘Why?’
‘All that conscience stuff. Getting matey with a squaddie. That from a McCann? Wonders never cease.’
Fergus shrugged. ‘We’re not all die-hards like Joe.’
‘So you aren’t. Hey, Fergus?’
‘What?’
‘Can you keep my operation secret?’
Fergus snorted at the word ‘operation’. ‘It’s not illegal, is it?’
Michael seesawed his hand. ‘It’s not exactly legal, either. Besides, I’m planning to expand. Into other areas.’ He lowered his voice, his eyes scouring the pine trees. ‘Sheep.’
‘Sheep?’
‘Shush! There’s a packet to be made out of sheep. With the EU subsidies and all. Don’t tell your family, will you? Or anyone else in Drumleash?’
‘OK. But why not?’ Fergus remembered the boxes of fags he’d seen in Uncle Tally’s room. ‘Everyone’s at it, aren’t they?’
‘I don’t want the Provos getting on to me. Otherwise they’ll take half the profits.’
‘God. This place. It’s insane.’
‘Telling me. When I’ve earned enough, I’m emigrating. Permanently.’
‘Where to?’
‘Spain, of course. I fancy the sunshine.’
Fergus bent down and picked up the last few condom packets.
‘Keep them,’ Rafters said. ‘You never know.’
Fergus blushed, thinking of Cora. He shrugged, pocketing them along with the money.
‘Fergus?’
‘What?’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d get so wound up. I nearly told you, that time on the bus. But the garage had just called that morning and said they needed another down payment for the spraying.’ He reached over and touched Fergus’s shoulder. ‘I didn’t think the strikes would last this long, Fergus. I thought Joe would be off it by now. I really did. I’m sorry.’
Fergus shrugged. ‘So’m I.’
‘You know what I call this place, when I’m being polite?’
‘No. What?’
‘A perforated Ulster.’
Fergus snorted.
‘And you know what I call it when I’m being impolite?’
‘What?’
‘A pig’s fuck. S’long.’
Rafters waved and strode off. Through the triangular edges of the trees, Fergus watched him retreat, his sleek figure gleaming as sunlight eked through. Fergus waited a minute, feeling the smooth mini-parcels in his pocket. A man for the main chance is right. Then he followed. At the Commission’s boundary, he breathed in the morning’s freshness and trotted downhill, composing the rest of the condom song as he went:
We three kings of buggered-up Eire,
Selling condoms tuppence a pair,
Ribbed or funky,
Thin or chunky,
They’ll blow you to sweet Kildare.
Thirty-eight
Then Brennor came. He stood in the doorway, his face in shadow. ‘How’s my little sister?’
‘Growing every day,’ I snapped. ‘How’s my little brother?’
Brennor’s glossy black hair was thicker than ever, his skin rosy. He was the only one in Inchquinoag that had so robust a look. He was only twelve but he had to stoop as he came through the door.
‘Is it true what they say?’ he said.
‘What?’
‘That you bring bad luck?’
I shivered. I looked at my bound hands. ‘I don’t know, Brennor. What do you think?’
‘You’ve never brought bad luck to me. Only good luck.’ He stood there, uncertain. ‘I’d take your place if I could, only I don’t think I’d like being hanged.’
‘Hanged?’
‘That’s what they’re going to do. Hang you.’
I felt cold fingers tightening at my throat. I shut my eyes but fear still stared me in the face. I imagined the fear as a stoat, hairs bristling. It snarled, then turned tail and left me. ‘You mustn’t worry, Brennor. I’m fine.’
‘Mel? If you meet Boss Shaughn on the other side, will you tell him something from me?’
‘What?’
Brennor tilted his head towards the rafters. I tried to see his expression but it was too dark. ‘Nothing. Goodbye, Mel.’
He left me as suddenly as he’d come.
Now everyone I loved had come to visit me. All but Rur. As the night hours slid towards dawn, I waited for him. Down on the sward, the watchers of the settlement clanged the morning bell. But still Rur didn’t come.
From somewhere the muffled peal of a bell woke Fergus up. He’d been waiting for something in his dream, he remembered, and the ringing meant time was up. He sat bolt upright. Daylight seeped through the curtains. The house was quiet. He worked out it was Tuesday.
Joe. Fifty-one days of starvation.
Cora. Today was the day.
Joe’s watch said it was 9:30. He hugged a pillow to himself. Soon, sooner, soonest. Whatever had been eluding him in his dream was surely on its way.
‘Fergus!’ Mam called from the hall outside. ‘Are you alive or dead?’
He dragged himself out of bed. ‘Alive,’ he replied. Then he muttered, ‘Just.’ He padded out into the hall, where Mam was at the other end, on her way out. She’d a bright scarf knotted around her chin and one foot out the door. Her face looked pinched, but there was something new stirring there, a sense of purpose. ‘There’s been an urgent call, Fergus.’
The bell in his dream must have been the phone ringing. Something tightened around his throat. ‘Joe?’
‘He’s the same. It was the prison chaplain calling.’
‘Oh. Him again.’
‘He’s got a proposal, Fergus.’
‘What? Another round of prayer?’
‘Shush.’ But Mam’s face fell into a smile. ‘I think this time it’s more than a prayer.’
‘Mam, the Dublin ladies. They’re coming today.’
Mam waved a dismissive hand. ‘You’ll have to see to them. I’m away. The Caseys have taken the girls off to the seaside. They won’t be back till late.’
‘Thank the Lord for small mercies.’
Mam smiled. It was her own phrase when minor domestic crises were averted. She nodded and closed the door after her.
Fergus ate three bowls of cornflakes. Then he aired the twin room, got the sheets from the press, and made up the beds with the hospital corners. He got the Windolene out and rubbed the mirror. He dusted the surfaces down with a damp rag. As he worked he played Stiff Little Fingers at top volume. ‘You gotta suss suss suss suss suss out, Suss suspect device,’ he crooned over the drone of the vacuum cleaner. The room done, he got out the Belleek vase again. This time, he snipped two scarlet dahlias in the front garden and arranged them. With the white and green of the fine bone china, they cut a dash. He hunted in the kitchen press for the caster sugar. His hand ranged through the mixed spice and almond essence and other baking things, but the caster sugar was nowhere. He put ordinary granulated sugar in instead.
The phone rang. He remembered how the last time he’d answered to Michael Rafters, hoping it might be Cora. Was it Cora this time? Or news regarding Joe? He whipped the receiver up to his ear.
‘Yes?’
‘Fergus? It’s me. Padraig.’
He breathed out, relieved.
‘You still there?’
‘Yep. Yo-ho, Padraig.’
‘Fergus, I’ve a panic coming on. The exams.’
‘What about them?’
‘The results are due out any day.’
‘Christ. I’d forgotten.’
‘How could you’ve forgotten?’
Fergus twisted the receiver wire around his fingers. How?
‘Fergus?’
‘What?’
‘Forget I asked that. It was stupid.’
‘OK.’ Now Fergus came to think of it, the memory of the physics multiple-choice paper was like a vice clamping down on him. ‘Hell.’
‘He
ll is right. I’m in a sweat.’
‘Me too.’
‘I thought up a joke. To keep us both cool.’
‘Oh, no. What?’
‘What d’you call a fella who used to be mad about tractors but isn’t any more?’
Fergus stared at the mouthpiece. The man was certifiable. ‘What old yoke of a joke is that?’
‘Go on. Have a guess. Staying cool’s a clue.’
‘Dunno.’
‘You’re gonna love this.’ A hee-haw came down the line. ‘An extractor fan. Get it?’
Fergus felt queasy. ‘Aw. Padraig.’ He folded over, gripping the hall table. ‘That’s p-p-p—’
‘What? Priceless?’
‘Pitiful,’ he screeched.
Padraig brayed like a demented donkey. ‘Stay cool, Fergus.’
‘Yeah. Will do.’
‘Bye.’
‘Bye.’ Fergus put the phone down. With a madcap friend like that, who needed enemies? he thought. He hugged himself. Soon, sooner, soonest, he’d be telling Cora the joke.
Twenty minutes later, the Dublin ladies arrived. They stepped out of the familiar Renault, brown from their travels, smaller than he’d remembered, their clothes a bit crumpled. The summer months had taken them in one direction and his memory in another. They looked more like sisters than ever, with Cora the taller. In his imaginings, Cora always had on a flowing dress and Felicity a safari suit. But today it was the other way round. Felicity wore a light-patterned sun-dress and Cora khaki trousers with a skinny black T-shirt. Her hair, instead of being lightened by the southern sunshine, seemed darker. Her expression was hidden by enormous sunglasses. She appeared to be gazing up at the roof of the bungalow as if it was a relic of a former empire. Felicity was frowning slightly. There was a whiff of a quarrel about them.
‘Hello there,’ he called from the front door.
‘H’lo, Fergus.’ Felicity smiled. ‘Your hair’s grown.’
‘S’pose.’ Fergus felt the ends and grinned. ‘You’ve brought the fine weather with you.’
He gave them a spare key and showed them to the twin room. Cora flopped on the bed, pushing the sunglasses up over her head.
‘So, Fergus,’ Felicity said. ‘We’re here to decide Mel’s fate.’
‘I thought she’d already met her fate,’ Cora said.
‘Her second fate, then. We’ve to decide what comes next.’ Felicity smoothed the coverlet on her bed. ‘How’s your mam keeping? Cora said she was busy visiting relatives?’