by Paul Theroux
Now, Hood said, ‘You saved my life, squire.’
‘You mean that punk?’ Murf laughed, a little bark in his throat.
‘I thought you were going to put his lights out.’
‘He was dead scared.’ Murf laughed again. The laughter carried to the tombstones and was flattened into a mirthless snort that thudded at the far wall, as if someone watching from the shadows had choked. Murf said gruffly, ‘I would have cut him and all.’
‘Did you recognize him?’
‘No. I thought you knew him.’ Murf looked to Hood for a reply, but there was none and Murf went on, ‘He scared your chick. I felt sorry for her.’
They had gone to New Cross together in the train, saying nothing. Lorna sat, sniffing with fright into a hanky she held in her fist. Then Murf had gone back to the house, and when they were alone in the street Lorna said, ‘Who are you?’ It sent a chill through him, as it had that first day when she had caught him prowling upstairs. Walking her home he tried to explain – telling her how he had once quarrelled with Rutter, inventing reasons for the pretence of Rutter’s not knowing him. And though she half believed him she was fearful – the casual violence was too great a reminder of her old life. She repeated that Hood was no different from Ron: a thug, a villain, dangerous, putting her at risk. At the door she said, ‘I never want to see you again.’ He didn’t care; he was just playing about, using her. ‘I’m not even pretty,’ she said. ‘But I know what you are – you’re a fucker, just like the rest of them.’
To Murf, kicking at the cemetery path, Hood said, ‘She was upset. She’ll get over it.’
‘She seemed quite nice,’ said Murf, ‘I wouldn’t want to see her messed up.’
‘She’ll be okay.’
‘Those punks,’ said Murf. ‘They’re a bad lot. Hey, you wouldn’t believe it, but punks like that are always pestering the Provos.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They got hardware,’ said Murf. ‘They got connections. Like they know Arabs.’
And Hood thought of Weech’s two trunks of guns; it had been a puzzle, but now he saw that he might solve it like a crossword, adding a dozen names to make a word with their key letters.
Murf looked at the cemetery shapes and sucked at the wind and said, ‘They probably come up here already and left, Sweeney and them. It’s all my fault.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ Sweeney: another name. He knew nothing, but he was almost relieved to think they might not come. He wondered if he really wanted to see them and commit himself further. Once, when he had acted alone, it had all seemed very simple. His present anxiety was like a fear of crowds, the mob that would sweep him from his own motives. The origin of his doubt was the discovery weeks ago that he had made a passport for that wealthy actress he had taken a dislike to. So they were linked. But there was more: the painting stolen by the rich girl from the titled woman. They were all related! And what of Weech’s arsenal? Was it also part of the family now? He resisted assigning it ownership as he had resisted anything final with Lorna, to preserve some distance and avoid the complicating sympathy of kinship. Yet it was as if by degrees he was waking to the true size of his family and seeing it as so huge and branched it included the enemy. To harm any of them was to harm a part of himself. A family quarrel: if he cut them he bled.
That was how he saw the man slipping through the gate at the far end of Paddington Cemetery, the shadow hurrying along the path. What mad cousin was this who had dragged himself from the past to plead with him?
He said, ‘Heads up, squire.’
Murf moved behind him, whispering, ‘Boom widdy-widdy –’
The man approached and as he stepped close to them he flipped his cigarette away. It glanced against a tombstone and the tip came apart, making a shower of sparks, lighting for seconds a jar of wilted flowers and the dagger of a cross in the ground.
Murf said, ‘Easter –’
‘Stuff your bloody password – what are you doing here, man?’
‘He’s with me,’ said Hood.
‘You’re supposed to be alone. The man turned.’ ‘Hop it, Murf.’
‘Hold the phone, squire.’
‘They won’t like it,’ said the man.
‘That’s tough,’ said Hood. ‘He’s staying.’
‘Then follow me,’ he said. ‘But I ain’t responsible.’
They walked out to Lonsdale Road, where Murf stopped briefly to chalk ARSENAL RULE on the cemetery wall. In the cemetery the man had a threatening voice, a villainous shape. In the street Hood saw him wince; he was uncertain, with thinning hair, a battered jacket. The light removed any suggestion of threat and showed his labourer’s stoop – a careworn limping. He turned to Hood, peering up: small, close-set eyes and a wrinkled nose, a large dented chin and a crooked Irish mouth – then he looked away. He skipped slightly, getting ahead of Hood and Murf and led them down a side street to a pub.
Before they entered he said angrily, ‘I ain’t responsible.’ Then he pushed at the door.
The pub was full of hollering men, most of them red-faced and standing in wreaths of smoke, gesturing with pints of beer. A juke-box played – not music, but a throb that repeated against the floor and shook the windows. Hood was used to strangers’ stares, but here there was an unusual break in the chatter as they crossed the pub; he sensed attention, a sharpening of suspicion – a pause in the darts’ game, heads turning, low mutters – as if they had entered a private club and were intruding on a closely guarded ritual. In a corner of the bar the man said, ‘Wait here,’ then walked away.
Murf said, ‘I think I should split.’
‘Forget it. Let’s hoist a few.’
‘There ain’t time.’
‘They can wait.’
‘It don’t work like that,’ said Murf, trying to make Hood understand. ‘When they say go, you go. It’s like an order. And they don’t want me – I can tell. So I think maybe I’ll just hang out.’
‘I might need you,’ said Hood. ‘What if they pull a fast one on me? You’re my back-up man.’
‘Yeah, but they won’t do that. You’re seeing Sweeney – he’s the chief.’
‘Never trust the top banana, Murf,’ said Hood and he bought two pints of beer.
The limping man returned five minutes later and seeing them with glasses he said, ‘Drink up – we’re going.’ Without waiting he pushed towards the back of the pub. Hood put his half-full glass down. Murf said, ‘You leaving that?’ and gulped it. Arching his back he seemed to pour it straight into his stomach.
Hood thought they were headed for a back room – they were in a passageway stacked with beer crates, then squeezing through a narrow darkened hall. The man kicked a door and they were outside.
‘Hey, sweetheart, you know where you’re going?’
The man muttered. He glared at Murf. He said, ‘I told you, I ain’t responsible.’
Murf said, ‘Boom widdy-widdy.’
The next pub was several streets away, smaller than the first and not so crowded. They entered by the back door and the man, who had grown uneasy in his movements – he had not stopped muttering and his posture had become more cramped – crooked his finger at some stairs. He said, ‘Up there. First on your left.’
On the stairs Hood said, ‘Just like any other cat-house.’
‘I never been here before,’ Murf quacked the words nervously and looked around at the worn staircase.
Hood said, ‘Smile.’
‘Widdy-widdy.’
Hood found the door and knocked. It opened a crack, a man showed his nose and cautious eye, then it swung open and Hood saw the table – another man seated at the far end – the dim bulb and drawn shades. The room was bare and had a musty smell of a decaying carpet. And it was cold. The men – there were only those two – wore winter coats, and the younger one at the door a flat tweed cap. Murf began to cough nervously.
‘Sit down,’ said the man at the door, shutting it and slipping the bolt.
&n
bsp; The man at the table smiled. He said, ‘Welcome.’
‘Where are we?’ said Hood.
‘The High Command,’ said the younger man.
Hood looked around: a dart-board, a bottle of whiskey, a broken lamp, a saucer full of cigarette butts. He smiled, then he sat down and said, ‘I hope you don’t have any objection to Murf.’
The man at the table did not reply to that. He sat up, and leaning across the table extended his hand. ‘My name’s Sweeney. I know yours.’
Hood shook his hand. It was a strange clasp, without weight and glancing down Hood saw that the top of Sweeney’s hand was missing and that he held a rounded stump and two small limp fingers, like a monster’s claw.
‘A little accident,’ said Sweeney. He smiled at the knob and tucked it into his sleeve. ‘This is Finn. How about a drop?’
Finn nodded and put the whiskey bottle on the table with four cloudy glasses. He splashed some in each one and handed them out, winking at Murf. Then he touched Hood’s glass with his own and said, ‘The offensive.’
Murf said, ‘The offensive.’
Hood said, ‘Any ice?’
‘No,’ said Finn.
‘My brother Jimmy’s in the States,’ said Sweeney. ‘Boston. Your home-town, right? He’s been there for years. Married an American girl.’
Hood said, ‘That doesn’t make us cousins, does it?’
‘Mayo told me you were temperamental,’ said Sweeney amiably. ‘She told me you had something important to say. I haven’t heard it.’
Sweeney quietly finished his whiskey. He looked about thirty, though he was balding. There was a toughened redness about his face, a raw lined quality in his cheeks that might have been whiskey or the sun. His mouth and eyes were gentle, and he spoke slowly in the strangled accent of Ulster. Hood noticed that he held the glass of whiskey with his mutilated hand, pinching it awkwardly against his chest and lifting it using his two frail fingers, as if exhibiting the damage. He said, ‘I thought we might have a little talk.’
‘Start talking.’
Sweeney went at his own speed. ‘This organization attracts a lot of funny boyos. I mean, unstable, people – mental cases.’ He pronounced the word in the Ulster way, muntal. ‘They belong in hospitals or with kind families, but they come to us and say they want to help.’ He smiled. ‘All they really want to do is plant a bomb somewhere – they don’t care why. They’re looking for victims.’ He nudged his empty glass. ‘It’s made us a little suspicious of volunteers.’
‘What’s that got to do with me?’
‘You’re a volunteer, aren’t you?’
Hood said, ‘I used to think I could help. I gave Mayo a boost with her painting.’
‘To be sure,’ said Sweeney. ‘But an ordinary drunken lay-about from some village in the Republic – or even in England – it’s usually obvious why he wants to join. He’s a bit lost, running away from his wife or his parents. He feels secure with us – we understand that. You’re not in that category.’
‘How do you know?’
‘We know you,’ said Sweeney. ‘We know the important things. Some of the other fellers wanted you over here months ago but I said no. We tried you out on that passport. That was a good job, but I still couldn’t figure you out. What’s the motive? Why does a feller from a good family – Jimmy did a little detective work, you see – why does a feller earning a handsome salary in the American State Department decide to chuck it all and join a bomb factory?’
‘I got turned around. It happens pretty easily in Vietnam.’
Sweeney shrugged. ‘Everything’s easy for you Americans.’
‘You mean it’s not for you?’
‘It ain’t. It’s bloody hard.’ Sweeney turned to the wall to reflect. He said, ‘When I was twelve I had to prove myself. I broke every window on Feakle Street in Derry – hundreds of pounds’ worth of plate glass. My father was delighted. “The Smasher” he called me. Now you,’ he said, pointing at Hood, ‘you were probably a boy scout.’
Hood said, ‘I’ve always been suspicious of people who rap about their childhood. It’s just a cheap way of avoiding blame.’
‘I’m a responsible feller,’ said Sweeney.
Hood thumped the table and cried, ‘You’ve got sitting targets!’
‘That’s how it looks to an outsider, I suppose. If you knew how we operated you wouldn’t say that. This has been a bad summer. Our supplies dried up. I’ll be frank with you – we’ve been burned.’
‘So have I,’ said Hood bitterly.
‘Sorry to hear it. I wish there was something I could do.’
‘You can tell me why I wasn’t contacted sooner.’
‘That bothered you, did it? Well, it’s just as I say. I was wondering what was in it for you. Mister Hood, you were too eager.’
‘So you delayed.’
‘You could say we were waiting for a telephone call.’
‘But you let me do the passport.’
‘That’s another story,’ said Sweeney.
‘I’d like to hear it.’
‘It’s not very interesting,’ said Sweeney dismissively.
Hood laughed. ‘I knew you’d hedge.’
‘Did you now?’
‘But that’s all right. You don’t have to tell me anything.’ He fixed his eyes on Sweeney’s. ‘I can always ask Miss Nightwing.’
Sweeney sighed and looked at the rear of the room where Finn and Murf were sitting in silence. He said, ‘Murf, how would you like a beer?’
‘Widdy,’ said Murf, blinking and bobbing forward. ‘Okay.’
‘Finn, take our friend downstairs and buy him a beer. I’ll see you later.’
‘Heads up, squire.’
When they were gone and the door was bolted again, Sweeney said, ‘Let’s talk about Miss Nightwing.’ He had become genial, a mood Hood took to be a cover for his suspicion. He smiled again and said, ‘Jesus, so you know our Araba, do you?’
‘I met her.’
‘I thought she had more sense than to go yapping about her sordid past,’ said Sweeney. ‘But then I never really understood the girl. It’s like I was telling you. We get a hell of a lot of funny people. I don’t think she’s a nutcase in the usual sense, but she’s certainly unstable.’
‘She didn’t tell me anything,’ said Hood. ‘I just guessed.’
‘You guessed, did you? That’s hard to believe.’
‘I was a consul for six years. Do you think she was the first one to try and pull a fast one on me?’
‘I forgot you’ve had training,’ said Sweeney. ‘It must have upset her. She’s an emotional sort of person. Very interested in the poor and oppressed. She sees them and she cries. That is an admirable thing, but it’s the extent of her political consciousness. I’ll tell you, she was much better at entertaining the troops.’ Sweeney winked broadly. ‘Ah, she was wonderful at that, she was. A real morale-builder.’
‘That’s why you gave her a passport, then.’
‘Not exactly. About five months back, when our American supplies dried up, we needed some contacts on the Continent. Our girl Araba claimed to have a lot of helpful friends. Thanks to you we fixed her up with a passport, and off she went.’
‘With an ass like that she must have made a lot of contacts.’
‘Who knows?’
‘You mean she didn’t come up with the goods?’
‘She wasn’t supposed to take delivery,’ said Sweeney.
‘Who was?’
Sweeney waved his mangled hand carelessly. He said, ‘Agents, agents.’
‘What are we talking about?’ said Hood. ‘Arms? Dynamite? What?’
Sweeney smiled. ‘Oh, cabbages, that sort of thing.’
‘And you got burned.’
‘You’re guessing again,’ Sweeney added wearily. ‘You’ve been talking to Araba too much.’
Hood said, ‘I’m probably wrong, but I would have thought that if Araba made a supply deal for you and it went through, I’d have seen a l
ittle action. The big London offensive. But I haven’t seen anything.’ He stared at Sweeney. ‘So I guess she burned you.’
‘You’re probably wrong.’
‘I told Mayo you were delaying. She denied it, but now I understand. Araba welshed on you. That’s what you get for trusting the idle rich.’
‘The rich only have money,’ said Sweeney. ‘But you can see why I was hesitant to take you on. Araba was just an actress, but you were a highly paid diplomat. No one had ever heard of you. All we knew was how much money you earned and where your family lived. Mother of God, I thought, he can’t be serious. So we waited.’
‘I think you’re lying,’ said Hood. ‘You talk about the offensive, Mayo talks about the offensive. But what’s the offensive? It’s a couple of teenagers hustling bombs into luggage lockers. Oh, and I almost forgot about Mayo’s painting. That was a brilliant caper – it really had the art world up in arms, right? What an offensive.’
‘Have you been to Belfast?’
‘No,’ said Hood, and he muttered, ‘Booby-traps, Bibles, monkeys –’
‘You should go,’ said Sweeney. ‘You’d learn something. Ever see a father gunned down in front of his wife and kiddies?’
‘Yes, I have,’ said Hood solemnly.
‘And what did you do about it?’
‘I came here.’
‘Maybe you can see why we’re militant.’
‘I don’t call stealing paintings very militant.’
‘It’s a tactic. It’s better than cutting people’s throats.’ Sweeney looked closely at Hood, then said, ‘If you have other ideas I’d like to hear them.’
‘I’ll write you a letter,’ said Hood.
‘If you’re worried about Araba you can forget it. We expelled her.’
‘For burning you.’
‘It’s no concern of yours. The fact is she was expelled. She’s on her own now.’
‘Competition,’ said Hood.
Sweeney grinned. ‘Actors.’
‘There are a hundred more like her – aristocrats, suckers and middle-class girls with problems. Like Mayo, who takes her bra off and thinks she’s bringing down civilization. She’s just a can of worms. Once, she saw a pretty picture. Then she became a revolutionary and decided to steal it. She’s like the rest of them, a barbarian with taste.’