by Roddy Doyle
I closed my eyes.
He sang.
—Do I want to see my mammy any more? Do I? Yes, I do. Henry? In your own time.
I am Henry Smart. I am Henry Smart. I am Henry Smart. I am Henry Smart.
I opened my eyes.
He smiled.
I closed my eyes.
I opened them.
He was gone. I’d heard nothing. He’d left his jacket. There were trousers on the floor, at the door. And a shirt. I stood up. I picked up the jacket. It was my own. Made and bought in Templemore. I was once in Templemore. I put the clothes on. I was there. No shoes, no socks. I walked the cell and read the walls. I forced myself out of the shuffle and pain. I walked properly, over the agony. She was with me. I read every name and date. 1864. Murphy. I read an entire wall. Ned Kellet 14th of December. 1920. Up the Republic. It was getting dark. A day was ending. That was what happened; days began and ended. I read while I could. I leaned against the wall. The light was being taken from the cell. There was enough for one last name. Henry Smart. 23rd of November. 1920.
I went to the mattress. I lay down. I closed my eyes.
—Dalton.
I opened my eyes.
—Stand up.
I did. There were two of them. One in uniform - an Auxiliary - and another one.
I got off the mattress.
—Do we call you Jack or John? Or Seán?
I waited.
—Well?
The one not dressed as an Auxiliary took a paper from inside his jacket. He flapped it open.
—We have your release papers here, Mister Dalton. There’s no point in holding you any longer, you’ve nothing more to tell us. But we need your name in full.
It was time to speak.
—My name’s not Dalton.
—But it is.
—No, it’s not.
—But you told us—
—No, I didn’t. I have only one name and it’s Nash. My name is Fergus Nash.
—Jack Dalton, you said.
—No.
—Why would you have said Jack Dalton? You were obviously in some distress.
—No.
—Why Dalton? Of all people.
—No.
—You know him, of course.
—No.
—There’s been a misunderstanding, he said.—None of this should ever have happened. Is there anything you’d like?
—No.
—Would you like to know where you are?
—No.
—Why not?
—I’m in a cell. That’s as much as I need to know.
—Perhaps you’re right. I like you, Fergus. I’ll see what I can do.
I stayed standing there long after the door had been shut again and they’d gone.
I was still there when the door opened and a new man came in with a tray. He put it on the floor.
—Mister Fry said you were to have that.
He left me alone again.
It was good food, deliberately good. I left it there. I sat down on the bed, then I lay down.
—Where do you live?
I opened my eyes but I didn’t look at anyone.
—Dublin.
—Where?
—I won’t tell you.
—Why not?
—Because you’ll raid my home and terrify my wife and children. More than they’re already terrified.
—But if you’ve nothing to hide—
—I’ve nothing to hide, I said.—My name is Fergus Nash.
—Come on.
I looked.
A pair of shoes beside me, on the floor beside the mattress. I sat up. There were no socks. I said nothing. I put on the shoes. They were loose, a fine man’s shoes. There were no laces.
The door was open.
The Auxiliary stood aside. I walked to the door. There was a narrow passage, too narrow to run through.
—Left.
I remembered what left was and turned. There was another grey door at the end of a long row of closed doors. No sounds came from any of the cells.
The man behind me spoke.
—I’m in the Welsh Republican Army.
As I neared the door at the end of the passage, I passed an open door and I saw the man who’d called himself Kellet, on the floor. An Auxiliary stood over him and drew his foot back to kick him. The Welsh Republican pushed me forward. I heard a scream as the door before me was opened and I was out in the air and day. The light tore at my eyes. I was pushed to the back of a lorry, parked five yards from the door. I couldn’t climb; I was lifted, thrown on. I lost a shoe. I said nothing. There were eight Auxiliaries sitting there, four on each bench, facing each other. Two of them got up. They tied my hands to a steel bar that ran across the top of the lorry. One of them picked up a piece of board from under the bench. There was a piece of string looped to it. He put it around my neck.
—Can you read it, Pat?
Bomb us now.
—Yes, I said.
—You’re our insurance, mate, he said.—They won’t kill one of their own. Nothing personal.
The engine started and I recognised streets as the lorry cut through them. I’d been in Dublin Castle. I fell out of the lorry and swung from the bar as the lorry ripped around corners. I saw people on Dame Street running for cover, even after the lorry had passed. Five minutes later we were tearing up Thomas Street and I knew that they were taking me to Kilmainham.
The lorry stopped for the first time since starting and I was able to get my feet back onto the lorry floor. I’d lost the other shoe. The lorry moved again, crept this time, into a yard. They untied my hands and let me climb down.
—Know where we are?
—No.
—This is where your Shinner friends were bumped off in 1916.
The Stonebreakers’ Yard.
I looked around as they led me to a door. It was just a prison yard, just a wall. But I knew where I was. I knew exactly where I was for the first time in - weeks, months, it could have been years.
The cold came with the dark. Another passage. Another iron door. Another cell. Smaller, tighter than the last cell. Colder, crumbling.
I was alone again.
There was a light this time. A gas jet high up on the wall. It gave a sick, shifting light that made shadows, then killed them. I saw some old blankets in a corner and sat on them. The light made more shapes, snuffed them. I knew where I was. We’ll go home be the water. I knew exactly where I was. I lay on the floor and covered myself with the blankets. I closed my eyes. I saw light and the river rushed out into the day, but I knew that I was safe; weeds and overhanging branches hid me from harm. Past the Metropolitan Laundry. Suds and the washed-out shit of the filthy rich tore at my eyes but a hand I knew I could feel lifted my head, then lowered it into clean water and I was under again, in darkness. Light again, behind Kilmainham Gaol, tucked under the wall, and away. Back under the city. Bow Bridge and the Royal Hospital, under St John’s Road and I was in a sewer again and I felt fingers under my chin - safe safe safe - holding my mouth over the goo.
I woke.
There was no water. It was dark. I was hungry. It was years since I’d eaten. A slamming door had woken me - I knew, although I couldn’t hear anything now. And I could see nothing. I heard feet, three or four pairs of boots on the damp flags of the passage outside. I heard keys jangling, scraping. It was very dark. I sat up. The door opened and dirty light fell into the room. Followed by a man, who hit the ground hard. The door was closed, the key turned. It was dark again, darker than before. I heard the man breathing through a swollen mouth. I stayed still. The breath rattled. The man groaned.
I knew who it was.
—Help.
I stayed where I was. I heard him crawling. I couldn’t see anything but I knew exactly where he was. I covered myself with both blankets, put them quietly across my shoulders.
—Is there anyone there?
A hand touched my foot. I kicked.
He fell back
.
—Who’s there?
I said nothing. His moving stopped. I waited the hours until the dawn gave enough light.
He looked at me. He sat in the opposite corner.
—Henry, he said.
They’d done more damage to his face. They’d given him another jacket.
—I suppose you know, he said.
I said nothing. I didn’t close my eyes this time. I looked across at him.
—They’re shooting us this morning.
The time had come for words.
—Fuck off, I said.
He looked horrified, upset, angry, let down, one by one, exactly one second for each emotion.
—What’s the point? he said.—Fuck off, yourself. Jack always said you were a snarly gob.
He sighed.
—You think I’m a fuckin’ spy, don’t you?
I stared at him.
—I don’t blame you. I’d be the same. You might be the fuckin’ spy, for all I know. Jesus Christ, what have they done to us?
I was hungry.
—I just don’t want to die with you thinking that I’m a spy and I’m not exactly sure why it’s important.
He started crying.
I’m hungry.
Boot nails outside, keys. The door opened. A voice.
—Nash.
I stood up.
—Good luck, he said.—Nash.
I walked to the door, out to the passage. The guard put the cuffs on me while another one aimed his Webley at me. I was shoved once, then let walk on my own steam. Still bare-foot. Still painful. More doors. Noise. Other prisoners. Someone pissing nearby, behind a door. Whistling too. I saw three prisoners. They stared at me. I walked past them. I didn’t look at them. Another door. Opened from inside, pushed towards me. I walked through. Another passage. A room.
—Sit.
A chair. One of the guards stayed with me. I could smell last night’s drink off him. The outside world. He rested his back against the wall. I could have taken a run at him.
There was another door, at the far end of the room. It opened and Jack Dalton came through, into the room. He looked at me briefly, and away. He was carrying his beatings too. He was followed, pushed by another guard. He walked past me, across the narrow room and out the door I’d come through.
—Your turn, said my guard.
I stood. He nodded and I walked to the new door. There was another guard waiting for me. He held my arm and pulled me into another room. He stopped, and stood me in front of a large iron box. One small square of the box’s front wall was covered in black felt. At first I thought I’d been put in front of a camera - I remembered the zip and flash of a camera; another room, other guards. Between hidings? I didn’t know - but I now saw two slits in the felt.
I was being looked at from behind the felt.
There was another officer standing beside the box.
I looked at the floor.
—Look up.
I looked straight at the slits in the felt. I saw the felt flutter very, very slightly. I saw the wet shine of a pair of eyes. I did something I’d forgotten could be done: I smiled.
I am Henry Smart. If that’s a woman in there she won’t betray me. Or a sissy man.
—Turn to the right.
I turned.
I heard whispering.
—Face forward again, said my guard.
—What’s forward?
A hand grabbed my hair and pulled my head to face the Judas box again. I stared at the felt slits, and smiled again. I had no idea who was looking at me, deciding who I was. I could think of absolutely no one.
—Okay, said the guard beside the box.—We’ve seen enough. Get that ugly bastard out of here.
I was led to the door and handed over to the other guards. More doors. Handed over to other Auxiliary guards. Back to the cell, cuffs off. The guard unlocked the door.
—Alone again, he said.
I walked into the cell.
—Want to know what happened to your mate?
—No.
—Took him out and shot him.
—Good.
He laughed. He closed the door and locked it. And unlocked it immediately and new men charged, a rush of them, over each other - they caught me on my way to sitting down - and they were around and on top of me. Batons and gun-butts, boots again.
—Smart!
—Smart!
—Henry fa’king Smart.
They were gone again. I heard the lock. I wouldn’t be moving for a long time. Back to square one. But, no. I knew where I was. I still knew. I knew who I was. So did they. But they didn’t. They didn’t, until they heard it from me. They had to be careful. The world was watching now. They’d killed innocent people. They needed me to tell them who I was. I could think. I lay on the floor.
I opened my eyes.
The one without the uniform, the one the guard had called Fry.
—You’ve let me down.
He was Irish. He was alone.
—Mister Smart. You’ve disappointed me. You could have cost me my job.
I could speak.
—Nash.
He stood on my hand.
I am Henry Smart.
Other feet and voices.
I closed my eyes.
I opened them. I was hungry. The door was open. I saw boots, heard the door being pulled shut. The feet again. I was hungry.
—I’ve a message for you.
Something was held in front of my eyes.
—Hurry up, he said.
I could sit up.
I took it. It was warm.
—Thanks.
I’d seen him before. He wiped his hands on his jacket. Then he wiped the jacket. He went to the door and pushed it open. He didn’t look back.
I sat against the wall.
And ate the griddle cake.
I was Henry Smart. I was sitting in a cell in Kilmainham Gaol and I was eating a griddle cake that had been cooked very recently by my wife. It was her best yet, the best and only thing I’d ever tasted. But I didn’t cry.
I read the cake carefully as I swallowed it. I followed every sound of the retreating guard, and the one sound that had been missing, one very important sound. I stood up. I could stand straight. It hurt but it wasn’t difficult. I could move; I could walk. I walked to the door. And pushed. He hadn’t locked the door. The key turning in the lock had been missing. The door opened for me.
It was a very short journey from the cell to the Stonebreakers’ Yard, a short walk for men who were to be shot at dawn, a few steps and a door away. But I didn’t move. I listened. I listened for breaths, scrapes.
Nothing.
I moved. I had no shoes. My feet on the flags, they wanted to run. I could run. I was full of the griddle cake, already free. I could run right through the last locked door. But I went slowly. I listened at the end of every step. I watched for shadows, the glint or click of metal.
I could already hear the water, I knew it through my bones. I was being dragged there. Across the yard, over the high wall - no bother at all - and down into the water, the Camac River, tucked under the wall. Down into the cold, the cleansing, numbing cold. And away. Back under the city, free. I knew exactly where I was going.
I waited at the door. I listened. Distant life, trapped voices, away far behind me. I held the handle. It was heavy and cold, something that hadn’t been touched in years. But the handle turned smoothly and I put my other hand against the door and pushed. Very, very slowly. I stopped at every hint of a creak. I listened for discovery, response. But there was nothing. Nothing beyond the door. I pushed, a small bit more. The yard was empty. It was dark outside. I slid out.
—I’ve another message for you.
The griddle-cake guard. I was done for, fucked.
But he was alone.
The moon and the city over the wall let me see him properly. He was holding out his hand and this time it held a sixpence. The hand was shaking.
—Your tra
m fare, he said.
—I was going to go the opposite way.
—She said the tram.
I took the coin. He slid past me, back into the prison. I moved along the wall, towards the high gate. It annoyed me, her deciding my route of escape, and means. But I fought it. And enjoyed it - ordinary feeling, resentment. I stepped away from the wall and walked to the gate. The owner of the biggest, most exposed back in the world. The gate was open, of course, very slightly ajar. It gave out as I pulled but it came, and I was out.
It was like the back of a dancehall. There were Auxiliaries and their mots up against every wall and tree on the street, kissing and feeling, grunting and sucking. I was the only man on the street without a partner. There were no other sounds.
—Excuse me?
He turned from his woman and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
—Could you point me to the nearest tram stop?
—Top of the street, to the right.
—Good man; thanks.
—Good-night, mate.
I winked at the woman over his shoulder - he was welcome to her - and went.
I enjoyed the wet ground under my feet, the stones, the puddles. I enjoyed the cold - it was freezing and I hadn’t a shirt or anything else under my jacket - and the wind whipping at my trousers. I enjoyed the new dirt in my lungs, the lights of the city, everything about the place. The works. I had to run to catch the tram. And I could run, no bother to me. I knew the driver, Tim Doyle. He stuck his head out his side window.
—How’s yourself?
—Not so bad. I’m just after escaping from Kilmainham.
—Good man yourself. In you hop.
I went upstairs. I didn’t want a roof over my head. It was empty on the top deck. James’s Street, Thomas Street, the Cornmarket - I looked down at the world and loved the feel of the seat against my back.
She got on at Lord Edward Street. We said nothing for a while. I wasn’t sure if we were still alone. I didn’t want to look behind me. I was free as long as I looked ahead.
—It’s nice, she said.
—Yep.
—Have you my change for me?
—He hasn’t come up for the fare yet. How did you persuade your man to help me escape?
—Flattery, Henry. It makes great rebels, remember?
I looked at her. And gasped; I couldn’t help it.
—What happened?
Her hair was gone.
—Ivan’s boys cut it off me, she said.