A Star Called Henry

by Roddy Doyle

  —Why?

  But I knew the answer.

  —I’ve been getting in his way.

  She ran her hands over her head.

  —It’s grand, she said.—It’s coming back and only a few grey ones. Do I look too old for you?

  —No. What about me?

  —You’ll mend.

  —I’ll kill him.

  —No, she said.—You won’t. There are more important things than my hair.

  She rubbed her head again.

  —You should have seen it just after they cut it and let me go. I was scalped.

  There was nothing too drastic about it now; she was a woman with short hair. A beautiful woman with short hair.

  —When did it happen?

  —Just after we were in Templemore. November, last year.

  —Last year?

  She looked at me. Then she took an Independent from her pocket. She unfolded it and showed me the date. March the 22nd, 1921.

  —Four fuckin’ months.

  —They flew.

  —They fuckin’ did.

  —I missed you.

  She rubbed my hands in hers.

  My feet were sore and bleeding. A chunk of my brow was flapping over my left eye. My jaw ached, my teeth were loose, and some gone. There were ribs broken, toes smashed. My back was killing me. My ear was ripped. My balls were kicked huge and screaming. The burns on my chest and neck were being scraped by the cold and the rough threads of my Templemore jacket. I didn’t know if I’d ever sleep again. I was very, very old.

  We got off at the Pillar.

  —Where now? I said.

  —Home.

  —Where’s that?

  —Ah, Henry.

  Twelve

  Kevin Barry had been executed. Terence MacSwiney had died in Brixton Gaol after refusing food for seventy-four days. His story gripped the country; men and women walked miles every morning for news of his decline and resilience. Rory O’Connor had taken the war to England and set fire to warehouses on the Liverpool docks. Catholic refugees were pouring over the new border, getting out of the new Ulster, away from the guns and hammers of the B Specials. Forget not the boys of Kilmichael, those gallant lads stalwart and true. Tom Barry and the West Cork Flying Column ambushed and killed seventeen Auxiliary Cadets. Jack Dalton, recently let out of Kilmainham, wrote their song in his Mary Street office and the boys, hard men with years of fight behind them, became instant heroes. Ivan Reynolds was on the rampage, getting fatter on power and all the food and drink that got in his way. He’d broken the knees of a twelve-year-old spy in Bally-macurly and placed the placard around his neck: Too young to be shot - keep your mouth shut. He took four men from a village and shot them on the road - a bloody pile of spies. In Dublin, the curfew hour was now ten o’clock; patrols prowled all night on rubber soles. The Igoe Gang roamed the city, rozzers brought up from the country, on the lookout for rebels from home, with licence to kill on sight. An I.R.A. Intelligence Squad roamed the city, looking for the Igoe Gang. There were executions and counter-executions, reprisals and counter-reprisals. The British trained their own flying columns and sent them after the I.R.A. columns. The war had become a cross-country race between running gunmen. They took no prisoners. 17th Lancers and Lancashire Fusiliers, Auxiliaries and Tans disappeared into the bogs and the Lancers and Tans, when they caught their men, invited them to escape and shot them. Failed to halt, attempted to escape. The boys kept up the fight by sniping from long distance, and when there were no men to shoot at they searched the sky and shot down British carrier pigeons. They burnt down loyalist shops and houses, they trenched and mined the roads, they pulled up the tracks, chopped down telegraph poles. Aeroplanes were sent after them, but there was nothing to see. They were under the ground. Lloyd George wouldn’t talk to de Valera until the I.R.A. had handed in its weapons. Alfred O’Gandúin was arrested in his office on Nassau Street and interned without trial in Mountjoy. He continued his government work from his cell. He elected not to go on hunger strike; his dinner came over the wall at the same time every evening. Collins was running the fight but talking peace: We started the war with hurleys and, by God, we’ll finish it with fountain pens. And Ireland wasn’t the only colony giving lip; badly needed troops were taken from Macroom and Athlone and sent off to other cranky places: India, Egypt, Jamaica. Martial law was extended to Wexford, Waterford, Clare and Kilkenny. And Henry Smart slept.

  He slept and ran. Nursed by his short-haired wife who fed him griddle cake soaked in warm milk, his bones knitted, his bruises faded. Nursed by his beautiful, older wife when she wasn’t off ambushing troop lorries and robbing banks, he was becoming, once again, a fine figure of a man. Nursed by his beautiful, pregnant wife when she wasn’t off winning the war and defying the local warlord’s edict that an Irish-woman’s place was in the home, when she wasn’t under the local warlord. Henry Smart recovered as he ran. He ran, even though his war was over and he’d take no further part in the killing. He slept in the dugouts that hid the men of the columns from the planes and armoured cars. He slept in the safe houses that hadn’t been burnt, in the houses that would still take men on their standing. He slept under one roof and heard a voice that sent him running from the house: I’m still available, mister. Old Missis O’Shea’s house had been torched and she lived now in the long barn. Henry slept in the burnt ruin because the Black and Tans rarely set fire to the same house twice. He slept and often woke up roaring.

  —I could have killed you there, Captain.

  He was sitting beside the mattress, his mouth three inches from my ear.

  —If I’d wanted to.

  —And why would you want to?

  —No reason, said Ivan.

  It had been a long time since I’d seen him. It was getting dark and he was a wide shadow against the wall behind him.

  —How come the baddies are always fat? I said.

  He smiled.

  —You’re a brave man, Captain.

  —So are you, Ivan. Get your fuckin’ face out of my ear.

  We were in the old kitchen. It was black-walled after the fire, and empty. The window glass was gone and much of the wall around the door had collapsed. The few attic boards that had survived could take the weight of a tarpaulin, so there was a roof right over us, although the rest of the room was open to the sky and the rain.

  It was raining now. I could hear and feel it.

  He wasn’t alone. I couldn’t see anyone else but Ivan wouldn’t have ventured anywhere without numbers to look after him.

  —So, Ivan, I said.—Why the visit?

  —Old times’ sake, said Ivan.

  —That’s nice, I said.—I’ve been hearing all about you.

  —Ah now.

  —You’re getting ahead in the world. Fair play to you.

  —I can recognise sarcasm when I hear it, Captain, he said.

  —Good man. How’s the hair-cutting business?

  —We’ll say no more about that. Only, I didn’t order that one, Captain. It was done on some other buck’s initiative.

  —And he’s been dealt with?

  —I didn’t say I didn’t approve of it, Captain. Have you any control over your wife at all?

  —No, I said proudly.

  —I’m inclined to believe you, he said.—But, all the same, I don’t believe a word. You’re a fine man, Captain. We all think that around here. No doxie could ever take the starch out of your trousers.

  —Get to the point, Ivan.

  —Right, so. I’m the commander of these parts. I’ve letters from Dublin to prove it, and a hundred and seven men waiting to hear anyone who says different. Fair dues now, if she wants to join Cumann na mBan and give the boys a hand, fine. No better woman. We’ll always have need of the rucksacks and sangwidges. But she’s going bananas out there, Captain.

  —What’s she doing?

  —What isn’t she feckin’ doing? In a nutshell, Captain, she’s queering things for the rest of us.

  —The you
ng men on the make.

  —Ah now, Captain. I’d have sent her on her way long ago only she’s my cousin and married to yourself.

  —I’ll tell you what, Ivan.

  I didn’t move.

  —Touch her again and I’ll fuckin’ kill you and any other bollocks that gets in my way.

  —I know you will, Captain. Or die in the attempt. Which is why I’m here.

  —Go on.

  I was still lying on the mattress. My gun and leg were with me, under the blankets.

  —I’m just back from Dublin, Captain, he said.—I heard things. Not that I listen to much of what that Dublin crowd has to say. But anyway. There are people there that aren’t too happy with you. At all. Big people, mind. I don’t know why, Captain, but one or two of them would be happy to see the back of you. Does that upset you?

  —No.

  —I believe you, Captain. Sure, you knew already.

  I didn’t.

  —Didn’t you?

  —Go on, Ivan.

  —If it was anyone else, I’d be happy to oblige them. I’d arrange that they wouldn’t have to see you or your back again. But we go back a long way, Captain.

  —That we do, Ivan. I fuckin’ made you.

  —You fuckin’ did. Spot on. But that, now, is another reason why it would make sense for me to finish you off. I’m king of the Republic around here, boy. And I don’t want reminders that I was once a runt that people only noticed to laugh at. All the originals are dead, Captain. All the lads that met beyond in the barn that morning.

  —Long ago.

  —Long ago. We’re the only ones left.

  —So, I said.—What’s the story?

  —It’s this. You’re still alive. And you needn’t be. But you are. Because I say so.

  —Because you’re scared of me, Ivan.

  —You’re dead right there, boy. I am scared of you. But I’ve been scared of other men and they’re all fuckin’ dead, every fuckin’ one of them, so listen to me now.

  —I’m listening.

  —I know you are. Call your wife off and you’ll both stay alive. I’ll give you the money to get to America or wherever it is you want to go that’s far away.

  —I hadn’t intended going to America, Ivan.

  —Listen, Captain, he said.—Enough playing around. Here’s how it is. I’m a businessman. You said it yourself there, a young man on the make. That’s me, boy. I discovered this a few months ago only. All these years I thought I was a soldier, a warrior even. A fuckin’ nation builder. Fighting for Ireland. And I was. But here’s the truth now. All the best soldiers are businessmen. There had to be a reason for the killing and late nights, and it wasn’t Ireland. Ireland’s an island, Captain, a dollop of muck. It’s about control of the island, that’s what the soldiering’s about, not the harps and martyrs and the freedom to swing a hurley. Am I right, d’you think?

  —You might be.

  —You might be open to persuasion?

  —I might be.

  All light had gone by now. I couldn’t see his face.

  —I was doing my accounts one night there and I suddenly realised that I already controlled the island, my part of it anyway. The war was over. Nothing moves in this county without my go-ahead. I have cattle, land, a cut of the creameries, the pubs. Every bloody thing. I’m even in on the Sunday collections. I’m a strong farmer these days, Captain. Can you credit that? What was I three years ago?

  —A little lad.

  —That’s right. A harmless poor eejit. Not these days, boy. I’ve freed fuckin’ Ireland. Nobody works without the nod from Ivan. A sweet doesn’t get sucked without a good coating of the profit ending up on Ivan’s tongue. I’m a roaring success, boy. You should be proud of me.

  —I am.

  —You’re not and I don’t mind. An Irishman is in charge around here, Captain. We’re free.

  I heard him breathe deep.

  —Congratulations, I said.

  —Ah now. I just got to the finish line before the rest of the boys, that’s all. But I admit it, Captain. I’m pleased with myself. I’m a shining example to us all. I believe every word of that and - I shouldn’t be saying this to you of all people - but it makes me feel bulletproof.

  —What’s it got to do with my wife, Ivan?

  —Right. The purpose of my visit. Listen to this now. Peace is on the way. There are men meeting men in London and Dublin, on the way to London and Dublin, on the boat to Holyhead and back. They’re talking about talking and soon they’ll be talking and that’ll be that. Ireland free in some shape or form. It’ll happen before the end of the year. There’ll be one almighty row about it, holy war, boy, brother against brother and the rest, but I’m in no hurry. I’m ready for it and I have no brothers, only dead ones. I’ll be on the right side. I’ll be ready to lead my people into the new Ireland.

  —And it’ll be very like the old one.

  —It might well be, Captain, but it’ll be ours.

  —Yours.

  —Ah now. I’ve stopped the war here. There hasn’t been a Tan or a Volunteer killed around here since Christmas. I’ve made deals with them. The Tans, the Auxiliaries, the Military, the poor old peelers. All of them. They still charge around in their tenders and armoured cars but they’re looking after business. For me. There’s no martial law around here, boy. Only the name of it.

  —I think I understand now, I said.—My wife keeps killing them.

  —Spot on, boy.

  —She’s making life complicated.

  —She’s costing me a fortune, Captain. She’s interfering with free trade and I can’t have that.

  —I’m going to sit up now, Ivan, so don’t panic.

  —Don’t worry.

  I sat up.

  —D’you see my trousers anywhere near, Ivan?

  —They’re right here, Captain. I went through them before I woke you.

  —And you found fuck-all.

  —More or less.

  —Give them to me here.

  I stood up and put on my Templemore trousers.

  —So tell us, I said.—What about all the killings, if the war’s over? The spies and that. The shops being burnt.

  —You have to show the flag, Captain, he said.—Let them know you’re there. And when it’s over and the guns are rusty, they’ll love me and remember who freed them. But they’ll also remember that they were once terrified of me, although they’ll never say anything about it. It’s only my version that’ll get talked about. They’ll love me and elect me because I’m the man that freed his country.

  —And the Tans setting fire to houses and the creameries. They’re with your go-ahead too, are they?

  —No no, said Ivan.—Not all of them. They have to report back to their people. The forms they have to fill in would do your head in. They have their quotas to meet. Like the rest of us.

  —But you could stop them.

  —How, like?

  —You could stop them from setting fire to a place if you told them not to.

  —I could, he said.—Nine times out of the ten. Money would have to change hands. But not necessarily from mine to theirs.

  —What about this place?

  —What about it?

  —The Tans burnt it.

  —There now, he said.—I thought it would stop her.

  —My wife?

  —Who else?

  —But it didn’t.

  —Stop, he said.—She’s a holy terror. And there’s poor Auntie now, out living in the barn. It’s shocking.

  I tied my laces. I walked through the hole where the door had once been, out to the yard. The rain had gone.

  —Not a bad night now, I said.

  —I’ve stayed out in worse, said Ivan.

  —I’ll talk to her, I said.

  —That doesn’t sound very promising, Captain.

  —I’ll talk to her, I said.—That’s all I can do. She’s her own woman.

  —She’s your wife.

  —I’m her husband.<
br />
  —You’re a tricky man, Captain.

  —And you’re a cunt.

  —I can see why you’d say that. And I don’t mind a bit. But what I can’t see is this I’ll-talk-to-her business. But, sure.

  He took a bottle from his coat pocket.

  —We’ll drink to it.

  —We won’t.

  —I will.

  —Fire away.

  I’d smelt it off him earlier. It was going to kill him; I could see his face out here - it was killing him already. But much too slowly. He still had years left in him.

  —Is it poteen?

  —Fuck off, boy. It’s Remy-Martin.

  I was grateful to Ivan.

  There was no pretending now: I was a complete and utter fool, the biggest in the world. It had been niggling away at me for years but now I knew. Everything I’d done, every bullet and assassination, all the blood and brains, prison, the torture, the last four years and everything in them, everything had been done for Ivan and the other Ivans, the boys whose time had come. That was Irish freedom, since Connolly had been shot - and if the British hadn’t shot him one of the Ivans would have; Connolly would have been safely dead long before now, one of the martyrs, dangerous alive, more useful washed and dead.

  It was too late. I’d taken men up to the mountains over Dublin and shot them. I’d gone into their homes - because I’d been told to. I’d killed more men than I could account for and I’d trained other men to do the same. I’d been given the names of men on pieces of paper and I’d sought them out and killed them. Just like my father, except he’d been paid for it. I knew: if I’d been given Connolly’s name on a piece of paper I’d have done it to him. Because better men than me had ordered me to. It was too late to deny it. I’d have thrown him into the back of a car and brought him up to the Sally Gap. I’d have blindfolded him. I’d have gun-whipped him to shut him up. I’d have dragged him from the car and kicked him away from the road. I’d have pushed him to his knees. I’d have told him to say his prayers and I’d have shot him in the back of the head before he’d finished. I’d have stepped back to avoid brain matter and blood, skull chips. I’d have done it and it was too late to ask why. And I’d have put another bullet into his head, for luck. Because cleverer men than me had told me to.