by Roddy Doyle
—I’ll talk to her, I said.
I was a slave, the greatest fuckin’ eejit ever born. Now I knew and I wasn’t going to do anything about it. Because there was nothing I could do. The dead men weren’t coming back.
But I’d kill no more, not even Ivan.
—Tell us, I said.—Did you ever meet Gandon?
—O’Gandúin?
—Yeah.
—No, said Ivan.—But I’d love to, and I will. Running the country from a prison cell, he is. There’s not much anyone can teach me but he’s one man who could teach me a thing or two, or even three.
And why were the heads in Dublin unhappy with me? I didn’t know yet but I did know what their unhappiness meant: I was dead.
—Stars tonight, said Ivan.—The sky’s full of them.
—Yeah.
—You don’t see those boys too often around here.
—No.
But I wasn’t looking. I knew that there was one of them up there, spinning and whooping, spitting sparks.
—I’m getting married, Captain, he said.
—Anyone we know?
—No one you know. A good family. There’ll be four priests at the top table.
—D’you want me to be best man?
He laughed.
—You’re gas.
—I’m going back to bed, I said.
—That’s the place I’d like to be, said Ivan.
—But you’re a busy man.
—Now you’re talking, boy.
—Good-night, Ivan.
—Good-night, Captain.
He walked away, towards the gate to the road. And from around the place, off the roof of the barn, behind the new well, his boys emerged and followed him. I knew none of them and none of them looked at me as they passed. All young lads, some of them younger than me. Leather-gaitered, trenchcoated, dripping bandoliers. They were there, and gone. I waited. I heard a car, Ivan’s. I saw the lights cut the night down at the road. I waited until the engine wasn’t part of the night any more. I listened. They’d gone. There was no one moving out there, and no one not moving, making the night go around him. Ivan wasn’t going to kill me tonight.
I went back through the hole to the kitchen.
—Come to Dublin with me.
—No.
—Please.
—No, Henry, she said.
It was June, 1921.
—I have to go, I said.
—I know.
—I’ve people to see.
—I know.
—Come with me.
—No.
It had been two days since Ivan’s visit. We were in a dugout somewhere under Roscommon, a good long wooden room made of railway sleepers and the roof off the pavilion of the Ballintubber Cricket Club. The Tans had raided old Missis’s the morning after Ivan came and set fire to the long barn. Old Missis was with her sister. I’d taken my father’s leg with me when I’d run from the Tans, but I’d left the gun.
I’d just arrived, tumbled down into the dugout, a few minutes before, the latest bike tumbling after me. Bedding and rugs were piled along one side of the room. There were holsters and some rifles hanging from wooden pegs. The air was stale. There were sods carefully laid over the hatch, until night would make it safe to open. There was a lad in a trenchcoat in a far corner, at a desk with sawed-down legs, working away at a typewriter. His fingers on the keys made the only sound in the room, until I spoke again.
—There’s no more fighting to do, I said.
Ivan had been right. The truce was on the way.
—Don’t cod yourself, Henry.
—Okay, I said.—Try this then. The baby.
—I’ll slow down when the time’s right. Don’t worry.
—You’re beginning to show.
—I can still cycle a bike and fire a gun and cycle away again.
—I’m going tomorrow.
—I know.
—I’ll be back.
—I know.
—Here, son.
The kid at the typewriter turned.
—What?
—Go for a walk, will yeh?
He looked at me, and stood up as high as the roof would let him.
—Right, so, he said.—I’ll, eh—
—Come back tomorrow.
—Right.
He went up the steps, waited, lifted the hatch and the sods over them, and climbed out to the rest of the day.
We wrapped ourselves together.
—Do me a big favour, I said.
—I probably will, she said.
—If you’re not going to give up the stunts, keep them outside Ivan’s area.
She looked at me.
—Alright, she said.—I’ll do that.
—Sound woman. I love you, Miss.
—I love you too, Henry.
—I’m doing no more fighting.
—I know.
—You don’t mind?
—You’ve done plenty.
—I wish I’d done none.
—You’re saying that now.
We lay on the beaten muck floor. Face to face, an arm each wrapping us tight. I put my hand on her belly. Then I put my arm over her again and rubbed her back between the shoulders. I stopped and just held her.
It would be lifetimes before I held her again.
—Will you do me a big favour? said Miss O’Shea.
—No.
—I’m still your teacher, Henry Smart.
—Yes, Miss.
I lifted my head to her ear and whispered.
—The Manchesters.
—Oh.
—The 17th Lancers.
—Oh.
—The Machine Gun Corps.
—Oh God.
—It still works.
—It always will.
The door opened slightly. It wasn’t one of the faces I’d wanted to see.
—Yes?
She was worried, holding the door more closed than open, ready to slam it if I moved any closer.
—I’m looking for Mister Climanis, I told her.
I was hoping to see the name bring change to her expression. But it didn’t. She was looking out past me, into the dark.
—Our name’s Phelan, she said.
—Or Maria Climanis, I said.
—Who?
—They used to live here, I said.—David and Maria Climanis.
—Climanis?
—Yes.
I was still hoping: they’d been leaving when she’d arrived, they’d left her a forwarding address, they’d looked happy - anything that could keep me going.
—What sort of a name’s that? she asked.
—He’s from Latvia, I said.
—Well, we’re from Harold’s Cross, she said.—Me and Jimmy.
—He has black hair, I said.
—Who has?
—Mister Climanis.
—Oh.
—You’d remember it.
She shrugged, and shook her head.
—He lived here, I said.—With Maria.
—It was empty when we moved in, she said.
She was looking at me properly now.
—Really empty, she said.—Nothing. Not even wallpaper.
—Thanks anyway, I said.
It was coming up to curfew; time to find a hiding place.
—No one had lived here for years, she said.—We could feel it. The cold.
I turned back to her. She was still there, showing half her face at the door.
—How long have you been here? I asked.
—Six months, she said.—I hope you find them.
—Thanks.
I heard the door close as I walked away. A Crossley screamed out of Brighton Square just as I found an alley. I leaned into the darkest corner as the tender tore past, followed sharply by another. They knew where they were going. I could feel water racing near me, the Swan River, my father’s favourite. I could feel its pull, but I wasn’t ready to disappear.
I sat in Mooney’s o
n Abbey Street three evenings in a row. I walked his route, backwards, from the pub to his work at Kapp and Petersen, in broad, uneasy daylight. I stood on the bridge for hours, the only one there - no one ever loitered. I took his tram home.
I’d been seen. I knew it.
I hadn’t contacted anyone.
The Truce was on the way but there were scores to be settled in the last days and hours of the war, final points to be made, victories to be claimed. I was being stupid. Standing in one spot, following the same route more than once, I was being very stupid. But I knew the signs. I’d lived this life long enough to know that I had eyes in the back of my head, and I knew how to read the sweat on my back. I knew the city better than anyone. I knew how to fade into the stone, how to slide free of the tightest corner. I walked Terenure and Rathgar at times when he’d be coming home from work. And, in the mornings, I followed the grocery and bread vans as they crawled at the pace of their customers, looking for Maria. Everywhere watched by men in trenchcoats. Theirs and ours. Igoe’s men walked alongside me, on the other side of the street. Squad men and others I didn’t know but recognised held up the corners as I passed. I nodded. They nodded back.
On the fourth day I gave up. I was wasting my time. I’d always known it. Abbey Street was empty. It was full of the rush of people going home but there wasn’t a trenchcoat in sight. No one across the street on Wynn’s steps, no one between me and Sackville Street. No one at the corner, or at the Henry Street corner.
I was expected.
I walked up Henry Street. To No. 22 Mary Street. I went in the open door - nothing to hide; no rebels in here - no one to stop me or ask my business, up two flights to Jack Dalton’s open door.
He looked at me.
—The man, he said.—How are you?
—How was jail? I asked him.
—Couldn’t take to it, he said.
—Me neither, I said.—What did you do to him?
He sighed.
—Who?
—Do I have to name him?
—Yes.
—For fuck sake.
He waited.
—Climanis.
—Never heard of him.
—Where is he, Jack?
—I told you to stay away from him.
—Where is he?
—Where he is isn’t important, he said.—It’s not a question that should occupy you. Any more.
I took a chair from against the wall and sat opposite him.
—I’m too late?
—You always were.
—Why?
—Why what?
—Come on; why did you kill him?
—I didn’t.
—Why was he killed?
—Why were they all killed? He was a spy.
—He wasn’t a spy. He was just a—
—Listen, man. He was a spy. That’s all there is to it. Like it or fuckin’ lump it.
—He wasn’t a spy.
—He patrolled the pubs looking for eejits like you. To pour their hearts out to the poor foreigner who’d been run out of his own country.
—He wasn’t a spy.
—Those blackguards have no bloody country.
—Did you get him because he was Jewish?
—He was a fuckin’ spy. I told you to stay away. But you fell for him, didn’t you?
He was forcing himself to stay in his chair, leaning out of it, dying to charge over the desk at me.
—Is he up the mountains?
He stared at me.
—Is he buried?
He stared.
—Where’s his wife?
—He had no wife.
—He did. He was married.
—They weren’t married. How could they have been? Who’d have married them? A Jew and herself.
—Where is she?
—I don’t know.
—Was she there when they took him?
—I don’t know.
—He didn’t even believe in religion, I said.
—Worse yet, he said.—He believed in nothing. A wandering bloody Bolshevik.
—They killed his wife.
—My arse they did. More wives. You fuckin’ eejit, man. Listen to me one last time. He was a spy. We had evidence. Witnesses. He got what was coming to him. Fair and square. Like the others. The ones you dealt with. I wouldn’t have had the bastard bumped off just because he was a Jew. But listen here, while you’re sitting there. We’ve nearly got rid of the English. And we want no more strangers in our house. Those guys, the pedlars and the moneylenders, your poor little friends with no country of their own, they’re roaming the country getting the small farmers into hock. Ready to take the land off them when the time comes. They’re all set. Just when we’re rid of the English we’ll have new masters.
—They won’t be Jewish, I said.—I’ve met some of our new masters.
—And they’re our own, aren’t they? Do you have a problem with that? Or did Climanis convert you?
—What about the Jews in the Organisation? Your man, Briscoe. And Michael Noyk.
—Pandering to our patriotism for the sake of their own interests. They know what side their bread is buttered on. If they’re allowed to eat butter. Or bread. For fuck sake, man. Did it never occur to you to ask yourself why they’ve been run out of every country they’ve ever landed in? Or is every other country in Europe wrong?
He sat back in his chair.
—Mind you, you always were a bit of a Bolshevik yourself, weren’t you, Henry?
—Yes, I said.—I was.
—Until you heard your name in song.
He laughed.
—A friend to the Yid, was the bold Henry Smart.
—You wrote it, didn’t you, Jack?
—You wrote it yourself, you fuckin’ eejit. It was only ever a couple of lines.
He sat up.
—Are you still with us?
I didn’t answer him. I didn’t move.
He slid a piece of paper across the desk. I turned it and read.
—Know him?
—Yes.
—Can you handle it yourself?
—No, I said.—I don’t think so.
—Fine, he said.—I’ll get someone else. But I’ll leave it twenty-four hours. How’s that for fair play?
I looked at the name again. Smart, Henry. I slid it back across the desk to him.
—It’s not your writing, I said.
—No, he said.—You wouldn’t be on my list at all. Even though you’ve let me down.
I nodded at the paper.
—Why?
—Well, he said.—If you’re not with us you’re against us. That’s the thinking. And there are those who reckon that you’re always going to be against us. And they’re probably right. You’ve no stake in the country, man. Never had, never will. We needed trouble-makers and very soon now we’ll have to be rid of them. And that, Henry, is all you are and ever were. A trouble-maker. The best in the business, mind. But—
He opened a drawer and knocked the slip of paper into its mouth.
—It’ll stay there for a while yet. Now, get out. Before I’m seen being nice to you.
I stood up.
—Is that the only piece of paper? I asked.
—I wouldn’t know.
—I’m dead.
—Yes.
—Because I’m a nuisance.
—Because you’re a spy.
—Oh, I said.—Fine. Were any of them really spies, Jack?
—You killed plenty of them yourself, he said.—Of course they were.
Archer and Rooney nodded. They stood across the street from Jack’s office. I knew they wouldn’t be waiting for dark or a quiet spot. They’d be happy to kill me in daylight. I’d done it myself; I knew the score.
So I shocked them and ran. Up Mary Street, across Capel Street. I sprinted between the carts and cars. Into Little Mary Street. I knew I’d have to be a corner ahead of them. Onto Anglesea Row, up to Little Britain Street. I could hear hammeri
ng feet. I didn’t look back; I didn’t have time. No time to think about dodging bullets. Left, a few yards and I had the manhole cover in my hands. It was as weightless as the one I’d thrown in Richmond Barracks. This time I held it over my head, arms straight above me, and I walked, dropped into the hole, and I left skin on the rusting edge of the cover as I dropped into the river. Archer and Rooney ran onto Little Britain Street and found only the remains of a clang in the air.
I swam and walked against the flow of the sludge, up the Bradoge River. Under Bolton Street and the back of Dominick Street, under, under, and up for a while at Grangegorman, and down again, with the stench and ghosts and only one way to go. I came up at Cabra, stinking but alive.
And that was it for months, most of a long year. I crossed Ireland in the groundwater. I crept at night and stayed under during the day. July came, and the Truce. And I could relax a bit because now only the Irish were after me. I stayed off the roads and let a crust of dirt and crawlers hide me from the few eyes that met me when I came out of the ground. The I.R.A. were the police now and, respectable citizens that they’d been waiting to be, they kept the town streets clear of louts and cornerboys and, whenever a tramp or tinker was seen approaching town - some poor clown who’d been wandering the country since he’d been demobbed, looking for somewhere to take him - a gun was pointed and he was invited to turn around. And as I got braver and dirtier I became one of the tramps. I enjoyed being turned away by the boys who were on the lookout for Henry Smart. They were the flag-waggers, the hangers-on who’d joined up after the Truce. But I stayed well clear of the real boys, the lads who’d been through all of the war, who still kept themselves to themselves and roamed the country in Fords now that there was no one to chase them. They were the ones who scared me; they knew me and their war wasn’t over yet. I lived on fecked eggs and the odd bit of dinner a Protestant widow would give me at the door, her own little act of rebellion.
Collins and Griffith went to London. De Valera stayed at home and so did Mister O’Gandúin, out of jail and holding down two ministries. And I missed the birth of my daughter. There was no tap tap outside her window as she fell into the world. I stayed out of Roscommon and well clear of my growing family. It would be more months before I’d know that she was alive and female. I went further west, into wild places where republics meant nothing and the English had never really been, to places that had been killed in 1847. I went south to the cow country where the big farmers didn’t give a shite for free-states or boundary commissions. I hid there and in other places while the Free State was born and the Civil War trotted after it. Men with vengeance on their minds settled their scores. They put each other against walls and fired. It was brother against brother. But they left the rest of us alone and I walked from North Cork to Roscommon without being looked at and I got to see my lovely daughter on the day Michael Collins was killed.