Country

by Michael Hughes

  Panda was ready to take his shot, like he knew that man had done so many times. Just like he’d been told to. His special mission. He’d be a hero.

  He raised the revolver. Gripped it tight in both hands. Squeezed the trigger.

  Something exploded. His head. Fuck.

  The car had lurched forwards, and he’d slammed back into the seat.

  Some bastard rammed him from behind.

  The target was off, burning rubber. Panda was out of the car.

  ‘British Army!’

  ‘IRA.’

  He only saw the gun. Tried to duck. Too late. The bullet split the top of his nose between the eyes. It cracked his shiny teeth. The hard lead cut off his tongue at the root. It smashed his jaw. It gouged a ragged hole under his chin.

  The black leaked down behind his eyes.

  32

  Pig nearly tumbled into the kitchen, and there was Dog on the floor, Pete Kearney by him, the table pushed away. His wee brother soaked in his own blood. It was leaking out of him, squeaking under Pig’s gutties.

  The big man was distraught. ‘I promised our ma, when she was lying dying in this house here, in that wee room upstairs, that I would never let harm come to you. And now this is where I’ve led you! God forgive me.’

  ‘Jesus, Pig. It’s a flesh-wound. It’s a fucking scratch.’

  ‘Get Macken up here, now! I want my brother looked after, and that wound cleaned and dressed, or there’ll be carnage this night. Is the bastard dead?’

  Pete answered him, pacing around now like he was on the touchline.

  ‘It was McDaid got him. Said it was clean through the nut. He was coming in to see Dog, about a horse. Only by chance he arrived the second your man was pulling the trigger.’

  He lifted Dog out into the good room, stretched him on the sofa. Wee Brigid was waiting with cushions and blankets. Pig followed in, and back out again.

  ‘Brit scum. Shoot-to-kill.’

  ‘Jesus, Pig, that was no Brit. They don’t just drive up in plain clothes and empty you. It was the INLA, or some loyalist cunt.’

  ‘Are you a child? Sure, half the shootings claimed by the splinter groups and the loyalists are done by undercover Brits.’

  ‘Serious?’

  ‘You pay too much heed to the news. Did you never think what the B in BBC stands for? And the R in RTE doesn’t mean republican either, in case you were wondering. I tell you one thing, that’s the end of the fucking cessation. We need to hit them back hard, and fast.’

  ‘But sure, we can do nothing without Achill.’

  Talk about the wrong thing to say. The kitchen table up on its end. Cups and dishes in bits on the floor.

  ‘Fuck him! Do you hear me, Pete? I don’t want to hear that name again!’

  ‘Jesus sake, Pig.’

  Sid heard the racket and stormed in, the Other Jack close after him.

  ‘Just the men I want,’ says Pig. ‘Sid, put the word out. If they think we’re laying down our weapons so they can lay into us, then they’re getting the quare gunk, so they are. We’re not that thick, bog Paddies and all that we are. Get the men roused up again. The job is on.’

  ‘Pig, would you have sense. We’ve no mission, with Dog out of action too. They’ll take us apart. And the higher-ups would disown us. We can do nothing without their say-so. We may just stay south till this one blows over. It might be months.’

  ‘I’ll give you blows over. Listen to me. Fuck the politicians. I say we’re back on operations. We’ll give it a couple of weeks to settle down, and then the minute we see an opening, we’re ready to go. There’s any number of men can step in for Dog. Domino, there’s one. A dacent man, never touches a drop. Merrion’s another. Sound him out. The two Jacks need nothing saying to them, we’ll have to houl them back. Ned’s champing at the bit, tuning up the motors. We run every plan by him, for he’s seen it all. Sid and Pete, youse are for hanging back I suppose, looking after the ranch, while we go out and get stuck in. Fucking typical.’

  ‘You’re full of shit,’ says Sid. ‘Come over here and say that to my face.’

  ‘Just you get on out there and do your job, and we can kiss and make up later on. You need fire in your belly, and I’m the boy to put it there. And get McDaid himself back on the scene. He’s the hardest cunt I know.’

  ‘He won’t do it. He’s out on his own this long time. Keeping the head down. Living out in Dallagh Forest in a tent, like Rambo.’

  Pete was nodding away.

  ‘It’s true, Pig. Did you hear about thon oul fella got burned in his car there before Christmas? They say that was Diamond. The oul fella fiddled with his wee brother years ago at football training, and Diamond has been waiting all this time to get him. He heard the man was back in the area, and he broke in and beat him to a pulp with two hammers, then tied him up in his car and sprayed petrol round and set it going, and then he waited around with a tape recorder and taped him screaming and begging to be shot, so he could play it back to his wee brother. That’s what I heard, anyway.’

  ‘Sounds like the very man we need. Get him stirred up. Jack, away down and tell him I said he’s a traitor and a yellow chicken for going solo.’

  ‘No fucking way. If you seen some of the stuff he done.’

  ‘He won’t say nothing to you. He knows how I operate. A boy like that just needs a wee nudge. Get his engine lit. He’ll be up, I guarantee.’

  ‘You better be fucking right.’

  ‘I am always fucking right. And here, see if he’ll bring thon tape.’

  33

  Diamond McDaid could still see the face of the Brit who’d held a gun to his da’s head. The things he made him say. Laughing with the rest of the soldiers.

  He was only twelve at the time. His father wouldn’t look him in the eye for a week after. Next time he did, he beat the tar out of him. He was never the same. Some wee cog knocked out of joint.

  Diamond hadn’t had a day of his life since that he wasn’t burning with rage for that. Not at his da. At the soldier.

  It was why he joined the Ra. The only reason.

  He’d have loved an all-out war. That’s what he wanted most of all. He watched the old films, the Roman ones, the cowboy ones, the World War Two ones. He had all the videos. John Wayne. Charlton Heston. Stallone. Chuck Norris. He went to see Braveheart, again and again. He thought about running at the English with spears and swords. Hacking at their heads. Getting his blade in the guts of a man who’d come out to meet you, fair and square, watching his eyes as he died in front of you, the black leaking down inside his eyes, knowing you’d killed him, him knowing you’d killed him, you’d pull him close in and whisper in his ear exactly why you’d killed him, he would die knowing that. Nobody else would hear, but just the fact of you doing that made the world a harder place, a nastier place, a crueller place. The poison leaked out. That was all he wanted. That was what made him get out of bed in the morning. Make the Brits suffer what he had suffered.

  Most of all he’d have loved to take on the higher-ups. He imagined them all, London and Dublin both, out in the field, and him chasing them. He’d slice them and they wouldn’t forget it. See if there was red blood or pish-water in their veins.

  A sword. Up at Stormont where they were having the talks. Aye, that was it. Straight into the middle of them with a fucking samurai sword. He slowed it right down, took his time. Frame by frame, like a Bruce Lee video. Running at the first one, swish, swish, open his chest, open his neck. Pishing blood. Push him out of the way. He wouldn’t be doing any more talking. The next one ran at him, and chop down, hard, just to one side of the head. Halfway through his shoulder. Took a good tug to get the sword out. They were all fumbling and stumbling and trying to call for the peelers. Meanwhile he was slashing and cutting. Opening up faces, opening up guts. Blood blood blood blood. So much fucking blood. Gallons of the stuff. Like the gunge tank on Noel Edmonds. Sploshing over everybody and everything. Pouring out all over him. Wearing it like a second skin. He fe
lt like it was washing him clean. English blood leaking into Irish soil. That made him happy. Fuck yes.

  But he’d go at the Dublin ones too. Damn sure. They were nearly worse. Selling out their own people for a pat on the head from the Queen. One of them ran at him, a big fat slabber. He swooshed low with the sword, cut the legs out from under him. Chop. Took the head off the next one, a narrow wee ferrety-looking boy. Bosh. Got another in the face with the butt, and then cut him longways near in half as he went down, from his nuts to his neck. Stopping to make a smart remark after every one, like James Bond. He hasn’t a leg to stand on. Put this on your chopping list. He’s not half the man he used to be. All that.

  He imagined a load of Brits training in England, somewhere they weren’t guarded. He was in the woods nearby. No, up on a hill, watching them. He’d got a fucking great spear. He flung it from ages away. Watched it swooshing. They all saw it before it landed. Lifted up their big round shields. But it went straight through. Right into his chest and out the back, pinned the bastard to the ground. Then he had to raise up his own shield and let them have a go at him. The spear hit bang in the middle, ripped right through, but he turned his body round and it only scratched him.

  Then they ran at each other with swords. Sharp as a razor, flinging it about like a hurley stick. If you didn’t go all out, you were done for. The winner was the one who wasn’t afraid of dying. Simple as that. And that was him.

  Those must have been the fucking days. May the best man win. And he would win, every time. Because his cause was right. He knew it. And they knew it too.

  He didn’t need asked twice. He was in.

  34

  Dog hated being wounded. All the sitting around. Fuck all to do. He always ended up thinking. And he really hated thinking.

  There was one particular incident always went round and round Dog’s head, was it the right thing to do. And the trouble was, that started him thinking was the whole thing the right thing to do. If all them ones on the TV that called men like him a thug and a heartless monster knew the half of what was in his head. Tore himself up some nights with guilt and worry.

  It was right after his da died. He couldn’t sit still in them days. Climbing the walls. Out and about. Looking for trouble. Itching for something.

  One evening he saw a car he didn’t know parked at the back of Dumbo’s. A maroon Sierra, but there was something about it. Looked too new to be as old as it looked.

  He dandered over, had a gander. Spotted the weld marks. Armour plating.

  A plain-clothes cop would have more wit. Undercover Brit for sure.

  He stepped into Dumbo’s, ordered a pint. Nodded at a few old heads. Knew most of the young lads to see. A couple of tourists, poor fuckers. Talking too loud, laughing too hard. And this one fella on a low stool at a wee round table in the back, reading his paper.

  Dog watched him. The fella didn’t turn a page. Kept his head down. He was listening. Army intelligence. Dog was sure of it.

  Said nothing. Waited.

  The fella kept glancing at the bog door. It was busy enough in there. A lot of coming and going. Maybe one of the young lads dealing a bit of speed or puff. Any other night Dog might have gone in and knocked heads. Not tonight.

  It quietened down. The young lads were gathering themselves to head on. When the last one who’d gone in had come out, the fella he was watching got up and went in to the bog himself. He’d waited till it was clear. Dog waited too.

  The fella came back. He was fiddling and footering with something in his pocket. A radio, or a mobile phone. Reporting back what he heard, or just saying he’s all done. A pager, maybe, telling him to get back to base.

  Right enough, the fella left the bar. Didn’t finish his pint. Amateur, thought Dog. That’s day one. Who doesn’t finish their pint?

  Dog waited a beat, one, two, three, then left after him.

  The fella was in his car. Dog walked over, tapped the window.

  Nothing.

  Tapped again.

  He could near hear the fella thinking. Down it came.

  ‘Excuse me, I wonder could you offer me a lift down the road? I’ve had a few too many this evening and I better not drive. In case the army stop me. You know? The army.’

  Nothing.

  ‘I said, the army can be tricky fuckers when they want to be. You know?’

  Nothing.

  ‘It’s not far, but I don’t want to walk. The road’s black, and the way some of them drive around here, I’d be a corpse by morning. Only if it’s no bother to you, mind. I don’t want to give a gentleman like yourself the slightest bit of bother.’

  The fella shook his head, leaned over and opened the passenger door. Cautious, but friendly enough. In sat Dog. Off they driv.

  ‘You’re not from round here,’ says Dog. The man mumbled and grunted a no.

  ‘Is that an English accent?’ says Dog. ‘You’ve nothing to worry about. I have no beef with the English.’

  ‘That’s always nice to hear,’ says the man. Pure Brit.

  ‘So what has you in this part of the world?’

  ‘I’m a tourist, I suppose you might say. Family history. I’m rather hoping to find a few graves.’

  ‘Are youse English at that crack now?’ says Dog. ‘I thought it was only the Yanks fell for that lark.’

  ‘I’m interested,’ says the fella. ‘It’s something of a hobby of mine.’

  ‘Well you’ve come to the right place,’ says Dog. ‘Graves is one thing we have plenty of.’

  Nothing.

  ‘No shortage of graves round here. That’s one department where we allow no slacking.’

  Nothing.

  ‘Old graves and new graves, fancy graves and manky graves. Even a few unmarked graves, so they say. Oh, yes, graves is one thing that’ll never go out of fashion in this here neck of the woods, I can guarantee you that. We do love digging ourselves a nice wee grave.’

  Nothing.

  ‘Just pull in here, would you,’ says Dog. ‘That’ll do rightly.’

  Stepped out, and then leant his head back in.

  ‘I’ll see you about.’ The man nodded.

  ‘I said, I’ll see you about.’

  Nodded again. Drove off, a wee bit too fast. Just a wee bit too fast.

  In home, Dog sat in his kitchen. Had a think.

  Family history. A cool customer. Could be true. Could be a lot of things.

  He just wasn’t sure enough for a bullet. No interest in killing an innocent man.

  To tell you the truth, Dog hated killing. But he told himself that made him even more of a hero for doing it when it was needed. Pig was right, what he always said. There was no glory in doing what you love doing, even for a righteous cause. It’s the ones who offer to do what they can’t stand doing we should be grateful to. Men like himself. Amen to that.

  Dog put it about to the dickers to keep an eye on the same car. And sure enough, word came back the following night that it’d been seen again, acting a wee bit suspicious. Idling outside certain pubs and shops. Driving the same circuit over and over. The very same fella at the wheel. He even stopped and looked at the odd grave. A nice touch. Maybe not such an amateur after all.

  Dog tailed the car himself, next time he got the word. Just half an hour, keeping his distance, stopping and starting, having a yarn with a few heads he knew along the way.

  Next day he heard. It’d been spotted driving out from the barracks, after dark.

  He headed out for a drive that night, and saw it himself, up at the shops. Gave it a wee tail. He had a feeling. Just a funny wee notion tonight might be one of them nights.

  He didn’t try and keep his distance. Wanted the fella to feel a bit of heat.

  Right enough, he started to put the foot down. Dog did the same. Make him nervous. Let him know we’re on to him. Maybe force an error. At worst, get them worried, change their MO. Chuck out weeks and months of work. That thought made him smile.

  The boy was rallying along now.
Dog revved his own. A few tight corners coming up. Dog had raced along here a hundred times. He knew every bend, every pothole. Keep the pressure on. The fella floored it and disappeared. Dog hung back.

  He had a feeling. Just a wee feeling.

  Jackpot. Round the next corner, and the car was in the ditch. Dog let out a wee yo-ho. His lucky night all right. The bastard had missed the sharp bend by the holy well, and he was halfway up the hedge. There’d be a chopper out to take him back in five minutes, Dog had to work fast. Stopped the car, and up out. A big moon, so they could see each other well enough.

  The man was out of the car now too. Bruised up, nose bashed in, the trousers tore on him and skinned along one leg, but nothing too serious.

  ‘Can I give you a hand there?’

  ‘Ah, oh. Fuck.’ He was trying to stand, but something was hurting him bad. ‘Well, that’s jolly decent of you. Fuck fuck fuck. I’ll call someone. They’ll be along in a moment. I don’t want to hold you up.’

  ‘There’s nothing I’d rather do,’ says Dog. ‘Nowhere I’d rather be.’

  ‘Really, it’s best you leave me be. I need to call someone.’

  ‘I’d say you do. The thing is, but, I had your number the first time I seen you. That night you gave me a wee lift. I’m sure you knew who I was, and I had a damn good idea who you were too. Hard luck, old bean.’

  The fella changed his tone. Hard as nails all of a sudden.

  ‘Listen, Campbell. There’ll be serious shit if you mess around with me.’

  ‘You took the words right out of my mouth,’ says Dog. He popped the boot. ‘In.’

  And the tune changed again. What little colour was in the boy’s cheeks had gone out of there.

  ‘Christ. No no no. Not this. Not now. Please.’

  ‘I won’t tell you again.’

  ‘No no no. Listen. Listen. How much? Do you understand me? How much? My family is rich, I guarantee you. Whatever you want.’

  ‘Save it,’ says Dog. ‘In, this second, or I’ll do you right here on the spot.’

  Dog driv him up to Granny Duff’s place. Deaf as a post, so a handy wee standby.