Country

by Michael Hughes

  Pig was happy enough with that.

  ‘A good spake, Sid. Not one word out of place. Achill, just you sit your ground till I do this. It won’t take five minutes. And the rest of you, wait to see this stuff. You won’t believe your eyes. You yourself, Sid, go and get a couple of the young lads to bring it all up here. Time enough to start plotting and scheming after our dinner.’

  But Achill was having none of it. The words came flying out of him.

  ‘Time enough for bringing out presents and swearing oaths when we have a minute’s peace, and I don’t feel so fired up. There’s one good man lying cut up and cold, that the SAS brought down, and ye want to fill your bellies! If I was in charge, we would get cracking on with the job and earn our feed, once we have something to be proud of behind us. Until then, I’m not swallowing a bite. That poor boy is lying dead in my front room, the whole crowd in there weeping and wailing, and it’s far from my mind is eating and drinking. Blood and pain and the moans of dying Brits is where my head is at.’

  But Sid kept on.

  ‘Achill, listen here. You’re a better man by far with a weapon, there’s no doubt of that. But you wouldn’t claim to be my equal in wits, even only for that I’m your elder by a good couple of years. So just hear me out. One man, no matter who, can’t stop the whole thing in its tracks. Good men die day in day out, and the ones that are left have to bury them, and get on with life. And fighting is our life. We have to keep our own selves in shape, so that we can better get justice for the martyrs to our cause, and make sure they didn’t die in vain. We need only one call. All or nothing. We keep it together, as a squad, as a group, as a country. No more going off doing our own thing.’

  And that was that.

  Up from Pig’s place came a new motor, and the garden stuff, never used once, and then a string of young ones you’d blush to see, three of them, near half the age of Pig, bold as brass and giving the men the glad eye, for he’d ruined them completely.

  Then Brigid herself. She gave Achill a good squeeze and he gave the same back. And Sid himself brought in the cash, sat it out in fat bundles on the table, and every man leaned in to get a good eyeful.

  And when the food was brought out, heaps of pink rashers and strings of sausages, a whole black pudding in fat slices, potato bread golden and steaming, white-and-yellow eggs swimming in lovely clear grease, Pig lifted up his glass.

  ‘A bit of whisht now. Listen up. I swear, by almighty God and his Blessed Mother and all the angels and saints, that not a hand did I lay on that wee girl, may I be struck down if that’s any word of a lie. As for the others, I’m saying nothing. But they’re all yours even so. Just watch out for the wee redhead. Fuck me, she can go. Keep a bag of frozen peas handy, is my advice.’

  The boys gave a laugh, and the same girl gave them the eye and shut them back up again. Which made the other girls laugh. But Achill couldn’t stick it.

  ‘Circumstances being what they are, this is the way things have to be done. We sound like fucking politicians. God forgive the lot of us. He’s shown what he thinks of us and our doings, and the higher-ups have as well. And it’s no more than we deserve. If we’re the cream of the crop, this country is finished. Now get that grub into ye fast so we can get to work.’

  Away off he went to ready himself.

  69

  Brigid was brought down to Achill’s place after him, but when the poor wee girl saw the sight of Pat stretched there in the coffin, she fell on the corpse and roared and cried, till the make-up was all smeared and the new dress stained and tore.

  ‘God, Pat. Lovely, lovely Pat. You were the best of them here. Last time I seen you, you were sitting smiling in that chair, and now look at you. I have no luck at all. My uncle was killed by the UDR, my two brothers dead on the roads in the one year, but you never let me cry about it. You told me the best was up ahead, for I’d be the wife of this man Achill, and he’d take me back to his country and the wedding would be the last word. You’d organise it all yourself. Sure the times we used to sit and pick out flowers and dresses and trousseaus and table favours and the whole thing. I’ll never forget you, Pat. You were the kindest man I ever knew. I hope you’re at peace, wherever you are.’

  Every man in the place tried to get Achill to take a bite, they begged him, they would have shoved it down his gullet if they could, but he only snarled at them.

  ‘If any man will listen to a word I say, would you give over about eating and drinking. I have no stomach for it, and I won’t take a thing until sundown, when all this is finished.’

  In the end, he cleared the place out. Only Sid, Pig and Dog, Ned and Mannix stayed behind, to try and calm the head. But nothing would do him until he could get at the Brits.

  ‘It used to be you, Pat, laying out the food on the table, and fussing and footering at your wee biscuits and buns, and making sure I had enough in my tummy before I’d go out on a job. The heart of me wants nothing to pass my lips. It wants nothing only you. It wouldn’t be worse news if I heard my own father was dead, who’s at home there weeping for a son who’s risking his life for the sake of some culchie bitch. Nor it wouldn’t be as bad if the child of mine I hardly know, over there in Scotland, was dying or dead. Before this, I wanted nothing only for me to die here, fighting the good fight, and you to go and bring that boy back to Castlebar, Pat, and let him hear the man his father was. I used to lie in bed dreaming of that, over and over, and it gladdened my heart. Isn’t that a funny thing to be thinking? Fathers and sons, Pat. I wonder now is my old da still going at all, with the worry he must have over me. The whole thing is a terrible business when you stop and think about it. God forgive me, Pat, but I’d sign away the republic itself if I could have you back here to watch me do this today. You’d have some wee remark would make it all seem okay. God forgive me bringing you anywhere near it all. I’d happily offer up my own life to bring your smiling face back. I’d offer up the lives of every man here. We’ve done plenty to deserve a bullet in the heart. You never done a thing. God forgive me.’

  And it would be a lie to say there was a dry eye among the rest of the men.

  But they knew what he needed. They made a hot strong pot of tea, and they got some of that into him. And a wee morsel of speed mixed in with it, to make sure the feet didn’t let him down when he got going. Sid took care of that.

  70

  Achill got his gear together.

  He strapped on the new body armour Theresa had brought him, snug against his chest. The latest thing, straight from the States. He cleaned and oiled his weapons, checked them and checked them again. He pulled on the good warm coat she’d brought, and thick army trousers. Last of all, the new hood she knitted herself, down over his head. Tight and warm, clinging to him. Just the eyes showing.

  Them eyes. Jesus.

  Back behind the wheel of the car, and he felt so fucking focussed, he could see and hear and taste everything. He was the centre of it all. The world was turning around him. He could reach out his hand and stop it. There. See that. The fucking power in them hands.

  And he swore the car itself spoke to him, like some kind of a Knight Rider. I’ll take you out, it said, and I’ll take you back, but the day is coming soon when I’ll not take you home no more, for there’s a one-way trip coming up for you, son.

  And he laughed.

  ‘Don’t I know rightly that day is coming? I’ve known since the day I joined up that I’m never getting home to my own country. Why else do you think I stayed put here, if I could have been back there now? I would have never made it, nor near. They would have surely caught up with me, one lot or the other. And I plan to die on the front foot. But not today. Please God not today. I’ll make the most of what I’ve got left. The Brits will be sick to their stomach of fighting by the time I’m done with them.’

  He revved hard, and off he ripped.

  71

  Back behind the polished colonnades of Stormont, hardly an hour’s drive away, London called all sides together for
the last day of the talks. A breakfast meeting, with jugs of fresh-squeezed orange juice, plates of croissants, trays of bacon and sausage and beans, tomatoes and mushrooms and hash browns, and steaming pots of tea and coffee. They all filled their plates and cups, and took their seats.

  But this time they were joined by another head. Washington had sent their man, in on the red-eye. He spoke first, loud and slow, the way they do.

  ‘Well, it looks like the damn ceasefire is history.’

  ‘The latest communiqués say their bloody sniper has resurfaced. He might well blow the whole thing open before we’re ready.’

  ‘See, I’m focussed on a truth-and-reconciliation process. It’s moving forward in South Africa, no reason it can’t happen here. Families need closure, the society as a whole needs to move on, and that’s never going to happen if everybody has buried secrets. A full amnesty, and get it all out in the open. National therapy is what I’m talking about.’

  The others squirmed at the thought. More than a few of them knew where the bodies were buried, and the idea that you’d split open the country itself and show the true rotten horror of it, lying there for all to see, well. That was too much. He was asked to submit a position paper and told it would receive due consideration.

  After the breakfast session, being a Sunday, it turned out they had a couple of hours R & R scheduled in before the final session, for anyone who wanted to go to church, or see the city. Nobody did.

  But it was a nice enough day, by local standards. No wind, only a few big heavy grey clouds and the sun peeping out between them. They all found themselves pacing the lawn at the back, sharing out fags, chewing the fat. London suggested a game of cricket, but the Dublin crowd turned their noses up. Not exactly inclusive, they grumbled. It’s a great international sport, says London. The day Ireland beats Pakistan, we can talk about that, says Dublin. The only thing they could agree on was football. Washington raised his eyebrows, until he realised they meant soccer.

  ‘Oh, we have our own game too,’ says Dublin. ‘Gaelic. A bit like yours, only without the pads and helmets.’

  ‘Well, aren’t you the tough guy.’

  Somebody was sent out for a ball, while they all got changed into their gym stuff. Then back outside for a kickabout. Five-a-side was called. Not a word was said, but they all fell in along the obvious lines. They were short on numbers on the side of the greens, but nobody did more than raise an eyebrow when the Shinner who’d been hanging around, waiting for proximity talks later on, dandered up and took his place. Him plus Dublin and the nationalists on one side, and the unionists and loyalists, and police and army reps, on the other. The London man kept out of it.

  ‘I’ll referee. These things can spill over. If we’re going to be neutral, we have to do it properly. That goes for the situation too, by the way. I expect you’ll all do what you need to do, exert what influence you can, to keep this current situation contained. I’ll stay out of it, but I won’t stand in anyone’s way.’

  Play was as dirty as you might expect. The DUP lassie was fouled just outside the area by one of the Dublin boys. ‘You are so dead,’ she grinned at him. She got one past them, made the Shinner who’d stepped into goal dive after it, and get a face full of soil for his trouble. He flung a lump of it at the grinning Whitehall chap on the side, got him right in the goolies. And the rest of them started laughing then as well.

  The sun went in and the rain came down, but they played on ahead, churning up the grass into sticky muck. Slipping and sliding and guffawing as they all got smeared in the thick slick mud. Who was the next one that threw a clod of it? Nobody could say for sure. But before long, it was flying like a riot. Splatting each other like custard pies. Dripping off them. Caked in the stuff. You couldn’t tell who was who any more. Wrestling other down, bucking and kicking. Shoving wet lumps down each other’s keks. Roaring laughing at the same time. And then when the rain stopped, it was time for the showers and get on with the day. Great crack altogether.

  Oh, there was the odd bruise, and the odd scratch. These men played hard. The women did too. But it was worth it. Important to break the ice. Time for a pint first, those who partook. A valuable exercise, all agreed. Let off some steam, and keep focussed. That was the way to do it. Otherwise things might get nasty, and nobody wanted that.

  72

  Achill sat in his car, watching the barracks. He was zen. He was ready.

  He thought about the Brits he’d killed, over nine years. Tiny wee men in the crosshairs, dropping when he squeezed his finger. He knew little enough about them, bar the names on the news after. For some reason those always stuck in his head.

  Private Samuel Tilling.

  Lance Corporal John Ockendon.

  Sergeant Keith Kirby.

  Sergeant Trevor Clay.

  Captain Miles Kissane.

  Corporal Nelson Braganza.

  Private John McCloud.

  Private Carl Shand.

  73

  Henry had Special Branch in his ear now, and they called the shots. Stay out of sight. This isn’t the moment. Not yet. Let the green army take him on, if he moves. If he doesn’t, let him go home. This is a fight for another day.

  He told them he was going out.

  Special Branch and Polly put their heads together. They came back to Henry. There was one way. The play was simple, but risky. If we’re going to take him out, it has to be an unequivocal action from him. But if you act as lure, we can choose our moment, and do it with the minimum of fuss. You line him up, we take him on.

  He was willing. Though the story he planned had another ending.

  He had read through the files. The same names. Tilling. Ockendon. Kirby. Clay. Kissane. Braganza. McCloud. Shand. He couldn’t bear for that man to be walking free.

  He got himself ready, in the OP. Achill’s own jacket and hood, the Aran jumper belonging to Big Achill, over his fatigues, and his kit on top. The body armour under the lot of it. It was tight on him, and he looked the part. Like a half-Ra half-Brit, stalking the land.

  74

  Achill had had enough of waiting. He knew how to kick things off.

  He stepped out of the car. The second he did, they opened the gates of the barracks and the few soldiers and RUC left guarding the scene trotted in. That wasn’t like them. But he hadn’t time to worry what tricks they were playing.

  The long was in a fishing case. He could have it out and loaded and on his shoulder in six seconds flat. The only approach to that base that he trusted was underwater, the river that ran along the side. He waded in, and ducked down. That was the way to get past the line of sight. There was one place to get at them, round the back. They opened it twice a day for the wee Filipino to fling out the rubbish. Any minute now.

  He surfaced, and there was a face he knew, right in front of him, on top of a body squatting by the water with a rod and line. For a second he thought it was real. Jesus. That was the last thing he needed, to be seeing things.

  He remembered it well. A year ago, was it? He came by a spot on down the same stream, a stony shore just like this one, and saw the wee lad fishing.

  He spoke to him now, like as if he was there. Playing it out over again.

  ‘Sean Barney. Did I not have you put out?’

  ‘Fuck sake, Achill.’

  ‘Fuck sake, nothing. I said to you, not two year ago, if I see your face back in the six counties, that’s the end of it. No second chances. And are you back chopping spuds in the base again? Have you a suicide wish or what is it? No matter, you have to take your medicine either way.’

  ‘Come on, Achill. Wise up. I’m bothering nobody.’

  ‘You’re bothering me. When I put somebody out, they stay put out. What happens my reputation if I start making exceptions just because I’m in the middle of something else?’

  ‘Sure, just pretend you never saw me. I’ll say nothing. Give us a chance to flit. I’m not even back a fortnight. You had me put out the last time, sure why is this any differen
t? I tried to make a new life, but it didn’t suit me. I thought it was water under the bridge, since there was a ceasefire on. This was the only work I could get. I’m begging you. I’m begging you.’

  ‘You’re missing the point, Sean Barney. Who the fuck do you think you are, that you get to not die? Do you see? Pat’s dead, maybe you heard. I’m going to die myself in this war, and I’m ten times the man you could ever dream of being. And who the fuck are you?’

  But Sean Barney had clung to Achill by the legs, crying, begging, begging, begging, giving it the works. His family, his life history, the whole sob story.

  No dice. Achill had held him down under the water to muffle the sound, and pressed the short to his head. There was a massive bubble up from the shot. It popped, and the water around was foaming red.

  He’d waded in again to weigh the body down. If he was smart, they wouldn’t find him for weeks. They might never find him. They still hadn’t, so far as he knew. He’d wedged him in under a dozen of breeze blocks, right down the bottom. Most people said the lad had gone back to England. Plenty of them just melt away when they do.

  Achill stepped, and he skidded. Fuck. He sank under, and took a wee chunk out of his shoulder. His own red mixed with the rotten old blood of dead Sean Barney.

  He found his footing, got his head above the water.

  Right ahead of him, he could see the big pipe coming from the reservoir. Water was gushing out of it. Far too much. He lost his footing again. Felt for it with his toes, his heel. He was caught in a wee whirlpool. The sluice into the barracks was taking in the water like billyo. It was sucking him down. Like the river itself was trying to drown him.