‘You’re quite mad. At least bring me with you. Do you know what I’ll do? I’ll take out his liver and eat it in front of him. That’s how I feel right now. Do you understand?’
‘The orders are quite clear. I simply felt it my duty to inform you. It may well be a set-up, and I’ll take that chance. I have a little fire in my belly still. Probably one more fight left in me, if it comes to it. And if that’s my fate, so be it.’
Polly heard him kitting out, and tapped at the door with a couple of other officers.
‘Sir, we’re not sure this is a good idea.’
The sight of him, smiling his smug wee smile, and something in the old man snapped.
‘You know what’s a fucking good idea? If any one of you conducts yourself with half of the courage and intelligence of that man. None of you has a sliver of his character. I watched you last night. Heroes of the dance floor. Taking advantage of young girls, who ought to be at school, shipped in here to satisfy your egos. You should be ashamed. I am.’
89
On the road, Bernard saw a torch, circling. His stomach turned over. Hair on his arms prickled. Senior officers had a good record in the conflict, but there had been exceptions. They’d love one more for their collection.
The voice at the window was local.
‘Where are you off to at this time of night? Have you no fear of the Ra?’
‘You make a damn good point.’
‘Did you not hear what’s happened? One of your top men is down.’
‘You’re very well informed.’
‘I watched the same fella over the years. I used to be involved, though Achill bade me not fight lately, for he wouldn’t himself, but we used to marvel at the fierce goes of your man. It’s all gearing up now again, for they’ve no patience with ceasefires at all.’
‘If you’re one of his, then is the body still there? Or is it too late?’
‘He’s still in one piece. Come on and I’ll take you in. No one’ll bother you, with me by your side. Shift over there, and I’ll drive.’
They passed over the border, through another couple of IVCPs. Waved on.
In they pulled at the Ships. The driver took his hand. A different voice now. English.
‘I’m in deep. One of London’s. I can’t risk being seen inside with you. But I wish you well. Remind him of his own father, that’s my advice. All he has.’
The man left him there, parked by the door.
He heard the music and laughing from inside. Stepped out. Pulled open the door.
Achill was sitting there with two others, finishing a bite to eat. The rest of the squad were standing about, the ones that couldn’t sleep, back up again for more. One by one they hushed when they saw him. He was in civvies, but they knew by the hair. By the cut of his jib.
Bernard recognised his man too, but made out like he hadn’t.
‘I’m looking for Mr O’Brien.’
He was told to wait. Anthony went over and whispered in Achill’s ear.
A nod. He was brought over and offered a seat. He took it.
Achill said nothing. Didn’t look up.
‘I won’t beat about the bush. First and foremost, I’ve come to pay tribute to you and your men. You’re a fine foe for an old soldier. I admire your skills, and your grit, and your ruthlessness. I’d be proud to have any of you serve under me. What you’ve achieved, in military terms, operating entirely in secret, is quite astonishing. It speaks highly of your commitment to your cause. And I don’t begrudge you that, not at all. After four tours, the only thing I know for certain is that if I’d grown up in West Belfast or South Armagh or the Bogside, I’d certainly have joined the IRA.’
‘Enough. Tell me your true business.’
‘Yes, quite right. I expect you can guess. I’ve come to ask for him back.’
Bernard stood, and then he kicked at a spot on the floor, scattering the fag butts. He pinched up his trousers and knelt.
He took Achill’s hand in his own. He touched his lips to the knuckles.
That cleared the place, fast.
Just him and Achill now. He stayed down.
The breath in and out of him. Achill too. Nothing but that.
‘Please. I can’t do any more. I don’t think a British officer has ever before kissed the hand of the man who killed his best soldier. Please. Think of your own father, and the great joy it brings him to hear you’re alive. Please. This man was like a son to me. He has a mother, and a wife, and a child. They all need to know. Please. They need him back.’
Achill pushed the man away, but not hard. He was thinking now again of his own da.
He knelt down beside, like the child he still was, somewhere under it all. The family rosary. Confessions. Sunday Mass with his da. Praying hard to be half the man he was.
Before he knew what, he was weeping again.
Bernard listened as long as he could. But then he went.
Each of them. The both of them. If you could have seen.
The long howls of them. You could hear them up the stairs.
You could hear them in the road, is the truth. The men standing around.
But nobody said a thing. Just like as if it wasn’t happening.
See nothing, hear nothing. Say nothing.
90
When they were done, Achill stood, and hauled Bernard up too.
‘You’re a decent man to come out here on your own. Balls of iron too. So come and sit down at this table here and listen to what I’m going to tell you.
‘My da has no soldiers to command, just one stubborn bastard of a son who’s going into the ground before he does. But your country brought this on yourselves, so quit your gurning. All your crying won’t bring your best officer back, and if I was that bothered about my da, I wouldn’t be here, I’d be there with him. And I tell you this, things are going to get worse before they get better. We can’t get rid of our grief, neither one of us, so let’s leave it there on the floor, for it does us no good. But there’s no way out of it either, for life is nothing only grief. Are you listening? I said come here and sit down.’
‘I don’t want to sit down. I want to take what I came for and get out of here fast.’
A few wee spits of the old fury now, dancing in Achill’s eyes.
‘Listen here. Don’t piss me off, old man. I know rightly you had some help getting this length, and nobody would raise an eyebrow if you met with a wee accident on your way home. I could plug you yet.’
So Bernard sat and took a drink. Scotch. Achill had the same. The two men toasted each other with a wee nod, and each other’s dead.
‘You’ll eat with me before you head. Napoleon always said an army marches on its stomach. It’s right to fast at the right time, but there’s no shame in feeding again when that time is over. Save the tears for when you have him home.’
Inside in the kitchen, Achill cooked the food himself. He did it lovely, just how Pat always did for him. He hadn’t forgot.
When it was in the oven, he ducked out the door and ran round the side, where the others were huddled.
‘Get in there and lift that body out of the bogs and give it a scrub, carbolic soap or whatever will get rid of the smell of piss. Dress it up in my good suit here, and get it in the boot of his car before he sees it, for that might snap him altogether. If he has a go at me he’ll come off worse, and I don’t want that business on top of what’s already happened.’
Then he blessed himself and said a wee prayer to Pat, that he hoped he didn’t mind the body going back. In he went again to Bernard. He told him it was in the car already and he could inspect it in the morning. And now it was time to eat.
When that was done, they just looked, each taking the other in, for they never had the chance before, sat in the quiet, at close quarters.
They saw the whole thing. They each carried every bit of it with them.
It was the Englishman that spoke first.
‘I haven’t slept since he died, and I need to lie do
wn before I dare drive.’
‘There’s rooms ready made up above. But, here. Would you mind sleeping in the car? If any of the rest of the squad see you upstairs, word might reach Pig, and if he gets wind of you sleeping here then we’ll be back to square one. But one more thing I’ll do for you. Tell me when his funeral is to be, and I’ll make sure there’s nothing until after.’
‘A fortnight or so, once everything is organised.’
‘That I’ll do, no bother. All will be quiet till it’s over, in his honour.’
91
Bernard was asleep in seconds, but it was an uneasy rest. In his dream, the same Det man who drove came and woke him in a hurry, saying Shane Campbell had found out he was there. He woke in a hot sweat, tangled in his coat.
Nothing. Dead country silence. But the dream was too close to the facts for comfort.
He started the car and away.
92
Henry’s funeral was long, and tough. Dress uniforms. The Last Post. Cameras poking their noses in. Max wailing to be picked up. Anna dizzy with exhaustion. Just get it over with. Please God, don’t let it be over yet.
After, they sat up in the kitchen at Holland Park, coats still on, drinking tea. They spoke a bit, murmurs now and again of who would arrange what, but mostly they just sat. No one dared call a car, for they knew when this day ended, the war would go on.
So they sat. Trying to think it all out. Trying hard to believe it was for the best.
Some day, they knew, the string would be pulled to stop it all. Not yet. When all the pieces were in place. The higher-ups would settle it, find the middle course.
Until then, we live and die here below. One nod of the head, one tip of the scales.
The way it always was.
The way it has to be.
About the Author
MICHAEL HUGHES grew up in a small town in Northern Ireland. A graduate of Oxford, he also trained in theatre at the Jacques Lecoq School in Paris. He has worked for many years as an actor, and he also teaches creative writing. He lives in London with his wife, the acclaimed historian Tiffany Watt Smith, and their two children.
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Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
COUNTRY. Copyright © 2019 by Michael Hughes. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Originally published in the United Kingdom in 2018 by John Murray (Publishers), an imprint of Hachette UK.
FIRST U.S. EDITION
Cover design by Elsie Lyons
Cover photographs © enterphoto/Shutterstock (tree); © arigato/Shutterstock (texture); © sanexi/Shutterstock (texture)
Digital Edition OCTOBER 2019 978-0-06-294031-5
Version 07302019
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-294032-2
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