by Colin Murphy
But what to do? Should she call out to Owen this instant? Was it possible there was some explanation for Thomas having such a thing beyond what she feared?
‘What are you doing?’
The voice made her jump and yelp. Síomha swung around and saw Thomas in the doorway. The fear in her heart was palpable and chilling. She’d had no notion of his approach, no hint of a footstep or a shadow. She had a sudden urge to open her bladder but fought it and with all her strength lifted her shoulders and stood square, facing him.
‘You searched my bag,’ he said. It wasn’t a question.
Síomha could hardly deny it and could not invent any plausible explanation. Then she realised she had no need. She had been wrong to do as she had but her action had been outweighed by a far greater wrong.
‘You brought a gun into my house?’
‘It’s just a–’
‘Where my children sleep?’
He took a step forward and extended his hand. She could tell he was struggling to control his anger.
‘Give me the gun, Síomha. It’s not what you’re thinking.’
She looked at the weapon, which she cradled in front of her. She had never held a gun in her hands before, had no knowledge of weapons. If she just pulled this trigger, would that cause it to fire? Or was some other action needed? Why was she even considering these things? Did she really believe she was in danger from Thomas? From Owen’s brother?
He took another step closer. ‘Síomha. Listen to me. It’s a gun I had during the Civil War. It’s just a memento. Haven’t fired it in twenty years. I didn’t tell anyone as I was afraid Tadhg or Niamh might become curious about it and do themselves harm.’
His voice had become softer, more conciliatory. He almost sounded like he was pained by guilt. And his explanation had some plausibility. She desperately wanted to believe him. She raised the gun in both hands, one on the grip, the other clasping the barrel, and took a deep breath as she tried to reason this thing out.
And it was then that she noticed the smell.
It was hard to define. Schoolroom blackboards. Chalk dust. Burnt paper. And the subtle scent that lingers when a match has been drawn across a surface, in the moment when the flame balloons. And though she had no experience of guns she knew in her heart and soul that this one had been fired in the recent past.
‘A souvenir? When did you fire it last?’ Her voice was trembling.
‘Síomha, put the gun down.’
‘Answer me!’
He stepped closer. He was just three yards away. She tried to back away but her backside struck the table. Thomas’s face grew harsh again and he stretched out his hand.
‘Give me the fucking gun.’
And then he lurched at her.
CHAPTER 25
To rescue the aristocracies from censure, to defend the monstrous oppression of Ireland, our contemporary rulers lay the blame on nature or God. Since Mr Malthus first published his book [An Essay on the Principle of Population], for the purpose of vindicating governments from the charge of causing the misery they pretend to relieve, a principle of population had been made the scapegoat for ignorant and oppressive rulers and they have cast all their own sins on the benevolent ways of nature.
–The London Telegraph, 23 January 1848
The Murder of Lord Mountmorres has excited feelings of alarm little short of actual panic among all respectable citizens. Private accounts represent the state of the West as very alarming. It is well known that other landlords are marked out for assassination and will be shot the instant an opportunity is presented. Quantities of arms have been brought into the country. The savage malignity of the assassins who gave the coup de grace to Lord Mountmorres may be inferred from the fact that so close was the revolver to his head that some of the powder was found in his eyebrows.
–The Times, 1 October 1880
25 OCTOBER 1880
Thomas grasped the gun and tried to wrench it from Síomha’s hands, the struggle sending the table cracking against the gable wall. She emitted a startled yell but clung to it tenaciously.
‘Let go, you bitch!’ he snarled.
Such was the venom in his voice that for the first time she had a glimpse into the blackness in his soul. All was revealed in an instant to be a pretence of decency, a mask concealing some darker purpose. And she was sure he would kill her if he seized the gun. But her grip was waning in the face of his savage, feral rage and she felt the barrel slowly rising towards her chin.
There was a noise, something clattering to the floor and Owen was suddenly behind his brother, his hands clamping Thomas’s shoulders and heaving him away, his strength trebled by the sight he had come upon. Thomas fell face down in an ungainly crumple, his shoulder striking the tureen Síomha had dislodged earlier. He yelled out in pain.
But Owen’s action had sent the weapon skittering across the floor towards the hearth, just yards from Thomas’s grasp.
‘The gun!’ she screamed.
Owen launched himself towards it just as Thomas began to rise. His hand fell agonisingly short and in a moment Thomas was upon him, beating with his fists, and they became locked in a frenzied, rolling embrace. Síomha hurled herself on to Thomas’s back, but he struck out blindly, landing a knuckle on her eye and she collapsed backwards, clutching her face.
Thomas brutally butted his brother twice with his forehead, drawing a stream of blood from his nose and causing Owen to loosen his grip. Thomas wrenched himself free, clambered up and took a step towards the gun before Owen seized his ankle and he went sprawling again. But his action had been in vain for his brother fell with his hand just inches from the weapon. He seized it, rolled over and aimed.
‘No!’ Síomha screamed.
But he didn’t fire. He sat up, backed away on his rump and pushed himself up against the wall beside the hearth, his breath heaving. Owen clutched at his bloodied face and Síomha hurled herself to him, throwing her arms about his neck.
Thomas chuckled through gulping breaths. ‘Ye could never beat me in a fight, little brother.’
Owen ignored him and held Síomha back to allow him look at her. Besides an already swelling left eye, she appeared unharmed.
‘Are you all right?’
She nodded, her voice now lost to shock.
‘Get up,’ Thomas said, gesturing with the gun.
They both stood, Síomha clinging to her husband’s arm.
‘Close the door and sit behind the table.’
‘Do as he says,’ Owen whispered.
They sat with their backs to the gable wall, watching as he fetched a bottle of whiskey and drank from the neck, his eyes never straying from them. Besides, they were virtually trapped behind the table and by the time Owen might extract himself, Thomas would have ample time to do whatever he pleased. Owen took a small pleasure in lifting his brother’s shirt from the table and mopping the blood from his face.
Thomas pulled a chair across and sat facing them, clutching the whiskey with his free hand.
Síomha abruptly gripped Owen’s arm. ‘Tadhg…if he comes inside–’
‘It’s all right. I sent him for seed. He’ll be gone an hour.’
Thomas shook his head slowly. ‘I didn’t want this. Really. I’d have been gone soon and ye wouldn’t be any the worse. But ye had to stick your woman’s nose into my business. Christ! Do ye always search visitors’ belongings?’
When she didn’t respond he barked, ‘Well?’
‘I was chasing a mouse. I moved your bag and felt something in it. It was too heavy to be clothes or anything.’
‘So you searched it? Just like that? What a nosey bitch.’
‘Are you going to kill us?’ she asked.
‘Kill you? My own brother and his wife? What sort of man do ye think I am?’ he snapped indignantly.
‘I don’t know, Thomas. What sort of man are you?’ Owen asked.
Thomas didn’t answer, just sipped his whiskey for a while, staring intently at them. Eventually
he gestured towards the items on the table.
‘Put them back in the bag while I think.’
They did as ordered. When they had finished he rose and lifted the bag, placing it beside his chair as he reseated himself.
‘I s’pose your whole story about America was horseshit?’ Owen asked.
He shook his head. ‘No. It was all true. The war, my wife, the ranch, the mines. Not a word of a lie. I swear. But I did leave a few bits out.’
Owen studied him. His every gesture, the look in his eyes, the barely concealed triumphalism in his smile, his tone, they each were the traits of a different being to the one he’d welcomed into his home just a few short weeks before. It was as though the character he’d presented to them was a chimera he’d conjured and the true Thomas had finally revealed himself. What a fool he’d been. Blinded by his own love, his own wish fulfilment. He’d spent decades imagining the possible scenarios of his brother’s life, hoping that one day he would reappear and they would embrace and exchange tales of their different lives, laugh and share a drink together as brothers. And Thomas had walked back in and stepped perfectly into the portrait of his imagination.
Except Thomas hadn’t filled it perfectly. And Owen had simply chosen to ignore the flaws in the picture. Like Thomas disappearing for days, unlikely tales of jobs on farms, the money, the horse, trying to bend Tadhg’s ear to his political leanings. None of these things alone had amounted to much, but collectively he should have recognised that his brother was not all he appeared to be. Yet, despite the warning signs, he could never have believed that Thomas would attack Síomha or that he’d ever look into his own brother’s eyes and see murderous intent. He hated himself for his naivety, for putting his family at risk so he could fulfil some vain wish for an end to a distant chapter of his life. And he felt shame that it had fallen to Síomha to reveal Thomas for what he was. He could have searched the knapsack weeks ago!
‘I know what ye’re thinking, Owen,’ Thomas said as he deftly removed and lit a cigarette with one hand. ‘Ye never saw it coming. Ye’re feeling guilty. Don’t. I would have fooled anyone. Ye know why?’
‘What’s the point of this?’ Síomha asked.
‘I’ll tell ye why,’ he continued, ignoring her. ‘Ye see, most of it was true. I didn’t turn up here just te use ye. I never stopped wondering about ye all those years. I was happy te see ye, to find out what had become of ye. Ye can believe it or not. It doesn’t matter anymore.’
‘Why don’t you shut up and tell us why you’re here?’
He dragged on his cigarette and smiled at them through the wispy, blue-grey smoke. ‘Oh now I get it, brother. It’s not guilt ye’re feeling. Ye think you’re so fuckin’ smart and I’m so fuckin’ stupid and ye’re as mad as a bull that I put one over on ye. That’s it, isn’t it?’ He uttered a loud, terse laugh.
Síomha tightened her hold on Owen’s hand.
‘Anyway, it’s of no matter now. I’m the one in control and your big brain can do nothing for ye. That’s what ye never understood. Ye think ye can reason all this out, fight your enemies with clever words and speeches. But ye can silence any speech with a single bullet. That’s where the real power lies.’
‘Power? Is that what you want?’
‘Yeah. But not for my own ends. For my country. The power te rid us of the English. And your landlords.’
Síomha leaned forward a little. ‘And when you’ve achieved that, what then?’
‘Then we’ll be free, Síomha. Our destiny will be our own.’
Owen laughed mirthlessly. ‘You’ve been gone thirty years. You know nothing about this country. What’s your plan? Rule it through the barrel of a gun?’
Thomas bristled and threw the cigarette on the floor.
‘Don’t fuckin’ insult me! I know far more about this country than you’ll ever know. And I’m prepared te do more than your band of peace lovers ever will.’
‘Fine,’ Síomha said. ‘Why don’t you leave and get on with it?’
‘No, no, missy. Not yet. There are a few things my self-righteous, arrogant brother needs te hear.’ He swallowed another mouthful of whiskey. ‘Now, where to begin? Time for some home truths.’
‘Truth? You don’t know the meaning of it.’
‘Shhh, brother. Truth, as your priest will tell you, is a matter of perspective. And ye may find your own perspective changed. Let’s see now. Pennsylvania. I’m afraid I told a little fib there. I was in the Mollies and I did actually kill the man just like they said in the posters. In fact, I killed plenty. But not one of them was murder. No more than killing in the Civil War was murder. It was just a different war.’
‘You sound like you’re proud to have killed,’ Síomha whispered in disgust.
‘Oh I am. That’s the job of a soldier, to kill. But let’s move on. Circumstances forced me to abandon that battle. But then, by chance, when I’d fled to New York I met a man who handed me the opportunity te fight the fight I’d always dreamed about. Te fight the English on my home soil. He introduced me te Clan na Gael, the American arm of the Irish Republican Brotherhood.’ He grinned. ‘It was that same man who brought us back together, Owen. A man you’ve met.’
Despite his anger, Owen’s interest was piqued, but he was utterly mystified.
‘His name is Donal Doherty.’
Owen’s lips parted at the recollection of Doherty, the Fenian he’d met at the Irishtown rally a year and a half ago. Doherty had actually tried to recruit him.
‘He recognised you at Irishtown. He’s a friend of mine, saw the resemblance straight away. I’d told him all about us. We couldn’t be certain it was you. Joyce is a common name in Mayo. But when he told me, I knew. I felt it. Same area, same name, almost the same face.’
‘Who is this Doherty, Owen?’ Síomha asked.
‘An assassin. They’re terrorists. Not even part of the regular IRB. Extremists. He wanted me to join them. But I couldn’t…’ Owen glanced at her and shook his head.
‘No, ye couldn’t. That’s always been your problem, Owen. Ye could never do what needed te be done. Make the hard choices. Which is why I’m here.’
‘What do you mean?’
He made a dismissive wave with the gun. ‘You and your boycott. The New Departure. Parnell, Jesus! Worse still, Davitt? Christ, how could a freedom fighter like Davitt get roped into this bullshit? While you make ripples we make waves with a single attack. Look at the English after Mountmorres, scurrying about like frightened rats.’
‘You killed Mountmorres?’
‘Me and others.’
‘And what about the old herdsman they arrested for his murder? Is he part of your plan as well?’
‘Had nothing te do with it. He’ll probably get off. And if not…well…he’s a casualty of war. Sometimes sacrifices must be made.’
‘So what other “sacrifices” have you made?’ Síomha asked.
‘Listen to the pair of ye. Judgemental to the end. My conscience is clear. A man can only be true to himself. If he makes mistakes he has te live with them. That’s war.’
Owen shook his head in dismay. ‘Christ! Call it what you want but you’ve so much innocent blood on your hands.’
Thomas stared at them with a look of incredulity. He rose then, shook his head and to their surprise turned his back on them and walked around the room, his fingers to his forehead. Owen and Síomha exchanged a look: Owen considered this might be their best chance to overpower him, but Síomha, with an expression of dread, shook her head sharply.
‘Jesus Christ, listen te what you’re saying!’ Thomas seemed to suddenly remember the situation and levelled the gun at them, but relaxed when he saw they hadn’t stirred. He stood, observing them with perplexity. ‘You’re talking about a few deaths, innocent blood and the like. Fuckin’ incredible! Have you forgotten what they did to us?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘What am I…? The fuckin’ famine, of course. The English tried te wipe out our entire ra
ce. Mass extermination. Nearly two million dead. The same number had te escape te the four corners of the earth. There are five million people less on this island than thirty years ago, do the sums.’
‘It was a famine, Thomas, the potato blight, remember?’
‘You no more believe that than I do.’
He walked forward and planted both hands on the table, the gun still pointed directly at Owen.
‘Well?’
Owen averted his eyes.
‘Ye see? You know as well as I do that the blight had nothing te do with it. The only reason the bones of millions are rotting out there in the fields is because that’s exactly what the English intended.’
He backed away and sat.
‘You’re talking nonsense. Your hatred has warped your reason.’
‘Nonsense, is it? Ye know what? You were always the smart one, the book reader. Over the years I became a book reader myself. Oh not like you, not your Shakespeare or Dickens. But things that mattered. I read Marx and Engels and others. Men who cared about the way the common man is treated like a dog. I also read a lot about the famine. About what was really going on. Their brutality. I’ve had thirty years te catch up. And I’ve got the rest of my life te repay them. And that’s what I intend te do.’
He picked up a book that had fallen to the floor during the struggle and sat again, appearing to meditate over the worn, leather-bound volume.
‘Y’know, during the famine, while everyone in Ireland was looking for help in the Bible, this was the bible the English were reading. Their handbook for our extermination. It allowed them te justify what they were doing.’
‘What is it?’ Owen asked. He had started to think that the best course was to indulge his brother’s need to explain his motivations, as it might diffuse some of his apparent rage.
Thomas abruptly threw the book towards Owen, who had to block it with his hand to prevent it hitting his head. He picked it up from the table and read the title aloud: An Essay on the Principle of Population as it affects The Future Improvement of Society, by Robert Thomas Malthus.’