Return to Killybegs

by Sorj Chalandon

  —Is that a promise?

  The handler looked at me.

  —I promise, yes.

  Two laughing youths blew me a kiss. I pulled my cap down low over my eyes.

  —From now on, I’ll be ‘Waldner’. This will be my code name and the only one you’ll use, the agent said.

  He gave me a sidelong glance.

  —Repeat.

  —Waldner.

  —I’m from Liverpool. I came to Belfast a few months ago. I don’t know anyone in the ghettos and nobody knows me. It’s a safeguard. My anonymity will protect you.

  The crowd was getting more and more dense.

  —If something happened to me, your contact would be ‘Dominik’.

  —Dominik?

  Waldner nodded towards the red-haired handler.

  —Frankie, whose name you’re also going to forget.

  I was staggered. Anaesthetized. Docile. Lost in Paris, in the middle of incomprehensible banners and bursts of laughter. I was in the process of betraying. I was a brathadóir. An informer. Everything was being put in place. I had imagined this moment in a silent room with grey walls and here I was surrounded by colours.

  —As for you, Tyrone, you’ll be ‘Tenor’.

  —Like a singer?

  —Like a singer.

  —Waldner and Dominik are characters from Arabella, the opera our wives are going to see this evening, the handler added.

  —Your wife?

  —I got lucky with this mission! But no, we sleep apart.

  I laughed. For the first time since my false arrest. It was a genuine laugh, a sudden hiccup. The agent and the handler looked at one another. I caught that look. They were relieved. There was no doubt I was safely in their trap, a deep hole with smooth walls. There was nothing that could ever bring me back up to the surface again. They had me. I was theirs and they knew it. Waldner nudged me with his elbow. Very soon, we’d go and have a beer and talk about something else.

  By the time we arrived on the esplanade in front of the Beaubourg Museum, I knew everything. I had two telephone numbers to remember. It was up to me to contact Waldner. No information over the phone, ever. I was to simply say ‘Tenor’, a code word that meant we were to meet the following day at the time of that call. There were two meeting points, one for each number. The first was a small cemetery off Clifton Road, in the north of Belfast. For a Catholic it wasn’t a very safe area, but it was quiet. The MI5 agent came up with the idea while studying my itinerary. Every July every year for the past decade, I’d been speaking at commemorations of the death of Henry Joy McCracken, a Presbyterian and founding member of the Society of United Irishmen, along with Wolfe Tone and Robert Emmet. I’d travel all over Ireland to honour his memory. One year in Dublin, the next in Cork, Limerick or Belfast, in front of crowds or sparse gatherings. It didn’t matter, my duty was to see to it that younger generations heard his name, and to remind people that the founding fathers of the Irish Republic were Protestant.

  The British court had offered McCracken his life if he would testify against other Irish rebels, but he had refused. It was for that he was hanged, on 17 July 1978, and later buried in Clifton Street Cemetery. I used to visit his grave regularly to talk to him. I’d go alone. I’d talk to him about Tom Williams, buried like a pauper in Crumlin prison. I told him about Danny Finley. I asked him for advice. Helped by the whispering of the wind, Henry Joy McCracken would answer me.

  My presence in the cemetery wouldn’t surprise anyone. Against the wall, hidden by the corner of a house, there was a shed. That was where we would meet. A traitor, on the grave of a man who had been killed for refusing to betray.

  The second meeting place was the city-centre post office. More exposed, but more anonymous. Going into a post office is not a suspicious act. The cemetery would be used for exchanging information. The post office, for handing over documents without a word.

  And there would also be Paris, where I would come to breathe a little. Where I’d be safe to speak about everything and nothing.

  —What does that mean, about everything and nothing?

  —About politics, Waldner replied.

  —About politics?

  —Tips about your party, dissensions, decisions. A decoding, if you like.

  —I like nothing at all about it.

  He made a wee knowing gesture.

  —Will it be you in Paris?

  —No, you’ll see ‘Honoré’.

  —Honoré?

  —Our embassy is on rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. And I’m sure you’re going to like this guy, the handler said to me.

  In case of emergency or extreme danger, I was to go home, call and say, ‘Tenor is hoarse’, and wait to be arrested. It was also arranged that I would be taken in for questioning regularly, as were all the men from our areas. Kept for seven days, as provided for in the Special Powers Act, I’d have a chance to breathe, take stock and then be released without arousing suspicion.

  Suddenly, I stiffened. In front of me, two young girls were kissing mouth to mouth. I had never seen that. Nobody was looking at them. They were in one another’s arms and they were kissing.

  —It’s a gay march, smiled Waldner.

  —Gay?

  I looked around me. Men holding hands, girls with raised fists, unknown slogans. As she was passing, a girl stuck a pink triangle on my anorak.

  —Very fetching, said the redhead.

  I tore off the sticker. I wavered. And then I put it back on.

  —Don’t you want to take that off, all the same? Waldner asked early that evening, as we were finishing a beer on a bar terrace.

  The redhead muttered.

  —We don’t give a shit.

  The march had ended hours before. Both of them seemed to be bothered by the looks the sticker was attracting. So I said no. Just that, not aggressively, not defying them. I didn’t give a damn about that triangle, but it told them that I wasn’t under their thumb.

  —To our wives, our girlfriends, and may they never meet one another! said Waldner, raising his glass of beer.

  —To Sheila, I replied.

  That evening, I joined her again in the hotel. She’d had a terrific afternoon. I told her about the two women kissing. She crossed herself, laughing. And then she made me sit down in the armchair. She went into the bathroom and came out carrying a glass of water. And she handed it to me.

  15

  Killybegs, Saturday, 30 December 2006

  Yesterday morning, I had a visitor. A car pulled in just after the little bridge. I was at the well, getting water for the night. I heard the car reversing. I placed the bucket on the edge of the well. A door slammed. I made my way towards the cottage, walking backwards.

  All these years, I’d kept Seánie’s hurley, which was now hidden behind my armchair. I had plaited a rope handle and a leather wrist strap to keep it firmly in my hand. I was smiling as I strengthened it, imagining an assassin’s surprise when faced with an eighty-year-old man brandishing a second-hand bludgeon.

  I drew back, my eyes on the clearing that opened up at the bottom of my path. I could hear heavy footsteps on the road. I was frightened for the first time since arriving.

  Barely ten days earlier, the IRA was interrogating me in a Dublin suburb. Opposite me were Mike O’Doyle and an old IRA counter-intelligence guy I didn’t know. I admitted I was a British agent, simply, nothing more. I had said it to the press, I was repeating it to my former brothers in arms. The rest did not concern them.

  Without the peace process I would have ended up with a bullet in my neck in a dump beside the border. But the IRA had laid down its arms, and my fate was part of that commitment. They would not kill me. They had the military capability to do so, of course, but not the political means. And I wanted them to take responsibility for what might happen to me. I had decided not to flee. I would remain in my country. I wanted them to know that.

  —I’m going home to Killybegs, in Donegal.

  —Shut the fuck up, Meehan!
shouted the older man.

  —Now you know.

  —We don’t want to know anything.

  Too bad. They knew. I had trapped them. I was no longer their soldier, or their prisoner, and I was placing myself under their protection. If I was killed, by a Loyalist, a Brit or an armchair nationalist with his hunting rifle, everyone would accuse the IRA. Nobody would believe their denials. And that would be the end of the peace process. If the Republican movement wanted to protect its negotiations, it would have to keep me alive.

  —What do I do now? I asked.

  —You fend for yourself, replied the IRA.

  I was astonished.

  —You’re signing my death warrant, Mike O’Doyle, you know that?

  They turned off the camera that was recording my interrogation.

  —You should have thought of that before, Tyrone. We can’t do anything else for you.

  A guy was walking along the path. Short and stocky, with short grey hair and creased eyes. His hands were empty, a satchel over his shoulder. When he saw me, he froze and waved.

  —Tyrone Meehan?

  I stopped at the door.

  —Are you Tyrone Meehan?

  —Why?

  —Jeffrey Kerr, from the Donegal Sentinel.

  I motioned to him not to come any closer.

  —How did you find me?

  —A bit of investigating, adding up ...

  A journalist. The beginning of the end. He was looking at the house from a distance.

  —May I come in?

  —No.

  —May I come a bit closer?

  —What do you want?

  —Are you going to hide here for long?

  He was moving forward slowly, like a child stalking a bird. Because of his weight, he was stumbling over the ruts and breathing heavily.

  —I’m not hiding. I just want to be left alone.

  —Are you staying here or will you go elsewhere?

  —I’m not going anywhere. Leave, please.

  —People are talking about you a lot these days.

  —Can you not see? I’m in the middle of nowhere and I’m doing no one any harm, so leave now!

  He sniffed noisily, glancing at my door with the sorry look of someone not allowed in. He raised a hand, and dropped it again.

  —Who gave you this address?

  The journalist shrugged. He didn’t even turn around.

  —Gave? You mean sold!

  —Who?

  —A friend of yours, Timmy Gormley.

  I shook my head. Timmy Gormley. I repeated his name out loud, ‘King of the quays.’ I calculated. It was the first time in sixty-five years that I’d heard that name. When I left him, the pitiful gang leader was picking a fight with Josh Byrne, the pixie with the pockmarked face. After all this time, Josh had become an old priest, Timmy had remained a bastard, and I was no longer anything at all.

  I waited for the door to slam shut. For the car to leave. I went back inside. The fire was nearly dead so I pulled on a second jumper. And then I was overcome with dizziness. I sat down at the table. I could see the journalist again in my mind’s eye, balanced strangely on the path, turned sideways, his left arm behind his back. Every time I moved, he had moved with me. I’d found it strange, suspicious. And suddenly I understood. The bag, his stance, his arm thrown behind him so as not to block the screen. He was filming. I’d been filmed. He had stolen the cottage, the fir tree, the surroundings, my unshaven face, my tired eyes, my trousers that were too big, my large jumper and my muddy shoes. It had occurred to me that he’d given up too quickly, but he hadn’t given up anything. He hadn’t taken out either a pen or a notebook. He knew well, in coming here, that I wasn’t going to confide in him. That he’d be going back to the office without confessions or regrets. It wasn’t my words he came to steal, it was my image.

  I didn’t eat dinner. The Donegal Sentinel had no need to even make a film. The journalist would simply take an image for the front page and then sell the rest to television. I knew it. I was certain of it. I didn’t sleep, either. I stayed sitting at the table, my head on my arms, my anorak thrown over my shoulders, watching the flame of the candle dance.

  This afternoon, I wasn’t able to walk through the door of Mullin’s. Two men turned to look at me when I arrived in Bridge Street. A woman crossed the road. The owner was waiting for me at the pub door. It was the time I usually came to drink and he knew it. My steps slowed. He placed himself in the doorway. I gave him a questioning look.

  —We don’t want any trouble, Meehan.

  —What trouble?

  —You’re in the paper, on the television. We’re simple people, you know. That business is far too serious for our little town.

  I put my hands in my pockets. I withdrew.

  —Buy your beers in the shop and drink at home, it’ll be better that way.

  The door opened. A man walked out. He put on his cap, said goodbye to the owner, avoided my eyes. Behind him, the bar was packed. My father’s table was no longer there, nor the coat stand. They’d moved the cigarette machine. It was in my place.

  —Sorry, Meehan.

  He wasn’t. I don’t think he was. He went back into his bar. I looked again, one last time, just the few seconds it took for the swinging door to close behind him. The dark panelling, the old counter, the gilded lamps, the high stools, the pictures, the black and red ceiling, the snugs down the back, the brass beer taps, the surge of warmth and the buzz of all those people. I didn’t leave immediately. I crossed the street and leaned against the opposite wall. I was waiting for the door to open.

  —Come on, Tyrone Meehan! Come back in here! One last pint for old time’s sake. Out of respect for your father, and as a homage to your past. In memory of the kid who wouldn’t dare go into the place or walk across the room, who used to cough in the smoke, who’d sip the creamy head from the large glasses held out to him, who’d listen to Padraig Meehan sing, who’d come to look for him in his drunkenness, and take him back through his darkness, step by step. To you, Tyrone Meehan! Before all the Timmy Gormleys of heaven and earth come looking to kill you!

  I bought a bottle of whiskey. I walked through the town. I went as far as the fortified tower. It was cold. There was frost over everything, the grass, the brambles, the trees, the low stone walls. My father had told me one day that my mother deserved to be living in a castle. That it was our fault if she was working herself to death. Ours, their children’s. It was the middle of summer. There was a light, salty rain falling. He took me to the tower. He was walking quickly, he wasn’t waiting for me. When we arrived, he sat on the rocks facing the ruin and told me the story of that keep. A very beautiful woman had lived there with her very happy husband. A count, a prince, I don’t know. Someone who had a job. When the first child came along, the first stones fell from the tower. With the second child’s arrival, more stones fell. And the bigger the family grew, the more the tower crumbled. One day, the prince left in anger and the princess died, crushed by an enormous block that had come away from the roof.

  —And the children? I asked.

  My father got up. He moved ahead of me, with his bigger, ‘father’ steps.

  —The children? They turned into crows.

  He pointed out a black bird in the sky.

  —There you are, that one’s called Francis.

  I was walking behind him with wee, fearful steps. I was crying softly. I didn’t want to ruin our house. I didn’t want Father to leave. I didn’t want Mother to die. I didn’t want to become a crow.

  I was six years old.

  16

  Killybegs, Sunday, 31 December 2006

  Sheila brought a white paper tablecloth from Strabane, where she has been living with a friend since I came here. She made our New Year’s Eve meal before coming over, a big dish of bangers and mash, which she heated up on my camping stove. She had added caramelized onions, mushy peas and thin slices of yellow apples to the sausages and the mashed potatoes.

  I s
et the table. Our two plates, and mugs for glasses. She had left a bottle of white wine outside against the front wall. It would be chilled just in time for the meal. She had also brought six beers for me and some gin for herself. I cut the brown bread. Two slices each, with a square of butter. I watched her back, bent over the single burner. The smell of hot oil was warming the house. I listened to my wife’s silence. Her movements as if nothing had happened. When I caught her eye, she would smile. Not her girlish, motherly or warrior smile, but a very weary old woman’s smile that I had never seen before.

  We hadn’t talked. When she came to join me here, after my interrogation by the IRA, she took me in her arms and closed her eyes. Then she looked at me, her hands in mine. She was looking for something that had changed in my eyes. I wanted to respond, tell her that her presence did me good. But she placed her hand gently on my mouth.

  —No, Tryone. Don’t say anything. I’m not asking you anything, I don’t want to know anything.

  I went to move her hand away. She moved it back.

  —Please, wee man. You’re going to have to lie, so don’t.

  And then she unpacked her big bag. Emergency supplies. Toilet paper, candles, cigarettes, bread, some tinned food. I asked if she’d brought the paper. She replied that it didn’t say anything good.

  I had placed a fork either side of my plate and a knife either side of Sheila’s. She smiled. I’d never been too gifted in the kitchen. Then we sat down. She said a prayer, just three words, to thank Mary for having brought us together. She had bought a red candle with a golden star in Boots. She had decorated the table with pine needles and mistletoe. We toasted with the cold wine. It wasn’t a celebration, but a painful ceremony. The irritating noise of our cutlery, the battle of the fire against the damp wood, the candle flame.

  —It’s good, I murmured.

  She only answered with her eyes.

  It was nine o’clock. The cold was taking over.

  —I’m not going to wait up till midnight, Sheila yawned.

  She was exhausted. She apologized.