Return to Killybegs

by Sorj Chalandon

  And the man, the one who threw the toy, had she seen him?

  —Yes. Very clearly, thanks to the street lamp. He was short, not too young, and bald. I even remember having said to myself that if he wished us ill, he would have hidden under a cap.

  Popeye had kept his word.

  —Meehan?

  —Don’t speak, Popeye, don’t ask me anything. The IRA is going to kill you on Thursday.

  —What are you talking about, Meehan?

  He was repeating my name as though announcing an astonishing event. I knew he’d be there, at the fête of the Belfast Docks kennel club. Popeye had a brown and white fox terrier. The IRA had considered staging the operation right here, bombing his car at the Fountain Tavern, but the crowd was too dense. There were women, children, dogs. To shoot Ray Gleeson on his way to prison was to kill a screw. Jim O’Leary had backed out.

  I repeated the threat to Popeye. He had been located, spied on, followed, photographed. It was to be Thursday.

  —I’m going to have to report you to the police, Meehan.

  I looked at him. He could do what he liked. He had the face of the woman attacked by the birds on that Hitchcock poster. He placed his hand on my arm.

  —Why did you come to tell me this?

  I looked at him. Popeye, his dog, this Sunday crowd. The announcements over the microphone, the dancehall music, the smell of kennels. I was betraying. I had just betrayed. I shook him off, shrugged helplessly. Why? For me. Certainly. To protect myself. A woman bumped into me, her poodle beribboned in the colours of the British flag. She apologized, smiled at me, said hello to Popeye. I didn’t belong here and yet it was my place as traitor.

  I ran as far as the bus stop. I was panicking. This wasn’t my neighbourhood. All over the walls were frescoes painted in homage to Loyalist paramilitaries. The street curbs were painted blue, white and red. I was in their space. In the enemy’s sanctuary. I dreaded bumping into one of their men. Someone who would have engraved my face in his hateful memory. Worse again, one of my own. An IRA unit in operation.

  —Hang on ... surely that’s not Meehan, over on the footpath there?

  To be seen here would have been the beginning of my end. But Popeye had done this. He had slipped into the heart of Strabane’s nationalist area to deliver Aidan’s letter, so I was carrying my message to the heart of his home. He thanked me without understanding what was going on. I recognized his expression. It was that of a prisoner.

  On the morning of 8 July 1981 I was smoothly detained and taken in for questioning at a checkpoint on Castle Street, which leads from the Falls Road to the city centre. In front of the double chicanes, barriers and concrete blocks that were obstructing the road, the police were checking the Catholics. Women and children lined up to the left, men to the right, several dozen people waiting to raise their arms to be searched. In their sentry box, soldiers had their weapons pointed at the crowd, eyes to the gun sights of their assault rifles. They were tense. The death of Joe McDonnell at five that morning had enraged our localities. He was the eldest of the hunger strikers, dead aged thirty, after sixty-one days of fasting. When I got to the sentry box I threw everything I had in my pockets on the table. The peeler asked me my name, my address, where I was coming from and where I was going. Procedure. His colleague called headquarters.

  —Spelled: M.E.E.H.A.N. Tyrone, like the county.

  I was told to follow them. In the crowd, some youths chanted out a slogan for me. I was alone in the armoured vehicle with the uniforms. Not a word, not an insult, not a blow. I wasn’t even handcuffed. The vehicle went back up the Falls Road, as far as the Glen Road RUC station opposite Milltown Cemetery.

  Waldner was waiting for me in an office, along with the red-haired handler. No table, just our three chairs.

  —Cigarette, Tenor? Waldner offered.

  —My name is Meehan.

  —Meehan is for the clueless lad who brought you in here. But for us, you are Tenor.

  The two men sat down. Waldner was embarrassed. I met the RUC man’s eye and he reassured me with a wink.

  —So here it is, Tenor. The reason you’re here is for a reminder of the rules.

  I looked at the cigarette between my fingers.

  —What you did for the screw was courageous. But it’s not what we want from you.

  —You’re not a policeman, Tenor, Dominik continued. It’s not up to you to impose law and order in Northern Ireland.

  —Law and order is our job, added the agent.

  —What should I have done?

  Waldner lit up.

  —That’s the spirit!

  —Leave him to die?

  —But he’s going to die, this Popeye of yours!

  I stiffened. I’d never uttered that nickname in front of them.

  —And do you know why your Popeye will die? Because the people who want him dead are still here.

  The redhead leaned towards me.

  —We have relocated him and his wife. He’s safe now. But what will that serve? The IRA will choose another one and hit him whenever.

  —If it’s not Popeye, it’ll be Olive Oil, Waldner smiled.

  He handed me another cigarette from his fingertips, the way it was done in Belfast, rather than offering the packet.

  —So if your friends are going to do it again, you let them at it. You simply tell us who is to be assassinated, when, where and how. We’ll look after the rest.

  —The why doesn’t interest you?

  The agent looked at me, fists tight, a hint of scorn in his eyes.

  —Don’t play that game.

  —No arrests! That was our agreement.

  —These guys are as dangerous for you now as they are for us, the handler threw at me.

  —I haven’t told you anything, or given you anything. I have nothing to fear!

  Waldner got up. He grabbed my lapels with both hands.

  —You’ve nothing to fear? Are you fucking thick or what, Paddy? You’re a British agent, with a code name and a handling officer. You’re dead, Meehan.

  —Calm down, Stephen! I think he’s got the point, the redhead said.

  The agent released me. He smoothed my jacket.

  —Sorry, Tenor. We’re working crazy hours at the moment.

  —Too damned many, added the other.

  They got up. Waldner put a hand on my shoulder. He murmured.

  —We want something on one of your guys. We think he’s co-ordinating an escape from Crumlin from the outside.

  —Haven’t heard a thing about it.

  —Don’t answer immediately, you have plenty of time.

  —It’s not a question of time. I don’t know anything.

  —You’ll think over it again. We know that Frank Devlin is fixing something and we want to know what.

  —Mickey?

  It slipped out. I was stunned. Lack of vigilance, the mistake of a novice. They had got me in a tired state. I wanted to rip my tongue out with my teeth. My lips were trembling.

  —Devlin is Mickey? Waldner asked.

  The handler slapped his thigh with the flat of his hand. He was beaming. The agent looked at me, smiling.

  —Popeye, Mickey, you have some fucking imagination ...

  —I don’t understand.

  His face hardened. Lips stony.

  —You don’t understand? Well, let me explain it to you. We know that a certain Mickey was on to Popeye, that he was staking out locations, that he took photos. But nobody had made the connection between Devlin and him.

  —Devlin, fuck! He was under our nose! Right under our nose, the handler repeated.

  —Don’t touch Frank, for fuck’s sake! I was in Crumlin with him, he’s a friend ...

  —A friend? What do you mean, ‘friend’? You’ve changed friends, Tenor. We’re your friends now! the RUC man replied.

  Then he looked at his watch.

  —End of discussion.

  —No arrests, I murmured again.

  It was no longer defiant, it w
as a plea. In my head I was howling. My mouth was dry and I felt a desperate urge to piss. I was devastated, immensely sad. My reason was no longer functioning. I searched for a sentence, a word. I couldn’t even find an expression to serve as a response. When I arrived at the door, the handler slid an envelope into my pocket. I started.

  —We’re not buying you. It’s to get home in a taxi, three times nothing.

  —Your incidental expenses, if you like, smiled the agent.

  He stuck out his hand to me. I ignored him. I headed for the sentry box.

  —By the way, Tenor?

  I turned around. The handler came towards me, his hand out.

  —I’m sorry about Joe McDonnell’s death.

  I was fragile, hyper-sensitive. In the stairwell, I felt old tears brimming. My stomach hurt. My teeth were chattering. I was so cold.

  Then I took his hand. And the other man’s. And I squeezed them both.

  I passed the Thomas Ashe on the way back. I’d decided to blow the £30 in the envelope. I drank two pints first, sitting at an afternoon table. Apart from three doleful faces, the club was empty. The voice on the television, a game of hurling, the dull cracking of pool balls from the next room. Then I stopped into the Busy Bee and Hanlon’s. A shot of vodka each time, standing at the bar like a man in a hurry. I bought drinks without toasting. I paid for two pints for a friend, another for a stranger. I hoped the word would spread.

  —Tyrone Meehan’s pockets are full of money!

  —Where’d you get all the dough, Meehan?

  —Crisp notes? Not like the rags they slip us at the dole office!

  They’d given me £30. The last of Judas’s thirty silver pieces. They’d done it on purpose, I was sure of it. I had decided to get myself caught. Or to die. I could throw myself from the top of the Albert Bridge over the Lagan: I don’t know how to swim. Or I could top myself in a car, it didn’t matter which direction, rushing towards a cliff in the dark. Or then again I could drink so much that my heart would eventually give up beating.

  I saw myself in the mirror over the bar. I had kept my cap on, like a sheep breeder celebrating a sale. I was thinking of dying? Pathetic peasant. The poor have no time to think of that. I looked at my drooping eyes, that thatch of grey hair, those ears, those wrinkles ploughing through my skin. I looked at my crumpled jacket collar, my open shirt, the threadbare tweed of my clothes. I looked at my defeat. Leaning forward, I suddenly saw the great Padraig Meehan in the mirror. And all that space surrounding him, that silence at his approach, that respect, that embarrassment. I remembered the wood, the brass, the warmth and the golden darkness of Mullin’s. My father was there, returned within me. He was smiling like an imbecile, lifting my glass to toast his reflection. He was pretending to be sober. He was staggering. It was hard to watch. He had given up on his war, on Spain, on the Republic, on life. He had walked out on our winter roads, stones and earth in his pockets. He had wanted to die in the sea but he had died in the ditch. He had summoned the seagulls, the gardaí chased off the crows. He had nothing left, was neither father nor fighter. He was nothing but a pile of rags covered in ice.

  Then I gave up the idea of dying. And of living, too. I would be elsewhere, between heaven and earth. I’d give them all grief! The Brits, the IRA, all those men who gave out orders! I could no longer stand this war, these heroes, this stifling community. I was tired. Tired of fighting, of marching, of prison; tired of secrecy and of silence; tired of prayers repeated since childhood; tired of hatred, of anger and of fear; tired of our grey skin, of the holes in our shoes; tired of our raincoats that were wet on the inside. My brother Seánie was roaring in my ears. I repeated word for word the arguments he had given me when he called it a day. What has the Republic ever done for me? The handsome ones, the great ones, the genuine ones, the Tom Williamses and the Danny Finleys, they had all died along with our youth! Buried with our history books, Connolly, Pearse and all those men in ties and round collars! We were mimics, imitators of glory. We replayed the old songs incessantly. We were made of soul, flesh and bricks, and were up against heartless steel. We were going to lose. We had lost. I had lost. And I wouldn’t offer Ireland another life.

  —Kevin? Will you serve me a last one before closing your damned iron curtain?

  I went to bed drunk and feverish. When I awoke, I had decided to divert them from Mickey. I would give them a piece of information. An unimportant one, but a piece of information. Maybe I’d throw them off that way and save him. I had to do my job as a traitor. Before the day was out, I would have crossed the line. It was like taking the oath to the Republic. No turning back on this road. I had started down it and I would lose myself along the way. It was too late for questions and doubts. And too late for answers.Jack had been out of solitary confinement for a week now. He had rejoined his friends and his cell. A present from Master Waldner to Tenor, his traitor. And me, I had thanked him.

  —You’re a nice guy, the red-haired handler said to me on the way back from Paris.

  That was it. Maybe a bastard is a nice guy who has given up.

  I gave the British 23 Poolbeg Street. I met Waldner at the cemetery. He listened to me with his back to the wall, his eyes on the graves. He had a bunch of flowers that he asked me to put on Henry Joy McCracken’s grave.

  Number 23 was an occasional hiding place, almost a ruin, used to store arms and money. Four months previously, we had cleaned it out. The street was too busy, the house too exposed. Kids were getting in through a broken window and smoking on the sly. Two of our lads intervened one evening just as a youth was searching the chimney flue. He had found a gun and some ammunition. He dropped his load and scarpered.

  Waldner was looking at me. He was wearing a smile I didn’t care for.

  —Number 23 Poolbeg Street?

  I said yes. Poolbeg, at the bottom of the Falls Road. He nodded, recognizing it. He took me by the arm. We walked across the graves, like two old companions. He told me the story of Damian Bray, a fifteen-year-old who smoked hash in the same neighbourhood, and sold it as well, to make some pocket money. He and two older friends would get the stuff from Dublin, then play leapfrog over the border with their little bars sewn into their parkas.

  —Oh, we’re not talking much, you know. Eight ounces here, a pound there. It could be useful.

  He stopped in front of McCracken’s grave. He handed me the bouquet.

  —One day, we arrested Bray. He was so scared he vomited.

  I put the flowers down, one knee on the ground.

  —A very decent family, the Brays. Father in Long Kesh, brother in the IRA. True Republicans, except for him. He was one of those kids who’d write ‘IRA = Peelers’ on walls, you know the type?

  I knew.

  —So we gave him an ultimatum. We didn’t give a damn about his toking. Likewise his petty trafficking. But we told him that if he wanted to leave the interrogation uncharged, he’d have to give us something in exchange. A little like you, you see?

  The agent had started his slow walk again.

  —And you know what? He slipped us an address. I’m sure you know the one.

  I kept quiet.

  —He’d been looking for a corner to stash his gear and he’d come across a gun. The IRA had caught him by surprise and he’d run away. It’s mad how much these brats hate you lot!

  —What are telling me here?

  —I’m telling you that by taking the law into its own hands in the ghettos, the IRA has made itself solid enemies of the louts. With us they get a judge, with you it’s a bullet in the kneecap. So, in fact, the Brits are the lesser evil for them.

  —Why are you telling me all this?

  —Why? Because after the young lad’s confessions, we placed Number 23 under surveillance, Tyrone. We saw your guys empty it out several months ago. And since then, there’s nothing there. Nothing. A desert.

  He stopped beside the gate.

  —You wouldn’t by any chance be taking the mickey out of us?

 
—Twenty-three was never under surveillance. You’re lying. Nobody has been arrested!

  —Who would we arrest? The three Fianna and the poor fucker who did the cleaning? We want to hit the IRA, not make little heroes for you on the cheap!

  He slid an envelope into my pocket. I didn’t protest.

  —Later, Meehan. Call when you want.

  He took a few steps, then turned around.

  —By the way, Mickey talked. And you know what? He gave us the name of the next screw on the list, the location of the operation, everything.

  He was watching me.

  —And also ... I’m sorry, but he also gave us your name. And that of your bomb-maker. You know? The one who shouldn’t have been there during your meeting.

  The rain started to wash the sky. He lifted his collar.

  —In any case, you were right to make him leave. You have to make people follow the rules, that’s the boss’s job.

  Martin Hurson died on 13 July 1981, aged twenty-five, after forty-six days of hunger striking. Kevin Lynch went on 1 August, also aged twenty-five, on his seventy-first day. And Kieran Doherty went the next day, at twenty-six, on his seventy-third day of fasting.

  As for Frank ‘Mickey’ Devlin, he was tortured for five days in the Castlereagh detention centre. He was deprived of sleep and made to stand naked for hours facing the wall, arms outstretched. He was beaten, electrocuted, choked, burned with cigarettes and smothered with damp cloths. Between interrogations he was thrown blindfolded into a soundproofed room. Those who have been subjected to sensory isolation say that even their cries were muted. Europe had described these treatments as ‘inhumane and degrading’. Waldner didn’t give a damn. In his view it was necessary to make the Republicans own up. Before another shot was fired, before another bomb exploded, before another Popeye should die somewhere in the city.

  Did I understand?

  —Imagine I’m your prisoner, Meehan. Your best friend is in our hands. Our men want to hit him. I know where and when. What do you do with me?

  I understood.

  The ghetto was distraught over Mickey’s arrest. His wife came to visit Sheila. They were both crying. I made them tea and left.