Return to Killybegs

by Sorj Chalandon

I placed a finger on her lips, adopting the sign of the angel. I closed the door on her and went down slowly.

  The Bear Cub was looking at the photos on the mantelpiece, Mike was watching the stairs. When I appeared, the first man took off his woollen hat. The second kept his on. I made a poor attempt at a smile, a forced contraction somewhere between sadness and defiance. I held out my hand, neither of them took it.

  —Mike, Eugene ...

  I gave them a brief nod.

  The Bear Cub looked at O’Doyle. There was an embarrassed silence.

  —There’s a problem, Tyrone.

  I smiled again.

  —You have a problem?

  —You have a problem, the Bear Cub replied.

  I nodded at the armchair, the couch. They remained standing.

  —There’s rumours going round about you, Tyrone. Bad rumours.

  Mike O’Doyle had his hands in his pockets. He straightened up. A respectful movement. One point for me.

  —What rumours, Mike?

  —Would you kindly follow us?

  I looked through the window. Badly hidden by the lace curtain, a car was waiting in the street with two men inside.

  —Not like that, no. Not at night. If you have something to say, send me someone from the Army Council.

  —You know well that’s who’s sent us, Tyrone.

  —You’re wasting your time, Mike, I know the procedure.

  —Get your coat.

  My life was at stake. I was sure of it. Ceasefire or not, leaving the house now would mean rotting in a dump beside the border. I had to get them to leave. To come back later, during the day and without those faces on.

  —Hurry up, Tyrone, the Bear Cub said.

  —Good Christ, have you never got plastered or what?

  The sentence came out like that, words carefully assembled to give them a nasty punch, thrown with force. Mike opened his eyes wide. Eugene frowned. I had them. Their surprise had tipped the balance. I couldn’t allow them a second, I had to snare them, like a rabbit in the wild.

  —You want me to be sorry? Is that it? Okay! I’m sorry. But you don’t disturb someone in the middle of the night for that!

  Nothing showed on the surface. Not even surprise. They were trying to understand. And as for me, I was performing. Deep down I was laughing, moving my pawns forward. I knew everything about their game, I had made the rules. Waldner believed he was the most powerful, Honoré the smartest. The handler always looked at me as though he was afraid to take the lead and me, I was dancing on a thread.

  —Get Joe Cahill to come, all the others, and I’ll apologize publicly.

  Mike O’Doyle took off his cap. He had suddenly remembered he was under my roof. He removed his hat before an officer.

  The Bear Cub was pale.

  —What are you saying, Tyrone?

  —What do you mean, what am I saying? I’m sorry! I’m prepared to get up on the Thomas Ashe stage to kneel down and apologize and that’s not enough for you?

  I went to the kitchen to get a beer. I drank it while looking at them. I was winning. Death was continuing on its way. They were tiny and the living room huge.

  I lowered my voice.

  —I shouldn’t have drank at Tom’s funeral. Shouldn’t have made a scene. I know that. There was no need to mobilize a unit, all the same!

  —They’re saying you’re a traitor, Tyrone.

  The Bear Cub had pounced first. I spat out my beer. I straightened up.

  —I misheard you. What was that?

  —A British agent, Mike O’Doyle repeated.

  Death had just walked in. It had stalked around the block, scowled through the window, carried on, changed its mind, and here it was knocking at the door.

  —Get out. Both of you.

  —Tyrone ... Mike began.

  —Shut your face, O’Doyle! What do you know? What have they taught you since you joined the army? The Brits have two ways of waging war: propaganda and the gun!

  —I know, Tyrone.

  I was roaring.

  —No! You know nothing! Absolutely nothing! We’re in the process of winning this war. They’ve given up killing us so now they want to pull us down! They’re tossing poison in the water and whoosh! Everyone’s swallowing it, you included!

  I was enraged, genuinely. Blood in my mouth and fists clenched to kill. I was no longer acting. I was bellowing out my anger for the whole street to hear. I heard the upstairs door, Sheila’s steps on the first few stairs. I was shaking. My mouth was twisted, foam at the corners, my eyes screwed up to block out the glare. My whole body was like a barrier.

  —And what else are they saying? How many other traitors are there besides me? Two? Ten? The entire city? And who’s to tell me you’re not a traitor, Mike O’Doyle? And you, Eugene Finnegan, spending your time asking questions?

  The two looked at each other. Sheila was coming down slowly.

  —Don’t you understand? You’re doing the Brits’ dirty work! Go on! They’re denouncing Tyrone Meehan! And then Mickey, too? And the Sheridan brothers and Deirdre, the wee bride? And Sheila while they’re at it?

  I whirled around abruptly. My wife was pale, her bare feet on the bottom step, hands clasped together like Mother used to do.

  —For Christ’s sake! Were you spying on us, Sheila Meehan?

  —No!

  The cry of a mouse.

  I took her by the arm. I shook her so hard she lost her balance.

  She burst into tears. She was scared. For the first time, I was hurting her. I felt nothing.

  She fell, her dressing gown open on a flash of breast. The Bear Cub lowered his eyes. Mike came towards me.

  —Tyrone, stop.

  I had lost it. Sheila had given up. She was lying on her side in the middle of the living room.

  Mike tackled me. The Bear Cub tried to lift her to her feet. She pushed him away. She fell back down heavily. I met her eyes. She was devastated. She lay on her side, turned towards the wall, neck bent over, hands covering her face, knees against her belly, in the position of an unborn child, or an old person close to death.

  Padraig Meehan! I saw him, in the dresser mirror. A bastard with raised fist, ready to strike till tears fell. My father and his children. Wee Tyrone, wee Sheila, terrorized brother and sister. Mike pinned me against the wall. I was spitting.

  —Look at her, you bastards! Look what you’ve done to my wife!

  The front door opened. Two lads came in, former soldiers from the 3rd Battalion.

  —The neighbours are getting worried, said the older of the two.

  I shouted one last time for the night to bear witness.

  —I am Tyrone Meehan, soldier of the Irish Republic! And nobody is going to stop me fighting for my country’s freedom!

  One of the óglaigh gave a sign.

  —Let him go, Mike.

  The young man released me. I was standing up, legs apart, arms wide open. I had the look of a man who has broken his chains.

  The Bear Cub went out first. Without a word, he turned his back on the dreadful scene. Mike put his cap on and looked at me. I held his gaze. He had that sorry grimace on him. He went out the door and death walked with him. The other two left the room. When they reached the pavement, the older turned back. Flanagan, I think his name was. I’d met him in the Kesh.

  —You know where to find us, Meehan. But don’t wait too long.

  And then he left.

  I waited. The door was wide open. A neighbour appeared, scarf over her head. She gave a small wave, and then closed the door gently.

  Sheila hadn’t moved. She was stretched out against the wall, hands protecting the back of her neck. Her body was shuddering, her left leg shaking with tremors. She was whimpering. I knelt down beside her, then lay down, curled around her back, spooning, like on Sunday mornings when we had the time. I wrapped her in my arms, squeezing her tightly. I had her hair in my face, her fingers between mine, her faint smell. My breath was waiting for hers so it could start up ag
ain. I was burning hot. She was frozen.

  Her voice. A voice of suffering.

  —What have you done, wee man?

  22

  In the morning, our milk bottles had been broken. Glass on the porch and the stone steps. Brady, the milkman, had belonged to the 2nd Battalion of the IRA. He was a decent man. I couldn’t imagine him smashing pints of milk against the wall of the house in the early hours.

  —Must have been kids, Sheila murmured.

  Must have been, yes.

  She went out to get bread and papers at Terry Moore’s wee grocery on the corner. Terry had been in Crumlin with me, and his son Billy had followed mine to the Kesh. Every morning for years and years, Terry put four daily papers aside for us. The main one was the The Irish News, the Northern Ireland Catholic community’s newspaper. Then the Newsletter, its Protestant competitor, and also The Guardian and The Irish Times, published in England and Dublin respectively. The local residents reserved their newspapers, it was the custom. Terry would carefully write the surnames in blue pen on the margin. At the end of the week, when he was in good form, he’d right ‘Ronnie’ or ‘Wee man’ on our bundle. A simple ‘Meehan’ meant that there was a problem between us, one too many words after one too many pints. It wouldn’t last long. The following day, he’d draw a tiny childish head on the paper with my first name, and something like: ‘Buy me a Guinness and we’ll not talk of it again.’ It was our way of making peace.

  That morning of Friday, 15 December 2006, Sheila came back with the bread but no newspapers.

  —What do you mean, he didn’t keep them?

  —He didn’t keep them. That’s all he said.

  —Nothing else? You’re sure?

  Of course she was sure. She told me of the silence in the shop, of Erin’s look from behind the counter, Terry’s embarrassment. He served her the loaf of bread, eggs, bacon, sausages. When she reached out towards the pile of newspapers, sitting on the glass counter, the shopkeeper lowered his eyes.

  —Not today, Sheila.

  —Why not?

  —You have food for your breakfast, you’re doing pretty well.

  I got up from the table. I was furious. I wanted to go and see Terry the grocer, Brady the milkman and all of our neighbours one by one. What was the problem? Had we made too much noise during the night? Spoken badly about someone? Wronged someone? I was going to do a round of the neighbourhood, fists at the ready, when Sheila held me back. I fell into my armchair. She took me by the hand and knelt down facing me.

  —If you want to talk to me, talk to me. If you don’t want to, I’ll understand. But I beg you, Tyrone, don’t lie to me.

  And then she got up. She filled a basin with water. She picked up a brush and knelt down to clean the doorstep, slimy with milk.

  I slipped my jacket on, tied a scarf around my neck, pulled my cap down to my eyes. It was raining. A December rain blowing in icy squalls from the harbour. Behind me I could hear the bristles scraping against the cement. When misfortune prowled around us, Sheila would wear herself out with household chores. She’d dust, wash and scour our little world, blessing each object in turn for being there.

  I walked down the Falls Road alongside the hostile brick, gave a nod to stop a communal taxi going back up through Andersonstown. I knew Brendan, the driver. He was a former prisoner, like the majority of drivers in the Republican areas. The priest from St Joseph’s was sitting up front beside him. On the back seat was a young woman with her child on her lap, sitting between a schoolgirl in uniform and an elderly man. A youth was sitting on the foldaway seat on the far side. The other one was empty. The schoolgirl pressed it down for me. Not a word. Through the open hatch, I could hear the radio. It is raining in Belfast, the presenter informed us over a background of soft music.

  —That we know, the priest smiled.

  The driver switched off the radio. Silence fell over us again. I was finding it harder and harder to breathe. I watched the schoolgirl, the youth, caught a glint in the woman’s eyes. I wondered whether they knew. If all of them knew. If the news had spread from street to street as far as the port. If, on leaving my place last night, the Bear Cub and O’Doyle hadn’t stirred up the entire city. I smiled at the child. The young mother returned the favour. That graveyard quiet was for me. When I got into the car, everyone had been talking, I was sure of it. I think I even saw Father Adam turned around in his seat, laughing with the others. Now, we were stiff. A car full of statues.

  We passed by the Sinn Féin headquarters, Falls Park, the Royal Victoria Hospital. The schoolgirl turned and tapped lightly on the glass partition with a twenty-pence piece. The taxi stopped. I met Brendan’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. I knew that look. That contempt reserved for the enemy. I smiled at him, a wink accompanied by a slight nod. It was a habitual gesture, a sign of complicity. He didn’t respond. Then he had some trouble changing gear. The engine protested violently.

  —Bollocks! the driver responded.

  The priest slapped him on the shoulder.

  —Brendan!

  —Sorry, Father, it slipped out.

  His eyes brushed mine with a furtive glance, then cut me off again, his gaze locked on the rain.

  I got off at Milltown Cemetery. On my way past the florist, I bought a bunch of dried flowers. I walked over graves, over friends. In the Republican patch I gave two yellow daisies to the hunger strikers, and one to Jim O’Leary, the great ‘Mallory’, our bomb-maker and my friend, who had died for Ireland on 6 November 1981.

  Then I laid my flowers at random, like a child dropping pebbles for fear of getting lost. I murmured a word each time. Standing very straight, an old soldier at attention. Goodbye, Bobby. Goodbye, Jim. I sat for a moment at Tom Williams’s grave with its tragic headstone.

  The clouds were hugging the hills tightly. The rain was scratching black on the sandstone statues. A glimpse of sunshine, three rays of light. Then the darkness once more. The sky closed up again like a gloomy curtain.

  I went to the railing. I turned around. I said farewell to Milltown.

  On the other side of the Falls Road is the municipal cemetery. A place of rest without this common history. There you die in grey, not in tricolour. The heads are lowered, the hearts don’t lift. Over there, they bury those who aren’t our men. And it is there that I will go because I am an other.

  At nightfall, I decided to give myself in to the IRA.

  Sheila was waiting for me when I got home, sitting in my armchair. The television was switched off, its silence hit me. I stayed standing, a last daisy in my hand. The flower was like me, its head drooping. Sheila got up. I handed it to her. I was going to speak, she pressed the end of her fingers to my lips. No lie. We had agreed on truth or silence. Silence suited her. I was going to go upstairs, gather a few bits of clothing. My bag was sitting against the armchair; she had already packed it. She didn’t know anything, but she suspected everything. On top was some money, an egg and onion sandwich and a bottle of water.

  And the key to Killybegs.

  The living room was dark, and the curtains were pulled. Sheila hadn’t turned on the little lamp that sat on the dresser, with ‘Paris’ written on the midnight-blue base. She slipped a photo from our bedroom wall into my coat pocket, the three of us smiling, with Jack aged six wearing a black, plastic London-Bobby cap. Then she retied my scarf. She handed me the woollen gloves that I’d left on the table by the front door. For one moment, I was afraid she would cry, but she didn’t. Not that, not in front of me. She even wore a pale smile, the gift to the dying man on his sickbed. I embraced her. She gently pushed me away, then took my hands. She kissed them, one after the other, her eyes looking deeply into mine. She sighed, fished for something in her cardigan pocket. She handed me the rosary my mother had used for praying, the black beads shiny like lead pellets.

  Mother died in Drogheda during the night of 29 September 1979 with a smile on her lips. Up at five that morning, she had made it to the Phoenix Park where Pope John Paul II wa
s to speak.

  Baby Sara was forty years old, she had entered the St Teresa convent in County Meath. With the wee Sisters of the Visitation, she had made the journey by car and invited Mother to join them in prayer. The weather was glorious. They had prayed together under the sun.

  In the evening, Mother had returned in a feverish state. She was praying in a low voice. Since she’d been living alone, neighbours used to visit her before she went to bed, taking it in turns. That evening, Mother had dressed herself for leaving. She had put on her Sunday best, black dress with a white collar, slipped on lace gloves and her patent-leather shoes. She lay down on the bedspread, the portrait of the Virgin against her chest and two candles lit on the ground. Her rosary lay on the night table, tucked into a blue envelope.

  For Sheila Meehan, who will have need of it, Mother had written.

  The neighbour had found her like that. The doctor said that she hadn’t died of anything. She was dead, and that was all.

  —To die, all you have to do is ask, my mother often said.

  When I opened our front door to leave, Sheila didn’t move.

  Don’t turn around, Tyrone. Don’t look at another thing. Close your life without any noise. The night. My street. My neighbourhood. The first drunks making a racket in the distance. The litter being plastered against my legs by the wind and rain. The smell of Belfast, that delicious nausea of rain, earth, coal, darkness and misery. All that silence won back in the absence of weapons. All that peace returned. I passed my local pubs, my tracks, my footsteps. I pushed open the gate to the square where the memorial to the 2nd Battalion of the Belfast Brigade had been erected. The flag took the wind as though flying from a ship mast. On the black marble was the list of our martyrs.

  Vol. Jim O’Leary

  1937–1981

  Killed in action

  I said his name aloud. And the others as well.

  Engraved silhouettes stood either side: two IRA soldiers, heads high, hands resting on their rifle butts, a canon at their feet. With a finger, I stroked the stone to hear it. When I was a child I would listen, palm against the bark, to my father’s old elm tree and huge fir tree. I used to question the warm, blackened bricks of the fireplace, and the greasy pine that covered Mullin’s. I believed I was a sorcerer.