Oh, Farrell didn’t lose every single game, but pretty much, when he won, it was obvious MacBride had been careless. All the same, through those years, while MacBride swallowed everything from Modern Chess Openings to the sorry little diagrams in the Belfast Telegraph, his opponent’s game, without any study, also began to change. It never lost its daring, but it did shed its decoration. Every gambit MacBride played, Farrell digested for the next session. It took more and more reading to keep ahead. They never discussed it, but Farrell was breathing down his neck.
Only many years later did this subject come up, and Farrell was drunk. At that time, of course, Farrell was always drunk. Calculatedly, the accusation was in front of Angus’s wife, Karen: “You never admitted why you stopped playing me at chess.”
“I went to Cambridge! And on trips back I couldn’t afford the time. I was organizing the YYY—”
“Crap!” Farrell had slammed the table, and slurped forward with a disgusting leer. “You knew, boyo. A few more months and you’d never have had another game off me in your life. You”—he jabbed—“you were afraid of me. You’ve always been afraid of me. And someday you’ll know why.”
“Fair enough.” MacBride strode officiously to the cupboard, for he himself had been—imagine that—working instead of drinking from ten in the morning and was dead sober. He dropped the dusty chessboard in front of his friend. “Set them up. Or have you forgotten where they go?”
Angus drank black coffee, though he needn’t have; it was pitiful, mate in twenty-two.
Farrell lurched back in his chair and poured whiskey in his glass as if it were diet apple ade. “You should see your gob sometime, when you win. It’s sickening. Like a grinning fat-boy teacher just handed a lollipop. I can see sticky smears all over your puffy, self-satisfied cheeks.”
“And you’re the picture of chivalrous defeat?”
“You’re greedy, fella. You’re just one more complacent, overfed Prod, always looking over his shoulder lest the Taigs take his beefy, wheaty, sheepy land away. And you look over your shoulder, fella, and you see me. Farrell O’Phelan’s been at your elbow since you were sixteen.”
It pleased MacBride to remember this, since Farrell had to be mighty potted to get sectarian. Yet even after this bigoted tirade, when Angus had turned for a little support from his own wife, she’d gestured to the board. “What did you prove with that performance? He’s poleaxed.”
True enough; when Angus looked back, O’Phelan had passed out against the wall.
Then, Karen’s reaction was typical. Wouldn’t it make sense that the woman would be the one to throw up her hands and lay down the law: I’ve had it, that sloppy bar stool you brought home has to go? He’s costing us ten quid a day just in whiskey, and he’s abusive, what do you see in him, I don’t give a toss if he’s back to his ma’s, tomorrow he’s out on his ear? Och no! It was Angus who’d have had it up to his bake and Karen who wheedled to let his friend stay one more week. After all, when Farrell left she was deprived of her favorite sport, which was sure analyzing the waster to death. Angus had never known a woman to talk at more length about a man; why, she couldn’t have generated that much flannel about her own husband if you paid her by the word—all about Farrell’s smothering mother with her double-bind signals and the essentially romantic, possessive dynamic of that relationship; Farrell’s fears of desertion and the tyranny of his academic success, his cycles of “depression and grandiosity” Karen nicked from Alice Miller; how with his drinking Farrell was making a bid to be loved for himself instead of for his achievements, they were being tested, so it was more important than ever to dote on the bastard … Incredible, she never ran out! Why, he couldn’t have reduced an opponent to less than O’Phelan during that time, most nights flat out on the floor with his fly open, a trail of saliva down his chin, red wine spilled over his shirtfront, and here his own wife would wipe the kid’s face and change his shirt and hold half of him when they dragged him upstairs to bed. In fact, Farrell was light enough that Karen had occasionally carried him up by herself.
chapter eleven
The MacBride Principles
When Roisin returned, the kitchen table was askew with newspaper clippings; the pad in front of MacBride was heavily crossed out.
Roisin read over his shoulder. “Not another one of those!”
“Those what?”
“Atrocity denouncements,” she groaned. “I know you don’t overly absorb yourself in my work, but you really should read this one. It’s new.” She delivered him a sheaf from her purse:
MULTIPLE CHOICE
We would like to express our horror at the sheer savagery and ruthless calculation of this gruesome act. This appalling atrocity absolutely beggars the imagination.
1. The spirit that motivated today’s brutal massacre can only be decried as (a) satanic, (b) obscene, (c) brazenly hypocritical.
2. Such hell-inspired monsters will stoop to the lowest depths of (a) barbarity, (b) callousness and inhumanity, (c) vicious cowardice, having descended to (a) the worst kind of sacrilege, (b) a specially refined brand of depravity, (c) desecration beyond human sensibility.
3. These (a) diseased minds, (b) debased creatures, (c) malicious animals and their campaign of terror are a blot on (a) mankind, (b) the face of this country, (c) the name of Ireland.
4. We are repelled by this (a) fiendish Sabbath of bloodlust, (b) viperous bloodletting, (c) dark carnage of blood, consumed by a wave of revulsion beyond the limits of (a) disgust, (b) indignation, (c) contempt.
5. It is difficult to conceive of a more (a) cruel and coldheartedly sadistic act, (b) blackhearted slaughter so defying the bounds of civilized decency that the people who did it have no human thoughtfulness or kindness or sensitivity at all.
6. We are so (a) extremely, (b) completely, (c) wildly, (d) unspeakably, (e) unutterably outraged that (a) it’s hard to find words to describe, (b) mere words cannot describe, (c) no condemnation is adequate to describe our (a) repugnance, (b) antipathy, (c) lack of enthusiasm.
“What’s this supposed to mean?” MacBride bristled.
“It’s all from the papers after Enniskillen. Did you know Tom King used the words appalling five and outrage six times in a single denouncement? And surely you recognize some of your own lines. I thought you could recycle them. No one would know the difference.”
“I don’t issue poems, Rosebud, just humble party statements. And since when do you write about the Troubles, anyway?”
“I’m not allowed?”
“Back to the old purple heather and blooming gorse. More up your street.”
She folded it back. “Well, some people think it’s grand.”
“It’s a dose, Rose. I don’t get it.”
“It simply means you might react honestly for once. The whole Six Counties would fall off its chair.”
“You’re on,” said MacBride, fetching a drooping carrot from Roisin’s icebox and speaking into the stem. “I’m delighted to announce to our Channel One audience that mourners in West Belfast have just ripped limb from limb two off-duty British soldiers. This is a great boost to the UUU, since we can finally move on from our unconvincing defense of shooting three unarmed Republicans in the back. More, the incident provides a prompt antidote to Michael Stone’s lunatic attack on these same mourners two days earlier, for we have a kindergartner’s attention span and will attend only to the last bad thing that happened to our side. Further, we are thrilled to confirm for our sectarian viewers that Catholics in Northern Ireland are the bloodthirsty barbarians we always suspected. We would like to express our special thanks to the neighborhood for performing so vividly in front of international TV cameras, though we would like to protest that British helicopter pilots were given exclusive rights to film the actual execution—think how much more toothpaste they will sell than the BBC. And on a more personal note, I would clarify that I did not know either of these young men personally and have no real emotional response to their deaths, that they m
erely represent a political windfall I intend to exploit.
“Until next time, when I’m sure to cash in on the grief of strangers with just the same ruthless opportunism as ever, this is Angus MacBride. Sure you’ll see plenty of me soon enough at my next election, when I will broadcast a slew of half-truths about my essentially limp religious convictions and my sham of a marriage, neglecting to mention that I’m bumping the daylights out of a dishy Fenian poet whose father was a notorious Republican arms trader.
“Better?”
Roisin smiled distantly. “Angus, you’re a horror.”
“You see my point, love. What am I supposed to say? Brilliant?”
“It’s no joke.”
“Och, it was. You just didn’t laugh.”
“But all those denouncements—they’re mouthing. They seem to be so sympathetic and humanitarian, when they really just stir up a taste for more blood. Or they do nothing. Maybe that’s worse. Sometimes I hear you on Ulster Newstime decrying this or that bombing, and you could as well be reading the phone book. I do my ironing. I slice a piece of cheese.”
“You’ve yet to suggest the statement I should make.”
“Maybe none! Silence is better than fraud.”
“Silence is not an option.”
“It is, too. Maybe politically risky. But at least it would be emotionally true.”
“Who sodding cares what’s emotionally true? Women! There are other things in the world important besides feelings.”
“Like what?”
“Principles.”
Roisin shook her head sadly. “Maybe ambition. I don’t believe you hold any principle particularly dear.”
“What’s got into you? What kind of ogre do you think I am?”
“I suppose I wonder.”
“Damn it to hell, woman! I don’t want to talk about this anyway. You came in here, I was in fine form. Now look.”
“You didn’t get much work done.”
“I was thinking. That is my work.” Angus dragged the phone over by the cord and dialed sulkily. He stood up and paced the scullery and stared into the next room. He kicked the baseboard. He snorted. He sighed and sat back down and leaned his head over the back of the chair, looking at the ceiling, tapping the receiver. He shrieked the chair out and again stalked the lino, a caged bear; then he laughed and laughed and slammed the receiver down, his skin now red and moist and his breath deep, as if he’d just walked off a squash court. He splashed his face at the sink.
Roisin rolled the carrot microphone pensively around the table.
“That dunderhead …” Angus toweled down. “Light goes on in that bastard’s brain, he thinks the rest is technicalities. Which MacBride, of course, is to tinker up.”
“What are you talking about?”
“This frigging conference. Don’t you breathe a word of it now.”
“Angus,” said Roisin. “I’ve got used to keeping secrets.”
So had Angus, but with that wanker on his mind all afternoon he felt in the middle of a conversation he needed to finish, and not with Karen. He’d talked so much about O’Phelan to his wife that, no, they weren’t talked out exactly, but they’d arrived at their positions; though MacBride would be hard-pressed to describe hers. Whenever your man came up, Karen went dry. The distinctive wry smile on her needled him, the way she’d look down with her mouth cocked and keep peeling spuds or seeming to read.
“O’Phelan and me’s staging this conference, see—”
“What for?”
“To solve everything, of course.” He chuckled. “Now, were it a public conference, every party in the Province would be beating down doors to be the first to withdraw.”
“Passive-aggressive abstensionism,” Roisin filled in: an old discussion.
“Oh, aye. All we ever need do here is hold the Troubles official, like, and you’d have your IRA folding their arms and not deigning to participate. If they ever gave a war and nobody came, Ulster’s the place. So the conference is secret, see, and like any exclusive do, everyone and his brother wants to crash the gate. We’ve even suggested there’s something a wee bit illegal about it. And dead off the record. No press, no recordings, no cameras.
“Anyway, it’s all to mobilize consensus on the power-sharing referendum. Hash out the particulars. Not till the end of the year, but the idea’s to run it right up to the election if necessary. Lock them all in a room. Pour enough gargle down their throats, they’ll come round.”
“They hardly need more muddled thinking.”
Angus looked up sharply. “Where is my whiskey?”
The carrot now converted from mike to rosary, which Roisin clutched to give her strength. “I poured it out.”
Even under his short beard she could see his jaw muscles bulging. “Your drain was clogged?”
“You’re drinking too much, Angus,” she rushed through. “It worries me. Listen to you, thinking the answer to our problems here is for the Irish to drink more? And your health—”
“When I collapse stone dead on top of you upstairs, you’re to worry about my health, because only then will it be your business, understand?”
This was not going as she’d planned. In Roisin’s version Angus ended up in tears in her lap, and then they sat down to a sober, thoughtful cup of tea. MacBride made vows.
Roisin’s fantasies were incompetent.
“Now, you’re to buy a new bottle and I’ll shelve it past your reach, since you’re obviously given to fits. Discussion closed.”
Roisin felt a wisp of disappointment and stirred uncomfortably. It seems there had been an alternative vision. Not that she was one of those who claimed women secretly crave a bit of rough trade. But she did not mind the picture of nursing her face in her hands, weeping bravely, and all to protect him from killing himself. She wasn’t fussed by bruises later as long as no permanent damage was done. And she adored his remorse. She relished telling the story afterward, though it jarred her to whom she would wish to tell it first.
For while she might not enjoy being beaten, she had just been beaten anyway, hadn’t she? Angus had adjured her and closed the argument, and she had a sick feeling she might very well replace that bottle. But this beating was worse. Physical brutality was a relief. In its readily apparent ugliness a victim could find a mean little victory of her own. But when he oppressed her with his condescension, his willfulness, his big voice and sheer masculinity, she could not return with see-what-you’ve-done-to-me-you-animal. No, this was just defeat, because she was weak and too quiet, not as pushy or clever, and a girl.
“Point is, this bloody conference.” Angus manhandled the conversation back to his work. “I’m to get Unionists to sit down with Sinn Fein. And after the lynching in Andytown! O’Phelan thinks I can waggle a finger and the Prods will come running.”
“Impossible.”
He laughed. “Not at all. You just don’t send them the guest list!”
“Won’t Unionists walk out when they see who’s coming to dinner?”
“No, by the end of the year no one’s going to want to be left behind. We’re sorting this out, love, making history! And once power is devolved, we’ve got more than a wink and a nod says Tom’s out and they put in a local. Your friend and mine looks to be a shoo-in.”
She started. “Farrell?”
“Lord, no! Your humble servant Angus MacBride. So: vigorous campaigning, a fair lot of backroom fiddle, argy-bargy over Bush and conference engineers consensus; referendum passes; government devolves. New Secretary of State arranges IRA cease-fire.”
“I think I missed something there.”
“The cease-fire? We have plans A and B. A is nicey-nicey. Sheer bribery. Offer Sinn Fein a piece of Stormont. They’ve just enough greed and pretensions to being statesmen they might take the bait.”
Roisin shook her head. “Sinn Fein is not the IRA and wouldn’t have the power to call a cease-fire even if they wanted to. Britain would never include them in a power-sharing government unless t
hey denounced violence sincerely. And if Sinn Fein abandons violence, they’re one more tiny no-account Socialist Party, they might as well throw themselves into the Irish Sea. Besides, you’re going to get Ian Paisley to share power with Gerry Adams? On what planet?”
Angus nodded with a funny satisfaction. By God, that lass had been listening of late. She never used to talk like this before. “Dead on. Hence: Plan B. Slam the lot in the blocks. Make internment look like a slumber party. Eliminate the grot. Been done before, could do it again. We know who they are. They call it a war; all right, then, fight one back. And win. Make them cry uncle.” He smiled. “Uncle Angus.”
“How would you manage that with power-sharing?”
“I said share. Not give it away.”
Roisin found she was shaking. “I’m a Republican. Would you lock me in Long Kesh?”
“For writing wee poems about Enniskillen? Hardly. But should you start up the family business again, I’d drive you to Maze myself.”
“Your cronies don’t know the difference. They’d take one look at my address and go straight to the strip search. My God,” she mumbled to herself, “I’m the lover of a Nazi.”
“Typical melodramatic Republican overstatement.”
“You’re talking about a police state, aren’t you? When you violate the rules of democratic process, you undermine its whole foundation. You’re on a slippery slope to the Reichstag.”
“Bloody hell, Northern Ireland isn’t a democracy, this is supposed to be your line! Army on the streets, Diplock courts—Britain runs this place like an only so benevolent summer camp. Be good wee campers, or have your privileges revoked at any time. What you’re always saying, and with which I, very privately, agree. I’ve told Tom myself, toe the line and keep your nose clean and look pretty for the Boston Globe OR be a shite. Britain waffles back and forth. A kangaroo-court system, unwarranted searches, detention without charge; a little censorship here, the odd murder there, and then they let the blight get elected to public office and give speeches in City Hall! If you’re going to be a shite, be a brilliant shite, right? Because what’s so grand about democracies anyway, when they elect prats? And even democracies aren’t democracies, you know that! Where’s all your cynical socialist rhetoric when I need it, that capitalism-media manipulation guff you grew up with? Look at America now: sure they ‘choose’ their President, but do they choose whom they choose from? And do they ‘choose’ what they know about those characters? No! Do they have the remotest idea why they vote for whom they do? Not a freaking chance! But does it matter, long as the place doesn’t go to hell? Frankly, democracy is awkward and reliably a sham. It doesn’t work very well. Where dictatorship can be a highly efficient form of government. It’s underrated.”