The Dead Republic

  I stood.

  —She doesn’t want to be found. It’s in the fuckin’ blood.

  —We’re listening?

  —That’s what he told me, I said.—We’re listening. I remember every word.

  We were in the supermarket, H. Williams, staring down at the rashers. I was there for the rashers; he was the one who’d come up and stood beside me. He was out of the jacket now, in a tight, black T-shirt. The angry, mad stiffness was out of his body. We stood shoulder to shoulder, two clueless men sent out to do the shopping.

  —Traditional or maple-cured? I asked.

  —We always go for the traditional at home, he said.

  —Same here, I said.—I once hijacked pigs for Ireland, did I ever tell you?

  —Is that right?

  —Yeah. Me and the man who signed the order to have me shot.

  —Tough times.

  —Good rashers. So, am I going to say anything back to them?

  —Aye. You are.

  I leaned down for the rashers; the effort nearly sent me falling in beside them. I managed it, though. I had the pack in my basket and started to walk away. He was right up beside me, my body-guard. I came to a crossroads in the aisles and I knew something, immediately.

  —You’re not on your own this time.

  There were two of them, like brothers, two days’ worth of unshaven face each. The one to the left wanted shampoo and the other, to my right, was reading the ingredients on a can of Bachelor’s peas. I didn’t think I’d seen them before but I knew exactly who and what they were.

  He grabbed my arm but let go quickly when I stopped.

  —Why would I be on my own? he asked.

  —I just spotted the lads, I said.—I didn’t see them the last time.

  —They were there, alright.

  —Grand.

  I knew why he was being stupid. He was worried about the last time he’d met me; he wasn’t sure of what he’d said. The two strong men were there to assure me: he was on official business.

  —This is what I want you to bring back to them, he said.

  —Fire away.

  —A change of direction is on the cards if the right conditions can be met. Is that too long?

  —No, I said.

  —Don’t put it onto paper.

  —Don’t worry, I said.

  I’d be writing it down when I got home. I knew my limits - I did in my hole.

  —But I’ll tell you, I said.—I don’t like the sound of it.

  I didn’t know why I was saying it.

  He smiled - he was already the politician - a well-cooked mix of reassurance and threat.

  Standing up for my wife - it felt like that, and right. I spoke loud enough to spook him.

  —You’re selling us down the river, I said.—Aren’t you?

  His smile swerved towards threat. He knew I was powerless. Long before I did.

  —How’s that daughter of yours? he said.—Have you seen her lately, hey?

  Everything else fell away.

  —No, I said.

  —Give the message back to me, before I leave you alone.

  The words were clear, carved, unforgettable.

  —A change of direction is on the cards if the right conditions can be met.

  —Good man.

  I still searched for her. In case I hadn’t heard him. In case I had. In case I died if I stayed still.

  A taxi to Kingsbridge.

  A train to Roscommon.

  A taxi.

  Old Missis O’Shea’s house had been gone the last time I’d been there. This time even the gate was gone, and the posts that had held it. I couldn’t see a way into the field. The road was tarmacked now, solid where it hadn’t been before. I got back into the taxi.

  —The politician, I said.—Reynolds.

  —Ivan Reynolds?

  —Yeah. D’you know where he lives?

  —Nowhere. Since he died, like. Is that news to you?

  —No.

  —And the son isn’t called Ivan.

  —He has a son?

  —Four of the bucks.

  —And none called Ivan, no?

  —Only one of them.

  —You just told me the son isn’t called Ivan.

  —The son that matters, said the driver.—The one that took the seat when the dad left it vacant.

  The house was gone but the place hadn’t changed.

  —Is there a widow? I asked.—Straight answer.

  —There is.

  —Can you take me to her?

  He started the car. I rolled down the window and listened for other engines starting. But there was nothing.

  —D’you know her name?

  —Peggy.

  —Thanks.

  —Auntie Peggy.

  —For fuck sake.

  He drove on roads I didn’t recognise. There was new country laid on top of the country I’d known. I gave up trying to find myself in it.

  —Does she still live in the house? I asked.

  —She does, said the driver.—But she’s frail enough.

  —Does she live alone?

  —People come in and out.

  He turned off the road, over a cattle grid, through trees, and up to a house that got bigger and more familiar as we drew nearer. I wished Ivan was there with me, so I could thump his back and congratulate him. It was the old Fitzgalway house, rebuilt. Ivan had burnt it to the ground in 1920. But there it was in front of me, turrets and all.

  I’d made Ivan and his men dig two graves in the lawn in front of the house, one for Fitzgalway and the other for his horse, two clear messages, invitations to get out of the country.

  I got out of the taxi - unfolding myself wasn’t too hard.

  I knew exactly where I was. I’d declared the Republic here, more than sixty years before.

  There were steps. There was a knocker.

  The driver stayed in the car.

  I could have gone round to the back. That was where the widow was going to be, in the kitchen. But I lifted the knocker and watched flakes of rust fall from under it. I let go, and it stayed in midair, unwilling, unable to drop. I pushed it back down to its home.

  The door opened slowly. A young one looked out and up, at me.

  —What? she said.

  She wasn’t Saoirse, and it took me a while to accept that fact. It was just a kid at the door.

  —I’m looking for Saoirse, I said.

  —She’s not here, said the child.

  —Do you know Saoirse? I asked.

  —Yes, I do.

  —Has she been here recently?

  —No, said the kid.—I don’t think.

  —Is your granny in?

  —Yes.

  —Can I see her to say hello?

  The door moved, and the mother was standing behind the girl. I looked for Saoirse in her as well, but she was just a good-looking woman.

  —Can I help you? she said.

  I could see she saw no harm in me. She waved at the taxi.

  —My name’s Henry Smart, I said.

  It meant nothing.

  —I’m Saoirse’s father.

  —Oh, she said.—Of course. You’d better come in.

  —Thanks.

  I sat in the kitchen and knew I’d find nothing. The mother and girl were lovely, Ivan’s youngest daughter and grandchild. The widow sat in an armchair, beside a bellows wheel that wasn’t used any more. She stared out from deep in her head and, now and again, she saw me. I tried to see her at my wedding, one of the young ones who’d danced around the table. But there was nothing in her face; she’d already said goodbye to her memories.

  —It’d be three weeks, at least, said the daughter, whose name, she told me, was Nuala.—Isn’t that right, Mammy?

  Mammy wasn’t answering.

  —How was she? I asked.

  —Grand, said Nuala.

  —She gave me fifty p, said the kid.

  —Is that right?

  —Yes.

&nbsp
; She was scrounging for another fifty. I’d give her a quid before I left, and she’d always remember me.

  —Shush, pet, said her mother.—Are you worried? she asked me.

  —I am, a bit. She’d normally contact me when—

  —But I have to say, she told me.—She’s never mentioned you.

  —Has she not?

  —Not to me, she said.—I don’t mean to be hurtful. Did Saoirse ever talk about Mister Smart, Mammy?

  Still no word from Ivan’s widow. There was something about the way she held her hands; she’d been gorgeous once.

  I remembered something.

  —I was at the funeral, I said.

  —The funeral?

  —Your father’s, I said.—I was there with Saoirse.

  —Oh, yes, said Nuala.—I think I remember seeing you. But there were thousands around that day. You know yourself.

  —Yeah, I said, although I’d no memory of the day.

  —Does she visit you a lot? I asked.

  —Oh yes, all the time, said Nuala.—When she isn’t busy with her politics.

  —Politics?

  —Ah sure, the H-Blocks and all that crack. You know yourself.

  I nodded.

  —But even then, she’d stay the few days. Catch up with us all, you know.

  I nodded again.

  I didn’t want to hear any more. I thought I was going to be sick - but I remembered the money for the kid. I handed over the folding punt.

  —Say thank you, Jessica, said her mother.

  —Thank you very much.

  —You’re grand.

  The widow spoke as I passed her. The words were cracked but definitely there.

  —There was a man called Henry Smart, she said.

  —Is that right? I said.

  —He had an eye for the girls.

  —Go ’way.

  —And he went and married Nuala O’Shea.

  I’d just heard my wife’s name for the first time. That, or she’d confused my wife with her youngest daughter.

  —That’s right, Mammy, said the daughter.

  —Nuala.

  I sat where I could see her eye. I’d catch her.

  —Nuala, I said.

  Not a twitch, or a hint of one.

  —I know your name, Nuala.

  Nothing.

  —You said in Chicago that your real name was too complicated for the Yanks. What’s complicated about fuckin’ Nuala?

  Nothing.

  —Did you know? I asked.—About Saoirse?

  Nothing at all.

  —Did you arrange it between yis? I asked.—You’d pretend to be dead and she’d be the dog lover.

  It made no sense - nothing made sense - and there was nothing behind it. But it gave me something to say.

  —Nuala.

  I took her hand from under the sheet. I kissed the liver spots, one at a time.

  —I’ll have to get used to it, I suppose.

  I was talking to her and no one else. The bug from her ear was dangling outside, below the window ledge. I’d haul it back in a minute and park it in her ear. But, for now, it was the pair of us, under the sods in Roscommon, in the Oklahoma dust, on the road, riding the rails, riding the bike, together.

  —I love you.

  I looked at the creases that met right under her eye. I looked for the one that had once pulled up her smile. But nothing happened, she stayed absolutely still.

  It didn’t matter.

  I passed on more messages, each one as bland and harmless as the last. Are the conditions affordable? I waited for the question that would feel like the real one, the question that would rattle history. For a while, in late ’85, they came fast, like the rush before Christmas - Can you bring your people along with this? Will deniability be shared? I reminded myself I was probably juggling with war and peace, and that people would continue to breathe and cope because each question bred another question. I even had to remind myself that my daughter might be gagged and strapped to a chair somewhere, in a damp house built on the dark side of a mountain, alive for only as long as I kept running with the messages.

  Then they stopped, the replies and counter-replies - the negotiations stopped.

  I wasn’t needed any more, or the last question I’d carried - I couldn’t remember it - had been the wrong one. There’d been no slowing down - the shooting and bombing, the headlines. There was no ceasefire, or intensification. A mortar bomb sent into an R.U.C. barracks wall; a Saracen driven over a kid who’d fallen asleep on the street after his first pints; a body found wrapped in black plastic after the wind took the top off some sand dunes - an informer, buried seven years before. They left a ham and a big chicken on the step, and a small net of sprouts, two days before Christmas. And a card: Tiocfaidh ár Lá - Beannachtaí na Nollag. I phoned Chicago on Christmas Day but no one answered.

  I sat beside the duck pond for hours, in January and February of 1986, froze the bollix off myself, but no one sat beside me. Except a nun from the convent up the road who took my hand out of my jacket pocket and asked me if I knew what hypothermia was.

  —Yeah, I lied.

  —You know what it means?

  —I’m grand.

  —It’ll creep up on you if you’re not wrapped up, she said.

  —Won’t be the first thing to creep up on me, I told her. She smiled. (I looked up hypothermia on my way home. The library was full - the unemployed staying out of the cold. There was a whole family at one table, living a quieter version of their home life.)

  —I’ll leave you to it, she said.

  I didn’t answer.

  I gave up on the pond when kids on the mitch started throwing stones at the ice just in front of my feet. They looked like they were still in primary school. They smoked and spat and didn’t feel the cold.

  I sat at home. I went up to Howth. I phoned Chicago. I phoned Roscommon.

  —No sign of her, Mister Smart; sorry.

  —Okay.

  —You must be worried.

  —I am.

  —Have you let the Guards know?

  —I have, yeah.

  —She’ll be grand.

  —I know.

  —Bye, so.

  The bug was back in Miss O’Shea’s ear but there was no one listening. I was yesterday’s man.They were meeting face to face. Or the last message I’d handed over had been final, wrong one. The struggle went on; the long war got longer. The man with the beard might have been caught and dealt with; he’d been disappeared into a hole in the woods somewhere, wrapped in his own black plastic. There was no leak or announcement. Nothing had happened. I listened for news of dead republicans.

  The phone rang, once.

  I picked it up.

  —She’s grand.

  A man’s voice, a Dublin accent. The phone was dead before I could say anything.

  They still needed me. They were holding her, or she was staying away. Because there was more I’d have to do.

  I waited. I had no choice.

  There were the bombings, the kneecappings, the horrors that bored most men and women south of the border. It was business as usual. It was Northern Ireland.

  I sat with Miss O’Shea. I looked at her and I never saw a Nuala. The name had changed nothing. She was still up on the crossbar, snug and wild between my legs - or dead in the bed with a bug in her ear.

  The Special Branch nurse was gone. Her replacement wasn’t double-jobbing, as far as I could make out. She was only a nurse, although the wire still led to Miss O’Shea’s ear and no one seemed to have touched it.

  —I’m tired, I said.

  I was sitting at the end of the bed, between Dun Laoghaire and Howth.

  —Life-tired, I told her.—Not just ordinary tired.

  I waited.

  —I wish it would stop.

  And I meant it. Whatever I’d been dreaming of, my place in history, hauling my whole life onto the back of the republican truck: there was nothing left.

  I phoned Chicag
o every Sunday. I phoned Roscommon.

  —Is that Mister Smart?

  —Yeah. Hello.

  —No word here, Mister Smart.

  —Thanks.

  —She’ll be grand.

  —I know.

  It didn’t matter.

  I was tired.

  —It’s the right time, I told Miss O’Shea.—There’s nothing left.

  I’d lie beside my wife and turn off the glucose.

  But I couldn’t. It was sentimental shite; I didn’t want to die. I wanted to see Saoirse and I didn’t want to leave my wife alone. I was curious when I could concentrate. I was angry. Angry enough to stay awake. Angry enough to sit all night, in the dark, facing the door.

  Anger kept me alive. Anger kept me awake.

  But he was there before I knew it. He was standing over me; I knew it was him. The shock and the cold hauled me up from the dead.

  —You shouldn’t be falling asleep in this cold, he said.

  His breath licked my face.

  —You should be in your bed.

  —I wasn’t asleep.

  —No, he said.—Right enough.

  He stepped away.

  —I’m turning the light on, he said.

  —Alright.

  He was smiling when the light screamed across the room. He was looking well. He had a grey scarf, and an overcoat that had never seen a ditch.

  —Where’s my daughter?

  —She’s fine.

  —Where is she?

  He was still smiling.

  —She’s where she wants to be, he said.

  —I want to see her.

  —Aye.

  Still smiling.

  —And you will.

  —When?

  —Christ, Henry, you’ve central heating and all in here now. Why aren’t you using it?

  —When?

  He waited till he was ready, when he knew I was going to hear him.

  —It’s all mapped out, he said.

  He walked to the sink.

  —I’ll wet the tea, he said.—Then I’ve some things to tell you.

  He turned off the tap and plugged in the kettle. I watched him bend a bit, to listen for the whisper of the kettle as it got to work. He turned away and looked at me.

  —All set.

  —Where is she?

  —I’ll say it once. She’s safe.

  —Where is she?

  —Jesus, Henry, you know the score. If I say she’s safe, she’s safe. You’ll be having tea, hey?