Kellet. That was what he’d called himself. (—You’re Henry Smart. Aren’t you?
I looked at the high cell window.
—Aren’t you?
I lay back on the mattress. I closed my eyes.
I opened them.
—I’m Ned Kellet. Don’t you recognise me?
I closed my eyes.) He’d been thrown into a cell, beside me. In Dublin Castle. (There was a man on the floor right beside me. Getting up, face down. Coughing and groaning. There was blood coming from his mouth.
—Bastards.
He shook his head. Blood hit my legs and chest.
He was dressed. Trousers, shirt, no collar. Jacket. A cap in the pocket.
He looked and saw me.
—Jesus, he said. —And I was feeling sorry for myself. Look what they did to you.
He was twenty-four or five. His hair was long and wet but I could see a scar running a line across his forehead. It was an old one, part of himself for a long time.
I said nothing. I sat up. I didn’t know if I could talk. It was a long time since I’d spoken. I didn’t know how long. I’d lost that time. I was starting again.
—Here.
He shook himself out of his jacket and handed it out. Then he came closer and put it around my shoulders, without touching me. He sat back on the floor.
—It’s all ahead of me, he said. —Jesus. Hang on, he said. —I know you.
He looked, as if trying to see through lace curtains. He whispered. He looked back at the door first.
—You’re Henry Smart. Aren’t you?)
The club’s tough guys stepped out of her way; they melted and stayed melted as I went through in her wake. (—I’m Ned Kellet. Don’t you recognise me?) She was heading for Louis. She made for the door with the star on it. We’d make it; nothing could stop her. But there was only one door, no window, no other escape. The door was shut. The corridor was full; they were hanging on for Louis. And now they saw the famous Sister Flow.
—There she is!
She knocked.
The last time I’d seen her knock on a door, under the El, on Death Avenue, we’d ended up running from Johnny No. And here we were, running from No, and before she’d even knocked. And Kellet was with him this time. How times had fuckin’ changed.
—There she is!
She knocked again.
(—I’m right, amn’t I? Henry?
I looked at the window. I closed my eyes.
—Henry? In your own time.
I am Henry Smart. I am Henry Smart. I am Henry Smart. I am Henry Smart.
I opened my eyes.
He smiled.
I closed my eyes.
I opened them.
He was gone.)
Louis opened the door. She pushed past him. I followed her. He looked hard at me and shut the door. He’d been alone.
—Trouble, he said.
The word was like a tongue on her skin. She lifted off the floor.
—Not you, ma’am, said Louis.
He was talking to me.
—Probably, I said. —How did you know he was Irish?
—Seen him around, said Louis. —Been visiting.
—Thanks for warning me.
—Hey.
It was the half-sister; she was feeling left out.
—She in trouble? he asked.
—I don’t know. I don’t think so.
—Hey.
Someone outside knocked.
I’d last seen Kellet in late 1920, maybe 1921. I’d found his name on my cell wall, after he’d gone. Ned Kellet 14th of December. 1920. Up the Republic. He’d left his jacket behind; it was on the mattress, and trousers on the floor. And a shirt. I stood up and picked up the jacket. It was my own. Made and bought in Templemore. I put the clothes on. No shoes, no socks. I was in there because they’d caught me, the night of Bloody Sunday, the 21st of November, 1920. I’d helped kill a man that morning, and they’d caught me among my granny’s books that night. They’d beaten me, tortured, starved me, kept me awake for days, weeks, and I’d held on to one name. Fergus Nash.
—Name?
I told them nothing, except Fergus Nash. And then they’d thrown in Kellet. He fished for my name but caught nothing. I gave them nothing, except a name I’d made up four years before.
—My name is Fergus Nash.
They’d moved me from Dublin Castle. Every step, every door, I expected to be shot. A long row of closed cell doors; no sounds came from any. As I neared the end of the passage, I passed an open door and saw Kellet on the floor. An Auxiliary stood over him and drew his foot back to kick him. The Auxiliary behind me pushed me forward. I heard a scream as the door before me opened and I was out in the air and daylight.
They took me to Kilmainham. I was thrown into another cell and I slept.
I woke. It was dark. A slamming door had woken me but I could see nothing. I heard feet outside. I heard keys jangling. I sat up. The door opened, and a man hit the ground hard. The door was closed again, dark. I heard the man breathing through a swollen mouth. I stayed still. The breath rattled. The man groaned. I knew who it was.
Now, someone outside knocked again.
Louis looked at the door and back at me.
—Hey, said the half-sister. —I am here.
Louis turned to her.
—You sure are, Miss Flow. And I know why.
She tried not to look stunned.
—You’re here to help our friend, Henry, said Louis. —Right?
She collected her mouth.
—Yare.
(—Help.
I stayed where I was. I heard him crawling. I couldn’t see anything but I knew exactly where he was.
—Is there anyone there?
A hand touched my foot. I kicked. He fell back.
—Who’s there?
I said nothing. His moving stopped. I waited the hours until the dawn gave enough light.
He looked at me. He sat in the opposite corner.
—Henry, he said.
They’d done more damage to his face. They’d given him another jacket.
—I suppose you know, he said.
I said nothing. I looked across at him.
—They’re shooting us this morning.
—Fuck off, I said.
He looked horrified, angry, let down, one by one, exactly one second for each emotion.
—You think I’m a fuckin’ spy, don’t you?)
I’d been taken away and brought back to an empty cell. I’d escaped, from jail, eventually from Ireland, and I hadn’t seen Kellet again. Now, he was on the angry side of Louis’s door. I knew it and so did Louis.
—Miss Flow, he said. —Bad men out there.
—I can handle bad men.
Louis nodded. She stared at him. It was clear: she hated him. But he stared right back, and I watched her change.
—Henry is in a hatful of trouble here. And we’re going to get him out of it.
She looked at him.
—I know why you came here, said Louis. —But forget about that and let’s do right by Henry.
—I’ll be alright, I told him.
—Sure you will, he said.
He looked at her. He wasn’t smiling.
She shrugged.
—What? she said.
He told her.
She listened.
She took in air and stepped to the door. We were right behind her, in against her back. She unbuttoned her jacket. She opened the door. We heard them gasp, the crowd outside, the good guys and the bad guys.
—There she is!
And she was there. Sister Flow, as big and as bright as they’d said.
—There she is!
She was bigger than Louis. That night, she was bigger. I never met her again but I knew that she was pleased. I knew that back. I watched it grow.
She stepped out. We were right there. Another step, and gasps. We were still in the room. She stopped. She lifted her arms. More gasps, and silence.
/> She spoke.
—Thou.
A scream.
—Shalt!
The cheers grew and rolled. They dropped off the ceiling and walls, made rain of the kitchen steam. She didn’t move but there was frantic movement, shuffling and pushing; they were forming a queue – thou shalt! – they were fighting politely to get to the front. She moved one step to the right, and we were right in there, huddled together, me, Louis, the trumpet. She moved and took a wide-armed swerve; her jacket was a cloak – a slow swing to the left and, just like that, she’d trapped them in the corridor, and the rest of it behind us was empty and ours. Louis patted her arse, and we legged it.
Louis hit the exit door.
I was right behind him. I looked, once, one last stupid look. She was damming the corridor, blocking the bad guys, Kellet and Johnny No – I couldn’t see them, or anyone else.
Louis had told her she could do it, and she had.
She’d shrugged again, in Louis’s room before she’d opened the door. I saw it; she blushed.
—For you, daddio, she said.
I stepped up to her and kissed her on the mouth. Our first kiss, our last.
—Ain’t going with you this time, she said.
—I’ll be reading all about you, I said.
—Yare.
—You’ll be swell, Louis told her.
—Know that, sunshine, she said.
And she’d unbuttoned her jacket.
—Get back there and behave yourselves, she said.
Louis bent down, and straightened up again.
—By the way, he said. —Who was that lucky man you kneeled in front of, in this very room?
—Why, the Dutchman.
—Mister Schultz.
—Bingo.
He wasn’t smiling.
—He’s out there, said Louis. —Mister Schultz.
—Didn’t see him.
—He’s out there.
—Big deal, she said. —Come on.
We crept in behind her and she stepped up to the door. And now, I looked at her for the last time. She was filling the corridor of Connie’s Inn, saving me from the bad guys.
—This is dangerous, I told him.
—Tell it like it is.
—For you.
He shrugged. He thought a while. I drove, but he took us.
—They’ll know, I said.
He shrugged.
—Maybe. Maybe not.
He didn’t smile.
—Had it planned, he said. —All worked out.
—How?
—Knew something was coming down.
He shifted; he tried to get clear of the wind that came through the car floorboards. He tried to bring his feet and legs up. But it wouldn’t work. He gave up, sat properly again. He looked at nothing we passed.
—The way they were grouping.
—The bad men?
—The bad men. Like those nice vultures. They were there, having the time. But there was something about them. They weren’t there for the hot music. Like your chippie there, Miss Overflow. Not listening.
We drove through a night. We didn’t stop.
—Same guys, every night. Some different, but the same guys. White guys, O’Pops.
Nothing for a minute, more.
—White people ain’t real people. No offence.
He wasn’t smiling.
We stopped somewhere at dawn and pissed onto grey snow, somewhere in Pennsylvania. He did the deciding in Harrisburg. He pointed the road. I followed.
—Will you go back?
He looked at me.
—Where else?
—They’ll want to know where you were.
—Told you. I had it planned. Have me an alibi. This direction we’re going in, is not the direction I’m going in. I’m in Philadelphia by now. Woman trouble. Mezz even have a name and an ass for her. They’ll understand.
—Sorry, Louis.
He said nothing to that.
—I could get out here, I said. —You could get back in time.
—What about my woman in Philly?
He didn’t smile.
—Keep driving.
Nothing, for something long, an hour, more.
—They got a nice boy called Cab Calloway filling in for me.
—Sorry.
—They say he shakes his hair enough to make the ofays smile.
—Sorry.
—Enough of that jive.
—Fair enough, I said. —So why the fuck are you in the car? I’ve got this far on my own.
—Two answers, he said, but he didn’t rush to give them.
American roads went on forever, as long as silence. There was nothing out there. Another night. White paint rings on telegraph poles. The sky pressed down on the roof. Silence out there, and the wind. It was like the Atlantic Ocean; the lights out there, the odd pinprick we saw, meant nothing. I’d crossed the Atlantic, but I’d never felt this scared.
—First, he said, at last. —You didn’t get this far alone.
—I know.
Through a town, one long street, a dog, a light swinging green in the wind.
—If I was driving, he said. —You bet there’d be a pole-eesman just about here.
—Feeling sorry for yourself, Louis?
—Fuck you, O’Pops.
The town behind us, the road ahead dead, sleepy straight. I’d never been tired and I wasn’t now. I’d do that much; I’d drive the thing all the way. More towns, lights.
—That’s the same fuckin’ dog we saw hours back, I said.
He didn’t look.
—Second, he said. —Friendship.
—What?
—Why I’m here, he said. —It’s what you do. It gets called that.
We were starving but he wouldn’t let me stop.
—I could bring you out something, I said.
It was what we’d done on the drive from Chicago to New York. I’d go into the diner, store, and bring food out for Louis. Not this time; he wouldn’t let me.
—Next time I eat, I sit down, I pick up the menu, I order. The food is brought to me on a plate, and then I eat. Keep driving.
Men stood over shovels, and stared. Men leaned against trucks. Women stopped on sidewalks; they stared and held their children’s hands. He looked straight ahead. One last lesson, one final obligation. Friendship’s due. He wanted me gone. He was bringing me home. In disgrace, I thought. I wanted to stop the car, jump while the wheels still bit the stones, and run, out into the American dark. But I couldn’t. New again – it was still possible; somewhere else. I stopped myself. I’d let him do this. My feet, my arms ached, biting at me to stop and run. But I took the ache and drove it.
I missed Ireland, the corners and smallness, the bumps in the road. Here, the same black dark, the same long street, the same grey faces looking up and staring in at us, at Louis. I didn’t know how long ago we’d left. I couldn’t tell how far we’d left to go.
—Fuck this.
—Yeah.
He wasn’t smiling.
—She wanted to kill me dead.
Dawn hurt.
—How?
It was a quick poke into my left eye, waiting for me on a bend that took us south around a hill, then straightened for as far ahead as I could make myself see. A minute later, the sun was over the hill behind us, cold and blunt, pointing to the road ahead.
—She didn’t know how, he said.
—I don’t get you, I said.
—What she say to you?
—Nothing, I said. —You mean, with Johnny No and Kellet behind me?
—What she say?
—Nothing, I said. —I just followed her when she got up. I didn’t know she was going to your dressing room. It wasn’t the way I’d’ve gone.
—Nothing?
—Yeah, I said. —Nothing.
—Here’s what was, he said. —She was going to blast me with that fuckingness she has.
—She did that with everybody.
—Stop being white, he said. —And think.
—You were impressive, Louis. I nearly wanted to ride you myself.
But the smiling days were over. The sun was eating the road ahead, eating shadow, making the road disappear. This was the big one.
—She hated me, he said.
I stared ahead.
—Yeah.
He nodded.
—Yes. You saw.
—Yeah.
—She tell you?
—No, I said. —No, she didn’t.
—How d’you know?
—It didn’t work on you.
—The Sister Flow stuff?
—Yeah. It annoyed her. It worked on every other man she met.
—That ain’t it, he said. —Ain’t it all.
The highway was bleached, gone. We saw nothing. We hit nothing.
—I know, I said.
—You know.
—Yeah.
—What you know?
—I think I know what she thought. You stayed out of her spell. You played your trumpet. You made her records work that day. You packed up and went before she could pay you. She’s in your debt.
I looked. He was staring straight ahead. He knew the road. He spoke.
—She never got to call me Boy.
—That’s right.
—She never got to call me Boy.
—I think you’re right.
—That’s what she came looking for. That chance. Knock me down on my ass. Help me up and call me Boy.
—How would she have done that?
—Second thoughts, said Louis. —That’s the one with the happy ending. The other version, the version she was after, she gets me whupped or killed. Lynched.
—How?
—Respecting the white woman bullsh. Laying my black hands on her white hide.
—Are you sure?
A face came out of the white, beside the road, stared in.
—Would that have worked?
He thought about it.
—No, he said. —Not there, in Connie’s. Wrong place. I bring in the business, I can fuck their mamas, almost. What I was, Henry, what I am, for her. Is unfinished business. She wanted to finish it.
—But she didn’t know how to deal with it.
—Right.
—Sorry, Louis.
—Fuck you.
The sun filled the Buick, but gave no heat. It was cold but my fingers worked to keep a grip. They slid, and froze to the wheel. I leaned over and breathed on them.
—And know what? he said.
It was dark again. The headlights made the road. The first time we’d spoken in hours.