The Dead Republic (15 page)

The working day was ending, and a convoy had arrived. Cars, a truck, a green double-decker bus - I’d never seen one before. I was impressed. An Irish bus, a good shade of green. I watched men jump off the back of the bus, before it had finally stopped. They walked away in all directions, waving and shouting, over the lawn, and into the bushes. They were
The Quiet Man
’s extras, the Mayo Navajo, going home for their dinners. And some of them were heading towards me. I needed to keep looking at the castle, to see who was going up the steps. So, I stopped looking like a hidden man and leaned against the best of the trees, and let the extras come at me.

—You got back before us, said a young fella as he passed me and kept going.

—That’s it.

—Good man, he said.—Taking the air before you go in.

I could hear him running at the wall behind me, and hitting it. It wasn’t one of the dry-stone walls. It had been built high, not to keep sheep in, but to keep the natives out. I didn’t look back, but he got over the top without much fighting. Two women strolled up, trailing bright shawls on the grass behind them. They hauled in the shawls as they stepped off the lawn into the rough. They carried them under their arms. They both saw me, and smiled.

—You brought the weather with you, said one of them.

She was young. They both were. They might have been thirty, but life hadn’t knocked the bounce out of them.They were freckled and red-haired - I couldn’t believe it - and lovely.

I kept an eye on the castle. I saw John Wayne going in, trotting up the steps.There was a wind now, coming off Lough Corrib. It took spray from the fountain; I could feel it on my face.

The girls were in no hurry to go.

John Ford was getting out of one of the cars. He stopped, and looked across the lawn, to where we stood. He was blind, but he stared.

—What are yis up to? I asked.

I nodded at the bus and the rest.

Ford had gone up a few of the steps. Meta Sterne was with him, lugging her table and a basket. He stopped on a step, and he was looking across at me. I didn’t know why I wasn’t hiding.

—What’s up? I said.

—Are you not in it?

—In what?

—The film.

It was only one girl doing the talking.

—No, I said.—What film?

—Ah, it’s great, she said.—
The Quiet Man
, it’s called. We’re in it, me and herself.

He was going up the rest of the steps.

—That’s great, I said.—You’re the stars, I’d say, are yis?

I was slipping into it.

—Go ’way out of that. We are not.

Maureen FitzSimons was going up the steps now, on her own. Something about the way she was lifting her feet - she was tired.

—So, what were yis up to today? I asked.

—We went to the beach.

There was no beach in my script. I’d once buried a spy up to his neck in the sand at Dollymount, while the tide tumbled towards us. He’d admitted he’d given big names to the G-men in Dublin Castle and we’d had to be quick digging him back up, so we could execute him in the dunes. But that beach hadn’t made the script.

—Lovely, I said.—What beach was that?

—Lettergesh. D’you know it?

—No, I lied.—Is it nice?

—It’s lovely.

—And what was happening on the beach?

—The horse race, said the talking girl.—At least, we think it was a horse race. There were horses. Weren’t there?

Her friend nodded.

The race was still there in the script. The beach was new but the horses weren’t. I’d let them trot right in. Somehow, somewhere in the tumbling of the story back and across from Ford to me, the early animosity between myself and my wife’s cousin, Ivan Reynolds, had become a race between myself and her brother, on horses. I’d let it happen. I was born before cars became common, but I’d never been on top of a horse. I wasn’t scared of much that I could look at, but horses scared me. They were too magnificent. I was always a tall man but I could never look down at a horse. The horse’s eye was always there, always staring through me. I knew the horse would never let me stay in the saddle; it was the only fight I knew I’d always lose. But I’d seen what Ford had done with horses, the beauty of the trailing dust, the pounding of the hooves. I was a scriptwriter, and my life and times became a Western, for just five pages. The race went in, across the mountains and the bog, with guns. Ivan was after me; Red Liam was chasing Seán.

What was in the script now wasn’t what we’d written. The race across country to save the rebel’s life had become a race on a beach for a woman’s bonnet, a hat.

I looked at the seat in front of me until its upholstery stayed still and the sweat in my hair felt cold. I looked back down at the script. I looked at the front page, at something I hadn’t seen before. A name, under the title. Frank S. Nugent.

Who the fuck was he?

 

 

 

I went across the carpet, and lightly over the boards. I stayed close to the wall and I didn’t stop to look at the art. I couldn’t hear myself move. Till I got to the stairs. My feet were fine but the real knee cracked on every step. The stairs were narrow, not what I’d expected. Maybe I was taking the servants’ route - I didn’t know. I stopped at the top. I was on a balcony. I put my hands on the rail and looked back down at the oak-panelled room. I heard feet below, whispering over the carpet. I stepped back and sideways, into the dark. I could still see most of the room below, and the man who walked across it. He had the clothes and clip of a butler on a mission. I watched him as he moved away from me, through an arch, to another wing of the castle. I waited till the room settled back to emptiness.

But something strange was happening to the butler’s feet. His steps had faded; I’d heard him on a distant stairs, climbing further away. But now, still climbing, he’d turned. He was coming towards me. I had to move.

I got in behind a grandfather clock and hoped its shadow had me covered. My ear was up against it. Its pendulum joined the butler’s feet, the countdown to his finding me. I wouldn’t have to kill him - I told myself. I was in a hotel and this wasn’t a war. His feet clipped over the floorboards, getting nearer.The pendulum got louder too. I felt the sweat on my chest and face.

He passed, an arm, a slap, away from me. I didn’t breathe. A tallish, straight-backed man, ex-army, my age but moving younger. He was holding a bottle he hadn’t had when I’d watched him crossing the room below.

I followed the bottle.

Ford never drank when he was working. But I still went after the butler. Up another stairs, down a narrow corridor. I heard the knock on a door. I couldn’t see it, but I knew. I’d been good at this once; I still was. I knew it wasn’t Ford’s door, even from the length of the corridor. The door was hiding a small room. There was a big man in it, but the room itself was tiny. The butler’s knuckles on the oak told me as much as I needed to know.

—Come in!

Victor McLaglen was in the room. I moved away, back, down the corridor. I listened at other doors as I retreated. A kid snored, a woman sighed. There was plenty of life along the corridor but the bigger rooms weren’t up there. I went back down to the clock. The butler passed me, back down his hidden stairs. I stayed until I saw him cross the room below.

There was another corridor, off the balcony. Thicker doors, bigger rooms, the sounds of sleep more distant from the doors. I put the ear to one in time to hear a page being turned; someone inside was reading a book. But that was the only drama. I listened at each door, and chose my room.

The door wasn’t locked. I held it tight to its hinges as I pushed it open.

It was a big room but it wasn’t a bedroom. I stood back, against the door. Two windows - the curtains were drawn. Paintings of racehorses on the walls. Low tables, two good sofas, a fireplace - no fire. And steep steps to my left, to the bedroom.

I locked the door, slowly. I heard and felt the old lock tumble; I made sure it went at my pace. I took out the key and put it into one of my pockets.

I looked at the floor. The rug was deep, put there specially for me. Five good strides to the steps, up to the bedroom. There was no door; I could see the bed. A four-poster job, and a grey old peasant lying on it.

I got up the steps, I was standing in the room. More good rug - I moved to the bed.

The curtains were drawn but it was Irish summer; the night outside was silver.

I’d expected him to be waiting for me. He’d seen me earlier; I was sure of that - he’d stared across the lawn and water. His eyes would be open - waiting, glaring. But he was asleep. His black specs were on the table beside the bed. I folded them - they squeaked - and slid them into the same pocket as the key.

He was lying on his back. His head was lodged between two pillows. The bedclothes were off, pushed away by his feet. He was wearing - I leaned across and felt them - silk pyjamas.

I stood straight, beside him. I thought about taking the leg off and pounding him with it, the boot still on it, till he sank through the mattress and the floor. I’d have to sit on the bed to get at the straps - and wake Ford - or sit on the floor and hope I could get back up. It was too much effort and I didn’t want to ruin the alligator skin.

But I woke him.

I lifted my right arm and brought my fist down onto his chest. His face woke into a hard, open hand. I covered his mouth and pressed him back down to the bed. I felt his shock and pain push hard against my palm, and subside.

He knew it was me. He lay still.

I thumped him again. Felt his heart in my palm.

He knew I’d kill him.

I saw them - a string of black beads, hanging from the board behind his head.

He didn’t fight. I felt him pull his body back to quiet; his heart slowed down and helped him. I felt his breath against my palm. I lifted my hand from his mouth. I was still looking at the beads.

—They were my mother’s, he said.—You’re going to kill me, right?

—Yeah.

He didn’t sigh. He didn’t move.

—Good, he said.—Great. Mind if I sit up?

—Don’t fuckin’ budge.

—I’m going to sit up.

I took a clump of his hair and pulled him up from the pillows. I grabbed the beads with my other hand. They weren’t tied or looped; they were just resting on top of the backboard. I let go of his hair and got the beads around his neck. I felt the dry skin of his neck becoming wet against my knuckles. And I pulled. The crucifix was in my right hand; the beads locked in between my fingers. I felt bone beneath my knuckles now. He didn’t fight. He didn’t resist. Even as I killed him, he took control. I was doing what he’d ordered me to do. Even if I stopped, I’d be obeying him. He was still the fuckin’ director.

I stopped. I loosened the grip on one end of the beads. He didn’t fall back on the pillows. He stayed in midair for a while, a second, before dropping forward onto his legs. Three broken groans and he was breathing again. He pushed himself up. I could see the line of the beads, a pink river and its tiny lakes, on one side of his neck. But he didn’t touch it. He was sitting up. I wouldn’t have recognised him; I’d never seen him straighter.

—Why did you change your mind? he said.

The last few minutes were in his voice.

I didn’t answer. I didn’t know the answer. I hadn’t killed him because he’d wanted me to. But I wanted to kill him - I could still feel that urge in my arms. I wanted him dead but he was sitting up, looking at me.

I tried to hate him, tried to reignite the rage. Finish the job and walk to Dublin. Become myself again.

He was looking at me.

It was a script meeting.

—Cat got your tongue?

I hit him. I drew back my arm and slapped him. I felt his head go with my swing. He fell back and stayed down, his head in one of the pillows - I could see one scared, uncovered eye. I was back in charge. The whack had done me good; it was still reverberating, and fading nicely along the walls.

—Why? I said.

Now he said nothing.

—Why? I said, again.

I saw his blind eye move. He was trying to look at me without lifting his head from the pillow. He couldn’t do it.

—Jesus, Henry, he said.—That’s a fucking question.

I agreed with him.

—I’m going to sit up here. You going to sock me?

—No.

—Okay.

He groaned now, made all the noises. Climbing back into his director’s chair. Acting.

I hit him.

I punched him this time; I threw fifty years into it. I broke two of my own fingers. I felt them go; I heard them. He didn’t fall back; his head stayed put.

My arm was breaking apart. I sat on the side of the bed. I herded the pain, pushed it back to my broken fingers. I let air go, and took it carefully in.