They didn’t walk. They stood. Outside the bookies, outside the pub, outside the new library. Their backs to everything; nothing belonged to them. Staying out till they could go home. And now that the streets had been taken by their husbands, the women stayed at home - and aged. They couldn’t go out while their husbands did nothing. They couldn’t laugh while they worried about food and where the money would come from. They worried about their husbands. They worried about their children. The country became the old place again, killing everything young. The children were leaving, or staying. They were going to the old places - London, Liverpool, Boston; and to the new ones - Luton, Sydney, Düsseldorf. The ones who stayed were finding their own new country, where the dead walked - until they died too.
I knew this but it didn’t get in my way. Not in 1980, while I watched my wife die. I’d found needles in the school yard, in the last years before I retired. Thrown over the wall the night before, or used by ghosts who’d climbed the wall. I knew it was happening. I knew what a hophead looked like. I’d seen my share; I’d known them when I’d lived the life with Louis Armstrong. But they’d been jazzmen, irritating, sad, but never a mass, never a fuckin’ generation. They’d have filled a club but not the world. These kids, in Dublin, were grey. And yellow. Kids I’d seen running around in the school yard, whose mothers I’d wanted to pick up and bite. They were ancient teenagers, derelicts still in their early twenties. Taking over the corners that their fathers hadn’t already taken. While their mothers went to work and only laughed now when they needed to hear themselves, to prove that they still lived.
I noticed the boys - noticed, and ignored - and then the girls. Young ones being punctured and pumped up, fat and skeletal in the space of a week. Traces of their mothers in their faces, lovely women turned desperate. Junkies pushing buggies, making early grannies of the women I’d adored from the safe side of the school gate. I saw it while I waited for the bus and decided that the place was worse than it had been when I was the young, hungry king of Dublin’s corners. Poverty then had seemed natural, but this was just atrocious.
But I didn’t care. I couldn’t.
—Do you know what I regret, Captain?
I looked in on Ivan every day.
—What?
—The time I said
Fuck you
to God, said Ivan.—D’you remember that time?
—I do, yeah. I made them all say it.
—That might be true now, he said.—But it’s myself I remember saying it. Fuckin’ shouting it, boy. To the high fuckin’ heavens. And here’s me now.
—There’s no God, Ivan.
—Not for you, maybe. But there’d have to be God for me and the likes of me. There’s no point to it all if He isn’t up there, waiting. With the account book out, like.
—Maybe you’re right.
—I’ll be telling Him it was you put me up to it, Captain.
—That’s grand, I said.—I don’t mind.
—It’s true, though.
—I know.
—How’s herself? he said.
—The same.
—It’s hard to think of her up to nothing.
—It is.
—And the young one?
—The young one’s sixty, Ivan.
—Well now, I wish I was fuckin’ sixty. And yourself?
—I’m happy enough where I am.
—Go on, yeh liar, he said.—You’d love to be the lad again. Is she around? The young one.
—No, I said.—She’s not.
—Gone back?
—Yeah, I said.—She’s gone home.
But I didn’t know.
There were two men blocking the door.
—Back in, said one of them.
It was a Dublin accent but he wasn’t one of the Dublin boys I’d met before. I didn’t know him, although there was something about him that seemed familiar - the way his body took over the place, a shoulder in each high corner of the kitchen.
They were both in the room now and the door had been quietly closed.
—Do you want to sit down? said the other man.
He was a culchie and the fat was new on him. He’d come up to Dublin from west of the Shannon, and south. I’d cycled through his granny’s townland.
Nothing about these men frightened me. I was ready for them. My heart was grand. My lungs were too.
—I’m fine, I said.
—We might be here a while, said the culchie.
He was from north Clare, I decided, with five or six Dublin years under the belt. He had a rat’s head, on top of a bear’s body. I looked again at the other man. They both looked bright. There was nothing thick or lazy about them.
—Right, I said.—I’ll sit.
—Good man.
I sat on one of the hard chairs at the table. There were only two chairs. The other man, the big Dub, took the other one. The Clare man stayed standing. His toes were up against mine.
They were badly dressed, for professional revolutionaries. Bad jackets, cheap trousers. I could see the weight of their guns. The police would have them easily spotted. But maybe the rules were different these days. The trick was to blend in, wear the uniform of the respectable unemployed. The Provisionals I’d met at the sea had been dressed like these men here. No one stood out. Elegance had got off the island long ago. I hadn’t bought or stolen a shirt in years and I was wearing a dead man’s trousers.
One big face was close to the side of mine. The other was hanging over me. They’d come with the instructions, and I was ready for them.
—We decided to have a chat with you here, said the Clare man.
—Grand.
—Instead of bringing you down to the station.
I made sure the shock didn’t show. But I was the thick in the room. They were cops. Of course they were. The long arm of the state, in plain clothes, but not hiding behind any disguise. They were Special Branch - the G Division all over again. The new, quick shock was that it had taken them so long to come for me.
—So, Henry, said the Clare man.—What are you up to?
I gave him the honest answer.
—I don’t know what you mean.
—Serious? said the other voice, right against my face.
—Yeah.
I expected it now. The fist to my head, the chair kicked from under me.
Nothing happened.
—You’re off up to Howth every day, said the Clare man.
—Yeah.
—Why?
—Visiting my wife.
—The O’Shea woman.
—O’Kelly, I said.
—Fuck off now, Henry, and stop messing. We know all about her.
—She’s my wife.
—But you live here, said the Dub at my ear.
—Yeah.
—And her house is down there.
—Yeah.
—She’s the ex-wife then.
—No, I said.—The lost wife.
—She’s been living there for forty years, said the Clare man.—And you’re here thirty. We’ve done our homework, Henry. So think before you say anything.
—She’s my wife, I told them.—We were married long ago. But we drifted apart. It’s a bit of a story.
—Okay, said the Dub.
—Grand, said the Clare man.—I’ll tell you a different bit of the story.
He was the boss. But I might have been wrong. I had to accept it: I was out of touch.
—So, he said,—Henry Smart is walking down Talbot Street on a sunny afternoon some years ago when a car bomb goes off close by and throws him right into the hospital. He ends up in all the papers, sitting up in bed. His picture and his name are seen and you get visits from interesting people. He even goes on a trip to the seaside. Bettystown, no less. Am I right so far?
He was bang on, although I hadn’t known it was Bettystown.
I didn’t nod.
—So there’s great excitement, said the Clare man.—Great bowing and scraping. The boys of the old brigade are wetting themselves. It’s Henry Smart, one of the last survivors of the First Dáil and the Second Dáil. Their route back to Connolly and Pearse. Their link to the Lord God Almighty in heaven.
—Fair play to you, by the way, said the Dub beside me.—We think you’re great too.
—That’s right, said the Clare man.
He tapped my boot.
—We’re no revisionists.
I didn’t know what he meant.
—We know how it was, he said.—It was wild in my part of the country.
—My grandad was in the G.P.O., said the Dub.—As well as yourself.
—What was his name?
—You wouldn’t have known him.
—Grand.
—Enough now, said the Clare man.—We’re only distracting ourselves. I’ll go on with the story, will I?
—Grand.
—This happened - the meeting in Bettystown - a while back, a good few years ago now. When myself and Detective Sergeant Campion—
—Howyeh, said the big man beside me.
I didn’t look at him.
—We were only young lads, said the Clare man.—We weren’t actually there. But there were eyes and ears there, if you follow. And keen to help. Only, the eyes saw plenty but the ears were a bit too far away.
I tried to remember the faces of the men who’d been there, especially the ones who’d had to stand back while the real talk was going on. There must have been an informer in the van and the car that had carried me to Bettystown and back. It might even have been an informer who’d hit me with the butt of his gun.
—So, said the Clare man,—we don’t know exactly what was said or planned. But we do know that there was ham in the sandwiches and that the soup wouldn’t have been the best. And we know it was a happy enough meeting and that contact was to be maintained, between yourself and our friends in the north. Sporadic contact. Very sporadic. So we waited.
—Six years, said Campion.
—Six years, the Clare man agreed.
There wouldn’t be any heavy stuff. I didn’t think they were building to a beating, although these lads would have been knee-deep in the Heavy Gang. They’d have been bouncy recruits six years before, eager to show their bosses that they could kick and stomp with the best of them, defending the state against terror.
I was enjoying the attention.
—So, said the Clare man.—We’re nearly up to date.
—And then you start hanging around with gun runners, said Campion.
I felt his lips at my ear.
—Gun runners? I said.—My wife?
—She’ll do for a start.
—She’s in a coma, for fuck sake.
—She is when you’re looking.
Now I looked at him.
—Fuck off, I said.
He slowly withdrew his face. His knees were still against the side of my chair.
—Sorry, he said.—I shouldn’t have been disrespectful.
He meant it; I was looking at him.
—It’s alright, I said.
—And I’m sorry for your troubles, he said.—The coma and that.
—Thanks.
—Nevertheless, said the Clare man,—it has to be said. Your wife has a history, stretching back to when the guns were needed.
—That was long ago, I said.
—You don’t think they’re still needed?
—You’re trying to catch me out, I said.
I was breaking rules, talking back to the men who were interrogating me.
—No hope of that, said the Dub.
He kept his face the respectful distance. He seemed to have given up.
—There’ve been mutterings, said the Clare man.—Down through the years. Leopards and spots, you know. That she was still up to it. And then there’s her cousin.
—Ivan Reynolds.
—The same.
—He’s a politician, I said.—Fianna Fáil. He was a minister and all.
The Clare man stared at me.
—You seem to be lacking some basic information, Henry, he said.—Because I can’t believe you’re messing with us.
—What information?
He was making me talk; I couldn’t help it. I wanted to talk.
—The arms trial? said the Clare man.—Does it ring a bell?
—No, I said.—Not really.
—1970. No bell? Ding-a-ling.
—No.
—You were living here. In this bloody house, sure. There’s a radio beyond. But you missed it?
—Must have.
I saw the anger climb onto his face, then saw it pulled back.
—Ivan Reynolds T.D., said the Clare man,—the Minister for Foreign Affairs, was charged with importing weapons illegally and handing them over to the newly formed Provisional I.R.A. You missed that, did you?
—Was he guilty?
—Oh, he was, said the Clare man.—But he was found innocent. But, more to the point, you’re telling us that you didn’t know about it.
I didn’t answer. There wasn’t an answer.
—You’re letting yourself be set up on a pedestal, said the Clare man.—You’re on standby, all set to help them win their five demands. But, hang on, you know nothing about that either, do you? The five demands.
I said nothing. There was nothing in me. I’d thought I’d be getting something out of them, something to pass on to the man with the beard.
—The hunger strikes, said the Clare man.
I shook my head.
—Is he senile?
—I don’t think so.
—Just ignorant. God almighty.
He tapped my foot. He wanted my attention. I wanted to apologise. I wanted them to go away and come back in a few days. I’d do my eccer, and we could start again.
—You’d need to brush up on your current affairs, Henry, he said.—Forget the history. Are you listening to me? You might be living in the past. I can’t blame you there, I suppose. We’re a terrible fuckin’ country for the history. But it’s not good enough. Sure, man, you walked right into a bomb, only a few years ago. Did you ever find out why?
—Not really.
—Jesus.
He wasn’t just angry; I worried him. I was like his old uncle or something, fading away in front of him.