The Dead Republic

by Roddy Doyle

  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 noi
ses. 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.

  I opened my eyes.

  The fucker was granite.

  —So, he said.

  Then I heard noise from his mouth, like he was gathering the words and putting them into the right order.

  He was crying.

  I held my hand up, brought it closer to my eyes. The fingers didn’t look too bad. I’d stayed silent through worse torture.

  He’d stopped bawling but he hadn’t moved. He hadn’t lifted his hands to wipe his eyes or his nose, or the raw line that cut across his neck.

  I heard feet outside. They passed.

  I asked him again.

  —Why?

  He sighed.

  —Honest answer?

  —Yeah, I said.

  —I don’t know what you mean.

  It took a while. To know that he really was being honest.

  —What don’t you fuckin’ understand? I asked.

  —Why you’d even ask.

  The words were bubbled. I’d done damage.

  —I don’t get it, he said.

  But it wasn’t just the floating teeth. His voice didn’t have the bark. He was talking, not performing.

  —We wrote a script, he said.—So we could make a fucking picture. After that, I don’t know why. Ask yourself.

  I started to answer, several times. I got ready to let him have it. But—

  —Yeah, I said.

  It was all I could manage, at first.

  —It wasn’t just a picture, I said.

  It sounded right, and it was right.

  —It was never just a picture, I said.—You told me that. It was my fuckin’ story.

  He sighed.

  —Yeah, yeah. Great. Listen.

  He moved, but not much. He turned his head. He hadn’t looked for his glasses; they were still in my pocket. But he looked at me as if he saw exactly what was in front of him.

  —It was a picture, he said.—It was a picture. Your story, my picture. I hid nothing.

  —You said—

  —I hid nothing, Henry.

  I heard a slurp, like he was knocking back soup.

  —I hid nothing, he said.—You were with me all the way.

  He didn’t move again. He didn’t even touch his mouth or face. He couldn’t see me; I knew that. But he still knew how to use his eyes.

  —I’m not apologising, Henry.

  —I don’t want your fuckin’ apology.

  —Yes, you do.

  He wasn’t challenging or provoking me.

  —You want me to take on some kind of blame, he said.—Fucking guilt or something. But I won’t.

  He let that settle.

  —It was work, he said.—But we knocked it into shape. Accept that.

  A spring beneath him groaned and the noise had me up off the bed, standing ready to deal with the attack.

  —Jesus, Henry, he said.—Do rebels never retire? I’m going to lie back here, no funny stuff.

  More springs joined the first one.

  —You really shouldn’t be socking old guys like me. You broke a couple of fingers is my guess.

  He didn’t lean his head or shoulders against the backrest. He was lying down, ready for the coffin.

  —Where were we? he said.

  I didn’t hit him.

  —It was honest work, he said.

  He wasn’t looking at me now. He couldn’t, because his head was back between the two pillows.

  —Or what passes for honest in this business. You cut it to fit. And that is what we did. We wrote a script and here we are, making the picture. You should be fucking proud of yourself.

  I hit him again.

  But I was stopping myself, or trying to. And it wasn’t the pain already humming there that pulled me back. I was smacking him to stop him, not to punish him. I knew that, quickly, and I didn’t want to do it. But I hit him anyway, slapped him like a cissy, gave him a fright and sent the pain snarling back up my arm and neck.

  —Fuck!

  —Jesus, Henry. We wrote the picture but we are not in the fucking picture. Calm down.

  —Sorry.

  —Fine, great. Sit down. Here.

  I heard the springs again, then saw him lift, and drop again, making space for me.

  —Lie back there, he said.—I bet you walked all the way here, right?

  —Yeah.

  —Henry-style. From Dublin.

  —No.

  —Roscommon.

  —Yeah.

  —I could do that myself, he said.—Sit down.

  I sat on the bed. I lay back; I let myself go. I left the pain in the air for a while. I stretched out on the bed. We were lying side by side.

  He had me beaten. I couldn’t blame the man for what I’d let happen; I couldn’t beat my own guilt into him. I closed my eyes.

  —It’ll be great, he said.

  The name was suddenly there, lit and throbbing.

  —Who’s Frank S. Nugent?

  —Writer, he said.—A damn good one.

  —His name’s on the script.

  —A formality.

  —Fuck that, I said.—What’s that mean?

  —It’s about credit, said Ford.—The Writers’ Guild. Frank was the last guy to work on the script, so his name goes on the front page. That’s how it works. But it’s just the working draft. We’ll sort it out. Your name will be there with his, up on the silver screen.

  Each word was the blade of a shovel. He was digging himself out of a hole. He was acting again. He’d forgotten about the new name on the front page.

  —Frank tidied it up, he said.—He did a good job. You read it, right?

  —Some of it.

  —Most of it.

  —Yeah.

  —On the plane.

  —Yeah.

  —Yeah, that’s Frank. He tidies up.

  All references to the war and to the I.R.A. had gone. The Seán in the picture wasn’t a kid of the Dublin streets, and all the killings had became one big punch in a boxing ring. The tommy gun had come off the bike, and the bike had become a Protestant vicar’s tandem. He’d tidied up alright.

  —Is he here? I asked.

  —Frank?

  —Yeah.

  —No, he said.—I don’t allow the writers near the set. They get upset.

  —What about me?

  —You’re different, Henry, he said.—I need you. You’re my I.R.A. consultant.

  —You took the I.R.A. out.

  —I’m putting them back in. We don’t want to waste all of those trenchcoats.

  I was pulled between fury and sleep. I counted to three.

  —No more messing, I said.

  —Great.

  The old trickster was back beside me on the bed. I wanted to kill him again. And he wanted that - I could feel it and smell it in the cockiness beside me. He even put his hands behind his head.

  I didn’t touch him.

  I wasn’t going to find out. I could torture him and kill him very slowly, but he was never going to tell me. Because he didn’t know why he did what he did, made pictures, once or twice a year. There was the finance, the pressures but, really, he wouldn’t have been able to tell me. He was just making a picture.

  I could feel it in the bedsprings; he’d calmed down. He’d be up again, play-acting, if I asked him another question. So I didn’t.

  We lay there. We didn’t sleep and we didn’t talk. We didn’t budge. He sighed occasionally, like a man looking back at something good. And that was all. The light from outside crawled across the curtains. I heard feet, more feet, movement from below and above. The birds outside were breaking up the night.


  A hand outside turned the doorknob.

  —Mister Ford?

  The hand turned the knob again, tried to twist it further. The other hand knocked, softly.

  —Mister Ford?

  The next knock was firmer.

  —Mister Ford?

  —What?

  He spoke to the ceiling.

  —Your door’s locked, sir.

  —That’s right.

  —Your coffee, sir.

  —Don’t want it.

  —Mister Ford?

  The voice belonged to a posh culchie, probably the butler I’d hidden from earlier, wrapping up his shift by delivering the great man’s coffee.

  —What? said Ford.

  He still hadn’t moved.

  —Are you alright, sir?

  —Yeah, said Ford.

  —Should I call someone?

  —No, said Ford.—I’m fine. I just don’t need the coffee.

  He didn’t have to shout.

  —I’ll go, so, said the butler.

  —Right, said Ford.

  I listened to the feet; I hadn’t heard them coming. It was the same guy, the same clip. Some doctor’s son, the black sheep, who’d done his stint in the R.A.F. or the British Army. He was gone.

  —The coffee’s shit in this country, said Ford.

  It was full day out there now. There’d soon be Yanks knocking hard on his door.

  —I’m sorry, Henry, he said.

  I moved my head now; I looked at him.

  —You said you weren’t going to apologise.

  —And you said you didn’t want my fucking apology. I’m not apologising.

  —What then?

  —I’m sorry you’re like this, you feel like this.

  —Fuck off.

  I put my hands behind my head and my fingers reminded me that they were broken.

  —Shite!

  —You need them looked at?

  —No, I said.—I’m grand.

  —The last of the rebels.