And now there were two of them.
At the back of her mind the future unrolled itself in a fog for Sadie did not want to stare at it
There’s nothing I can do about it now, it was saying. There’s nothing left now. Just forget about everything, everything belongs to them now.
She went outside to leave out the milkbottles. A light snow was falling. Children’s toys lay abandoned on lawns. A car turned into the estate, churning slush onto the sidewalk. A woman in a powder-pink tracksuit waved. Lights glimmered in the living rooms. At the end of the estate a sign read Please Mind Our Children Drive Slowly.
The lights of another car rose up. Sadie sighed. A neighbour turned a key in a door, looked awkwardly in her direction, then went inside. A neighbour. Like Mr Galvin years before. But times have changed Mr Galvin, neighbours like ghosts now, you catch them on a summer day in the back garden if you’re lucky. Nothing now only the click of the plug next door and Saturday morning car talk.
Is that you Sadie? Sadie Rooney? said Mr Galvin looking up from his ridges. I thought you’d be halfway across the world by now. So you’re still in the town of Carn. Well boys oh boys. Lord above isn’t the world a strange place and me here thinking all the time you were in Carnaby Street or some place.
No. I never bothered going to London, Mr Galvin. I don’t suppose I’ll be able to make it now that I have the pair of them.
Sadie, daughter, don’t tell me you have your own now?
I have, Mr Galvin, Tara and Darren, moving on now the pair of them.
Well doesn’t the time pass, eh? Wee Sadie Rooney. So you never went to London. Isn’t that a good one now?
I’ll hardly make it now, do you think so Mr Galvin?
No, I daresay you won’t but aren’t you as well off above there in Abbeyville Gardens? I hear you have great neighbours up there.
Neighbours is right. The best of neighbours. Mr JR Ewing and Dusty and Sue Ellen and Blake Carrington and Alexis and Jeff and Cliff Barnes and Jason Colby and Bet Lynch and Hilda Ogden, they all live up beside me Mr Galvin. Did you never hear of JR Mr Galvin? Of course you did.
Sue Ellen?
Yeah.
You lawv me Sue Ellen?
Shuah Jay Aw.
You shuah you lawv me?
Shuah Jay Aw.
You kin have anythang, anythang you want.
Oh Jay Aw Jay Aw.
Oh to tell you the truth Sadie, I wouldn’t know what the hell a lad like that would be talking about.
You know what the woman next door says Mr Galvin?
What would that be Sadie?
She says, “You know I think they’re as good as any neighbours those programmes. And they don’t nosey into your business like some people. Even though you can spy all you like on them.”
So they’re your neighbours, Sadie. Isn’t it well for you has neighbours the like of that.
Well for you.
It was true, wasn’t it?
No one else complains, thought Sadie. And as her mother had said long ago, who did she think she was—someone special? Who did she think she was—JR Ewing?
She went inside. Outside another car passed, its lights swallowing up the room. Then all settled back to silence. A plug clicked in the wall next door. The snow drifted past the window pane and Sadie sat where she was, staring into space as the tears rolled down her cheeks and a frenzied voice in the corner of her living room, uncertain of its origins, wavered between American and Irish inflections as it promised more than a lifetime’s service from a new brand of motor car . . .
XI
Maisie Lynch looked up from the packed crate and called to Benny Dolan, “I saw them below at Cooney’s new discotheque last night. Every one of them full of drink, and the women the worst. Hail Mary full of Grace my backside Benny, lie through your teeth, keep up the front and rob your neighbour blind.” Then she closed one eye and leaned across whispering, “Did you hear about this terrible business last night? They tried kill that fellow from Belfast. Drove up to his house and tried to shoot him stone dead in his own house. You’ll remark there’s no sign of him today. That’s what happened, did you not hear? But I’ll have nothing to do with it. Say nothing, that’s the best policy, they’re all a bad crowd Benny. They’re all mixed up in it, these northmen. Your father was a good man, there’s nobody can say any different about Hugo Dolan. Wasn’t he up on the platform with the minister the time of the commemorations?”
Benny heard nothing she said. But the incident had been on his mind all morning. The man concerned had only recently come from Belfast to work in the boning hall and was staying with relatives six miles outside the town. Benny pieced the uncertain fragments together. He had been playing cards with an old couple who lived nearby. Scots accents, it was rumoured, and a Brit, upperclass, officer. Benny knew the area well. He could see it. The car driving silently across the unapproved road. Four, maybe six men in the car, nobody could know that yet. A house somewhere on the Carn side where they collected their weapons. The car parked in a layby. Up ahead lights burning in a cottage, a gate swinging in a field, the car door opening and the men making their way across the field to the cottage. The front door kicked open, the old couple staring at them in horror. The northman producing a gun from nowhere and diving for the back door. The would-be assailants stricken with panic, the old couple huddling in a corner waiting for their death. A Scottish voice shouting out into the night. The wall sprayed with bullets. Then chaos, the car door slamming, the engine revved off towards the nothern side. There had been rumours since the summer of an organised gang carrying out raids on the southern side with back up from the British army. A number of local men had disappeared. One of them had been mysteriously transported across the border and his hooded body found weeks later in a culvert. On every occasion there had been a mention of English and Scottish accents.
The northman had escaped, but was badly wounded in the stomach. The early morning news bulletin had described it as an internal paramilitary feud.
“Do you agree with me?” quizzed Maisie, looking into his eyes.
The hooter sounded for break. Benny lit up a cigarette and sat on a crate with his sandwiches. His rib twinged again. It had been cracked the previous week at the march. He had said nothing about it to Sadie. What was the point in her knowing, only upset her. Joe had been lucky, got out clean as a whistle.
“That’s only a scratch, Dolan,” the policeman had said bitterly. “Next time I’ll fix it for you good and proper.”
Benny had gone with the northmen from the factory, standing in a field waiting for the helicopter to land with the coffin of the dead hunger striker. Beneath the whirring rotor blade, four special branch men had appeared with the coffin on their shoulders. They carried it across the field and over a wall into the churchyard. Their colleagues watched with Uzzi machine guns slung by their sides. The shuttered streets were lined with blue-clad policemen, figures from a futuristic film with visors and riot shields. They stood ominously in front of sweetshops tapping batons as the protestors strained towards the steel barriers. Suddenly the barriers had buckled and Benny found himself swept along on a wave of bodies and in a split second pinned down by his arms as a baton resounded thickly against his ribs. The white face of the young policeman stared tensely down at him, the baton shaking in his hand. Later they had marched morosely past the closed pubs and curtained windows as a piper played a lament and the colour party moved, in dark glasses and berets, at the front. As they stood in silence in the cemetery, an army helicopter droned overhead, soldiers dotted the surrounding hills like dolls wound up and ready for action. A young notherner, overcome, had broken from the crowd and confronted a policeman crying, “Free State Pigs!” to be dragged off cursing to a waiting van. This was too much for some of the northmen and vicious scuffles broke out between them and the police. Stones were thrown. A tricolour and a Union Jack were simultaneously burnt. Joe Noonan spat at a soldier, “Imperialist scum.”
The crow
ds in the town did not disperse until well after dark. Police reinforcements arrived by the hour.
On the coach home, the exhausted marchers sang The Boys of the Old Brigade.
The radio carried an appeal from a bishop to all the young men of Ireland. He called on them to renounce violence. He castigated patriotic songs and said they spoke of nothing but guns and bloodshed. We have had enough of this revolutionary mythology, he said, far too many young men of twenty had gone out to die. He called on everyone north and south not to be afraid to stand up and be counted. We must root out this Frankenstein of evil in our midst. After all, they cannot shoot us all.
The bus cheered loudly as the bishop concluded and another song was struck up with renewed gusto.
The police called at Benny’s house on two occasions after that, “making routine checks”. The detective smiling and saying as they left, “I knew your father Hugo well. Did you not see me at his funeral? Me and him used to have long chats below in the barracks. I’m sure he’d be pleased to see you’re following in his footsteps.”
As the hooter sounded, Benny tossed the bread-wrapper from him and went back to the machine where Maisie Lynch was already getting into her stride for the afternoon, announcing that the only hope for a solution in Northern Ireland lay in three weeks non-stop prayer, prayer morning noon and night.
“Prayer will out,” she said authoritatively. “Don’t say I didn’t tell you.”
He finished up early that evening and went for a drink in the Turnpike Inn. Through the doorway of the extension a number of cardplaying factory men greeted him. The huge video was playing a blue movie, the men rigid as statues beneath interlocking bodies. In the corner pool balls clacked. Somewhere else a television blared. A fruit machine choked on coins. Benny was on his second drink when the northman came in and joined him at the bar. They knew one another well and stayed drinking together until closing time.
They did not broach the subject of the previous night until they were safely home in the northman’s house on one of the council estates that had been recently built to accomodate the influx of northerners. His wife brought them tea and sandwiches. The northman tapped his thumbs and looked at Benny.
“They’ve been operating on this side of the border for over a year. It was them shot McCarney.”
McCarney was the man whose body had been found dumped, shot through the head.
“They snatched him and took him across. It’s the same outfit. UVF—the army are helping them.”
Benny nodded.
“But they couldn’t get across with the gear. They’re picking them up this side.”
“You’re sure?” said Benny.
The northman nodded. “They have to be.” He sipped his tea. “Somewhere near where it happened last night.”
Outside a car passed, throwing shadows on the wallpaper.
“There’s someone from the town helping them.”
Benny shifted uneasily. The northman drew his breath and thought long and hard before he said, “We think we know who it is.”
“Who?” said Benny sharply.
“I can’t say. Not yet. I’ll fill you in for definite tomorrow. He’s being checked out. They’re nearly a hundred per cent. He’s known from a long time back.” He paused. “The pigs this side won’t touch them. They can do what they like. But it has to be stopped. McCarney was a good man. They nearly finished Quigley last night.”
“Yes.”
“We’re going to need local men. We’ll need back up.”
“Yes.”
“If you’re needed . . . you might not be . . . can I rely on you?”
Benny replied, “Yes.”
“Good,” said the northman. “I’ll talk to you when I know more. But we’ll be moving soon.”
They finished their tea and Benny set off for home. As he climbed the stairs, Tara cried out in her sleep. He hesitated on the landing and then, satisfied that all was well, crept in beside Sadie, but did not sleep until the first light of dawn was touching the frosted window.
XII
On her way to the Railway Hotel, Josie called at Abbeyville Gardens with a present for Tara and Darren Dolan. She stood on the doorstep with the neatly-wrapped package, reddening slightly as Sadie appeared, both children clinging on to her. Josie held out the present. “Come in,” said Sadie. “Really Josie, you shouldn’t have . . .”
They sat in the kitchen and had tea and scones. The children squealed excitedly as they wound up the clockwork toy. Both women avoided eye contact and did not stray from safe subjects. “The north is gone mad altogether,” said Sadie tapping her cup handle. Josie nodded. They spoke of Christmas and increasing commercialisation. At one stage Sadie became so nervous because of the tension between them she almost blurted out, “It’s her Josie. She doesn’t want you here. But to hell with her. I’d love you to come. You were such a help to me before.”
But she didn’t. They just sat there listening to the tick of the clock and watching the snow advance and retreat outside. Then Josie rose and said, “I just thought I’d come and wish you all a Happy Christmas.”
Sadie felt her stomach heave. She thought of Josie alone in the cottage on Christmas day, of how much she liked the kids and pleaded silently with herself to ask her to spend the Christmas with them but Mrs Dolan kept coming into her mind. If I had known who she was in the first place she’d never have got in that door the like of her minding my grandchildren the house to herself God knows what could have happened to them God forbid but she could have killed those children Sadie she could have killed those children don’t ever let her into this house again for if you do you’ll never see me about the place again . . .
“Well good luck now Sadie—and wish Benny all the best for me, won’t you,” said Josie.
Sadie helped her on with her coat and said goodbye. She stood in the doorway and waved as Josie turned the corner . . . Kill those children how would she kill them you stupid bitch or have you any heart at all. Have you? Have you?
But that was no good now.
The glass door of the Railway Hotel swung open before Josie and a scarf of cigarette smoke wrapped itself around her neck as she walked into the bar. She removed her wet overcoat and hung it up by the door. The barman spread his hands on the counter and winked, “The usual?”
Josie took the vodka and lime. She felt drowsy, the effect of the librium she had taken an hour before. The meeting with Sadie had depressed her. She drank the vodka in one gulp. The barman refilled it without being asked.
A snake of tinsel curled itself around the trademarked mirror. Inside the oval of a Christmas card, a top-hatted city gent with a cane walked his dog through deep London snow. Santa Claus grinned broadly. On the television, a newsreader’s deadpan voice announced, A two hundred pound bomb exploded last night in the Catholic Ardoyne district of Belfast. Two people have been killed and five injured, three seriously. The Archbishop of Armagh has condemned the bombing, describing it as an outrage and an abomination . . .” The eyes of the younger men at the bar narrowed as they listened. Then they looked away to put it out of their minds. The barman shook his head wearily, perplexed by it all. He leaned over to Josie and put his hand on her forearm. He winked again and whispered into her ear, “They’d be better off enjoying themselves. Eh Josie?” He looked into her eyes. He squeezed her arm again and went off laughing. Josie’s lips were dry and her eyes heavy. She drank another vodka. A distraught woman described the scene of the bombing. Bodies everywhere, she said. She tried to steady her voice as the words stumbled out, blinding flash, a loud bang, couldn’t see anything. Bodies everywhere, she repeated, whoever did this must be sick that’s all I can say, she said as she broke down again and shielded her face with her hands.
The scene came into Josie’s mind.
Bodies everywhere.
The ambulance with its blue light turning, whitefaced policemen hauling away bodies in zippered bags. The two words would not go from her mind. Bodies everywhere. Bodies fro
m the past.
The cleaning woman from the Bunch of Grapes who had died in the old folks home with no one near her. A shrivelled frame in a grey mortuary, hands crossed staring at the ceiling. Jack the Lad, the Northumbrian who often bought her drink, fading away in a bright airy hospital ward. A discarded suit of skin wept over by red-eyed relatives. A twitching body on Kilburn High Road, stunned companions screaming, “How did it happen? We were only coming out of the pub—the lights were green . . .” Time standing still as the passers-by watched the life ebb from him, a claw of blood on the side of his face, lips quivering like a helpless infant.
Cassie too, from far away in the days of her childhood, laid out by neighbour women who spoke in hushed tones of the best woman who ever lived. They folded her clothes lovingly and touched their lips with rosaries as they stared down at the padded coffin and said, “If there’s one sure thing Cassie Keenan is walking the roads of the next world this night. She well and truly deserves her reward in the beyond.” Cassie Keenan too had left her bones and skin behind her on a settle bed and had taken her leave to a place where what she was due would be paid in full.
Standing on a road that wound onward into a blueness that had no end, she smiled at Josie with a face that knew no care or distress and said, If only you were here with me, my wee Josie, it would be like it was all those days ago. You and me as one. Look at the sky. See how warm and clear it is. Did you ever see fields so green Josie pet?
Josie’s throat went dry and she ordered another drink. She looked away from the sweat prints on the side of the glass. When you come here you will be truly happy Josie. None of it will matter then. It will all be over.
The nausea rising within her threatened to bring on a physical sickness. Josie clutched her glass. The barman was talking to her but all she could see was the movement of his lips and the contortions of his face. He filled her glass again. Smoke billowed to the ceiling. She was only vaguely aware of the presence beside her. The barman said, “Do you know Mr Murphy Josie?”
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