Pig shook his head when Sid wanted to hammer some sense in. ‘Give them a wee minute to think it through. I know these boys. Before the evening’s out they’ll be begging us to keep the struggle going.’
Word went round the townland like wildfire, a mega session on at the Ships. In half an hour, every wannabee and hanger-on and balloon was there, jumping up and down to Bryan Adams Summer of ’69 like a culchie wedding. Even some of the squad got dragged along, caught up in the fun. It spilled out in the street, can-cans and congas, Rock the Boat in the middle of the road, everybody dooting their horns as they drove by. Big smiles and wide wide eyes. Like weans in the tuck shop. You could see where it was leading. Dumps opened, balaclavas burned. Peace prizes handed out. Handshakes at the White House. Good suits and stripy ties and fat salaries at Stormont.
Phone calls were flying around, asking was it true. Belfast was on the blower, chewing the ear off Sid. ‘Get a lid on it, fast, before this spreads round the whole of the North, for the Big Boy’s doing his nut here. You’re throwing away the only edge we have. If word gets out, somebody’s got some serious explaining to do. There’s more at stake in these talks than you know.’
So Sid went out and around. Cleaning up Pig’s mess, as per usual. A quiet wee word with the rest of the squad. ‘The boss man is up to something, this is just him testing the lads. Keep them in line, will you? We look very bad if word of this gets out.’
But he knocked the heads of the young ones. ‘Were you ordered out in the streets? Who’s running this show, us or youse? Get back in line. There’s only one OC and you do what he says, or your knees’ll know about it.’
And they all calmed the heads, did what they were bid, got themselves in order and quietened down. All except one man alone, a dirty wee carn known as Thirsty. Never had a penny to his name, but he could put it away like no other. Got free pints in the Ships for collecting up empties, and he’d finish every half-drunk glass in the place. The ugliest lumpiest fucker in the townland. Bow-legged, one lame foot, bony shoulders and a pointy baldy head with hair round the ears like a mangy rat. And here he was now, stumbling about the street, slurring at Pig, scoffing and scorning, all he was good for. At the same time, he was speaking for plenty who didn’t dare open their bakes.
‘Do you know what I say, boys? Let’s turn in this fucking Pig to be stuck by the fucking Brits and take home the fucking cash. He’s lucky Achill didn’t put a bullet in his fucking brain already, that’s all I can say. The same boy has done too fucking well out of this here war. Do you see the fucking motors he has beyond? If you knew what he has stashed away in the fucking Channel Islands, the fucking women he has coming and going. And that’s what we’re fucking fighting for! Him and his fucking women! Dog has the woman leave him, Pig takes Achill’s woman, and we have to sort out their dirty fucking washing, run around dodging the Brits, ferrying guns, mixing squibs, touting on touts, ducking choppers, getting our houses tore to bits, our women felt up, our children tormented. For what? What fucking good has any of it done any of us? There’s been no fucking state oppression here this twenty years. Who the fuck cares who pays your wages and your dole? Does any of you seriously think you’d be better off with that fucking shower in the South running the show? Crooked, thick, useless, desperate to suck up to hard cash and line their own fucking pockets. And here’s London spraying their own pound notes at us like shite from a fucking muck-spreader, and youse all want to clear them out? A bit of fucking sense. Let’s be rid of these fucking hoods once and for all so we can stop looking over our shoulders every day to see if our own fucking side is coming at us with a knife in the fucking back. If you ask me, I’ll take the fucking Brits over the fucking Ra any day of the fucking week.’
That was enough for Sid. He lifted wee Thirsty by the collar and dragged him round the back of the Ships, the yard where the kegs were stacked. A few hard men followed after.
‘Was it not enough having your knees done for you last Christmas?’ says Sid. ‘And you still limping from it. I’m going to break my rule especially for you, and do them over again. Down on the ground quick, in that shuck, so the water cleans away the blood. This time I’m fixing you myself and I’m making sure they both get done right.’
He didn’t need anybody to hold the boy down because the first sight of the AK and Thirsty was begging and babbling and doing exactly what he was told, to the letter.
But when the barrel came down, he balled himself up, knees to his cheeks. Couldn’t help it. So Sid pressed the wee end of it against his nose, pushed it hard on the bone between his eyes.
‘Lie down there flat, or it’ll be your wrists and your ankles as well.’
And he did, still weeping and whining.
‘Also, shut the fuck up.’
He did.
The lads were crowding in now to watch. A couple of them helped out with the needful. Big thick towels around both legs, for the mess, and to muffle the noise. The end of the barrel dug in snug.
Pop. And pop. The both knees destroyed. Done right this time. Then a tin of emulsion poured on the fresh wounds, to slow up the surgery. The stupid prick wouldn’t forget this one in a hurry.
The crowd gathered around all gave Sid a round of applause, a few slaps on the back, a lot of sniggering at Thirsty’s shrieking and yodelling.
‘Fair play to you. That’ll shut him up another while. You have to hand it to Sid, he always knows the right thing to do, and that was the best show we seen this long time. It’ll be a while before there’s any more slagging the OC or talking about surrender in this here townland.’
Sid rounded on them all.
‘You’re a disgrace, the lot of you. There’s not one of you any better than that cunt, and plenty worse, for at least he has the guts to say it to my face. Every one of you bogmen votes for a united Ireland, sings the songs, prays for it, marches for it, but when it comes to actually lifting a finger when there’s real work to get done, you’re all cheering a surrender? Well I’m glad the OC tested your stuff, for I’m ashamed of you all this day. We were told, our fathers were told, in 1969, that this work would take a generation, and that’s exactly what it’s taken. A good quarter of a century, and we’re almost there. We’ve worn them right down to the threads, and now you want to pack up and hand them a victory they don’t deserve, because somebody might break a fingernail? Pack of women!’
In the car and away. Left them standing there shuffling and muttering, mugs on them like a wet bank holiday.
8
Inside in the Ships, old Ned was waiting. He’d seen it all before. He had the men pull down the shutters, and he sat them all down again in the lounge, fresh pints on the house. The words came flying out of him.
‘Now, lookit. Nobody likes a chewing. But thon Sid has brains to burn, and he wouldn’t waste his breath if he didn’t know youse all had the stuff for the fight, every last one of you. And it’s a fight we’re going to win. Wait now till I tell you how I know.
‘They can throw everything at us, like they did at Mahatma Gandhi, like they did at Fidel Castro, like they did at Martin Luther King and Nelson frigging Mandela. But history only goes one way. And that way is to freedom. It might not be this week, nor this year, but that day is coming, and let me tell you this. All the names of them who fought for that freedom will be honoured on that day. No exceptions. And let me tell you what else. The ones who turned their backs when the going got tough will get spat at in the streets.
‘You all know the cry that’s been heard down the generations. Tiocfaidh ár lá! Our day will come! And that’s as sure as the sun’s going to rise in the morning. For we don’t say might come, nor should come, nor ought to come. Will come! Let it take another year, or another hundred. You, or your children, or your children’s children, are going to wake up one fine morning in a free and democratic thirty-two-county republic. But every day we fling away gabbing and squabbling adds another day to the wait. What do you say, Pig? Remind this townland of the stock they spring
from, and that’ll get the blood up rightly.’
‘Good man yourself, Ned,’ says Pig. ‘That’s the stuff to give them. If we had a dozen more like you, we’d have the Brits out tomorrow. Instead, look at the state of me, fighting over a woman. If you could only get myself and Achill ploughing the same field, this land would be free in no time.
‘But you all heard the man. We need no slacking now. Freedom is coming, but it’s not coming out the barracks gate on a silver platter. We have to batter that gate in and take it.
‘So make sure you have a full tank in your car in case it’s needed on the night, and make sure the key is left in your front and your back door both, in case a volunteer on the run might have to pass through. Keep your ear to the ground, and you’ll be called on when you’re needed. There’ll be no let-up until this job is done, and done right.’
That set them straight.
9
I’d be all day naming every man in the townland who was behind that squad, their fathers and grandfathers, their wives and sons and daughters, and who married who. Enough to tell you about the big men, who sat in the Ships that night.
Pig himself, born and reared in the place, and his father once owned half the land. The da made his money from smuggling and he bought up all the neighbour farms with a bit of persuasion, then sold them back over the years at twice the price, and put it all into the cause. His brother Dog, a dacenter man but just as proud. Cross either of them, and you’d be in the hospital first and asked questions later. Their mother was Kelly from across the border, the townland of Tullybane, and she carried the fortune with her that set their da on his feet.
Then there was Sid, the smartest of the bunch. Vincent Little was the name he was called, the son of Tom Little had the pub at the crossroads that was burned out in the seventies, and the family moved to England. Wee Vinnie was sent back to be raised by his uncle Sean, a solicitor, for the boy was getting nowhere over beyond. He was always at the books, anything he could get hold of. Talk you into thinking black was white, they used to say. When the uncle died, the story was he left a fair whack to Sid, and right enough he never seemed to have much in the way of a job. But he was always around, helping people out, arguing their case, getting them their rights. No flies on Sid.
From the townland of Killymack, Jack Hughes, known to some as Zola, and to the rest of them as Budd, from the wee South African runner. The mightiest lump of a man that ever fought for the Ra. Near seven foot, and built like Finn McCool. No peeler would give him hassle, for fear of a busted nose he didn’t even mean to give you. At school he’d been landed with the nickname Zola, when the teacher was teaching them about the Jews and the Nazis, and he started off with the Dreyfus Affair, about the Jew in the French army accused of touting to the Germans, who got stitched up by his own side. And the boys were made read a thing by this writer called Zola, and the thing was called J’Accuse. And once the boys heard that, Jack Hughes was called nothing but Zola from that day on. Or, until Zola Budd was back on the news, and then it got changed to Budd.
From Glencross, Dermot Slevin, known as Jack because he worked under cars, but in the squad he was always called the Other Jack, because of Budd. His da, Buck Slevin, had the wee video shop at the foot of the town, and a shelf of pornos under the counter if you knew how to ask. The mother was Kitty Doyle from Newry, with the sister was the baby nurse and the brother the dole man everybody juked.
The whole squad went back to Pig’s place, and a fry was put on the pan, good thick pink-and-white rashers, skinny sausages still in a string, rough-cut slices of purple black pudding, eggs spitting and crackling, the rim crisping up gold and then brown and then black. And all slid onto plates and shared among the men. The tea poured out, hot from the pot, the milk in a jug and sugar spooned in. That’s more like it. Plates clean, fags out, and a bit of quiet oul chat.
They started planning the recce. In the car, scope out the best spot for the squib, where to keep an eye, who was doing what. Each of them had his wee job to do, and each got on with it. Dry runs, measuring out, noting the times of patrols, buying the bits and pieces they’d need from enough different shops that they’d never be traced.
Back in business. Things were looking up.
Nellie
10
You could argue the bit back and forth which was the very moment, right from the Easter Sunday when she was hatched out of the egg, like her da used to say, all the way up to the first time she met you-know-who. But I’d say the right place to start is slap bang in the middle of things, back about three years before, when Nellie was a schoolgirl of sixteen.
She had a wee thing going with a lad from her big brother’s class. Brian Campbell was the name. The star of the hurley team. A tough nut on the pitch. A real swagger about him round the townland. Never said much. You felt ten foot tall if he nodded you hello going past. Even your ma and da would nudge other and point him out.
She’d had a few sniffing round her. Everybody said she was the best-looking in her year. Maybe in the whole school. She didn’t like closing off her options, so she kept stringing them along. You’d see her up the town, marching about with three or four fellas trailing after.
In the end, Brian’s mate Sid took her aside and said to make up her mind before there was a real barney between some of them. Told her if she couldn’t decide, to just give each of them a number and roll a dice. That was what he did himself when there were too many options to toss a coin. He said you didn’t have to do what the dice said, but how you felt when the number came up would show you what you really wanted.
Brian’s number came up. She was fucking delighted.
She wore the face off him at the Glenallen the next Saturday, and that was that. Sid put the word out that nobody was to kick up. Not that they would have, to Brian.
11
Brian wasn’t really into drinking, or music, or cars, like the rest of them. Beagles was his thing. He was always out hunting, when he wasn’t at hurley practice. He said he knew every inch of the country around. Nellie asked if she could go along with him. It was a wee test. She was pretty sure he had another girl on the go as well, but he never said, and she never asked. Playing the long game.
He said okay. That was what she wanted to hear.
She used to tell her ma and da she was going to her friend Laura’s house, from the drama group, but Brian would pick her up round the corner. They’d go for a drive up the hills. There was a wee outhouse he was let use, to keep his hunting stuff. A wee mattress in it. They’d have a wee cuddle. They’d have a wee snog.
That was as far as it went. She wouldn’t give him the ride. Not yet. Nor she wouldn’t let him finger her. She wouldn’t even pull him off. She was still a virgin, do you see. Everybody in her class was, or they said they were, though to listen to the lads, you’d wonder who was lying. To be fair to Brian, he never pushed it. She liked that about him.
This one day he was sitting round the back of the outhouse smoking a jay. He didn’t like doing it inside in case his brother smelt it. His brother would murder him if he caught him, he told her. She didn’t go out and join him, because it was cold, and she didn’t want any. She was happy enough, for once, just sitting there, waiting on him to finish.
But she was getting cold now herself. She put on a jacket that was hanging up on a peg. She could feel some tools or something heavy clattering in the pocket. She took them out.
It was two guns.
She thought she was going to faint. She thought she was going to boke. She said ‘Oh fuck’ and he heard her and came in. He said ‘Oh fuck’ too.
She held them out to him like a question. She needed to know.
He told her the coat was his big brother Shane’s. He used the outhouse as well. Brian swore blind that he didn’t know the guns were there.
She asked if his brother was in the IRA. Brian said he didn’t know, but he thought he probably was. He hung around with that crowd.
Brian said she’d better put th
em back, and say nothing. She did. He said to take them out again, and wipe them down in case her fingerprints were on them now. She said she didn’t know how. He did it for her.
She watched him, and she could see plain he’d done it before.
And then she knew, as sure as if he’d told her, that the coat was his, and the guns were his.
But she knew not to say. She knew never to say.
He asked her if she wanted to lie down. He said he was feeling stressed now. She had made him stressed and he needed to lie down. She said she was feeling stressed too, and she needed to lie down as well. So they did.
It was true. She was feeling very fucking stressed. She didn’t know what to think. She’d honestly never thought too much about all that shite. It was just there, like the weather. She wasn’t against it. But she’d never been mixed up in it before. She’d never wanted to be.
Except she knew she still wanted him. Big time.
And this was it, she decided. Stick or twist. She could have him right now this minute, or let him get away. She tossed the coin in her head, and it came up with her letting him get away.
No fucking way. She was having him right now.
Straight out she asked him if he wanted a handjob. She said it would calm him down. She said she knew he always did it himself anyway after they’d had a cuddle, when she was dozing, and she didn’t mind. She said she sometimes did herself as well, when he was snoozing, so there was no point hiding it. He said, ‘Fuck it, sure why not.’
She asked him if he would start himself off. He said no way, if she was watching. He’d be too self-conscious. She told him to close his eyes and she would too.
Country Page 4
