Country

by Michael Hughes

  ‘So London’s made up its mind. And that means the fight is over. Tell the boys I said that. If they want to kill Brits out of revenge, or for the fun of it, or just to get their picture in the paper, go on ahead. But don’t think for one second they’re achieving any political aim. If you want a good plan of action, it should be to steal away and live in peace among your own people, keep your head down and your mouth shut and make the most of what you have.

  ‘And forget about attacking that base. I’ll tell you that for nothing. Without me, ye are fucked. Mincemeat and bone meal. Ye’ll be scraped off the road with a shovel. But I think you know that already, Sid boy, or you wouldn’t be here.

  ‘Mannix, if you want a lift back to Castlebar, you can stay the night here. We’re hitting the road first thing in the morning.’

  ‘Where you go, I go,’ says Mannix. ‘Your da tasked me with two jobs. Stick by you, and teach you what’s right and what’s wrong, and I’m not going to give up now. If I haven’t managed that second, I can at least carry on with the first. You could offer to spin me back forty years, and I’d say no. But just let me tell you this.

  ‘I ran away from a quarrel too, when I was a young man. It was a dirty business, but listen now and you might learn something.

  ‘My da was a terrible man. Couldn’t be kept on the lead at all. And this one time, he was riding a wee girl who worked in the golf club. It’s true. And I’m not proud of this, but my ma was awful annoyed, and she begged me to steal the girl off him, to take her to bed myself so she’d see the oul fella for what he was.

  ‘And I did. I was young, I knew no better. And the da got wind of it. He cursed me up and down, swearing that no child of mine would ever sit on his knee. And I was that upset, near I came to putting a bullet in his skull. But killing your da is a fearful crime, and I thought I’d take off instead. The family locked me up, fearing I’d run, but I got away. Out the window. Take more than them to hold me.

  ‘I came to Castlebar, and your da took me in and trusted me with your education, for he wouldn’t have you in any school about. I taught you everything you know that didn’t come from Big Achill himself, from when you were two year old. You sat on my knee when I fed you bits of dinner, aye, and many’s the time you boked it back up all over my good shirt. And it was hard for me them times, knowing that no child of my own would ever sit on his grandfather’s knee.

  ‘Everybody loses the head sometimes. But it needn’t be a one-way street. If you’re a praying man still, pray hard, to St Joseph, and the Blessed Virgin, and St Anthony. They won’t fail you. But if you refuse to ask, they can’t do a thing.

  ‘I tell you this. If Pig himself was still cursing you, I wouldn’t offer to change your mind. But he’s a different man. If you seen him. Weeping for you, just like you said he would. He’s sent the best of his men here to beg you. To beg you.

  ‘The divil a one blamed you for doing what you did. We all know the kind Pig is. But if you listen to the old stories, nobody hangs on to their fury for ever. If you’re a Christian at all, you have to find it in your heart to forgive, at the end of the day. Look at all the films, the good old cowboy pictures. It’s the same story. No man who lives by hate and anger comes to a good end. At the heel of the hunt, everybody sees the light. There’s still time to change your mind. You’ll be a hero to these men yet.’

  Achill looked awful tired.

  ‘Were you not listening? A hero is the last thing I want to be. I’m finished with all that playacting. Come on and stay the night here. We’ll decide what to do in the morning.’

  ‘Come on away out of this,’ says Budd to Sid. ‘Achill can fuck himself. He doesn’t care a damn for us. He doesn’t care a damn for Ireland. He’s as bad as a tout. Worse, for touting at least takes balls.’

  They could see the rage shaking him, but he kept it in. He stopped at the door, but, and he spoke to Achill now, right to his face, jabbing his finger, snapping his teeth.

  ‘I’ll say this to you. If I kill a man’s brother, or his father, or his child, and they didn’t deserve it, I’ll find the money to look after the family left behind. You will too. Or the Ra itself will. Even the Brits do the same thing. For that’s the only way we can all go on living with each other. You have to right the wrongs you done.

  ‘And that’s what it’s all about at the end of the day. That’s the only thing it was ever about. Justice. And when justice is done, you have to leave the wrong behind. You have to. Nobody wants to live in fury their whole life. Sure we’re only fighting in the first place to get beyond all of them wrongs, to get back to the peaceful life we deserve, minding our own business, running our own affairs. We have to keep our eyes on that. Otherwise the streets of this land would be heaped thick with blood and guts, if every hurt was avenged by an equal hurt, or a greater. It would never stop.

  ‘But here you are, refusing to back down for the sake of a wee slut you’ve known a few weeks! Did you not hear the man? You can have any girl you want! Come on, Achill, for fuck sake! Wise up, would you?’

  The blood was up now. The passion flowing through him. No better man.

  ‘You won’t fight for pride, is it? Then you’re no man! What else are we fighting for, if it’s not pride? Anybody who wants to keep his head down and get on with his life is welcome to go ahead. But not us, boy. We’re the men who stand up and fight! Fight for what’s right! It’s our pride as Irishmen that makes us fight! Our sacred right to self-determination! We won’t take the humiliation of another nation ruling ours, no matter who they are! If you want to call that pride, fine, it’s pride! But whatever you call it, there’s no better reason to fight!’

  The air was humming with his words. All eyes on Achill.

  ‘I can’t argue with any of that,’ says Achill. ‘But any time I think of his big fat face, the fury is back in my heart. The way I know I’m a man is that I couldn’t look Pig Campbell in the eye without putting my fist through his teeth. He’s the one who treated me like as if I was a child. A woman. Treated me like pure shite.

  ‘But tell him this. If the SAS or the Brits come after me myself, here or anywhere, they’ll know what’s what. I’ll fight them if they threaten what’s mine, don’t you worry about that. But until that day, ye’re on your own. And that’s all there is to it. Go on now, and tell him all that.’

  48

  Back they went to Pig.

  ‘Come on, then. What’s the story? Is he coming back, or will his pride not let him?’

  ‘He’s as full of fury as ever he was,’ says Sid. ‘He might head back to Castlebar in the morning, he says. And he says he’d advise every man here to lay down his arms, and head back to his home place too. He says there’ll be no united Ireland in our lifetimes, and there’s no glory in dying for an empty cause. Mannix stayed with him, in case he wants a lift back.’

  They were stunned, every one of them. Nobody was expecting that. Nobody knew what to say now. The thing was hopeless.

  Maybe not every one. Diamond spoke up. ‘Pig. I wish to God you’d never sent these men on their knees, for all it’ll do is swell the head. He’s going to be worse now than ever he was. The pride will be blooming and bursting in his chest. But let him be. He’ll go or he’ll stay. He’ll come back when he needs to come back. And if he doesn’t, then fuck him.

  ‘Listen now to me. It’s my turn to say what’s what. We get some food into us, and a good night’s sleep, so we’re ready for tomorrow. And the minute the sun’s up, we get ourselves in order, to fight the fucking Brits. We get a plan of action together to take them cunts on. Otherwise we may go home in shame. That’s the only thing we’re doing here. That’s the beginning and the end of it.’

  They all went to bed that night happier men than they had any right to be.

  49

  Back at the Ships, Ned was in full flow. He’d seen the like before, many’s and many’s the time. He’d heard all the pros and cons for and the pros and cons against, but there was only one way to deal with this
sort of thing that he knew. They had to do what the Brits themselves had done. Hunker down and defend themselves. Close the border, is the bottom line. Dig out the big potholes, so no car can get by. Dump hardcore on the wee back lane. Take up the cattle grids on the other lanes, so none could pass except over the wee bridge, which they’d have well watched. Slow them down. There was story after story of the Brits drifting over the border accidentally-on-purpose and whoops what do you know, stumbling upon a squad who just happened to be passing. Take no chances. Give them no excuse.

  And then pick our moment, and hit them hard. Start right now. Get things in motion tonight. The squib was ready, all the groundwork was done, it was just a question of getting the wheels turning, and choosing a day. Sid had been working on this one for years. Him and Diamond would do the come-on. They were to drive past in the van, then drop the back door and shoot out from behind the armour plating. Then high-tail it out of there. That would bring a few of them out, and Budd would start to roll the horsebox forward. A thousand pounds of nitrate, with a Semtex booster. Bang. Carnage. And Achill was to target the survivors. That was always the plan. But Pig himself would step in there. No better man.

  Then back to the Ships and just dare them to come and get us.

  The day was picked. The job was on.

  50

  The night before, Pig had a funny old dream. An oul woman came down and stood on the roof of the Ships, and she screamed at them all to get up and fight, this was the day they would live or die, and it was theirs for the taking. She was the oul woman you’d see in them drawings and paintings about the Celts and the druids. The woman in the long dress who was always crying at a grave.

  He woke up feeling a thousand per cent. Blood pumping. Like he was seventeen and ready to head out on a float, nothing planned, just driving around looking for any old Brit to take a pop at. Those were the fucking days.

  Well, them days were back. Here they all were, with a shooting gallery of Brits ready waiting, and the job all set. What were they about, if it wasn’t taking on the enemy? Diamond was right. You might as well go home if you weren’t going to fight. Take the war to them bastards. Remind them what they were up against.

  He got his gear together. The necklace he was given by the ANC boys when they were over to visit, hard wee square beads, black and green and yellow, strung on a whang. The scapular the Basques left behind, that he kissed every time he stepped out the door. The wee skull ring he was given by the header from Farc, when he came over to observe their training, and give a few tips himself.

  Two Armalites in the boot of the car, that he’d had customised. A guitar strap on one, with the word Whitesnake and the big curly snake, that he’d bought off the lad with the ponytail at the guitar shop in Armagh. Damn it, that boy could play.

  Pig loved looking at the snake. It was strong. It was evil. It didn’t give a fuck.

  He dug it out from the clatter of loose tapes by the bed, put it on the stereo. Here I Go Again. That was the stuff. He wanted to bang the old head, but he hadn’t the hair for it these days. He whacked it up full for the chorus all the same. A good oul tune always gave you the shove you needed. He’d made up his mind. He wasn’t wasting no more time.

  And a brace of shorts in his jeans, stuck behind the belt at the back. A couple of spare clips under the seat. Properly tooled up.

  He drove out to the top of the Danann Fort, round where there was the wee car park. The rest of them were all met again. They sat there, the engines ticking over. Nobody spoke. Just smoked a Regal or sat looking out over the country. Their own country. They were taking it back today, or they would die trying. That’s what it felt like. They all knew that generations of men had done the same. Sat or stood or ran or rode horses on this same ground, over them same fields, fighting thon same enemy. Some of them were the very same families, and he was willing to bet some of the Brits were too. Bad blood.

  One day it would be over. One day the last fight would start. Why not today?

  And on that day, he knew, he knew with no shadow of a doubt, they would win. When that fight was done, they would be free at last. And if it wasn’t this time, then when that blessed day did come, his name would be spoke out among the list of heroes. Robert Emmet. Wolfe Tone. Charles Stewart Parnell. Padraig Pearse. Michael Collins. Dan Breen. Bobby Sands. Shane Campbell. Those men fought hard for the true cause every one, but anybody says they didn’t fight as well for their own glory, to be remembered as heroes, had never lifted a weapon in anger. That was what drove you to the line. Otherwise you’d let somebody else do it. But no.

  And Pig had done more than most. If he sat quiet and listened, he could near hear the glory pumping through his veins. When you started, they always told you the average was a year before you got plugged, or arrested, or had to flit. Not him. He thought of every kill he had his name on. Five of them, plus the Brit that Dog caught that time. More than most. In between there’d been loads of others they’d got ready that they didn’t go ahead with, or called off at the last minute, or sat outside the man’s house and then just didn’t feel right about it, like as if somebody was watching them, too many strange faces hanging around, and so they packed up and went home. Probably a hundred jobs they discussed, and twenty they planned, and half a dozen got ready to go, for every one that went ahead. And out of those, some were hits and plenty were misses. Of all the operations they set in motion, you were lucky if one out of fifty made the news. Most people never appreciated it was hard fucking work. Tedious. Frustrating. Soul-destroying.

  The first was a UDR reservist. Easy pickings, but it kept the pressure on and drove the wedge in, for the outrage on the ground stopped the moderates getting too cosy with each other. Pig had been doing bits and pieces since he was fourteen, but that time his da asked him did he want to get his hands dirty, and he said he did. His da said Tubs Kelly would look after him, and he himself would know nothing about it and he didn’t want to know. Pig went up to Donegal for training one long weekend. There wasn’t much to it. When they got back, Tubs said he was ready. He talked Pig through it a few times, and then said just do exactly what I do. The two of them waited parked in a car at the man’s house, for him getting home from work. They saw him pull in and get out. There was a crazy-paving path up to the front door. Pig saw the hall light go on and the front door open and a wee girl’s voice shouting out ‘Daddy, Daddy! I won!’ They got out of the car. Tubs took his short out and held the wrist with the other hand. Pig did the same. Tubs called the man’s name, and the man looked around. Tubs emptied the bullets into him, six or seven. Pig did the same. The first few when he was standing there, the rest on the ground, right in the face. He saw the skull crack apart and the brains running out. They were getting back in the car when Pig heard screaming coming from the house. Tubs took off and didn’t stop till they were over the border. Listening to every news until it was read out. Like the football results. Fist in the air when it was. That made it real, and worth having done.

  The next was the same year. A garage man that used to fix vehicles for the police and the army. The statement after was going to say he’d been warned off, and there was a bit of debate before about whether he really had been or not. In the end Pig said it didn’t matter, it was well known this carry-on made anyone a legitimate target and he would get what was coming to him. It was the usual drill. They were passed the address, and they had dickers watching him for weeks, getting a feel for his routine. Then Sid went out and did a close study, and timed the whole thing. The man was like clockwork. It was going to be a piece of piss. Big hedges round his house you could hide a cow in. The two of them waited for him to come out. But they were only there about ten minutes when he appeared, far earlier than they were expecting. He stepped out of the house, and they went to move, but at the same time he turned and headed back, like as if he’d forgot something. Pig went to duck back in the hedge but Tubs had jumped on out. They saw the man see them and run inside. They went after him and got him in the li
ving room. As they lined up, he was shouting, ‘What did I do? What did I do?’ His neck burst open and big holes tore in his chest, pink gristle and white bone. Only when it was on the news did they find out they’d shot the brother of the man they were looking for. Their boy was on his holidays and the brother was going in to feed the cat. He was an insurance man, no connection with anything. They put it out that he was raising money for loyalist paramilitaries, but nobody believed it. It was took as a sectarian killing, and a Catholic in Belfast got shot dead in his taxi two nights later to even the score. Just one of them things.

  The next was a few months later. Him and Tubs waited outside a reserve RUC man’s house in the morning, when he was heading out. They’d robbed a British Telecom van and dressed up in the gear, with a box of tools open beside them. They were fiddling at the bottom of a phone pole, but Tubs told him not to fuck with anything or they might knock off the phones for the whole town. Pig was looking at the wires, trying to work out what connected to what and how the whole damn thing worked, when he got a dig in the ribs from Tubs. The man was out the front door and walking to his car. Tubs had said Pig could shout the name this time. He was a stickler for that now. He said it kept him up at night worrying he might get the wrong man again. He wasn’t a fucking psycho. So Pig stood up and said the name, and your man turned around with a big grin, like as if he was expecting them and they were bringing him a present, and said, ‘Yes, gentlemen?’ And Pig raised the short and put three in the man’s chest. He was waiting for him to fall but he just stood there, pishing blood out of three wee holes. He raised the gun to put another one in the man’s face but he looked so surprised and like his feelings were hurt that Pig didn’t want to, and so he lowered it and shot him in the bollocks instead. He didn’t know why he did that. The man fell then and started screaming, and Tubs came over and put another three in his head. Hair and teeth and rotten stuff all over the tidy wee lawn. The fucking stink of it. Pig kept feeling like he could smell it off his hands for weeks after. In the car and away.