Country

by Michael Hughes

  He knew the man at the pumping station with his hand on that tap. Ivan McAlpine. A loyal Orange hood, and they’d tried to get him a couple of times. Now the boot was on the other foot. The Brits had set him up. Covered all the angles. Quick phone calls were easy to make, no questions asked. We need a wee thing done the night. Everybody owed everybody something, and if they didn’t, they soon would. You know yourself.

  Achill was near crying that he might go like this. ‘This isn’t the death I’m owed, after all I done. God almighty, I’ll do anything if you’ll only let me have a soldier’s death, even if it’s before I get my revenge. If I’m to be killed by the SAS this day, let me go and face it like a man, but I’ll not die like this!’

  Before he knew what, he was lying on the bank on his back, coughing up dirty water. He saw the face of the local Shinner, Big Sheila. That mighty woman must have waded in and hauled him out.

  ‘Do what you have to do, Achill. Just don’t fuck with the talks.’

  And she was away.

  75

  Inside in the mess, the squaddies who’d been out all day were pissed, slumped, heaped, slipping in sick and slops of spilt beer. The music pumped, the disco lights coloured them red and blue and red again. A few jerked around and ground with local girls ferried in through the back gate from friendly farms and towns. The brass turned a blind eye. The men needed a break. Let them drink themselves stupid. Drown your sorrows. Tomorrow you’ll be back in the field.

  76

  Achill saw his man. Was that him? It was the same white car. Sneaky fucker.

  Back to Plan A. He skirted the water and hopped back in his own motor, lit off after. Headed up to Pennymount, the Protestant estate.

  Hot on his tail. A hand waved out the window, and the car pulled in on the far side of the estate. Achill drew up beside.

  It wasn’t Henry. Our old friend Mr Paul Bright.

  ‘You dirty cunt.’

  ‘Did you want a word, Mr O’Brien?’

  ‘You’ve cheated me. That was my one chance to get in there among them. I would have been our Michael Stone. Revenge for the boy. And you’ve denied me that.’

  ‘I can’t say I’m terribly upset.’

  ‘And you know well I daren’t touch you. The Top Men deal. You lay off ours, and we lay off yours. If I take the lid off that one we could be in this mess for another generation.’

  ‘That just about sums it up.’

  ‘May you rot in hell when your time comes.’

  ‘Save me a seat. But don’t let me hold you up just now. You’ll find your man is ready waiting for you. No need to sneak around. We know what you’re about, and we’re game. Take him on, with our compliments. And the best of British to both of you.’

  77

  Henry had stepped out when Achill drove away. Thank you, Mr Bright. I owe you one. He dug himself in away around the side, by the castle ruin, solo, watching for the return. Calm. Centred. Ready.

  Bernard was on the radio. He’d heard the plan too late. He blew a gasket. Now he wouldn’t leave him alone.

  ‘Don’t take him on, Henry. I’ve lost too many good men, and I can’t bear to lose the best I’ve seen serve under me. Think of the future. You could have a glittering career ahead of you in London. The foreign service, journalism, Parliament if you want. Make a real difference, if you choose to. I have excellent connections in clubland, they’ll set you up with a safe seat. The sky’s the limit for a man like you.

  ‘But if you take on this player today, you’ll be a scratch on a monument, a footnote in a history book, a sticky picture in your widow’s purse. There’s no glory in this conflict. Maybe for a young man, when you think you can take on the world, but you and I know better. It mustn’t happen. Think of what it means, to both sides. If they can take you, they can take all of us. I see it every time I close my eyes. I see them flooding through the gates, climbing the walls, spraying rounds and tossing grenades. You don’t know what it is to get to my age, and still know you might be ripped apart in this awful place. An old man shouldn’t die like that, torn in pieces for the very dogs we feed at the gate to chew my cock and balls, lap up my running blood. It burns me up.

  ‘Your mother has been on the blower begging us to order you in. She asked me to read this to you, and I will. She says, If ever I comforted you when you cried, if ever I gave you life at my own breast, then please give me some comfort in return, and take him on from behind the walls. If this man gets hold of you, we won’t have a chance to mourn. There won’t be enough of you left to bury. Spare us that. If you must die, let us say goodbye with honour. Let us have one last look. We need a chance to make our peace with it, so the rest of our lives aren’t consumed with grief and madness.’

  Henry switched off his comms. Enough. Blame it on a faulty battery. It happens.

  His fucking mother. Of all the idiotic things.

  He waited, trying to feel ready, like a snake coiled.

  His training. His years in the field. Second nature.

  It wasn’t there.

  He’d lost it. Couldn’t get it back. Nothing. Nothing.

  He was just a tired, aching man, waiting to die.

  Oh, Christ. Christ.

  In his heart, he had every thought.

  Go back. But they’ll sneer at me if I go back. Polly will, who urged me to stay in, and I refused. He was right, I should have. I’ve fucked it, for everyone. Back at base, they’ll say I brought him on to attack them, some half-crazed bogtrotter not half the man I am. They’ll crucify me.

  Could I go unarmed to negotiate with O’Brien? Offer to turn over Campbell’s wife, and throw in a pay-off?

  I could let him take the base. Yes. Yes. An unprecedented victory. Offer him the weapons, the intel, all of it, anything, as long as they spare my life.

  Good God. What am I, trying to chat him up like a girl? If I step out there to talk, he’s just as likely to shoot me down in cold blood. I have to take him on. I have no choice.

  He saw Achill walking from the car, straight towards him, head down, looking like a mural. He started shaking. He couldn’t stop.

  Please, Christ, not now.

  I can’t, I can’t.

  I can’t.

  He ran.

  Still thinking, what should I do? Should I take him on? Should I retreat?

  But his heart had decided. His bones. Already running.

  This was who he was. No escaping it now.

  78

  Achill ran too. Ran hard.

  Henry followed the path around the castle ruin, Achill on his tail, baying for blood. Their four feet, thumping down on the grass, through the briars, over the two streams, the clumps of white suds from the drains of the base, that Achill remembered crawling up round once when they were trying to see if that could be a way in, the steam coming out from the laundry inside, and he lost touch for a second with the man he was after, up past the soiled black earth where the bakery used to be before it burned down, but no, there he was again. They ran. They ran like the prize was Olympic gold, but the only prize on offer here was Henry’s life. Three times around the old walls they ran, like horses flying around the Killinamoy races. Like a dog on a deer, and Achill roared at his ones to stand down when he saw a couple step up ready to get stuck in, that he’d have the fingers off any man who pulled a trigger and robbed him.

  And a certain local politician sitting inside in the base, Mr Paul Bright, gave a glance towards his old friend Polly, who shook his head just a tiny amount. Enough. Leave him.

  Big Sheila saw them turn the third time. She had an idea what to do. She ran by as they passed and shouted to Achill that there was more Brits coming. Just like she knew, Achill didn’t seem to give a fuck.

  But it wasn’t for Achill’s benefit she said it. It was for Henry’s. So he might think there was backup on the way and he’d maybe have a chance, if he stood his ground.

  It worked. The blood came pumping back into Henry’s limbs when he heard that word.

 
; One of my brothers will fight alongside me.

  He stopped, skidded, tumbled, then back on his feet, turned, raised his hands.

  ‘Stop! Stop!’

  Panting like fuck, he could hardly get the words out.

  Achill stopped, and raised his long.

  ‘Wait! Wait! Listen! Wait!’

  Achill waited. Listened. Took in the man before him.

  ‘O’Brien. Listen. I won’t run. Not any more. It’s time. One of us will kill, one of us will die. But I want to make a pact. Do you understand? With you. Now.’

  He bent, let the breath draw in slow. Good. There. Now. He stood again.

  ‘Listen. Whichever is left standing, please, the other must allow the proper authorities to take charge of the scene. To do what they need to do. There must be law, there must be order. I have a family, you have a family. We each deserve whatever we get, I know that, but our families are innocents. My only fear, her only fear, is that I disappear, and they never know. They never have a body to mourn. Don’t torment them beyond the deed itself. And I swear I’ll do the same. I won’t tamper, I won’t hide a thing. The full truth will be out in the open for all to see. Do this with honour. Be the man you are.’

  ‘You listen to me now, Brit. Lions and men don’t make deals. A wolf and a lamb only ever want the worst for each other. Get ready to pay for the misery you’ve imposed upon a dozen Irish families. And for my own.’

  Henry’s voice was strangled in his throat. He yelped out, hating the sound of it.

  ‘Wait! Wait! Listen to me. Please. Please. I respect you. I respect your fight. This is your fight. Me, now, here. I see that. But you’ve never targeted an innocent man. I’ve seen your file. You did what you had to do, as a soldier, and walked away. Don’t ruin that now. My wife, my child, are not your enemy. Don’t torment the innocent. They’re not to blame.’

  Achill never twitched. He fixed him cold. The words came flying out of him.

  ‘Too fucking bad, Brit. You brought them into this, not me. If you’d stayed in your own country, minding your own business, they’d have nothing to cry about. None of them would. You know how we operate. You call them innocent, but the same blood is on their hands too. You come here in the name of your people, and rain down evil on our people. That makes your whole country black with the same guilt. Ye all cry foul, but you fucking started this fight. Nobody made you come here and take what didn’t belong to you. And you could walk away any time you like. But you chose this instead. You can’t say you didn’t know it was coming. Every soldier knows. Now get ready to die.’

  Crouched down now behind a fallen trunk, Achill took a shot.

  Henry hit the floor. He listened for the backup. He’d given them enough time.

  There was nothing. He was alone.

  They’d tricked him. The idiot he was, trusting a voice from nowhere.

  But the base must be able to see. They must know. Surely they’ll send out a chopper, a support team, like they did for Alex, to whisk him away.

  Silence.

  No. Oh no, not that.

  He saw it now. London. Polly. They were hanging him out to dry. He knew too much. Getting flaky. Dead men tell no tales. A glorious martyr, to pile on the pressure, give them an edge in the talks. A poster boy who couldn’t spoil the story.

  The fucking spooks, the fucking politicians. Moving the pieces on the board, doling out life or death with a flick of the wrist. Not one of them was in harm’s way. Not one of them could ever die this death. He was charged to defend their will, their country’s honour, but all he could ever defend was his own life. It wasn’t their blood on the road. It never would be. They didn’t understand.

  No. They understood. They didn’t care.

  A deal had been done. Men of their word before men of mercy. The long game.

  79

  Henry knew now. He was going to die.

  And peace came on him at last. It was simple. It was clear. The only thing left was Anna and Max. I have to fight, he thought. I have to fight with courage and with honour, so they can hold their heads high. They will know the man I was. I will know.

  He threw himself at Achill.

  The two men tumbled, wrestling hard.

  Hard on the road, knocking the wind out of them. Both scrambled clear.

  Achill saw now what Henry had on. His own gear, his old body armour. The stuff he got in Libya nine years ago, that he’d wore on every job he’d done. He knew how strong it was. And he knew exactly where it was weak.

  He ran for Henry again, short in his hand now. That was the way. Close in, like Diamond always said. Let him see you. Let him smell you. Tell him why.

  The short dug in under the ribs, at the side. The gap on the left, where the strap didn’t close right. One shot, that was all.

  Henry felt the barrel tight against his gut.

  ‘Listen! Listen! Swear you’ll let them take me home. Please.’

  Achill was snarling like a beast.

  ‘I wish I was minded to eat you raw, that I had thon animal passion. You deserve no more. Pat deserves no less.’

  ‘The life you lead is the death you deserve,’ says Henry. ‘They’ll treat you how you treat me. Spare me, and spare yourself.’

  Achill pulled the trigger.

  And that was the end of it.

  80

  A single bullet did the job, but one by one the rest of the squad came up, and each put a bullet in him, for what him and the SAS had done to them, to their comrades.

  ‘That’s it finished,’ says Achill. ‘Wait and see now how long do they cling on to our land.’

  Achill backed his car up to the body. He popped the boot, and tied the new rope to the tow bar. The other end tight round the legs. Then he untied it, and turned the body face down, tied it again. Nobody could look.

  He dragged Henry back down the track to the Ships behind his car. The head bounced off the road. A trail of him all the way there, for the dogs and the birds.

  81

  Holland Park. Sunday night.

  Max was deep asleep, ready for nursery. Starting half-days, to ease him in. At eighteen months, her mother thought it too soon. Henry thought it not soon enough.

  Nobody asked Anna what she thought. She was left to soothe and balance, as best she could. Steer the middle course. Keep the ship afloat.

  But tonight was her time. She was on the phone, arguing with the architect. An old schoolfriend of Henry’s, who claimed to know just what he liked. How could he know? The arrogance. These people. She knew.

  Henry loved his bath. Anna had a thing about drowning, which meant she’d never been able to learn to swim. This house had a crappy old tub she never used, except to stand in for a shower. She had always resisted his moans. Too small, too shabby. It just wasn’t a priority, she told him. There was so much else to do first.

  But she saw now. This was what he meant when they rowed, as they did now almost every time they were alone together. She was only thinking of herself. She asked of him, no, she demanded of him, that he think of her, and the child, before himself, but she wouldn’t do the same in return.

  Now she would. Fire with fire. She’d learned that from him.

  He always surprised her when he came back on leave, with something up his sleeve. A trip, a meal, a piece of jewellery. Somehow, she never saw it coming. Now it was his turn. She couldn’t stop smiling at the thought of his face. His lovely smile. His eyes closed, soaking there for hours. She would show him what it was to be a wife. His wife. Make a real family, at last. All she wanted. All she’d ever wanted.

  She hung up the phone, nothing settled. Her eye was starting to flick. A bloody migraine coming on. Could she risk uncorking a fresh bottle? Perhaps not. So much to do tomorrow. She turned on the radio, to drown out her buzzing thoughts.

  ‘The soldier has not yet been named. Sinn Fein disputed the army’s account, calling it British propaganda. But a government spokesman said that in spite of this latest atrocity, talks next week will p
roceed as planned, and hopes for a new ceasefire remain intact.’

  She felt the old cold fear she knew too well. But for once, she forced herself to take his good advice. She found she was able to sit on it, breathe through it, step outside her fear, just as he’d always told her. After all, what were the chances? One in ten thousand. Just spare a thought for the poor widow whose turn it was, and get on with your day.

  The phone rang. Three times, before she let in the thought.

  She couldn’t answer it. Stop. Stop.

  It clicked through to the answering machine.

  Her own voice, droning the message.

  She stopped breathing. She didn’t deserve to.

  She couldn’t bear to stand and listen. She grabbed the handset.

  ‘Hello! Hello!’

  Silence.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Anna? It’s Bernard King. I’m sorry to disturb you at home, but I wanted to call you personally, before the MOD does. I’m afraid I have the most dreadful news.’

  82

  Why was she kneeling? Why couldn’t she stand?

  She’d fainted? Was that it?

  But she hadn’t quite. She couldn’t. The baby was crying.

  I’m alone.

  No. Max, in my arms. I picked him up, without thinking. My body knew how. Gave him the breast. Tears dripping onto her nipple, trickling on his lips.

  It’s my fault, Max. It’s my fault. I dragged you into this. Your mother is a selfish bitch. Idiot. Idiot. What was I thinking? What was I thinking? I just wanted you to have a happy childhood, with a wonderful father, and now. All your life. Where’s your daddy, Max? Isn’t he coming to pick you up? Why isn’t your daddy at football? Is Daddy going to take me to the park? But I want Daddy to give me my bath. I want Daddy to read me a story. I don’t want you, Mummy. I want Daddy. I want my own daddy. I want my daddy back now!