‘Those assumptions are the delusions of man. It is our tribal instinct — we organise ourselves around an us and a them. We’ve taken God down to our level.’
‘An us and a them. That makes a lot of sense, Aisling, I’ll give you that. But if God does exist, why must He be a he? Only a woman could have given birth to the Earth. And only a woman could then let it be. Men can’t do that. Men are compulsive adjusters, manipulators, developers. Men take something and make something else from it. They want to force elements and shapes to their own will; they are not capable of clean creation. There’s only one thing men can make from nothing.’
‘What’s that, then?’
‘War.’
‘Well, I guess most don’t think it through, Johnny. The church is as vulnerable to the weaknesses of man as you and I. The absence of the church has led to no utopia — only to the neglect of the individual. Show me the ideal churchless state, if you can.’
‘A vigorous defence, Aisling Flannery. Fair dues to you. Yes, idealism and extremism are the default remedies of man. But they only lead to tyranny. And that’s a sad thing, isn’t it?’
We stay until the fire dies. I lift a burned ember from the ashes and let it cool in the grass. When it has cooled I lift it again, wrap it in my handkerchief, and put it into the pocket of the Dunn & Co. We leave the mount and walk down to Níth River Terrace, where we drink tea and talk, and later she hugs me as we part.
‘Cora had something extraordinary,’ I say to her as I leave. ‘It was as if she still carried an ancient way, as if it was born with her.’
‘Cora was a special girl. She was Ireland made flesh.’
‘Yes, I have thought that, too,’ I say. ‘Maybe it was Ériu, or Danu herself, who walked a while among us.’
The distance of fall
IT IS THE SECOND OF NOVEMBER, AND I AM IN NEWRY WITH THE BARRETT. It is said, by those who read and speak and teach and preach about war and battle and all that stuff, that snipers are a kind apart: that we don’t play by the rules, that we are solitary players in a team sport. Well, perhaps that is so. I don’t play, and, anyhow, I don’t know what the rules are. Rules aren’t drafted by those who lie in cold ditches and put bullets into strangers. But, then, this is no sport, and I don’t care what they say. I bring fear and confusion to the enemy. This is my role. With this gun, I will take ten lives. I will level the score. And I shall be independent. There is as big a threat to me from this side as there is from the enemy. My survival relies on concealment and self-reliance. My success depends on cunning, patience, fortitude, observation, and accuracy. Delaney has taught me well. I shall remain calm. I shall maintain attention to detail. That is, of course, if I don’t go mad. There is that risk. I laugh, quietly, and settle.
I found an old booklet on sniping in the library in Dublin: Rogers’ Rules of Ranging, from 1757 — it wouldn’t have been called sniping then. Don’t forget nothing, it begins. Have your muskets clean as a whistle. Act the way you would if you were sneaking up on a deer. See the enemy first. Never take a chance. Don’t ever march home the same way. Take a different route back. Well, whatever they called it, not much has changed — that’s still good advice. Rogers, I remember, did go on to add: Let the enemy come close enough to touch, then let him have it. Then jump up and finish him off with your tomahawks. Well, what a way to finish. He must have been some lunatic altogether.
I have read, too, of Simo Häyhä. When Russia invaded Finland in the winter of 1939, Simo took to the snow and the woods with his rifle. One by one, he killed over five hundred Russians. Five hundred and five confirmed kills by one man and one gun. He used only an iron sight to keep low. He compacted the snow in front of the rifle so as not to give himself away, and he kept snow in his mouth so there would be no vapour. With these small methods, he took all those Russians. And every time he got in, he got out. Simo Häyhä: the greatest lunatic of all.
Then there were the Germans. Under Himmler’s orders, there was a snipers’ programme and code: Fight fanatically. Shoot calm. Your greatest enemy is the enemy sniper. Outsmart him. Become a master in camouflage and terrain. Survival is ten parts camouflage and one part firing. That’s about it, all right; that’s the secret wrapped up there. But that’s the Germans for you; it’s no surprise that they got it right. Well, I have read their programme and code, and I have learned their lessons. Vielen dank, Herr Himmler.
The American once spoke to me of Marine Sergeant Carlos Hathcock — ‘Gunny Sergeant Hathcock’, he called him — a docile young man from the cotton fields of Arkansas who found the theatre of the jungle of Vietnam to be his calling. Hathcock stuck a white feather in his bush hat, put his eye to the scope of a sniper’s rifle, and took ninety-three Viet Cong lives. War can do that: it can change a lapdog into a wolf. And it isn’t about the killing; it is just that the job fits.
I clear my mind and focus on the gun. Today is a long shot. I am eleven hundred yards from the target. That’s thirty-three hundred feet; that’s a long way. It is the longest shot I have tried. At this distance, neither he nor I can look on the other with the human eye. Only through the scope do I see him. Delaney says that now I am showing off. Maybe he’s right, but who cares? I measure the range, the elevation, the temperature, the humidity, and the wind speed. I calculate my scope settings, but he is so far away I need to allow for the curve and rotation of the Earth. For this shot — as well as field-craft and marksmanship — I need to be a mathematician. This stuff really can blow the head off you.
Through the scope, I watch every detail of the patrol. I select my target. I watch his movement, his pace of step, his gait, his habit of fixing his collar with his left hand. I watch how far and how fast he bends over to speak with drivers of cars he is stopping and checking. Some hardly bend at all and remain upright and stiff and speak to drivers from an arm’s distance. Some drop to their haunches and speak to drivers face to face. Some bend and get close. He bends. He bends and chats, and that is a mistake. He gives me what I need most: he gives me time.
At this distance, the round will take two seconds to travel from gun to target. That gives the target time to move. I have two choices: either I need to calculate where the target is going to be after the shot and aim there, or I need to take the shot when I guess the target is in a static position. His bending and chatting give me the advantage.
I look to my notebook to confirm the calculations. The round will leave the rifle at two thousand eight hundred feet a second. Gravity then plays a part. At three hundred yards, the round will drop seven inches. At six hundred yards, it will drop sixty-eight inches. At eleven hundred yards, the round will drop three-hundred-and-sixty-nine inches. That’s over thirty feet. That’s the arc of trajectory the round will take, that’s the distance of fall, that’s what I allow for, and that’s what I calibrate into the scope. I adjust for the crosswind from the south-west. It is consistent between me and the target, and there are no intervening or contradictory crosswinds and no major buildings providing a wind shadow. Although the round will slow, it will still be travelling at one thousand feet per second when it hits the target. At that speed, and with this calibre round, the bullet will not just go through him — it will rip him apart.
A car stops, and he bends. I put the crosshairs on him. I take the shot.
It is mid-November, and I am on my bed reading in Station Road.
You’re going great guns now, Bob says, as he sits at my desk. I suppose you think you are a great fella.
I ignore him.
It is late November, and I visit Delaney.
‘Word has it that there is a new leak,’ he offers. ‘Myself, I think there is a British operative living in town — someone under cover. A brave man, but that would make the most sense. Though I have no idea who he is, or who he is talking to.’
‘Any word on who’s the tout, Chief?’
‘Not your concern
, John,’ he answers. ‘Stick to what you’re good at, and let others take care of that.’
‘Just curious,’ I lie.
It is December and cold, and I am near the village of Keady. I have the gun readied on an eight-man army patrol. I am caressing the Barrett to the step of a lance bombardier. I stay on his stride and I count myself down: five, and four, and three, and two, and one, and … His steady pace has killed him.
I am in Ennis, and walking home to my room on Station Road. Delaney intercepts me, and walks alongside.
‘I have him,’ he says. ‘Another SAS superspy wannabe. For queen and country and the glow of the battalion spotlight. Where do they get these clowns? But it will be for our tomorrow, John, that he will give his today.’ Delaney stops and looks to me. ‘He’s working out of the snooker hall, pumping it for all it’s worth. He’s running under the name Baldwin, says he’s a returned emigrant. The naivety of their eager foolishness is almost enchanting. But he must think he is making progress: he’s staying, and he seems to have some weekend meet thing going. I’m going to leave him in place — there’s no danger to us in there — and I’ll start feeding him to our own end.’
‘Who’s he pumping?’
‘Not your concern. You leave this alone. Anyway, what would anyone there know? It would be nothing but bluster; it would be all blow. Best stay away from there for a while.’
‘Well, I don’t play much now; just the odd game with Éamon or Declan. Sloane and Boyd are regulars there, though.’
‘Stay away from those two fools, John, do you hear me? Let them be. They know nothing, and can do no harm.’
‘All right, Chief, I hear you,’ I lie. ‘But touts have to be taken out. And in full view. It’s the only way to stop them. We need to make a declaration. Anything else is playing their game.’
‘I’ve made a decision, John. And we will all abide by it. It behoves us to take maximum advantage of all potential. You are to stay away from that place, and that’s that.’
Behoves us. What the fuck does that mean? I watch the man below the trilby walk away — there will be a car waiting in another part of town — and I wonder why he came all this way to tell me not to do something.
It is a weekend in mid-December, and I spend the afternoon and evening in the snooker hall. I play a few games with Declan, and after he leaves I play on my own. Sloane and Boyd come and go, but they don’t stay when they see me.
‘Who’s this chap that’s fairly new here?’ I ask Jimmy, the man in the booth who has managed the snooker hall for the fourteen years I have been coming here. ‘The chap who plays regular, but is someone you’d never seen before a year ago?’
‘I’d have to think about that one, young Donnelly,’ Jimmy answers, sucking his lips into his mouth. ‘Leave it with me.’
Later he approaches. ‘Just couldn’t think until he walked in. Dark-haired chap, table four. Moved home from England. Baldwin, his name is.’
‘Good man, Jimmy,’ I say. ‘And, Jimmy,’ I add as he goes to walk away, ‘not a word.’
‘Understood.’ He nods and returns to his post behind the counter. I watch him go, and he turns to me and nods once more before continuing with his work.
I play for another hour and then leave. I cross the street, and I stand in a back alley where I can watch the snooker-hall door. I open a fresh pack of Carroll’s No. 1, and I wait. Just before ten o’clock, he leaves and walks towards the carpark at the rear of the nearby hotel. I hear a car door open and close. An engine starts, and a car drives off.
It is Sunday evening, and I am again in the alley across from the snooker hall. Again, just before ten o’clock, he leaves and walks towards the carpark at the rear of the hotel. I stay in the alley. I hear a car door open and close. I hear no engine. I wait. I hear the door open and close again. He must be coming back. I wait, but nothing. Shit, what is going on? I risk walking out into the side street and I keep close to the wall of the hotel. A couple of drunks are sitting on the steps of a service entrance, a bottle of cheap wine on the concrete between them.
‘All right there, our-fella?’ one of the drunks asks, and I see he is about to rise and approach me. I look to him, and he retreats to the step.
I approach the carpark. I see a dark outline in a car. It is him. He is parked in the far corner, in the shadow of a high wall. I look above me to see that the car is out of view of the hotel security cameras. He bends forward and I see a second outline; someone is with him. If they turn, they will see me. I draw back. After twenty minutes, I hear a car door open and close, and an engine start. I walk into the side street as the car drives away from me. I look around, but whoever got into that car is gone. I run into the snooker hall and note who is and isn’t there. Sloane and Boyd are missing. It must be Sloane; it must be that slimy bastard.
I am in the Imperial Hotel café reading the Irish Times. It is the Saturday before Christmas, and the streets of the town centre are full with shoppers. The hotel, too, is busy and I don’t notice her enter.
‘John Donnelly, isn’t it?’
I look up. It doesn’t take long to place her — not many have the look of Loreto Delaney.
‘Johnny,’ I say. ‘Your father is the only one who calls me John.’
‘Broke from the same stone you two are, though you both hide it well, for some reason.’
I don’t say anything. Loreto Delaney had already moved to America when I first started visiting the Delaney home, and I only met her there once.
‘Yes, John, Mother tells me everything. His star pupil, you were, Mother says. He had high hopes for you.’
‘Sorry to disappoint you all.’
‘You don’t disappoint me, darling.’ And she sits down across from me and unbuttons her coat. I am remembering the one time we met. The dark coat she wore then has been replaced with one of a new design. Her black hair is cut to a neat bob, and surrounds her powdered white face. Her fiery-red lipstick assaults me with her every word. There is a fragrance in the air, a sweet mix of carnation and vanilla.
‘What is that perfume?’ I ask.
‘Bold, aren’t you?’ she answers. ‘It is L’Heure Bleue. By Guerlain. French, of course.’
‘How’s California treating you?’
‘I’m getting divorced. Infidelity, it’s a messy business, John. I just need a break, so I’ve come home to Mother.’
‘I’m sorry for your troubles.’
‘No trouble, really. The pleasure was all mine. The trouble is all his.’
‘So how is Mother?’
‘Absent, to tell the truth, John. The two of them are away in Tipperary for a few days. Left me all alone, the selfish buggers. Isn’t it just fine that I have you now to mind me?’
And she gives me that look, that same look she gave me all those years ago when I met her as I walked home from Mass in Saint Joseph’s.
We have lunch together in the hotel restaurant where we drink Margaux — her insistence — and she tells me about California.
‘I’d love to go to California sometime,’ I confess.
‘You must, darling. You simply must come to visit me.’
After lunch we move to the hotel bar, where we order another bottle of Margaux from the restaurant, and the dark evening has already rolled in when she suggests that I walk her home. Arm in arm, we walk the short journey to the redbrick house near the town centre. She leaves the curtains open, so the street light filters through the window blind, and she shows in yellowed tones above me, naked, as she pushes down on me.
‘Just to walk me home, you were,’ she says, as she drives her fingernails into my chest. ‘Just to walk me home, you bad boy,’ she continues, as she pumps with intent becoming fury, her hips crashing down on me, her black bob flying, L’Heure Bleue in the air — French, of course. ‘Just to walk me home, John Donnelly. You are a
bad, bad, bad boy.’
It is Sunday evening. I am in the dark alley across from the snooker hall. I have a black woollen cap rolled back on my head. I have a half-full wine bottle in the pocket of an old coat I got in a charity store. In the other pocket I have the Glock.
I know they will meet. People are susceptible to habit — it helps to keep things simple and tidy, but it can also help to get you killed. I wait. Just before ten o’clock, he leaves the snooker hall and walks to the carpark at the rear of the hotel. I hear a car door open and close. After five minutes, I hear another door open and close. I pull my black woollen cap down low on my head, and I move. I walk into the side street and quickly walk to the carpark. I reach into my side pocket and remove the bottle of wine. I enter the carpark staggering, and drift towards the far corner. I see two people in the car. I think I recognise the shape in the passenger seat. It’s that fucker, Sloane. I approach the car. I drop an empty can of Coke that I’m carrying, and start to kick it around the carpark. I sing the song of a drunken man — all long, whiny notes, and joined and incomprehensible words. I drift nearer and nearer to the back of the car as I kick the Coke can through the carpark. I see that he watches me in his rear mirror. I drop the wine. It crashes on the ground. I raise my left arm and cheer. The driver door opens, and the Englishman steps out.
‘Fuck off, mate.’
I turn with the Glock raised, and I hold my arm straight and level as I shoot into the centre of his chest. He falls back into the angle of the open door and the car frame. He is holding on to both, his mouth is moving, but he is falling. I put another round into his chest, and walking to him I put another through his head.
I walk quickly to the passenger door. Sloane is rigid with fright. He stares straight forward. He does not look at the dead Englishman, and he does not turn to me. I pull the door open with my left hand and raise the gun quickly to Sloane’s head. He pisses himself on the passenger seat. I have to get a look at the bastard’s face one last time. Countless good Irishmen have died or have been imprisoned because of touting bastards like him. Sloane was always going to try to sell too much. It ends now. I drop my head as I shoot.
A Mad and Wonderful Thing Page 18
