A Mad and Wonderful Thing

by Mark Mulholland

  After, as I walk away, I see him again and again and again. He was trembling with panic and fear, staring blindly forward and calling for his mammy, my mammy. It wasn’t Sloane. It was Declan Donnelly, my brother.

  Three cheers for Johnny Donnelly

  IT IS THE END OF DECEMBER, AND I AM IN CROSSMAGLEN. AS I WAIT, I TRY to put Declan’s head out of my mind, so I try to remember the words of the songs I wrote with the boys, and I am singing ‘Crossmaglen Maggie’ as a guardsman walks into the scope.

  It is New Year’s Eve, and I am at home in Dundalk. In the early afternoon I walk to Seatown, where I sit at a bar. After two beers I move to another bar, and after more beer I move on to another. You wouldn’t do a bad thing, would you? I hear those words again as clear as I heard them on the walk over the mountain, as clear as I heard them when I stepped out of the alley and walked towards the hotel carpark, as clear as I heard them in Keady, Newry, Newtownhamilton, Forkhill, and Crossmaglen. No Cora, I told her on the mountain, I wouldn’t do a bad thing. I have killed eight with the big black gun, and where are we? Where am I? I have almost done what I set out to do. And what now? I have no fucking idea what now.

  I move on to town and sit in another bar, and then another. The Chief says there is a push for peace. But we both know a ceasefire will finish it; there will be no way back for a generation. A ceasefire will suit them more than it will suit us. It always does. They will reclaim the roads, and from there they will infest the communities. The war will be cut off at the throat; it will suffocate. Republican leaders are pushing for a political settlement. Bastards. It’s more of the same — another turn of the wheel. They grow old and they tire of the struggle. They’ll settle into the administration of the very thing they fought against all their young lives. The only fight left in them is the one among themselves in the rush for office. The wisdom of maturity, they will package it, their self-delusion. But wisdom is earned only by the very few, and it has nothing to do with maturity. Their kind of wisdom is just the absence of battle; it is the loss of the will to fight.

  I order another beer. Two girls approach the bar, and I sneer thickly to the nearest. She tells me to get lost.

  ‘How perfectly ironic,’ I say to her. ‘I couldn’t get more lost.’

  Both girls look at me. Yes, have a good look now; roll up, roll up, and take your fucking tickets. They move off to the other end of the bar. I call to the barman for that beer. There is chaos at home: Mam is hysterical. Dad is distraught. Declan mugged and shot dead along with some poor Englishman — shot dead for a few pound, shot dead by a drunk looking for cash. The police wouldn’t let them see the body. They asked me and Peter to identify him. How mad and cruel is that? Mam says she will never get over it, that she just wants to die with the shock of it. ‘Why would a drunk have a gun?’ Dad asks. ‘What in the name of God is the world coming to?’ Anna has been crying ever since. People came from everywhere to sympathise; I didn’t know most of them. They all shook my hand — the same hand that held the Glock, the same hand that shot Declan.

  I hear a voice: Pissed his fucking pants, mate. Pissed his fucking pants. I look across to bottles of whiskey on the back shelf of the bar, and I see Bob watching me from the glass between the Powers and the Black Bush. He doesn’t speak. He just stares at me. You think you know something, Bob? You know nothing. You think you have answers? Who the fuck are you, anyhow? What did you ever do to make a difference? You’re not real, you’re nothing but a gobshite, a total fucking gobshite. Where’s that beer? Cora wanted to teach Irish, to marry and have children, and to picnic at Cúchulainn’s Castle; Declan wanted money and a move to Blackrock. Well, that’s what Blackrock can do to a man. It was never a good idea. The English have always been able to buy a few Irish — that transaction defines us all. Mila wanted me to love her. It shouldn’t have been difficult; she is a beautiful girl. But I fucked it up. Only a fool would let a girl like that go. She offered all; I gave her next to nothing. Aisling wants me to see her in Dublin. I don’t think that I can go there — that would be just too fucked-up a thing, wouldn’t it? Funny-boy Frank wants a new car; he’s not so funny anymore. Éamon is still trying to find Éamon; it could be a long search. Big Robbie wants a drink, and then another. And Conor just wants someone to love, someone to go home to. Good old Conor, the only one to step through it all and come out the far side still himself.

  I leave the pub and walk home. I pass Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. I stop under the arch of the sandstone gateway, and I piss on the wall. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.

  Good man, Johnny.

  I step into the churchyard to see Bob standing above me on the plinth of the cathedral, his two arms held wide in the green overalls, the red rag hanging loose from the pocket.

  Well done, Johnny Donnelly. You did it. You showed them. There’s a holy exodus of the British from Ireland — the great army of her majesty is in full retreat. Many are dead from your hand alone. You killed them. You killed them all. Well done, Johnny, you have saved Ireland. You are up there now with Cúchulainn the mighty. Fair dues to you. Three cheers to you, Johnny; three cheers for Johnny Donnelly. Hip Hip Hooray, Hip Hip … No, wait. Hold the bus. The British are still here. Everything is as it was. Nothing has changed; nothing at all. Johnny, Johnny, Johnny.

  I walk on. I pass the Georgian townhouses in Roden Place, the railed steps and brass nameplates of doctors, dentists, and solicitors. I approach the junction with Chapel Street, where the Home Bakery sits on the corner, where Mam still queues on a Saturday morning for two French loaves and an almond ring, and, every so often, a chocolate or pineapple cake. I change my mind and decide to return to Seatown for more beer. I walk out on the road. I don’t look. I don’t want to look. I don’t see the car. Well, maybe I do.

  The pure in heart

  IT IS NOT A TOTAL BLACKNESS, BUT A DENSE AND DARK FOG. THE FUNNEL of light is remote and distant; but, though the light is weak, I know she is with me.

  ‘Easy, Johnny, do not worry, I am here.’

  I hear her voice, a clear voice, like music — every word a note. And that voice? Cora? But Cora is in heaven. I can’t be in heaven, can I? Maybe purgatory? Maybe Mam’s rosaries have won an indulgence? Good old Mam. A shadow crosses through the fog. I reach out. I touch her arm. Her arm moves, gently, slowly, and her hand takes my own arm, and I feel it as it moves down to my hand, stopping to cradle my fingers and thumb.

  ‘I did a bad thing.’

  ‘Do not worry, Johnny. I shall stay with you.’

  But I cannot stop. I have to let it all out. And I do. I keep talking, and the hand that holds keeps holding.

  There is only silence when I finish. Her touch leaves me, and I am not sure if she is still there. Then I feel her again as she touches my arm and as her hand moves down to take my hand.

  I try to look up to her. But as she stands over me, I can only see her shape and not her detail. ‘Are we in heaven?’

  ‘Maybe, I don’t know. Maybe Ireland is heaven?’

  ‘I hope not,’ I say with a heavy effort. ‘If it is, we are all doomed.’ And I feel a kind of falling away as if I have stepped onto non-ground.

  ‘Tell me something,’ I say, as I fall. ‘Have you ever met Sister Josephine up here?’

  ‘Sister Josephine?’ she answers. ‘A right funny nun she is.’

  ‘God help him.’

  I hear Aunt Hannah.

  ‘God help us all,’ I hear Mam reply. ‘Of all the things to do in the world, you’d think the one thing he wouldn’t do is step out in front of a car.’

  ‘Was he drinking?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. Still, you never know. Who could blame anyone for turning to drink after what happened to Declan.’

  ‘Did he … ’ Hannah hesitated. ‘You know … do it on purpose?’

  ‘I don’t know, Hannah. I never did know what that
boy was thinking.’

  ‘Who knows what anyone is thinking, when the truth be told. Is Mister Delaney still waiting outside?’

  ‘No, Hannah. I sent him and Anna home. He never had to try too hard for people to love him, this boy. He hadn’t to try at all.’

  ‘He never did get over that girl. Such a thing to happen. Who could have thought we would see so much tragedy? I’m driven demented by the whole thing. I declare to God but we won’t be right again after these terrible weeks. God help us all.’

  ‘Straight out in front of the car, he walked. Straight out, they said.’

  ‘Will you give over, the two of you?’ I call out.

  ‘Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,’ Hannah exclaims. ‘Are you awake, son? Are you all right? I thought you were out cold.’

  ‘I was. It’s a miracle.’

  ‘Still a smart alec,’ Hannah says. ‘Well, that’s good to see.’

  ‘Where am I? Have I died and gone to hell? Will I have to listen to you two forever?’

  I see Mam look to Hannah with raised eyes and then slip out of the room.

  ‘There’s been an accident. You’ve been run over, Johnny. But you’re alive, thank God. Haven’t we all had enough tragedy for one lifetime?’

  There is no answer I can give to that, so I don’t comment. Mam returns with a doctor.

  ‘Good morning, Mister Donnelly. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Hello, Doctor. I’ve no idea how I’m feeling, to be honest. What’s the damage?’

  The doctor looks to the two visitors.

  ‘You’d better not ask them to leave,’ I tell him. ‘The curiosity would kill them.’

  With long and uncommon words, he tells me that I have a broken arm and a broken leg.

  ‘You are a lucky young man,’ he says. ‘You must have nine lives.’

  Many lives, actually, I think, but I say nothing.

  ‘There is no apparent head trauma,’ he continues. ‘You were a bit delirious last night. Because of your history and your condition, we kept you under observation; but just at the point of your greatest anxiety, you had a visitor and you settled after that. The nurses kept a very close eye on you. We moved you here this morning.’

  ‘A visitor?’ I ask.

  ‘God Almighty,’ Hannah says. ‘But I can’t handle this at all. He’s rushed into ICU, he put the heart out of us all, poor Anna and Mister Delaney and that Flannery girl are beside themselves all night out in the corridor, and he’s in there chatting up the nurses. Pretty young things, were they? That’d be just like him, a complete scoundrel. Probably got them running bringing him tea and toast, too, knowing him.’

  Anna visits in the afternoon.

  ‘Well?’ she says.

  ‘Well, yourself.’

  ‘So what happened? Were you drinking, Johnny? What have I told you?’ She sits beside me on the bed and lifts a piece of toast from the bedside tray.

  ‘What’s wrong, Johnny?’

  ‘Nothing. Just a bit of an accident. I’m fine, really.’

  She pauses, and I look away; and in her sympathy, I guess, she lets that enquiry go.

  ‘And what happened with Mila? She was such a lovely girl.’

  ‘She slipped from my charm.’

  ‘Well, this should put an end to your gallop. You have to be more careful, Johnny. And no more drinking sessions. Do you hear me?’

  ‘Yes, Anna.’

  ‘I got engaged, Johnny, last month. We were going to tell everyone at Christmas, but then … you know, it didn’t seem right. It doesn’t seem so important now.’

  ‘It is important. I’m very happy for you. He is one lucky man. When’s the big day?’

  ‘Not for a couple of years — don’t know when exactly. You wouldn’t miss it, Johnny, would you, my wedding?’

  ‘No, Anna,’

  ‘You better not,’ she says leaning into me, holding me, suddenly sobbing. ‘So don’t go walking out onto any more bloody roads then.’

  Later in the evening, Conor Rafferty visits.

  ‘You better not have come all this way for me, Rafferty.’

  ‘I was just passing.’

  ‘Stick your head out the door there, will you, and see if the tea-lady is about, and ask her to bring us a pot of tea?’

  ‘Will you feck off, Donnelly,’ Conor protests. ‘I will not.’

  Nevertheless, the tea-lady is summonsed, and we enjoy tea and toast together.

  ‘Don’t ask,’ I warn. ‘It was just a bit of an accident, and let’s leave it at that.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to. By the way, Flossie sends her regards.’

  ‘Well, if you insist on knowing,’ I tell him, ‘I was fluttered drunk. And that’s the whole truth of it.’

  ‘I didn’t insist on anything,’ Conor defends. ‘By the way, I’m driving down to Ennis tomorrow with Anna. We’re collecting your things. You will need them at home — you won’t be back there for a while, Johnny. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Thanks, Conor. Always the thoughtful one. Say hello to Bella, and tell her I’m fine and not to worry. Tell her I shall come to see her when I can.’

  The tea-lady arrives with the wheelchair that I’d asked her for.

  ‘If anyone asks, you didn’t get it from me,’ she says.

  ‘Right you are,’ Conor replies, confused.

  Conor helps me out of the bed and into the wheelchair, and we set off around the hospital as I tell him of our mission. We search the corridors and waiting rooms before making a tour of the grounds. We don’t find her. We pass the morgue where Peter and I identified Declan as he lay on a steel table beneath a bright robe. I look to the cross on the morgue door.

  ‘I have an idea,’ I tell Conor. ‘Let’s go back inside.’

  ‘What idea?’ he asks.

  ‘Just a mad guess.’

  We reach the hospital chapel. Conor pushes the wheelchair through, and he leaves as the heavy door closes behind me. It is a small chapel, five pews each side of a central aisle. She is kneeling in front of the altar.

  ‘Why was I searching for you?’ I say, rolling towards her. ‘Did I not know that you would be in your father’s house?

  She stands, turns, and steps into the central aisle.

  ‘Have you come to ask me not to tell?’ she says as I near. ‘Not to tell those things you told me?’

  ‘No, I’m not worried about me. I’m worried about you, that I gave you this thing. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Isn’t it too late to be sorry?’

  ‘I’m not sorry for what I did. I am sorry for you, that I gave you this burden.’

  ‘Thing? Burden?’

  ‘Killings, then. Do you prefer that?’

  ‘I prefer none of it,’ she says hard, but then immediately softens. ‘Will you tell me something, Johnny? Tell me about the beginning? How did it all start?’

  ‘I don’t think I can do that.’

  ‘Please, Johnny?’

  So I begin with the hunger strikes and the useless sacrifice of it all; how it angered me, and how I was determined to act and to make a difference; how I wrote the essay as asked and handed it to the teacher; how I began the visits to the teacher’s house for the private lessons; how the conversations grew, evolved from observations and comment to plans and intent; how there was no great epiphany, no one moment of decision, no beginning; how it was just as it was meant to be — that I was born for the battle, that I was ready-made for the gun.

  ‘But you were just a boy,’ she says. ‘What was it about those soldiers?’

  And I tell her about the checkpoint and the standing in the cold rain and Mam’s shopping scattered on the road, and I tell her about the big black gun.

  ‘Tell me about the first killings.’

 
And I tell her about the .303 and the three long years of learning and then the Armalite, the Kalashnikov, and the Heckler & Koch, and how I spent a year on each and how I took them all into action, with some actions successful, some not. I tell her of the early attacks with Delaney. I tell her of the wet day in Ravensdale, the first one on my own, and then the others. But that, for me, it was all preparation for the big gun.

  ‘Tell me about the American.’

  I tell her about the gun coming, and about the training, and how we went to a remote island because we couldn’t use the regular grounds at Ravensdale or Inniskeen. How, at the end of it, I remained on the island as Delaney stalled the boat halfway to the mainland. How it took a single shot — no loose ends, Delaney insisted. How the American was wrapped in chains and dropped in deep Atlantic waters.

  She asks that I light a single candle, and I watch as she kneels on the first carpeted altar step below a high cross.

  ‘Do you pray for him, the American?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes. I pray for him. I pray for you. I pray for that teacher. Tell me what you did with that gun.’

  And so on it goes. I tell her about the Barrett, about what it could do, how all the training had been for it, how I planned to bring fear to the enemy, to change the war; and, one by one, I tell her how I killed in South Armagh. I tell her about Forkhill, Newtownhamilton, Keady, and Crossmaglen. And after each telling, she asks that I light a candle, and I watch as she kneels and prays. ‘Blessed are the peacemakers,’ she says, ‘for they will be called children of God.’

  ‘They were not peacemakers,’ I tell her. But she ignores me.

  ‘Tell me about the Englishman.’

  I tell her about the waiting in the dark alley, how clearly I heard Cora’s words as I stepped out into the side street and walked to the hotel carpark. How there were two people in the car, including that fucker Sloane, I thought. How the driver door opened and the Englishman stepped out. Fuck off, mate, the last thing he ever said. How I walked quickly to the passenger door. Sloane rigid with fright. How it was not Sloane. How it was Declan, my brother.