by Brian Moore
As the man shouted, his dogs rose up, barking, excited by his voice. In the room with its tarpaulin roof, the barking and the screaming, angry voice resounded as in an echo chamber, the sounds deafeningly loud. He thrust his face close to Mangan’s, his rage so virulent that Mangan found himself clenching his fists as though at any moment he must raise them to defend himself. “Now get out of my house!” his double yelled. “Get out, and take your bloody bottles with you and get your arse back to America and get your prick stuck into some girl, because the only way you’ll carry on our line, you sad fucking ape, is if you pass the seed along to someone who’s worthy to stand up and call himself one of us, one who’ll be, as I am, the true heir of James Clarence Mangan.”
Knowing he should hold his tongue but made reckless by rage so that he could not hold himself back, Mangan shouted into that hated face: “Oh, for God’s sake, you stupid old fool, who in hell do you think Mangan was? Nobody ever heard of him, outside of a few English professors and the people who live here on this godforsaken island. Mangan’s not a world poet. He never was. He’s dead, buried, and forgotten. Second-rate, rhyming jingler, doing translations from languages he didn’t understand, and all of it derivative, dull, and pathetic, just like the crap you showed me today.”
“Get out! Get out!”
“I will,” Mangan said. He turned away from the suddenly raised fist and the barking dogs and went through the opening in the tower wall and down the winding medieval stair, his footsteps hammering on the narrow winding stone steps, the man’s voice above him suddenly calling out to the dogs. “Be quiet. Down! Down!” In the silence that followed, Mangan crossed the filthy lower chamber, his feet sinking in the sheep dung and nettles, and came out into the ruined grassy courtyard of the castle. Above, the sky was shifting from rain to sunlight, light blazing suddenly through the clouds. A gull circled above. Involuntarily, he looked up at the slitted Norman window in the second story of the tower. But no one was there. He went across the courtyard and climbed the stepping-stones in the wall, going toward the wild, steep, grassy incline of the headland beyond.
But as he stood on top of the wall preparing to descend, a bottle crashed and splintered on the stones behind him. Mangan looked down and saw slivers of glass, smelled the juniper of the gin on the stones of the wall. He turned and looked back up at the tower. On the topmost battlement his double stood, his face in shadow as the sun struck his back, silhouetting him. ”Mangan is no good, is that what you said?” the hated voice cried.
He saw the other raise his arm as though to throw something, and hastily putting distance between himself and his enemy, jumped off the wall, falling on his knees on the long grass as something struck the top of the wall behind him. “That’s yours, too,” the voice yelled. “I want nothing of yours.”
He looked down and saw the scrolled brass frame and in it the fragile plate of the daguerreotype smashed into splinters, its pieces mixed with the broken glass, myriad tiny jewels of copper, the face that was his face shattered beyond any possible repair. He stood and went toward the steep narrow track which led back to the German’s farm. And as he did he heard the voice, high above him, distorted, bellowing in the wind.
“O, the Erne shall run red,
With redundance of blood,
The earth shall rock beneath our tread,
And flames wrap hill and wood . . .
“Do you hear me, Yank? Can you write lines like those?”
There was a crashing sound on the stones behind him. He turned and saw the second gin bottle fragmented on the grass. He looked up at the top of the tower. There was no one. A crow flew out from the battlement, its wings moving like heavy fans, going out from the tower as though fleeing a danger. He heard the dogs bark. Then all was silence save for the high wind as he climbed up and up, until the tower was small in the scale of landscape far below him.
Stumbling, out of breath, half running at times, he was still on the headlands an hour later, having reached the German’s farm and gone on down the private road which led to the sight of his car alone in the empty landscape beneath him. Like a compass needle he had flickered closer and closer to this morning’s encounter and now, his true north destroyed, oscillated wildly, his bearings gone. His pace slowed to a walk as a decision began to form in his mind. When he reached the car he drove off, retracing his route of this morning, through the town of Butler, away from the main road that led on to Shannon, going back on the road to Drishane.
And so, driving all through the afternoon, he came along the great arm of bay, up through Bantry and down the lonely winding peninsular road which led to the land’s end of the country, down through Durrus to the crossroads at Drishane, the church spire rising ahead of him, and far out on the horizon a solitary sword rising from the gray sea, the lighthouse on Fastnet Rock. And now as he turned up the familiar, twisting road with its high blind hedgerows, out to the rim of road running along the mountainside with its sudden view of Drishane below, its church spire, and the bay curving out to a headland. He drove on, taking the fork which led toward Duntally. And as he turned into the fork, he saw ahead of him a man walking on the solitary ribbon of road, a familiar figure in worn serge suit, heavy boots, head bent, his pace the steady accustomed tread of the countryman. As the car drove up behind him, he turned and raised his hand in greeting. It was Dinny.
“Hello there,” Dinny said.
“Do you want a lift?” Mangan asked.
Dinny got in. There was a ring of perspiration around his collar and his forehead was wet. “I asked off early from work,” he said, “because I wanted to catch you before you go. Did you see my father?”
“Yes.”
“And how was he?”
“All right,” Mangan said. Ahead, as they came over a hillock in the road, he saw the high slate roof and faded pink walls of Duntally. Dinny slewed around in his seat, looking at him aslant. “It must have been a shock for both of you.”
Mangan said nothing.
“He told you the whole story, did he?”
“Yes.”
They had reached Duntally. Mangan drove the car into the empty courtyard, past the shut, empty house where a twenty-one-year-old girl had used a knife concealed in her nightgown and by that act changed these lives. Dinny reached across the gearbox and put his hand on the wheel. “Can we stop here for a second?”
Mangan stopped the car.
“Thanks. I don’t want to talk in front of my mother. I wanted to ask you. What are your plans for young Kathleen?”
“What do you mean?”
“She is saying you promised her her ticket to America. Is that true?”
“Yes.”
“If you are wanting to buy her a ticket, you would do well to give me the money and let me buy it for her. Money given to her or to her brother has a way of going into a pub and not coming out again. She’s only a young girl, but she knows more than is good for her, if you follow me.”
Mangan nodded, not wanting to look Dinny in the eye.
“I hope I’ll not offend you by saying this, but if you are still thinking of taking her with you, I would advise against it. Now that you know the story. I mean, the sight of you must remind her of my father. I think there would be no happiness in it for either of you.”
Mangan started up the car. “Have you finished?”
“Yes. I hope you won’t take offense at what I said.”
Mangan shook his head. He drove into the little lane which connected Duntally with the cottage behind it. Smoke came from the cottage chimney, and although it was not yet dusk, a light shone in the kitchen window. He drove into the yard and parked in a fluster of hens. At once, hearing the sound of the engine, Kathleen came to the door wearing her long white dress, smiling in pleasure at his return. Her hair was braided up, as he had not seen it before, and she seemed to him more perfectly beautiful than ever.
“Jim!” she called out. “Where were you? Oh, you’re a rotten rat to run away like that.” She came
toward him and put her arms about him, kissing him, embarrassing him, in view of the old woman who stood in the shadows of the doorway and Dinny, who was behind him in the yard; mother and son watching again this living tableau of an old nightmare.
“Where were you?” Kathleen asked again as he disengaged himself. “Something about the car, Aunt Eileen said.”
“I had to go to a garage in Bantry,” he told her. “It was because of the car-rental people. Their depot is in Bantry and the repair took most of the day.”
“And you took the gin with you,” she whispered in his ear. “And left me here without a drop among these holier-than-thous.”
The old woman, coming out into the yard, seemed to hear what was whispered. “Never mind, now, you slept the most of the day,” she said to Kathleen. “And it was a good job for you that you did. You’re a different girl with a good sleep in you. I told you this gentleman would be back. I told you, and here he is.” She looked at Mangan. “Dinny says you’re leaving us?”
“I am, yes.”
“Will you have a cup of tea? You’ll be tired from your journey.”
But Kathleen looked up at him and gave a tiny peremptory shake of her head.
“No, I think I’d better be getting on, thanks,” he said. “I have to go up to Gorteen to get my bags.”
“But you can sleep here tonight,” Dinny said. “You have no place to sleep, have you?”
“I can sleep up at Gorteen. I’d prefer that, thanks.”
“At Gorteen?” Dinny and his mother exchanged glances.
“Yes, at Gorteen,” Kathleen said. “And I’ll give him his tea when we get up there.” She stared defiantly at Dinny and his mother. “Are you ready, Jim?”
He nodded, turned to the old woman, and shook her head, saying, “Thanks very much for all your kindness.” And added, foolishly, “It’s been nice meeting you.”
The old woman looked up at him. “God bless you,” she said, and to his surprise pulled him down toward her, kissing him on the cheek. And he, knowing now why the sight of him had frightened her so, held her awkwardly in the darkening yard.
Dinny, waiting his turn, put out his hand. “Goodbye, Jim. And a happy life to you in America.”
He gripped the rough hand of this, his unhappy kinsman. “And a happy life to you,” he said.
Now it was time to go. Kathleen had seated herself in the car. They stood waiting, the old woman in her man’s tweed jacket and boots, the former bank clerk with his earth-stained hands and workingman’s hand-me-downs. They waved to him as he drove out of the yard, stepping forward, coming down to the gate like actors to the footlights for their final bows. And he waved in return. They were his kin, whose strange lives had intersected with his. Yet he knew the curtain had come down. He would never see them again.
The girl beside him sat silent until he switched on the headlights. As the beam struck the dark track ahead, a rabbit leaped in the lights, its white thumb of tail disappearing in a yellow gorse bush.
“Would they have rabbits in America?”
“Of course,” he said.
“They have snakes. I’d be afraid of snakes. There’s none in Ireland, that’s a well-known fact.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Did Dinny tell you not to give me any money?”
“He said you might spend it all in a pub.”
“He’s a right old woman, that fellow. Is it true what he said, though, that you’re off to America in the morning?”
“Depends.”
“Do you remember, yesterday, you asked me to come with you? And you remember I said no.”
He did not answer. She leaned forward and put her hand on his knee. “I’m trying to tell you that I’ve changed my mind. I’ve been thinking if I have to write to my aunt and wait for her letter back and send her letter to Dublin to the American embassy, it will take ages. But I could go with you now on a tourist visa and say you’re my cousin and you’re paying my holidays. We could be gone out of here by the end of this week.”
He did not speak.
“There’s only one thing,” she said. “I’d want you to put in my hand before I go with you a return air ticket and a hundred quid. Just for insurance, in case you change your mind about me once you’re back in your own place.” She leaned forward, peering ahead. “No, don’t stop here. We’ll go up to the caravan directly. There’s drink there and I can make us a ham tea. Would you like that?”
He accelerated, passing the yard of the house, going up the last slow incline to the yellow blob of caravan in the semidarkness of the field at the mountain’s ridge. “Well, Jim, what do you say? Two hundred—did I say two?— anyway, two hundred pounds in my hand and my ticket before I leave.”
He said nothing.
“Is that too much, then? You told us you were rich.”
“No problem.”
“Good man. Good man yourself.” She laughed and jumped out lightheartedly as he parked the car at the entrance to the field. Her dog ran from under the caravan, fawning in welcome. And again, like a child she ran at the dog, picking it up, cuddling it, holding it like a doll in her arms as she ran to the caravan steps. He followed, thinking of the dog. What would she do with the dog and the caravan if she went off with him? He watched her set the animal down, shooing it away from the steps, then run up the steps and unlock the caravan door. Within minutes she had the lamp lit and the fresh bottle of whiskey out, a kettle on the stove, and was tossing back whiskey from a tumbler and talking excitedly about going to Dublin for her visa. “Have you ever been there? It’s big. We could stay in a hotel— there’s monster-big hotels there. I was in the Gresham Hotel once, a fellow took me in for a drink. I was scared to death at first. I was shy as shy. Are you hungry, or will we have another jar before I make our tea? We have sliced ham and I could fry you a couple of eggs if you like. Listen—is that a car?” She ran to the caravan window, peered out, then ran back to the table and extinguished the kerosene lamp.
“What’s wrong?”
“Wait.” She ran to the door, opened it, and he heard her footsteps on the caravan steps as she went down into the field. He listened and thought he did hear a car engine in the far distance, but when he looked out of the caravan window he saw nothing. He then went to the door and, looking down, saw her standing in the field peering toward Gorteen.
“What is it?”
“It’s the Guards,” she said. “I saw the flasher going as they turned in the yard there. It’ll be us they’re looking for.”
“Why would they want us?”
“It must be a summons. They’ll be needing us in Cork for the trial. Do you remember, we told them we spent that day with Con?” She turned and looked up at him in the moonlight. “Shut that door and come on down.” Her dog was frisking around her in the field, and now she kicked it savagely in the ribs. “Get out of that,” she said in a low, angry voice, and the dog slunk back under the caravan. Mangan also did as he was told, shutting the caravan door and joining her in the field. “Think they’ll come up here?” he asked.
“Of course they will. They’re just looking there because that was where they found you before. Come on.” She took his arm. “We’ll go in the back of the mountain. I know a place where they’ll not find us.”
“But supposing it isn’t a summons? And supposing it is? What about your brother?”
“He can look after himself,” she said, dragging on his arm, leading him up the slope behind the caravan to the rocky bluff where he had seen her emerge that morning in company with the old postman. “He got himself into this, didn’t he? We’re going to America, aren’t we? Then let’s keep clear of the Guards. If they serve a summons on us tonight, we’ll not be let out of the country till after the trial is over. Come on, Jim. Hurry!”
But Mangan hung back, looking down the slope. He saw a bright-purple roof flasher revolving in the yard of the house below. It was the police, all right. He was hiding from the police. “Follow me,” she said, and went around
the rock and out of sight, looking like a wraith in her long white dress. The police. For the first time in his life he was running away from the police. He went after her. Hidden on the far side of the rock was a small cave strewn with straw and grasses. She was in it. “It’s my hidey-hole,” she said. “Come and sit in here and keep quiet. They’ll be up at the caravan any minute.”
He remembered his car. “But my car is out there. They’ll know I’m here. They’ll know it’s my car if they check the license.”
“But they’ll not find you,” she said, as though she were explaining to a very small child. “And tomorrow we’ll be in Dublin. Come on in. Listen!”
He heard the sound of car tires skidding on the cobblestones of the yard below. The police would come up here and check his car and know he was avoiding them. He was hiding from the police.
“Look,” he said to her, “at the very worst it’s only a summons to appear in court. We could probably make a deposition. Anyway, I don’t like hiding. It’s not right.”
“Get down,” she whispered, pulling on his arm. “You wet bloody Yank, will you listen, do you want me in America with you or don’t you? Make up your mind. They’re coming.”
And they were. He could hear their car growling in low gear as it came up the rise to the mountaintop. The police, who were hunting him while he crouched in a cave staring at her angry face. The car stopped at the top of the road. She put her finger to her lips, her face changing from anger to a smile of conspiratorial glee. And at that moment he rose up and backed out of the cave. She reached out to stop him, but he evaded her and, turning, ran around the rocky bluff just as the two policemen got out of their car and began to walk across the field to the caravan, their flashlight beams dancing ahead of them in the wet grass. The dog ran out from under the caravan, barking. Mangan went to meet them, and as they came up, one shone a flashlight in his face. “Sorry,” said the policeman. “But are you Mr. Mangan?”
