World Without End, Amen

by Jimmy Breslin

  Finbar was smoking a cigarette in the doorway of a house halfway up the block from where he lived. A minibus was at the curb. An old man was asleep with his forehead on the steering wheel. Dermot’s father was in the middle seat, smoking a cigarette. Finbar stepped into the hut and Dermot followed him in. A woman in the kitchen was eating a fried egg. Her husband came through from the back with a fawn-coated greyhound on a thick leash. The wife put down her plate, grabbed a baby, and held it out. The baby tapped the greyhound on its small head.

  “For luck,” the man said.

  “Jesus, with all he’s been eatin’,” she said. “Pound of raw meat, vegetables, and brown bread. The rest of us standin’ here with our bones collapsin’ of malnutrition and himself there, eatin’ like the Bishop.” She put her foot out. “If ye don’t have luck, ye’ll have an arse full of leather when ye get home.”

  On the sidewalk, the man with the dog was introduced as Mickey O’Kane. Two men standing alongside the minibus bumped into each other trying to open the door for the dog. The dog went in and stood in circles on the seat. Dermot’s father patted the dog on the head. Mickey O’Kane got in after the dog. Gently, he lifted the dog over the rear seat and into a space at the back of it. The dog stood there excited, tongue hanging out. Mickey patted him and cooed to him and eased him down until he was on his haunches. Men were pushing into the minibus now. All of them called out, “Good lad,” to the greyhound. Dermot and Finbar climbed into the back. Dermot’s father said hello with a nod of his head. He was taking a deep drag on a cigarette.

  Finbar lit a cigarette. “Half six, let’s be off now.”

  “Come on, off with ye,” Mickey O’Kane said.

  “Shut up, I’m ten-to-one on against the lot of you,” the driver said. “Here’s Danny comin’ now. He gets notions, you know.”

  “What notions?” Finbar said. “I wouldn’t fookin’ trust him.”

  When Danny, a tiny man in a cap, jammed in, it made eight men and a dog in the minibus. The old man driving started it up. Grinding, bucking with little backfires, the minibus started down the street. Fumes began to fill the inside. Finbar tugged at a window. It was stuck. “Somebody open a window,” he said.

  “Too cold for me,” Danny said.

  “You can die in your own grave,” Finbar said. “The dog needs air. Jesus, his lungs’ll flop in the fumes.”

  A cold wet breeze blew into the minibus. They drove through the streets of cement huts of the Brandywell and out onto a road overlooking the river covered with darkness.

  Finbar sat with one arm over the back, petting the greyhound. His breath showed in the cold air while he talked about horse racing with Mickey O’Kane.

  “Who does Vincent O’Brien look for when he wants a jockey?” Finbar said. “Piggott, that’s who.”

  Mickey said, “I think Williamson is the best in the world. Put him and Piggott in the same identical race.”

  Finbar began yelling. “What’s the matter with Piggott? He fookin’ won the fookin’ Irish Derby, the fookin’ English Derby, and the fookin’ French Derby for fook’s sake.”

  “Close the window, it’s blowin’ cold on the animal,” Mickey O’Kane said.

  The bus stopped at a Northern Ireland customs station. Two soldiers glanced over the bus. A uniformed customs guard waved them on. A couple of hundred yards farther down the road the minibus went right through a Republic of Ireland customs station. A man was reading in the customs office.

  The bus became filled with fumes again. “Danny, for Jesus’ sake, will you not give the animal some air?” Mickey said.

  The road ran past empty fields bordered with hedges and trees with winter-green leaves. At the track everybody stood in attendance at the side of the minibus while Mickey O’Kane brought out the dog. A young kid in a white linen jacket walked the dog into the track. He helped the dog into one of a row of green wooden boxes that looked like filing cabinets. There was a slot in the door for the dog to peer out. Barking came from a couple of the other boxes. A man with a roast-beef face came out of an office in a cement hut. He had fat eyes that became agitated when he saw Mickey O’Kane and Finbar. They walked over to a small wooden stand where a girl was putting out plates of sandwiches.

  “Want something to eat?” Dermot said.

  “I will, I’ll have a Harp,” Finbar said.

  Dermot’s father was standing behind them. Finbar moved over to make room for him. Dermot’s father stepped up to the counter on the far side. Finbar had to move next to Dermot to make room for the father. They stood there, Dermot with sandwiches and a glass of milk, Finbar drinking Harp beer in the middle, and, on the other side, Dermot’s father drinking Harp beer and smoking a cigarette and looking away from the two of them.

  “You come here much?” Dermot said to Finbar.

  “Oh, now and then, now and then. Every fookin night it’s open.”

  Dermot’s father was smiling. He picked up the bottle of beer.

  Dermot waited until the father had his mouth on the beer. Somehow, this made it easier to get the question out.

  “Do you bet on dogs much?” he said.

  The father took the bottle out of his mouth.

  “Flagler,” he said.

  The father shoved the bottle of beer back into his mouth. The look in his eyes showed that he knew he had just made a mistake. Flagler is a dog track in Florida. He had opened the door to a conversation. Now he closed it as tightly as he could.

  At eight o’clock there were, at the most, fifty people at the track. The fat-eyed owner stood in the grass and swore to himself. The people stood under a shedrow that had room for one hundred and fifty. Bookmakers in jackets and ties, cigarettes hanging from their mouths, stood on soda cases and chalked their odds on slates. The fat-eyed man waved his hands. Six boys in linen jackets walked greyhounds for the first race into the weeds covering the infield of the track. A chicken-wire fence ran around the track. The amusement-park sound, the clicking and humming of a ride between rides, meant the rabbit track had started. The rabbit slid past, going around the turn and down to the starting cages. There were so few people that the clack of the cages opening was louder than the yell from the shedrow. The two dogs on the lead ran with lean action. The ones following scrambled. The race was three hundred yards. The finish line was a bright light hung on a wire over the track.

  “That’s the camera for the photo finish,” Finbar said.

  “Do they have that much equipment here?” Dermot asked.

  “Notatall. It’s a hike.”

  A meat truck stopped outside the admissions gate. A waiter from the City Hotel jumped down. The fat-eyed track owner stood alongside the gate and glared at him. The waiter pretended not to see him. He walked with his head down, went past them through the grass and stopped at the rail on the first turn. When the owner went back into his cement hut, they walked quickly around to the waiter, who took out some money.

  “He’s a shower of bastards,” the waiter said, nodding at the owner’s hut.

  “He’s afraid of us, you know,” Finbar said.

  “For one race, I never had the dog in better shape,” Mickey O’Kane said. “And he’s only got two to beat, the others can’t fookin’ walk.”

  “You saw them?” Dermot said.

  “No, I just know. He done what he had to do.”

  “Aye,” the waiter said.

  “One race, that’s all you should need,” Finbar said. “Right Jimmy?”

  Dermot’s father nodded.

  “Jimmy, for fookin’ Jesus’ sake.”

  Dermot’s father was paying attention to taking out a cigarette and lighting it.

  Dermot said to O’Kane, “Is it good to have a dog trained only for one race? I know from the horse racing that they never like to point a horse for one race. It’s a sure way to break him down. The way they do it, if they do right, they get a horse ready for a whole series of races. They don’t do that with dogs?”

  “Do ye not have dog racin’ i
n New York?” O’Kane asked Dermot.

  “No, they got that in Florida,” he said. “That’s where Flagler is.”

  Dermot’s father was reading the entry card.

  “You know,” Mickey said, “a good dog like this one here costs twenty pound. He’s worth eighty pound now. If he could win a race like this one here, be worth a hundred pound maybe. So you want to win a bet, improve the price of your dog at the same time. We’re all poor men. We promised the others ten pound apiece to stop their dog. And my dog here, see him on the program. Number three. He’s done seventeen-five. We know we have him so’s he can do it in seventeen tonight. Here, look at the three he has to beat. Outclass them, he will.”

  The name of his dog was Glenshane Rover. In his last four races he was unplaced, the program said. The rest of the small printing under his name was the dog’s times. While they were talking, the dogs came out for the second race. To kill time Dermot decided to place a bet. “The fawn bitch?” Finbar said.

  “Jesus, no. See the hooky tail? That means the dog is no good on turns.” Mickey O’Kane was emphatic. “Hooky tails don’t go ’round turns.”

  Dermot didn’t bet. The rabbit skimmed past and the traps opened. The dog Dermot liked broke second. He was a nose off the lead. They went around the first turn. The dog came out of it a half-nose off the leader. The dog with the hooky tail just did miss at the finish. Finbar and Mickey paid no attention to this. They were talking about betting their dog. They walked down to the bookmakers under the shed. Dermot’s father stayed at the rail.

  “How often do you do this?” Dermot said to the waiter.

  “Give a dog something to make him run a wee bit slow? All the time.”

  “And nobody ever gets wise?”

  “Aye, nobody ever gets wise.”

  “Who gives you the stuff?”

  “Bloke lives on the New Road.”

  “What does he do?”

  “He does fook all.”

  “How do you know he’s giving you strychnine?”

  “You don’t.”

  “Does it always work?”

  “Christ no. It’s never worked yet.”

  “Why bother then?”

  “Someday it might work, you know.”

  The small crowd was standing in front of the books makers, who kept chalking new odds as they took bets. The first bookmaker wore a hound’s-tooth sports jacket. The name on the slate said Charley Mullan. He had Glenshane Rover at 8–5. Danny from the minibus handed him a pound. Mullan reached into a leather bag and brought out a ticket. He gave it to Danny, then changed Glenshane Rover to 7–5.

  Finbar spoke to him with the cigarette in his mouth. “Get into the pig,” he said. “Oh, he’s a frightful shower of bastards, he is. You have big American money. You can hurt him bad.”

  Dermot took out a five-pound note. “Number three to win,” he said.

  “Honored to have your business,” Charley Mullan said. He handed over the ticket. He did not change the price on his slate.

  “Look at the bastard, he’s challengin’ you,” Finbar said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s keeping the price up to try and get you to bet more. See the others?” The bookmaker next to him, Quinn, had Glenshane Rover at 1–1.

  “Go ahead, give it to the bloody cunt,” Finbar said.

  Dermot handed Mullan two pounds. “Honored by your business,” Mullan said.

  As Dermot stepped away, Finbar came forward with a handful of silver. “The three dog to win.”

  “Honored by your business,” Charley Mullan said.

  “Oh, Jimmy!” Finbar called.

  Dermot’s father walked down from the place where he was standing at the rail.

  “Here ye go, Jimmy, give it to this fat bloody cunt.”

  “I’ll take a slight stab,” Dermot’s father said.

  “Oh, Christ, don’t just stab. Skewer the bastard.”

  “It’s awfully hard to kill a bookmaker,” Dermot’s father said.

  He smiled and Dermot smiled at the same time.

  “Go to it, Jimmy,” Finbar said.

  Dermot’s father took out two five-pound notes. “This is tougher than it looks, you know,” he said to Finbar. “I could use a printin’ press to stay up with you.”

  He walked over and handed the two five-pound notes to Mullan, the bookmaker.

  “Honored by your business,” Charley Mullan said.

  “We’ll kill him,” Finbar said. “Oh, he’s a shower of bastards.”

  They all walked up toward the turn. As Dermot kept going up the rail his father kept moving up the rail too.

  “I’m goin’ to stand right here,” Finbar said finally. “I want to see Charley Mullan’s face when he watches the race.”

  Dermot stopped between Finbar and the finish line. Now, his father moved closer. As long as Finbar stood between the father and Dermot, the father was reasonably relaxed.

  “We’ll kill him. Oh, he’s a shower of bastards,” Finbar said.

  Mickey O’Kane went far down the track and stood alone.

  “He’s got all the quid he could borrow or steal for a month ridin’ this time,” Finbar said.

  “What do you have on it?” Dermot asked.

  “Whole fookin’ dole.”

  “What if he doesn’t win?”

  “Notatall. He’ll rightly win.”

  “But what if he doesn’t?”

  “Dead simple. Mickey has to kill his dog.”

  When the dogs came out for’ the race, Glenshane Rover walked easily. All five of the others seemed to have a normal walking motion. No slowness or stiffness in the hind legs. The boys started walking toward the traps. The waiter from the City Hotel took out the cigarettes. His hand shook as he passed them. Finbar’s hand shook as he took a drag on the cigarette. “Look at that Charley Mullan,” he said. Charley Mullan was brushing chalk from his sleeve. He did not bother to watch the dogs. The traps opened and the dogs lunged out. All six of them. Glenshane Rover was even with the last dog. The other four tore after the rabbit. Glenshane Rover picked up a little coming into the first turn. Only a little.

  Dermot tapped the waiter. “Nobody looks poisoned to me,” he said.

  “Oh, we give it to them too late,” the waiter said. “I knew we had to do it earlier. So’s it took effect.”

  Glenshane Rover’s running action became confused on the turn. He looked like he was running up an escalator.

  The cigarette came out of Finbar’s mouth. He turned to an old man standing behind him. “Are you going to Mickey O’Kane’s funeral?”

  The man’s mouth dropped open. “Jesus Christ! When did he die?”

  “Not yet, but he’s expected.”

  Up the track, Mickey O’Kane leaned heavily on the fence. He looked like he had shot himself. Charley Mullan was up on his box, rubbing his hands together as he watched the dogs scramble down the stretch. Glenshane Rover still fifth and, it looked, a lifetime or so away from learning to run fast.

  When Mickey O’Kane walked up to the bus with the dog, Finbar and Dermot were a step behind. Finbar gave the dog a half-kick, half-shove. Tongue hanging out, tail wagging, the dog looked around the inside of the bus. Finbar put a hand under the dog’s belly and threw him over the last seat Finbar turned around with his hand out. The dog looked up to be petted. Finbar hit the dog on top of the head as hard as he could. The dog let out a yelp. Mickey O’Kane dove into the bus. He slapped the dog in the face.

  “Shut up, ye smokin’ cunt.”

  14

  IN THE DARKNESS IN the bus, Dermot’s father said to him, “I’m good and tired. The hip knocks me out sometimes.”

  “What could you do,” Dermot said.

  “What I’m going to do is, I’m going to go to bed and I’ll see you in the morning. We’ll sit down.”

  “All right, fine.”

  “What I’m going to do, I’m going to bed and I’ll see you in the morning. I’m stoppin’ right at McCann
’s. Right over the store. So I’ll be in there in the morning. All right, lads, you can let me out.”

  The bus stopped at the bar and his father got out, and then the bus went through the Brandywell and it was all right with Dermot. He wanted to meet Deirdre.

  At the meeting, there were far too many people in the attic. The floor felt like it was floating on liquid. It swayed, seemed to tilt, creaked, and was ready to collapse. People stood pressed against each other or sat on the floor. The smell was wet clothes and no soap. Cigarette smoke was so thick those on the other side of the room seemed far away. Rain drummed on the roof while Liam Quigley, his finger poking the smoky air, talked to them. He spoke with a lot of breath for each group of words. It made the words more forceful. And it gave a rhythm to his speaking that made it very hard for you not to pay attention.

  “… The workingman. All over the earth. Is oppressed by governments. Acting for business interests. I look rightly on the theory. That none of us can be free. Until all of us are free. If Angela Davis is imprisoned unjustly in America. Then we in Derry can never truly be free. No matter how many times we throw out the police. No matter how many times we throw out the Army. Therefore I say to you, We are at the start of a long journey. Do not be afraid. Do not despair. Do not panic. Do not fight out of sheer nervousness or fear. Stand together. We can erode. The oppressive government. With civil disobedience and political activity. The governments are hoping. That we muck about into violence. We understand that violence. Would cost us unnecessarily at this stage. Do not be angered into violence. Do have patience. Do have resolve. Do be canny.”

  “What is it we do then?” a man in the middle of the room called out.

  “The workers will strike,” Liam said.

  Hands went up all over the room. “What do we do?”

  “Anyone can man a picket line,” Liam said.

  A woman near Dermot called out, “That was a rightly dumb question.”

  “How would I know?” the man said. “I haven’t had a flamin’ job in me life.”

  “Prospect of one’d scare him to death,” another woman called out.