This Human Season Page 23

  ‘Where was your uncle?’

  ‘He was still out there. He was trying to get people out of the way, down the alleyways.’

  ‘Were any of the big men there?’ asked Kathleen.

  ‘Och, aye they were all there, my uncle and Francis McNamara and—’

  ‘I mean the H block committee people.’

  ‘That fella Coogan was up the front. I think he got a whack or two.’

  ‘Not serious though?’

  ‘No.’ Owen looked at Kathleen for a moment.

  ‘Well I suppose they know what they’re about by now. Good luck to them too if they manage to make things better for my Sean.’

  ‘We’re having a holiday from the war because it’s Christmas.’ Aine gave Owen a look full of spite.

  When Owen went off home, her children stretched out to watch the TV. They had a love-hate relationship with Blake’s 7, Star Trek and Doctor Who. A few years back they’d been scared of Doctor Who but now they liked to pick holes in the ‘space’ programmes, laughing at the characters for being ‘soft’. Liam was saying over and over again, like the drunk at the bar, ‘That could never happen!’ and Aine was agreeing in stern deference to him.

  Their daddy sat down with them on the carpet. He gave the kids the rest of the midget gems they’d bought that morning. Kathleen was grilling pork chops for their tea.

  ‘I hope you’re not giving them those sweets!’

  ‘No!’ He jostled the kids with his elbows, put a finger to his lips.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ said Sean when Kathleen brought in the steaming plates. There was a ring of tinned pineapple on each pork chop and baked beans and potatoes. They each took a newspaper or a magazine from the pile by the armchair and ate on their laps. ‘This looks magnificent love.’

  Kathleen put a forkful of the meat straight in her mouth. It was hard and tough and she opened her mouth to allow air in to cool it down. She was rattled to find Sean looking at her with suffering affection. He got up to sit next to her on the settee.

  ‘I was hoping to worm my way into your good books with flattery.’

  ‘What? About the dinner? You’ll have to try harder than that, Sean. I’m not a tuppenny chocolate bar girl any more you know.’

  ‘Well then, you look very nice at the minute if I might say so.’

  He hadn’t even asked her where she was the other night.

  ‘Eat your dinner,’ she said.

  ‘Thought it might be the love light shining . . .’

  ‘It’ll get cold.’

  ‘Aye and I’ll get old. Kids, your mother and I are going to bed early tonight.’

  ‘Are we shite.’

  ‘I used to make you sing out.’

  ‘Will you give my head peace,’ she said, piling beans on the back of her fork.

  ‘I love it you when you use your harsh and proud voice on me.’

  ‘What’s wrong with you Sean Moran?’

  There was a shout, the noise of running footsteps and then a gunshot.

  ‘What was that?’ They put their plates aside. Liam ran to the front door.

  ‘Don’t open the door Liam!’ Sean jumped up.

  ‘I don’t want to know, I just don’t want any of it today. None of it. I don’t care what it is.’ Kathleen stood.

  Aine put her hands over her ears and inched closer to the TV, turning the volume button up to full.

  Sean opened the front door, stood in socks on the doorstep. On the road in front of their house a boy was lying face forward, a paper bag in front of him and the rain was pounding his back.

  ‘What the fuck?’ he called but the rain cancelled out his words and a soldier waved his gun at him that he should go back inside.

  Two soldiers approached the child, hands on guns, walking sideways with glances left and right. One bent down and lifted a wrist. He let it drop. The hand fell on to the wet road.

  They retreated, one using his walkie-talkie. Sean closed the front door.

  ‘A young lad’s been shot dead.’

  The closing titles for the TV programme came up and the music was loud and melodramatic.

  Aine got up. ‘Let’s finish the Christmas decorations.’

  ‘Not now love.’

  ‘You always say not now. You said that yesterday and the day before. At this rate we’re not going to have a Christmas tree. Everyone else in the whole world will have a Christmas tree and not us.’

  ‘Aine, give us a minute to think will you. For God’s sake, there’s a lad been killed out there, I’ve got to call an ambulance.’

  ‘I don’t care. I’m still alive.’

  ‘Go to bed!’ said Sean. ‘Just get up to your room!’

  Aine burst into tears and went. Liam sprang up and went after his sister.

  ‘She could have a little bloody feeling!’ Sean went for his cigarettes on the mantelpiece.

  Kathleen got the phone book out. She cracked the front door, dialled the number, then spoke, standing on the doorstep as far as the coiled cord would let her with the rain smelling like cold tar-soap and the smell of stale breath in the cup of the receiver. Her eyes were on the bare skin between the dead boy’s trouser legs and his socks and shoes.

  When they went upstairs both children had got themselves ready for bed. They were on Aine’s bed, talking and looking at old comic books. Liam was pointing out bits and doing voices. Kathleen stood watching, then closed the door.

  Later on, Aine crept downstairs and went to the window by the front door. The rain was still falling and the boy was still lying there.

  Her father came up behind her and put one hand on her shoulder and turned out the light with the other.

  ‘Why haven’t they moved him Daddy? If he was a Proddy he wouldn’t be lying there still would he?’

  ‘The soldiers chased him down the road. Maybe he’d stolen something. He didn’t stop.’

  Round the corner came the lights of the ambulance swinging and veering from blue to pale gold, glittering in the rain and in the puddles.

  Chapter 36

  Another prison officer had been killed, claimed by the Belfast brigade of the IRA. He had been serving at the Maze. Police found him after some of his fellow officers called them when he failed to show for night shift. At lunchtime, one of the prison officers stood on a chair and gave a tribute.

  ‘He was the sort of man you wanted standing next to you when there was trouble. Once, when we was on riot squad in the compounds, we were all fired up ready to run and your man was a wee bit ahead of himself, thought he heard the order and sets off roaring across the yard, on his own. He comes back, “Where the fuck were yous?”’

  There was some low laughter. A silence was observed and afterwards conversation barely resumed. Dunn noticed a man shake another’s hand and grasp his arm.

  ‘It could be any of us next,’ the barman observed, serving a double from the optic, briskly, roughly, like he was loading a gun. ‘If they shoot the poor devils from the mail room of the Crum, they’re going to shoot the dogs from the Maze.’

  In the afternoon Dunn was on gate duty again and Baxter came through the yard on his own, taking laundry in on a wagon.

  ‘How’s it going there Bax?’

  ‘Dead on.’

  Baxter stood in with him between the gates and offered him a cigarette.

  ‘On the block, same as normal?’

  ‘Aye, it runs smooth when the PO’s about. Mr Dunn, can I ask you a question?’

  Dunn nodded, exhaling the smoke, moving his weight from foot to foot to stay warm.

  ‘What did you do with that communication you picked up?’ Dunn stopped still.

  ‘The communication, the little message that dropped on the floor when you were on visits. You picked it up.’

  ‘On whose behalf are you asking?’

  ‘I’m just asking.’ He had a fine growth of hair on his chin, like an adolescent.

  Dunn let his cigarette fall and used his foot to stub it out. ‘I don’t know what you’re
talking about.’

  Baxter put his palms up. ‘If you picked one up, you should get rid of it, you know, Mr Dunn. It won’t do you good to keep it, nor to turn it in. Word to the wise.’

  Dunn went to the next gate with his keys in his hand, to let Baxter out.

  ‘I mind my own business, Baxter. I’ve never needed advice from anyone on that score.’

  ‘Take care of yourself now,’ Baxter said as Dunn brought the crisscross wire of the gate between them and locked it.

  * * *

  That night, driving home, John Dunn slowed down and pulled in a little to let a car go by that had been behind him since he left the prison.

  A number of possibilities presented themselves regarding the note. O’Malley had told Baxter about it. That meant Baxter was working for the IRA on the inside. He doubted if the IRA would trust a Protestant orderly but nothing was impossible. Else, one of the prison officers had seen Dunn pick up the note and Baxter had overheard a discussion about it. But if he’d just overheard prison officers talking about it, then why would Baxter suggest he destroy the note? That didn’t make sense. Only the IRA would want the note destroyed because only they knew what was in it.

  In Northern Ireland, nothing was what it seemed. It was only those working inside the British ‘intelligence’ services that thought things were clean cut. He’d done a few months with them. What a waste of time. Snooping and prying, cross-checking phone numbers, addresses and small ads in the Catholic community newspapers. He’d cut out the photos of the Gaelic football teams, and sent them to the Northern Ireland Office for their files. He clipped messages of support from the families of those on the blanket protest.

  It started off that all Republicans were terrorists. Then it became that all Catholics were Republican and then policy changed and they said, they’re not terrorists, they’re criminals.

  If there was an ad in one of the papers, no matter what it was – ‘bunkbeds wanted,’ for instance – he was to check the phone number at the phone exchange, get an address and see who lived there. One time, when it was an old couple, his boss suggested that they had people coming to stay. ‘Are they coming up from Dublin?’ So they’d put a watch on the house. He’d gone round and got chatting to the old lady. He’d complimented her on the dahlias in her window box. ‘Getting it nice for the weans. They got burnt out on the Short Strand.’

  ‘Their grandchildren are coming to stay.’ Dunn had said, coming back into the command centre at the end of the two week operation, and his boss had sent him off to check the records of a car hire company. ‘See who’s coming up from Dublin.’

  It was Angie who had handed him the bookings to look through. She made him a cup of tea and perched on the edge of the desk while he made notes. He’d been looking at who hired what and when and where they went. Then he looked at her looking at him.

  They went out together a few times but his radio was always going off and he would have to abandon her and head off for a very pointless evening sitting and waiting for nothing to happen. She seemed to think what he was doing was all very important and would amiably accept his comings and goings, saying, ‘I won’t ask you any questions because I know you won’t answer them.’

  He’d laughed out loud at that.

  After several Saturday nights crouching in the dark of an empty flat in Divis tower, with night-sight binoculars, watching one of their suspects down below roll home drunk and piss in the kitchen sink, John Dunn was let off the hook.

  But things were worse in the prison. One minute they were prisoners, criminals, the next minute it was a war. A man had to know what he was fighting; it had to be told to him clearly, even if it wasn’t clear. Soldiers were to follow orders, the clearer the better. It was the officers who were to sort out the other stuff, the moral complexities.

  He was right to hand in the note.

  He got back on to the motorway and drove, in the slow lane, lights dipped, foot resting on the accelerator, on auto pilot. He shook a cigarette out of the pack, pressed down the cigarette lighter and waited – the wire rings were glowing orange when he pressed it to the end of the cigarette.

  He’d got Shandy to cover for him and dodged out of work about six. He was going to take his son to the local for a pint. He wanted to make sure the boy was staying for Christmas.

  * * *

  John Dunn was on good form when they stepped out for the chips for dinner, pub very much in mind. Mark had said he would be there until the day after Boxing Day.

  They had a cigarette each, enjoyed the beer, John asking Mark if it tasted better when someone else pulled it.

  ‘Yup,’ said Mark. But it was a job, the only bad thing was getting the occasional drunk to behave and stopping fights breaking out. He asked John what it was like working in a prison.

  ‘Same sort of thing by the sound of it.’ He drained his pint, put it down and nodded at the door. ‘Best not to talk about it in public though,’ he said, getting up. He opened the pub door for his son and nodded at the barman.

  They walked down to the fish and chip shop, John zipping up his jacket. His son was wearing a denim jacket. ‘Haven’t you got anything warmer?’

  ‘What were you worried about in there?’ asked Mark, half of each hand in his jean pockets. ‘It’s your local, right?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right. Wouldn’t trust anyone in there though.’ He opened

  the door of the chip shop. ‘Evening, Ted.’ The old man in there looked up and moaned.

  ‘I haven’t got the fat hot enough, can’t seem to get the bastard thing to go right since I went over to this new machine.’ He pushed his white hat back on his head. ‘You’ll have to wait for the next batch.’

  ‘Not to worry,’ said John. ‘We’ll have a warm shandy and a stale pickled egg while we wait.’ He handed Mark a can of Top Deck from the display on the counter. Then he unscrewed the large jar there and using a small wooden fork, passed an egg to his son and took one for himself. Both men chewed while Ted stood back watching a small piece of raw potato go limp in the oil.

  ‘This is my son.’

  The man looked at him. ‘I didn’t know you had a son.’

  ‘From before I met Angie.’

  ‘Well. He’s an ugly brute, like you.’

  ‘Ugly? You must be joking. He’s a looker, this kid is.’

  The oil sizzled. ‘Right let’s go. Cod and chips three times?’

  ‘And a battered saveloy.’

  They fell quiet drinking their shandies, Ted looking out the side window into the night. He went across to it and pulled the blind down, then he was back at the fryer, shaking the wire basket.

  ‘Right you are, gents.’

  He smoothed out the newspaper. ‘It gets you down. Wrapping up good food in bad news.’

  He lay down a square of white paper on top and placed a battered fish and a square ladleful of chips alongside it. He wrapped them carefully, folding this way and that.

  ‘You’ve to watch yourself in your line,’ he said to John.

  ‘So so. We keep a pretty tight lid on things in there.’

  ‘I wasn’t talking about inside.’ He put one parcel on the counter and went to do the next. ‘People round here are talking about Billy McGovern. They say he took a beating from the prison officers. People say it’s wrong, screws against their own.’

  ‘What do you say?’

  ‘I could get myself into a wee bit of bother selling you these chips,’ he said, not looking up, but ladling more chips, his brow furrowed. He put down the spoon and turned away with his forearm over his face, coughing deeply.

  ‘You all right?’

  The man was perspiring. ‘Aye,’ he said, and still he didn’t look John Dunn in the eye, but went to his folding. ‘Sure, we’re all just trying to get by, make a living . . .’

  He put three packets in a carrier bag, pushed it across the steel counter to John and asked him for two-pounds seventy.

  ‘I’m not ashamed of what I do,’ said John, offer
ing three pound-notes. Ted opened the till and pursed his lips; he looked back at the figures that were flagged on the top of the till and went back into the trays, digging about with his fingers.

  ‘Thirty’s your change. Good night.’

  They walked home in silence, the night was thick and the way home seemed long. With one hand, John carried the plastic bag and the other he put out towards Mark as they went to cross the wide roadway. A low black car sped past.

  ‘I’m not proud of what I do either. What do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know if people should be proud of what they do. Or of anything.’

  ‘Is that what your granddad would have said? Sounds like a Leftie.’ The boy demurred.

  ‘People should be proud of what they do, I reckon, if they can. You thought a lot of your grandfather, then.’

  ‘He never said I had to be like him. But he was always there for me. When I messed things up.’

  Alongside them and across from them there was uniform dilapidation: fences broken down, litter, the telephone line sagging and bouncing gently underneath the streetlights.

  ‘Mum chucked me out and I went to stay with him.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Why’d she chuck you out?’

  ‘Glue sniffing.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘I was sixteen. I was just looking for something to do. I was bored. I was nicking stuff too. Mum sent me to Ronnie’s. When I was unpacking my bag he came in and saw a whole load of stuff in it, cassette tapes, all new and he asked me about it and I lied, then I told him the truth and he went out and bought a whole load of envelopes and we called up the music stores to get their addresses right and then we packaged up the cassettes and put a note inside to apologize. And that was that, you see. Then he said, right that’s done with, you’re not a thief. Then we had our tea. Egg and chips and brown sauce, as I recall.’

  ‘You don’t do glue sniffing now, do you?’

  ‘Christ no, you’ve got to be bloody desperate to do that.’

  ‘It was good he was there to set you straight.’