— By studying, for example, the first guy took over again.
I shook my head. In Killybegs I had been a poor student. I had never understood much of what went on at school. Neither maths nor logic. I loved Irish, English, history. Nothing else. The priests used to pull our hair. My father would beat me for every bad mark. My mother struggled just to read her prayer book.
— I was under Tom Williams’s command.
That was all I said. Neither out of vanity nor insolence. I simply wanted those men to know that I hadn’t arrived from my village yesterday. The big guy pointed out the smaller with a jerk of his head.
— Joe was with Tom when he was arrested.
— Joe Cahill, the other murmured, offering me his hand.
Behind me, the priest was reading from Paul’s Letter to the Romans.
—‘… but became vain in their imaginations, and their foolish heart was darkened… ’
The wall of men tightened around me. I raised my hand.
— I swear allegiance to the Irish Republic and to the IRA, its army, the first prisoner prompted me.
— I swear allegiance to Poblacht na hÉireann and to Óglaigh na hÉireann.
— I swear allegiance to the 1916 Proclamation and vow to fight for the creation of a socialist Republic…
The chaplain was praying softly. He was trying to scold us. Father Alan was not Father Alexis who had accompanied Tom the martyr. This priest hated us.
—‘… professing themselves to be wise, they became fools, and changed the glory of the uncorruptible God into an image made like to corruptible man …’
His sermon was tremulous, my promise whispered. I knew he was addressing me. He knew his prisoners. He knew our tricks and our schemes. Every Sunday he would notice whatever passed from hand to hand, the notes, objects and signs. He knew what the absence of one or the presence of another meant. He had observed the men moving to surround me. He knew that in the middle of this closed group, a young man was swearing allegiance. That noiselessly a sinner was in the process of breaking his pact with peace and a soul was escaping him forever.
When it came to the Eucharist I was in my place, facing him.
— Let those who have no blood on their hands come forward, said the priest every Sunday.
And every Sunday I was the only one to kneel in front of him.
He watched me for a long time that day. I didn’t recognize his face. He no longer wore his smile. My hands were joined. He placed the host on my tongue.
— Body of Christ.
I held his gaze.
— Amen.
I was miserable.
When I got up again, he bent over to whisper in my ear.
— Do you know that you have just promised to kill?
My hands were still joined, the dry taste of the unleavened bread was still on my palate. I couldn’t say yes. There is no word to justify killing. So I simply maintained eye contact. I didn’t challenge him. I was leaving the door to my heart wide open.
— By following Barabbas you are condemning Jesus, the priest murmured.
He looked at the silent congregation. The prisoners were solemn, as though they knew every word being exchanged.
— Next Sunday, do not come forward to the altar for Communion. Stay with your accomplices.
And then he turned away from me.
When I returned to my seat a guy nudged my shoulder.
— A good quarrel with God beats loneliness.
And he laughed, while the priest removed his stole in a discontented manner.
I stayed in Crumlin Gaol for twenty-eight months. And I never went back to the chapel. I had fashioned a crucifix out of breadcrumbs, plaster torn from the wall, and saliva. It was every bit as good as the big silver cross Father Alan used to place on the altar for Mass. When I was released on 26 April 1945, the British had almost won their war. And we were worn out.
Seánie and I took up my uncle’s chimney-sweep business again. We found a little work locally, but the city centre and the Protestant neighbourhoods were off-limits. Clients would often pay by bartering: we would sweep their chimneys in exchange for food. Róisín was working in the local post office. Mary was helping out in Costello’s grocery. The little ones were trying to make the most out of school. And Mother was losing control. She spent her days between the kitchen and church. She prayed out loud while cleaning the house. Sometimes, she drew a crowd in the street. On the corner of Dholpur Lane, she’d put curses on passers-by, brandishing her rosary. I would take her by the arm then to walk her back home.
— We are isolated, Seánie said to me, sitting on the front steps one evening.
He was experiencing what our father had lived through when he had lost his war. When his country had been ripped in two, and his hopes buried beneath ashes. We were the offspring of that disaster. Not beaten, but distraught. We were the only people in Allied Europe who didn’t have a victorious flag hanging from our windows, who weren’t dancing in the streets. Their war was over. Ours continued.
8
I jumped the low wall at a run, not seeing the hawthorn bushes in the dark. The brambles tore at my forehead and hands. I stifled a cry. I was knotted all over with tension, my neck aching. The fear. Right behind me, Danny Finley threw himself head first into the gnarly bed of brambles.
— Shit! What the hell is that?
— We need to give the Belfast lads a course in botany, growled our captain, a British army deserter.
— They’re called thorns. They’re a bit like their barbed wire, answered a voice in the darkness.
— Very funny, Danny groaned.
There were around fifty of us lying behind the hedges, backs against black trees, or creeping over the frozen earth. Danny was bleeding, his face lacerated by the thorns. I threw him a sympathetic glance.
— Take a look at your own face, he growled.
It was four in the morning. We were about to attack the RUC station at Lisnaskea in County Fermanagh. At nightfall, a young Enniskillen priest had blessed our troops. Rome was threatening us with excommunication, but our priest forgave us our trespasses. We had gathered around him, on the bog, in the wind, one knee on the ground and our hands on the freezing wood of our guns. We were wearing civilian clothing. No uniforms, not even a flag. Coats, caps, waterproofs, woollen pea coats and city shoes. We looked more like militia than an army, or, rather, like our fathers during the Civil War.
Each óglach had to watch his partner’s back. Danny and I were covering each other. The explosives manufacturers had just placed four bombs against the wall of the barracks. We were with them. We had dived into the thorns after coming back to get under cover.
It was 14 December 1956. Two days previously, the IRA had launched its ‘Border Campaign’. Coming from the Free State, Republican units were striking British targets in Northern Ireland, then withdrawing across the border again. For the first time since 1944 we had taken up arms. Certain Belfast combatants were also deeply involved in the campaign.
— Open your mouths and lower your heads, our officer ordered.
The explosions were terrible. I was deafened. I grabbed Danny. Everything was flying around us — concrete, wood, tiny projectiles that whistled past like bullets. We didn’t have to go into the building, just strike it.
— Into position!
Alarm behind the walls. A whistle being blown, a siren, shouting. I lay down with my elbows on the ground and my cheek against the butt of my gun. It was a Mauser Karabiner 98K rifle. I’d tried it out during training, but never in combat. Each combatant had three magazines of five rounds. There was clearly no question of besieging them; we were simply announcing our return to combat. I shot my first bullet at nothing. A human shadow, perhaps. I was unsteady. I hated the sniper stance. Stomach pressed against the ground, the shock of the discharge against my shoulder, the crash against my cheek, a pain in my ear. I stood up.