— You saved your enclave, Tyrone, said the second visitor.
— Is Danny a martyr?
What had come over me? Why had I asked that? Words without thought. My mouth remained open.
— He’s a martyr of the Irish struggle for freedom, yes.
The officer looked at me compassionately.
— And as for you, you’re a hero.
At first I refused. I simply wanted to be in the crowd, just another mourner amongst all the others. To carry the coffin, but not to be any more involved than that. During the procession some men from the unit came to see me. Their hands on my shoulder, their voices like prayers.
— It’s him! It’s Tyrone Meehan!
Murmurs, people trying frantically to get a look. Gestures of recognition. As I passed by, two old nationalists straightened up to pay me respect, fingertips to their temples. A young girl gave me the kiss of the survivor and another handed me a bouquet of snowdrops. On the pavement, a group of children were mimicking the Fianna’s rhythmic step. There were no British on the route. They were posted in the surrounding streets, behind the cheval-de-frise, with their ‘pudding bowls’ covered in foliage on their heads.
At first I refused to speak, but eventually I accepted.
I was applauded as I made my way towards the microphone. For a long time, as though being thanked. I had killed Danny. I was shaking. I hadn’t stopped shaking since that day. The crowd was dense and reverential. I brought my lips to the metal.
Hundreds of faces watching. His wife in the front row. Sheila. Jim. The others.
— Danny Finley is not dead!
Cheering.
— Danny Finley is not dead, because you are alive!
I looked at the teary faces in front of me.
— Danny Finley is not dead because last Monday, Mary Mulgreevy was born in Clonard Street. Because on Tuesday, Declan Curran was born in Crocus Street. Because this very morning, Siobhán McDevitt was born in Dunville Street.
Tremors. Women holding hands. In the first row, the officer who had come to see me had tears welling in his eyes.
— Danny Finley is not dead. His name is Mary, Declan, Siobhán!
Our flags were flapping at the foot of the platform. I looked out over the radiant faces.
I killed Danny Finley.
— Our revenge will be the life of these children!
A woman dressed in red stood up. She waited till there was silence. Dozens of empty bottles and pint glasses sat on the tables. I looked around me and I knew every one of them. Jim O’Leary, the bomb-maker who had watched over my bedside, and Cathy his wife. Pete ‘the Killer’ Bradley, the Sheridan brothers. Every time my eyes met someone else’s, a glass was raised to me. Mike O’Doyle, Eugene ‘the Bear Cub’, their faces drawn after years in prison. They left those cells only to go straight back in again. They were holding on between life and death.
The woman in red brought the microphone to her lips.
— A brave son of Ireland was shot on Dholpur Lane tonight…
The pints were left down on the tables. From the first few notes, the pub fell silent. Just that voice at first, then accompanied by dozens of others, like a crowd setting off together. The woman turned to face me. So did all the faces in the room. It was for Tyrone Meehan that the residents of the Thomas Ashe were singing ‘The Ballad of Danny Finley’, dead one year to the day. That song had been written a week after his passing, then published in the Republican papers and taken up across the whole country. Some friends had heard it in a pub in London, and even in an Irish bar in Chicago, where the Americans cried as they sang of exile. So I sang it softly as well.
At the chorus, the room stood up to sing ‘Farewell my friend’.
— Slán go fóill, mo chara…
I had pushed back my chair and was standing up in the centre of the big room, my arms straight at my sides and my fists clenched. Danny Finley had joined his dead heroes, Pearse, Connolly, Thomas Dunbar, Tom Williams. He used to sing about them often, but it was him we’d be singing about from now on. I felt Sheila’s hand on my arm. Jack was there beside me. He had just turned nine. He was watching me, watching the crowd. That image of pride is what I will keep of him my whole life.
I lifted my hand at the cheer and sat down. More pints were squeezed on to the table in front of me. The Guinness my father drank had the taste of tragedy. For the past year, I was like a dead man. My name had got around too much for me to take up arms again. I was retired. It was temporary, but necessary. During the day, caps were raised at my passing, people smiled at me, offered warm words. At night, Danny gave me that look. I had lasted one year. I would last my whole life. It was too late to talk. To whom would I confess? To Father Donovan? To the IRA? To Sheila? To Jim? To my son who lived for me? To whom? And for what reason? For my soul to find peace? Or my heart? Or my gut? I had killed Danny and I had hidden it. I carried his coffin, I honoured his name, I called for revenge. It was too late for dispelling the smoke from Dholpur Lane.
Towards midnight, Frank Devlin and his wife came to shake my hand. Everyone called him Mickey. He was smiling. He handed me a pen. Nobody understood this gesture, it was a secret, just between us. Mickey had caught me out twenty-eight years ago, and he was still taking advantage of it. It wasn’t out of malice, just a kid teasing. And I was blushing. He placed his hand on my shoulder.
— It’s been a long old road, eh? he said before going back to his table.
I raised my glass to eye level to say goodbye in turn.
It was at Crumlin, the day after I arrived. My first time in prison. Before being locked up, I had asked to go to the bog. I’d kept a stub of pencil in my sock, a dusting of lead wrapped in a splinter of wood. I don’t know what came over me. I must have believed I was still free, behind the closed door of a pub urinal. The wall was a dirty grey and I wrote ‘IRA’ in large letters. And then I went into my cell.
The following day, our division could talk of nothing else. The lads were in hysterics over it. But who had done it? Who could really have boasted about belonging to the IRA when everyone in the place was there for being in it? Who had thought they were in a Dublin public toilet? Who had shown off to frighten future bladders?
Mickey was in charge of our washing. He found the pencil, forgotten in the turned-up end of one of my trouser legs. I made him promise not to tell. So he promised. But for him, Tyrone Meehan would always be that kid from the Crum who boasted about the IRA on a toilet wall because he was the only one in the place who didn’t belong to the secret army. Frank was guarding the memory of my youthful foolishness.
That evening in the Thomas Ashe I felt like I was in their club. For the first time I wasn’t at home, but in their space. I felt I had intruded on the beauty of the brave.
— We’re going, Tyrone. Do you want your jacket?
Sheila was standing. Jack was asleep on the table, his head on his arms. The Thomas Ashe was emptying slowly.
— See you, Tyrone!
— Safe home, Meehan!
Chairs were being piled up and tables dragged across the floor; there was the sound of glasses being stacked, the iron shutter of the bar being noisily lowered. The murmur of drunkenness, of laughter, of beer, of overly loud voices. I put my jacket on. My cap. I staggered across the room. On a wall was a framed portrait of Danny, crossed with a black veil. I paused. The sudden neon lights splashed across his forehead and expression.
Lieut. Daniel ‘Danny’ Finley
1924–1969