After the Lockout (25 page)

‘We may not be in the church but we are in the confessional, Ida. Nothing you say will be repeated. No-one will know what you say.' He took a breath. ‘Now tell me: who?'

Ida too took a breath. ‘Jerry McGrath. Sean Moriarty. John McDermott. Thomas Murphy. Nicky the other Murphy. Aidan Cavanagh. He keeps saying he wants to marry me, so I keep telling him he's not to come any more. Pius Lennon …'

‘Enough!' Stanislaus cried in astonishment. He gathered himself. ‘Tell me about Victor Lennon.'

She met Stanislaus's eye dead-on. ‘No, Your Grace, not Victor.'

For now, we can only wait till Pius decides to go and see the OC. Pius sits in his armchair with the rifle cradled in his lap and Bat McClatchey's revolver on the floor beside him. He has turned the armchair by a few degrees towards the door so he can warm himself by the fire while he's waiting to blow the first intruder to smithereens. The evening is creeping in and the darkness will help those who wish us harm, but we have two guns and I don't suppose Arthur and Bat have one. I know how difficult guns are to come by, and though I don't know whether Bat and Arthur can afford to go back without me, I'm betting they dare not go back without the weapon. They'll give us a chance to return it but if we don't, they'll find a way to kill us. I'm certain Pius isn't IRB himself, as the Church forbids membership of secret societies and Pius wouldn't ignore the injunction. Besides, he isn't their type. An IRB man needs to be a spy, a politician and an assassin all at once, and Pius is none of these.

‘Who is the OC?'

‘You're supposed to be the revolutionary. You should know better than to ask.'

I look in the fire at the sprightly flames and think of the hurt in Maggie's eyes as she slapped my face, with all my betrayal and her humiliation behind her hand. Charlie Quinn, that bastard gombeen bastard Charlie Quinn, will be with her at this very moment, comforting her and soothing her and wooing her with promises of comfort and mediocrity, tomorrow and forever. Tormenting her with a sales pitch as she watches the door and waits for me to come and explain and apologise and beg and reset the clocks; to clear all the debris so only the salient, unassailable fact remains: that I love her and she loves me and we belong together. Yet I'm absent. Imprisoned by assassins at large, but she can't know that. All she knows is I'm not there to offer any words or deeds to salvage things. The one-legged shopkeeper is there instead, whispering in her ear that I have claimed enough years of her life already, that she's a fool for having waited so long for me.

I hope Ida's all right.

I tiptoe around and check the windows, make sure no-one's coming. Pius throws his cigarette in the fire, spits the hocked-up saliva into the grate and takes a sip of poteen. His eyes glower like blazing turf logs, and he looks more terrifying than anything that might lurk in the darkness without. ‘You shouldn't drink poteen when you're holding a loaded shotgun,' I say.

‘It's after dark. I'm allowed to drink all I want.'

‘I know, I know, but to be honest, you're scaring me.'

‘If you're afraid, so will they be,' he says with a malevolence that does nothing to reassure me, but suddenly his expression
changes to the most disarming tenderness. ‘I stopped drinking during the day just because you asked me,' he says.

‘Most of the time,' I say.

‘Out of respect for your mother.' He pauses. ‘You look like her.' He pauses again. ‘I stopped my drinking ways when I first met her.'

‘I never knew you drank before.'

‘There's a lot of things I tried to leave in the past. For your mother.'

‘Tell me what Ma was like when she was young, Da.'

‘She was the most beautiful girl in the county. Men would come from everywhere looking to court her. She could have married a millionaire. Nobody knew why she would take an interest in a man like me. If there's any goodness in me, she put it there. She put the drunkenness and meanness out of me. She brought me to the Church. It keeps me civilised, now she's not here. There's them would say I'm not civilised, but all I can say is I'd be worse but for the Church.'

He takes a long swig.

‘I'm tired, son. I'm tired of playing the civilised man. I'm going to hell. There's no avoiding that. Sometimes a man does things and there can be no redemption. But your mother gave me twenty years of peace and it was more than I deserved. Maybe God will give me peace in the next world, but I don't suppose He'll be much inclined to.'

It's after midnight when Pius says it's time to go. The important thing is to hand the gun to the proper authority. Pius says he believes the OC can be trusted. Either way, it's the only chance we have of not seeing the gun turned straight back on us. We walk slowly into Madden. Pius keeps the rifle cocked and I hold the pistol carefully, my hand tucked inside the breast of my coat. It's pitch dark and we walk with great deliberation till we get to the wall of the Poor Ground. The night is moonless and starless without a sliver of light. Only the smouldering glow of fireplaces inside slumbering homes punctuates the still gloom. How will the OC, whoever he is, even know we're here?

‘When he comes, take the bullets out and hand him the empty gun. We'll leave the bullets by the side of the road further up. We'll leave a cigarette lit beside them so he can find them.'

Something stirs. I look up the street, back the way we came, and in the darkness perceive a figure moving towards us. Pius squints. ‘He's alone, isn't he?' The figure comes closer. ‘Right then, take out those bullets.'

Stanislaus was wakened by shouts and screams and cheering and jeering. He went to the window but his bedroom faced away from the village so he could see nothing but a dim orange tint in the black night. He dressed and went down the stairs quickly, and was surprised to find Father Daly at the kitchen table sharing tea with two men he had never seen before.

‘You're up late, Your Grace,' he said.

‘Who are these men?'

‘Motorists. They were passing through and had a bit of trouble. They've thrown themselves on our mercy.'

‘There's something going on outside. Are you deaf, man?' Stanislaus hurried out the door and saw angry orange shards dancing in the night sky. Bleary-eyed families stood in the street, some looking on passively, others scurrying furiously, as the barn that Victor Lennon had built burned like a bonfire. Sean Moriarty exhorted everyone to join the relay of people slopping buckets messily from hand to hand from the well by the National School. Victor, Pius and Turlough dashed recklessly in and out of the burning building, momentarily dampening the most urgent areas until the blaze blew beyond control elsewhere. The sheer violence of the fire struck Stanislaus as odd. The building was mostly metal, the fire could only feed on the thick beams that formed its skeleton. Though hardly fireproof, the stanchions would have been a reluctant accomplice to an arsonist. Yet looking closer he saw the fire had indeed eaten deep into the wood. Some patient firestarter had nurtured it from a mere flicker to the great conflagration that now licked through the body of Victor Lennon's building.

Crowds were gathered across from the Poor Ground. Kate McDermott. Jerry McGrath. TP McGahan and his notebook out. Aidan Cavanagh looked manic. Many others were there, and in the dancing light of the flames, Stanislaus fancied he saw hate in their faces. Kate McDermott said it was like the
Titanic
: this was what happened when men poked their fingers in the eyes of God. A great crack and creak announced the imminent collapse of the far end of the building; the fire-fighters shrieked with terror while the rest looked on with grim satisfaction.
Margaret Cavanagh, the schoolteacher, ran towards the onlookers in great distress.

‘Please help us. There aren't enough of us to fight the fire. Please, before someone is killed,' she begged.

‘Stop running after that fucker and making a fool of yourself, Maggie. Come here to me now,' Aidan Cavanagh cried to his sister.

‘Shut up, Aidan,' she replied.

Jerry McGrath turned to Stanislaus. ‘What should we do, Father?'

Stanislaus marvelled dumbly at the flames as they leapt exultantly heavenwards, defying the night. So it is by fire that the parish will be cleansed, he thought. So be it. Victor threw more water, like an emperor putting down rebellions left and right, though his engulfment in revolution was already assured. The flames would have their way. Stanislaus's flock looked to him. He gripped his cane tightly and shook his head. ‘You should tell them to stand back and let the fire burn itself out,' he said.

‘Victor is inside there. Pius and Turlough too. If you tell people to help we can still put this fire out.'

‘Miss Cavanagh, I have spoken.'

‘But Your Grace …'

Stanislaus didn't wish harm on Pius or Turlough or even the Victor fellow, but that wasn't the issue. Those helping Victor fight the fire weren't necessarily choosing his way – when confronted with a fire, it was natural to try and put it out – but those who took a step back with Stanislaus now, their inaction was definitive. Their standing by was a profound statement of solidarity with Christ.

‘Sometimes one must surrender to a greater opposing force.'

Charlie Quinn came hurrying up the street as quickly as his good leg would carry him, looking murderous. ‘They smashed my window. They've robbed me again.'

We're arriving home safely when I first spot the daggers of flame shooting up in the sky, and I know it's the People's Hall. I don't need to waste time trying to discern detail, I
know
. And we aren't going to be able to save it. Even as we sprint back down the road we have just crept up so gingerly, even as we arrive in the village and see the conflagration, even as we smash into Charlie's shop and commandeer all his buckets, I know it will all be in vain. Blinking, sleep-eyed neighbours emerge from their front doors to see what's happening, and I exhort them to help. I form relay lines of the willing and, steeling every sinew, throw myself into the fight. I promise them the hall can be saved but I know it's finished. The fire will reduce the People's Hall to a burned-out shell, and each pail I throw at the flames is as forlorn a gesture as Cúchullain at the waves. At the far end of the barn, the stanchions holding up the roof look like used matches, pillars of packed carbon retaining their shape but no more now than ghosts of the wood they were. They'll fall soon. The others will follow.