After the Lockout (28 page)

She must sense my bewilderment at the suggestion. Her hair is hideous. Her face is lamentable. Her eyes are so black they seem as mere voids in the darkness. ‘Damnit, Ida, do you not understand? I don't want you.'

‘You have to choose me, you have no other choice. You can't have the schoolteacher. You can have me,' she says with bizarre assurance.

I walk away, hoping my silence will be her answer, but for miles and miles she trundles after me. I refuse to choose her. I refuse to have the choice forced on me. I refuse to accept that which must be accepted. I refuse the world and I refuse God. Let them all kill me; I'm never letting go. Let them put me in my grave; but let it be carved on my headstone, and let the words forever be associated with my name: I refuse, I refuse, I refuse.

Stanislaus woke in his chair with an empty brandy glass on the floor beside him and its former contents sticky on his clothes. He had been waiting for the police to arrive but must have fallen asleep. It was daylight now and they still hadn't come. He heard someone clear their throat, and he slowly became aware that he hadn't merely stirred. Mrs Geraghty was shaking his shoulder, and she looked nervous as a kitten. Stanislaus looked up. Cardinal Logue sat across the desk from him, leaning forward and turning his cane in his fist. Stanislaus blinked and made to rise, but the Cardinal sat him down with a wave.

‘Things have gotten out of control, Stanislaus,' he said. There was no possible reply. ‘Your curate has told me about the agitator,' the Cardinal continued, and Stanislaus saw Daly skulking sheepishly by the door. ‘I know about the building of the hall. I know about the fire. I understand a man was killed. A parishioner. The father of the agitator.'

‘What about the others?' said Stanislaus.

‘What others?'

It was clear to Stanislaus that the Cardinal didn't know. The curate had told him nothing about the motorists, whoever they had been. Stanislaus glanced out the window. The bodies were gone from the Poor Ground.

‘Bishop Benedict is confused, Your Eminence,' said Daly.

‘Shut up, curate,' the Cardinal snapped. He paused a moment. ‘Stanislaus, I have placed a telephone call to Inspector Truman of Dawson Street, he will be here soon. My information is this: there was a fire here, probably started deliberately, and a man died fighting the fire. Is my information complete and correct?'

Daly stood in the shadows shaking his head. ‘Yes, Your Eminence, it happened just as you say,' Stanislaus said.

The Cardinal looked relieved. ‘Where is the body?'

‘Buried.'

‘Already?'

‘What Bishop Benedict means, Your Eminence,' Daly interrupted, ‘is that the burning structure collapsed on top of poor Pius and he was buried beneath it. There are no remains.'

The Cardinal looked to Stanislaus for confirmation of Daly's damnable lies. Stanislaus knew his silence implied assent but he couldn't bring himself to speak. The Cardinal looked at Daly with unconcealed disgust and told him to leave the room. When the curate was gone, the Cardinal rose and walked to the window.

‘It's not your fault, Stanislaus. Your curate has a lot to learn. Young men always do. He'll be missioning to the lepers in Matabeleland this time next month. He'll learn a lot there.' He paused. ‘The world is a mess, Stanislaus. Goodness knows what the future holds. What do you think? About the future?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Of course you don't know. I'm asking what you think.'

‘I don't think. I have no opinion on the future. It's the past that scares me.'

The Cardinal smiled scornfully. ‘You were always good at saying things that sound profound but that don't actually mean anything at all.' As he looked out the window, it seemed his mind was far away. ‘I wish I didn't have to worry about the future. I wish I had that luxury,' he said.

‘You're seventy-seven years of age. The future is not your business.'

‘The red hat makes it my business.' He peered into the distance. ‘You can see the river Blackwater from here.
Where County Armagh ends and County Monaghan begins.' He paused. ‘They're going to partition the country, you know.'

‘That's just talk, a scare tactic.'

‘It's not scaring anyone nearly enough. They're going to force each other into places neither of them wants to be. You know better than anyone how these things go.'

‘Yes, I know how these things go,' Stanislaus said. After the war in Europe the British would return to what they called, with all their imperial arrogance, the ‘Irish question', and simple people would see in Victor Lennon and the likes of him a Ribbonman poking the English in the eye. It was in the nature of events to spiral. The rising had flushed out the specificities, and the capacity of the existing order to offer advantage to those who would serve it was already diminishing. ‘Men like Victor Lennon always emerge when Englishmen kill Irishmen in Ireland,' Stanislaus said.

‘They're going to partition the country and we are going to be on the wrong side of the line. We are going to be a minority locked inside a Protestant holdout,' said the Cardinal.

‘You're describing a nightmare.'

‘It will be our responsibility to provide leadership to our people. Sometimes leadership is about knowing where people are going, and getting out in front of them.' He paused. ‘I understand the problems started when you refused the local football team use of the Parochial Hall?'

‘Gaelic football, Mick.'

‘I know, I know. But it does seem to be very popular.' The Cardinal went to the door. ‘If they're going to partition the country, we must make our presence felt in every institution
open to us. Even the unedifying ones. Let them use the Parochial Hall. Tonight. Under your supervision.'

‘Yes, Your Eminence.'

The Parochial Hall was two-thirds full. A good turnout, considering. People danced and music played and Stanislaus moved through the room noting with approval that everyone seemed to be behaving themselves. The photographer was setting up. A young fellow from Armagh, paid for by the Cardinal. There was great excitement among the footballers that they were getting their photograph taken. The photographer organised the young men and the team officials into rows: one seated, one standing behind the seated row, and a third standing on chairs at the back. Charlie Quinn handed the trophy to Sean Moriarty and said Sean should sit in the middle and hold it, since he was the team captain. Charlie took up a spot in the middle row, where the camera wouldn't see his leg.

‘Are you sure you're fit to stand?' one of the young lads jeered good-humouredly.

‘Och, very funny,' Charlie said, slurring slightly. He was clearly merry but Stanislaus wasn't going to cause a scene. Better to give the lad special dispensation on the happy occasion. He might just gently remind him he had a big day ahead, and eight o'clock came early. It seemed Miss Cavanagh had decided, sensibly, to stay at home and prepare for the ceremony.

The photographer took down the names to go with the faces, and when he had finished he called them out, back row first,
from left to right, to make sure there were no mistakes. Everyone was where they were supposed to be.

‘Don't forget Victor Lennon,' Turlough Moriarty said.

‘Victor Lennon? I thought you were, let me see …' The photographer began going through the list: ‘… Turlough?'

‘No, I mean Victor Lennon isn't here. He's part of the team too. Don't forget to write down: Missing from the picture – Victor Lennon.'

‘V-I-C-T-O-R-L-E-N …' the photographer began.

‘There's no such person, not on this team,' Aidan Cavanagh shouted furiously,

‘He's right. Score that name out. That fellow had nothing to do with it,' said Charlie Quinn.

‘What are youse boys talking about? Victor damn near won us the final on his own,' Turlough said, but the rest of them shouted him down. His brother Sean put a hand on his knee as if to quieten him. The photographer turned to Stanislaus with bemusement. Stanislaus shrugged.

‘All right then,' he said. ‘Now, the rest of you men: this camera is a lot better than the old-fashioned ones but please avoid moving if you can. Remember, this is for posterity, so straighten those ties and give me a big smile.' He disappeared under the cloak, and Stanislaus stood beside him while he did whatever he did under there.

‘There was a young man in this parish called Victor Lennon, but he's gone now.'

‘Are you getting into the photo, Father?' said the voice from beneath the cloak.

‘Come on, Father, stand in here. We have to have the new club chairman in the picture,' said Charlie, and, without hesitation,
Stanislaus sat in beside Sean Moriarty in the midst of the men of Madden.

‘All right, you men, and you too, Father,' the photographer shouted. ‘This is history now, so watch the birdie and say a big hello to your great-grandchildren.'

I would like to thank:

Pat and Seamus McCann: my parents and best friends, quite simply for everything.

Jacqueline Nora McCann,
née
Fleming, my partner in life, for so often carrying me.

Glenn Patterson, a wonderful writer; a great and humane mentor.

Giles Foden, a friend to a young writer who needed one.

I would also like to thank: Emily Berry, Fran Brearton, Ciaran Carson, Gearoid Cassidy, Tom Clarke, Emily DeDakis, Jennifer Hewson, Chris McCann, Jacqueline McCann, James McCann, Mark Richards, Ian Sansom, Peter Straus and John Thompson.