Carn (21 page)

Then he put down the clipboard. His speech slowed and he gestured unnecessarily, as if explaining a problem to a dim child. He said that it now appeared that they had expanded too quickly. There
was now a glut of beef in Europe. It was time for everyone to realise, and not just in the beef industry—he turned for a second to receive James Cooney’s nod of approval—that the
winds of change were blowing. The icy winds of change are blowing around this country and if we do not face up to this, we could be in serious trouble, he said. The good times were coming to an
end. Then he fell silent and looked down the length of the canteen. They looked up at him with their mouths hanging open. Like the railway workers of years before, they half-expected him to
suddenly fling the documents and clipboard papers from him and burst out laughing, crying, “I certainly had you fooled there, eh? I took you in there, lads? I took you all in hook line and
sinker.”

But he didn’t. He went back once more to his documents and before they knew it they were again up to their necks in a welter of figures and numbers and percentages and dates and
statistics. It seemed like it would never end.

When he had finished, James Cooney rose once more and said that it was one of the greatest regrets of his life that he had had to gather so many of the best workers it had ever been his
privilege to employ together to break this sad news. But the current climate and forces outside his control had left him little choice. He truly appreciated everything the people of Carn had done
for him. The like of the workers assembled here today are to be found nowhere in the British Isles, or anywhere else for that matter, he said.

It would be a sad day for Carn when the Carn Meat Processing Plant closed down in the new year.

When he spoke these words, the men felt themselves go cold. The words reverberated in their heads.
Were they dreaming or what? What was Cooney on about? Had he lost his
mind—closed?

No.

He was talking about the possibility—if the climate was right— of a temporary re-opening during the summer. But there was no way that could be guaranteed.

They would just have to wait and see.

Then the Production Manager announced that the redundancy terms would be negotiated properly and fairly with the unions. Then he began to gather up his papers and put them into his leather
briefcase.

Slowly James Cooney’s face began to come back to its old self. His eyes brightened and he smiled as he said that he had taken the liberty of organising a special Christmas party for every
worker in the factory. It was to be a party to end them all, a token of his thanks to the town. And for the first two hours there will be a free bar, not one man will have to put his hand in his
pocket, he said.

It was to take place in the Turnpike Inn the following evening.

Thank you for your time, he said and with a little wave, he was gone, followed by the Production Manager carrying his zippered briefcase.

As soon as he disappeared uproar broke out. Directionless sputniks flew everywhere as they cried, “What about the triple bonus? He can’t do this to us! Where are the union men now?
What about all the big promises?” The tone became frantic.

But they lost the run of themselves and any kind of meaning or sense was lost. On the way home, rumours bred and spread like a bushfire. They claimed that Cooney had never owned the factory,
that he had merely been a front man for a conglomerate who had made a fortune out of EEC intervention and were now running for cover and keeping the spoils. They were dumping the workers now when
it suited them. The more they talked, the more ludicrous the rumours became. They clenched their fists bitterly as they spoke his name. He had never been in America at all, they claimed. They did
not go home but went straight to the public bars and hotels. They felt like infants abandoned in the wilderness. They stumbled homewards in the early hours of the morning shouting, “Cooney
the liar” and “Cooney betrayed Carn. We were better off in the days of the railway.”

And when at last the streets were empty, the barmen in the Turnpike Inn set up their ladders and unrolled the banner James Cooney had had specially printed a week before. They draped it across
the façade and went across the street to admire it. In giant red and black letters it proclaimed to the citizens of Carn:

XVI

The northman heaved the crate onto the truck and waited until the loading bay was deserted. The last of the nightshift workers drifted towards the exit. He looked about him and
lit a cigarette. Then he sat down. Below them the sprawling town slept. The northman sighed and dragged on the cigarette. “So, here we are Benny.”

Benny nodded. “What’s the story?” he said.

The northman looked up at him. “The bomb was put together in the house we want.”

Benny felt his body tensing up. “Where—local?” he said.

The northman rubbed his eyes. “He’s been stashing stuff out there for the past two years. They have everything they want on him now.”

He paused. “You know him,” he said.

Benny looked at him. His palms sweated. “Who?” he asked.

“Hamilton. The shopkeeper.”

“Alec Hamilton? Jesus Christ.”

“That’s him.”

Benny shook his head incredulously. “No. They’ve got it wrong. It can’t be him.”

“It’s him all right. He has a fucking arsenal out there. Where he has it we don’t know. But that’s what we’re going to find out. That’s where the weapons were
stashed for the McCarney job, that’s where the bomb that killed your mate was assembled. He didn’t plant it but next thing to it. He’s a bad bastard. Black as your boot
Benny.”

Hamilton. Alec Hamilton. Solid, dependable Alec Hamilton.

“It’s a mistake,” Benny began. He broke off as the northman shook his head.

He smiled and flicked away his cigarette. “These people don’t make mistakes Benny. He’s been checked and double-checked. That’s why we’ve waited.”

He paused and said. “The profits from his shop go to the Orange Order.”

“How did they find that out?”

“I told you—he goes back a long way. He lived in places besides Carn you know. You wouldn’t catch him in this place unless there was money to be made. It’s not the first
time.”

They lapsed into silence and then the northman said, “It has to be Friday. Cooney’s throwing his party on Friday so there won’t be a stir out in the fields. There’s four
other men in on this. Northmen. Belfast.” Benny nodded.

“Right then. Youse know the terrority better than us. You’ll be able to keep your eyes open and give us more time. They’ll be staying in a house five miles from the town.
I’ll let you know everything tomorrow.”

The northman turned to go. “Anything you need to know you’ll know by tomorrow night. Come Saturday, we’ll have put an end to their little game once and for all.” He
lifted the last crate onto the lorry and went inside.

Benny stared down at the sleeping town. In the distance, beyond the railway, he could see the rolling outline of the Hairy Mountains. Despite himself, his body was cold with anxiety.

These people don’t make mistakes
.

He hadn’t expected it to be someone like Hamilton. It had thrown him off-centre.

But it
was
Hamilton.

And he was in on it now.

XVII

The Oklahoma Mountain Boys were in full swing and the music wafted out through the open upstairs windows of the Turnpike Inn. The lead singer wore a JR stetson and dark
glasses, winking to the patrons as they filed in. The drummer chewed gum laconically, twirling his sticks in the air. The cymbals crashed as the song finished and the lead singer replaced the
microphone.

“Thank y’all ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to welcome you all here to the Turnpike Inn. I sure do hope you’re all gonna have a mighty fine time. Me and the boys here are
gonna whip up some mighty tunes for y’all so don’t forget that the bar’s free so don’t waste no time get up there and git swillin’. We’d like to continue now
with a li’l number called
My Son calls another man Daddy
.”

The singer closed his eyes and his face contorted. A group of mature women turned away from the bar counter and lost themselves in the lyric of the song. They shook their heads sadly. Drinks
sailed over the counter. The bikers gathered about the huge video screen which blasted out heavy metal rock music over the sound of the band. They mimed with invisible guitars. In a very short time
the Turnpike Inn was packed to the door.

There was barely room to breathe. The mature women cheered as the band finished their number. The caretaker of the factory took the stage with his accordeon and four Scots terriers which
followed him everywhere. He tripped over a microphone cable and fell on top of his instrument. The dogs climbed on top of him, licking his face. The accordeon squeezed out a screeching discord. The
whole pub cheered as he fell again in his efforts to right himself. The dogs barked about his legs. The singer clapped and urged all to join in the applause. “Fuck youse,” said the
caretaker and began to search for the keys. He started up a rousing march medley in a variety of keys. At a table beside the stage, a young blonde girl sat on the knee of a forty-year-old man,
tickling his ear. An assembly line worker stumbled against her and spilt drink over her white dress. She burst out laughing. He looked down at her, his eyes bloodshot and cooed into her face,
“Let Me call you Sweetheart . . .” She spluttered into her hands. “She’s my cousin,” said the forty-year-old man. “She’s from England.”

“I worked in England,” said the assembly line worker. “Do you know Hackney?”

They couldn’t hear him over the din of the accordeon and the barking dogs.

“Sit down there,” said the forty-year-old man, winking as he handed the blonde girl a cigarette.

“I’m on holidays. I’m from England,” she said.

“Hackney. Do you know Hackney?” he cried at the top of his voice.

“I’m from Nottingham. My dad’s Irish.”

“So you’re his cousin. I say, have you any more cousins like that?”

She laughed and threw her head back. Her skirt rode up over her thigh. He squeezed it firmly.

“Oh no. She’s the best cousin I have.”

Up on the stage the accordeon player was lying on his back and the dogs were lapping up the pools of spilt drink around him. The members of the band lifted him up and eased him off. The dogs bit
at their legs angrily. “And now we’d like to ask Mrs Donoghue to give us a verse of a song,” announced the singer.

The mature women at the bar clapped and cheered as one of their number blushed and was ushered reluctantly down the length of the bar. The racket died down and she began.
As I was slowly
passing, an orphange one day, I stopped just for a minute, to see the children play
. . .

The women went quiet. The men momentarily followed suit but then went back to their arguments with renewed vigour. The television was turned up full for the results of a football match. The
heavy metal guitars screeched. The assembly line worker said to the blonde girl, “You’ll have a double vodka. You will. Aren’t you on holidays?” She fell back into his
waiting arms.

“This is the best night we ever had in Carn. I’m having four brandies next round.”

“Get them off you,” shouted the bikers at the singer.

She wiggled her ample hips.

Sadie had just got the kids to bed and was settling down in the armchair to watch television when Una arrived.

She had her kid sister with her.

“Well Sadie,” she said, “just thought we’d surprise you.”

Sadie made a cup of tea as Una explained that her husband had gone to Dublin to visit his brother in hospital. “Make you sick. We were going to the party in the Turnpike tonight.
Wouldn’t happen any other time. Are you going?”

Sadie hadn’t heard anything about it. “No,” she said. “Benny never mentioned anything about a party. He’s working late at the factory tonight. He’s on the
nightshift.”

“Nightshift? What about the do?”

Sadie shrugged her shoulders. “Benny wouldn’t be keen on that. Not after Joe and everything.”

They sat in silence watching the television. Then Una said to her sister, “Go on up and see how the kids are, will you?” The young girl left. Una reached in her handbag and took out
a noggin of brandy. “I brought you a present Sadie. Get a couple of glasses there.”

She filled the glasses to the brim. “Cheers,” she said.

“Cheers,” said Sadie, taken aback by this unexpected display of exuberance.

“When I was coming down the place was wild. You could hear the music from our house. They’ve a free bar you know.” She thought about it for a moment and then said,
“Sadie—would you like to go up to it?”