Gerald Seymour - The Journeyman Tailor

He staggered under the weight of the bale. The cattle were shapes in the greyness ahead of him. He hoped that if his Da watched then that his Da was proud of him. He squelched across the field. He slid on fresh manure, fell to his knees, picked himself up, lifted the bale again.

Little Kevin crossed the field. The breath sobbed in his lungs. The wind stripped his face, tousled his hair. He slipped again on a smooth stone that he had not seen. He struggled forward. If his Da were watching from the mountain then his Da should not see him cry.

He reached them.

He cut the twine. He kicked and dragged the pressed hay from the shape of the bale. The bullocks ignored him. He pushed his way, all his strength and he had no fear of them, into the heart of the bullock mass.

He drove them apart. He saw where they had gathered.

The last of the light caught the brightness of the lens.

He was on his hands and knees and the wet of the grass was through his clothes and the mud smeared him that had churned from the bullocks' hooves. He crawled forward. He saw the lens glass set in the heart of the old moss-covered log that had always been in the hedgerow, long as he could remember. His finger moved to touch the glass, and in his ears there was the suppressed hum of power, like a bulb at home, like when his Ma said that a bulb was going down and needed changing. He crawled into the hedge and he scraped in the earth under the hedgerow of thorn and he found the cable that led into the furthest end of the log. All his strength, everything remaining to him, he tugged at the cable, two hands, he pulled the cable clear and the plug.

He ran for the bottom of the field, for the Mahoneys' lights. Ahead of him were the outline shapes of the farmhouse and the bungalow that had been watched by the hidden eye in the log in the hedgerow.

He ran as if for his life, and his Da's life. He ran as if the dragoons chased in pursuit, gasping, sobbing, running.

"Shit…"

Jimmy hurried to her.

"… I only went for a pee. It's like it's cut off."

There was the snow storm on the screen in the centre of the rack of television pictures.

Jimmy said quietly, "That's awkward, leaves us rather blind."

She heard the fist beating at the door, and the boy's cry. She was doing the children's tea, and Mossie's plate was beside the stove and his food covered, waiting on his return.

"I'm coming, I'm coming…" She wiped her hands.

She went to the front door.

He was so small, Attracta's boy. He caught at her sleeve. He couldn't speak. He was soaked through and mud-streaked. His breath came in great pants. A proud little beggar he was most times. He was pitiful.

She took him into the hallway. Siobhan crouched down in front of him.

"Now what's the matter, Kevin?"

The boy babbled. She tried to catch the gist. She understood something, not everything.

"… They've a camera… they's looking at us…I went to tell the Mahoneys, I shouted through the letter box to them, they bolted the door on me… there's a camera up there… the cattle found it me, they were round it, it's in a log, it's looking at us.. . I broke it, I broke the wire to it. The camera watches our house, looking for my Da. My Ma's gone to get food for my Da on the mountain

… It's so they can come for him, it's so's the dragoons can hunt him down. The journeymen tailor’ll tell them where they saw him, and then the camera eye will find him, and the dragoons'll come for him. .. It's how they find all the patriots, with touts, journeymen tailors…"

And her Mossie was late home for his tea, and Jon Jo Donnelly was on the mountain, and a camera was aimed at the farmhouse, and a small boy stammered the story of touts. Her kids were fighting behind her, and her Mossie was late home, and the talk of the small boy was of touts She banged on his mother's door. She shouted through the dooi that it was no time for resting, and she should see to the little ones' tea. She pulled on her coat. His mother was at the door of her room, half dressed, her teeth out. Would she look to the kids?

Siobhan said soft to the boy, "I'll take you up home. I'll wait up home with you till your Ma's back."

Little Kevin said, spent, "The journeymen tailors'll tout on him, it's the touts'll get my Da…"

She took him out into the night. She held tight to his hand. The wind off the mountain blew against them. Guilt and shame battered her, as the wind hit her. It was for money. She led the boy back up the lane. It was only for money. When the boy stumbled in his exhaustion picked him up and carried him.

Bren had the car started.

Cathy was running, and the boys behind her.

Herbie into his car, and the engine sweetly pounding.

The guns on her lap and the rucksack. The camouflage cream on her face. The wild joy and excitement in her eyes.

The cardboard city man was at her window. "You're alright, Cathy?"

"Great."

"Just give us the word."

She squeezed his hand.

"No fucking about, Cathy."

The cardboard city man sprinting to join Herbie and Jocko.

He drove out of the barracks, swerved to avoid the sentries. Cathy had the earpiece in.

Cathy said, "This is what's new… We've had the triple signal four times now. They're clocking him. Took them time, silly arses, to get the fix right. They've got that sorted. They've got a good signal now.

First signals were bloody awful. He's gone up on the Donaghmore road, then on for Gortavoy Bridge, that's Corrycroar… they'll have to do something about seeing to the bloody signal, it's not good enough, not having the proper signal… He's taken the left at Corrycroar. He's not hurrying himself. Well, doubt I would in his shoes…"

"Where'll that take him?"

"Top of the mountain."

"How far?"

"Three miles, three and a half."

"Can we find him up there from the bleeper?"

"Hope so."

"You promised him."

"Had to… He wouldn't have gone if I hadn't."

He turned to her, a fast glance. "It's not a game, you know…"

Cathy said, "Everyone's scared the first time, Bren."

He swerved up through Donaghmore village. The close village lights were behind him, just the darkness ahead beyond his headlamps and the further pinpricks of the farmhouses and bungalows that spread across the slopes and above them the dark mass that was the wilderness and the killing ground. Cathy heaved the rucksack onto the seat behind. She had the map open across her knees, and on top of the map she was loading the magazines into the two rifles.

Mossie went along the back road behind the lip of the mountain. He drove down the lane that was rutted wilh winter weather, he splashed slowly over the pot-holes. He had come past the turning to Cornamaddy and past the back road to Inishyegny. It was where he had played as a boy, amongst the trees and the broken walls of what had once been a fortress for the English. The bleeper box cut into his groin.

Twice he was hooted from behind, and once he saw the driver, speeding past, turn to give him the finger for going so slow.

There were times when Mossie felt the excitement, the blood drive, when he performed for the bitch. For her he could walk on water.

There were times when he felt the exhilaration of the double twist of his world. He could push aside mountains. Now, the excitement and exhilaration were buried. He went by the falling lane that slipped steep on the slope to Crannogue, where the stream tumbled between the reservoir lakes. He had answered the call, as the bitch had known he would.

The foreman had come from the portacabin office behind the row of homes being renovated for the Housing Executive. He would have blasted any other worker for having a personal call come through to the site office, but he knew Mossie had been to prison, twice, and he knew what for. He would not know whether the stick was broken or the man was still involved, but he had seen the respect and the wariness of those of his workers who came from the same community as Mossie Nugent.