Sorj Chalandon - Return to Killybegs

The door opened and two men came into the room. I knew the taller one, an officer of our high command. Jim stood to attention.

— Leave us, Lise. And you, too, O’Leary.

He waited for the door to close. My stomach was leaden. I suddenly longed for a sea breeze. I thought of Tom and his asthma. The officer sat down on the bed. I looked at him. He was searching my eyes. He inhaled slowly.

— I know what you’re feeling, Tyrone.

I didn’t answer. I let the silence speak for me.

— When one of us falls, he who was by his side always wonders why he is alive.

He was looking around the small room. The dry palm fronds behind the crucifix, the picture of a white cat in a basket of wool.

— There is no justice in death, Tyrone. Danny died, it could have been you.

He looked at me again. His hand on mine.

— And he would be asking your questions now.

Then he got up, slowly. He went to the window, lifted the curtain with a finger. Turned his back to me.

— Do you know what happened on Dholpur Lane on that Thursday, 14 August 1969?

I killed Danny Finley with two bullets in the back.

— You don’t know? That night the IRA demonstrated that it was capable of defending an enclave. That it was once more necessary to count on our resistance.

I killed Danny. It was me. I was coughing, I couldn’t see anything. My head ached. My eyes were confessing. My visitor listened to nothing but his own voice.

— Live with his courage, not with his death.

Shut up. Leave. You and the other guy, too. Get out of here.

— Your combat will be your revenge, Tyrone.

He held out his hand to me. He didn’t know. Nobody knew. In the dark, in the smoke, in the uproar, only Danny and I were face to face. Nobody else saw his expression the moment he died. I inhaled all the air in the room, breathed in the street, my country as far as the salty drizzle from the quay in Killybegs. The officer lifted his hand and made me an elegant salute. Warm and fraternal. Something that told me I was alive. He would never know. Neither him nor the other one, who raised his hand in turn.

— 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.