Sorj Chalandon - Return to Killybegs

— What have I to do with any of that?

— London doesn’t like you, and neither does Dublin. You’ve laid down your arms, so they can no longer shoot at you, but they can still harm you.

— What are you saying?

— A traitor chucks a community’s morale out the window. It’s like a grenade exploding. It tosses out little splinters in every direction. Everyone is wounded when a traitor is discovered, and it’s difficult to heal those wounds.

— Fucking pigs!

— I came to warn you.

— When are they going to inform on me?

— It’s done.

I found it hard to breathe.

— They’ve sold me to the IRA?

— Not sold, Tyrone. A gift. And they’re also going to claim that they had three agents in your movement’s command.

— But that’s bullshit!

The handler smiled.

— Maybe, Tyrone, but the IRA aren’t going to content themselves with your opinion. Everyone will suspect everyone, and that will create disorder.

— You shower of bastards!

I turned my back and walked towards the avenue.

— Tyrone?

He caught up to me at a run.

— Don’t mess around, Tyrone. They’re going to come looking for you, you’ll be interrogated. You know well what they do with traitors!

— It’s the peace process. They won’t touch me.

I carried on but I hoped he’d catch up to me again, talk to me, explain how it had worked for the others. What do you do after treason? What becomes of you? Where do you go? Die in England like an apostate? Go into exile in the United States? Australia? False papers, false address, fake job, fake friends, fake life? And then, of course, the IRA finds its traitors. No matter where, it always finds them, even a long time afterwards. Sixty or so grasses had been executed, hundreds of others chased from our towns.

No! I wouldn’t do what they told me to any more. I was stopping everything. I was staying. This was my home. I had as much right to this land as all the other Irish put together.

I hoped he’d run after me. That he’d collar me, take me away by force, calm me down, protect me. But he didn’t move. When I turned the street corner, he had already climbed into his car. I didn’t see him again. I never knew if Frank Congreve was his real name. Or how his left eye had been wrecked.

— Tyrone?

I was sleeping. I sat up, mouth open, noisily starting to breathe again. A diver breaking the surface.

— Mike O’Doyle and Eugene Finnegan are here. You know, the Bear Cub…

Sheila was at my bedside table, her dressing gown gripped in both hands against her chest. It was stuffy, my temples were pounding, my forehead frozen.

— You have apnoea. You need to see a doctor, she’d often tell me.

I was still half-asleep, coming back from a very long way off. A dream bathed in sweat, shouting. I got up. I was shaking.

— Are you okay, Tyrone?

I slipped my bare feet into my shoes.

— Shall I tell them you’re sick? To come back tomorrow?

— Where are they?

— In the living room.

— I’ll go down.

— They seem annoyed, my wife whispered.

Before she even knew, she understood. The animal’s instinctive fear before the fire. Something was going to happen to her man. Someone was going to do him harm, her heart sensed it. She had known war too long to believe in this peace.

It was eleven at night on 14 December 2006. Two IRA men had called to the door. It wasn’t normal. They wore blank expressions and looked like the bearers of bad news. They didn’t smile at Sheila and refused her offer of tea. Her face was queasy with worry. I asked her to stay upstairs.

— Please.

She had nodded. How many times had she made the bed up for my return, praying all night that death would pass me by? She knew me too well. She knew my behaviour when danger was prowling around.

— What did you do, Tyrone?

I placed a finger on her lips, adopting the sign of the angel. I closed the door on her and went down slowly.

The Bear Cub was looking at the photos on the mantelpiece, Mike was watching the stairs. When I appeared, the first man took off his woollen hat. The second kept his on. I made a poor attempt at a smile, a forced contraction somewhere between sadness and defiance. I held out my hand, neither of them took it.

— Mike, Eugene…

I gave them a brief nod.

The Bear Cub looked at O’Doyle. There was an embarrassed silence.

— There’s a problem, Tyrone.

I smiled again.

— You have a problem?

— You have a problem, the Bear Cub replied.

I nodded at the armchair, the couch. They remained standing.

— There’s rumours going round about you, Tyrone. Bad rumours.

Mike O’Doyle had his hands in his pockets. He straightened up. A respectful movement. One point for me.

— What rumours, Mike?

— Would you kindly follow us?

I looked through the window. Badly hidden by the lace curtain, a car was waiting in the street with two men inside.

— Not like that, no. Not at night. If you have something to say, send me someone from the Army Council.

— You know well that’s who’s sent us, Tyrone.

— You’re wasting your time, Mike, I know the procedure.

— Get your coat.

My life was at stake. I was sure of it. Ceasefire or not, leaving the house now would mean rotting in a dump beside the border. I had to get them to leave. To come back later, during the day and without those faces on.

— Hurry up, Tyrone, the Bear Cub said.

— Good Christ, have you never got plastered or what?

The sentence came out like that, words carefully assembled to give them a nasty punch, thrown with force. Mike opened his eyes wide. Eugene frowned. I had them. Their surprise had tipped the balance. I couldn’t allow them a second, I had to snare them, like a rabbit in the wild.

— You want me to be sorry? Is that it? Okay! I’m sorry. But you don’t disturb someone in the middle of the night for that!

Nothing showed on the surface. Not even surprise. They were trying to understand. And as for me, I was performing. Deep down I was laughing, moving my pawns forward. I knew everything about their game, I had made the rules. Waldner believed he was the most powerful, Honoré the smartest. The handler always looked at me as though he was afraid to take the lead and me, I was dancing on a thread.

— Get Joe Cahill to come, all the others, and I’ll apologize publicly.

Mike O’Doyle took off his cap. He had suddenly remembered he was under my roof. He removed his hat before an officer.

The Bear Cub was pale.

— What are you saying, Tyrone?

— What do you mean, what am I saying? I’m sorry! I’m prepared to get up on the Thomas Ashe stage to kneel down and apologize and that’s not enough for you?

I went to the kitchen to get a beer. I drank it while looking at them. I was winning. Death was continuing on its way. They were tiny and the living room huge.

I lowered my voice.

— I shouldn’t have drank at Tom’s funeral. Shouldn’t have made a scene. I know that. There was no need to mobilize a unit, all the same!

— They’re saying you’re a traitor, Tyrone.

The Bear Cub had pounced first. I spat out my beer. I straightened up.

— I misheard you. What was that?

— A British agent, Mike O’Doyle repeated.

Death had just walked in. It had stalked around the block, scowled through the window, carried on, changed its mind, and here it was knocking at the door.

— Get out. Both of you.

— Tyrone… Mike began.