Sorj Chalandon - Return to Killybegs

— Shut your face, O’Doyle! What do you know? What have they taught you since you joined the army? The Brits have two ways of waging war: propaganda and the gun!

— I know, Tyrone.

I was roaring.

— No! You know nothing! Absolutely nothing! We’re in the process of winning this war. They’ve given up killing us so now they want to pull us down! They’re tossing poison in the water and whoosh! Everyone’s swallowing it, you included!

I was enraged, genuinely. Blood in my mouth and fists clenched to kill. I was no longer acting. I was bellowing out my anger for the whole street to hear. I heard the upstairs door, Sheila’s steps on the first few stairs. I was shaking. My mouth was twisted, foam at the corners, my eyes screwed up to block out the glare. My whole body was like a barrier.

— And what else are they saying? How many other traitors are there besides me? Two? Ten? The entire city? And who’s to tell me you’re not a traitor, Mike O’Doyle? And you, Eugene Finnegan, spending your time asking questions?

The two looked at each other. Sheila was coming down slowly.

— Don’t you understand? You’re doing the Brits’ dirty work! Go on! They’re denouncing Tyrone Meehan! And then Mickey, too? And the Sheridan brothers and Deirdre, the wee bride? And Sheila while they’re at it?

I whirled around abruptly. My wife was pale, her bare feet on the bottom step, hands clasped together like Mother used to do.

— For Christ’s sake! Were you spying on us, Sheila Meehan?

— No!

The cry of a mouse.

I took her by the arm. I shook her so hard she lost her balance.

She burst into tears. She was scared. For the first time, I was hurting her. I felt nothing.

She fell, her dressing gown open on a flash of breast. The Bear Cub lowered his eyes. Mike came towards me.

— Tyrone, stop.

I had lost it. Sheila had given up. She was lying on her side in the middle of the living room.

Mike tackled me. The Bear Cub tried to lift her to her feet. She pushed him away. She fell back down heavily. I met her eyes. She was devastated. She lay on her side, turned towards the wall, neck bent over, hands covering her face, knees against her belly, in the position of an unborn child, or an old person close to death.

Padraig Meehan! I saw him, in the dresser mirror. A bastard with raised fist, ready to strike till tears fell. My father and his children. Wee Tyrone, wee Sheila, terrorized brother and sister. Mike pinned me against the wall. I was spitting.

— Look at her, you bastards! Look what you’ve done to my wife!

The front door opened. Two lads came in, former soldiers from the 3rd Battalion.

— The neighbours are getting worried, said the older of the two.

I shouted one last time for the night to bear witness.

— I am Tyrone Meehan, soldier of the Irish Republic! And nobody is going to stop me fighting for my country’s freedom!

One of the óglaigh gave a sign.

— Let him go, Mike.

The young man released me. I was standing up, legs apart, arms wide open. I had the look of a man who has broken his chains.

The Bear Cub went out first. Without a word, he turned his back on the dreadful scene. Mike put his cap on and looked at me. I held his gaze. He had that sorry grimace on him. He went out the door and death walked with him. The other two left the room. When they reached the pavement, the older turned back. Flanagan, I think his name was. I’d met him in the Kesh.

— You know where to find us, Meehan. But don’t wait too long.

And then he left.

I waited. The door was wide open. A neighbour appeared, scarf over her head. She gave a small wave, and then closed the door gently.

Sheila hadn’t moved. She was stretched out against the wall, hands protecting the back of her neck. Her body was shuddering, her left leg shaking with tremors. She was whimpering. I knelt down beside her, then lay down, curled around her back, spooning, like on Sunday mornings when we had the time. I wrapped her in my arms, squeezing her tightly. I had her hair in my face, her fingers between mine, her faint smell. My breath was waiting for hers so it could start up again. I was burning hot. She was frozen.

Her voice. A voice of suffering.

— What have you done, wee man?

— Must have been kids, Sheila murmured.

Must have been, yes.

She went out to get bread and papers at Terry Moore’s wee grocery on the corner. Terry had been in Crumlin with me, and his son Billy had followed mine to the Kesh. Every morning for years and years, Terry put four daily papers aside for us. The main one was the The Irish News , the Northern Ireland Catholic community’s newspaper. Then the Newsletter , its Protestant competitor, and also The Guardian and The Irish Times , published in England and Dublin respectively. The local residents reserved their newspapers, it was the custom. Terry would carefully write the surnames in blue pen on the margin. At the end of the week, when he was in good form, he’d right ‘Ronnie’ or ‘Wee man’ on our bundle. A simple ‘Meehan’ meant that there was a problem between us, one too many words after one too many pints. It wouldn’t last long. The following day, he’d draw a tiny childish head on the paper with my first name, and something like: ‘Buy me a Guinness and we’ll not talk of it again.’ It was our way of making peace.

That morning of Friday, 15 December 2006, Sheila came back with the bread but no newspapers.

— What do you mean, he didn’t keep them?

— He didn’t keep them. That’s all he said.

— Nothing else? You’re sure?

Of course she was sure. She told me of the silence in the shop, of Erin’s look from behind the counter, Terry’s embarrassment. He served her the loaf of bread, eggs, bacon, sausages. When she reached out towards the pile of newspapers, sitting on the glass counter, the shopkeeper lowered his eyes.

— Not today, Sheila.

— Why not?

— You have food for your breakfast, you’re doing pretty well.

I got up from the table. I was furious. I wanted to go and see Terry the grocer, Brady the milkman and all of our neighbours one by one. What was the problem? Had we made too much noise during the night? Spoken badly about someone? Wronged someone? I was going to do a round of the neighbourhood, fists at the ready, when Sheila held me back. I fell into my armchair. She took me by the hand and knelt down facing me.

— If you want to talk to me, talk to me. If you don’t want to, I’ll understand. But I beg you, Tyrone, don’t lie to me.

And then she got up. She filled a basin with water. She picked up a brush and knelt down to clean the doorstep, slimy with milk.

I slipped my jacket on, tied a scarf around my neck, pulled my cap down to my eyes. It was raining. A December rain blowing in icy squalls from the harbour. Behind me I could hear the bristles scraping against the cement. When misfortune prowled around us, Sheila would wear herself out with household chores. She’d dust, wash and scour our little world, blessing each object in turn for being there.

I walked down the Falls Road alongside the hostile brick, gave a nod to stop a communal taxi going back up through Andersonstown. I knew Brendan, the driver. He was a former prisoner, like the majority of drivers in the Republican areas. The priest from St Joseph’s was sitting up front beside him. On the back seat was a young woman with her child on her lap, sitting between a schoolgirl in uniform and an elderly man. A youth was sitting on the foldaway seat on the far side. The other one was empty. The schoolgirl pressed it down for me. Not a word. Through the open hatch, I could hear the radio. It is raining in Belfast, the presenter informed us over a background of soft music.