Sorj Chalandon - Return to Killybegs

I inhaled deeply. The breath was coming back to me. There. It was done. That confession had been stuck in my throat for all those years. I had repeated it night and day. I had uttered it in a low voice in the streets, at pub counters, in the heart of tricolour marches. I had said it quietly with my eyes. To Sheila, to Jack, to my comrades, to my friends. I would have really loved someone to hear it. And I prayed so hard that nobody would find out. At night I wanted deliverance. In the morning I’d still partly believe I was the great Tyrone Meehan.

I confessed. The men led me outside, pursued by dozens of questions. I got back in my seat, between Pete and the Bear Cub. My hands were shaking slightly. The Killer didn’t catch my knee this time. They brought me to the countryside, a few miles beyond Dún Laoghaire, to be questioned by the IRA. They hadn’t understood that that soulless admission for the press was also addressed to my own side. I would remain silent. I had said too much. It was already past the time to stop talking.

I found myself back on the street on 20 December 2006 at nine o’clock, after four days of questioning. They didn’t touch me, or even mistreat me. They had given up.

— We’ll leave it there, Tyrone, Mike said to me after turning off the camera.

— I’m free to go?

— That’s right.

So I walked. Along the harbour, towards the city. I was wearing black sunglasses, and my cap was pulled low the way I’d worn it as a soldier. My photograph had been all over the newspapers. It was still hanging about, at the bottom of the page. Two faces placed side by side, the young Tyrone and the bastard. The bright-eyed kid, standing with other combatants, his cheeky grin in Crumlin Gaol. And the dazed old man between Mike and Eugene, grey, dishevelled, lips dry, gaze absent, surrounded by microphones like the guns of a platoon. A ball of anxiety. At that hour, from the north to the south of Ireland, loud-mouthed hardmen were dreaming of putting a bullet in me. The pubs were humming with my name, eyes were searching me out. Others were swearing to have known me. They were interviewed over and over on the national airwaves.

— You really didn’t suspect anything?

Sheila had hidden €150 in my bag. Three €50 notes, folded in a paper napkin with my sandwich. I took a bus as far as the city centre. My head and stomach ached. I had never felt comfortable in this city, I had become a threat to it. I decided to get to Donegal by coach. No station to get through, less moving around than on a train. Once you’re sitting down, you’re sheltered. The first Bus Éireann bus was leaving at one o’clock. I sat right at the back, on the left, to avoid the driver’s large rear-view mirror. I ate Sheila’s sour egg, onions and soggy bread.

Several seats away from me, I saw my photo spread out. I shrank back into my seat. I needed to sleep.

I closed my eyes in Navan. For a few minutes only. Virginia, Cavan. My country was flashing past in silence. At every stop I’d turn towards the glass, my hand shading my forehead. Ballyconnell, Ballyshannon. The driver was having fun with the sheep on the road, a fallen tree, and that American tourist who got on in Pettigo and took a photo of the inside of the bus.

— In Ireland, it’s a euro per passenger to take a photo! the driver muttered into the microphone.

She blushed, apologizing comically, before the laughter reassured her.

We drove through Donegal. It was getting dark. I could feel the boundaries of my childhood battering inside me. Almost five hours on the road.

— Killybegs! Upper Road, shouted the driver.

He was a short redhead, with funny blue glasses. A farmer, who looked like he’d borrowed them from a Trinity College student. I went up the aisle silently. My scarf was covering my mouth. I was the only one getting off. He hadn’t opened the door. I was forced to turn around, to look at him. He operated the lever.

— Good luck, the driver said.

I was on the step, I turned around. He was watching me. I nodded. You say goodbye to your passenger. See you. I hope we won’t have rain. But not ‘good luck’. I didn’t respond. He nodded and closed the door behind me.

I crossed the village. Walked towards my father’s house. I was bent over, pains in my legs, tired from everything. It wasn’t yet completely dark when I got to the path. The huge fir tree, the old slate roof. Thrown into the brambles was a tar bucket and a large brush.

Traitor!

The graffiti was scrawled across the wall.

Nothing had been forced. The key turned in the lock. I left the shutters closed and put on the latch and chain. There were still a dozen candles on the shelf, and a bottle of alcohol for a lamp. I lit the remains of a tall candle. I didn’t want anyone to see the light from the road. I didn’t get undressed. I left my scarf, cap and gloves on. The fire could wait until tomorrow. I lay down like that, with my shoes on, buried under our bedcovers and the ones from Jack’s bed. I opened my flask of vodka. Half-empty. I drank all of it in one swig. I listened to the silence. The winter of my childhood, with Christmas in the distance. I toasted my return. My mother’s misfortunes. My father’s fists. I could see my brothers, my sisters, all crowded into the big bed and on the ground on straw mattresses. I counted their shadows in the darkness. Cheers to all of you, my loves. The night is going to be long. The longest night a man has lived. And even if he wakes again, the day will never come again. Nor the spring, nor the summer, nothing else but night.

Killybegs, Wednesday, 4 April 2007

The explosion woke me at three in the morning. Violent, in crashing echoes. Lightning. A tree in the forest was struck. I was in a sweat. I rekindled the fire, slipped a cardigan over my pyjamas and drank a beer while watching the flames.

Yesterday evening, going to bed, I hummed to myself. My voice surprised me. I was sitting on the bed, a biography of James Connolly lying on the blanket. I strained my ears, as if someone else had come into the room. Beer, vodka, nervousness, drunkenness. I hummed to myself like one who has become detached from his mind. I lay down. I read. Just a page to help me find sleep. Wounded by the enemy and then looked after by the enemy, Connolly was unable to stand on the day of his execution. So he was shot in a chair. On 12 May 1916, the day of the killing, the surgeon who had saved his leg asked Connolly if he would be so kind as to pray for him, and for all those who were going to put him to death.

— Yes, sir, Connolly responded, I will say a prayer for all men who do their duty according to their lights.

I reread that sentence, pronouncing each word aloud.

— … according to their lights.

Connolly had prayed for the executioners because they believed they were doing their duty. I got up, tore the page out and stuck it into my notebook. Then I drank a beer. The last one — the one that always comes before the next one. It was a lager light as water. I polluted it with the vodka. I drank it in pints, mixing the spirit and beer together in equal parts.

I went to bed drunk, then woke up terrorized. It wasn’t lightning. A broken cry, of steel and iron. Not far from the house, on the path, perhaps. I took up a torch and Seánie’s hurley, my hand clenched on its wrist grip. It was dark. There was nothing outside, just me. I circled the house. Noise behind me. The rustling of the forest. A fox, or a field mouse hunting.

— I’m right here!

I roared:

— Tyrone Meehan is at home!