Paul Theroux - The Family Arsenal

Murf said, ‘I think I should split.’

‘Forget it. Let’s hoist a few.’

‘There ain’t time.’

‘They can wait.’

‘It don’t work like that,’ said Murf, trying to make Hood understand. ‘When they say go, you go. It’s like an order. And they don’t want me — I can tell. So I think maybe I’ll just hang out.’

‘I might need you,’ said Hood. ‘What if they pull a fast one on me? You’re my back-up man.’

‘Yeah, but they won’t do that. You’re seeing Sweeney — he’s the chief.’

‘Never trust the top banana, Murf,’ said Hood and he bought two pints of beer.

The limping man returned five minutes later and seeing them with glasses he said, ‘Drink up — we’re going.’ Without waiting he pushed towards the back of the pub. Hood put his half-full glass down. Murf said, ‘You leaving that?’ and gulped it. Arching his back he seemed to pour it straight into his stomach.

Hood thought they were headed for a back room — they were in a passageway stacked with beer crates, then squeezing through a narrow darkened hall. The man kicked a door and they were outside.

‘Hey, sweetheart, you know where you’re going?’

The man muttered. He glared at Murf. He said, ‘I told you, I ain’t responsible.’

Murf said, ‘ Boom widdy-widdy .’

The next pub was several streets away, smaller than the first and not so crowded. They entered by the back door and the man, who had grown uneasy in his movements — he had not stopped muttering and his posture had become more cramped — crooked his finger at some stairs. He said, ‘Up there. First on your left.’

On the stairs Hood said, ‘Just like any other cat-house.’

‘I never been here before,’ Murf quacked the words nervously and looked around at the worn staircase.

Hood said, ‘Smile.’

‘Widdy-widdy.’

Hood found the door and knocked. It opened a crack, a man showed his nose and cautious eye, then it swung open and Hood saw the table — another man seated at the far end — the dim bulb and drawn shades. The room was bare and had a musty smell of a decaying carpet. And it was cold. The men — there were only those two — wore winter coats, and the younger one at the door a flat tweed cap. Murf began to cough nervously.

‘Sit down,’ said the man at the door, shutting it and slipping the bolt.

The man at the table smiled. He said, ‘Welcome.’

‘Where are we?’ said Hood.

‘The High Command,’ said the younger man.

Hood looked around: a dart-board, a bottle of whiskey, a broken lamp, a saucer full of cigarette butts. He smiled, then he sat down and said, ‘I hope you don’t have any objection to Murf.’

The man at the table did not reply to that. He sat up, and leaning across the table extended his hand. ‘My name’s Sweeney. I know yours.’

Hood shook his hand. It was a strange clasp, without weight and glancing down Hood saw that the top of Sweeney’s hand was missing and that he held a rounded stump and two small limp fingers, like a monster’s claw.

‘A little accident,’ said Sweeney. He smiled at the knob and tucked it into his sleeve. ‘This is Finn. How about a drop?’

Finn nodded and put the whiskey bottle on the table with four cloudy glasses. He splashed some in each one and handed them out, winking at Murf. Then he touched Hood’s glass with his own and said, ‘The offensive.’

Murf said, ‘The offensive.’

Hood said, ‘Any ice?’

‘No,’ said Finn.

‘My brother Jimmy’s in the States,’ said Sweeney. ‘Boston. Your home-town, right? He’s been there for years. Married an American girl.’

Hood said, ‘That doesn’t make us cousins, does it?’

‘Mayo told me you were temperamental,’ said Sweeney amiably. ‘She told me you had something important to say. I haven’t heard it.’

Sweeney quietly finished his whiskey. He looked about thirty, though he was balding. There was a toughened redness about his face, a raw lined quality in his cheeks that might have been whiskey or the sun. His mouth and eyes were gentle, and he spoke slowly in the strangled accent of Ulster. Hood noticed that he held the glass of whiskey with his mutilated hand, pinching it awkwardly against his chest and lifting it using his two frail fingers, as if exhibiting the damage. He said, ‘I thought we might have a little talk.’

‘Start talking.’

Sweeney went at his own speed. ‘This organization attracts a lot of funny boyos. I mean, unstable, people — mental cases.’ He pronounced the word in the Ulster way, muntal. ‘They belong in hospitals or with kind families, but they come to us and say they want to help.’ He smiled. ‘All they really want to do is plant a bomb somewhere — they don’t care why. They’re looking for victims.’ He nudged his empty glass. ‘It’s made us a little suspicious of volunteers.’

‘What’s that got to do with me?’

‘You’re a volunteer, aren’t you?’

Hood said, ‘I used to think I could help. I gave Mayo a boost with her painting.’

‘To be sure,’ said Sweeney. ‘But an ordinary drunken lay-about from some village in the Republic — or even in England — it’s usually obvious why he wants to join. He’s a bit lost, running away from his wife or his parents. He feels secure with us — we understand that. You’re not in that category.’

‘How do you know?’

‘We know you,’ said Sweeney. ‘We know the important things. Some of the other fellers wanted you over here months ago but I said no. We tried you out on that passport. That was a good job, but I still couldn’t figure you out. What’s the motive? Why does a feller from a good family — Jimmy did a little detective work, you see — why does a feller earning a handsome salary in the American State Department decide to chuck it all and join a bomb factory?’

‘I got turned around. It happens pretty easily in Vietnam.’

Sweeney shrugged. ‘Everything’s easy for you Americans.’

‘You mean it’s not for you?’

‘It ain’t. It’s bloody hard.’ Sweeney turned to the wall to reflect. He said, ‘When I was twelve I had to prove myself. I broke every window on Feakle Street in Derry — hundreds of pounds’ worth of plate glass. My father was delighted. “The Smasher” he called me. Now you,’ he said, pointing at Hood, ‘you were probably a boy scout.’

Hood said, ‘I’ve always been suspicious of people who rap about their childhood. It’s just a cheap way of avoiding blame.’

‘I’m a responsible feller,’ said Sweeney.

Hood thumped the table and cried, ‘You’ve got sitting targets!’

‘That’s how it looks to an outsider, I suppose. If you knew how we operated you wouldn’t say that. This has been a bad summer. Our supplies dried up. I’ll be frank with you — we’ve been burned.’

‘So have I,’ said Hood bitterly.

‘Sorry to hear it. I wish there was something I could do.’

‘You can tell me why I wasn’t contacted sooner.’

‘That bothered you, did it? Well, it’s just as I say. I was wondering what was in it for you. Mister Hood, you were too eager.’

‘So you delayed.’

‘You could say we were waiting for a telephone call.’

‘But you let me do the passport.’

‘That’s another story,’ said Sweeney.

‘I’d like to hear it.’

‘It’s not very interesting,’ said Sweeney dismissively.

Hood laughed. ‘I knew you’d hedge.’

‘Did you now?’

‘But that’s all right. You don’t have to tell me anything.’ He fixed his eyes on Sweeney’s. ‘I can always ask Miss Nightwing.’

Sweeney sighed and looked at the rear of the room where Finn and Murf were sitting in silence. He said, ‘Murf, how would you like a beer?’