The Whore-Mother (17 page)

“Out,” the amplifier said. “Left and center in the street. Move on.”

Callaghan passed the window, his hands on his head. He did not look at number twenty-five. He was wearing his boots, and his shorts and his shirt. His trousers dangled over his shoulder. “I'll see that till the day I die,” Powers whispered, and destroyed a laugh. The armored cars turned out of the street.

Doors opened along the street. The people poured out, shouting, jeering, screaming obscenities at the departing sound. Boys and girls, young men and women filled the street, throwing stones at nothing but the empty air the cars had displaced for a moment.

“They come right to the door,” Powers said. “They knew.”

“Who was it, Pat?”

“McManus. Go on outa the house. Leave the door wide open. If you see me, don't speak to me.”

From the window he watched her come into the street and went down himself. The crowds were beyond the house, following the cars, throwing futile stones and futile insults. Peace movement, by Jasus? It made him laugh. When hate's as good as a good fuck, who's for peace? Across the district somewhere an explosion filled the night. He stepped out into the street. Michael Collins woulda done it like this. He put his hands in his pockets and walked slowly, up the street to number seventy-five. Just like the Big Fellow. About the same size too.

The place was a shambles. They'd put men in to cream the fuckin place. The guns had been taken. He was useless; no gun. He found his little canvas bag and put a shirt, socks, and underwear in it, his razor and toothbrush, hairbrush and comb . . . the motor bike came up through the crowd and stopped outside. Powers grabbed the poker from the range and waited in the dark. He had no gun. What was a man with no gun?

A youth stopped in the doorway. “Pat?”

“Conal.”

“What hit you, Pat?”

“I couldn't sleep so I went for a wee walk. The army got Callaghan. I just come in.”

“Jasus, you were lucky.”

“They got the guns.”

“There's a meetin on. Get on the bike.”

“What's up?”

“You're sent for. Come on.”

They planed and keeled up and round the little streets and at the end of the journey maneuvered the motor bike into the house with them.

Christ! Clune! And I went for a good fuck w'Mary Connors to get that man outa my head. There were twenty young men packed into the little house, spilling from the back kitchen into the tiny parlor and the motor bike taking space. Some of them were no more than eighteen. All of them were excited verging on outbreak, grinning expectantly. There was blackout cloth over the front window. The meeting was under way.

Clune interrupted it. “Powers. Report.”

He told his tale. “When I got in there was no guns.”

“Great. Fuckin great!
You're
great!”

Powers big face colored and sweated. In fronta everybody, by Jasus; the wee shit made a mockery outa me in fronta twenty wee boys; the blood pounded in his head.

Clune pointed to a man at the front. “Get'm a gun.” Clune looked about him like a cornered ferret. “Twenty men and Dr. McDermott took the night. Arms, explosives, ammunition by the bloody ton. And they blew up one factory tryin to get in. Three of our's killed inside. One of their's at the door. And the Officials done it to us. They're behind this fuckin peace move. They're tryin to look pure and isolate us, cut us down and out and when it's all done they'll be the ones t'take over. They spotted for the fuckin British army. They sold us. They
informed
on us.” He paused, shaking with rage not quite under control. “There's a list,” he said. “It'll be done the night. You'll do it and you'll do it now. Knock on doors,” he said, barely breathing. “Knock on fuckin doors. They'll learn the night, by Christ.” He waved an impatient arm at McCann, “Give them their slips.”

History and habit kept the streets in line. Fear added a rich insurance. They were free, uninhibited, protected killers who liked their work. Their faces said so. The Official IRA were against
them
. The Officials couldn't therefore be right. The Officials were like anybody else who was against
them
—police, Orangemen, Loyalists, IRA Officials. All these were wrong. All these were enemies. The wrong were those who opposed or disagreed, or doubted.

They took their slips of paper eagerly, impatient to knock doors and squeeze triggers. Eagerness flew in their faces, like banners of criminal righteousness.

“Scatter,” Clune said. At intervals, two by two, they went out to pick up guns, and cars, burn their slips, and kill and run. And sleep, satisfied.

“Powers.” He didn't have his slip. Clune signaled him to come. He was a stupid big clod, in Clune's book. But at this sort of work he was good. “Here's your slip.”

Powers read it slowly and slowly tore it up. “I'm goin on young Conal's motor bike? No motor car?”

“We couldn't get enough in time.”

That was deliberate. Maybe there weren't enough cars, but there were cars and other people got them. He got a bloody wee boy and the back of his motor bike. Clune did that on purpose on purpose on purpose. Things ran on in Powers' head when he was upset, or angry.

“You gave me Danny O'Connell,” he said. “You're killin the big ones. Why did y'give me the Officials' number one man in Belfast?”

“I gave the biggest to the best.” Clune would have liked to smile. He was careful not to. “You've got the address. There's two of them with him. You can do it and get the first bus t'Strabane after McManus.”

The Big Fellow. He would do it. “Och, aye.” He was mighty in his head, full of his own power and of his loathing for this little man.

“Pick up your gun and away on.”

“Aye. Away on, Conal.”

Conal's face was septic with greedy pride. He would ride his fine steed in the night, see the enemy cut down, no matter who the enemy might be, and ride out again with glory. There was a shrill jubilant soundless sound in his throat. He was at school with Danny O'Connell's son. In the same class. Played on the same street. He told Powers so as they wheeled out the bike. Jasus Christ, the power of it!

“The wee streets, Conal. And slow. We'll roar comin back.”

“Yes, Pat.”

“Quiet, right up to the house. Park the bike right in front of the window where you can see in. Stay on the bike, ready to go. You'll see the kitchen door. If you see anybody there, just say how many—like one, or two, and say it quiet. You see?”

“Yes, Pat.”

He knew the geography of the houses. They were all exactly alike. A man inside with a gun could cover the front door from the kitchen door, or up the stairs. The man behind the door was easy and the man upstairs was easy from the door. But the man at the kitchen door had to be got at from the parlor window. He might only get two of them. He'd have to see where they were. It was a short ride and a quiet one. He knocked gently but persistently on the front door, his gun waist high against it. The stairs were bare even of lino. He heard men coming down them. How many? Two, anyway. One behind the door. One on the stairs, one in the open kitchen door?

“Who is it?”

“Danny?”

“Who is it?”

“Danny, it's Pat Powers. Let me in.”

“No. What're y'after, Pat?”

“Danny, it's Clune. He's goan soft in the head.”

“That's your worry, Pat. What about it?”

“The army took twenty men of ours the night. Clune says your boys spotted them. Look after yourselves.”

“We always do.”

“Two,” Conal said softly.

“Right then, Danny. For Jasus sake, don't say I warned you.”

“You needn't worry.”

“Good night then, Danny.”

“Night, Pat.”

They weren't too worried or they'd have covered the stairs. Two in the kitchen door. They were more curious than scared or ready. Powers stepped back from the door, moved across the window, his automatic rifle down his leg, turned quickly, and poured his fire straight through the window into the kitchen doorway. There was no reply.

But there was a reply from the front door. O'Connell was firing through it. He blew Conal off his bike. It fell on top of him in the gutter.

Powers, now between the window and the door, pressed tight against the wall. He waited for the sound of movement inside. Boots clattered on the bare stairs and he jumped out and raked the line of the stairs as if he were watering a garden. The body fell heavily and rolled.

He shot the simple lock away, dragged Conal's body into the house, put O'Connell's gun in his hands, took one of the guns from the gut-shot and dying men blocking the kitchen doorway, finished them, and rode the bike back, roaring. He parked it two streets away and walked on the sky to Mary Connor's. Mighty. Euphonious little tunes played in his throat. His eyes felt a kind of sweetness behind them. Three Officials including the top man in the North; with a gun for interest. There was young Conal shot, but he got his bike back. The Big Fellow.

The street was sleeping again. Mary was still up and still dressed, drinking tea in the kitchen.

“Where in God's name were you, Pat?”

“Workin.”

“What?”

He shouldn't tell her. His head was floating, reliving a neat, efficient action. The Big Fellow. She wouldn't open her gub about him. He had this one all tied-up. “There was a meetin. Clune says the Officials spotted us. Twenty men, about, and McDermott, they took. There were punishments.” He put the guns in a cupboard under the kitchen sink and poured himself some tea. He'd keep one in there for himself. Not report it. “Keep your mouth shut now.”

“Jasus, you know I wouldn't, Pat.”

“I got Danny O'Connell and two men with him.” He had forgotten Conal.

“But you said it was McManus, Pat.”

“Aye. It was. Clune's a bloody fool.”

“But, Pat, why didn't y'tell him you know it was McManus?”

Bitterly, “He would a told me t'shut my gub and leave the thinkin to them.” And I lost McManus, he thought. Why would I make it worse for me? Jasus, for the loss of twenty men they'd crucify
me
.

“But, Pat, for Christ's sake! Shootin Officials! This'll start it! They'll make a lista Provisionals.”

“Let them. I'm away over the Border after McManus. I'm leaving first bus in the mornin. C'mon up the stairs.” He stretched and slapped his stomach. “I feel like a stallion.” Or a timber wolf. Or a bull.

Jasus, she wailed to herself moments later, you'd think he was ridin me in a steeplechase. But he was roarin and a pregnant widow-woman has t'play her cards, so she worked at it, and sounded off, and when nature failed to compel joyful and involuntary sounds, she mocked them up.

He rolled off her. “Get up an put the light out,” he said, and went to sleep.

She was weary and still awake, still shuffling what cards she thought she had, when the old alarm clock rattled him back to earth. The tin box under the bed had in it a card she could play. She fumbled in the box while he dressed, and said, “Did they give you enough money, Pat?”

“You're coddin.” Did they ever give you enough? Fifty pounds between him and Callaghan and bring back the change. Still, Callaghan wouldn't need his now.

“Here.” She dealt the card. “There's twenty pound.”

“Right.” He put it in his pocket, thinking of his timetable. Not a worda thanks, she thought. But that was the way with them. Who ever saw an Irishman wheelin a pram or doin the dishes?

“Why don't you drop a day's pay and come on the bust to Strabane?” She'd be useful if the bus was checked on the road: “We're gonta see the wife's sick mother in Strabane, soldier.” And he was stayin at the hotel till three the morrow mornin. He could do w'some more of her before he walked across the Border. She never let you down. Always up and ready. He wouldn't be gettin it across the Border, on the move.

Mary Connors drew conclusions. He didn't want to leave her. He must be very near ready to take the hook; “I'll put my good clothes on,” she said.

He slapped her bare behind. “Put on them wee fancy knickers I gave you,” he said. “The ones y'can see through.”

Their room at the Strabane Hotel—Mr. and Mrs. Connors—was above the kitchen. The floor creaked. The old brass bed creaked and shook. Kitchen staff stood listening below.

“He's changed his beat this time,” the cook said, shaking his head.

The second waitress, who was a mature seventeen with the warm glow of expectation in her eyes, said to the senior waitress, who was sixty and deformed by arthritis and kept more pills than knives and forks in her serving drawer, “D'the men always want it that much, Mrs. McLaren?”

“Mine got it once a month on a Saturday,” she said sourly, and seemed offended by her own excess. And when Powers and Mary Connors came down to eat, Mrs. McLaren said, “Are y'feelin all right, missus?”