Return to Killybegs

9. Killybegs, Wednesday, 27 December 2006

— Who am I sitting next to, Josh or Father Joseph Byrne?

— Who do you want to meet, Tyrone?

I smiled.

— It’s you who wanted to speak to me.

— So that would be Father Byrne.

— I’m in need of a friend, not a priest.

Josh made no reply. He had changed. I had left a chirping blackbird, a pixie from our forests, a face destroyed with pockmarks. Now I found a sickly and shrunken monk in a black habit before me. And I felt even older.

We were in St Mary’s of the Visitation, in the wooden front pew, facing the altar. Everything had been completely refurbished. I hated the pink fuchsia covering the choir stalls. There were no nooks or crannies, to escape the light. Josh looked straight in front of him, murmuring, playing with the white cord on his habit.

— You’re shaking, Tyrone.

— I’m thirsty.

Silence.

— Jesus wouldn’t have been able to embark on anything without Judas.

— Are you talking to me?

— To us.

I watched him. He had joined his hands.

— What are you looking for?

— I came to help you, Tyrone.

— Who told you I need help?

— You. That’s why you have come.

I looked behind us. A young girl was praying close to the entrance.

— Who sent you?

He smiled.

— The child that you were. It was he who sent me.

— Why don’t you drop it! There’s only you and me here.

Josh closed his eyes. Always that smile, the same he’d had when we were boys, the smile that said he knew more than me.

— Give me your forgiveness, Josh, and let’s be done with it.

He seemed surprised.

— Is that not what you had me come here for, Father Byrne?

— I’m not a dispenser of absolution, Tyrone.

— You’re a priest. Your job is to save my soul, not my skin.

— How you must have suffered, my friend.

He knelt down. I copied him, my knees hurting.

— I’m not going to stay like this. Say what you have to say.

He opened his eyes.

— I always knew that you were the bravest among us, and also the most loyal.

Now he was looking at me.

— It was in order to test that bravery and loyalty that Our Father gave you the gift of treason, Tyrone.

I stared straight ahead.

— Stop that, I told you.

— Your country needed to be betrayed as you needed to betray.

— Josh, you bastard, stop it.

— Jesus asked Judas Iscariot to leave the Last Supper, do you remember? He said to him, ‘That thou doest, do quickly.’

I got up.

— I’m leaving, Josh.

He placed a hand on my arm.

— As Christ had need of Iscariot, your country needed you.

I shook him off.

— The betrayed and the betrayer suffer equally, Tyrone. You can love Ireland by dying, or love her by betraying.

I looked at him.

— What are you saying?

— You betrayed to shorten this war, Tyrone. So that your country’s suffering could end.

I had rage within me.

— What do you know about my betrayal, Josh? What do you know about it, Father Byrne? You’ve read the papers, is that it?

— I know you.

— You know nothing! The last time you saw me, I was gathering turf and was fifteen years old!

— But you are fifteen years old, Tyrone.

I dropped back down on the bench. Josh was spouting monastery drivel. I was right to have been worried. The wee pixie had been given a rough ride by life, by the Church, by all the saints. He no longer looked like anything living. His robe was too big, too black. His feet were bare though it was winter. He had the silent eyes of a madman. His hair had fallen out, and his teeth. I had the impression that death was tugging at his sleeve.

— Could you do me a favour?

He nodded and gave me a blissful look.

— When you see Sheila in Belfast, tell her that if the wee Frenchman wants to come, he’ll be welcome.

— The wee Frenchman?

— Just tell her that. She’ll understand.

Josh rested his forehead against his joined hands.

— Give me a little bit of your pain, Tyrone.

He was speaking more and more quietly. — Share your ordeal. Do me that honour. Make me your accomplice.

He had closed his eyes once more.

— I didn’t speak to the IRA, or to Sheila, or to anyone. I didn’t keep it all in just to confess to a monk.

— You’re not in confession, you’re in affection, Tyrone.

— I don’t want your pity, Joseph Byrne. It’s not friendship I’m lacking, it’s dignity.

He looked at me. I moved closer and gently clasped his wrists.

— I’ve betrayed, Josh.

His eyes held the tears that couldn’t fall from mine.

— And betraying has been so difficult, inhuman. It’s been too much for me, Josh. So don’t ask me why. The why is all I have left.

For a long time he sat there watching my face, my expression, my hands that were trembling against his skin. He had his secret smile on.

— Thank you, Tyrone.

I released him and got up slowly.

— Thank you? Why thank you?

— By offering me your pain, you have requested my forgiveness. So I forgive you.

I sighed and shook my head. I left the pew without saying goodbye. Without genuflecting, without crossing myself. I was sick with his love.

— I will share your sadness, your loneliness and your anger as well, Tyrone.

His words followed me, my footsteps running away. It is only in churches and prisons that voices chase you.

I stepped out into the December rain and walked through the village.

I was sad. And lonely. And angry, too.