Return to Killybegs

13

On 8 January 1981, at four in the morning, three of the army’s Saracen armoured cars, two British-army Land Rovers and a dozen soldiers invaded Dholpur Lane. It was me they wanted, nine hours after I’d been released. I was sleeping, Sheila woke me abruptly. They were forcing in our front door with a battering ram. I ran into the stairwell in pyjamas and bare feet.

— Tyrone Meehan?

It wasn’t my name. It was a challenge. The soldier was at the bottom of the stairs, cheek stuck to his gun butt. I nodded, my arms in the air, waiting to be searched. One policeman grabbed me by the hair, another by the nape of my neck. The door was smashed, torn from its hinges. Sheila was shouting.

— He only got out yesterday! For the love of God, leave him! He’s just got out!

I arrived on the street broken, arms twisted back and chin forced down against my chest. The grey armoured car was up against the front of our house, door open. Barely ten paces from my doorway to its wire-covered steel. Dholpur Lane rose up once again. The convoy departed amidst shouting, stones and bottles. I was pinned on the floor of the vehicle, hands bound at my back. A peeler slid a black plastic bag over my head. I panicked. I thought they were going to suffocate me. Three policemen kept me from moving with their shoes, crushing my neck, my legs and my back. I saw Aidan again, the cell, the putrid floor, our walls covered in excrement. I wanted to die. I didn’t want to go back to prison.

An officer knelt down, his mouth against my ear. He stank like a sewer.

— So, Paddy! Freedom nice, was it? A little too long though, no? You got out, what was it? Ten, twelve hours ago?

I didn’t answer.

Since crossing the border in 1941 with Mother and Uncle Lawrence, I had learned when to challenge and when to lower my head. One day when threatened by a patrol, my brother Seánie placed his arms in front of his face, wincing like a peasant who fears his master’s stick. The soldiers laughed. He had a gun and two grenades on him.

— The enemy underestimates us, that’s its weakness, he used to say.

When he’d come across British patrols, he’d often pretend to be retarded. He’d limp heavily, stick his lips out, jut out his chin, stare wide-eyed and put on the lantern-jawed look of Irish caricatures published in the English press. He’d do it for me, giving me a surreptitious look from the corner of his eye. And there was always a soldier who’d say to the others: ‘Oh that one! He’s perfect!’

We weren’t going to the holding centre in Castlereagh, the journey was too long. Neither was I going back to the Kesh. We weren’t on the main road, but small, winding roads. My right cheek was squashed against the ground. There were no projectiles hitting the van, no bricks or clods of earth. No sudden accelerations to shake off swarms of hostile children. We were in a Protestant zone.

I got out of the Land Rover blind, the bag still covering my face. There were hands supporting me, but not shoving me around. Men’s and women’s voices. A door, then another. No iron gates, no bolts slamming shut, no keys, either, a corridor of free men. I sensed the enclosed acoustic of a small room. The cell had taught me the sound of that space. A chair against my calves. A hand pressing down gently on my shoulder. A radiator’s warmth. I sat down.

When they released my wrists and lifted the hood, I kept my eyes half-closed for a moment. The neon light was unpleasant. On the walls were a flaking painting of a hospital and the poster for Alfred Hitchcock’s film The Birds. The window was covered with wire. It looked out on unfamiliar buildings. The rain was pressing against the panes.

— Tea?

I was facing a large table and there were three of them. No uniforms: plain clothes. I recoiled. I had thought they were Loyalists at first but their accent was English.

— Coffee, maybe?

The one speaking took off his anorak without breaking eye contact. He had very red hair, a bushy moustache, and his left eye was sunken in its socket. The second guy was skinny. The third had white hair. He was looking out the window. Watching my reflection in the glass. Our eyes met.

— Why am I here?

I was accustomed neither to the chair nor warmth from my enemy. I had learned how to protect my head from blows, how to survive in prison, how to endure being insulted and shouted at. I knew how to bear their violence, not their calm. The skinny guy handed me a cup of tea. He was watching for my reaction. I drank, ignoring the queen smiling from the blue china.

— We know everything about you. Now it’s our turn to give you some information.

The man at the window turned around. He sat on the edge of the table.

— My name is Stephen Petrie and I’m an agent of MI5, British counter-intelligence.

I stood up.

— I don’t want to know anything.

He smiled.

— Sit down, Tyrone, everything’s okay.

He pointed at the man who’d served the tea.

— May I introduce Willie Wallis from the Special Branch.

The other man gave a slight nod.

— And this is Frank Congreve, officer of the Royal Ulster Constabulary.

Same polite gesture from the redhead.

— But to keep it simple, you can call us ‘the agent’, ‘the hunter’ and ‘the handler’. Or ‘the RUC’ if you want to be polite.

I had remained standing.

— I have no reason to know you or to call you anything. If you have nothing to charge me with, let me go.

I was surprised by how calm I was. They weren’t afraid of me, I wasn’t afraid of them. I felt we were on an even footing. The agent sat in an empty chair to my left. It was him talking.

— I’m going to tell you a fairy tale, Tyrone.

I crossed my arms.

— Children like fairy tales, don’t they? Elves, pixies, all that kind of thing…

The agent turned towards the red-haired handler.

— You’re from these parts, what do they call pixies around here?

— Leprechauns.

— That’s it, the leprechauns.

I absentmindedly closed a button on my pyjamas.

— And then when he grows up, the Irishman dreams of martyrs and heroes.

The agent pushed an ashtray towards me.

— Heroes are essential in this country, isn’t that right? Am I mistaken, Tyrone?

I didn’t answer. He looked at the red-haired cop.

— And what about you, Frank? Do you think the hero is important in Ireland?

— Vital, Stephen, vital.

— An Ulster Protestant’s word, the agent said.

He addressed the hunter.

— Willie?

The other tipped his chair back.

— I have the feeling that our friend is getting impatient.

The agent, the hunter and the handler were swopping roles, questions, geographical positions in the room. Sometimes one would finish the other’s sentence. Or they’d cut across one another. It was as if they had even allocated the silences. They were forcing me to look from one to the other, follow one question after another. I had to constantly turn my head to maintain eye contact. I was surrounded. I felt dizzy, with the nausea of rough journeys rising to my lips.

The agent looked at me. He nodded.

— We’re boring you, Tyrone?

— Is it over? Can I go?

I crushed my cigarette in the royal cup. The handler looked slightly annoyed. He sighed. He opened a leather satchel.

— Go? Of course we’re going to let you go. But before that, I’d like you to take a quick look at this.

He took a plastic bag from his satchel. A small transparent pocket that he placed in front of me. Inside, three crushed bullets, deformed from an impact, and a label tag folded in half.

I sat down. My legs wouldn’t support me.

— Take the packet, Tyrone.

I rubbed my hands on my thighs. I was sweating.

— Are you afraid of bullets? That doesn’t seem like you, Meehan, said the red-haired handler.

He emptied them out on the table.

— Go on, take one.

— To put my prints on them? What do you take me for?

The agent smiled.

— Do you know the calibre?

I shrugged, and held out my hand.

— 45 ACP, Tyrone. Ammunition from the Thompson submachine gun.

The handler got up and dropped a bullet in my palm.

— Are you beginning to get an inkling why you’re here?

I looked at the piece of copper. I shook my head. No. I didn’t understand.

Then he unfolded the yellowing tag and placed it in front of my cup.

Red handwriting:

Daniel Finley/Aug/14/69.

I let the bullet fall. It slipped between my fingers like sand.

— My God, I said.

I crossed my arms behind my neck, elbows raised, forearms pressed against my ears, eyelids closed. I lowered my head. My mouth was open, my jaw hurt. I was suffocating. I could hear my heart beating. I was in Dholpur Lane, in the smoke of the tear gas.

— Danny didn’t suffer. He died almost on the spot, said the redhead.

Our street. The barricade. His wide eyes. His surprise.

— Your first bullet was close to his heart. We pulled the others from his hip and his thigh.

— You know nothing, I murmured.

— Everything, Tyrone, we know everything. Our men were in the crowd. Two of them were there when you shot. They testified, the spy asserted.

— Stumbled and fired, added the handler.

— Yes, stumbled and fired. It was an accident, Tyrone. We know that.

My hand was shaking like it did in prison.

— Before we’d even retrieved the weapon, we knew, Meehan.

— And then there was that song, the agent came out with.

He turned towards the man from the Special Branch.

— How did that song go again? You remember, Will?

The other nodded.

— Sure I remember!

Then he sang softly:

Danny fell for Ireland

Shamefully murdered

But with his old Thompson

His comrade in rage

Sent the killers back to hell.

—‘His comrade in rage’! They did well to come up with that, grinned the agent.

— I have to be honest with you, when that ballad started doing the rounds, we had a good laugh, the handler told me.

The agent put his hands in his pockets.

— It’s true. It seemed strange to us to see Finley’s killer being applauded by his widow the day he was buried. But you know what? We decided not to interfere. We let it go. It’s important not to crumple beliefs.

— In fact, you created the ideal martyr and we helped you become the perfect hero, the handler added.

They laughed. I kept my eyelids closed.

— Pay close attention, Tyrone.

The agent’s firm voice.

— Look at me.

I opened my eyes again. Coloured dots danced in the neon light.

He crouched down, level with me.

— Either you leave here and you tell the IRA everything, or you decide, like us, not to interfere with this fairy tale.

The handler held out a glass of water. My eyes were fixed on the film poster. A realist drawing of a woman protecting her head and shouting, and the birds attacking her. ‘It could be the most terrifying motion picture I have ever made’, said the ad. Terrifying. I felt nothing, neither cold, nor hot, nor fearful. I was empty inside. I drank. The water bore through my stomach. The rain was hitting the window. I looked at my pyjamas, my bare feet on their floor. I was no longer anyone. They were all talking at the same time.

— To own up ten years later, that’d be taking some risk, wouldn’t it?

— It would be better to leave the martyr and the hero in peace, don’t you think?

I asked for another glass of water.

— What do you want?

My voice, throat dry and lips burning.

— To protect you, Tyrone.

— Answer me, for Christ’s sake!

— For you to help us.

— Never!

— Think of Sheila, Tyrone. A decent, vulnerable woman caught up in the war. I’m not so sure she’d enjoy Armagh Prison.

— And Jack? Your son, Meehan? A simple signature and we can send him to serve out his sentence on the mainland.

— Can you imagine that, Tyrone? An IRA man? A fucking Fenian? A killer of Brits flung into a Scottish cell crammed full of murderers?

— And as for you, do you really want to go back to your shit?

The agent got up. He gave the others a signal. The handler left the room, followed by the hunter. The agent stayed there alone with me, in front of the open door. He spoke to me very quietly. A low voice.

— The IRA keeps saying that it wants peace? Well, on our side, too, we want peace. So let’s make it together, this peace. You and us, Tyrone.

— I’m not a traitor.

— But who said anything about being a traitor? What you’ll be doing is the opposite, it’s heroic. You lot are always saying that you have to make war to have peace, and I’m proposing you declare war on war.

— This is bullshit!

— Think what you like, smiled the British agent. You’re fucked, Meehan. So instead of me finding a reason for you, you might as well find one yourself, okay?

— You dirty bastard!

— Filthy scumbag! Fucking bollocks! Dirty Brit! Knock yourself out. Though I will tell you that it never works with a guy who thinks he’s being forced. I prefer willing men. And you are willing, aren’t you, Meehan?

— Let me go.

— I’m offering you a brand-new conscience.

I closed my eyes. Jack’s respect, Sheila’s love.

— When you go to the trouble of becoming a hero, you may as well accept the Nobel Peace Prize, don’t you think?

The agent placed a hand on my shoulder. The pressure of his fingers. A moment both brutal and soothing.

— Regret spoils life, Tyrone. We will help you to rid yourself of it.

I met his eyes.

— And, you know, by lying about Danny’s death, you had already started down this path.

I put my head in my hands.

— I’ll leave you be a moment, Tyrone. Not to reflect, but to collect yourself. If you need us, we’ll be in the corridor.