The Dead Republic Read Online Free PDF

the story?
    I stared into the black lenses. I could see blacker eyes behind them.
    The story frightened me. But I wasn’t going to tell Ford that. I hadn’t written it, so it had nothing to do with me. There was an ambush hidden inside that Saturday Evening Post. I wasn’t going to touch it.
    But the meetings were different. I came to his meetings and felt myself being put together.
    The other man coughed.
    —That a real cough? said Ford.
    —Yes.
    —I doubt that, said Ford.
    He looked away from me.
    —But it worked, he said.
    He looked back at me.
    —Read the story, he said.
    I said nothing; I might have nodded.
    —I gotta see this bicycle, he said.
    I’d been telling him about the bike I’d commandeered and made my own, and me and Miss O’Shea up on it, cycling towards the post office.
    —Well, there’s me, I said.
    —Right.
    —And there’s her.
    —Great.
    I opened my arms, to accommodate the woman on the crossbar. The man beside me was scribbling fast.
    —She’d made a frame for the Thompson gun, I said.—On the handlebars.
    —She sing? said Ford.
    —On the bike?
    —On the bike, on the john. It doesn’t matter. Did she ever sing?
    I didn’t know.
    —I think so, I said.
    I couldn’t remember if Miss O’Shea sang, if she’d ever sung. I couldn’t hear her. It was a sudden hole, a pain that had been there all the time. I could see her. For the first time in years. I could see her eyes. I could see her laughing when I was a child sitting at a desk, and years later, when I was a man, three minutes before I fell beneath the crawling train. I was watching my own broken film, and Ford was watching me.
    But I couldn’t hear her.
    My children were there too. Saoirse and Rifle. Their big grins and tears. The frowns and voices, snot and singing.
    It was there now - I could hear it, getting louder.
    —We’re in the money, I said.
    —What? said Ford.
    —She sang that one, I said.— We’re in the Money . Rifle pulled his head back and roared it up to the sky, and Saoirse and Miss O’Shea sang along beside him. I could only hear two voices. But she’d sung as well. I could see her now, striding along, swinging her arms, between my daughter and my son.
    — We’re in the Money , said Ford.—It was one of those Depression tunes, right? ’33, ’34?
    —Round about then, said the man beside me. Ford’s elbows came off the desk. I saw him sit back and sink.
    —So, he said eventually.—You’re on the bike. Henry?
    —Yeah.
    —You’re on the bike.
    His voice was soft now.
    —Yeah, I said.
    I couldn’t hear her voice.
    —She sang that one, I said.— We’re in the Money .
    —But not in the war, said Ford.—Not in 1920, back home in Ireland.
    —No.
    —Later.
    —Yeah.
    —We’ll get there, he said.—You’re on the bike. You’re flying.
    —Yeah.
    —Downhill.
    I didn’t know, but I made it feel like that. I could feel the pedals under my feet - two feet. I could feel the effort in my legs. I could smell her hair and her jacket and the smoke and damp from her mother’s house, and the sods she’d slept on the night before.
    —She’s, what? said Ford.—Gripping the tommy?
    —No, I said.—The handlebars.
    —As you cycle into town.
    I could feel her there. I rested my chin on her shoulder. We were riding into Ballintubber on market day, to rob the post office. She held the handlebars. I held the Thompson gun and pedalled.
    —What are you going past? said Ford.—You’re going faster than anything else on the road, right?
    —A couple of jaunting cars.
    —Great.
    —And a cart, I said.—With those churns. Going to the creamery. The creamery’s important. They burnt it down later - the Black and Tans.
    —Later, said Ford.—Night time.
    —Yeah.
    —They doused it, he said.—Sent it up in flames.
    —Because of us, I told him.—They burnt it down because of what we’d done earlier.
    —Right, he said.—How was she dressed?
    —We shot a cop.
    —Irish?
    —Yeah, I said.—The