drugs, the exit and getaway were elaborately planned so that within twelve hours they were back in Eire…
‘What was that?’ he asked. Anna had said something.
‘You must have believed in it. To take a risk like that.’
‘Believed in what?’
‘Why, I don’t know. A united Ireland.’
He laughed, and Anna, who knew that social questions were important, looked offended. How was it possible to explain that it was not really a matter of belief at all, that one did certain things regardless of their effects, things that affected, totally and catastrophically, one’s whole life? What had the Movement, as they called it, meant to him? An organised unruliness that offered release from the strict dreariness of his Dublin home, his drunken prayer-saying father and invalid mother. It might have been the Boy Scouts, jamborees and clasp knives, it might have been emigration and the British army. But by chance, or rather by chances, a fine network of interlacing chances, this boy known at school, that one met casually in a pub, it had been the Movement, secret meetings, the necessity for terrorism explained and accepted, the virtue of robbery for the Movement taken for granted. And then the smoke going up from the revolver that he had fired no more than a dozen times in all, and suddenly the decisions were made and the illusion of choice, by which so many of us live, was gone.
‘It wasn’t like that,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t like that at all.’
‘You didn’t believe?’
‘I don’t know. But that didn’t matter.’
‘Didn’t matter?’ she echoed wonderingly. ‘But of course it mattered. It was the only important thing.’
‘There are certain things you do,’ he said slowly. ‘And there’s no going back on them. Even when you do them by accident –’
‘You didn’t mean to shoot?’
He waved a hand in an attempt to brush away her literalness. ‘I meant to shoot, yes.’
‘Then it was murder.’
‘It was murder,’ he said earnestly, ‘but I might just as well have missed, do you understand that? The raid might have succeeded, we could have got back safely.’
‘There could have been other raids. One day you’d have been caught.’
Again her words seemed to him almost irrelevant. ‘You do something, you do it almost by accident, and you never get away from it all the rest of your life.’
‘It wasn’t an accident,’ she said obstinately. ‘You said you meant to shoot. But it doesn’t matter to me.’
She was sitting now on the sofa beside him, and he looked with sudden tenderness at the soft, grimy hand, with its line of dirt under the nail. ‘You never get away from it, but you have to try. That’s what I’ve always thought. That’s why I didn’t tell you about it.’
‘It would have been bad luck, is that what you mean?’
‘Something like that. But you don’t understand, nobody can.’ The problems of having no past history, no references, no union card, were impossible to explain. But still, he tried. ‘O’Brien’s my real name, but not the one I was using on the raid. I was arrested and tried under the name of Hartley. That’s why the papers haven’t made the link-up yet. But they will soon, probably today. It’ll be a front page story for a couple of days, the convicted murderer who ran a personal investigation programme on the telly. And after it, I’m finished, you see that.’ He found himself anxious, after all, to convince her of it, to show her the futility of struggle.
‘But you did it once.’ She would not give up easily.
‘I was lucky. Met Charlie and worked out the personal investigation idea with him, he knew Jerry and got it a trial run. You know all that.’
‘You might be lucky again.’ He did not trouble to reply. Almost timidly she asked, ‘What are you going to do?’
‘I shall go underground.’ He was annoyed when she giggled. ‘Change my name. Go abroad, perhaps.’
‘Go to Africa.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘And shoot big game.’
‘What was that?’ he asked. Anna had said something.
‘You must have believed in it. To take a risk like that.’
‘Believed in what?’
‘Why, I don’t know. A united Ireland.’
He laughed, and Anna, who knew that social questions were important, looked offended. How was it possible to explain that it was not really a matter of belief at all, that one did certain things regardless of their effects, things that affected, totally and catastrophically, one’s whole life? What had the Movement, as they called it, meant to him? An organised unruliness that offered release from the strict dreariness of his Dublin home, his drunken prayer-saying father and invalid mother. It might have been the Boy Scouts, jamborees and clasp knives, it might have been emigration and the British army. But by chance, or rather by chances, a fine network of interlacing chances, this boy known at school, that one met casually in a pub, it had been the Movement, secret meetings, the necessity for terrorism explained and accepted, the virtue of robbery for the Movement taken for granted. And then the smoke going up from the revolver that he had fired no more than a dozen times in all, and suddenly the decisions were made and the illusion of choice, by which so many of us live, was gone.
‘It wasn’t like that,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t like that at all.’
‘You didn’t believe?’
‘I don’t know. But that didn’t matter.’
‘Didn’t matter?’ she echoed wonderingly. ‘But of course it mattered. It was the only important thing.’
‘There are certain things you do,’ he said slowly. ‘And there’s no going back on them. Even when you do them by accident –’
‘You didn’t mean to shoot?’
He waved a hand in an attempt to brush away her literalness. ‘I meant to shoot, yes.’
‘Then it was murder.’
‘It was murder,’ he said earnestly, ‘but I might just as well have missed, do you understand that? The raid might have succeeded, we could have got back safely.’
‘There could have been other raids. One day you’d have been caught.’
Again her words seemed to him almost irrelevant. ‘You do something, you do it almost by accident, and you never get away from it all the rest of your life.’
‘It wasn’t an accident,’ she said obstinately. ‘You said you meant to shoot. But it doesn’t matter to me.’
She was sitting now on the sofa beside him, and he looked with sudden tenderness at the soft, grimy hand, with its line of dirt under the nail. ‘You never get away from it, but you have to try. That’s what I’ve always thought. That’s why I didn’t tell you about it.’
‘It would have been bad luck, is that what you mean?’
‘Something like that. But you don’t understand, nobody can.’ The problems of having no past history, no references, no union card, were impossible to explain. But still, he tried. ‘O’Brien’s my real name, but not the one I was using on the raid. I was arrested and tried under the name of Hartley. That’s why the papers haven’t made the link-up yet. But they will soon, probably today. It’ll be a front page story for a couple of days, the convicted murderer who ran a personal investigation programme on the telly. And after it, I’m finished, you see that.’ He found himself anxious, after all, to convince her of it, to show her the futility of struggle.
‘But you did it once.’ She would not give up easily.
‘I was lucky. Met Charlie and worked out the personal investigation idea with him, he knew Jerry and got it a trial run. You know all that.’
‘You might be lucky again.’ He did not trouble to reply. Almost timidly she asked, ‘What are you going to do?’
‘I shall go underground.’ He was annoyed when she giggled. ‘Change my name. Go abroad, perhaps.’
‘Go to Africa.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘And shoot big game.’
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