someone who knows he's had too much to drink and is doing his damnedest not to show it.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
'The curse of the livin' among the dead, that's what the lad's sufferin' from,' declared Grady. 'He believes everyone but him has a date with a bullet. It's comical like, if you know what I mean. All a soldier wants to do is go on livin', and there's one who can't stop, and it eats him up inside. Almost comical but it fails the test,' Grady said.
'What test?'
'No one's laughing, boy.' With that he let out a wheezy string of air, more sigh than laugh. Grady O'Brick's hair was gray and his face lined and pale. His shirt was worn at the collar and elbows. A ragged scarf hung around his neck against the chill. His glass was empty and the look in his eyes said he was too proud to admit he was broke.
'This is good ale,' I said. 'Will you have another with me?'
'That's kind of you, boy, I will. They teach good manners in America.'
'My folks tried their best,' I said, and brought the empty glasses over to Tom. I wasn't thirsty, I was tired, but I knew Grady would be more talkative with a fresh pint to lubricate his tongue. While Tom pulled our pints, I watched the four GIs trying to figure out the British coins. Farthings, pence, and shillings were spread out on the table as they ran their fingers over them, arguing about their worth. It made me feel like an old hand, and as I confidently thumbed out shillings to pay for my ales, I realized I was older than these guys. They looked nineteen or twenty tops. When I was their age I was still wearing blue, and now here we were in khaki and brown, the only difference between us an easy familiarity with English coins and killing men.
That depressed me. I'd been shot at, either directly or indirectly, and I was far away from anyone who cared about me, if Diana still did. I was in the country of my ancestors, but on the wrong side of the border. One of the few people who had treated me decently was dead, and the closest I'd gotten to finding the BARs was the business end of one. I shuffled back to the table and slid onto the bench. Cool foaming bubbles spilled onto my hands as I set down the glasses.
' Slainte,' I said, toasting Grady.
'And to your health too, Billy,' Grady said. 'Best you look to keep it.'
'Couldn't agree with you more,' I said. 'Tell me, Grady, do you think Pete is hiding from Jenkins?'
'There's plenty good folk who fear to speak to the man. Any Catholic who wanders lost into his neighborhood in Armagh is not likely to leave alive. Those streets and alleys belong to the Red Hand. Jenkins is a devil, a man filled with hate, the worst of a bad lot.'
'I'd bet there are some Catholic neighborhoods a Protestant should be afraid to walk in.'
'Maybe, maybe. But here in the north there's no justice for a Catholic. The RUC are as likely to kill us as arrest us, and they turn a blind eye to Jenkins and his crew. Some say the Red Hand gets their arms directly from the RUC and the British army. It's a bad business all round.'
Grady shook his head and took a drink. I did too, and the fresh, sharp taste of the ale cut through my weariness.
'You didn't really answer my question.'
'Pete's a good lad who's been through a lot. Why not leave him be?'
I wasn't getting anywhere with my questions, so I thought I'd circle around and come at them from another direction. 'You've been through a lot too,' I said, glancing at his hands.
'Aye, but that was long ago.'
'What happened?'
'I was a young man, that's what happened,' Grady said, offering a sad smile that faded as quickly as it came. 'I had ideals, and I was ready to die for a free Ireland. After the Easter Rising, I joined the IRA. They had us training out in the hills, climbing Slieve Donard, showing us how to set up ambushes, that sort of thing. A lot of foolishness, we all thought. We wanted guns, and we wanted to fight the British and the Loyalists too.'
'Did you get them?' I asked, as Grady wet his whistle.
'Oh, aye, we got them. We'd been broken down into cells, as they called them. Ten lads in my cell, and the only person who knew anything was the man in charge, to best keep plans secret, you know.
Everyone in the IRA swore to keep secrets, and everyone told their pals and mothers everything. But Mick the Master, he took it all serious.'
'Mick the Master?'
'Aye. Mick O'Flaherty. He was foreman on a Protestant farm, and that's what everyone called him. And it fit, let me tell you.'
The door opened, and a couple of local fellows came in. Grady's eyes darted over them, to Tom the barkeep, and then back to me. He leaned in, his voice lower.
'We did get our guns. Mick the Master got an Enfield rifle; the rest of us got pistols or old shotguns. They weren't much, but we put them to good use. We raided police stations, ambushed Black and Tans, and built up our own arsenal. Mick the Master knew his job well, and he made sure we followed all the rules. Never say nuthin' is what he told us. Not a word to anyone outside the cell, not even to brag you were in the IRA. We went about our work like there was no war at all. Some of the boys didn't like the idea of folks thinkin' them cowards for not joining up but Mick didn't care. When we've won, he'd say, then everyone will know. One lad, he couldn't wait. He told a girl, and she told her da, and he told Mick.'
'What happened?'
'Mick took him out into the hills and came back alone.'
'He killed him?'
'Executed him. Difference bein' it was war, and the poor lad had to die so's none of us would do the same, and get everyone killed. To be fair to Mick, it worked, in a way.'
'But someone talked?'
'I'll get to that, but I think I'll be needin' a whiskey to tell that tale. It's not something I speak out loud more than once a decade.'
I got a double whiskey from Tom. The GIs had left, and the pub was quiet. Soft clinks of glass on glass, the strike of a match, and an occasional word from Tom to the two men seated by the door were the only sounds in the room. I set the glass in front of Grady and waited. He wrapped his ruined fingers around it, watching the amber liquid swirl and settle.
'Mick the Master told us we'd become famous among the IRA chiefs. The Black and Tans hunted for us but no one could tell them a thing. That was bad for those the bastards questioned, since they didn't stop until they got what they wanted. If you had nothin' to give, then too bad for you. But that's not the point. Do you know what a Lewis gun is?'
'Sure. British machine gun.'
'Aye. Lightweight, easy to move and set up. Perfect for an ambush. Spray the lead vehicle and it stops dead, with the others bunched up behind. We wanted one, and the IRA command gave it us. They also sent crates of Enfields for us to hide, since we kept our secrets so well. We had our own arms dump, hidden in the ruins of a burned-out house in the hills. It was there we hid the Lewis gun, its ammunition, and the rifles. We took the Lewis gun out often, and let me tell you, it was a frightful thing to see so many men killed so quick. I was nearly ashamed of myself at how I enjoyed seeing them Black and Tans go down. I cheered, I have to say. That Lewis gun, it made all the difference. It was my job to keep it clean and well oiled. I knew it better than anyone.'
Grady stopped, raised the glass to his lips, frowned, and put it down. He shook his head, his eyes narrowing. I thought he might weep. He rubbed his thin fingertips over his eyes, sighing as he did.
'The peat, you know. It's a lovely aroma, but it stings the eyes, it does. I shouldn't complain, though, it keeps me warm and I make some money with it when there's no other work.'
'You dig peat?'
'Aye, in the bog back of my place. Dig it, cut it, dry it, haul it to my croft, stack it in ricks high as a man, and sell it to folks all around here. My peat is glorious, black as coal, the best in County Down.'
