Exit Unicorns (Exit Unicorns Series) (16 page)

The weekly meeting of the Young Socialists had started out at seven thirty PM in a somewhat orderly fashion, by eight o’clock they were swiftly sliding into chaos, by eight-thirty it was outright pandemonium, as groups large and small fought over vague theories and definitions.

“In America they didn’t analyze it, they just got out and marched,” shouted one red-headed, gap-toothed miss over the fray.

“Ye’ll never get the Irish to march,” said a bespectacled intellectual, who bore an uncanny, and one could only presume purposeful, resemblance to the young Lenin.

“We’re Irish aren’t we?” Pat Riordan said and though his voice was low, he might well have shouted for a sudden silence descended upon the rabble.

“We’ve not the numbers that we need here,” said Mr. Lenin, determined as always to be the pessimism to the group’s overabundant optimism.

“We need to mobilize the masses, rouse the community—”

“Have you taken a look around you? People are apathetic, we’ve lived under the yoke of British oppression for almost a millenium and we seem to like the feel of the bit because we’re getting very little response from the community.”

“If ye want a crowd in Ireland, forbid a crowd,” Pat said patiently.

“Ye crafty, wee devil,” said a girl with long toffee-colored hair and eyes that didn’t so much shine as flame. “That’s bloody brilliant.”

“Thanks Bernadette,” Pat said blushing slightly.

“Alright then,” the girl named Bernadette said in an authoritative voice, “we leak word of what we’re plannin’, we make certain it reaches the right ears an’ then we get ready to march.”

“Do ye really think that non-violent protest is goin’ to make anyone sit up an’ take notice?”

“Do ye suggest we take machine guns with us?” the redheaded girl’s tongue was all vinegar.

“The fundament of non-violent protest is violence,” Pat said, “ye challenge the system in place, ye provoke them to violence an’ thus show them for a corrupt, morally bankrupt institution. The only problem we have here is that the Unionist system has always run on open obvious violence an’ suppression, it will hardly undermine their credibility if they act in exactly the manner we can count on them actin’. However it’s not so much Irish institution we’re concerned with, it’s the rest of the world.”

“Aye Pat, go on,” Bernadette encouraged.

“Well to the Unionists we will only be provin’ the opinion they’ve held of us since birth that we are a bunch of reckless, ill-educated, riotous, tattered an’ not to be trusted Celts. They know they are better housed, better educated, more readily employed, richer, sweeter an’ more deservin’ of their slice of the pie. They hardly need us to point it out to them; they know it an’ believe it’s their God-given right. The rest of the world an’ their television cameras doesn’t know it though. Violence plays to the television viewer, be it in Britain or in America, like nothin’ else. The riots in the streets of America have proven that beyond a shadow of a doubt.”

“So do we send graven invitations to the world’s press? People are hardly aware that Ireland exists anymore other than some mythic, sheep-dotted green island their ancestors fled from,” protested Mr. Lenin.

“We start small, we build up an’ the world will come to us.”

There was a space of silence as people digested this astonishing bit of strategy.

Mr. Lenin rubbed his nose thoughtfully, innate cynicism taking a short respite. “I suppose it makes sense in a dangerous sort of a way.” He looked at Pat, the beginning of a light in his eyes, “Do ye really believe they’ll come to us?”

“I know they will,” Pat said firmly.

“Damn if I don’t believe it when ye say it,” Mr. Lenin smiled revealing a pleasantly homely face with his teeth.

“If I know one thing it’s that for every move on our part there will be a backlash from the Protestant community an’ we had best be prepared for the consequences.”

“So we’re agreed, we start with a series of small marches an’ build interest an’ then plan a large one for further down the road when we’ve built some momentum.” The girl named Bernadette shoved a wing of toffee hair impatiently behind one ear. “Pat we’ll need ye on the planning committee for this, yer input would be invaluable.”

“Aye, count me in,” Pat replied not looking up from the paper where he was drawing the girl in question with flames flowing down her back instead of candy-colored hair.

“It’s a very good likeness,” Pamela said from the vicinity of his shoulder, blowing a ripple of her own hair out of her face. Silent throughout the meeting she had listened carefully to the Tower of Babel cacophony of ideas, theories, arguments and pure idealism that was both the strength and the downfall of the Young Socialist movement. If the energy in the room could have been harnessed, the entire world would be changed. She watched the side of Pat’s face as he drew Bernadette as a fire-headed Medusa, lost in the swoop and slide of pencil and thought he was a puzzling mix. Idealistic enough to make even a confirmed cynic believe all things were possible, he also had the figurative underbelly of a dogmatic cleric, seeing the reality even when he didn’t want to. It was an uneasy brew and she wondered which side would eventually out; she was rooting for the starry-eyed believer but knew life rarely left such gifts untouched.

An hour later, they stood on the table of land that began the long sweeping plateau of the Kirkpatrick estate. Mist was coming in off the sea in gossamer fragments, the sky above still clear and thick with stars.

“It’s a different world up here,” Pat breathed, shoving his hands into his pockets, a certain sign of discomfiture.

“Not so different as you might think,” Pamela said in a somewhat dejected tone causing Pat to eye her shrewdly.

“Will you come in then?” she asked as Pat stood feet firmly planted in the ground.

He shook his head. “No there are some places even a fool like myself is wise enough not to tread.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Pamela halted halfway through the footgate that was hidden between two giant cypresses.

“Nothin’,” he said far too hastily.

“No tell me, do people think there’s something to be afraid of up here? Because there isn’t you know.”

“There have always been stories about this house,” Pat said, looking through the gloom of the cypresses to where lights bloomed and spilled from their separate windows. “That it’s haunted an’ the people who live under its roof are fated never to be happy.”

“Superstitious nonsense,” Pamela said sharply, disturbed by the hollow undertone in Pat’s words.

“Maybe, but where there’s smoke there’s bound to be some spark of fire.”

“Are you actually afraid of something, Pat Riordan?”

“What if I am?”

“Because it’s silly, a childhood fairytale told by people jealous of what and who the Kirkpatricks are.” She moved out of the sheltering warmth of the trees and challenged him directly. “I thought you had more sense and courage than to believe stupid tales.”

“Scared I might be, jealous I’m not,” Pat retorted angrily.

“Then prove it, come and beard the lion in his den. The study lights are on so he’s home.”

“Fine, I will,” Pat said with more conviction than he felt.

Though he’d seen pictures of the house in magazines and newsprint photos of the man himself, there had been something one-dimensional about the former and grainy and unrevealing about the latter. He wasn’t prepared for the reality though he made a good show of nonchalance. A façade he maintained until Pamela, without so much as a knock, led him into the study.

Before him lay the riches of Babylon, books stacked and piled, books spilling and straying, books lined up like little soldiers, spine against gleaming spine. Bound in leather, bound in cloth, printed on the finest vellum paper pressed hard and mated with ink. Dante, Cicero, Virgil, Pope, Keats, Byron, Yeats, the very names enough to make the head swim. Words from the four corners of the earth: Arabic, French, Chinese, Russian and lesser dialects from forgotten lands. Latin, Greek, Egyptian—languages so dust-bound they survived only in the liturgy of ancient churches, words written on the shredded and pressed reeds of the warm and silted waters of the Nile. History, linguistics, poetry, mathematics, philosophy, religion, commerce, revolutionary tracts and dissertations. Volumes of such antiquity they could not normally be found outside of a museum.

“You might,” he was startled by a quiet voice that held nothing of Belfast in it, “introduce your friend.”

“Pat, this is Jamie Kirkpatrick, Jamie this is Pat Riordan.”

“Hello Pat,” said the voice and rounded the desk from which it had emerged.

So here was the prince of the castle, made king now by his father’s untimely death. He looked the part. As though God had been fully absorbed in the making of him and had thought his creation out to the finest detail. Pat wondered uneasily if it was strange to think a man beautiful and yet there seemed no fit substitute to describe this man.

It stood to reason, all things considered, that he would hate him on sight. But he didn’t, not from the first moment Jamie extended his hand and welcomed him into his home. His sincerity was apparent, his warmth and ease not a matter of trickery, though Pat felt certain that he was capable of feigning these things should the situation warrant it.

“Perhaps you’d care for a drink; we generally have something round about this time of night.”

“That would be nice,” Pat found himself saying.

Tea came some moments later in a silver pot surrounded by glass cups set in silver-filigreed bases. A plate of oatmeal cookies was placed before him, fragrant with butter and spices, his tea poured and left at his elbow.

“Pamela tells me you are quite the speaker, had half of Queens ready to riot,” Jamie smiled, taking the mockery from his words while helping himself to two cookies and a slice of lemon for his tea.

“Hardly,” Pat blushed, inwardly cursing himself for it. “It’s only that my tongue gets ahead of my brain at times an’ I hardly know what I’m saying in the moment nor afterwards.”

“Never underestimate the power of words,” Jamie said indicating the books around him, “people who do are always sorry in the end.”

Pat, taking a sip of tea, glanced over to where Pamela sat perched on the arm of Jamie’s chair, like a fond daughter or affectionate wife. She looked decidedly smug. Jamie seemed unaware or at least very comfortable with her nearness and continued on chatting with Pat about history and literature, peppering the conversation with questions about what Pat was taking at the university, what his future goals were and what, (Pat realized several days later) his intentions towards the girl seated on the arm of Jamie’s chair were. It was all done so subtly, so warmly, so graciously that Pat did not see that he was being grilled rather mercilessly, and could not remember later whether any of his answers had been in the least coherent.

When he left, and he was chagrined to realize he’d stayed several hours, he found he’d been thoroughly bedazzled by the man he’d been determined to hate. Jamie had clinched the entire evening and brought it neatly into his own palm when he’d told Pat he was more than welcome to borrow any books as he might find of interest on his shelves.

“I couldn’t possibly,” Pat said, mouth watering at the very thought.

“You can read, can’t you? Pamela tells me you love books and I trust you’ll return them when you are done, so I rather think you can if you like.”

“Th- thank you,” Pat had managed to stutter out before leaving the scented air and warm confines of the home of His Grace the Lord of Ballywick and Tragheda, James Kirkpatrick the Fourth.

He hadn’t wanted to like the man, but he thought grudgingly, as he passed through the cypress portals and left Kirkpatrick land, he bloody well did.

In every country with a rebel past or a rebel future there are similar rooms for similar men with different faces—cramped, dark, dirty rooms. Cold with damp, cold with snow, cold with pain. The only real warmth coming from the internal fuel of idealism, the belief that their moment in history has come. In Russia there will be a bottle of vodka on the table, a dog-eared copy of ‘
The State and
Revolution’
, tattered slogans adorning the walls from last season, last year, last century. In Beirut, qahveh, lemons and the Koran will grace the table, a fine scree of sand under the bed. In El Salvador a picture of Che beside a statue of the bleeding Christ, priests who disrobe in order to serve God more clearly, martyrs who die in foreign lands fighting for lost causes. They will travel everywhere in search of a hope, a prayer. Men with delicate amber faces working the kitchens of white hotels in cold, chattering cities. Tall straight-backed ebony princes trudging through the snow and indifference of the northern hemisphere’s great bloody swathe of industry. Cities built on the backs of their ancestry, cities where they must now beg, borrow, steal time and money, where the past is prologue and prologue past.

In Belfast there is tea, tepid and scummy, a bottle of Powers whiskey half drunk in a doorless cupboard, a nicotine stained copy of the Proclamation of 1916 lining a drawer in a desk rarely used. Paint peeling walls, a cot without sheets for men on the run, men who sleep briefly during the brightest hours of day and flee at night with messages, with guns, with the hope of a nation in their hands. Men on intimate terms with fear, exhaustion, dirt, a rebel Celt version of the White Rabbit, running, running, forever madly running, with the vision of a cell in the not too distant future. Not a job for the easily disillusioned or the romantic of heart, not a job for a human being.