The Last Storyteller (39 page)

“I can go back anytime I like. But the flood scared me, to tell you the truth.”

“This is a better deal, Jimmy. He doesn’t have long to live, he’ll leave everything to Elma, and you’ll marry her.”

Jimmy said, “I might have to, anyway.”

“I thought as much. Is that why Randall was furious?”

Jimmy said, “Ah, there was a bit of stuff about Annette, too.”

“Jimmy, you’re a goat.”

“I owe you,” he said to me. “If there’s ever anything I can do.”

Oh, there is, Jimmy, oh, there is
. And another piece of the jigsaw slipped into place. Or, should I say, a bolt slid home. Was there a moment in which I hated myself for the coldness of my long-term scheming? Not then.

The next day, I drove to Mr. Barry’s house—twice. First, to reconnoiter. And, indeed, the nurse had taken control.

“The bitch won’t stay long.”

“But she doesn’t bully him anymore?”

“Put money on that. She knows I’d wring her neck.”

“How is he?”

The nurse said, “D’you know what? I never met a nicer man. He’s great company. I could listen to him all day. The books that man has read.” She folded another towel. “But he hasn’t long left.”

“Did he say anything about a girl?”

The nurse gave me her complete attention. “D’you know what? I think she should be here.”

“How much of the story has he told you?”

She said, “D’you know what? I know the Sloanes. Elma is over in England.” She winked at me. “Or so everyone says.”

“In Ireland,” I sighed, “a secret is something everyone else knows about you.”

“She’s a very nice girl,” said the nurse, “and she has a very nice mother. And an animal for a father.”

“Wave a magic wand,” I said, needing confirmation. “What do you think should happen?”

“If there was some way that girl could live here. All he wants to do is look at her and talk to her. He’s not able to do much more than that, anyway.”

“Could he live long?”

She grimaced. “He’s going down the home straight. The body is weak, and that bitch downstairs wore him down.”

“Let me try something on you. If there was a way of fixing it so that Elma could live here—would it work?”

“She’d need protection. From that bloody housekeeper. And I can’t be here all day, every day. But he’s stone mad about Elma.”

“Make sure he looks his best in about two hours,” I said.

She grinned and winked.

Jimmy took his brief with great attention. He looked at me from time to time with surprise. I told him not to interrupt me.

“He will leave Elma everything. I don’t know how much money he has, but I’d say it’s a lot. And the place is top-notch. You just have to be patient. You can’t marry her till he’s dead. He’ll love you anyway—he’ll love your involvement with what you call ‘the cause’ and he calls ‘the movement.’ He can never know that there’s anything between you and Elma. You have to be discreet. He won’t be leaving that room often. But just be careful. And leave it to me—I’ll build the bridge. You’ll never have to do a day’s work for the rest of your life.”

I finished. Jimmy looked at me, mouth open, eyes wide.

“I didn’t know you were a wizard. Ben the magic man.”

I said, “But it’s good magic. We’re going to do it in stages.”

The nurse announced us: “Mr. Barry, you have visitors.”

I could see him in the distance across his wide room.
My God, he’s even frailer today. I forget how ancient he is. This is like looking into the past. Did he suddenly let go of his defenses with the new nurse? But he’s lucid, that’s for sure
.

“How are you?” I said, as I walked toward his bed. “Look who’s here.”

Elma, as instructed, had slipped in behind me so that I masked her. When I stepped aside, he gasped. At the other side of the bed, the nurse helped him sit up.

“Now, Mr. Barry, isn’t that a nice visitor to get? Hallo, Elma.”

“Howya, Irene. Hello, Dan.” Elma handled it with warmth and grace. She reached for Mr. Barry’s hand, then leaned in and kissed him on the forehead.

“Are you back or am I dreaming?”

“This is me, Dan, in all my little glory,” she said. “How are you at all?”

“But—but, I mean—are you really back? For good?”

“For good and bad,” she said, and laughed.

“Will you come here to stay with me?”

She said, “I will, that’s why I’m here, Dan. To look after you.”

Malachi MacCool took one look at the girl and reeled back.… His heart’s desire.… A flash of forked lightning …

“I knew it’d happen one day,” he said. “I had faith.” And he leaned back on his pillows.

Elma stood by the bed, not relinquishing his hand.

“Didn’t I always say I was the bad penny, Dan? That I’d always turn up?”

When he opened his eyes, the girl hadn’t gone away.… A pillar of the gentle light.… Sweet as cane sugar, thoughtful and serene … of a fond nature
.

“And you’ll be here with me?”

She squeezed his hand. “For ever and a day, Dan.”

My head began to spin.

What am I doing? What have I done? Played games with an old heart? Or looked to the future? What ethics? Where is this ethical? Do the emotions have their own ethical compass?
Then the ice in me set again, and I didn’t care about ethics.

Dan Barry, barely able to speak, asked, “Elma, will you marry me?”

She looked around the room. “You’ll all have to go out for a minute; I’ll call you all back.”

Nurse Irene and I walked—and waited. Within minutes Elma called. We went back in as soft-footed as though going to a wake.

Elma said, “Dan has proposed to me, and I’ve accepted.”

Mal couldn’t speak, except in his head, where he kept saying, “Oh.” At last he took the girl’s hand and welcomed her
.

Irene hugged her. I said, “Another good man gone. There’s only a few of us bachelors left.” Dan Barry wept.

“This,” he said, eventually, “is the happiest day of my life.”

My father’s voice in my head. Machiavelli was Irish, Ben. His-his-his name was actually Mac Hiavelli. Like MacMahon. Or MacCormack. Or MacCarthy. We-we-we’re the same Mac as Machiavelli. Didn’t you know that? Ask-ask-ask your mother. She’ll tell you
.

When the excitement settled down, Irene took Elma downstairs. To bring back a bottle of something. Glasses should be raised. While they were gone, I settled by the bed.

“Did you do all this?”

I said, “No. But I know the man who did.”

In clear but brief detail, I told him about Jimmy Bermingham. My summary: “He’s a crack shot, a marksman, and a great strategist. He’s injured at the moment and on the run.”

“Bring him here,” said Dan Barry. “I was a wanted man myself.”

And I did. To this day I cannot say whether I did right or wrong in respect to that dear old man and Elma Sloane. But in the paying back of the favor that I asked of Jimmy Bermingham, I have no doubt of the wrong I did. I’ve lived with it ever since. Or tried to.

I mean to tell it all. Nothing held back. Think of it as the higher purpose for this family memoir. If that’s what we’re calling it. Some memoir. In which your father seems, with icy calculation, either to have lost his mind or abandoned his principles. Or both. Let me begin with the planning.

I scrutinized the newspapers every day. Every bomb, every bullet, every court hearing, every flake of political fallout—I almost memorized them. The closer I could get to this issue, this “action,” the more I could interpret and use it. Did I feel shame? Not yet. Obsession doesn’t let shame get near the obsessed.

In March 1957, a general election in the Irish republic produced a change of government. Not much else altered, in terms of rebel violence. The IRA leaders blamed the Irish and British governments for having divided the island in the first place and called a plague on all their houses. I needed a change of mood for my best result.

The coming to power of the former rebel leader Eamon de Valera helped. He cracked down on his old sympathizers harder than anyone else. In relation to the Border Campaign, the country’s mood swung all that spring and summer.

Where there had been violence I raced to the scene. As discreetly as I could I attempted to establish what had happened. The nearer an incident
happened to the border, the more useful to me. In high summer, for instance, a gunfight broke out a handful of miles inside the north. From behind a ditch, a dozen and more IRA fellows opened fire on a truck carrying a dozen police. One officer died; another took terrible wounds. In Dublin the government decided to round up far more than the usual suspects and then launched internment—a policy of imprisonment with no trial, and no prospect thereof.

Later that month, de Valera sent almost two thousand troops from the south to positions along the border to see whether he could snuff out any forays. I traveled from post to post, chatting with soldiers, pretending I was visiting relatives nearby. In cold blood I was gauging, measuring, checking every option.

During August I managed to inspect a body shot by the northern police, and view a house near Coalisland where a booby-trap explosion killed a northern police officer.

The next month I sat drinking with two northerners who had lured two young southern men into a trap. And shot them both. You could call that the coldest of cold blood.

What was I thinking? I was learning. And I wanted to view this upheaval from all possible angles to see how I could use it. No visibility. Nothing to connect me with anything. Everything as smooth as silk. To maximum effect. I toiled for months, talking to people I’d never met before. And would never want to meet again.

From a last reconnaissance along the border, in which I checked again every detail—dates, times, addresses—I drove back down the country. In beautiful early sunshine I strolled to Mr. Barry’s door, a cheerful and warm midmorning visitor, bringing a bottle of whiskey. I found a serene household. Mr. Barry, ailing faster now, sat up a little.

“There you are. My great benefactor,” he said.

“How are you?”

“As happy as a man can ever be. I’ll never be able to thank you enough.”

“She’s a nice girl,” I said.

He smiled that innocent smile of eternal love that men smile only once in their lives. If they’re fortunate …

Beside me, the same nice girl grinned. “Marriage improves a man—isn’t that what they say, Dan?”

Burgeoning in his spirit, a gentleman respected and admired …

He sipped at his whiskey. I licked mine; clear head needed.

“Walk me through your fields,” I told Jimmy Bermingham.

“Hold on, Ben; they’re not my fields.”

“Not yet,” I said. “But I’m sure you’ll see to all the legal work.” He laughed.

We spent the next hour together. I discovered why he had been so valued. He took a brief with accuracy and speed. Superb questions. On the point. Across the references. He knew everything I was talking about. And he knew everything I wanted.

He asked me one last question: “How near will you be?”

“I’ll follow the action beforehand. I’ll look at the results. But I’ll witness nothing.”

And I had one last question: “How much?”

He pondered. “I won’t be doing it myself. The word is that everybody’s looking for me.”

I said, “We’ll talk again.”

“No. I need a postal address for you. Where I can send a telegram.” He checked. “And you’re sure you want to paint the placard yourself?”

“Without question.”

“And you’re sure of your numbers?”

I nodded. “Certain. But take no chances.”

A Sunday night proved ideal. All week, in various ways, in various guises, I had prowled and surveyed. Local newspapers gave me the first reach of information. Friendly chat confirmed it. And some gossip.

On the Saturday morning, out by a remote lake, I met Jimmy’s two men. All three of us concealed our faces. We stood in a grove, the water lapping at the high sedges behind us. No handshakes. No greeting.

I said, “We know who we are.”

One of them answered, “And we know why we’re here.”

“Do you want a briefing from me or are you sure of your ground?”

The second man said, “No harm to tell us again.”

I briefed them. When I had finished, the second man said, “Best reason I know. And you have something to give us?”

Money in a small, tight packet. The placard in a large envelope. Job done. Not yet, though.

“Confirm the timing.”

They looked at each other. “Half past ten, right? Tomorrow night?”

“Good,” I said, and I left them.

Could I have stopped them? Not then. Should I have stopped them? Of course. And if I hadn’t been there and hadn’t insisted on seeing what they did—would my life have been different? Would I now have this compulsion to tell you? Would I have taken the track of life that I followed? Who knows? Not me, that’s for sure.

I’m so old now, older than Dan Barry was when he died, and—I’ve just decided—these various accounts of my life will be sealed until long after my death. You may publish them if you wish, but all the sealing and all the publishing, all the open confession, and all my breast-beating—none of that will undo anything.

The day had some drizzle. A wet Sunday in Cavan in 1957 didn’t attract many people out-of-doors. Once the last Mass had ended, the
women and children trickled home, while the men found the pubs. I had a vantage point—a bed-and-breakfast just down the street. By twisting my body tight, I could gaze along a narrow compass. But I could see enough. Not that I expected to see anything until that evening.

No disappointments. Everything went as planned. The same hour that I expected. The same pace that I predicted. I saw every move. Heard the satisfaction in my own inner voice.

Half past eight. Soft rain. Lemon light from the streetlamp, weak and thin. I heard their voices first, their laughter. Then I saw them scurrying toward where I stood, then into the pub. One held a newspaper above his head. They jostled, they jeered. Lively as monkeys.

Ten o’clock. Pub begins to empty. Drinkers reluctant to leave. One or two parting remarks on the street. No sign yet.