A Star Called Henry (39 page)

—There was a girl cured of her consumption yesterday, I said.

—Any news of little men made taller? said a dwarf, and him and his friends laughed and didn’t mind a bit when other people joined them.

And deeper into the town the rosaries started and, with the heat and the packing and excitement and news of the miracles, people started fainting and bodies were lifted over heads, to doorways, through upstairs windows.
I’ll sing a hymn to Mary.
The impatient sick made their ways along the roofs. A man holding a crutch in his teeth slid over the slates towards the shop with the statues.
Mother of Christ, Star of the Sea.
And the dwarfs sang hymns of their own.
Pray for the midget, pray for me.

—A bald man went home yesterday with a head of hair.

—If it’s curing vanity She is, there’s hope for us all.

—Scalped he was, after the Tans set a fire to him.

—Still and all, a good cap would satisfy most men.

The best of the statues and a couple of the pictures had been moved out into a yard behind the shop. They were on a table, on top of a white cloth. When the yard was full, when the shopman’s cousin decided that there was room for no more pilgrims, the shopman’s wife led a decade of the rosary and the crowd were given two more minutes to have their fill of the statues. There was an untarred telegraph pole on its side across the yard, in front of the table, like an altar rail and the lucky ones at the front could kneel and rest their elbows on it while they waited for something to happen. The yard was emptied after the two minutes, measured out by the cousin on his own watch. There was only the one gate, so it was a push between those coming and going. When the yard was empty, it was filled again. Another decade, another push, screams and admonitions. Curses and last prayers.

—Mind the baby!

—What a place to bring a baby.

—It’s a dying baby, bad cess to you.

—Maybe the dying has been reversed.

—Maybe. We’ll see, the mite.

—There’s colour there in the poor creature’s cheeks, look.

—We’ll see.

—That’s fine colour.

—Please God; we’ll see.

This had been going on for five days. Not a peeler or Tan in sight. The town was in the hands of the pilgrims and hawkers. And the North Tipperary Brigade of the I.R.A. They were running guns and bombs through Templemore, under cover of the lame, in the carts and cars of the near-dead. There were crates of mineral bottles full of petrol, brown parcels of gelignite, being passed over the heads of the crowd and wanted men hiding in every second attic. The armoured cars and tenders were in the barracks yard, going nowhere because of the crush in the streets. The town was a free state. The seminarian who’d seen the first blood was at home, exhausted, sliding in and out of consciousness, and a grand layer of straw had been laid on the cobbles under the poor lad’s window, to swallow the noise that had been disturbing him and keeping him from his recovery. The street where his mother’s house was had been renamed Whispering Street. There’d been no miracles, only the rumours distributed by the men and women of the North Tipp Brigade. The statues had stopped bleeding and the seminarian wasn’t there to get them flowing again.

But I was.

We pushed through the silent people leaving.

—What did you see?

—The backs of many heads.

—No blood?

—No blood.

We shoved our way to the middle of the crowd. We stepped over stretchers, got tripped by crutches and little men. The shopman’s wife was looking cross and important. She had her daughters near her, in charge of the altar-table. A statue of the Virgin, a crucifix, a Sacred Heart, warped and stained behind the old glass. I saw no blood.

—I see it.

I whispered it, a tiny worm on a hook.

—What d’you see, young fellow?

—Oh God, I said.—I see the blood. It’s pouring from her eyes.

—He sees it!

—It’s pouring out of her! He sees it!

The shopman’s wife yelled hush; we were crowding into her rosary.

—The young fellow sees it!

They were turning and trying to turn, the crowd in front of me and beside. Someone fell, away to the left. There was shoving and counter-shoving, whispers and yells.

—I see it too! Miss O’Shea shouted, as she got her hand under my coat and pulled the tie.

—Something’s happening! I yelled.—The pain! Oh, Mother of God!

And it
was
fuckin’ painful. My leg had been packed up at my arse for hours. Released, it roared, the blood rushed as my foot dropped to the ground.

I fell.

I clutched my knee and unstrapped the wooden leg. I held it up.

—His leg’s after growing!

The new bare leg stuck out from under my coat. I gave it a twitch, and another few. All around me, the people fell to their knees. I hid a sharp stone in my hand. I cut the skin beside the knee and gave them running blood.

There was howling and more fainting. One of the dwarfs looked over the heads of the kneeling throng.

—It’s a grand long one, he said.—More power to you, young fellow.

He couldn’t hide the sadness on his face but he nodded across at me. Miss O’Shea pinched my thigh.

—Did you feel that, Michael?

—Yes! I felt it. It’s flesh, and sore with it.

—The Virgin’s after giving my brother the leg he lost when the fox bit him. Twenty years ago!

—It’s not in Our Lady’s power to give anyone a leg, said the shopman’s wife.—It is through her intercession—

But no one was listening to her. Even her daughters had abandoned the altar and were climbing over the telegraph pole and the kneeling pilgrims to get a good look at the fine man with the new leg.

—Twenty years he’s been without the leg, said Miss O’Shea.—Stand back, stand back!

She slapped two of the shopman’s daughters back against the wall of pilgrims that surrounded us.

—Can you stand up, Michael?

—I don’t know, I said.

She helped me to my feet. I put weight on the new leg.

—It’s just like the other one, I said.

I walked in the small circle left me by the crowd, then trotted, then ran. The pilgrims laughed and applauded, hugged one another, reached out to touch me as I dashed past, and others cried and shook and hit their own ailments. I stopped and lifted the wooden leg to the sky.

—I won’t be needing you any more, I yelled.

—Give it here, young fellow, said the dwarf.

I spoke to the leg.

—But I’ll keep you with me as a reminder of this day!

—Is the real one not reminder enough for you?

—And look! said an old lad who’d got to the front of the crowd.—Look at his foot. He got a boot with the leg that’s a perfect match for the other one!

—That’s Our Lady for you, boy. Who else but Herself would have thought of that.

They were stopped by a scream.

It was one of the daughters.

—I see the blood! I see the blood!

They turned and pushed for the next miracle and there was a man standing right against me.

—Dublin, he said, softly.

—I’ll need trousers.

—They’re all arranged.

—Will they match the jacket?

—They won’t. But we’ve a new jacket for you as well. A suit.

—Will it fit?

—Your measurements came down from Dublin with the order.

—Good Jesus, I said.—We can’t lose.

 

—Are you Jewish, Mister Climanis?

—Mister Smart, he said.

He put his pint back on the counter.

—Mister Smart. I am a Jew. But I am not Jewish.

—Stop messing, I said.—Are you or aren’t you?

—Mister Smart, he said.—I am. But I am not.

—Okay, I said.—You win. What are you then?

—It is very hard for me to explain. But I will endeavour. New word, Mister Smart. Two days old. I will endeavour to explain. After this.

He lifted his pint and took a wallop of it.

—I am a Jew from Latvia, he said.—I am a Jew and a Latvian. My father was a Jew. My mother, grandfather and everybody. Jews. But I am not Jewish. The Jews are a people. So I am one of the Jews. Jewish is a religion. I am
not
one of them. Mister Smart, I do not like religions. There are no prophets or gods or the one the Irish people like so much, mothers of gods. My Maria likes that one. I say nothing. I am a very happy man.

—Are you a communist?

—Mister Smart. I am a communist but I am not a communist.

He was enjoying himself but I was still worried. Jack’s warning to me -
Stay clear of him
- had been at the back and the front of my mind for months, almost a year, and this was the first chance I’d had to talk to Mister Climanis since I’d heard it. The mere mention of a name, a name on a piece of paper, was often a death sentence. I’d been delighted to see Mister Climanis well and happy and sitting at the counter.

—I was a communist, he said.—But the Bolsheviks, they entered our
shtetl.
Our village, Mister Smart. They burnt my house and they murdered my wife.

I looked at him. I clung to my glass.

—Yes. I am sorry. They did this because I was a Jew. And my wife, she too was a Jew. She was in the house. I was not. So I am not a communist, Mister Smart. But I believe in communism. But not when it comes with the Russians.

—I’m sorry, he said.

He shrugged, and nodded.

—We will drink to the Bolsheviks, he said.—To their painful deaths. I have told Maria, my wife. She loves me more because I am a widow. But now I am not a widow.

—Did you have children?

—No. No. No more sad stories.

I left him alone for a while. I emptied my glass and lifted a finger to the curate behind the counter; the same again.

—Will you do me a favour, Mister Climanis?

—This is a question I can answer easily. Yes.

—Be careful, I said.—Will you?

For the first time, I saw him worried. He was even scared, and angry. He looked behind him. He looked at the curate delivering the drink. He stared at the glasses on the counter.

—Why are you asking me to do this thing? To
be
this thing? Careful.

—I don’t know, I said.

—Mister Smart. Please. I am careful. I am careful always. Please, explain. Or I will hate you.

Every word had been carefully selected.

—Your name was mentioned, I said.

—Yes.

—These days that means you’d want to be careful. There’s nothing else I can tell you.

—I understand, he said.

He waited, then spoke again.

—Was the name of Maria mentioned?

—No, I said.

He nodded. He sat there, looking at his glass. I watched him shaking slightly. He didn’t touch the glass. The head on his pint shrank and yellowed.

—I will go home, he said, after minutes of nothing. He stood up.

—Mister Smart, thank you.

—I’ll keep you posted, I said.—If I hear anything.

—Mister Smart, he said.—That is not good enough. He was gone.

 

 

Archer - Dynamite Dinny T.D. - kept his Parabellum aimed at the pair in the bed while I opened the wardrobe. Rooney was at the door, keeping an eye on the corridor. The chambermaid who’d brought us to the room had gone back to her bed in the attic; we’d promised her five minutes before we started shooting. There were two more boys outside on the corridor, from the North Dublin Brigade, kids out on their first job. They’d been shaking so much, Rooney had taken their guns and offered to mind them until they needed them. There were more in the foyer, more outside. More in other hotels, other corridors, other rooms and lodgings, houses, scattered throughout the city. Sunday morning, the 21st of November, 1920. Five minutes after nine o’clock.

I found the uniform, among dresses and other jackets. I pulled it off its hanger and threw it on the bed. I’d wanted to be sure that we had the right man, and now we knew.

—Did you serve in France? said Archer.

—Yes, said the man in the bed.

He was sitting up straight. He was still holding the cigarette he’d been smoking when we burst in on him.

—Did you earn yourself any medals?

—Yes.

—Well, here’s a few more to add to your collection. And he fired twice.

Feathers and noise smothered the room. I saw the woman screaming but I couldn’t hear her. The man still sat against the headrest but his head was now thrown to the side, onto the woman’s shoulder. The pillows behind him were demolished, his pyjamas were suddenly soaking red, he still held the burning cigarette.

Archer pointed the gun at the woman.

—Cover yourself up there; you’re a disgrace.

She did.

I fired. One bullet into the chest of the dead man. I was remembering Smith, the way he’d stood up for more after we’d killed him. The woman tried to get away from the dead man’s weight but the body followed her as she leaned to the left. She began to whimper, but stopped herself.

The noise of the gunfire had been replaced by the smell.
Get out when you smell the cordite.
Advice to all assassins, given to me by Collins, years before.

—Come on, I said.

In other rooms, in other parts of the city, in houses on Baggot Street, Lower Mount Street, Earlsfort Terrace, Morehampton Road, upstairs in another room of this hotel, the Gresham, there were men lying dead, on beds, landings, in gardens. Thirteen of them. Secret service agents. Members of the Cairo Gang. The pick of the new crop.

We’d been bumping off the Irish-grown G-men for almost three years. Every death brought resignations from the G Division, dashes out of the country, new, unhappy lives in England, America, Argentina. They were replaced by secret service men from England, spies and assassins, clever men who were getting closer and closer to Collins. Mick still cycled around the city and held court in Vaughan’s Hotel and Devlin’s but he knew that his days and hours were numbered. There were arrests, releases, disappearances - they were getting closer every day. The Cairo Gang, the Castle-based murder gang, were roaming the city, directed by the nods of spies at street corners, at pub counters, outside churches, on trams. They were good. They knew how to spend money and how to rattle the limits of loyalty. They were closing in and Collins decided to get them before they got him and the rest of us.