Joseph tried writing lists. While he was still in the army, and again after. To get things down on paper. Once they were there, he could maybe try to organise them later.
The dead man: that was always the first thing, even though it was one of the last things to happen. He always had to write that down, get it out of the way and then on with the rest of it, split under different headings.
What he could hear. The car engines, both of them running. The Escort ticking over and then mis-timing, like it’s going to give out any second, not enough revs to keep it going. The kids in the back seat, crying, sounded more like little dogs than children. Rain too. On the road, in puddles, rattling on the car bonnets. Had been on and off all morning. Joseph remembered it coming down his neck, and that the fronts of his thighs were cold and sodden. What else? Breathing: his own, coming fast, caught under his helmet, and then there was the shouting. Blokes’ voices: loud, and close. Sometimes Joseph thought his must have been one of them, because his throat was sore with it after, only he didn’t remember what he’d been yelling.
What he could feel. Wet and sick. Rain got into his boots. Maybe it was sweat. Helmet too heavy to be holding his head up. Loose guts below, tight feeling in his throat like a cord pulled and knotted.
What he could see. Car headlights up on the verge, grey-green branches and dark sky behind. Like night coming except it was afternoon. Joseph remembered torches too. Middle of the day but dark enough to need them on the checkpoint, with red cones pulled on top while they were stopping the cars. More torches after the man was down, but those lights were white, jumping circles, three or maybe four of them, moving like they were running, and then they were all over and under the Astra, checking. Shining in through the windscreen at the other man, the passenger, still in there, all white face and terrified, squinting in the torch beams.
The exhaust pipe: Joseph could see the fumes coming out of it, red in the tail lights, and white too, so the car must have been jammed in reverse. Not moving, though, just the engine running. But there were two cars, so which one was it? Back windscreen, steamed up, small faces behind it, smudging, small heads moving. That went with the small dogs sound on the other list, but Joseph stopped himself there, because he was meant to be just writing things, not trying to tie them together.
He started finding things he’d written that he didn’t remember. Tore up his lists or burnt them. They came out different every time he tried and so he stopped trusting the pieces after a while, and then his ability to slot them together. Maybe you twist things to suit. I think I do. Or you turn things against you. Might do that too.
The man was older than Joseph when he shot him. Not much, a year or two maybe, still early twenties. Joseph got older than him every year now, and he hated the way his head did that: searched out that detail and held it up to hurt him.
He panicked just after it happened. Stood up from the road thinking he’d shot someone’s dad. Kids in the back, woman in the front, and he was thinking: what fucking car did the man get out of? Escort? He never saw. Kids crying, making that small dog noise and maybe that’s why. That’s their dad. Looking at the man, curled up on the road with his jeans on. That woman in the front seat, she’s his wife.
Joseph was lying on the road too, after it happened, between the cars. But he couldn’t remember how he got down there. On his back, so maybe the rifle had kicked him. But his shoulder didn’t hurt, no bruise above his eye from the sight, and there would have been if he’d fired that badly. He must have been on the ground a while because the backs of his legs were soaked, and he could remember standing up too, because Jarvis helped him, but the rest of it had just gone, in all the years it hadn’t come up again. Shot through with holes, everything.
How far away was he when I shot him? Five metres. Ten. Fifteen. Couldn’t have been far because Joseph had detail: the man’s jacket was undone, his beard was a real one not just unshaven, the Astra had rust spots all along the driver’s-side panel, next to where the man was standing. The car door was open and he was talking to the Lieutenant, and the Lieutenant was writing when he should have been looking.
But it wasn’t always that way: other times, Joseph saw all of it at once, the way he could never have really, because he was only over by the Escort and that was much too close. The man standing at a distance, the two cars, the full width of the road, and from this angle, Joseph could see who the man was looking at too: Townsend. Up on the verge. Knocking on the window, on the passenger’s side, but the passenger wasn’t moving, only the man standing in the road, and he was reaching behind him. That was before Joseph shot him, but how long? He couldn’t say now.
Years ago. But Joseph didn’t think time had much to do with it. His memory was already slow to respond the morning after. Soon as he woke he felt it, there was something about yesterday. But then there were long seconds in bed before he could say what was wrong, and what it had to do with him.
A week after it happened, Joseph was sent to see the chaplain. They sat in an office together and talked about thou shalt not kill and why God had made that commandment. The chaplain said if it was done to protect others, He might not look at it unkindly. At the time Joseph thanked him, but it never gave him much comfort. Too convenient. Rules you can bend give you nothing to lean on.
Things he could smell was another list he used to write. Wet road, wet clothes, hot tyres and exhaust fumes, but fresh air too. He hadn’t dreamt about that day yet, never had a nightmare, but he woke up with those smells around him sometimes, couldn’t get away from them.
In the sheets, so he’d get up, but then they followed him: on his face, in his hair. It was the rain on the ground and the exhaust fumes, but mostly that fresh air. Cold smell, like windows left open in winter.
Joseph went to see Jarvis about three years after they got back. He was in a bad way then, staying at Eve and Arthur’s, kipping on their sofa, and he took off without telling them. Thought he had maybe a day and a night before they got too worried. Hitched east, along the Essex roads and all their red brick and pebble-dash, endless junctions. Jarvis was still with the regiment: a good soldier and the army was good to him. Told Joseph he’d made sergeant when they spoke on the phone, and Joseph remembered Townsend had kept a book on that, but the odds were too short to be worth it: too certain.
Jarvis had been posted at home since their tour ended, and Joseph knew he lived out, on a new-build estate in the town, with his wife, their children. She hated being an army wife, couldn’t stand the hauling from post to pillar and living in married quarters. She didn’t much like Joseph turning up there either. Understandable, he thought, while he stood in their hallway and listened to them arguing. The door to the front room was closed, but he could still hear what she was shouting and he didn’t blame her. You turn up and you can’t remember their kids’ names and you look like a wino.
Jarvis cleared it with her, got Joseph a couple of cans to drink and made bacon sandwiches. They stood in the kitchen while his wife took the kids round to the neighbours’. More of them than Joseph remembered, and the oldest girl looked like a teenager already. The washing machine filled and turned while Jarvis grilled the bacon, and Joseph thought about how his Corporal had liked it in Ireland, his first tour anyway. Up in Tyrone, two years, and he’d had his family with him then. Always said he’d sooner be back there than in the shitehole. Their first daughter started school in Tyrone, and Jarvis reckoned it was the best education: reading writing arithmetic. Said she was well ahead of the other kids when they got back to England.
They ate and Jarvis said he did basic training now so he wasn’t away so much, his family wasn’t shifted around. The girls would have exams to do soon enough, so it was better to be settled. His wife was happier too, didn’t give him a such hard time any more, not like she used to. The house wasn’t a bit like the ones you get from the army and Jarvis said she’d wanted it that way: sick of the standard sheets and the cutlery.
– What’s going on with you then?
Joseph hadn’t thought of a way to start.
– Don’t know. Can’t really get it together at the moment.
– Looks like it. Full moon, is it?
Too thin and fewer teeth than the last time Jarvis saw him, Joseph was aware of how rough he must look, and was glad of the cigarette offered, something to do, because he didn’t have any banter.
– You were one of my lot I’d back-squad you.
Jarvis was smiling.
Joseph nodded, shrugged.
– Told you that when you were leaving, didn’t I? Does your head in to be outside. You ever wanted back in?
He shook his head.
– So what’s going on then? To what do I owe the pleasure?
Nearly an hour had gone by already and Jarvis was tapping his thumbs, lightly, on the table. Maybe not aware of it, but Joseph was. Of the crumbs on the plates and the washing machine emptying and spinning. The evening passing and nothing said yet, nothing settled.
– Think I’m having trouble with my memory.
– Oh yeah?
Joseph wasn’t sure if he wanted to go on, only Jarvis was doing that tapping again.
– You ever get that feeling? That you’ve done something but you can’t remember it properly?
– What kind of something? Drinking?
– No. Something wrong.
– You in trouble?
– No. I’m talking about before. When we were over there.
His old Corporal looked at Joseph a long couple of seconds before answering.
– You going to get all Brits Out on me?
– No. No. Not that.
It wasn’t going well. Jarvis sat up straighter.
– Come on then. I’m not a bloody mind-reader.
– Don’t know. I can’t get it straight. You know? I just thought. You were there. I just thought I’d come and see you or something.
He wasn’t making sense, but Jarvis was still listening.
– You talking about when you did that bloke?
– Yeah.
– Well, go on then.
He was listening, but he wasn’t going to make it easy. Joseph tried again.
– I don’t know what went wrong that day.
– Nothing.
– But we stopped people loads, all the time.
– Yeah?
– We got them arrested and charged.
– So?
– Why didn’t we get him arrested?
– No. Hang on. You’ve lost me.
Jarvis was smiling again, but frowning too. Like he couldn’t believe what Joseph was saying, and Joseph thought he’d hardly started and he’d lost him already. Dry mouth and no lager left in the can, couldn’t be asking for another. Stupid heart going now and Jarvis was looking at him, waiting.
– I just can’t remember it straight. I keep thinking if I did it right, I don’t know, fucking procedure. I don’t even know if he was armed sometimes when I’m thinking about it.
Joseph laughed, but it came out strange and Jarvis didn’t join in.
– He had a gun.
Just a statement. No argument. Jarvis was there: Joseph thought he had to remember that, next time doubt took over again.
– Gobshite in the passenger seat was sitting on a pistol too.
Joseph hadn’t forgotten: he hadn’t seen it either, but he’d read the report, that ballistics had traced it back to a kneecapping in 1987.
– He was a Provo, Mason. A terrorist.
Joseph lifted the empty can and put it back down. Jarvis went on:
– He was a member of the fucking Irish Republican Army. Army. They train just like us. They call it a war.
– I know. I know.
– What were you going to do? Talk to him nicely about giving up his bad ways?
Joseph didn’t know what to say then. Maybe that he wasn’t wearing a uniform, the bloke, the terrorist, but that sounded pathetic. Like some trick his own head played on him: the man looked like anyone you’d see on the street or in the pub or the park and you wouldn’t think to be shooting. Jarvis was leaning back in his chair now, fingers spread out on his thighs, looking at him, and Joseph felt like he was putting his head on show. All the mad thoughts in it, all tangled and strange and it made him want to cry, seeing what a state it was in.
– I just remember the rain and the cars, you know, and one of them had that woman in, and her kids were howling.
– What you on about?
– I’m just saying.
– What?
– I just want to say what happened.
– I was there. You don’t need to. Cars and kids don’t have nothing to do with it. Bastard Fenian had a gun on your mate and you stopped him.
Joseph waited, but there was nothing else, not even the washing machine turning now. He wanted to hear more, and he wanted Jarvis to tell him: start before the cars came and go all the way through it, but Jarvis was just sitting with his arms crossed, looking at him, holding his eyes, and Joseph realised he was staring. Must have looked like he was demanding an answer, and then he remembered what their Quartermaster Sergeant used to say about people who ask questions. Family, friends, people who corner you at the bar and want to know how you deal with it. You might have to kill someone. Don’t you ever think about that? Civilian eyes. They look at you with them, waiting to see who’ll blink first. Always think they’ll be the ones to break you: get through to that human being they just know is trapped in there, somewhere. Your fucking bleeding heart. Joseph used to laugh when he said it: he knew that look. The way they’ll ask you roundabout questions when what they really want to know is if you’ve done it. And what was it like? Even the pacifists. Fascinated. Sergeant said if you keep quiet they’ll always presume you have. Think the army is all running around and shooting, wouldn’t cross their minds that you might be a cook or mechanic or something. Keep it zipped and they’ll never know how boring you really are.
– Maybe it didn’t have to happen, though? What about if I shot him in the arm, you know?
– Yeah, right. Winged him. Like you had all the fucking time in the world.
Jarvis smiled, a small, tight movement.
– Or should you have gone for the legs, you think? Shin bones. Like they do?
– I just mean, maybe I could have stopped him some other way. No need for him to die, was there?
– I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. He had a gun on your mate.
Jarvis was closing him down. Hadn’t he come to hear this? A gun, a bit of certainty from someone who knew, but it wasn’t working. Joseph thought he might shout, didn’t want to, didn’t know what Jarvis would do if he started. He waited and he was relieved when Jarvis didn’t say anything for a while, just let everything settle. Pulled out a pack of cigarettes, got up quietly, lit one on the gas ring and laid the pack open on the table for Joseph, ashtray between them and the greasy plates cleared away.
– You did what you were trained to do. Job well done, I say. It was him or Townsend. You hadn’t done it, you’d be sitting here now telling me how you wish you fucking had. Bawling your eyes out, thinking about your mate and all the bloody Welsh hills he can’t be climbing now. Sorry Mrs Townsend but I got terrible confused and let your son take a bullet. Gifted the Provos another one of ours. That’s what I joined the army for.
He passed his cigarette over so Joseph could light his on the end.
– You’ve got yourself stuck, Mason. You’re just looking at it all wrong. Letting your memory try it on.
Jarvis rubbed his chin, watched Joseph watching him.
– Way I see it: you were on a tour of duty, just doing what needs to be done.
Joseph knew he’d been looking at his old Corporal like a civilian now. Recognised the way he couldn’t accept his answers: he understood the words but they just didn’t mean enough. He’d been expecting something to change after Jarvis finished speaking, something to ease back into its rightful place. That’s why they always look at you that way, same reason he was looking at Jarvis now: waiting for that click, the relief when something starts to make sense. Different set of rules, different world he was in then. Is that what it was?
– You always were a specimen, Mason. I remember that. Odds-on for a choker. Too quiet or something, weren’t you? Didn’t surprise me you left us.
Bastard. Jarvis was smiling again, putting the boot in. Joseph had no comeback, and Jarvis knew that. What could he do? Even if he did start, Jarvis would finish him easy. Probably why he let him in here in the first place, had him sized up as harmless on the doorstep, and now he was just letting him know.
– You think about things like this, Jarvis?
– Course I do.
– And?
– See what thought did?
Joseph watched him clean out the ashtray, clear away the empty cans. In his kitchen that smelled of food and clean clothes. Wedding ring, and kids’ paintings taped to the walls. Joseph thought if you had all that, maybe it wouldn’t be so hard. A wife and a houseful of kids. No doubts: Jarvis had too much else to be taking care of. Seemed too simple to Joseph, but what did he know about it? He was a specimen, always had been. Three hours they’d been sitting there, longer, and then Jarvis told him he couldn’t be staying.
– Kids’ll be needing their beds. I’ll get you a towel. Disposables are upstairs in the cabinet.
He told Joseph to get in the shower, get shaved and then he’d put him on a bus.
– You got money on you?
Joseph shrugged. Jarvis picked up his wallet and his car keys.
– Doesn’t feel like it, I can see that, but you’re lucky.
No one chasing you through the courts. I’ve got a mate up on civil charges. Didn’t even kill, got his man so he can’t walk now, can’t work. Family wants him convicted, wants compensation. That’s stress for you.
Joseph wondered if he knew the bloke, but he didn’t ask: didn’t want to know.
– No one’s saying you did wrong. Are they? The reports gave you the all clear, so it’s just you. You’re the only one. Useless thinking. Put it away. Get on with the rest.
Jarvis was the one who picked Joseph up from the road, and he was with him again, a few weeks later: back in England, at their home barracks and in the pipe range together to zero their weapons, ready for a training exercise that afternoon. The Corporal started before him, but when it came to Joseph’s turn to shoot, he couldn’t.
He’d carried the same rifle on every patrol in Armagh, cleaned it every day, did everything as normal, only he’d never fired it again. So maybe that was it. Or it could have been something about the sound the training rifle made when he lifted it. Smell of the oil, the cool rubber feel of the cheek piece up against his face. Different place, different country, different bloody weapon, but something he did was the same, some movement his body remembered. Back out in the rain and the cold. Dark and the shouting and the kids and the cars. Like it was happening now, not weeks ago.
A few seconds. Not long, but it was hard to get himself straight again after. Sweating so much it got into his eyes. Shaking, so Jarvis had to come over and take his rifle. Not like shivering, much stronger, more like a fit and it was frightening. Started somewhere in his guts, pulling hard and tight under his ribs, backs of his legs like water, and he thought he was slipping, going over. Jarvis saw it all, made him sit down against the wall, pushed his head down hard, between his knees, and held it there. Joseph tried to get up again after a few minutes but his Corporal wouldn’t let him.
– Puke-pale you are, Mason.
Not going anywhere until his blood was running properly again. He sat down next to him.
– No one to see you here anyway.
Jarvis had stayed with him then, and he waited with him for the bus too, even though it was late, and their conversation was over. He stood on the forecourt, watching while the coach pulled out, the only person standing there on the concrete.