The morning after Christmas Day was gray and cold.
Declan slept late. When he got up, Kate was sitting in the kitchen alone, reading a magazine, a cup of tea on the table beside her. “Ana and Thomas have gone into town to the indoor swimming pool,” she said. “I didn’t let them wake you. They waited for you until it was time for the nine-thirty bus. Make yourself some breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Then help yourself to tea or juice.”
Declan poured himself a cup of tea. “Where’s Matthew?”
“Working. He’s behind on his TV repairs. Maybe you could take him a mug of tea when you’ve finished your own.”
Declan found him with his head in the back of a TV. “Kate sent tea.”
Matthew heaved a sigh and put down his soldering iron. He took the tea. “Thanks.”
Declan turned to go.
“Would you sit with me for a minute or two, Declan? There’s something I need to tell you.”
Declan sat up on the bench and waited while Matthew settled himself beside the electric heater with his tea.
“You’ll soon be on your way back to Ireland.”
Declan nodded. “That’s right.”
“You’re still bent on leaving us then?”
“Yes, Matthew, I am. That was the deal.”
His uncle nodded thoughtfully and stirred his tea.
“About your return ticket.”
Declan said nothing.
“I booked your flight for Tuesday the fifth. Midweek is cheaper. That okay?”
“That’s fine.” He waited. Then: “What do you want to tell me?”
“It’s a terrible hard thing for me to talk about.”
Declan waited.
“I want to tell you about Liam.”
“My da? What about him?”
“I want to tell you about the time . . . “ Matthew paused and started again. “Liam was two years older than me. When he died, he was only thirty-five. That may seem old to you, but your da died a young man. He died the year your sister Mairead was born, leaving Mary, your ma, with a newborn baby and yourself. It was 1981.” Matthew paused and sipped his tea.
Declan said nothing, waiting for him to go on.
“Your da was a member of the Provos, the IRA. So was I.”
“You? In the IRA? I don’t believe it,” Declan said with a sneer.
Matthew’s face was tense. The hand holding the mug of tea trembled.”Well, you’d better believe it,” he said, with a quiet, unaccustomed force.
Declan watched his uncle for a few moments, in silence, and then he said quietly, “I know about my da. He was IRA. My da was a hero. Shot by a gang of filthy Protestant militants. An Irish martyr.”
“Your da was shot, that’s right. But it wasn’t the Protestants who shot him.”
“Then it must have been the English!”
Matthew shook his head. “We were national liberation fighters. IRA! The Irish Republican Army! We were proud. Your da held rank: he was the second-in-command under the Chief himself. Me? I was a nobody in the bomb squad.” Matthew looked up at Declan as though waiting for him to make a sneering remark. When Declan said nothing, Matthew said, “The police found explosives and mercury tilt switches in a laundry hamper in the laundry room shared by several houses on your da’s block. Nobody knows how they got there; I think the police probably planted them. We’ll never know. Your da and your ma were picked up for questioning—’lifted’ as we used to say.”
“It’s still lifted,” said Declan quietly.
Matthew stared at the mug in his hand. “Your ma was pregnant with Mairead, and she was never the strong woman in those days. She suffered from headaches, and a weakness would come over her, and she’d have to lie down, and your da would feed her soup and talk to her. He was a good husband. He did the best he could.
“When your da and your ma were picked up by the police, your da begged them to let your poor mother go: she wasn’t strong, she could suffer a miscarriage. You understand what I’m talking about, Declan?”
Declan nodded.
“But the police kept her. You were only three years old. Kate and I took care of you while your da and ma were in the police cells.
“After a couple of days the police came into your da in his cell and told him your mother had confessed about the explosives. She had done no such thing, of course, but Liam believed the lies the police told him, that she’d broken down under the questioning. He begged them again to let her go.”
Matthew put down his mug on the bench. “The possession of explosives is an automatic life sentence in Ireland.”
“I know.”
“Your da knew for certain that the prison would kill your poor ma. And what about the baby? The police were ruthless. They would let her go on one condition, they said. Your da would work for the police. He would pass on information about IRA activities. The police would use the information to save lives. That’s what they said. They would cover him. No one would be arrested. Your da agreed. He had no choice.” Matthew stopped and looked into Declan’s eyes. “Your da became an informer.”
Declan felt the rage rise in him. He leaped off the bench with clenched fists. “You’re a liar, Matthew! My father was no tout for the police! You’re lying!” he snarled. “I don’t believe any of it!”
“Listen to me, Declan. I’m telling you the God’s truth, and when I’m finished you can believe what you like.”
“What are you two talking about in there?” It was Ana and Thomas back from their swimming.
“Leave us be for five minutes,” shouted Matthew.
When they had gone, Matthew said, “Your da became a spy for the police. Nobody knew. Nobody guessed. He gave information about IRA attacks on the Brits, information about bombs, everything. He couldn’t get out of it. If he stopped the flow of information then the police would tell the IRA on him. And you know what that would mean. Instant execution. The IRA always kills informers as a lesson to others, always. No informer goes free. So far up to then they’d executed at least a dozen of their own men for informing on them.” Matthew gave a bitter laugh. “They’ve shot many more since.”
Declan could hardly hold still. He clenched his fists and clamped his jaw tight.
Matthew took his time. His voice was slow and deep. “The police kept their word at first. They arrested nobody. Then the IRA came up with a plan for a major hit on the British army. It was to be a big bomb. If everything went right it would wipe out half a battalion. Liam was the only one who knew of the plan besides the IRA Chief and the bomb squad, which included me. But the Brits were waiting for them. The bomb squad was stopped in the early hours of the morning, the bomb in their possession. Nobody escaped. The Brits should have arrested them—an automatic life sentence—but they didn’t. They put the four men up against the truck and shot them.
“There was only one way the Brits could have known. Somebody had informed. But who? The IRA picked your da up for questioning. He confessed. They kept him three weeks. Then they shot him.”
“That isn’t true,” said Declan through his teeth. “My father was killed by a gang of Protestant militants! You made it all up! I don’t believe it! My father was never a traitor, I don’t care what you say!”
“It was no dishonor! He did it out of love for your mother, Declan. But they tricked him. They swore they’d kill no one. ‘It was to save lives,’ they said. It was no dishonor to your da. They didn’t keep their promises. If I had a family I’d have done exactly the same myself.”
Declan was trying not to let Matthew see him cry, but he couldn’t help himself. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “And what were you doing in all of this, Matthew? Maybe it was yourself who was the tout! Not my da. Didn’t you just finish saying you were in the bomb squad? Then how was it they shot them all—four men—shot up against the truck you said—and you weren’t there? How do you explain that, Matthew? Why weren’t you there doing your job? How is it you’re alive today if you were such a big liberation fighter?” Declan felt himself trembling.
Matthew shook his head sadly. “I was their first suspect, right enough. Your da saved my life, Declan, and that’s the truth of it. He knew the bomb squad would be arrested and sent to jail for life—he never expected the Brits to kill though—and he came to me on the morning of the hit with a job to do. I was to go to Derry with a package for the Chief of Operations there. It was urgent, he told me. I went as ordered—your da was the number two man in Belfast, remember—and I delivered the package.
“When I returned to Belfast the next day it was in the papers. Four IRA men found with a bomb and shot while trying to escape. That’s what the papers said. The Brits lied: the squad never tried to escape; how could they? They were surrounded! Later, when the IRA picked up your da for informing, I knew. I knew it was my own brother who had saved me, sending me away to safety on a fool’s errand. He wanted to save me from jail. He didn’t know he was also saving my life. I knew then that he was the informer.” Matthew looked at Declan. “I should have died that day with my squad.”
Declan glared at his uncle. “You’re alive today,” he said between his teeth, “because my da died.”
Matthew nodded. He sat forward, his elbows on his knees, staring at the garage floor. “After your sister was born, we left Ireland, Kate and I, that very same year Liam was shot. We’d had enough of it. I didn’t want the same thing happen to Kate that happened to your ma.”
“You were the cowards! You ran to save yourselves! And you’re making it all up about my da! He was no informer! He was no traitor! It’s you who’s the traitor, Matthew! You!”
Matthew stood up awkwardly. “In God’s name, will you listen to me . . . “
Declan tried to say more, but nothing would come out.
Matthew gripped Declan’s arms in steel fingers. “They’re both wrong, Declan, don’t you see that? The IRA and the Protestants are both wrong! They’re killing each other! What good does it do? Violence isn’t the answer! Don’t go back there, Declan. Stay here with us. You’ll never stop the madmen of the world from killing each other. You’re not like them, Declan. You cannot go back to all that!”
Declan found his voice. He wrenched himself out of his uncle’s grip and fled from the garage, screaming.