They met in a café looking across Donegall Square and the Garden of Remembrance to the western flank of the City Hall. St John had grown a moustache and goatee since last they had met. The beard was flecked with grey. They gripped one another by the upper arm as they shook hands, but from the moment they were seated there was a tension between them, concentrated on – emanating from – the A4 envelope that St John had set on the low table separating their seats.
A man in fluorescent waterproofs had come out of the City Hall to pick up litter from around the Cenotaph: a conveniently distracting midpoint to which they addressed the majority of their comments. Which were to begin with confined to the health of those they each held dear, a little more circumspect, even now, in the case of some – Bea had come down with some glandular-fever type thing: dizziness, stiff neck, nausea – than others.
Eventually, however, the envelope could not be ignored. St John several times moved it with his splayed fingertips, lining up the shorter edge with the edge of the tabletop.
‘So Maxine tells me you’re branching out?’ Craig prompted.
‘I don’t know about that. It’s more a one-off thing.’
The council worker had gone back into the City Hall. St John turned the envelope through one hundred and eighty degrees.
‘Is that anything to do with it?’ Craig asked.
St John pulled his hand away as though burned, replaced it slowly.
‘Listen, this might all come as a bit of a surprise to you,’ he said. ‘It did to me, but just bear with me for a couple of minutes, will you?’
*
Skater Tom had phoned him at home one night the week before he was due to travel to Belfast. ‘Sorry, I know it’s late, but I’m sitting here looking at something . . . funny.’
‘Funny how?’
‘Like peculiar, like . . . I don’t know. Was there a teacher when you were at school . . .’
‘I know what you’re going to ask. Harrison, his name was.’
‘Right, and he was mixed up in some kind of shit?’
*
‘What do you mean shit?’
‘That’s what I asked. I mean part of it, you know, is the way Tom speaks. It’s shit this and shit that, good shit, bad shit, crazy shit.’
‘OK then, but “mixed up”, that’s pretty unambiguous.’
St John took a deep breath. ‘He came across a document, a list of names the IRA had of people who were being used to undermine the hunger strikers’ cause.’
‘Used by who?’
‘Well, the document seemed to suggest elements within the security services and some loyalists they were running.’ He laughed entirely without volition, glanced around at customers addressing themselves to lattes and overblown muffins, or thumbing messages into phones. ‘Sorry, it seems mad to be sitting here now saying it.’
‘But you believe it all the same or else why would you have called me? Why would you have brought your envelope?’
St John nodded: you’re right. ‘I think some of it could be true, yes. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying it’s a reason to kill anybody, but as an illustration of how fucked up things were, it’s worth sitting down with an open mind and looking over.’
He slid the envelope across the table. Craig stared at it. He stood up. ‘No.’
‘No?’
‘I won’t let you do it.’
St John let out something else in the territory of a laugh, of bemusement this time, mixed with a degree of genuine sympathy. ‘Craig, mate, I hate to say it, but you can’t stop me.’
*
He came home that night like a bear. No point even asking him how it had gone. Silent through dinner, he got up as soon as he had finished eating and went to his study. They had rooms enough in the house for one apiece, although she preferred ‘office’ for hers: easier to shut the door on and walk away. They had a mini-gym whose doorstep she was fairly sure he had never darkened. It was to there that she went when she had made her evening call to Gerry in Dublin to reconcile their diaries for the morning.
(Gerry was more and more inclined to open an actual Dublin office, seeing as how more and more of their income was being generated from there, as indeed was more and more of everything else on the island. Besides, eight years’ commuting to get a ride, she said . . . it would wear you out.)
At regular intervals as she worked out she heard from the far end of the landing the ping of mail being sent and received.
She heard it again as she dried herself after her shower.
Downstairs, moisturised, dressed only in a bathrobe, she took a large glass of red wine into the odd little Art Deco sunroom that more than anything else had sold them on the house and that was, in all types of weather at all times of day, the room to which they most often repaired. She eked out the wine, hoping he would join her before bed. It wasn’t good for anyone’s morale all this time alone under the one roof.
She tapped on his door on her way up to bed. He looked at her over the top of the computer. ‘Are you going to be much longer?’
‘Not much.’
The last thing she heard, half an hour later, was a ping.
*
Craig replayed the afternoon’s conversation dozens more times as he lay in bed. He would have said he didn’t sleep at all were it not for the moments when Harrison himself was in the room, on the chair where the clothes got dumped, an empty coffee cup dangling from the forefinger of his right hand; for the trail of orange and red pellets, glowing like the lights in the floor of a plane, leading from the chair out the door to the landing.
‘It’s up to you,’ he said to Craig, more than once.
*
St John’s phone rang almost as soon as he was out of bed.
‘I’m sorry about yesterday,’ Craig said. ‘It was all a bit of a surprise.’
‘Maybe I could have brought it up better.’
‘What was it you wanted me to do exactly?’
‘I was thinking an interview, walk and talk, maybe along the front of the school, putting things in context. The idea isn’t to condemn, but to understand – why people made the choices they did in those days.’
(The idea in structural terms was to put into perspective his own father’s sudden departure, leading up to a reunion, possibly on Derry’s Walls.)
Craig whistled. ‘How far were you imagining we were going to walk?’
‘I’m talking very generally here,’ St John said. ‘It’s a one-hour programme, this will be a two-and-a-half-minute segment, at most.’
‘Two and a half minutes?’
‘Edited. Take us maybe a morning to do, an afternoon, we’ll work around you.’
‘All right.’
‘That’s brilliant. See you at the school gates, then?’
‘Yeah, see you at the school gates.’
*
They settled on Monday morning at eleven-twenty: directly after break. The school had expanded, upwards rather than outwards, since their day, two-storey classroom blocks become three or four, a new tower block rising up in the centre where, from memory, the anachronistic junior girls’ playground had used to be. It had the air now of an island city, rather than the overgrown market town where between them they had spent thirteen years of their lives. Still, at twenty past eleven, that familiar quiet reigned, of classes in session.
‘I feel like we’re mitching off,’ St John said, his hand on Craig’s shoulder. ‘Come here till I introduce you to the crew.’
They were standing at the raised boot of a nearby Volvo estate, all two of them: Andy on camera, Conor on sound. St John drew his head back looking at Craig. ‘Sorry if you were expecting a whole crowd.’
‘No, no . . . Actually, I don’t know what I was expecting.’
‘Time was you would have needed a bus, nearly, for all the focus pullers and second assistants. The only thing that hasn’t changed is the Volvos. Isn’t that right, Andy?’ Andy’s smile was enigmatic, but before he could respond or St John elaborate, a woman arrived in a quilted anorak that polar explorers of old could only have dreamed of, four coffees held at arm’s length (the anorak was ice-white) in a cardboard carrier. ‘Oh, and this is my producer,’ St John said. ‘Hazel.’
Craig smiled, held out his hand. ‘Craig.’
‘You’re Craig,’ she said. ‘Hi.’
The ‘I’ bloomed like an exotic flower. ‘Fantastic to meet you finally. I’m really looking forward to this.’
‘Me too, actually, now that I’m here,’ said Craig.
While St John and Andy paced out together the route of the walk and talk and Conor looked displeased with something in the atmosphere – squinting into the middle distance, alternately covering and uncovering his right ear with the headphones as he tried to pinpoint the source of his irritation – Hazel took Craig through the release form.
‘It looks scarier than it is. Basically it just says that you consent to us making use of the interview material in whatever form we decide. It’s pretty standard.’ She made a cross as she said this at the foot of page one and another where the text ended a third of the way down page two. Craig without hesitation signed his name beside them both.
‘I better watch I don’t say anything I regret.’
‘I’m sure you won’t.’
Conor gave him a radio-mic pack to put in his back pocket – ‘Phone off?’ Craig nodded – then fed the wire up under his wool polo shirt and clipped it in just above the second buttonhole.
‘Everybody happy then?’ St John called.
‘I’m still picking up a bit of buzz from somewhere,’ Conor said. They all stood and listened. Heard nothing. Conor shook his head. ‘I suppose it’ll have to do.’
St John walked Craig back to the starting point he had agreed with Andy, about thirty yards from the school gate, next to a car with a Jesus fish in the window.
‘Just try to ignore the camera,’ St John said. ‘When we get right up to the gate I’ll lean against the pillar and we’ll carry on talking till we’re done.’
Craig’s face broke into a smile. ‘I’ve never seen you in action before. I’m impressed.’
‘It’s like anything, isn’t it? You do it often enough you eventually cease to be a complete incompetent.’
‘As the actress said to the bishop,’ Craig said out the corner of his mouth as they waited for the signal to walk.
St John stifled a laugh. ‘Now don’t you start me going.’
‘Turning over,’ Andy called, but Conor held up a hand – not yet; a bus passed, dieselly; the hand yielded to a raised thumb.
‘Three, two, one,’ St John whispered, and Craig took his hand from his jacket pocket.
Visuals
EXT School, wide shot: ST JOHN and friend CRAIG walk
Sound
Continuous street ambience
Narration
ST JOHN
This is a bit strange, Craig, being back here.
CRAIG
Well, of course, you’ve been living away a right while, which makes it even stranger.
ST JOHN
So, what is it now, thirty-something years since the two of us met?
CRAIG
Thirty-two. You sat beside me on our very first day.
ST JOHN
Did I?
CRAIG
You did: first day, first class.
ST JOHN
That’s the historian’s memory, you see.
CRAIG (laughs)
You made an impression.
ST JOHN
Seriously, though, history was your subject, wasn’t it, from pretty early on?
CRAIG
I suppose it was.
Visuals
ST JOHN and CRAIG arrive at School Gate.
‘Hold on a second,’ Andy said. ‘I just want to change the shot. If I could cheat you round this way a touch, Craig.’
His hand reached out, like some extension of the camera that he kept to his eye, and tried to manoeuvre Craig into position.
‘Like this?’ Craig asked. He was faced more towards the camera than St John.
‘A touch more . . .’ Craig’s back was practically flat against the gate. ‘That’s it.’
‘It’s going brilliantly,’ said Hazel. ‘Really natural and relaxed. You would never think you hadn’t done this before.’
‘Conor?’ said Andy.
‘I can live with it.’
‘All right, turning over.’
Visuals
ST JOHN and CRAIG chat at the School Gate. ST JOHN frowns.
Narration
ST JOHN
And there was one teacher in particular who you looked up to?
CRAIG
Mr Harrison, yeah.
ST JOHN
What was it we used to call him?
CRAIG
Hammy.
ST JOHN
Hammy. That’s right.
CRAIG
Every teacher had to have a nickname. He hated it.
ST JOHN (after a moment’s reflection)
And could you tell us what happened . . . ?
CRAIG
He was murdered.
Hazel, to Andy’s immediate left, raised her hand. Craig stopped. Andy shouldered the camera.
‘Is everything all right?’ St John asked.
‘I was just wondering if we were happy with Craig using that word.’
‘Murdered?’ said St John.
‘Yes, are we sure that’s what it was, because this is such a lovely chat and I would hate us to have to lose the whole thing because Compliance . . . ?’
‘Our legal eagles . . .’ St John turned to Craig to supply the gloss.
‘Sorry,’ said Hazel. ‘Because the Legal and Compliance Department objected.’
‘No, I think we can definitely say murdered,’ said St John.
‘Well,’ Craig’s tone was even, ‘three men broke down his door in the middle of the night and shot him fifteen times in his own bed, so, yes, I think we’re justified in calling that murder.’
‘Oh, God, no, don’t get me wrong, it sounds aw-ful.’ Hazel’s eyes creased awfully at the corners. ‘It’s just we’ve not had to deal with anything like this on Where I’m Coming From in the past and with this peace process and everything . . . ’ Finally she waved away her own objection. ‘Listen, I’m probably just fussing over nothing.’
Neither Andy nor Conor offered an opinion, any more than they would have if they had been standing at the side of the pitch while the referee and linesman discussed a tight penalty call, but waited for the signal of Hazel’s silence to turn over again.
‘Do you need me to pick up from before the last question?’ St John asked her without taking his eyes off Craig, to whom he gave a little grimace of apology.
A passing lorry driver tooted his horn, as passing lorry drivers the world over were programmed to do. Conor, as soundmen were programmed to, looked daggers.
‘If you wouldn’t mind,’ Hazel said.
St John took another second to think himself back to where he had been emotionally.
Visuals
ST JOHN and CRAIG at School Gate as before.
Sound
Continuous street ambience as before
Narration
ST JOHN
I’m sure a lot of people watching can relate to that, giving your teachers nicknames: a normal part of school life. But there was nothing too normal about any aspect of life in Belfast in those days, was there?
CRAIG
No, well, that’s the whole rationale of terrorism [NB flick of the eyes off-camera: cover with reverse-shot noddy or GV], it renders all arenas suspect: home, work, school . . .
ST JOHN
So, Hammy – Mr Harrison . . .
CRAIG
. . . was murdered. I was – you and I were – seventeen. The Provisionals – the IRA – broke down the door of his house one Saturday night and three of them ran up the stairs and shot him while he slept.
ST JOHN (shakes head)
And he had a girlfriend, if I remember, who lived with him, a partner.
CRAIG
That’s right.
(Silence)
ST JOHN
And, um, was there any indication at the time why this would have happened. I mean, a schoolteacher . . . ?
CRAIG
The hunger strikes were just getting going then.
ST JOHN
This was when Bobby Sands died?
CRAIG
That was a bit later, but, yeah, Bobby Sands and nine others, and Harrison – his name was Alec, Alec Harrison – Alec had written an article about the use of the hunger strike as a tactic . . . and, well, they’ve always had a very tight editorial line, the IRA.
Visuals
Close-up ST JOHN, smiles faintly, acknowledging this attempt at Blitz humour. Glances off into School, biting his lip: this is not going to be an easy question to ask.
Narration
ST JOHN
Were you aware that certain allegations have been made . . .
CRAIG
Mm.
ST JOHN
. . . suggesting Alec Harrison might have had connections to . . . I mean, while I’ve been making this programme I’ve been shown papers that seem to indicate a connection to some pretty shadowy people, not that that’s a reason to kill anyone, but I’m wondering, does it affect at all your memory of him, because you were more than just pupil and teacher, you two, you were . . . ?
CRAIG (nods)
Friends. First of all I think you have to say that even though we have put the guns away, or most of them, we haven’t stopped fighting here altogether: the past is the new front line and reputation is its cannon fodder. We’re all vulnerable.
ST JOHN
Well, I don’t know if I’ve said this, but part of what I’m trying to do here is understand what went on in my own family, with my father in particular . . .
CRAIG
Yes, but, you see, the problem, revisiting the past, is that you can’t really control it once you start. Let’s say for instance someone was to get hold of something else about you from when you were growing up.
ST JOHN (a backwards nod)
I’m sure the teachers in there would have a few things to say, those who still remember me . . . the Crafty Fag Club . . .
CRAIG
Something worse than that, something less glamorous, like stealing money from the filling station where you used to work . . . Remember you did that? Just up the road there at the back of the school.
ST JOHN (to camera)
Can we stop there, please?
CRAIG
It wasn’t just a little either, was it? Like, it was starting to show up in the books. You were really sweating it you were going to get caught. Remember? That was why you went away to England. That was how all of this came about, if you think about it. That’s how we have ended up standing here talking today.
ST JOHN
Andy, please . . .
Visuals
ST JOHN’s hand closes in on the lens.
Commentary
ANDY (off-screen)
Don’t touch the fucking camera.
Sound
Scuffling intermingled with further unattributed swear words.
[At this point the interview is terminated.]
They were all talking at once. ‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’ said Andy to St John.
‘The lead! You’re stretching the lead,’ said Conor to Andy.
‘I can’t believe you would do something like that,’ said St John to Craig.
‘I hope you got all that,’ said Craig to Conor and Andy, and to St John, ‘I told you I wouldn’t let you do it.’
‘Maybe we should all take a few minutes, collect our thoughts,’ said Hazel to everybody, but Craig was already unclipping his mic and trying to trail the lead down his jumper.
‘Watch out for the wee windshield,’ said Conor, and with that straw, Hazel’s diplomat’s back was finally broken.
‘Oh, fuck the windshield!’ she shouted. ‘And fuck that fucking word “wee”!’
St John watched all this with the same bewildered expression on his face as when he opened his eyes in first-year geography class to find Uprichard kneeling beside him. ‘Welcome back from the Land of Nod.’
*
‘I can’t believe you would do something like that,’ said Maxine: St John verbatim.
She had been in the sunroom, crossword on her lap, half complete, when Craig got home and threw himself into a chair. He felt exhausted.
‘Somebody had to,’ he said now. ‘Alec isn’t here to defend himself.’
Even with his eyes closed he could sense her standing over him.
‘But you know all they’ll do is cut that bit and use the rest,’ she said. ‘You signed the release.’
‘I don’t think they will. St John will be too afraid of it getting out. He knows Hazel and those guys there heard it: he knows they know it’s true. Anyway’ – he put his hand into his jacket pocket and, without opening his eyes, pulled out the phone – ‘your man Conor wasn’t the only person recording.’
He pressed a couple of buttons and there was a sound, amplified almost to distortion, of other neighbouring buttons being pressed then a swoosh, consistent with a hand being rapidly withdrawn from a pocket, then the soundtrack settled into polyester-lining static interrupted at regular intervals by a thud – Craig’s right foot hitting the pavement – followed by a fainter thud: the left. Thud, fainter thud, thud, fainter thud. Then from very far away, from the beginning of recording history as it might have been, St John said, ‘This is a bit strange, Craig, being back here.’
Maxine sank down into the seat beside him. She sat very still listening.
‘They know you have this?’ she asked when it was over.
‘I played it for them before I left.’
She sat a moment more then stood and walked back towards the kitchen.
‘So?’ he called after her.
She turned in the doorway. ‘I don’t think I like you very much.’