After the Lockout. Darran McCann

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      Charlie opens the Picturegoer at a random page and glances at the picture. ‘There’s a new picture palace only after opening in Armagh,’ he says.

      ‘Is that a fact?’ I say as I take it back from him. If you want something doing, honest to God. ‘I’ll write. Let’s start with Seamus. Where’d he go?’

      ‘Boston.’

      I scribble it down. ‘Emily?’

      ‘Manchester.’

      ‘England or New England?’

      ‘England. Mary’s in Cape Town. Anthony’s in Wellington, Thomas is in Sydney.’

      ‘Fucken empire-builders.’ I down my whiskey and pour another.

      ‘Oliver is in Buenos Aires. Maybe you should slow down, Victor.’

      ‘Bonus what?’

      ‘Buenos Aires. In the Argentine.’

      ‘Jesus. What about Patsy?’

      ‘Melbourne. Theresa, eh …’ Charlie thinks about it for a second: ‘Glasgow. Johnny is in Chicago. Agnes is in New York.’

      ‘Wee Aggie? She’s only a child.’

      ‘She’s twenty-two. She’s married over there, I think. Rosemary’s in Toronto. Who am I forgetting?’

      I tot up the numbers quickly. ‘We’re missing four.’

      ‘Including yourself.’

      ‘Three then. Brigid?’

      ‘Philadelphia. Peter went to London. He got conscripted. He’s in France now.’

      I pour another whiskey. ‘Fucken eejit.’

      ‘I met him out there. In Paris. Small world, eh? Two Madden boys meeting away on the other side of the world. Him and a few of his cockney pals were paralytic. They were asking me did I know where was the Moulin Rouge.’

      I smile. Peter’s the youngest, he was eight the last time I saw him. ‘Dirty wee bastard. I’m sure you told him off.’

      ‘Sure I was on my way there myself.’

      I laugh loudly and take a long slurp. There’s a name missing from the list. ‘What about Sarah?’

      ‘Sister Concepta. She’s been with the Dominicans in Drogheda these last five or six years.’

      ‘You must be fucking joking me?’ I’m off again, laughing like I haven’t laughed in years. Fifteen Lennons and not one single city big enough for two of them. Pius has scattered the family like I said he would. My sides hurt.

      ‘Keep it civil down there,’ Phil shouts across the room.

      ‘Is she married?’ I ask Charlie. ‘You know damn well who I mean.’

      ‘No, she’s not. She’s the schoolteacher.’

      ‘Did she send you to come and get me?’

      ‘Jesus but you’re full of yourself.’

      ‘Then who’s we? You said we wrote to all our ones.’

      ‘Bishop Benedict.’

      The name is like a nail on a blackboard to my ears. I presumed he’d be dead by now.

      ‘Pius needs help, Victor, he’ll die if he doesn’t get it. The property is gone to hell. There’s cows dying of old age, Victor.’

      I pour another drink hoping it’ll settle my head but it does no good. The room is spinning on me. I hear a voice – not Phil’s, not Alfie’s – pronounce in a stentorian Cork accent: ‘Alfred, the Irish Party is finished, Mr Shanahan and his friends have made sure of that. My little party is certainly a spent force. We must all now make our peace with Sinn Féin.’ I know the voice but can’t quite place it. I open the door of the snug to return Phil’s pencil. Phil looks up watchfully.

      ‘Just leave it on the bar there, Victor.’

      Alfie looks up and fidgets.

      ‘Ask him, Phil. Ask Alfie where was he when he heard they’d shot Connolly.’

      ‘Take it easy now, Victor,’ says Phil.

      ‘He was in the House of Commons cheering and singing God Save the fucking King when he heard, weren’t you, Alfie?’

      ‘I was on me holyers at the time,’ Alfie protests.

      Phil stands up. ‘Right, Victor, that’s enough. Alfie and Mr Healy are here to try and help me get my licence back, so sit down and calm yourself. You’re drinking too fast.’

      The third man sticks his fat head out from behind the door, his face all whiskey and sirloin and silver service and gout. Timothy Michael Healy, Member of Parliament, King’s Counsel. As Murder Murphy’s thug in the Four Courts, he was one of the bosses’ bluntest instruments during the lockout. Healy looks like dead king Edward, with his full white beard and his big, fat, balding head. ‘Healy. I’m sure you cheered the loudest when you heard.’

      ‘I wasn’t even in the House that day. Victor, whatever our differences, Connolly’s execution offended every drop of Catholic blood in me.’

      ‘Every one of your boss’s newspapers was baying for blood. Well, by God your boss got what he wanted.’

      ‘Mr Murphy isn’t my boss. I’m just a lawyer.’

      ‘Mr Healy’s trying to help me get back my licence,’ says Phil. ‘He’s representing Tom Ashe’s family at the inquest too. Leave him alone.’

      Charlie is beside me now, trying to coax me away. ‘Where did that happen?’ Healy asks him.

      ‘Messines.’

      Healy gets up and shakes Charlie’s hand. ‘My boy was in the Dardanelles. People say Irishmen shouldn’t be fighting for England, and maybe they’re right, but there are many good and patriotic Irishmen in the trenches.’

      Charlie directs me halfway back across the room but I’m still looking at Healy, standing at the door of the snug with smugness splayed across his big, blotchy face.

      ‘You were his right-hand during the lockout. I haven’t forgot what you did, you and the rest of them. I haven’t forgot the lockout,’ I cry.

      ‘Oh, for goodness sake, nobody gives a damn about the lockout any more,’ he says.

      I shrug Charlie off and fling a whiskey tumbler as forcefully as I can towards Healy, but I stumble and my aim is off. The tumbler crashes into the window above the bar. Shards of smoked glass fly everywhere. I move towards Healy with every intention of ramming his head into the wall but before my third step Phil is standing before me with hurl in hand. He pulls hard and I feel the warm smack of СКАЧАТЬ