Page 101 of Hang on St. Christopher

No one was hiding what Alan Locke had been now. They were proud of him, and they were going to raise a glass in his honor. When the Proddy scum police north of the border finally released his body, they’d have a proper funeral too. Armed men firing volleys over the coffin. The works.

The fact that RUC Special Branch hadn’t deemed this wake an event worth attending told you everything you needed to know about Special Branch.

Crabbie and I had been to the bar and got a glass of lager to blend in with everyone else.

“So, are you allowed into a Catholic wake?” I asked him.

“Of course,” he said dismissively, and then added in a whisper, “Will there be kneeling?”

Presbyterians didn’t kneel.

“No kneeling, no prayers, just speeches and drinking and maybe music.”

By nine p.m. it was so crowded, it was easy for us to get close to Brendan’s table without it being suspicious. Brendan was holding forth on cement making. We drifted away. Booze would loosen his tongue.

At ten, a man I didn’t know got up and said a few words about Alan. The man was drunk and mumbled things about the movement and about Alan being a great friend and a great comrade.

When he was done, there was scattered applause, and two fiddles, a bodhran, a guitar, and a set of Irish pipes began to play folk standards.

Crabbie and I drifted in and out of conversations, catching snatches here, snatches there. Close to midnight, I saw Inspector O’Neill and some of his lads, who had also thought to sneak in to see what they could pick up.

I nodded at him.

He nodded back.

We said nothing.

Finally, Crabbie and I managed to get close to Brendan’s table again, where Brendan was talking about death by shotgun.

“No, no, all things considered, a shotgun blast to the head isn’t so bad,” Brendan was saying. “Especially in the old bonce, like. All over in a flash. Stand well back, though. No, that’s an easy way to go. Have you heard about this brain-eating amoeba? That’s a bad one. It lives in lakes, and if it gets up your nose it burrows into your brain. First thing you know is a headache. Headache gets worse and you go in for a CAT scan. And lo and behold, your brain is riddled with amoeba. No way to get it out without turning you into a vegetable. No cure at all. Only thing to do is shoot yourself.”

“Is that why you never learned to swim, Brendan?” a young flunky asked him.

“I never learned to swim, because there were no swimming pools and the sea was too fucking cold.”

An older man came by with a tray full of whiskies and handed them out.

“To Alan!” everyone said, and we raised our lagers.

One of Brendan’s mates took up the subject now. “There’s much worse ways than your amoeba, so there is. Me uncle was in the British army, and he told me what the Japs used to do in Burma. They cut you and stake you out on an anthill. Ants would eat you alive over days. They’d bring you water so you stayed alive while they ate you.”

“Fucking British army scum. That’s what they fucking deserve,” Brendan said. “Only thing worse than the fucking British army is the fucking traitor Micks who work for them.”

“I think he’s talking about us,” I whispered to Crabbie.

“Ssssh,for God’s sake, Sean!” Crabbie hissed.

“Maybe we should go over there and introduce ourselves.”

“Maybe not.”

“If I had the cancer, I’d jump off the cliffs of Moher,” another of the old stagers was saying.

This brought a round of murmured agreement from the men.

“If you’ve got the bottle to do it, there’s only one way: shoot yourself in the heart first and shoot yourself in the head,” Brendan said.

“After you’ve just shot yourself in the heart?”

---