Read Online All Our Yesterdays by Robert B. Parker - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Robert B. Parker
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another martyr. It’s not an adventure, Conn. It’s a war.”
“Well, it’s neither one for me, Mick. I’m out of it.”
“Then go away, Conn. Go far. South Africa, Australia, America. It won’t help us if they catch you. It’ll help us if you disappear.”
“I don’t want to stay here,” Conn said.
“Good. A lot of our boys don’t like quitters much.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Conn said.
“Nothing matters, does it?”
“No.”
“I’ll arrange it,” Collins said. “Where do you want to go?”
Conn had never thought of where to go. He’d only thought of leaving.
“The United States,” Conn said. “I’ll go to Boston.”
Collins grinned suddenly.
“Fancy that,” Collins said.
1994
Voice-Over
“Y ou walk along the River Liffey,” I said, “which cuts right through the middle of the city, and there’s a bunch of barrel-arched bridges. And the arches reflect in the water and make a circle. You walk along the river, past Guinness Brewery, and veer up past Heuston Station and go up a hill and there’s Kilmainham Jail, this—Christ, I don’t know—Stonehengean pile of granite block, right in the middle of a bunch of neat small houses with neat small yards. So I went in. You can’t go except on a tour, so I tagged along. And, Jesus … abandon all hope ye who enter here.”
Grace waited, her gaze resting on me, calm and guarded so that it felt heavy. Though it seemed a little less guarded to me than it had. Always when she listened, she gave you her full attention and you felt as if you were saying things of absolute grace and significance.
“It felt like you’d think a prison would feel: ponderous, unyielding, and hopeless. There was a light rain the day I was there. Actually there’s a light rain most days in Dublin, I think. And the rain didn’t make it more cheerful, but even in the present day, you know, now, when I was walking around in there, and now it’s just a museum, I felt”—I looked for the right word—“like despair. I felt buried underneath this atrocious heap. It wasn’t a cold day, maybe fifty-five, sixty, but inside the walls it was freezing. You knew what it musthave been like to be caught in the gears of the British Empire. They were entirely indifferent, and they must have ground exceeding fucking fine.”
“And yet he escaped,” Grace said.
“He was an indomitable bastard,” I said.
The thick snow had begun to pile up along the bottom of the window, its whiteness making the night storm blacker.
“Except that it sounds like he didn’t care about anything.”
“There’s freedom in that.”
“There’s freedom and there’s freedom,” Grace said.
“True.”
She looked at me again for a time.
“There’s indomitable and indomitable too,” she said.
“What the hell does that mean?” I said.
Grace shrugged.
“We’ll see.”
I waited but she didn’t say anything else. Lightning startled outside the window, and thunder rolled in after it. The space between the light and the sound had narrowed as the heart of the storm moved toward us.
“A little after Conn left Ireland, they had stopped fighting England and started fighting each other. Michael Collins was killed by some other Irishmen, on the other side of the treaty issue.
“But Conn cared no more about that. He was over here. He arrived late in 1921 and joined the cops. The police strike was only two years before, and the force was pretty much starting over, and so was Conn. It was a match made in heaven. He was a charmer. I’ve seen pictures of him. Tall, strong looking, black curlyhair, bright eyes, with a kind of go-to-hell look in them, you know? Like Errol Flynn. In fact much like myself.”
Grace smiled.
“And one of his missions in life was to score every woman in Boston. Sort of a fuck-you to Hadley, I suppose.”
“I thought Irishmen were sexually inhibited,” Grace said. “Hung up on their mother and the Blessed Virgin, whom they quite often confused with
“Well, it’s neither one for me, Mick. I’m out of it.”
“Then go away, Conn. Go far. South Africa, Australia, America. It won’t help us if they catch you. It’ll help us if you disappear.”
“I don’t want to stay here,” Conn said.
“Good. A lot of our boys don’t like quitters much.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Conn said.
“Nothing matters, does it?”
“No.”
“I’ll arrange it,” Collins said. “Where do you want to go?”
Conn had never thought of where to go. He’d only thought of leaving.
“The United States,” Conn said. “I’ll go to Boston.”
Collins grinned suddenly.
“Fancy that,” Collins said.
1994
Voice-Over
“Y ou walk along the River Liffey,” I said, “which cuts right through the middle of the city, and there’s a bunch of barrel-arched bridges. And the arches reflect in the water and make a circle. You walk along the river, past Guinness Brewery, and veer up past Heuston Station and go up a hill and there’s Kilmainham Jail, this—Christ, I don’t know—Stonehengean pile of granite block, right in the middle of a bunch of neat small houses with neat small yards. So I went in. You can’t go except on a tour, so I tagged along. And, Jesus … abandon all hope ye who enter here.”
Grace waited, her gaze resting on me, calm and guarded so that it felt heavy. Though it seemed a little less guarded to me than it had. Always when she listened, she gave you her full attention and you felt as if you were saying things of absolute grace and significance.
“It felt like you’d think a prison would feel: ponderous, unyielding, and hopeless. There was a light rain the day I was there. Actually there’s a light rain most days in Dublin, I think. And the rain didn’t make it more cheerful, but even in the present day, you know, now, when I was walking around in there, and now it’s just a museum, I felt”—I looked for the right word—“like despair. I felt buried underneath this atrocious heap. It wasn’t a cold day, maybe fifty-five, sixty, but inside the walls it was freezing. You knew what it musthave been like to be caught in the gears of the British Empire. They were entirely indifferent, and they must have ground exceeding fucking fine.”
“And yet he escaped,” Grace said.
“He was an indomitable bastard,” I said.
The thick snow had begun to pile up along the bottom of the window, its whiteness making the night storm blacker.
“Except that it sounds like he didn’t care about anything.”
“There’s freedom in that.”
“There’s freedom and there’s freedom,” Grace said.
“True.”
She looked at me again for a time.
“There’s indomitable and indomitable too,” she said.
“What the hell does that mean?” I said.
Grace shrugged.
“We’ll see.”
I waited but she didn’t say anything else. Lightning startled outside the window, and thunder rolled in after it. The space between the light and the sound had narrowed as the heart of the storm moved toward us.
“A little after Conn left Ireland, they had stopped fighting England and started fighting each other. Michael Collins was killed by some other Irishmen, on the other side of the treaty issue.
“But Conn cared no more about that. He was over here. He arrived late in 1921 and joined the cops. The police strike was only two years before, and the force was pretty much starting over, and so was Conn. It was a match made in heaven. He was a charmer. I’ve seen pictures of him. Tall, strong looking, black curlyhair, bright eyes, with a kind of go-to-hell look in them, you know? Like Errol Flynn. In fact much like myself.”
Grace smiled.
“And one of his missions in life was to score every woman in Boston. Sort of a fuck-you to Hadley, I suppose.”
“I thought Irishmen were sexually inhibited,” Grace said. “Hung up on their mother and the Blessed Virgin, whom they quite often confused with
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