caught Joe’s smiling eyes. He took a breath and began the first argument he’d been rehearsing in his head.
‘Joe–the Thatcher woman over–she’s not for turning. She says it again and again.’
‘I know.’
‘When Sands died, all she said was he’d had a choice and the bomb victims didn’t. That was the extent of her regret.’
‘You sound like you agree with her.’
‘I don’t, but—’
‘There are no buts. You’re either for us or against us. And more are for us all the time. And that’s what counts.’ Joe leaned forward, his eyes shining. ‘There’s a sea-change. I can feel it. Even in here, I can sense it.’
‘I feel nothing.’
‘How can you say that, when Sands won the Fermanagh seat?’
‘I voted for him. But I’d rather him alive than dead.’ Fergus paused. He put his right palm on the glass and leaned forward. ‘Joe, it’s a brave thing you’re doing.’
‘Thanks.’
‘But a foolish thing. Vain. I know in my bones. It will get you nowhere, only into a coffin. What use is that?’
‘A coffin’s a mighty statement, Ferg.’
‘It’s the end, Joe. It’s worms and earth and generations coming after you that have never even heard of you.’
‘They’ll hear of Bobby. For years and years they’ll remember him. Wasn’t there a hundred thousand people at his funeral?’
‘And fighting on the streets, Joe. Petrol bombs. More killings.’
Joe waved a hand as if this had nothing to do with it. ‘I tell you who will remember him most.’
‘Who?’
‘Those who killed him, as surely as if they put a gun to his head. They’ll remember him for ever. He’ll be like a ghost, haunting them.’
Fergus sighed. The argument was going nowhere. It was as if Joe had an incubus in him doing the talking. It wasn’t his old, familiar brother on the other side of the glass, but somebody new, with new associations, new purposes. Fergus shifted in his seat, searching for another argument, one that would bring Joe closer. Then he had it.
‘Joe–remember John Lennon.’
‘Who could forget him? The nearest thing to Christ in our time.’
Fergus sang
sotto voce:
‘
In the middle of the night. In the middle of the night I call your name. Oh Yoko!
Your favourite, Joey.’
Joey smiled. ‘
My love will turn you on
,’ he said. He flicked his eyebrows suggestively and did an hour-glass shape with his hands.
Fergus smiled. ‘It’s about love and life, Joey. Not coffins, or martyrdom. And what about the refraction? The physics. And your Newry girl waiting on you.’
‘Cindy? She’s history.’
‘History?’
‘She went off with another fellow. I told her to forget me and she did.’
‘There are plenty more girls. Stacks of them.’
Mam leaned forward. ‘The girls were always mad for you, Joe. I remember Sandra Gannon mooning round our back door. And you only thirteen.’
Joey splayed his fingers. ‘Spare me.’
They sat in silence.
After a moment Fergus took a slice of Mam’s tart and held it up on the palm of his hand. Mimicking Joe’s earlier gesture, he blessed it. ‘
Take this and eat it
,’ he said.
‘Fergus!’ Mam said.
‘
This is my body
,’ said Fergus, ignoring her. He shook his head and touched the crust. ‘I don’t think so. It’s what it looks like. God-honest plain tart. And delicious with it.’
Joe beamed a smile. ‘You’re the same old clown, Ferg.’
Fergus took a bite. ‘It’s fantastic, Joe. Superb.’
He ate the slice up.
‘You should try it.’ He held out another slice. Joe shook his head. ‘Please, Joe. Come off this weary strike.’
Joe shook his head. ‘It’s day two now. Every day gets easier, so they say.’
‘Easier for you. Harder for us. Right, Mam?’
‘That’s right. Listen to him, Joe. You’ve us all paralysed with fright.’
‘You mustn’t worry about me. I’m doing what I want to do. Can’t you respect that, either of you?’
‘Your life’s your own to ruin. But what about Fergus’s? You’re
‘Joe–the Thatcher woman over–she’s not for turning. She says it again and again.’
‘I know.’
‘When Sands died, all she said was he’d had a choice and the bomb victims didn’t. That was the extent of her regret.’
‘You sound like you agree with her.’
‘I don’t, but—’
‘There are no buts. You’re either for us or against us. And more are for us all the time. And that’s what counts.’ Joe leaned forward, his eyes shining. ‘There’s a sea-change. I can feel it. Even in here, I can sense it.’
‘I feel nothing.’
‘How can you say that, when Sands won the Fermanagh seat?’
‘I voted for him. But I’d rather him alive than dead.’ Fergus paused. He put his right palm on the glass and leaned forward. ‘Joe, it’s a brave thing you’re doing.’
‘Thanks.’
‘But a foolish thing. Vain. I know in my bones. It will get you nowhere, only into a coffin. What use is that?’
‘A coffin’s a mighty statement, Ferg.’
‘It’s the end, Joe. It’s worms and earth and generations coming after you that have never even heard of you.’
‘They’ll hear of Bobby. For years and years they’ll remember him. Wasn’t there a hundred thousand people at his funeral?’
‘And fighting on the streets, Joe. Petrol bombs. More killings.’
Joe waved a hand as if this had nothing to do with it. ‘I tell you who will remember him most.’
‘Who?’
‘Those who killed him, as surely as if they put a gun to his head. They’ll remember him for ever. He’ll be like a ghost, haunting them.’
Fergus sighed. The argument was going nowhere. It was as if Joe had an incubus in him doing the talking. It wasn’t his old, familiar brother on the other side of the glass, but somebody new, with new associations, new purposes. Fergus shifted in his seat, searching for another argument, one that would bring Joe closer. Then he had it.
‘Joe–remember John Lennon.’
‘Who could forget him? The nearest thing to Christ in our time.’
Fergus sang
sotto voce:
‘
In the middle of the night. In the middle of the night I call your name. Oh Yoko!
Your favourite, Joey.’
Joey smiled. ‘
My love will turn you on
,’ he said. He flicked his eyebrows suggestively and did an hour-glass shape with his hands.
Fergus smiled. ‘It’s about love and life, Joey. Not coffins, or martyrdom. And what about the refraction? The physics. And your Newry girl waiting on you.’
‘Cindy? She’s history.’
‘History?’
‘She went off with another fellow. I told her to forget me and she did.’
‘There are plenty more girls. Stacks of them.’
Mam leaned forward. ‘The girls were always mad for you, Joe. I remember Sandra Gannon mooning round our back door. And you only thirteen.’
Joey splayed his fingers. ‘Spare me.’
They sat in silence.
After a moment Fergus took a slice of Mam’s tart and held it up on the palm of his hand. Mimicking Joe’s earlier gesture, he blessed it. ‘
Take this and eat it
,’ he said.
‘Fergus!’ Mam said.
‘
This is my body
,’ said Fergus, ignoring her. He shook his head and touched the crust. ‘I don’t think so. It’s what it looks like. God-honest plain tart. And delicious with it.’
Joe beamed a smile. ‘You’re the same old clown, Ferg.’
Fergus took a bite. ‘It’s fantastic, Joe. Superb.’
He ate the slice up.
‘You should try it.’ He held out another slice. Joe shook his head. ‘Please, Joe. Come off this weary strike.’
Joe shook his head. ‘It’s day two now. Every day gets easier, so they say.’
‘Easier for you. Harder for us. Right, Mam?’
‘That’s right. Listen to him, Joe. You’ve us all paralysed with fright.’
‘You mustn’t worry about me. I’m doing what I want to do. Can’t you respect that, either of you?’
‘Your life’s your own to ruin. But what about Fergus’s? You’re
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