The Trojan boy

'How did they find me?'

'They were out drinking. What else! They were over in Clancy's when they heard that the Brits were on the warpath. Someone had seen two of ours in Tannahill Road, so Con, that's my man, said that he knew where they would be making for. He was brought up round there, see. He would go lend a hand. He and his brother drove through the backstreets in Michael's car and, unfortunately, they found you.'

'That was brave of them.'

'Brave!' scoffed the woman. 'It was bloody stupid. It was Guinness not bravery!'

'You're not for a free Ireland then?'

'Free Ireland! Now what would I be doing with high-sounding phrases like that? I want a decent house, I want a job for Con, I want a future for my kids. These are the things I'm interested in.'

'And don't you think that you'd get these things in a free Ireland?' asked O'Neill.

'Governments are governments. They are politicians and they don't give a stuff for the likes of me, whoever they are.'

'If you feel that way why didn't you turn me in?'

The woman threw back her head and laughed bitterly. ‘Turn you in?' she exclaimed. 'Me, a Catholic woman living in the Doonan, turn in a Provo? Do you think I'm mental or something?'

O'Neill conceded the point silently and tried to raise himself on to his good elbow. He said, 'If you will just give me a hand, I'll be getting out your road.'

Political considerations became personal ones. The woman said, 'You will do no such thing. Besides, Con and Michael have gone to get medical help for you.' She saw the look of alarm appear in O'Neill's eyes and added, 'Don't worry. They’re daft but not that daft. There's a woman, used to be a district nurse, her brother's in the Maze, she's quite safe.'

Thanks,' said O'Neill.

The woman sat down on the edge of the bed, her face showing the signs of strain that the last few hours had brought. 'Would you like a cup of tea?' she asked quietly.

‘I’d love one.'

The woman's husband returned, accompanied by his brother and a small woman in her fifties. In her hand she carried a battered leather case.

'Connor McShane,' announced the man holding out his hand but taking it back in embarrassment as he realised that O'Neill was in no position to accept it. O'Neill nodded.

'And this is my brother Pat.' The smaller of the two men grinned and O'Neill nodded again.

'And this here is Mrs O'Hara. She's going to have a look at your arm.'

'I'm obliged to you,' said O'Neill.

The woman did not smile but put down her case and took off her coat while the rest retreated to a respectful distance. She gingerly started to cut away the blood-caked sleeve of O'Neill's shirt with scissors that seemed none too sharp judging by the difficulty she was having. O'Neill watched what she was doing impassively but was afraid inside for he feared that the bullet had shattered the bone.

'I'll need some water,' said the woman. 'His shirt is stuck to the wound. I'll have to bathe it free.' McShane's wife left the room and returned a few minutes later with some warm water in a bowl.

This will hurt,’ said the nurse as she began teasing the cloth away from O'Neill's arm. A sharp intake of breath from O'Neill verified it. He was watching the faces of the onlookers when his shirt was finally freed from the wound and saw them wince. He looked down to see the smashed pulp of tissue and bone that had been his left elbow and felt despair threaten.

The nurse's shoulders sagged. 'You need a hospital,’ she said.

'No hospital,’ replied O'Neill.

There's nothing I can do for you.'

That's what they always say in the pictures before they go and patch it up anyway,’ said O'Neill with a desperate attempt at humour.

The nurse's face showed both cynicism and pity. 'Not in your case,’ she said. 'Your arm will have to come off.'

The fact that O'Neill, only a few short hours before, had been preparing to take his own life did not seem to matter now as he was stricken by the thought of mutilation. In his mind he could see the empty sleeve, turned up and secured with a safety pin which would rust with the passing of time. He could see the little stump at bedtime, flapping like the useless wing of a penguin.

The hell was all inside O'Neill's head. Outwardly he was calm but he saw that McShane was construing this as bravery. The man's face was bursting with emotion as he turned to his brother and said, 'See! What did I tell you? With one arm they are still more than a match for these Brit bastards.'

McShane came over to O'Neill's bedside and knelt like an adoring shepherd. 'I tell you, mister,’ he said to O'Neill. 'When I saw you in that doorway preparing to take on the Brits single-handed, I've never felt so proud in my life.'

O'Neill looked at the man. Should he tell him the truth? Tell him that he had never had any intention of taking anyone on single-handed? Tell him that he had, in fact, been preparing to blow his own brains out because this was the real world and the real world was a long way from a John Wayne film? Tell him that the real struggle was for professionals not romantics, it was for men who calculated the odds with their brains not their hearts, men who figured out risk against return? O'Neill decided that there was no point in telling him anything. Let the myths flourish with the folk songs. After all, the British had television.

'Can you fix me up so I can move out of here?' O'Neill asked the nurse.

I’ll do what I can but it will just be a case of covering the whole mess up and strapping your arm to your body. We'll keep the tourniquet on but you'll have to remember to release it at intervals or gangrene will set in.’

The nurse cleaned up the wound before smothering it in white dressing. O'Neill was exhausted for it had been an agonising fifteen minutes, during which the woman seemed to have consistently sought out the most sensitive areas to linger over and probe and prod for bone fragments. Suppressed anger and frustration had welled up inside him like the rolling waves of a rising tide, till now he felt too weak to move.

'He will have to rest for a bit,’ said the nurse as she packed her case.

'We can take him where he wants to go later tonight,’ said McShane.

'No.’ said O'Neill weakly. 'You've done enough. Phone this number.' He recited a series of digits. Tell them that you have a parcel ready for collection, then tell them what they want to know.'

'You can rely on us,’ said McShane.

Two men came for O'Neill at nine in the evening. Any later and the risk of a spot check would have been greater, but at that time the traffic was just right. McShane and his brother stood on either side of the doorway like football fans seeing their team out of the tunnel. O'Neill stopped and thanked them both.

'Anything for a free Ireland,’ said McShane self-consciously.

'Don't go selling your story to a newspaper now, will you?' said one of the men who had come for O'Neill.

McShane laughed nervously for he had seen the veiled threat. O'Neill looked at McShane's wife and saw that she had not bothered to laugh. Thank you as well, missus,' he said.

'You're welcome,' said the woman as she turned away.

The dark blue Bedford van took off from the kerb and the driver said to O'Neill, 'We can't take you home. The Brits know you're missing. They turned your place over last night.'

'What about Kathleen?'

'Your sister told them that you were away for a few days but they turned it over anyway.'

'So where are we going?'

The Long House. They've got a doctor for you.'

'I want to see Kathleen.'

'It's difficult. The Brits are watching your house all the time.'

The army?'

The woman at number seventeen has a new lodger, works the boats.. you know the game.'

'At least it's predictable,' said O'Neill.

'We'll try to set up some kind of decoy so that your sister can slip away.'

‘Thanks.'