In case you forget
There was death at the start, just as there was death at the end. Though whether a fleeting wisp of this crossed the Irishman's dreams and shook him awake on this least likely of mornings, he would never know. All he knew that when he opened his eyes that the world was somehow changed.
As always the first thought that come to his head was the quick, searing hope that the last eight weeks had never happened. But as he saw the pale morning light filtering through her curtains, reality hit him with an icy certainty-Aileen was dead, and it was his entire fault.
He looked at his alarm clock; 7:00 shone angrily at him in red, making him turn back to the wall. It beeped impatiently at him, and it was that, not the cold, which finally gave him the thought to give up his worthy fight and struggle out of bed.
He breathed in the faint lingering smell of musty perfume. Photos of horses stared down at him from the walls. He was in his wife's room. A coat was slung over the chair where Aileen had left that morning of the accident. The hairbrush of the table was coated in a fine layer of dust, a few blonde hairs clinging to the bristles. Nothing in the room had changed for four weeks, not since the day Aileen Flaherty died. At the sight of the familiar things, his stomach twisted.
He glanced at the photo of him and her. Pat and Allie. Patrick Harper and Aileen Flaherty. Sergeant Major and Horse whisperer. Mr and Mrs Patrick Harper. Husband and wife. There were tears in his eyes, which he reckoned was from the dust in the room.
He got dressed. His kharki and olive uniform was oddly loose after the tight dress uniform of the funeral. Harper gazed in the mirror. Everything was to military precision. His blue eyes had not lost the desperation and soulessness that the dark alleyways of Dublin required. He picked up his rifle and placed a finger in a notch of unpolished metal. It was this small dip, in the butt of the gun, which gave Patrick Harper the small amount of Gaelic luck, which soldiers said was invincible.
He just wanted to get out of this room. It was too much to bear; knowing that Allie was never coming back.
A small silver locket was worn around his throat. It had saved the sergeant-major's life once, a stranger had fired across the street and the tall Irishman shivered at the thought of what would have happened if the precious metal heart had not been attached around his neck. A small photo of his soul mate was in it, and he was suddenly angry that he had it. He made a mental note to take it off later.
The week that had followed Aillie's death had been a blur, and for him it was probably best that it had remained like that. For days he had been almost catatonic. The Latin words had washed meaninglessly over him and he read, dry-eyed, over and over her name and date of birth and death. And still tears would not come. He wanted to cry, he really did, but something was stopping him. He could only think of the blood on her neck which looked like a necklace of broken rubies and that he had noticed irrelevantly that red didn't not suit her and he made a note not to buy her a ruby necklace for her birthday. He had felt the sting of tears as he knelt beside her and held the silent, still warm body that he most loved in the world and had cried out inside at his own brutality.
Her warmth would fade just as the memory of her would fade and he would forget the character that gave this exquisite creature life and love. She would exist now only in his memory and of those of who had known her best. She had given herself to him and never doubted the decision, unlike him. And now he had killed her. It should have been himself who had been caught in the blast, he who died, not this and his grief was formless, incoherent, a pain of betrayed love.
The war-lord had not even noticed the girl in Harper's arms.
'Congratulations. You did it.'
He had done it so that he could free Ireland and St Patrick. He had done it so that innocent blood had been spilt on the pavement. He had done it so that he could feel a pain, so great, that he would never feel it again.
They had then given him thirty silver coins, for his service to Ireland. Five pounds fifty in change, exactly. Every one of those thirty pieces of silver to him was blood money. ...
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The war-lord had not even noticed the girl in Harper's arms.
'Congratulations. You did it.'
He had done it so that he could free Ireland and St Patrick. He had done it so that innocent blood had been spilt on the pavement. He had done it so that he could feel a pain, so great, that he would never feel it again.
They had then given him thirty silver coins, for his service to Ireland. Five pounds fifty in change, exactly. Every one of those thirty pieces of silver to him was blood money. Blood that was still fresh on his hands and would remain so for evermore.
Sometimes he would wake up and feel happy and then he would see the blank postcard on the desk, still franked, but it meant that someone close had died for his or her country. Then the happiness went. Sometimes he would see her in the street and his heart leaped. Then the knowledge that she no longer existed would sink in.
It was the training day of the recruits that had brought about the change. The sergeant- major had stabbed his bayonet repeatedly into the belly of the straw bales dressed in the uniform of English paratroopers. He had lost his humanity then, humanity that Allie had unearthed during their married years. He had felt the tears coming to his eyes. Tears of guilt and anger, no longer held back by the crushing weight of guilt, flooded over his cheeks. It unlocked a sluice gate inside of him and for two weeks he wept and let out all the pain, that as a soldier he was trained to ignore. He could have drowned himself in the salty water that was not rain. But in the calm aftermath, Harper took stock and decided to survive. In that moment he had became an adult. You could see it when he didn't know he was being watched, and from his eyes glittered a sad and old Gaelic magic, as old as time itself.
Patrick Harper opened his diary. It was April the 12th, six weeks since the bomb had been secretly planted and with it buried the bloodied remains of his spouse's body. That was strange. April was already a dozen days old, Allie's death already eight weeks in the past. He had marked with a pencil March the twenty-fourth to the first of April because that was when he had expected his first child. He remembered how the bloom of pregnancy was in her and how beautiful she had looked in those heavy months. He looked at the chair, in which she had sat and told him about his child and he had held her, speechless. His child. He had been so happy then. There was no joy now.
The rifle was thrown down because he did not want to hold a killing machine any longer. As a top marksman he had spilt enough innocent blood. Much more than he could count.
He checked his wallet. A library card that expired today, but he had not the heart or the energy to renew it. Aillie had encouraged him to read, to take his mind off what he knew she knew that he had done the whole day. She had kept silent on the whole issue, but he knew that she didn't approve. He had read just to keep her happy, but in the week before the accident he had taken to reading her the story of Macbeth. The man who had killed to get what he had wanted, lost his humanity, and could not back out. In the end it had destroyed him. He remembered that Lady Macbeth went mad from the blood on her hands. That there was a darkness in her that she could not escape. Perhaps there was a darkness in him too.
There was a shopping list in there too, which she had typed up so that he could go and get something to eat. She had said that she was coming in a bit later as she had to check up on the horses at the stables. She had never come home. He had ripped it into three pieces, because he thought it not worthy of her. He had saved a piece, the only bit where her actual handwriting was shown and he pulled it out now and marvelled that he had never actually seen her own scruffy hand until after her death. His hand carefully placed the relic back into his wallet along with the library card, the pocket diary and the thirty silver coins that he had yet to summon the courage to either ignore or destroy them.
The cuckoo clock on the wall opened its tiny wooden doors and the cheerful little bird popped out announcing that it was half past seven. It was always late and Harper automatically checked the time on his own analogue watch, without realising that it had already stopped working on the twenty-second of March. The day his world stood still. Harper reckoned it was the blast that had destroyed the mainspring. But he had taken it along to the fixing shop anyway and had said that it had fallen off the table onto the floor. No one noticed the lie, nor the pricking of tears that covered up the real truth. He had wanted to tell them the truth, to shrug off the awful weight of his conscience, but there was a lady behind him. They could not fix it and told him that it was a lost cause and also asked him if he was sure if it had fallen onto the table as surely a greater force had broken it. He answered curtly that he had an extremely hard floor and the case was left as that, as no one dared cross the tall man with dried blood on his shirt.
It was getting light and he knew that he should have left the house by this time. It was a dangerous time to be out on the streets and alleyways at dawn. The bright light, fierce and orange, made it hard to see the camouflaged barrels of guns and the dark green uniforms of British riflemen. He checked his pockets for any spare ammunition, bandages and anything else that might come in useful if a vengeful enemy was on the prowl. Emptied out onto the table, the pockets produced a piece of string, a couple of Irish punts, a small shiny paperclip, a chewed pencil and a piece of paper which a sketchy map had been scrawled on. He screwed the map up and threw it away. The other objects, he decided, were not of any use so he left them on the dresser next to the blank postcard. Harper took the thin rectangular card in his hand. The Irishman took one look at it and stashed it irritably into his pocket, so that he would not have to go through the torture of seeing it every morning. He would burn it later.
A bunch of keys, all shapes and sizes, hung by the bedroom door. He plucked them from their resting-place, wanting to keep his hands and mind busy so as not to dwell on the bitterness inside of him. There was the front door key, the back door key, and the key to the small battered car of his that was collecting dust in the garage. There was also a group of strange shaped keys, their handle diamond shaped instead of the regular circular ones. They called up a distant memory in him, the faded pictures in his mind kept in rhythm with the metallic jangle of their knocking together. He still could not think what they were for, and so not wanting to annoy himself any longer he freed them from the main group and put those in his pocket too. Subconsciously he knew that he was taking them with him because they were connected with Allie's mortise lock, which she had put absolute faith in. It did not matter that their house had been burgled three times in a row, she still insisted that the rusty metal clump remain on the door. They had had their first argument over that lock and Allie had thrown a book at him, cutting his cheek and leaving a small scar. Harper had been the stock of jokes from the soldiers for a few weeks after that. He did not care. He was lucky. He had Allie. They were in it together.
The mirror, from which he still had not moved, glittered in the light. It made his uniform look grey. His eyes were grey. His heart was grey. A shadow of his former personality. He was glad Aileen could not of seen him now. She wouldn't have even recognised him.
******
Blood pounded in his head, his breath rasped in his chest. The rifle on his back thumped on his spine, the metal foresight dug into his skin. It slipped into the hinge of his elbow with the rhythm of his feet, which slipped on the slushy cat-ice. Harper and Liam Kelly dived into the relative shelter of a brick corner. Bullets ricocheted, taking pieces of brick and dust off the wall. Hot air seared past their pulsing cheeks, tiny metal balls, so destructive, slapped into the pavement, inches away from their feet.
The sergeant and the private loaded quickly, knowing every second the procedure took, minutes were stole from their lives. Instinct took over, the movements refined by practice and desperation. There was no time to think about what happened next; to the best fighters, it came as a second nature. Harper touched the familiar small island of unpolished metal, something to fight against the curse of bad luck. Kelly saw his friend feel the small dip in the rifle's butt, and he knew that the sergeant's keen mind was already at work. He had bruised his shoulder and had twisted his ankle on the sloppy slush, but that was all. He could see the pink in the snow, the pigment caused by the fresh blood of his comrade's. Worst of all was the sound of their screams, a sound that he had heard many times before, but now it seemed to have been magnified a hundredfold.
Now Harper turned and worked his way around the wall again, giving space to the flickering bullets, Kelly supposed so as not to drive them nearer to the young fresh teenagers, who hid round the opposite corner. He stopped and looked at Kelly and then called out to him.
'Stay there Liam. Don't move.'
Then without any sign of fear, he walked towards the men in the green uniforms of British Riflemen. Kelly could see his lips moving, but he could not hear the words over the sharp, snapping retort of the rifles. Perhaps he was praying, or maybe not at all. He did not stop until he was right up to them and only then did they seem to register his tall looming presence. Liam saw him reach for a screaming horse's bridle and grip them hard. With a firm hand, ignoring the slapping bullets by his face, he pulled the bay mare off her hind legs. Then he slapped her hard on the rump and sent her away.
Thus cheated of their game, the Rifleman turned their attention to the tall Irishman.
The picture of what followed stayed with every man and women on the street till the day they died. And never would they know for sure what had happened. The platoon of green-jackets wheeled to their left, sending beautiful, crystal shards of snow and slush up into the air. For a moment they appeared not to know what to make of the man who stood undaunted before them.
What was certain was that Harper could have walked away. Two or three steps to the side could have denied the British the glory of another Irish death. The Riflemen, so Kelly believed, would simply have let him be gone, where others had led. Instead, Harper stepped towards them.
The moment he moved, as he must have foreseen, the Rifles snapped into action. And even now, Harper could have stepped away. He knew where the guns would fire, what was happening inside the mechanics of them and why, before it even knew itself. Yet on this day, he neither dodged nor ducked nor even flinched, and, once more, walked forward.
Harper could hear Aileens voice calling out his name.
'I'm here.' He whispered 'What is it?'
The group of green jackets raised the barrels, the light reflecting off the metal onto the snow. They licked their lips and they lined up the foresight onto the lone solitary target. At this distance they could not miss.
The settling snow was still too thick for Kelly to be sure, but he thought he saw Harper open his hands a touch and, in a movement so flowing that he may of imagined it, showed the British his open palms. It was as though the Irishman was offering something and perhaps it was what he had always wanted to offer the gift of friendship and peace. But although he would never from this day forth mention the thought to anyone, Kelly had a vivid impression that it was otherwise and that Harper, without fear or despair, was somehow offering himself.
'I'm here. What is it?'
And then he knew.
*******
They buried Patrick Harper by Aileen. The intention was to keep the funeral small and for family only, but on the day about one hundred people came, touched by the actions of the tall, handsome soldier in the white-sugared street. There was room for only a few in the small but ornate Catholic Church, so they threw open the doors and people watched from outside where cherry blossom danced and cartwheeled in the small breeze.
He was found, lying there, a tiny smile on his face, motionless on the snowy carpet. It eyes were loosely shut as if he were sleeping peacefully. They typed this up on the army records of births and deaths. But there was one thing which they had not mentioned.
Tucked away, from all sight were two claddagh rings. One gold and one silver. The Irish icon of friendship, love and loyalty. They were wrapped in a torn piece of paper, one side a list of food items and on the other side, scrawled blue ink pen which was in the handwriting of Aileen Harper. On the paper, all she'd written, inscribed in the ancient language of the Irish Celts were the small italic letters which made up four short words. In case you forget.
