Abhalie

They were back in Cork within an hour. It seemed bustling and urban, as it always did when he arrived back from the countryside. He looked at the faces of the people he passed in the street, wondering how they would react if they knew he was a murderer.
All he saw was the same listless, apathetic looks that he saw at this time of day and year.
That night, bizarre alcheringa, in which the cunt was still at large in Cork and Seamus had decided to put posters of the him all over Cork, informing people what a vile, monstrous scumbag he was. He ended up postering a wooden hut in the American west, like in Jim Jarmusch’s excellent Dead Man. When he took one of the posters out of his bag, it was blank, but when he put it up on a window the wilderness behind it made the cunts face appear, gradually, like on the Turin Shroud.
What did this mean?
He concluded that, though the police would have left the cunt escape back to England, there was a higher power in the universe that would punish him. Was it Gaia? The rustic setting of the dream allowed for this possibility. Were Sinn Fein therefore agents of Gaia? This was surely stretching it a bit, but the idea was beguiling all the same.
More importantly, it seemed to Seamus at the time, was where did this dream come from? Some Cork in a parallel universe where the cunt was still alive and the only thing Seamus could so to stop him from going round terrorising people was put up a few forlorn, photocopied posters? Seamus was glad he didn’t live in such a brutal, aleatory, unjust world.
Anyway, he couldn’t lie there and try to interpret his dreams forever. He had to go and annoy people until they signed their names on a sheet of paper to give the country’s legislators the impression that they wanted him to be elected.
The next morning he got to Caomhin’s office a little late, finding him at the door pointing at his watch.
“Yeah, sorry about that, I had a few weird dreams last night. Didn’t sleep very well as a result.”
“That’s Okay. I was starting to think you weren’t going to show up at all.”
He’d like to have pretended he’d played the prodigal son/Prince Hal trick, but was a little too tired to indulge in such a pretence. As they walked across the river into their Northside heartland, Caomhin told Seamus that they were only going to houses where they’d be sure of support. At first, Caomhin would introduce him, and he’d shake their hands, gradually, he’d let Seamus do all the work himself. They finally reached the area where Caomhin’s documents led as ineluctably as a Lonely Planet map.
It was Sinn Fein heartland alright, this patch of gloomy estates and incontinent puppies. While there were none of the flamboyant murals that you might find north of the border, the three letters that struck fear into almost every Englishmen were painted on walls everywhere.
They came to the first house, in the middle of a council estate, where the lawn remained uncut and replete with dandelions and daisies. Seamus would have loved to think that it was like this because the occupants shared his view that nature was not to be interfered with. But he knew they couldn’t afford to even rent a lawnmower, or even know someone rich enough to borrow one off. It was hard getting out of these places, even in today’s booming economy, the odds were stacked against people who looked and talked like they came from places like this. Perhaps that was why they got such a welcome, these representatives of the Ourselves alone party. It was always the people who were most fucked over by their country that loved it the most. Seamus also couldn’t help but notice all the litter that piled up in the area. On a more alert, less nervous day, he would have tried to calculate the value of all this waste, think of how much better their lives would be if the corporations were forced to pay for their own waste. When Caomhin introduced Seamus as their candidate in the election, the middle-aged, red-faced woman on the other side of the threshold invited them both in, Caomhin said they’d love to but they’d have to be pressing on. Depressingly, the talk was more about the minutiae of their daily lives, the medical cards and the rent allowance, rather than the historic struggle in his island. Disturbingly, the subject of immigration also came up. Seamus drifted off into one of reveries, only to be brought back to the land of the living, if you could call this life, by Caomhin asking him, “You’ll sort this out when you’re elected, wontcha Seamus” periodically, to which he’d nod, feigning enthusiasm as best as he could. When they’d shaken her pink, wrinkly hand and left and was sure she was out of earshot, Caomhin delivered the following lecture:
“Have you forgotten everything I’ve told you? Agree with everything they say. Nod your head. Make eye contact. And show some enthusiasm, Goddammit.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry, it’s just...”
“Just what?”
“Just that whether I get elected or not, these people are still going to be eking out a living in these estates, just scraping by. And there’s fuck all we can do to make it better.”
“Listen”, Caomhin responded, “This isn’t the time for fucking idealism. We give these people hope. Hope that their compatriots in the North will be free. Hope that this society will be more equitable. And you’re the face that represents that hope. It’s Your fucking face that’s going to be up on those posters, come election time. So look fucking alive. We’ve invested a lot of effort in getting you to this stage, and you’re not going to fuck up now.”
Seamus apologised, deciding not even to think about what might be on the other side of that ultimatum, and said he was going to look more lively. To his good fortune, the person at the next door had concerns that were closer to his heart. Though the flat was equally indigent, Seamus noticed some signs that it’s owner was someone who chose a life of poverty rather than been forced into it. He heard a tape of some scratchy Indian music playing in the background, one that had probably been copied from the music library. He saw a copy of the Guardian on the table, a newspaper Seamus used to read frequently before he became so anti-English. And perhaps, that was a scent of marijuana smoke in the air, from a joint hastily put out in case the people knocking at the door were police, or people from the social welfare. The face of the person who’d just wasted some good gear was a little older than Seamus, late 30’s, early 40’s perhaps, but the lines of experience and adventure were etched on his face and his long, curly greying hair made Seamus wonder what he could possibly be doing voting for Sinn Fein. As he signed the paper that Caomhin handed him, Seamus got his answer.
“You know, I’m probably going to vote for the greens this time. I might still give you my first preference, depending on which way the opinion polls go.”
“I don’t know, Jim, we’ve got a pretty promising candidate this time”, replied Caomhin, looking over at a slightly embarrassed Seamus.
“Yeah, you’re going to get more votes, but only ‘cause you’ve sold out. I don’t think you’re a socialist party any more, not since that PFI thing in the North. I think you’re quite happy to go along with this Celtic Tiger thing.” He grimaced slightly, then asked, “Aren’t you sickened by what’s happening to us, working round the clock to pay for our SUVs and our houses built on rezoned fields and forests?”
Caomhin said they’d been through all of this before, and got ready to move on, but Seamus was intrigued. Seamus made a tentative move to engage him in conversation, while still trying to sound like the politico that Caomhin was training him to be.
“We’re sensitive to your concerns, Jim. In our manifesto, we call for better public transport, and more high-density urban housing. We’re in favour of more recycling, and we’re opposed to incineration.” Caomhin watched, eager to see where this was going.
“What about legalising dope?”
“Well, y’know, Jim, that’s a pretty contentious issue still, especially among the conservative Catholics who we get a lot of our votes from.”
Jim nodded, in a way that suggested he’d heard this argument before. “Ah yes, Catholicism. Still with us. When I was younger, it was my dream that when we got a United Ireland we could go back to worshipping the old Celtic gods. As I grow older, I’m realising how unrealistic that is. But I still live in hope. It’s basically Christianity that’s caused all this country’s problems. Come round some time, youngfella, when you’ve got all the ink you need, I’ll explain it all to you.”
Seamus shook his hand, said he might take him up on that, as Caomhin jerked his head in the opposite direction.
As they moved on towards the next house, Seamus remarked that Jim seemed like an interesting character.
“Ah, he’s only an old hippy”, replied Caomhin.
“What’s wrong with hippies?”
“Well, nothing, really, except that their heads are up in the air, in a constant haze of dope smoke. In this party we’re concerned with trying to make real people’s lives better, getting them freedom in the North, better health care, things that really concern them.”
“I think quite a lot of people would be interested in drug legalisation as well”, Seamus averred.
“Well, yeah”, said Caomhin, who was sympathetic in his heart, “but we have to be pragmatic”
“Why?”, asked Seamus, to Caomhin’s surprise.
“Because that’s the only way we’re going to achieve anything”, he said, sounding a little shocked.
“Where did all this pragmatism come from? Would you say Wolfe Tone and Robert Emmet and Pearse and Connoly were pragmatists?”
“I’d say O’Connell and Parnell and Collins and De Valera were”, he replied, worried about where this might be going.
“And what did they get us? Votes for rich Catholics, the promise of home rule, and the most reactionary state in Europe.”
“Look”, said Caomhin, showing an angry side of himself that Seamus had never seen before and which worried him a bit, “You owe us. We risked a lot to kill those two fucking English thugs for you. In return, you’re going to get elected. And to do that you’re going to stay on-message.” With those last two words, Caomhin realised what he was saying and that he could as well have been talking to an earlier version of himself, and his tone mellowed. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound threatening. I shouldn’t talk to you like this. It’s just... this movement is what I’ve devoted my life to. I miss the idealism we used to have as well, but the world changes, people grow older... just get fucking elected for me... Please?” With those last words he put his arm paternalistically round Seamus. Seamus too mellowed in tone and agreed to keep his idealism on hold. But he made a promise to himself to visit Jim at some point in the future.