Читать книгу Two Souls - Henry McDonald - Страница 11

3

THE KINGDOM OF TROUT

28 April 1979

At first it seems no one in the house has remembered to take down the Christmas crib in the front window. However, on closer inspection, there are no multicoloured lights, sheep, shepherds, Mary, Joseph or baby Jesus in the manger. Instead, there is a naked, cockless, bearded Action Man waving out to the street from the inside of a clipped together Airfix stronghold that’s been smeared with splashes of brown paint. He is sitting on a white-framed Sindy doll bed, but the giant ‘S’ on the headboard has been painted over and replaced with ‘H’ in the same smudged scrawl as the streaks slashed over the plastic walls.

I look over to Padre Pio and expect him to burst his ballicks laughing at the sight of it, but instead he’s gone all scary. He has that same weird expression on his bake, the one normally deployed when his face starts flaming, his teeth crunch and grind, and just before some poor sap gets a dropkick to the balls or a butt in the head.

‘That’s there for his big brother – my cousin. He’s a fucking hero so he is!’ PP says, turning to me in what is threatening to be a sudden burst of angry-head. ‘Welcome to the Kingdom of Trout.’

We dander into the house without knocking or ringing the bell. There is a whiff of burning dope wafting from the kitchen.

‘I’m in here, dickhead, and close the big door behind yiz,’ somebody yells out.

Rex Mundi and I follow PP into the kitchen where a black-and-white portrait of a dark-haired woman in a polo neck is hanging up over the back wall; the word ‘Mord’ is written underneath it.

‘Who’s that oul boot?’ Padre Pio asks, pointing up at the austere face.

A man in his early twenties, with liver lips and petrol-flecked thumbs, is skinning up joints and fiddling with roaches. He stops his work and glares up at PP.

‘That, you ignorant fucker, is Comrade Ulrike Meinhof, who was murdered by the neo-fascist West German state. She was a political prisoner just like your cousin in H-Block, Long Kesh.’

Rex Mundi plants himself down on a chair facing our host. He is greedily casting his eyes over the strips of Lebanese Gold lying on tinfoil beside the yellow and red remains of breakfast slashed across a plain white plate. He zips down his biker jacket and reveals his latest T-shirt. It is Britain with a visored helmet on top of where Scotland should be, wielding a baton over a ragged, bear-shaped Ireland. The blood-red splats on white cotton are accompanied with the words, ‘Troops Out’.

‘Like yer T-shirt, mate,’ our host says sticking his hand across the kitchen table. ‘I’m Trout. Welcome to the kingdom.’

Rex Mundi nods and asks, ‘How did you get a name like that, matey?’

Trout ignores the question and returns the serve with one of his own. ‘So, have we a Brit in our midst? Are you one of them toy town Trots that MI5 occasionally sends over to spy on us by any chance?’

‘No, mate. He’s Belfast born and bred. He was burnt out by the Orangemen in ’72 and had ta get the boat ta England,’ I say, intervening on my cousin’s behalf after an elbow in the ribs from Padre Pio.

Returning to his meticulous rolling, carefully sprinkling little grains of dope through the tobacco along each and every one of the joints, Trout doesn’t even look up when he asks, ‘So why did the snouts target you and your family then?’

‘It was my brother they were after. He was on remand at the time in Crumlin Road jail. It was in the papers. They put a picket on our house one day and then that night they arrived with petrol bombs,’ Rex explains.

‘So … what happened next?’ Trout asks in half-belief.

‘Ruin’s dad is my uncle. He saved us. He got certain people to go over to the east and sort it out.’

Trout switches his glare to me. ‘His da? McManus? Are you fuckin’ takin’ the piss? Sure he ran away from the struggle in the same year. What did he do? Did he hit one of the Orangemen over the head with a typewriter?’

Padre Pio sniggers while my cheeks burn with anger and embarrassment. For a second I think my cousin is about to leap across the table and smack Trout one in the bake.

‘His dad brought over Big Joe McCann. You might have heard of him. With a couple of his lads and a .45 pistol, which one of them put to the head of one of the loyalists outside our door. The cowardly cunts just scattered after that,’ Rex Mundi says.

He and Trout stare each other out for a few moments.

‘Sorry comrade, no harm meant. I’m Trout. Didn’t catch your name,’ Trout says and extends his hand once more towards Rex Mundi.

‘Aidan McManus, but everyone calls me Rex Mundi,’ my cousin replies.

‘Let’s just say, Rex Mundi, that I have a mild disagreement over strategy with your uncle and his friends. His oul boy will still be talkin’ about class politics and workers unity when we’ve sent the last of the Orange Boers back on the boat over ta Scotland. Anyway, I really like your T-shirt,’ Trout continues, all the while looking slyly at me.

When he hands out a fat spliff, he offers it to me first – probably as a peace offering. We all take turns for a blast, fling our heads back on the chairs and talk shite about the impending final.

‘Hey Trout, what has Action Man ever done to you?’ Rex Mundi asks, after enjoying a few tokes.

Trout takes a deep draw from the bulging joint before speaking. ‘He’s there ta represent the struggle for political status in the jails. Not just for my brother but all the republican prisoners. The Provos as well as the ’Erps in H-Block, Long Kesh.’

Padre Pio reconnects with us after several long blasts of blow and adds, ‘His brother Mullet is doing a big stretch for trying ta kill a peeler.’

Trout suddenly stubs out the joint into the ashtray and tries to appear serious again. I see his dilated pupils and feel his hooded stare trained on me once more.

‘Ask yourselves what’s more important today – Cliftonville winning the cup or a chance for us ta highlight what the fuck is going on just a couple of miles up the motorway in the Kesh? Even if one TV camera picks us out singing “Smash H-Block” or shouting “Victory to the republican prisoners” we’ll have done something for them. Remember lads: their pain, our struggle. I put that thing in the window to remind the thousands passing by on their way ta Windsor Park that there is still a war on!’

He is getting agitated and I can see the family connection to Padre Pio, who is actually hooked on his every word. It’s one of the few times I have ever seen the fruit loop pay attention to anyone for more than five seconds.

‘Ask yourselves what’s really goin’ on here,’ Trout continues. ‘Ask yourselves this: we are a few weeks away from a British general election and it looks like those stupid English bastards are going ta vote for Maggie Thatcher. And when that happens, the boot is going ta go in ta the likes of us. And the likes of us over there where you live too,’ Trout says, pointing to Rex Mundi who is nodding away in total agreement.

‘Ask yourselves what she’s going ta do here, especially since the republican socialist movement executed her friend and mentor Airey Neave right smack in the Houses of Parliament. It’s gonna be worse than Internment when she gets her high heels under the desk. She’ll do what the unionist ruling class wants and there’ll be mass arrests, repression, more new jails built and prisoners left ta rot and die in their own shit.’

Rex Mundi tries to extract the extinguished joint from the ashtray, but Trout blocks his hand, prompting my cousin to speak up.

‘The workers in Britain won’t stand for it, Trout. There’ll be a revolution in the streets if she takes on and tries to break the unions over there.’

Trout leans across the table. He is so close I can see the blackheads on his bulbous nose. His breath stinks and his nostrils are flaring into our faces.

‘We’re enterin’ into momentous days, comrades. 1979. The year when it all kicks off and we should all play our part.’

I look sideways at Padre Pio who seems distracted from all this talk of repression and revolution. He is studying the back pages of The Irish News to find out who will be in Jackie Hutton’s team today. When I stare down towards my feet, cautiously avoiding Trout’s gaze, I see PP is making wanking signals under the table.

The joint is salvaged again from the ashtray, relit and passed around by Trout.

‘We’ve gotta keep our heads clear before we hit the road, right!’ he orders. ‘So this is the last one before we go down to Windsor. Cos when we get onto that Kop there’s work ta be done,’ he continues, while staring at Rex Mundi and myself. ‘Here, English boy, which wing of the jail in the Crum was your brother on?’ he asks my cousin.

‘A-Wing, I think,’ Rex replies.

‘No, you stupid cunt. Which wing of the ’Ra? The Stick or the Provie one back then?’

‘Neither, mate,’ Rex Mundi answers. ‘He operated with the anarchists and radicals and this one weird dude who was one of her comrades. He was a mate of that old blade on the wall up there,’ he adds, pointing towards Meinhof.

On hearing this, Trout breaks into a smile, shoots up from his chair and points over to Rex Mundi. ‘Do not move! I’ve got something for you. It’s perfect,’ he says, before jabbing one of his fat fingers at PP. ‘And don’t you go stealing any of my dope while I’m lookin’ for it.’

‘Lookin’ for wha?’ PP asks indifferently.

The temperature in the kitchen seems to have dropped by ten degrees the second Trout leaves and I am no longer suffocated by his stare.

‘So why the fuck is he called Trout and he has a brother called Mullet?’ Rex Mundi suddenly asks.

‘Their da is a Kraut,’ PP says.

‘So? Shouldn’t they be called Hitler or Goering then?’ Rex Mundi says.

‘Where are they today? I mean his ma and da?’ I add.

PP shakes his head as if I have just come straight off the windy-lickers’ bus. ‘It’s Saturday, Ruin. Where do ya think they are? They’re down the motorway at Long Kesh seeing Mullet on a visit. They’re probably on their hands and knees with their rosary beads beggin’ him ta give up his dirty protest. It’s the best day of the week to be in Trout’s house, ta skin up some gear while they’re not in. Super Saturday. That’s when our Trout always stocks up on his dope. As for our Mullet, well he’s a real Action Man!’

I am wondering how the fuck some poor bastard from the Federal Republic of Germany must think about ending up stuck here in this kip, with one son in jail and another floating from one hashish cloud to another and well on his way to joining his brother. I am thinking too that my dad would despise Trout and throw up if he knew we were here smoking his dope while listening to his sermons. I gaze up to Ulrike on the wall. Her face weirdly reminds me of the French teacher at St Mal’s, where I have only two months left of my ‘sentence’ to complete.

After seven long years, I will be free from the stench of floor polish; free from cassocked Christian Brothers with their Embassy No.10 fegs cupped in their hands behind their backs; free from that rat-faced college president with his hysterical screaming pitch; free from the dead-on teachers in their moccasins and corduroy suits; free from the ‘Yes’ and ‘Pink Floyd’ fans who control the record players in the Sixth Form centre; free from the sniping sarcasm of the Latin teacher who insists we are a waste of taxpayers’ money; free to get out of that school and out of this town. Free to search for her. Free to find her again.

Trout comes back into the kitchen with a present for my cousin. It is a white badge with a red star in the middle and the letters RAF written behind a sub-machine gun. He is definitely warming to Rex Mundi because of the exploits of his older brother Mick, who, while tripping on an acid tab, petrol bombed the Students Union at Queen’s University in protest over Internment 1971. Unbeknownst to Trout, Mick nearly topped himself in a West Berlin squat last summer after five days of cold turkey.

‘Here my friend, this is for you. It is in honour of your brother and Comrade Meinhof on the wall,’ Trout announces.

‘Fat chance he will put that on,’ I interrupt. ‘He won’t pin anything on that shiny biker jacket unless it’s the badge of Brighton and Hove Albion.’

But Rex Mundi snatches the button badge from Trout’s hand and says, ‘Balls, Ruin! I will wear this one with pride. For our Micheal and for us too!’

‘Us?’ I loathe the way he has just said ‘Michael’ instead of ‘Mick’. Next thing you know he will be referring to his older brother in the Irish version ‘Mícheál’ as if that will impress our suspicious, belligerent host.

‘Yeah, us. The Red Army Faction on its way to Windsor. You’re coming too, Trout?’ the exile-returned continues.

‘Too fuckin’ right I am. We have chanting that needs to be filmed!’

Suddenly, Padre Pio pipes up, ‘Ya haven’t got one of them hand grenades ta throw at the Orangemen, Trout? I’m game ta do that.’

This only makes Trout flare up. ‘Shut fuckin’ up about any talk over hand grenades, dildo brain.’

Dope is supposed to calm the nerves and leave you chilled out, but Trout has that nasty cold suspicious air about him. He is like some stalking predator that also thinks he is being stalked and it is me who he is glaring at again. I am expecting him to start hammering on about fence sitters, traitors, drinkers, cowards and renegades.

‘There will be no loose talk about these things in this house,’ Trout says with authority before firing a question at me.

‘So yer da saved yer cousins’ lives. That took balls I suppose, to go over to the east for a rescue mission. Now, no hard feelings here. What do you think the score will be today?’ He extends his hand across the table to shake mine.

‘2-0 to the Reds!’ I reply, only half in belief that this is really going to happen.

‘I think it will be tighter, Ruin,’ Trout says, uttering my name for the first time.

‘More like 2-1 or 3-2, but I can’t see us losing. Anyway, win, lose or draw we’ll wreck the fuckin’ place,’ he adds, while beginning another joint that he insists is only for our nerves on the journey down.

Trout looks around the table with a knowing smile that makes me worry about buckets and spades and hand grenades as we hi-ho-hi-ho off to Windsor we go! Maybe he is just mad enough to smuggle a couple of exploding pineapples onto the Kop to be lobbed into a line of riot cops. Or worse still, he could hand them over to Padre Pio and get him to vault over the fence, onto the pitch and hurl them straight into the North Stand. Padre Pio will be up for whatever Trout has planned for him. Meanwhile, he is goose-stepping around the kitchen with his crotch-reeking index finger playing the part of a Hitler moustache, croaking, ‘Here’s yer da, Trout. Here’s yer Nazi oul da.’ Understandably, Trout delivers a well-deserved clout to his lunatic cousin’s head.