Free After the Lockout by Darran McCann Page A

cords attaching her stockings to her girdle. ‘Let me,’ she says as she helps you undo the knot. She lifts her hips from the straw and slips off the garment. You undo the buttons on your union suit, and as you make love, she holds you in her arms. Protecting you. Cherishing you. You hold each other all night.
    â€˜You have my heart, Victor. Take care with it,’ she says as she slips away with the dawn.

    A cock wakes me. Inside my head a demon drummer thumps a painful rhythm. I’m in a large shed. God knows which. My back and legs itch against the hay that has been my bed and a thick old blanket is draped across me, keeping my naked body warm. My naked body, and the other one with which I’m entwined. I don’t dare breathe let alone move. My suitcase is lying upside-down near the door. My uniform and my boots and my pants are strewn around the place. So too are the clothes of a woman. My first thought is of Maggie. But this isn’t Maggie.
    I think back. What time did the céilí end? Late anyway. I’d had a lot of poteen, but I do seem to remember talking to someone. TP McGahan, that’s who, about politics. People were gathered around to listen. It was coming back to me. An interview for the paper. Not the best idea I ever had. Should be keeping a low profile. We talked about capital and labour and the exploitationof the working class. And religion. Oh yes, and religion. Cardinal Logue came up. Benedict might’ve got a touch too. People clapped. Some of them anyway. Sean Moriarty said I should be the first President of the Irish Republic because I had the sand to come out and say what needed to be said.
    The woman’s face is buried in my chest and thick hair is spread across it like black ivy. Damned if I can remember her name. Her body is a hot coal against mine. The wild one with the poteen. Dead ringer for Theda Bara. After the céilí Charlie tried to drag me to his house but I wanted more poteen and this girl had it. I remember Charlie and Turlough telling me I shouldn’t be anywhere near her. They weren’t at all diplomatic about it. Maggie must never ever know about this. Slowly, gingerly, I slip out from under the blanket. She stirs and sits up, her hair splayed in all directions. She smiles and I freeze. My clothes are just out of reach and I stand naked in the chilly morning air.
    â€˜Hello, soldier,’ she says, a laugh woven into her odious voice. ‘Looks like you’re ready to go once more unto the breach.’ I’m standing stiff as a beefeater. Mortified. Her opal eyes gleam. I pull on my trousers clumsily. I should say something.
    â€˜Once more unto the breach. You know Shakespeare?’
    â€˜I knew a man one time used to come out with all that shite.’
    I button my shirt and summon the courage to look straight at her. There’s a little roll in her eyes, as if they’re not quite fixed properly in her head. She reaches out from under the blanket to her frock, rumpled and discarded on the ground, and takes out a packet of Gallaher’s. She lights one and offers it to me. My head is thumping and my mouth is like a sewer, so I’m grateful for it. The first drag makes me feel a little better. ‘I had a fine old time last night, Victor. A fine old time. You don’t have to rushaway so soon, do you? Pius won’t even be awake yet. You know how he likes to sleep in.’
    I keep dressing in silence.
    â€˜It’s Ida, by the way.’
    â€˜I knew that. Of course I knew that.’
    â€˜Of course you did.’
    I do up my top button and lift my suitcase. I suppose I have to say something before I can walk out. ‘Ida, I don’t remember much about what happened but I suppose something … something of a physical nature has taken place between us. I’d just like to apologise for letting things get out of hand.’
    She knows what I’m saying and I’m grateful she doesn’t