The Bungalow-28

Continued from Chapter 27: The Bungalow-27 | ABCtales

‘It was common, in the newspaper reports of my youth in the 1970s and 80s, to refer to IRA men (and sometimes the Protestant paramilitaries) as ‘cowards’. The reasoning being that they’d lie in wait, hidden, until their victim appeared, then pull the trigger.

But was that accurate? (I’m not saying it was ‘unfair’; that’s a slightly different matter.) You’ve joined an illegal organisation and you’ve agreed to carry out a mission that will very likely end in the death of at least one member of the opposing faction. You’ve crossed a line. You’ve made the decision to stop being an ordinary, decent human being to someone who kills, in cold blood as they say. At some stage, unless you’re a total psychopath, you will have to come to terms with what you’ve done, maybe not in the immediate aftermath, but at some time, maybe years or decades afterwards. ‘Someone did not come home to their loved ones that night, and it was because of me. The anguished yells of widows and bairns that evening; that was down to me.’ But to become that person, that killer, is not an act of cowardice; arguably, it’s the opposite. Perhaps courage is so universally seen as a virtue, in most peoples’ minds, anyone who shows courage is unquestionably ‘good’, in all aspects of their character. The virtue of courage sweeps all before it.

In my time in the Forces, and afterwards, I met many people who were courageous. They were not all good people, not by a long measure. Courage is a very over-valued quality, in my opinion. Maybe the world would be a much better place without it.’

Hawke laid his pen down on his notebook as the train slowed for the curve through Poyntpass to stare out of the window. Then he took it up again:

‘Which brings me to another aspect of war, and death. Can membership of an army – regular or irregular – totally absolve one of all culpability for killing? After all, when one joins up, one does so in the knowledge that one might be called upon to carry out such an act. It is disguised by euphemisms such as “seeing action” or “engaging the enemy”. Is killing as a member of any army or an armed group any more ‘moral’ than the same act committed by an armed robber or a street mugger? You can argue that members of armies are compelled by orders, but they at some point willingly submitted to those orders. (We’re not talking here of wartime conscript armies, by the way.)

I suppose you could argue that those who are killed in wars die for the greater good of humanity, that they might, for example, have gone on to kill many other innocent people. Or maybe that the cause they were fighting for was unjust, in some way. As you might say, they had it coming to them. Though in a place like Northern Ireland, being born a couple of streets away, or the opposite bank of a brook, could turn your moral compass through 180 degrees. There’s no right or wrong, only our right and their wrong – or their right and our wrong.

If there is a god, a final moral arbiter, would he (or she, or it) make that distinction? If there is no god, perhaps killing isn’t immoral at all, one of those things that just happens. No one thinks that lions or wolves are immoral.’

He laid his pen down again, surprised by his own eloquence. Perhaps this is what he would publish on that literary website, in the Blogs section.

He took up his pen again:

‘Am I having doubts about what I did during my career? Not doubts, perhaps, but I am starting to think about it, possibly for the first time.’

The train rushed on past Balbriggan and Skerries, heading for Dublin in the gathering dusk.

The camp bed in the back garden shed was surprisingly comfortable. Even with the door wide open, giving out onto the fence that separated the garden from the field beyond, it was cosy and snug, at least under the duvet. The window on the other side of the shed gave a good view of the bungalow. He’d left every light on and drawn all the curtains right back. He had the Home Service on the radio, turned down low, barely audible. It might help keep him awake. He had his mobile phone, fully charged, in one trouser pocket, his wallet with cash and credit cards, in the other. It was a few minutes to midnight. He took up the library hardback: The Day of the Jackal. He’d read it a couple of times before. He loved the meticulousness of the Jackal’s preparations, the descriptions of his procedure, the careful thought that went everything, almost poetic in their way. He disciplined himself to read a page, stop, check the window. Page, check, page, check.

He’d decided not to write that night. Writing was too absorbing, he could lose himself in the page. Then he would look up, and it would be too late.

He was about 150 pages into The Jackal. He looked up. A shadow moved inside the house, the faintest wisp of grey moving across the wall of the study. Then a figure, large, bulky, a six-footer at least, loomed black in the doorway into the kitchen. He hadn’t heard a thing; they must have prized the front door open silently, or a window, with the practised skill of housebreakers. He didn’t feel fear, just the thrill of an intense concentration. He took his small black rucksack down from the peg, grabbed the book and thrust it inside. Then he slipped quietly out of the shed door, and, keeping an eye on the back of the bungalow, hopped silently over the fence, using the shadow of the shed to conceal himself from the bright lights of the bungalow. Then he strode quickly and quietly across the field, placing each foot down carefully, testing the ground to avoid stumbling. The darkness swallowed him.

To be continued in Chapter 29