Saturday 10th February
Dear Will,
This morning I went into Enniskillen, sashayed into the Lochside garage shop and said, "Daily Telegraph, please." (I'm an old colonel-what else can I read?)
"No Telegraph," said the girl.
"But it won't be Saturday without Oz Clarke's wine column..."
Then my eye fell on the other papers arranged along the counter. The forces of Irish national liberation had bombed Canary Wharf. Hence no Telegraph. I hadn't listened to the radio last night or this morning and that's what happens when you omit to do so. Things happen and you don't know about them. And yet, well, pompous and self-aggrandising as this sounds, I can't say that I was exactly surprised. No, not exactly...
Julian Barnes starts his great adultery novel Before She Met Me with a long quotation from a medical text book. The gist is this: the brain is in three parts; a bright bit at the top-that's the computer terminal, full of smart girls and Microsoft buffs; then there's a very large middle section where the brain does its paper work, filled with civil servants and pen pushers; and then there's the basement, oldest part of the brain, and here dwells our guardian, old Mr Reptile, whose speciality is sniffing out danger and seeing into the future on the strength of the slightest, most whimsical evidence.
I remember once, when I lived in London, walking down Portobello Road in the early hours and seeing a bank of red tail lights under the M40. Strange, I thought, so many motor bikes lined in a row. Then Beady Eyes stirred in his basement lair and shook his head and suddenly I knew, in the darkness, out of sight, that the bikers were waiting. I cleared out fast; half a dozen other pedestrians weren't so lucky.
Six years ago, I left London and came to live in Northern Ireland. I have to say, since I arrived he has been very helpful. One story, I think, will do. Three or four years ago (this is pre-ceasefire), I was in Belfast one evening, cycling towards home, when I saw a group of men on the corner. In that area there were always groups of men; it was that kind of an area, a proletarian area where men stood around on street corners looking bored.
But Beady Eyes saw things differently. "Vigilantes," he murmured. He was right. I was all for turning round, but Mr Reptile shook his head. "Big mistake," he said. The way through, he advised, was to affect blithe insouciance.
So I pointed in the direction of my house, shouted that I was going home to my dinner and carried right on. Nobody so much as lifted a baseball bat. Thank you, Mr Reptile.
As you know, I work in the Maze prison one day a week, teaching "creative writing." Driving to the Maze -this Wednesday just past-I found the motorway closed. Diverted into Portadown, I found myself on the outskirts of a republican estate-tricolours on every lamppost, green-white-and-gold painted kerbstones, and lots of liberation graffiti. I'm driving along, and suddenly the scrawled words Clegg out All out flashed past. The creature in my brain's basement sighed-and that was it. That was when I knew the ceasefire wasn't going to last.
Now you could say: come on, Carlo, you're just making this up because it's a good story and it makes you appear wise. There's no way I can disprove that. But I would ask you why would I make the prediction at all?
It was because of what those four words of graffiti said so emphatically about the republican idea of equivalence. Perceived from within the hermetically sealed world of the movement, if Private Clegg is released from prison then everyone should get out, because that's the way the world ought to be. The world of militant republicanism is full of oughts. The biggest is: republicans generously declare a ceasefire-so everyone comes to the table. But if nobody comes, as everybody ought to, the only alternative will be to go back to basics-to explosives.
When I put it into words this seems long and cumbersome. The beauty of Mr Reptile is that he grasped it all in an instant.
He's asleep now, so I can't ask him for a few thoughts on the weeks and months ahead. Anyway, perhaps I can work out some things for myself. When I drove back from the Lochside garage shop this morning, I saw what I haven't seen for months, a line of British army helicopters sweeping towards the border. Later, I heard on the news that the army is back on patrol on the streets of west Belfast.
This bears an uncanny resemblance to our not too distant past. But will we have the courage to say: no, we're not doing this again, forget it, no more killing? I'm afraid I don't know, but the last words from the basement before the old fellow nodded off were: "I don't think so."
Gloomily yours,
Carlo
