soldier said.
The Old Gunner continued down the hallway laughing.
“Hard to see why you’re on the outside and I’m on the inside.”
“I was in Belgium,” the soldier said, “slaughtering Huns. If I’d been born in Saxony I’d have been in Belgium slaughtering Tommies.”
He shrugged.
“Handy-dandy,” Conn said. “Which is the justice, which the thief?”
“What the hell does that mean?” the soldier said.
“Shakespeare.”
“You a bloody schoolmaster?”
“I read a lot,” Conn said.
“So how’d they catch you?” the soldier said.
“Somebody turned me in.”
“A traitor?”
“A woman.”
“By God, that’s hard, isn’t it?”
Conn nodded.
“You fucking her?”
Conn grinned.
“Seemed like the right thing to do at the time,” he said.
“Always does at the time, don’t it?”
“Always,” Conn said.
He took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.
“I’m off duty in ten minutes, you may as well keep these.”
Conn took the cigarettes, and slipped them inside his shirt.
“They’re going to hang you,” the soldier said.
“They’re going to try,” Conn said.
The soldier nodded slowly and kept nodding as he thought about it.
“Sure,” he said. “If they can.”
Conn
C onn’s soldier came for him one morning when, outside Kilmainham jail, April had begun to warm.
“They want you in the major’s office.”
Conn stood up.
“You may be in for a knocking around,” the soldier said.
“Doesn’t matter,” Conn said.
“Would matter to me,” the soldier said.
Conn shrugged.
There were two men in the room. One the officer who had questioned him before. The other was a captain. Conn had never seen him. He was as big as Conn, with black leather gloves on his thick hands.
“Your name is Conn Sheridan,” the major said.
“Yes.”
“Say sir.”
“… sir.”
“Where did you get the gun, that you killed John Cooper with?”
“I didn’t kill John Cooper.”
The captain hit him in the chest with his heavy right fist. Conn rocked back, steadied himself, and smiled.
“… sir,” he said.
The captain hit him a left hook on the cheek and Conn fell. He stayed down for a minute, his head hanging, trying to get it clear.
“Get up,” the major said. “Who gave you the gun?”
Conn got slowly to his feet. He didn’t speak.
“Are you going to answer?”
“No.”
The captain hit him, and his nose began to bleed. Blood dropped to the floor.
“So you are ready to suffer?”
“Sure.”
The captain began to batter him with lefts and rights. He must have been a boxer once. The punches were short, with the full drive of his legs and shoulders behind them. Conn rocked with the punches, trying to slip as many as he could.
“Turn around,” the major said.
Conn did so.
“See those photographs? Some of those men refused to speak and they are dead.”
“Fuck ’em,” Conn said, and looked at the big captain and grinned with the blood streaming down his face. “And fuck you too, bucko.”
The captain knocked him against the wall.
“Will you fight me?” he said to Conn.
“Another time,” Conn said. “When it’s just you and me.”
“You’re afraid.”
Conn’s lips were badly puffed and one eye was swollen shut. He laughed.
The major went to his desk and took a Webley .45 service revolver from the drawer. He brought it over to Conn, broke it open, and showed him the full cylinder.
“You know what this is?” the major said.
Conn didn’t speak. He saw the major through akind of shimmering haze, as if at a distance through heat. He focused through the haze on the round brass center-fire backs of the bullets. His teeth felt loose and thick. The warm taste of his own blood filled his throat.
“You don’t know, I’m not going to help you,” Conn said.
“Stand against the wall, you swine,” the major said. He seemed nearly hysterical with anger. “I’m going to give you a count of three to name some names.”
The major raised
The Old Gunner continued down the hallway laughing.
“Hard to see why you’re on the outside and I’m on the inside.”
“I was in Belgium,” the soldier said, “slaughtering Huns. If I’d been born in Saxony I’d have been in Belgium slaughtering Tommies.”
He shrugged.
“Handy-dandy,” Conn said. “Which is the justice, which the thief?”
“What the hell does that mean?” the soldier said.
“Shakespeare.”
“You a bloody schoolmaster?”
“I read a lot,” Conn said.
“So how’d they catch you?” the soldier said.
“Somebody turned me in.”
“A traitor?”
“A woman.”
“By God, that’s hard, isn’t it?”
Conn nodded.
“You fucking her?”
Conn grinned.
“Seemed like the right thing to do at the time,” he said.
“Always does at the time, don’t it?”
“Always,” Conn said.
He took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.
“I’m off duty in ten minutes, you may as well keep these.”
Conn took the cigarettes, and slipped them inside his shirt.
“They’re going to hang you,” the soldier said.
“They’re going to try,” Conn said.
The soldier nodded slowly and kept nodding as he thought about it.
“Sure,” he said. “If they can.”
Conn
C onn’s soldier came for him one morning when, outside Kilmainham jail, April had begun to warm.
“They want you in the major’s office.”
Conn stood up.
“You may be in for a knocking around,” the soldier said.
“Doesn’t matter,” Conn said.
“Would matter to me,” the soldier said.
Conn shrugged.
There were two men in the room. One the officer who had questioned him before. The other was a captain. Conn had never seen him. He was as big as Conn, with black leather gloves on his thick hands.
“Your name is Conn Sheridan,” the major said.
“Yes.”
“Say sir.”
“… sir.”
“Where did you get the gun, that you killed John Cooper with?”
“I didn’t kill John Cooper.”
The captain hit him in the chest with his heavy right fist. Conn rocked back, steadied himself, and smiled.
“… sir,” he said.
The captain hit him a left hook on the cheek and Conn fell. He stayed down for a minute, his head hanging, trying to get it clear.
“Get up,” the major said. “Who gave you the gun?”
Conn got slowly to his feet. He didn’t speak.
“Are you going to answer?”
“No.”
The captain hit him, and his nose began to bleed. Blood dropped to the floor.
“So you are ready to suffer?”
“Sure.”
The captain began to batter him with lefts and rights. He must have been a boxer once. The punches were short, with the full drive of his legs and shoulders behind them. Conn rocked with the punches, trying to slip as many as he could.
“Turn around,” the major said.
Conn did so.
“See those photographs? Some of those men refused to speak and they are dead.”
“Fuck ’em,” Conn said, and looked at the big captain and grinned with the blood streaming down his face. “And fuck you too, bucko.”
The captain knocked him against the wall.
“Will you fight me?” he said to Conn.
“Another time,” Conn said. “When it’s just you and me.”
“You’re afraid.”
Conn’s lips were badly puffed and one eye was swollen shut. He laughed.
The major went to his desk and took a Webley .45 service revolver from the drawer. He brought it over to Conn, broke it open, and showed him the full cylinder.
“You know what this is?” the major said.
Conn didn’t speak. He saw the major through akind of shimmering haze, as if at a distance through heat. He focused through the haze on the round brass center-fire backs of the bullets. His teeth felt loose and thick. The warm taste of his own blood filled his throat.
“You don’t know, I’m not going to help you,” Conn said.
“Stand against the wall, you swine,” the major said. He seemed nearly hysterical with anger. “I’m going to give you a count of three to name some names.”
The major raised
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