LITMIR.BIZ

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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?’

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