later. He went to her funeral.
Age thirty-three: retired from active service with the IRA, perhaps because of his reputation for outliving everyone he worked closely with. Became a quartermaster, specializing in the acquisition of cutting-edge weaponry which was put in deep storage against the long promised day of total insurrection.
Kept out of trouble for a while till one winter's night in Liverpool docks he turned up in the cab of a truck carrying a consignment of arms which we knew had been landed somewhere on the east coast during the previous forty-eight hours.
Straightforward search-and-detain operation went haywire when one of the Provos suddenly reached into his jacket pocket. By the time it was established he was suffering an anxiety asthma attack and was pulling out his inhaler, he was dead, as were two of his companions and even Popeye, naturally the sole survivor, was seriously injured. Worse still (in the Great Gaw's eyes at least, for he was in charge of the operation), the truck turned out to be carrying only a small part-load of ammo and a few rifles, not the large consignment of state-of-the-art weaponry Gaw had expected.
It must have been cached en route and there was only you left, Pop-up Popeye, who had any idea where.
That got you off the NHS waiting list and into Gaw's own favourite hospital where you got better care than a royal who was a fully paid up member of BUPA. But it was still a close-run thing. Intensive care for two months, convalescent for another six, offered a deal which you refused so reluctantly that it was hard not to believe your medically supported claim that your injuries had left you seriously amnesiac.
The court, however, was unimpressed by this as a defence against the long list of charges prepared against you.
Sentenced to twelve years.
So Popeye the pop-up man, it looked like the system had done what its trained shooters couldn't and buried you.
But . . .
I'm Popeye the pop-up man
Let them hit me as hard as they can
I'll be here at the finish . . .
Came the peace process.
Age thirty-seven: released from jail after serving less than two years.
Maybe it was enough.
You and I have a lot in common, Popeye. Members of ruthless and dangerous organizations, we have both had to learn to survive any which way we could.
And we both have unfinished business with Gawain Sempernel. Or rather, I have unfinished business with him while he has unfinished business with you.
He's going soon. He thinks no one beneath him knows it but you cannot keep a Sibyl and a secret at the same time.
And you, Popeye, are his farewell finger to the envious gods who he believes cannot bear such rival effulgence near their throne. Six months from now he hopes to be clasped to the bosom of our common alma mater, in the holy shrine of a Master's Lodge, where he will sit with one buttock firmly on the faces of those poor dons whose careers are in his gift, and the other discreetly offered for former colleagues to kiss when they beat a path to his door in search of that advice and expertise only his lost omniscience can offer.
The poor sod has overdosed on Deighton and Le Carre!
So there you are, Popeye. We have both been screwed by Gaw Sempernel.
In fact, you could say that, thanks to him, in our different ways we both know what it is to exist locked up in a cell.
And now, though I am officially the turnkey, we find ourselves cheek by jowl in this cell within a cell that the great comedian Gaw calls Sibyl's Leaves.
Imprisonment changes people. It gives them time to think.
I think a lot.
Popeye too. What he thought was probably something like - it's coming to an end. Maybe I can finally get a life which doesn't involve my old body being full of bullets and surrounded by corpses. I've survived the war, surely it can't be all that hard to survive the peace?
It was going to be harder than you could have dreamt, Popeye.
You found a movement split and splintering under pressure of internal debate as to how to
Age thirty-three: retired from active service with the IRA, perhaps because of his reputation for outliving everyone he worked closely with. Became a quartermaster, specializing in the acquisition of cutting-edge weaponry which was put in deep storage against the long promised day of total insurrection.
Kept out of trouble for a while till one winter's night in Liverpool docks he turned up in the cab of a truck carrying a consignment of arms which we knew had been landed somewhere on the east coast during the previous forty-eight hours.
Straightforward search-and-detain operation went haywire when one of the Provos suddenly reached into his jacket pocket. By the time it was established he was suffering an anxiety asthma attack and was pulling out his inhaler, he was dead, as were two of his companions and even Popeye, naturally the sole survivor, was seriously injured. Worse still (in the Great Gaw's eyes at least, for he was in charge of the operation), the truck turned out to be carrying only a small part-load of ammo and a few rifles, not the large consignment of state-of-the-art weaponry Gaw had expected.
It must have been cached en route and there was only you left, Pop-up Popeye, who had any idea where.
That got you off the NHS waiting list and into Gaw's own favourite hospital where you got better care than a royal who was a fully paid up member of BUPA. But it was still a close-run thing. Intensive care for two months, convalescent for another six, offered a deal which you refused so reluctantly that it was hard not to believe your medically supported claim that your injuries had left you seriously amnesiac.
The court, however, was unimpressed by this as a defence against the long list of charges prepared against you.
Sentenced to twelve years.
So Popeye the pop-up man, it looked like the system had done what its trained shooters couldn't and buried you.
But . . .
I'm Popeye the pop-up man
Let them hit me as hard as they can
I'll be here at the finish . . .
Came the peace process.
Age thirty-seven: released from jail after serving less than two years.
Maybe it was enough.
You and I have a lot in common, Popeye. Members of ruthless and dangerous organizations, we have both had to learn to survive any which way we could.
And we both have unfinished business with Gawain Sempernel. Or rather, I have unfinished business with him while he has unfinished business with you.
He's going soon. He thinks no one beneath him knows it but you cannot keep a Sibyl and a secret at the same time.
And you, Popeye, are his farewell finger to the envious gods who he believes cannot bear such rival effulgence near their throne. Six months from now he hopes to be clasped to the bosom of our common alma mater, in the holy shrine of a Master's Lodge, where he will sit with one buttock firmly on the faces of those poor dons whose careers are in his gift, and the other discreetly offered for former colleagues to kiss when they beat a path to his door in search of that advice and expertise only his lost omniscience can offer.
The poor sod has overdosed on Deighton and Le Carre!
So there you are, Popeye. We have both been screwed by Gaw Sempernel.
In fact, you could say that, thanks to him, in our different ways we both know what it is to exist locked up in a cell.
And now, though I am officially the turnkey, we find ourselves cheek by jowl in this cell within a cell that the great comedian Gaw calls Sibyl's Leaves.
Imprisonment changes people. It gives them time to think.
I think a lot.
Popeye too. What he thought was probably something like - it's coming to an end. Maybe I can finally get a life which doesn't involve my old body being full of bullets and surrounded by corpses. I've survived the war, surely it can't be all that hard to survive the peace?
It was going to be harder than you could have dreamt, Popeye.
You found a movement split and splintering under pressure of internal debate as to how to
Similar Books
