From The Irish Times on Saturday, November 7, 1957: Money for Putty by Brian Friel
Ever since those Rewards For Information notices went up outside the police barracks in Derry, my nerves have gone to pieces. It’s not that I have anything to hide– my life is an open book; but I know that someone is going to report something on me, and once they get me inside, once they get to work on me, I’m liable to sign my life away. Putty was my nickname at school.
Take the man who owns that miserable wee Pekingese that our bull-terrier went for last month. Him, for example. All he has to do is to sidle up to a policeman some day and say out of the corner of his mouth, “Want a tip-off ? I know one of them. Chap called Friel. Unhealthy looking bird. Marlborough street. Owns a bad beast of a bull-terrier.” He’s capable of doing it, all right.
Or that chap who cut the grass in the front garden; he thought our house was number 11. He has it in for me, too. “Well,” I said, as far as I remember, “since it was your mistake, the only suggestion I have is that you put the grass back on again.” He cursed a lot then, and told me he would get the money out of my swarthy skin somehow. Do you think for one moment he is going to let a chance like this slip? I can see him now, dialling Belfast 25421, licking his lips in anticipation.
* * *
Assuming for a minute that they have me inside, assuming that I have not yet reached the stage of grovelling on the floor, of calling every humble constable Inspector-General, of incriminating all my nearest and dearest in a wild attempt to clear myself, what credible alibi can I offer for my movements ? Was I in Croke Park on Sunday, September 22nd, at the All-Ireland final? I was, for the first time in my life. But why this year? Because it so happened that I was offered a lift to Dublin, and I went because I had always wanted to see the Artane Boys’ Band. Gospel truth – but who would believe it?
Where do I take the dog for a walk every night? Away out the Dungiven road. Past the American radio station? Yes. So. Every time I go to the Waterside, why do I stop on the bridge and look down at the G.N.R. station? Because occasionally a train passes beneath, and I like to be enveloped by the smoke; I have done that ever since I was a boy. Well, well.
Was I drinking with a friend last Tuesday week at 6.47 p.m.? I was. Was the last drink prefaced by the toast, "To the Republic?" It was, because my friend was a Frenchman. Now, now, now. And I am wearing an Aran sweater and yes, I think there is gerrymandering in Derry, and I admit that I go to a very remote part of Donegal for my holidays and yes, I have stated that the Special Powers Act is unjust legislation (to the wife's brother. I remember the night well: big mouth!) and that if duty demanded it I would give my life for my country and . ..
* * *
Aspirin no longer makes me sleep at night. I am now getting a more potent sedative from a shady chemist I know, but it is losing its effect too. I have got to the stage of hearing the tenders stopping silently at the door and the last brief command, “Dead or alive.” Of course, I could still apologise to the man who owns the Pekingese, and I could pay the gardener chap the ten shillings he asked. But then there’s the fellow who gives me a lift to work; he has his knife in me. And Tracey, my boss, who would be glad to be rid of me. And how many more, if only I could settle to concentrate. No: they have me in the hollow of their hands and they know it. I wasn’t called Putty for nothing.
