by Mick Moran
***
“Well; did you get the paper,” asked Tommy excitedly, as he followed Alan into the train.
“Yes.” Alan turned and hissed angrily, “Just keep your voice down.” He then proceeded quickly along the corridor, followed by a rather apprehensive Tommy.
No more was said until they entered a compartment. Then, after closing the door, Tommy ventured, “What’s the matter? Is it not in?”
“Oh; it’s in alright.” Alan handed the folded newspaper to Tommy, before throwing himself on the seat. Tommy sat opposite him. They were the only occupants of the compartment. The rush period was over.
“What’s wrong with it?” Tommy unfolded the newspaper on his lap.
By way of answering, Alan indicated that Tommy turn over the page. “Middle of the page,” he said
Spotting the relevant news item Tommy smiled. “Hurrah,” he cheered after reading it, further irritating Alan.
“Shush; I’m warning you. Keep your voice down.
“No one can hear us. What’s wrong with you? You’re in a terrible mood. Was the journey bad?”
“I’ll say. Three hours on crowded busses, just to get a newspaper.” It was Friday, the day the local weekly first appears in the newsagents. Alan had travelled back almost to the scene of the crime. Not that they saw it as a crime. On the contrary: it was long overdue justice. However, after reading the news report, Alan was less sure.
“Well; you can relax now. I like these corridor trains. This is civilised travelling.”
The compartment door opening interrupted them. An Asian man entered. Passing the newspaper to Alan, Tommy jumped to his feet. “Excuse me,” he said. “This compartment is occupied.” The man looked at the empty seats, then at Tommy. For a moment it seemed he was about to argue. Then, seemingly rising above it, he shrugged. “Sorry,” he said and left.
Tommy laughed. Alan just shook his head “You’re a cheeky sod,” said Alan.
“Well I’m not sharing a carriage with a Paki, We’d stink of garlic all day. Like I was saying, this is civilised travelling. Let’s keep it that way. Here, I got you a ‘sannie.’ You must be starving”
“Thank you.” Alan took the sandwich but didn’t unwrap it, puzzling Tommy. Then, studying Alan’s worried face, Tommy said, “there’s something you’re not telling me.”
“The man might die.”
“No he won’t. He wasn’t hurt that bad.”
“ Have you read what it says in the paper?”
“Yes. Here; pass me the paper. Let’s have another look. Tommy reread the report
“Elderly Irishman, Michael O’Malley, was taken to hospital on Friday evening with severe head injuries.
He was found unconscious in a dark alley near his home in Broadfield. Police, who are appealing for witnesses, said there appeared to be no motive for the attack. The hospital reported his condition to be serious.”
“Serious it says. That doesn’t mean he’ll die.”
“He might though. It’s a good job I pulled you off when I did, or it would definitely be murder.”
“Stop worrying. This is exactly what we need. Big Dave said bring back proof. Well there it is; all the proof we need. I bet he never thought we’d do it.”
“You just went too far.”
“I had to. Anything less wouldn’t be in the paper. Look how small that piece is.” Alan made no reply and Tommy continued. “Anyway, if he does die, no one will suspect us. We got clean away.”
“Yes, luck was on our side.”
“Luck?”
“Yes. It was lucky that the party was on in that club that night. No one took any notice of us. It was too crowded and they were too busy singing their Paddy songs. It was a stroke of luck him leaving early too. We were on the bus and probably well on the way back to Manchester when he was found.”
“Luck or not, we did the job. We’ve earned our money. When do we collect the rest of it?”
“I’ll see big Dave tonight.”
“Did he say he’d have the money for you tonight?”
“No, but you have to be careful about what you say on the phone. Don’t worry. We’ll get it.”
“Where do you think the money comes from?”
“I don’t know. I was told not to ask that question. It’s best left like that.”
“I was told it comes from Ireland.”
“Maybe, who knows? Big Dave doesn’t know. It comes in an envelope and the person that brings it, I’m told, doesn’t know where it comes from.”
“Like the envelope we had to deliver. Do you think he ever got that letter?
“Yes, I trusted that man, and he was right about him being in the club that Friday evening. That was another stroke of luck we had.”
“Why do you think he pretended not to know what we were talking about when we asked him about it?”
“I don’t know. But, the important thing is that he answered to the name Michael O’Malley. There was no doubt then that we got the right man.”
“There never was any doubt. Was there?”
“No, But, we had to be doubly sure, especially with him not being at the address we were given.”
“That sour faced woman that came to the door wouldn’t tell you anything. I could have smashed her ugly face. But then that nice man came along and told us everything we needed to know.”
“And the absolute proof is here.” Tommy folded the newspaper and handed it back to Alan.
***
“Hello Michael. You’re welcome back.” Brendan was clearly pleasantly surprised. He held out a welcoming hand. “Are you back to stay with us?”
“No.” Martin took the hand. “Just for the weekend. I have a bit of business to do.”
“Well, it’s good to see you. The usual is it?” Brendan took a pint glass to the Guinness pump.
“Yes please.” Before settling on the bar stool, Martin took a pound note out of his pocket.
Brendan glanced up from watching the flow of Guinness. “Put that away,” he said. “This one’s on me. I’m just delighted to see you, as a lot of others will be if you stay a while. Are you fixed up with somewhere to stay?”
“Yes. I’m staying up in Sparkhill, where I stayed before.” Martin had a drink of his Guinness. He needed it. “Brendan,” he said. “I have something to ask you.”
“Yes,” said Brendan attentively
“I need an address; Dom Casey’s.”
Brendan hesitated before answering; maybe waiting for elaboration, thought Martin. Martin however didn’t feel he could say any more.
Eventually Brendan answered. “I don’t know it off hand. But, his son Paddy often calls in after work for a drink, especially on a Friday. In fact he should be in any time now.” Brendan looked at the clock on
the wall. “He’ll tell you.”
Martin was disappointed with the reply. He was confident that Brendan would know the address. Maybe he did, thought Martin, but didn’t wish to reveal it. Martin had no wish to explain himself to the son. After a pause Martin said, “This might seem strange to you, but it’s Dom I need to talk to. I’d sooner not talk to his son.”
“Is something wrong?”
“No. No. I’m not bringing bad news or anything like that. I wish I could tell you more, but I can’t.”
“All right. Don’t worry about it.” Brendan seemed to understand. “Our problem is,” he went on. “Paddy usually sits at the bar, roundabout where you are yourself. But if you don’t want to meet him, I’ll tell you what to do. You go and sit in the singing room before he comes in and I’ll see if I can get the address off Paddy.”
“Thank you Brendan.” Martin took his drink into the singing room. Alone in the room, he chose to sit by the wall furthest from the bar and nervously got out his pipe and lit it. He was in a position where he could see Brendan moving about behind the bar.
Brendan started to pull a pint. Paddy must have come in thought Martin, but he couldn’t see that side of the bar. Brendan was carrying on a conversation, but Martin was too far away to hear. Brendan sat on the high stool behind the bar still deep conversation. Martin drew hard on his pipe. It did little to ease his anxiety. He sensed he was the topic of the conversation, and he was becoming increasingly doubtful about whether he would get the address he had asked for. Brendan’s glance in his direction, he took as a check that he was out of earshot. Was Brendan asking for Paddy’s permission? Or were they planning how to fob him off? In which case he would have no choice but to approach Paddy himself.
He finished his pint. He didn’t want another; maybe later; much later. Brendan glanced over at Martin who, in spite of how he felt, must have looked his usual, contented self, quietly smoking his pipe and gazing into space. Seeing the empty glass, Brendan called, “Michael, are you all right?”
“Yes, thank you.” Martin could have done with another drink. But, what had to be done that evening required him to be as sober as possible. His next move, however very much depended on Brendan getting him the required address. He had almost given up hope when Brendan handed him the note.
***
Martin was feeling increasingly apprehensive as he rechecked the address. 126 Wood St. That was it. It was the right house. A neat little terraced house with a small garden, he was told. He immediately climbed the few steps and knocked on the door with the shiny brass knocker.
As he stood on the doorstep, barely aware of the biting cold wind blowing down the street, he could feel his heart racing. He half hoped there would be no reply. Doubts about the wisdom of what he was doing returned. In a moment of panic he considered running away before anyone came to the door. But he immediately banished the thought. There was no going back then. Whatever the outcome, he must go ahead. It was something he should have done many years ago.
The door opened and a grey haired, but trim looking lady, probably in her sixties, appeared at the door. “Hello,” she said looking surprised.
“Oh; ah, hello.” Martin was not expecting a lady. He always felt awkward in front of women. “Is, is Dom in,” he asked
“Yes.” She looked him up and down. “Who are you?” Her tone was less than welcoming.
“I’m, I’m Michael O'Malley.” Martin had decided to use the name that he was known by in Birmingham; at least initially.
“Oh,” she said as though, Martin thought, the name had slightly startled her, but if so she immediately regained her composure as Martin continued. “I used to know him some time ago.” Martin did know Dom. But he wasn’t sure if Dom knew him. They never had any close dealings. Martin had made sure of that, without, he hoped, Dom’s knowledge. “I’d like a word with him.” The lady’s continued scrutiny was making him more and more uneasy. Then a man shouted from inside the house, “Who is it Peggy?”
“He says he’s called Michael O'Malley. He wants a word with you.”
“Well don’t leave him stood there. Tell him to come in.”
“You’d better come in.”
“Thank you mam.” Martin followed her into the small but cosy living room.
“Come in. You must be famished.” Dom had got to his feet, albeit with some difficulty. Whether he recognised him or not, unlike Peggy, clearly Dom had no qualms about admitting Martin to his house. He held out his hand: a friendly welcoming hand.
Feeling slightly guilty Martin took the hand. “I don’t know if you know me.”
“I do, but it’s a good few years since I saw you. Take off your coat and sit down.” Dom indicated an empty chair.
“Here, let me take your coat.” Peggy’s voice had softened. Apparently satisfied that the men knew each other., her attitude towards Martin had clearly changed. On returning from putting the coat away, she asked, “Will you have a cup of tea Michael.”
“Thank you mam. Just one sugar.”
In total contrast to what he had expected Martin was enjoying the hospitality of this nice friendly couple. After being out in the cold, the room, heated by the coal fire was so warm and welcoming as was Dom, and also Peggy after her initial suspicions. Martin sat on the chair by the side of the fire almost facing Dom, who was on the settee in front of the fire.
Dom was older and frailer than Martin had expected and suddenly a worrying thought occurred to him. The effect on himself of any reaction to his revelations, he was prepared for. But, what he hadn’t thought of up to that moment was the effect it might have on Dom.
However, it was not a time for second thoughts. He had come such a long way to get here. Although, some of what he had to say would be too upsetting and would be best left unsaid, the rest had to be got off his chest.
“Have you been away,” asked Dom. “I haven’t seen you for a long time. Not that I get out much these days.”
“I, I was working up in the north of England for the last year.” Martin appreciated not being rushed into telling the reason for his visit. Although, the question must be uppermost on Dom’s mind.
Peggy returned carrying a tray, “Michael,” she said “Will you pull that little table over in front of the settee.” Martin did as asked and Peggy placed the tray holding three mugs of tea and a plate of biscuits on the table. “Help yourselves to the biscuits,” she said, as she settled down next to Dom.
“Thank you mam.” Martin cleared his throat before continuing. “I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here.”
“I,” responded Dom. “You must have something important to tell us for you to make this journey.”
“Yes; it’s important to me that I tell it. I just hope it won’t be too upsetting for you.”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t be upsetting us deliberately. I’ve always thought of you as a decent man.”
“Well you might change your mind about that when you hear what I have to say.”
“Come on. Let’s hear it. I’m sure it’s not that bad.”
“First of all, let me tell you my name is not Michael O'Malley.” Martin watched their fac
es. They both just nodded. Then he braced himself as he continued. “My real name is Martin Prendergast.” It was the name Dom must have hated for such a long time: the name, he felt, the mere mention of in this house would be the cause of horror and outrage. Instead, nothing: the couple, again just nodded their heads. Thinking that they must not have heard him properly, Martin repeated the name, “Martin Prendergast.” Still there was no reaction. Not even a raised eyebrow. Martin paused, puzzled by the calm dispassionate acceptance of his revelation. “Dom,” he asked. “I’ve got this right; haven’t I? It was your brother that was killed at the barracks in Ballaghaderreen many years ago?”
“I, our Jimmy God rest him. It was a terrible time.”
“And you know who was blamed for it?”
“Indeed I do. And for a long time we did blame him, and if we caught him: my brothers and me, God help us, we might have killed him. There was so much hatred then. But, over the years, I came to realise that he couldn’t have done it on his own. Others, older than him, must have been involved. To tell the truth, at his young age, it wasn’t fair to put any of the blame on him. But, we did, because we had to blame someone, and he was the only one we knew was involved. It was easy to get a bad name then.”
“We got news lately that he had nothing to do with it. He was at the front of the building at the time, well away from where it happened.
Martin was astonished. What he was hearing, although excellent news, was so contrary to what he expected that it was almost unbelievable. Trying to contain his excitement, keeping his voice as calm as he possibly could he asked. “How did you find that out?”
“Well, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, it came as no surprise that your mane is Martin Prendergast. You might remember you were called that outside the church over a year ago.”
Martin nodded. How could he forget?
“Well,” Dom continued, “I wasn’t there, but my son John was: not in your company, but close enough to hear. The name rang a bell, but at the time he couldn’t remember why.
“It came back to him later and when we met a few days after, he told me about it. It was the name I had talked about to my family many years ago in connection with,.”. Dom paused. “I think you know what I mean.”
Martin nodded. Then Dom looked him in the eye. “Tell me honestly,” he said, “Before we say any more. Did you have anything to do with killing my brother?”
“Yes,” replied Martin. “I’ll tell you honestly. That’s what I’m here for. Yes, I did have something to do with it because I was there with the men that did it. But, I only met them that day for the first time in over a year. And, believe me, I had no idea that anyone would be hurt: let alone get killed.”