by Joe Joyce
‘She’s my cousin,’ Duggan said, squeezing his eyes against the pain.
‘Who?’ the man said.
‘Nuala Monaghan.’
The two men looked at each other. The short one let the revolver drop to his side without thinking. Duggan looked from one to the other, aware that something had changed. Things were not working out as they expected.
‘Where is she?’ he said, and winced at a stab of pain in his cheek.
There was a sudden hammering at the garage door and a voice shouted, ‘Police. Come out with your hands up.’
The short man muttered ‘Fuck’ and raised the revolver like he was going to hit Duggan again. Duggan put his arms up on either side of his head. But the man dropped the gun again and indicated with a nod of his head to the other man the door at the back of the garage. The other man opened it slowly, lifting it as it began to scrape off the dirty ground. There was no sound and he gave a quick look outside. He shrugged at the short man and they both slipped out, leading with their revolvers as there was another heavy knock at the garage doors and the voice shouted, ‘Open up!’
Duggan sank back on the old car seat and closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. Then, he stood up and staggered slightly as he went to the garage door, blinking away a sudden dizziness. He pushed the door out a little with his foot and the sunshine blinded him. He put his two hands through the gap, palms open and upright, and said, ‘I’m coming out.’
He pushed the door open further with his foot and stepped out. The lane was empty. Then he saw a gun pointing at him from an adjoining doorway and a face appeared above it. Gifford.
Gifford beckoned him forward with his spare hand. Duggan looked behind him. There was no one else around. He dropped his hands and walked towards Gifford. ‘They’re gone,’ he said.
‘You sure?’ Gifford kept his eye and gun on the garage door, still half open.
‘They went out the back.’
Gifford stepped quickly up to the garage door and took a look inside. He let the gun hang by his side and closed the door with his foot. He turned back to Duggan and seemed to see him for the first time. ‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘Are you all right?’
Duggan nodded and felt a trickle of blood running down his face. He wiped it away with the ball of his hand and slumped back against the wall facing the garage. He fished in his jacket pocket with his other hand and took out his cigarettes and put one between his lips.
‘What was all that about?’ Gifford asked, putting his revolver away.
‘Nuala.’ Duggan lit the cigarette and inhaled and picked off a flake of tobacco that had stuck to his lip.
‘They really are looking for her,’ Gifford shook his head in surprise.
‘And the ransom money,’ Duggan said. He told Gifford about paying the ransom and what had happened.
‘He’s mad,’ Gifford said of Timmy.
‘I don’t know what he’s up to,’ Duggan admitted. And I don’t want any part of it anymore, he thought.
‘Well at least we know that the IRA haven’t got her,’ Gifford said as they walked back down the lane towards Clarendon Street.
‘They were definitely IRA?’
‘Yeah. The small one is a fellow called Ward. A low-level hard man. He’s definitely on the list for the Curragh. I don’t know the other one.’
‘Thanks for arriving at the right time,’ Duggan said, still feeling slightly groggy.
‘We aim to please. But you can really thank Hansi. I was just coming out the side door of Switzers behind him when I saw you cross the road and Ward and his friend fall in behind you.’
‘Where were they?’
‘I’m not sure. Up the road a bit, I think. I only noticed them when they hurried across the road and came up behind you. So I tagged along too.’
Duggan staggered a little as he stepped off the footpath to let two women pass. ‘You need a drink,’ Gifford said.
‘No. There’s something I need to do.’
‘It can wait.’ They passed Duggan’s bicycle and Gifford led him around the Alpha Café into Wicklow Street. It seemed to Duggan to be a long time since he had sat inside the window eating a scone.
Gifford went up the steps into the International Bar on the corner of Andrew Street and ordered a Jameson for Duggan without consulting him. He ordered a glass of Guinness for himself.
‘Yes,’ Gifford said, settling himself on a stool, ‘I don’t know whether Hansi is a pervert or just acting the bollocks with us. He dragged me all around the lingerie department of Switzers for ages.’
‘Getting the dirty looks from all the shop assistants.’
Gifford nodded. ‘Fucked up my chances with any of them I might meet in the Metropole.’
‘You think he knows we’re following him?’ Duggan asked, not really caring about Harbusch at the moment.
‘If he doesn’t he’s got to be some kind of pervert. Getting his thrills from underwear or the dirty looks all the women in there give him. He just smiles at them all and does the German thing with his heels.’
The barman put the Jameson on the counter with a small jug of water. Gifford pushed the jug away and Duggan took a sip of the neat whiskey and felt it flow down to his stomach and begin to dissolve the knots there. He took a larger sip.
After a second whiskey they left the pub and Duggan retrieved his bicycle and mounted it.
‘Are you sure you’re all right on that?’ Gifford asked.
Duggan nodded. ‘I’ll see you in a while.’
Gifford watched as he wobbled a little back towards Grafton Street. He steadied up as he went across Duke Street and up Dawson Street and into Molesworth Street and headed for Leinster House at the end of the road. He waited impatiently, smoking another cigarette, at the security kiosk while an usher phoned Timmy’s office and told Duggan the deputy would come down to see him. Fucker, Duggan thought. He’d have liked to march straight in and demand explanations.
Timmy appeared eventually, barrelling around the high plinth on which the statue of Queen Victoria sat glowering back at Duggan. He stopped for a moment to talk to a passing politician, slapped him on the back. Duggan ground out his cigarette.
Timmy stopped when he saw him. ‘What happened your face?’
‘You tell me,’ Duggan shot back.
Timmy turned him around and hustled him out of the kiosk and across Kildare Street into Buswell’s Hotel. He didn’t stop until they got to the bar, murky and almost empty.
‘What the fuck happened?’ Timmy looked around, making sure there was no one within earshot.
‘I was beaten up by the IRA. Looking for your money.’
‘What?’ Timmy looked horrified.
‘A fellow named Ward. You know him?’
‘Ward? No.’ Timmy waved at the barman. ‘What do you want?’
‘Whiskey,’ Duggan said and sank back onto a seat. He lit another cigarette as Timmy went to the bar and ordered two Paddys. His anger began to deflate and he closed his eyes, feeling tired as the adrenaline drained away.
Timmy came back with a glass of whiskey in each hand and a jug of water between them.
‘Now,’ he sat down, his equilibrium back, ‘take a slug of that and tell me what happened.’
Duggan did as he asked, leaving Gifford out of it. The gunmen had run away when someone knocked on the door, he said. Some neighbour who was suspicious about what was going on.
‘Jaysus,’ Timmy said when he finished. He got up and went to the bar and came back with two more whiskies.
‘They were looking for your money,’ Duggan pointed out as he sat down.
‘But how could that be?’
‘Someone must’ve told them. Asked them to get the money back.’
‘That’s impossible,’ Timmy lit himself a cigarette and took a drink.
‘It wasn’t me. So it must have been you. Unless someone else knew about the ransom payment.’ Duggan watched him.
‘No,’ Timmy shook his head vigorously.
; ‘No what?’
‘No one else knew about it.’
‘So it was you.’
‘No,’ Timmy shook his head again. ‘I didn’t ask anyone to beat you up. Jaysus. What do you take me for?’
‘Or to get the money back?’
‘No, no.’
‘So how did they know about it?’
Timmy spread his hands. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know what the fuck’s going on.’
Duggan was beginning to feel lightheaded from the drink. He poured some water into his first whiskey.
‘Never heard of anyone called Ward in the IRA,’ Timmy said. ‘But I wouldn’t know any of the younger fellows anyway.’
Duggan said nothing. He didn’t believe Timmy. He had to be behind it all. Whatever it was.
‘Maybe they fell out among themselves,’ Timmy offered.
‘Who?’
‘The kidnappers.’
‘But you don’t think she’s been kidnapped at all,’ Duggan retorted.
Timmy scratched the side of his head as if it was the cause of all his problems. He drank in silence for a moment, then leaned closer to Duggan and dropped his voice. ‘There are big things happening,’ he said. He paused and looked around to make sure there was no one within earshot. ‘The Brits are offering a united Ireland.’ He leaned back, returned Duggan’s stare and nodded his head.
Duggan said nothing.
‘What does that tell you?’ Timmy said after another mouthful of whiskey.
Duggan shrugged. He wasn’t interested in Timmy’s political games.
‘It tells you they’re fucked,’ Timmy said with satisfaction. ‘And they know it. Last throw of the dice.’
‘What’s that got to do with me being beaten up?’ Duggan asked, disliking the peevish tone in his own voice but unwilling to let Timmy change the subject.
‘Nothing,’ Timmy admitted. ‘Nothing. Just marking your cards. Keeping you informed, up to date.’ He leaned towards Duggan again. ‘That’s top secret. Highest level. MacDonald’s here, talking to Dev. Trying to do a deal.’
Duggan put some more water into his empty whiskey glass and drank it back. His second whiskey was still untouched.
‘You know who he is?’ Timmy asked. ‘MacDonald?’
Duggan nodded. He knew he was or had been a British minister, had negotiated before with de Valera about the ports.
‘A decent man,’ Timmy nodded as if in agreement. ‘Gets on very well with the chief. Which is why they sent him of course. Think he’ll be able to plamás the chief.’ Timmy gave a short laugh at the innocent stupidity of it. ‘No chance.’
‘Why not?’ Duggan asked in spite of himself, aware that this was a chance to pick up some intelligence that he shouldn’t miss.
‘Because,’ Timmy laughed without humour, ‘you don’t switch teams in the last three minutes of the match when your side is up a goal and two points.’
‘And the Germans will give us back the six counties?’
‘They will,’ Timmy nodded. ‘They know what it’s like to have bits of your nation chopped off. They understand that very well. The Sudetenland.’
‘So the government’s going to say no to the British?’
Timmy nodded. ‘Nothing in it for us. Why would you join the losing team now?’
‘We get unity.’
‘Yeah,’ Timmy said with derision. ‘After the war. We heard that one before. And after this war they won’t be in a position to offer anyone anything.’
‘Maybe the Germans won’t agree to a united Ireland either.’
‘Why wouldn’t they? It’s nothing to them.’
‘They could decide to hold onto the North for themselves.’
‘What’d they do that for?’
Duggan shrugged. ‘Same reason as the British. Keep bases there.’
‘They can have a few bases if they want,’ Timmy offered. ‘They wouldn’t want the trouble of running the rest of it.’
Duggan winced as a sudden twinge of pain went through his cheek bone.
Timmy looked concerned and drained his whiskey. ‘Should you go to the hospital with that knock? It might need some stitches. I’ll drive you.’
‘I’ll be all right.’
Timmy made to get up, then stopped. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘Don’t think for a minute that I’d have anything to do with you being beaten up. If I find this fucker Ward I’ll beat him up myself.’
Duggan pushed the remainder of his drink away, his second glass of whiskey untouched, and stood up. ‘Whatever’s going on I don’t want to know about it anymore,’ he said.
‘Don’t worry,’ Timmy scratched his head again with renewed vigour and eyed the untouched Paddy. ‘I’ll get to the bottom of this. I guarantee you that.’
Duggan shook his head and left.
Sinéad called to him as he went by her office on his way upstairs to Gifford. ‘What happened your face?’ she asked when he stopped and looked in.
‘Fell off the bike,’ he looked sheepish. ‘Got caught in the tramlines.’
‘It looks sore.’
‘It’s just a graze.’
‘There’s blood on your cheek,’ she stood up. ‘I’ll clean it up for you. There’s some first aid stuff in the kitchen.’
He followed her into the kitchen and she pulled out a chair from the table and he sat down while she looked in a press. She got out a roll of cotton wool in purple paper and a large square of gauze and a roll of brown bandage.
‘I don’t need all that,’ Duggan protested. ‘It’s only a graze.’
‘Shhh,’ she said, wetting a lump of cotton wool and putting the palm of her hand against the other side of his face while she rubbed away the congealed blood around the cut.
He closed his eyes, feeling the cool of her hand on his face.
‘Okay,’ she said as she got a scissors from the cutlery drawer and took a narrow strip of bandage off the roll. ‘The cut isn’t that big.’
She put on the plaster and stepped back. ‘Are your elbows and knees okay?’
‘Yeah, they’re fine,’ Duggan stood up, rubbing an elbow. ‘I wasn’t going very fast. The handlebar just hit me as I fell.’
‘Just as well you’d been drinking,’ Sinéad said with a hint of criticism. ‘They say you don’t hurt yourself as much when you fall down drunk.’
‘No, no,’ Duggan said. ‘I wasn’t drunk. Only had a whiskey afterwards. Someone insisted I have one. For the shock.’
Sinéad nodded, unconvinced. ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’
‘No, thanks. I’m fine.’
‘You wouldn’t want to go back to work stinking of whiskey. They might get the wrong idea.’
He nodded. ‘Thanks for cleaning me up.’
Upstairs, Gifford looked up as he came in and said, ‘Jaysus, you stink like a distillery.’
‘Thanks to you.’
‘Gratitude, gratitude,’ Gifford threw his hands up in the air. ‘That’s young people today. Save their lives and they wouldn’t even thank you.’
‘Sinéad thinks I fell off the bike because I was drunk.’
‘You didn’t tell her about my daring rescue? How I single-handedly saved the army from the irregulars?’
Duggan shook his head with impatience and went to the window. ‘What’s happening?’ he asked, looking over the tops of the trees, unmoving against the blue sky.
‘A pigeon went by about twenty minutes ago,’ Gifford yawned. ‘Could’ve been a courier. In breach of the Pigeon Control Order. I couldn’t see where he landed but I don’t think he went into Hansi’s.’
Duggan gave a short laugh and pain flashed across his cheekbone. ‘My fucking face hurts if I laugh,’ he grumbled.
‘Just what we need, a spy that never smiles. As if you weren’t serious enough already.’
‘I’ve had a serious morning.’
‘True, true,’ Gifford tut tutted.
Duggan stubbed out his cigarette on a saucer with short stabs, feeling restless, needing to do somet
hing. ‘I’m going over there, to talk to the neighbours,’ he said.
Gifford gave him a quizzical look.
‘This is a waste of time,’ Duggan retorted. ‘Sitting here waiting for something to happen. Watching pigeons flying by.’
‘Should I have shot him down?’ Gifford inquired with an earnest look.
‘We should do something,’ Duggan retorted.
‘You’re going to talk to the neighbours,’ Gifford repeated. ‘With a bandage on your face, a mad look in your eye and whiskey curdling off your tongue. They’re going to call the guards. Who’ll haul me in and want to know who’s this G2 drunk and why didn’t I stop him from blundering in and fucking up our surveillance operation.’
Duggan said nothing.
‘Actually, they won’t be that upset. In fact, they won’t be upset at all although they’ll make a song and dance about it. They’ll be delighted. Tell everyone what a useless shower of amateurs army intelligence are. Which is what they’ve been saying for years anyway.’
They faced each other in silence for a moment and then Duggan shrugged and said, ‘I’ve got to go out for a walk.’
‘Buy some mints.’
Outside, Duggan turned right and walked fast up to the corner of Fitzwilliam Street, trying to burn off the restless energy that had made it impossible to stay inside. He looked left and right, about to cross into Mount Street, and a movement down the other side of Merrion Square caught his eye. An elderly woman was coming out of the Harbusches’ apartment building. One of the neighbours, he thought. That retired woman, he couldn’t remember her name, the one who had worked in London all her life and come back to Ireland when she’d retired.
He turned left and fell in behind her, thinking he might get a chance to talk to her wherever she was going. It’d be better than calling into the building and risk running into Hans or Eliza. He had to force himself to slow down to her pace, trying to still his restlessness through an act of will.
The woman was about medium height, wearing a tweed overcoat and a maroon-coloured hat that must be too hot for the day. She wore flat shoes and walked with a slight limp and had a basket hanging from her left arm. Going shopping, he thought.
She walked slowly down to the corner and turned towards the city centre. Fuck it, Duggan thought, he couldn’t saunter along this slowly at the moment. He was too tense, too upset, still reeling inside from the shock of what had happened, the panic of finding himself helpless, the sudden blow to the face. Timmy and his fucking conspiracies, he thought, prepared to blame him for everything. Anything to do with him always ended up in complications. He was going to have nothing more to do with him. Or Nuala. He didn’t owe her anything either. Just a cousin, an accident of birth, whom he hardly knew.