by Therese Down
“Come out from behind the desks and kneel on the floor – now!” They complied. The one at the desk at the back of the office was much younger and of a lesser rank than the first. He was saying something over and over again in a half whisper. It wasn’t until he was kneeling before Donal that it was possible to make out what it was – “Jesus help us, Jesus help us, Jesus help us.”
Joe pulled rope from a pocket and roughly tied the younger man’s hands behind his back. As he did so, Donal looked at the young officer’s face. He was sweating profusely and kept closing his eyes. This is insane – Donal’s recurrent thought was as clear now as the repeated prayer of the young man at his feet. His lips joined with the words in his head and he heard himself speak them. “This is insane!”
Joe whipped around to fix him with a glare and the gun he was holding pointed at Donal’s chest. The older RUC officer, hands clasped behind his head as he knelt beside his colleague, looked up into Donal’s eyes. Donal returned the look for a split second but it was enough. He saw an intensity of sorrow in the man’s grey eyes which outweighed his fear; imagined, in that moment, how his head must be filled with thoughts of his family, his children perhaps. And what of the young man who could not look up and kept his eyes closed all the time now, muttering his prayers while tears ran down his face? What was he thinking? Of his parents? His girl? His sisters, perhaps?
“Shoot him,” said Joe to Donal, indicating the older man with a sharp nod of his head. Donal looked at Joe as if he were stark mad, saw the fanaticism in his eyes, and slowly shook his head.
“No.”
“That’s an order, soldier – shoot him!” Joe shouted. He stood legs apart before the young officer, pointing his gun at his head, then, when Donal did not move to comply, turned and aimed his gun at Donal. At Joe’s command to shoot his colleague, the young RUC man had crumpled and he fell forward, sobbing.
“For the love of God…” the older man said. His voice had a distant quality, a quiet plea for mercy, a forlorn expression of hope. Joe stared at Donal, hatred glittering like splintered glass in his eyes, his chest heaving. He made a decision, focused his attention on the young man crying at his feet, and slowly pointed his gun downwards. Someone shouted, “Come on – get the hell out of here; let’s go, go, go!” But in the office, there was a surreal stillness as though time itself had paused to observe events.
“Yous don’t have to kill us.” The older officer spoke quietly. “Sure what’s he ever done?” And he looked into Donal’s eyes again. “He’s twenty-two years old – your age? He’s just a kid, so he is.”
“Shut up!” said Joe viciously. He leaned sideways in an instant and hit the older man hard across the head with his gun. The officer fell sideways, blood welling from a deep split in his temple. He crashed against his desk. The younger one began to sob, trying his best to stifle the sound, bending even further forward so his head was almost touching his knees and spittle skeined from his open mouth.
“This is stupid!” shouted Donal. “Leave them be and let’s get the hell out of here.”
“What’s your game, Kelly?” Joe’s voice was wrath-filled, unnaturally pitched. “Do you think we’re here to make friends? What did you think was going to happen? This is a war! This is what happens in war!”
“This is not war!” yelled back Donal. “This is murder! If you kill these men, that’s what this will be – cold-blooded murder!”
“We are all Irish men,” said the bleeding RUC officer, pushing himself with great difficulty to his knees again. “Why would yous kill your own?”
“You are not Irish men!” roared Joe. “You are traitors, colluders with the British, stinking, treacherous filth!” Joe kicked the young officer, catching him full in the face, and as his head jerked back from the force, Donal caught the widening of his eyes in abject shock, the blood beginning to pour from his broken nose and split lip.
“Christ be with me, Christ within me, Christ behind me, Christ before me…” The older man now closed his eyes and intoned St Patrick’s prayer in a clear, strong voice.
“I’ve had enough of this.” Joe pushed Donal out of the way and stood square before the older officer and aimed his gun, but his finger was not as quick to depress the trigger as Donal’s, and time resumed as Donal’s bullet sped through Joe’s right shoulder. Joe’s gun dropped, and Donal kicked it across the office, out of sight and reach. Swearing profusely, Joe cried out in agony and frustration, gripping his wounded shoulder. He shouted at Donal, “You are a coward and a traitor, Kelly! You’ll die for this, so you will.”
Donal kept his gun and eyes trained on Joe. “Get up!” he shouted, addressing the officers. The older one got shakily to his feet. “And you – get up!” Donal roared at the younger man. When he still remained kneeling, staring at Donal through tears and snot and blood, Donal took a couple of steps forward and, without taking his eyes from Joe, grabbed a handful of the younger officer’s uniform and yanked him to his feet. “Go! Now! There’s a bomb about to go off will blow this place to kingdom come. Get out. Get the others out.”
The older RUC officer nodded his head rapidly in encouragement to his colleague to join him and then they were gone. Donal steadied his gun with both hands. He continued to stare at Joe during the urgent shouts, rapid footfalls, and sounds of doors banging which followed as the two officers gave the alarm, commanding their colleagues to get up and vacate the barracks.
“So, what now, Kelly?” Joe was still clutching his shoulder, blood oozing thickly over his fingers, his face contorted with pain. His breath was laboured and he was sweating profusely. Donal shook his head and backed away.
“You are no better than any man you have gunned down or planned to kill, Morgan, and a hell of a lot worse than most of them, I’d say. You would shoot men on their knees, with their eyes closed, praying for mercy!”
“They are the enemy!”
“They have nothing to do with your stinking war!” Donal bellowed the words. “It is so clear to me now! Those men did not partition Ireland or… or murder anyone! The English are barracked out there” – Donal jerked his head to indicate the street – “but you haven’t the guts to confront them because you know you’d be dead in two minutes. But you’d ambush men who can’t defend themselves and you’d shoot them dead, because that way you’ll live and be a hero, is it? Some stinking hero, Morgan!” Donal’s hand shook violently as he continued to hold out the gun, in spite of the support of his left hand. “A child could pull a trigger and shoot a man dead from two feet. What the hell sort of freedom does that get you? And who, in God’s name, wants the sort of freedom the likes of you can offer, Morgan? I don’t!” Donal was beside himself with a rage he no longer tried to control. “It is stupid beyond my capacity to calculate! Can you not see? The likes of you – and yes, me – is something Ireland needs to run a thousand miles from!” He began to back away. The sirens were loud now.
“Shoot me, Kelly,” sneered Joe. “Have the guts to do that at least. Show me what a big man of principle you are. Finish the job.” Donal looked at the clock on the office wall. Joe turned to follow his gaze and smirked. “What’s it going to be, Kelly? If you leave me alive, you’d better hope to God I don’t get out, because if I do, I’m coming after you – make no mistake about that.”
Donal sighed, lowered his gun, and looked at Joe with an expression of resignation. “Good luck” was all he said, then he turned and ran as fast as he could from the office, down a corridor to the back of the barracks and the smashed windows. He threw an upturned chair against the wall, leaped onto it, and jumped upwards, grabbing a windowsill. He experienced rather than felt jagged glass pierce his palms. Pulling himself up, he squeezed through torn grilling, falling the ten or so feet to the ground.
He ran for the protective shadow of the rear wall. Behind it, Donal could hear English voices, orders being barked: “Spread out!” “Watch the walls!” Furtive and terrified, he crouched against the cold brick and closed his eyes.
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br /> An impression of absurdity overwhelmed him. That everything he had ever done, said, thought should culminate in this moment was ridiculous, and he suppressed the desire to laugh. “If you are really up there,” he prayed, “get me out of this, would you, please? I have important things to do.” At that precise moment there was an ear-splitting explosion and a lurid orange glow suffused the darkness. Debris and masonry hurtled through the night; the split and crash seemed to go on far longer than the few seconds it took for the lorry to ignite. And then all was screams and shouts and sirens and confusion.
The perimeter wall and the right-hand side of the barracks had been destroyed by the blast. Donal rose and, camouflaged by dense smoke and darkness, stole right, through the ruins, leaping and stumbling away from the flames which sprouted exotically from the rubble. He expected to be shot or apprehended at any moment, but the soldiers behind the barracks had taken cover then pushed forward to the front of the building, missing him by seconds. Donal veered further right, away from Strand Road, making for the side streets. He lost himself in the frantic crowds of off-duty naval personnel and local people who had left the dance halls, cinemas, and pubs to discover the source and effect of the explosion; to discover the nature of this attack which had found their city in spite of the darkness which hid it from German planes.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
One Saturday morning in early March, Caitlin was surprised to hear movement from Flynn’s room. It was not yet eight o’clock and she was having her breakfast, intending to study at the kitchen table for most of the day. As the sounds of movement upstairs continued beyond those which might indicate he was just relieving himself, she was irritated. What now? She went upstairs and knocked on his door. When there was no answer, she waited long enough for him to make himself respectable, then entered. Flynn was bent over, leaning on his bed for support and clearly very weak. He had managed to dress himself. “What are you doing?” asked Caitlin, quietly. She still feared him.
Flynn straightened up and slowly turned around to face her. He had buttoned up his cardigan the wrong way and he looked painfully thin, his chest heaving beneath the garment.
“I have things to sort out,” he managed between laboured breaths. He took a step forward but was very unsteady.
“Hold on.” Caitlin crossed the room and offered her arm. With her support, in evident pain, Flynn walked to the door. They could not both go down the narrow stairs. Flynn eyed the sharp descent to his kitchen and almost lost courage.
“You’ll have to get back up again,” said Caitlin. “Sure, how…” Before she could finish, Flynn reached a trembling left hand for the banister, put the flat of his right hand against the wall, and began the torturous journey downstairs. How Caitlin wished she had gone first! At last, exhausted and coughing, Flynn sat at his kitchen table. Caitlin noted how his heart pounded beneath his cardigan and his shoulders were as sharp through the wool as a cow’s hip bones beneath her hide.
When he could speak, he said, “The cows will be calving any day. They need to be brought up from the field, close to the barn – out the back,” and he nodded in the direction of the field with the stunted tree, overlooked by Caitlin’s room.
“Milking, by mid-March…” he went on, struggling for enough time between breaths to get out the words. “It’s hard with calves. Weaning, early April. I need help.”
“I can do some of it,” offered Caitlin cautiously, for she was very reluctant to get caught up in a milking routine and had no idea how to wean calves. Flynn closed his eyes and shook his head emphatically.
“McCormack’s son,” he said. “Pay him. There’s a brown box above.” And he indicated his room by jerking his head upwards. “Money in that.”
“OK.” Caitlin frowned, nodded. “But which son? Do you mean McCormack the dairyman?”
Flynn nodded, held up two fingers.
“The second one?” He nodded again. It made sense. The third and youngest was only fifteen. The oldest was following in his father’s footsteps and accompanying him on dairy rounds, learning about the dairy business. The second was eighteen and had left school, was doing odd jobs around the place to earn a few shillings a week. “How much will I pay him?”
“Three shillings a week.”
“Right so.” There was a long pause. “Can I get you some tea?” Flynn nodded, coughed, held a handkerchief to his mouth and closed his eyes against the pain. Caitlin set about filling the kettle. Why did he have to get up for this? she wondered to herself, irritation rising again in her breast, for she would not be able to work quietly at the kitchen table now, warmed by the range.
He spoke again. “Something else…” She placed the kettle on the hob, turned to him once more. “Buy a horse.”
“What?”
“Bainbhs need to go to market –” He could not go on, had to cough. For some minutes he gasped and wheezed, waited to recover. “You can’t crate them up. The horse” – and he indicated the existing horse by moving his head in the direction of the barn – “can’t pull a cart to Tipperary.”
“I will get my father to take them in his truck,” pronounced Caitlin. “That’s the least he can do.” Her tone and determination made Flynn smile briefly; he looked at her and his gratitude and admiration were apparent. She flushed. “Well, there’s no point taking pigs to market to spend everything you earn on a new horse – is there?” And she turned her back to him and made the tea.
“Something else…” As she put his tea in front of him and he spoke again, Flynn lowered his head to avoid her eye. “Get the priest,” he said, and after a few seconds’ pause, added, “please.”
On the same Saturday, Dan Kelly and Pat O’Meara were crossing the yard from the barn to the house, having supervised the births of a couple of bull calves. One birth was straightforward but the second was a huge calf, and the cow’s labour had failed to progress so she had needed the men’s intervention. Pat had held the cow’s head and soothed her while Dan had turned the calf, pulled it clear of its mother by roping its forelegs. All were now doing well. They were about to enter the house when a man on a bicycle turned into the yard and hailed them.
“Kelly?”
“Yes, I’m Dan Kelly.”
The man then rummaged in a leather satchel on straps which he wore across his body from shoulder to hip. “A letter for Miss Jacintha Kelly,” he announced, then tipped his cap. He had ridden from the post office at Golden as soon as the letter was delivered by van with the papers and other post from the Tipperary sorting office. It had been posted some ten days before.
“That’s Donal’s writing,” said Dan excitedly. He thanked the postman and hurried indoors, shouting for Jacintha.
“I’m here, Daddy,” she said, coming downstairs. “I was just putting some linen away. What’s the matter?”
“A letter – a letter from Donal – it’s addressed to you, here.” Dan held the envelope out to her before she had reached the kitchen, flapping it up and down as if he could hasten her approach. She frowned but took the envelope, checked the writing, looked at the postmark. Her father watched her with growing impatience. “Jacintha, would you ever open the letter, for the love of Mike!”
“OK!” Jacintha had never before received a letter. It occurred to her that if it was addressed to her and not her father, there may be something Donal wanted to confide in her. She would have preferred to open it alone. As she unsealed the envelope, she was quick to spot the green edges of bank notes. She left them where they were and pulled out the letter. She began reading it to herself.
“What does he say?” insisted her father.
“Right – he’s going away…”
“Going away where? Why?”
“Daddy, do you want me to tell you or not?”
“Yes, yes – go on.”
“He says… ‘tell Daddy and Deirdre not to worry. I am very well and will be in touch as soon as I can, when I’ve settled somewhere. Please tell them both I love them. I can’t tell you where
I’m going because I don’t know yet myself. All I can say is that I have to go away. I have no choice. Daddy was right to suspect I was sweet on Caitlin Spillane. But she is married and that is that. I’ll probably travel abroad, do some teaching. Who knows? I may study again. I am sorry to leave ye like this but you have Pat. He is a good lad and will work hard. Treat him well and he’ll look after you all. Donal.’”
“I knew it,” said Dan sadly, sitting down heavily on a kitchen chair. “He’s smitten with that young one and he can’t have her so he’s gone off to get her out of his system.” There was a silence.
Pat said nothing, though he had coloured and looked sad. Dan’s latest copy of The Irish Press featured a front-page article about the explosion in Derry and the attempted planting of a bomb in Belfast.
Several people had been injured by the blast, including a couple of off-duty US naval personnel. Two men, however, had been killed; one an IRA man and the other an RUC officer shot before the explosion. Neither had been named by the time the article was printed and the paper was, of course, already a few days out of date by the time it reached Golden.
No one was more relieved than Pat O’Meara when Donal’s letter had arrived. In the short time he had lived with the Kellys, Pat had grown very fond of them. He loved their kindness and how peaceful the house was. Dan was a fair and even-tempered man, unlike his father and brothers, and Pat was flourishing in the praise and gratitude Dan lavished on him. And then, of course, there was Deirdre. She had already won his heart. It was not easy for Pat to deceive these good people by keeping secret what he believed was Donal’s real reason for leaving. Yet not for anything would he have betrayed Donal or more deeply hurt his father. And if Dan once suspected that Pat had anything to do with the IRA… it was too horrible to contemplate.