by Tim Vicary
‘Really?’ He raised an eyebrow, the scar whitening on his cheek. ‘Ask away then.’
She considered, pleased at the way her policy of aggression was paying off. ‘First, tell me why your house burned down.’
He began to tell her, briefly, but then Keneally announced that supper was served. At the table, it became obvious he would have to tell the whole party. It was a tale which expressed the inner fears of every Anglo-Irish landlord, surrounded as they were by a sea of poverty, envy, and Roman superstition.
Colonel Roberts, recently arrived from England, was appalled. ‘It sounds more like something out of the Punjab than the United Kingdom,’ he said. ‘Are you positive it was the Sinn Feiners who did it? These things can sometimes happen by accident, you know.’
Andrew smiled grimly. ‘All I know is, at least one of them was there on the night, and I’d marched them out of the house at gunpoint two days before. That house had stood for two hundred years before that.’
The solicitor MacQuarry, who, in addition to his moors in Scotland, had an estate in County Wexford, mentioned a similar tale he had heard of a house that had nearly been burnt there; and Simon le Fanu had heard of Unionist farmers’ crops being burnt, and the tails of their cows docked in the night.
‘So we have to show them,’ said Sir Jonathan. ‘Firm government action is the only way, plus a determination on our part not to be intimidated.’ He fixed Catherine firmly with his eye, trying to quell the explosion before it could erupt.
But she had made her views known to the Viceroy; she did not want to fight that fight over again tonight. She was more intrigued to learn about Andrew.
‘Where are you going to live, then?’ she asked.
‘I’ll rebuild the house, one day. Until then, I have a place here in town, and some cottages on the estate where I can camp.’
‘Why not leave, sell it all up, and go to England?’
‘Where to? It’s my home.’
‘Will you have the money to rebuild it?’
‘Not now.’ He looked at her coldly, with more distaste than before. She wondered what she would do if her own home were burnt down. But then it was not her own home yet; not until she had an approved husband. I wonder if I look like a good catch to you, she thought; a young girl with lots of money and a compliant father. And a Sinn Fein lover in the slums.
Ex-lover.
The talk drifted on, to the political situation and what Lloyd George should do. There was talk of English recruits coming over to strengthen the police; of a thorough overhaul of Dublin Castle; of how the Home Rule Bill might defuse it all. To her father’s great relief, Catherine let it drift over her. It’s all a charade, she thought, there’s no point in arguing with them. Words mean nothing. Sean is right, action is the only way.
And that will mean death, and war, and burning all over the country. Do I want that?
I want Sean.
I’ll go back and find him again. I was crazy to walk out like that. It’s what we do that matters. What we do when we’re together, not what we say. Oh Sean, I need you.
Andrew had been watching her, fascinated by her proud slender beauty. For much of the time she seemed withdrawn, drifting away inside herself. At the end of the evening he said: ‘You went very quiet, young lady. I thought you might argue with us, if you are a nationalist, as you say.’
‘There’s no point. Words change nothing. Only action does.’
‘True.’ Just as failed action only makes things worse, Andrew thought. What would this girl be saying now, if Michael Collins had kept his appointment yesterday? He shrugged and said: ‘Well, what’s it to be?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Your prize. If you win the shooting match.’
‘Oh, that.’ She had forgotten all about it.
‘Yes. It has to be something serious, remember.’
She wondered how to put him off. The man had interested her for a few moments, no more. She had no intention of going out to the country with him for some bet. But she didn’t want to back down. So she said: ‘All right. If I win, your ruined house belongs to me. How about that?’
His lips tightened. This girl is lethal, he thought; she only strikes at the heart. She watched him coolly, her eyes wide, dark, distant.
He said: ‘That’s a big bet, young lady. I shall have to think what to take from you in exchange.’ He held her gaze for a moment, then turned abruptly and went down the steps into the street. ‘I’ll let you know in a few days,’ he said. ‘Better practise your shooting.’
Then he was gone, crossing the square quickly, his heels clicking on the pavement. She stood on the doorstep and watched for a moment, wondering if a young man in a flat cap would appear under the streetlight on the corner, where she had kissed Sean.
But there was no one there.
20. A Face to Remember
IT WAS quiet in the library. Davis always treasured his visits here; it was like dropping into a pool of silence, after the glare and bustle of the streets outside. Here there was only the flicker and rustle of pages, like leaves in the wind, and the breath of whispered, apologetic conversations.
He came here regularly. He had acquired a reputation, in the force, as being something of a reader; apart from cars it was his main interest, so far as anyone knew, outside his work.
The young man behind the counter had seen him coming. At the moment he was dealing with an insistent old woman, who wanted the definitive book on wedding etiquette, and refused to be satisfied with the only one he could find. Davis met his eyes, briefly, then picked up a book idly, resigning himself to wait.
As he read, he took a copy of the transcript of Radford’s interview with the German officer and slipped it between the pages, like a bookmark. It was, he thought, very disturbing. In the first place, the raid had foiled what might have been a highly successful arms purchase for the Volunteers. In the second place, the police now knew all about it, and would no doubt use it as evidence to convince the higher command that far tougher measures were necessary against the IRA.
This man Radford was becoming a menace. He was too effective; he made Davis nervous. Not only had he found out about the Brendan Road rendezvous; he had got all this information out of the German in a couple of days. He must be a powerful interrogator, Davis thought; and his mouth went dry for a moment as he imagined himself sitting across the table from the Ulsterman, not as a colleague, but as a suspected traitor.
The old lady was satisfied at last. She left, clutching a large volume open at a page full of illustrations of wedding dresses and veils. Davis looked around him, and then stepped up to the counter. He smiled at the young man, and passed him the book. The report stuck out a fraction of an inch from the end of it.
‘Would you put that one back on the shelves for me?’
‘Surely, sir. Is there anything else I can help you with?’ As he spoke, the young man bent down and put the book into a rack under the counter, deftly abstracting the paper as he did so.
‘Not at the moment. How are things here?’
‘Peaceful enough. But we’ve a couple of new volumes in that might interest you. I made a note of them. Here.’
He passed over a folded sheet of paper. It said, simply: ‘Need to see you. Donegan’s, tonight. D.’
He nodded. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘They look very interesting.’
He wandered slowly away to the shelves on engineering and transport, chose a book at random, took it to the counter to be issued, and walked out.
Donegan’s was a small tobacconist’s in Aungier Street, halfway between Dublin Castle and St Stephen’s Green. It was the sort of place where men were dropping in all day for cigarettes and a chat; like the kiosk that Thomas Clarke, the first signatory of the Republic, had had in Parnell Street before the Rising. But, as Davis knew, more came out of Donegan’s than tobacco. In the little room at the back, there was a complete printing press, where the republican newspaper, An tOglach, was printed.
D
avis hoped he was the only member of the DMP who knew this.
As he stepped inside, the proprietor, Donegan, looked up with a cheerful grin.
‘Ah. Mr Davis, would it be? There was a fellow here looking for you just now. Wait now while I close this door, would you?’
He locked the door behind Davis, and then led him through to the room at the back. Here, two men sat quietly reading. One was Patrick Daly and the other was Michael Collins himself. Collins got up quickly, and pumped him by the hand.
‘Dick! Good to see you, my boy! Have a chair, have a chair. Have you got much time?’
‘An hour or so.’
‘Good. That’s great. We should be through by then.’ He sat down, and looked at Davis intently. As always, Davis felt overawed by the sheer energy and ebullience of the man; but at the same time vastly reassured, to feel that the affairs of the revolution were in such hugely capable hands.
‘You look worried, Dick.’ Collins grinned. ‘Is the crime wave wearing you down?’
‘Hardly. The police are becoming very efficient these past days. You saw that in Brendan Road, didn’t you?’
Collins frowned. ‘I know. Because of your new boss, Radford. I’ve read the reports you send us. The man’s too damned efficient for his own good.’ He paused. Davis met Daly’s eyes and knew what was coming. Collins said: ‘We’re going to get rid of him.’
‘How?’ Davis felt a surge of excitement, almost sexual in its intensity. It was for this, as much as for his political beliefs, that he did this work. The sense of power that enabled him to look at his colleagues, and know almost for certain that this day would be their last on earth. And that he, Dick Davis, had a hand in it.
‘That’s what we need you for,’ said Collins. ‘Where does the man live?’
‘In the Standard Hotel, in Harcourt Street. I think he’s going to move into the Castle soon, but they haven’t found him a room yet. Everyone wants one.’
‘We’ll save them the trouble. What time does he usually go to the hotel?’
‘It varies. Six, seven in the evening, maybe, for dinner. He’s not that regular.’
‘Do you go with him?’
‘Sometimes. More often he goes with his friend, Kee.’
‘I don’t want Kee yet,’ Collins said. ‘With luck he’ll go back to Belfast when his master’s dead. But our problem is, we’re not absolutely sure what Radford looks like. The last thing I want is to shoot the wrong man.’
Davis began to describe him, but Daly interrupted.
‘That’s no good. You can never be sure from what someone says. Look, we want you to point him out to us. Sometime tomorrow if you can. Where are you likely to be with him?’
Davis thought. ‘In HQ in Brunswick Street, I suppose.’
‘All right.’ Daly nodded. ‘Well, at some time during the day, I want you to come out of the front door with him. We’ll be watching it. If you come out together with Radford, do something - take your hat off, fiddle around with the lining or something. If you’re with anyone else, keep your hat on.’
Davis considered the idea. ‘Are you going to shoot him there and then? I’d have to try and defend him, you know.’
Daly shook his head. ‘No, no. We just want to get a good look at him, so we don’t make a mistake later.’
‘All right.’ It didn’t sound too good to Davis, but he couldn’t think of anything else. ‘There’s one other thing you ought to know,’ he said.
‘What’s that?’
‘He wears body armour. Some kind of bullet-proof vest. I’ve seen him put it on. It makes him look stouter than he is.’
Daly smiled. ‘He’s worried already, then. We’ll get him, Dick, don’t you worry.’
Collins stood up. ‘We could go out and have a pint together, Dick, but I don’t think it would do your reputation any good.’
‘To be seen with you? No.’ Davis left. As he walked along the street outside he took off his hat and looked at it curiously. One touch of this, and I sign a man’s death warrant, he thought.
The sense of power coursed through him. Then, unbidden, the voice of his old school chaplain came into his mind, saying: ‘And Judas Iscariot betrayed our Lord with a kiss.’
Davis cursed, jammed the hat back on his head, and put the thought resolutely out of his mind. That was nothing like it, quite different entirely. That was religion, this was a matter of real life, politics, freeing the nation from oppression.
He strode on briskly down the street, until he came to a pub called Rafferty’s, near the tram stop for his journey home. He went inside, bought a large double gin, and drank Michael Collins’ health, all alone at the bar.
Sean awoke, sweating. For a moment he was disoriented. The clean, white walls, flowery chintz curtains, the crucifix at the foot of the bed, the painting of the Sacred Heart - where was he? There were people moving around downstairs, talking quietly, laughing. No shouts or brawls or stench; in fact, a tempting smell of frying bacon drifted in. Then one of the voices spoke more clearly - a woman’s voice - and he remembered. He was in Mrs O’Hagan’s, the new lodging house Paddy Daly had found for him.
He got out of bed, stripped, and washed from the ewer and basin on the table in the corner. The water was ice-cold, and goose pimples rose along his skin. But he persisted, splashing himself all over with the flannel, trying to raise a lather with the small cake of soap, until his skin was red raw and his teeth were chattering uncontrollably. Still he went on, rinsing the soap off, dunking his head in the basin, even putting his feet in it one at a time to clean them. Every part of him must be clean, especially there, between the legs, and if it was cold and hurt, so much the better. The towel he found was not large, and it was soon sodden, but he rubbed himself hard with it, vigorously, until his skin became pink and warm. His feet ached on the cold wet floor.
He saw the crucifix on the wall and thought: Now I am clean of her, now I am free. I will confess it all later today and then I will be free of her completely. And now I am cleansed and pure to do whatever duty has to be done.
The breakfast room was small, with a crisp white tablecloth and gleaming cutlery. There were two other young men already sitting there; both were lodgers in the house, Sean knew, and part-time members of the Volunteers. But they had jobs to go to in the day, as Martin had once had, and both were already eating quickly, with one eye on the clock. They nodded to him. Mrs O’Hagan had had a paper delivered, and one boy had it propped on the table in front of him.
‘Look at that, boys!’ he said exultantly. ‘We must have won nearly every blasted seat in the country!’ He jabbed with his fork at the results of the local elections on the centre page. ‘A Sinn Fein council in every town in the land! Now whose country is it?’
‘Same as before,’ said the other lad morosely. ‘Voting won’t change a thing.’
Mrs O’Hagan came in smiling - a round cheerful woman in an apron, her grey hair covered under a white cap. She put a steaming plate of bacon, kidneys, fried egg, mushrooms, tomatoes, and fried potatoes in front of him, and stood back proudly. ‘There now.’
‘Mother of God!’ He looked up and caught the frown on her face. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs O’Hagan, I didn’t mean to swear, but - do you eat like this every day?’
‘Of course we do. You boys are doing your bit for the country, and that’s my contribution - to send you out fit and strong as you can be. Now you eat it up - I don’t want a bit left, mind - while I fetch you a fresh pot of tea. Come on, Seamus, now; your tram’ll be leaving in a quarter of an hour.’
The other two laughed at Sean’s evident surprise. ‘You’ve fallen on your feet here, Sean,’ said Seamus, grinning, as he hurriedly forked the last of his bacon into his mouth.
‘I have that, surely.’ And yesterday I woke up in a slum where I had to scavenge for every scrap like a dog, he thought. The others left and Sean began to eat. Daly arrived twenty minutes later while Sean was drinking his third cup of tea and munching toast, engrossed in the newspaper.
He heard the front door open, and then a heavy hand slapped him in the back.
‘Well! And how do you like the life of O’Rahilly, then? Better than your last billet, eh, Sean boy?’
‘It is that, surely.’
Daly sat down, his genial face turning quickly serious. ‘Well, don’t get too used to it. You’re on the run, the peelers could learn about this place any time. Enjoy it while you can.’
‘I know. What’s our job for today?’
‘Aren’t you the keen one? Nothing too strenuous this morning. I thought we’d stand in the street and watch a few policemen. Would that suit you ?’
Sean flushed, remembering what had happened outside the Lambert Hotel. ‘You know I’m not too good at that.’
‘I know, lad. That’s why I’ll be there this time, to hold your hand. Anyway, that’s only part of it. Let me tell you now.’
He poured himself a cup of tea, and began to explain.
Sean had guessed that Davis was working for the Volunteers when he saw him with Collins in Brendan Road. He had not realized, until today, how close that cooperation was.
Daly said: ‘When he touches the man with his hat, walk up as close as you can. Don’t let him see you, but make sure the man’s face is stuck in your mind. We don’t want any mistakes later.’
The moment came around midday. They were loitering inside a friendly newsagent’s opposite the police headquarters in Brunswick Street. They had been there for most of the morning, examining each paper closely as though they might one day consider buying it. Quite suddenly, Davis came out of the front door. Behind him was another man, a little shorter, a rather stocky, genial figure, unusually broad in the chest. As soon as he was outside on the pavement, Davis snatched his hat from his head and began to fiddle ostentatiously with the rim. He held it almost at arm’s length, as though there was something inside it that offended him.
‘Steady on, now, no need to overdo it,’ Daly muttered. ‘The man’s making a bloody pantomime of it!’ He clutched Sean’s arm to make sure he had seen too. There was only one man with Davis, so there was little chance of confusion. Nonetheless, as they came forward to cross the street, Davis made some remark to Radford, and slapped him on the chest with the hat. Radford looked mildly surprised. They crossed the road at an angle to where Sean and Daly were standing, and set off towards the city centre.