by Tim Vicary
But it’s not, he thought. I can’t have you walking round Dublin for the next few days. Somehow, that has to be stopped. He said: ‘I’m more interested in talking about you and me.’
She sighed. ‘Not now, Andrew, please.’
‘Will I see you when you’re in Dublin?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Look - surely after last night? It wasn’t that bad, was it?’
‘Last night was fine. It was just what I needed. But it was before I knew Sean was going to be tried for murder, and that you were a British spy, Andrew.’
He was silent. Just what she needed. The words settled slowly into his mind like a cloud of gas drifting over a trench. One part of phosgene in a million parts of air could change everything inside a man utterly, and for ever. Not at once; it took a day before the inevitable death. So it was with only a few words. They settled into his mind, quietly, peacefully, and began to work.
He began to realize that he had been used. There had been no love in it as he had hoped. Just something to satisfy her own transient desires. He had not thought women could be like that.
They talked little throughout the afternoon. When they reached Athlone the carriage filled up, with two officers and a businessman and his family, so further personal conversation was impossible. But when the train was already beginning to slow on its final approach to Dublin, he said: ‘You’ll be going back to Merrion Square, I suppose?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘There’s something I want to show you before you go home, if you can spare the time.’
She shrugged. ‘Go ahead.’
‘It’s not here. It’s in my house.’
‘Ardmore?’
‘No. I have a small house in Dublin. It won’t take more than a few minutes, but it’s quite important. It’s about that letter.’ He glanced at the ashes on the floor, which were now scattered under the shoes of the businessman’s wife.
She thought about it. She was tired, but the letter intrigued her. If she found out more about it, it might help the movement; and also, if she knew where he lived she could tell Sean, or Professor O’Connor, perhaps. Oh no. She remembered the description of the dead police commissioner. I don’t want to encourage any more of that, she thought. Not to Andrew. Not to anyone.
‘I don’t want to know where your house is,’ she said. ‘It’s best if I don’t.’
‘Please,’ he said. ‘It won’t matter to me if anyone does know - I won’t be staying there. And it is important, really.’
‘Oh, all right.’ For the moment she was too tired to resist. But even as they walked out of the station and called a cab, she was thinking: There’s something wrong about this. I thought it was clever at first to interrogate him about the letter but now I’m getting in deeper than I should. But she was too concerned with Sean to think it through. It would only take a moment, Andrew had said. And it was on the way anyhow.
The cab took them down a narrow road of tall, not very prosperous terraced houses. There were some children playing with a hoop at one end of the street and a barrow boy selling vegetables. It was a poorer area than she had expected.
He paid off the cab outside the door.
‘I thought you said it would only take a moment?’
‘Oh, I’ll help you call another cab. There’s no shortage.’
They went in. The house had a musty, unlived-in smell to it. There was a patch of damp in one corner of the hall and dust on some of the paintings. It was cold; there were no fires lit.
‘Welcome,’ he said. ‘Let me take your hat and coat.’
‘No thanks. I’ll keep them on. Heavens, Andrew, do you live here?’
‘Only when I have to. It was my parents’ town house.’
‘You want someone in to clean it up, give it a bit of life.’
‘Yes.’ He looked at her strangely.
I shouldn’t have come, she thought. This is a waste of time. ‘All right. Where is this thing that’s so important?’
‘It’s in the cellar, I’m afraid. It’s rather big.’
‘In the cellar?’
‘Yes.’ He opened a door at the back of the hall. Some steps inside led down. He lit an oil lamp and led the way. Mystified, she followed. He opened a door at the bottom and went in.
The cellar was almost empty. Catherine looked round and saw an old bicycle, a couple of trunks, some bottles of wine covered in cobwebs, a stack of chopped wood in the corner, a broken sofa with the springs hanging out of the bottom.
‘What’s all this?’ she said. ‘Andrew, there’s nothing interesting here.’
‘Only one interesting thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘You.’
He had put the lamp down in the middle of the floor, and stepped back to be between her and the door. She stared at him. His face was lit oddly from below because of where he had put the lamp, so that the shadows were in the bottom of his eye- sockets instead of the top. There was an odd, bitter smile on his face.
‘What is this, Andrew?’
‘I suppose you could call it a kidnapping,’ he said. ‘Would you push that sofa over against the wall, please.’
‘Certainly not!’
‘Please. I insist.’ He took an automatic pistol out of his pocket and pointed it at her.
‘You wouldn’t shoot me!’ She took a brisk step towards him. He cocked the pistol. She took another step, then stopped.
‘Move the sofa,’ he said.
‘Move it yourself.’
He took a step backwards, kicked the door shut behind him, pointed the pistol at the ground, and fired. The noise in the cellar was shattering. Catherine screamed and put her hands over her ears. Her head seemed to be ringing as if it were inside a huge bell. She looked down. A chip had been blown out of the concrete floor three inches from her toe. She gaped at Andrew, aghast.
‘Please,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to fight, and I don’t want to hit you. But I will if I have to. You’d get bruised, and hurt.’
She turned and pushed the sofa against the wall.
‘Now sit on it.’
She sat.
He walked over to the bicycle and took a chain and padlock from the saddlebag. Then he bent down at the far end of the sofa, by the wall. She saw there was an iron heating pipe running along the edge of the wall. He slipped the chain around the pipe, and then passed one end of the chain through the large ring in its other end. He said: ‘Come and sit here. Take your boot off and stretch your leg out.’
‘Why?’
‘Just do it.’
She did it. He looped the free end of the chain around her ankle and fastened it tightly with the padlock. Then he stood up. ‘There. I’ll bring you food and water in a moment.’
‘You mean you’re going to leave me here?’
‘I’m afraid so. Just for a day or two. It’s what I need you for, you see.’ He emphasized the words oddly.
‘You’re mad. I’ll scream, anyway. People will come and rescue me.’
‘Do you think I’d have fired this gun in here if any sound could get out? You’ll just give yourself a sore throat.’
‘But why, Andrew?’
He shrugged. ‘Work it out for yourself. I’m sorry, my dear. I was quite fond of you last night. But as you say, I’m a British spy, and they’re very nasty people. It’s much better to trust Sinn Feiners. Good night.’
He walked out of the door, and she heard the sound of the bolts being shoved to behind it. She wasn’t sure, but she thought he locked the door at the top of the cellar stairs, as well.
32. Stone Walls Do Not A Prison Make
‘MOVED? MOVED where?’
‘To Dublin Castle. He was requisitioned by order of Military Intelligence this morning.’
Kee couldn’t believe it. He stared at the prison governor as if he were some sort of five-headed leprechaun who had just popped up through the floorboards. ‘By whose orders?’ he said at last.
‘Captain Smythe,
I believe.’ The governor frowned. He searched amongst the papers on his desk, found the order form, and passed it over. ‘Yes, that’s it. Didn’t he tell you?’
‘No, he damn well did not.’ Kee examined the order form with care. It was the right paper, correctly stamped both at Dublin Castle and here in Mountjoy Prison. It was signed by a Captain Smythe. Kee wasn’t familiar with the signature but it looked all right. He tried to think who Smythe was. A vague image of a small, pipe-smoking, pompous individual came to mind. What the hell did he want with Brennan?
‘Do you mind if I borrow your phone?’
‘Go ahead.’ Kee searched for the number, dialled, and waited. A clipped, brusque English accent came on the line.
‘Smythe here. Intelligence.’
Interference, more like, Kee thought. He said: ‘This is Detective Inspector Kee of the Dublin Metropolitan Police. I’m ringing from Mountjoy Prison.’
‘Oh yes. Morning, Kee. What can I do for you?’
‘You can start by telling me what the hell’s going on.’
‘Sorry, old chap. I don’t quite get you.’
Kee took a deep breath. ‘What I mean, Smythe, is why the hell have you requisitioned my prisoner? That man has been charged, and it’s my investigation. He’s got nothing to do with you.’
The voice at the other end sounded puzzled. ‘I say, steady on, old chap. You seem to have got your wires crossed. Which prisoner are you talking about exactly?’
‘You know damn well which prisoner. Sean Brennan, that’s who. I’m here in the governor’s office at Mountjoy with a warrant signed by you for his transfer to Dublin Castle. Your soldiers came and took him…’ He glanced at the governor. ‘When?’
‘Half an hour ago.’
‘Half an hour ago. So where is he now?’
There was a silence. Then the voice on the telephone said: ‘A warrant signed by me, you say?’
‘Yes!’ Kee roared. If I had him here I’d take that bloody pipe and stuff it down his throat, he thought. I suppose they think they can get secrets out of him which I can’t.
‘Sorry, old boy, there must be some mistake. I haven’t signed an order requisitioning any prisoner for days. Certainly not one for anyone called - what was it?’
‘Brennan. Sean Brennan.’
‘No. Definitely not.’
‘But I’ve got the form here in my hand!’ Kee looked at it again. It was all genuine, he was sure of it. Sure of everything except the signature, that is. He met the governor’s eyes, and a dreadful suspicion began to drain the blood from their faces simultaneously. The voice crackled irritatingly in his ear.
‘Listen, Kee, old chap, this is a serious accusation you’re making. I assure you on my word of honour that I have not requisitioned any prisoner by the name Brennan from Mountjoy Gaol. So if you’ve got an order bearing my name, it must be a forgery. Why don’t you bring it down here and let me have a squint?’
‘Yes. All right. I’ll do that.’ Kee put the phone down. His hand was shaking so he did it clumsily. Brennan was Bill Radford’s murderer - he was the one man in his whole career whom Kee had ever truly wanted to see hang. Where was he?
He turned to the governor. ‘What was the name of the officer who collected him? He must have signed something, mustn’t he?’
‘I don’t remember. Yes, here it is.’ The governor passed over another sheet of paper. The signature at the bottom was nearly illegible. ‘Dawson? Deasy? Dickson? It could be anything. He was a major in the Wiltshires, I know that. They’re stationed in the Royal Barracks, near Phoenix Park. I’ll ring them, if you like.’
While the governor phoned, Kee paced up and down the room, his clenched fist banging softly against his thighs. It was his fault, it had to be. If only he had been here an hour earlier, as he usually was. But other things had been piling up. Davis had come to him that morning with a pile of reports and unanswered queries which he seemed desperate to have answered. Kee had to direct the office as well, now that Bill Radford was dead.
‘Dead, you say?’ The governor’s voice echoed Kee’s thoughts. ‘My God. I see.’ The governor listened some more, then put the phone down, shaken. ‘I’m afraid no armoured car was sent here, but one was stolen at the Corporation Abattoir this morning. One soldier was shot dead, and two others stripped and bound. I’m afraid we’ve been conned, Inspector.’
‘An armoured car! Great God!’ Kee sat down on a chair for a moment, stunned. ‘Is nothing safe from these murderous thugs?’
‘Apparently not.’ The governor glanced at him, then dialled another number. ‘I’ll put out an alarm round the city.’
But Kee had his face in his hands, and was fighting back tears of frustration. I had him, Bill, old friend, he thought. I had him here in my hands; and now he’s slipped free, like water.
I’ll never leave this blasted town. I meant what I said. If I don’t catch the bastards, I’ll die here.
Daly had dropped off Sean and Seamus Kelly in Drumcondra before heading out into the country to strip the Tin Annie of its machine gun. Kelly took Sean to a house where two old grey-haired sisters insisted on giving the boys a meal. So it was late afternoon when, with caps pulled down jauntily over their eyes, they pedalled back into the city.
‘It’s Big Michael himself’ll be wanting to see you,’ said Kelly. ‘It’s the living proof you are of the invincibility of the Dublin Squad!’
They both laughed. The exhilaration of the morning’s escapade was bubbling out of Kelly, and all the time the joy was growing in Sean, too, like a seed that is about to germinate. Already he was able to laugh; soon that laughter would no longer be anxious or desperate, and he would really believe he was free again.
The city was growing dark, and a soft evening rain was sweeping in from the sea. Sean rejoiced in the feel of it on his face. The sulphurous smell of coal fires, the rattle of trams and bicycle bells, the hiss of the gas lamps being lit, everything delighted him. He had resigned himself to seeing none of it again, but now he could do what he liked: buy a newspaper, go for a pint in a pub, ride a tram, even cycle straight out into the country if he chose. Not today, perhaps, but then he did not need to do everything today. The rest of his life stretched out in front of him, with all those unlimited summers and winters that it had always had, and that he had never appreciated before.
He thought about Catherine’s letter. ‘The times we had together were the most wonderful in my life.’ In prison he had admitted to himself that some of the things he had said to her had been wrong. Now, perhaps, he could see her again, try to explain.
Tonight when he was alone in bed he would think if he really wanted to do that. And if so, how. Almost certainly, the police would guess at the possibility, and be watching her home.
It won’t be possible for some time, he thought.
Then he saw her.
They were cycling along the North Circular Road when Kelly spotted a detachment of soldiers getting out of a lorry ahead of them and searching young men on the pavement. He pointed them out to Sean, and the two of them turned left down a side street, and left again. It was an area that had once been prosperous, and was becoming less so. They saw some women talking, children playing with hoops in the street, and a barrow selling vegetables. Further on, a man and a woman were getting out of a cab.
The woman was Catherine.
Sean was certain of it, though she was twenty yards ahead of him. It was dark and smoky in the street, but in order to get into the house the man and woman had to pass under the yellow, spitting glow of a gas streetlight. No one else had a back quite so lithe and slender as that, quite the same jaunty flick of the head. Even at that distance, he could not be wrong. And then, as she turned back to speak to the man who was paying off the cab, he saw her face briefly in profile, and every atom of his body ached for her.
But by the time he had recovered from the shock and decided to pedal quickly forwards, she had gone up the steps to the front door of the house. The man had unlocked the
door, put his arm on her shoulders briefly to show her in, and they were gone.
Sean stopped outside the door, gazing at it hopelessly. Kelly went on, then realized Sean was no longer with him, and came back.
‘What’s up? Come on, Sean boy. This isn’t the place at all.’
‘No.’ Number 16. What had she said in the letter? ‘My father wants me to marry a man of my own class as you said. I may not be able to resist it, but it will be a sad cruel heartless business, like sending a mare to the stud …’ Was this where it happened, then? So soon, so soon after I was sent to gaol.
He thought for a moment of bursting in and throttling the man with his bare hands. But Kelly had a hand on his shoulder.
‘Come on, Sean boy, we can’t hang around here. Those soldiers are probably out looking for you. And there’s a curfew since you were arrested, you know - we haven’t a lot of time. Pedal down here after me and we’ll give them the slip, right enough.’
So Sean followed. As they turned out of the street he noticed its name - Nelson Street. But the joy had gone out of his release completely. When they met some soldiers, he pedalled past them quite calmly, hardly caring whether they recognized him or not. He remembered some words from a poem he had once read at school:
‘Stone walls do not a prison make
Nor iron bars a cage’.
No, he thought. It’s in our minds that we are free or not, depressed or joyful. If I’ve got the freedom of the whole city, and no love, what’s the point?
Catherine had tried to tell him that before.
‘It’s quite like mine, old boy. I’ll grant you that.’ Captain Smythe sucked at his pipe to keep it alight. ‘But I’ll swear by anything you like I never signed it. Let’s have a closer squint.’
He pulled a large magnifying glass out of a drawer, and examined the signature minutely. Kee sighed with exasperation. Who did the idiot think he was - Sherlock Holmes? ‘Look, I’ll accept your word for it …’ he began.
But Smythe was waxing enthusiastic. ‘There, see! Take a look at that loop on the Y! It’s not a single curve, it’s two. The pen’s not run straight on as it should. It’s stopped, and the fellow’s had to go back and join it on with another stroke. I’d never do that, you see. This is how I dash off the old autograph …’ He signed his name on a scrap of paper with a flourish. ‘Now these fellows couldn’t do that - probably traced my signature and then went over it in pen. But they couldn’t quite carry it through in one go.’ He straightened up. ‘Fascinating stuff, y’know.’