Spies

by Brian Gallagher

  ‘Maybe Sister Mary likes men with sallow skin and dark hair!’

  Stella looked slightly shocked, but she laughed. ‘Why don’t you ask her?’

  ‘Can you imagine? Please, Sister, what is it you find irresistible in a man?!’

  Stella laughed again, then they reached the end of the corridor and stepped out the door leading to the school yard. The October air was cool, but there was hazy sunshine that gave a shimmer to the nearby waters of the Irish Sea. Despite the cries of the school yard, the atmosphere felt still, with barely a hint of a breeze troubling the surface of the water.

  ‘I love when the sea looks really calm,’ said Stella.

  ‘Yeah.’ Alice paused, then spoke seriously. ‘If only everything was as calm….’

  Stella nodded, and there was no need for the friends to elaborate on what it was that worried them. Yesterday’s Sports Day had been a success, with badly needed money raised for the Balbriggan fund, yet despite the sports, and pony racing, and Irish dancing, Alice’s enjoyment of the event had been dampened by Stella’s report of her meeting in Dublin with Johnny.

  ‘I wish there was some way we could protect Johnny,’ said Alice after a moment.

  ‘He swore me to secrecy, we can’t tell anyone.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘All we can do is pray that whatever he’s at, he comes through safely.’

  ‘Praying is all very well,’ said Alice. ‘But I’d love to be able to do something.’

  ‘Like what? We’ve wracked out brains.’

  ‘Maybe we should wrack them a bit more. If something happens to him, while we do nothing, we’ll never forgive ourselves.’

  Her friend went to respond, but Alice held up a hand to cut her short. ‘You could be right, Stella. Maybe there’s nothing we can do. But maybe, just maybe, there is. Let’s not stop trying to figure out what that might be. OK?’

  ‘OK,’ said Stella. ‘OK.’

  * * *

  Johnny tried to appear calm as he drove with Mr O’Shea towards St Mary’s orphanage. He sat in the passenger seat of the car, beside the former commercial traveller, who glanced inquiringly at Johnny as he drove through the early evening traffic.

  ‘You followed Lieutenant Peel yesterday, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He’s dangerous. He was posted here from Russia. Be really, really careful there, Johnny.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mr O, I’m on full alert when I trail any of them.’

  ‘Good. Because you’re not dealing with the army or the regular police here. These men are experienced intelligence agents – they’re ruthless.’

  ‘Right.’ Johnny swallowed hard, remembering yesterday and the fright he had received when Lieutenant Peel had suddenly turned around while Johnny had been following him down North Earl Street. The Englishman had done it smoothly, as though he had suddenly remembered something that required him to alter course. But Johnny suspected that it was the move of a trained agent who wanted to see if anyone was tailing him. Johnny’s heart had pounded in this chest at the time, but he had managed to walk casually past the intelligence officer while sorting through a bunch of telegrams. No need to worry O’Shea by telling him about the incident now, thought Johnny, who had already resolved to be careful in the extreme if he had to follow Lieutenant Peel again.

  ‘So, this Brother Kenny at the orphanage,’ said O’Shea, breaking Johnny’s reverie. ‘You don’t have to be afraid of him anymore. Just let me handle him.’

  ‘OK.’

  In truth Johnny was still afraid of Brother Kenny, but looking across at Mr O’Shea, he felt reassured. Since his escape from prison O’Shea had been working full time for the rebels, and with his smartly cut suit and driving a gleaming – if borrowed – motor car, he exuded the confident air of a successful businessman. Johnny knew though that he could be decisive and ruthless when necessary.

  ‘Right then,’ said O’Shea, ‘let’s see if we can get some answers for you.’

  * * *

  Johnny steeled himself, determined to look unconcerned. They were in the reception area in St Mary’s now, but the moment O’Shea had turned into the avenue leading to the orphanage Johnny had felt anxious. All the old, horrible memories of being beaten, and hungry and cold had flooded back. He had had to remind himself that he was no longer at the mercy of the brothers, and that he had an ally in Mr O’Shea who was tougher and more fearless than anyone they were likely to encounter in St Mary’s. It had been a pleasant surprise to Johnny when Mrs Hanlon and Mr O’Shea had been so sympathetic about his suffering in the orphanage – lots of people weren’t bothered about the welfare of orphans – and he put their attitude down to the idealism that made them also want a better Ireland.

  The weak evening sun was starting to set now, and Johnny knew that the boys would be eating in the refectory, which accounted for the fact that he hadn’t seen any of the orphans as they had entered the building. Johnny had followed O’Shea’s instructions to wear his best clothes, and despite his anxiety, he still felt much more assured than when he had been a helpless inmate here, dressed in drab, ill-fitting hand-me-downs.

  O’Shea confidently rang the bell on the desk, and Johnny recognised Mr Roche, the caretaker who came in answer. If the man recognised Johnny he gave no indication, but taking in O’Shea’s expensive clothes, he spoke deferentially.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?

  ‘Yes, I’d like to speak to Brother Kenny, please.’

  ‘Can I say who it is, sir?’

  ‘Mr Smith. Tell him it’s a matter of urgency, please.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  The caretaker went through a door behind the reception desk, and O’Shea turned and winked. Johnny forced himself to smile in return, but his mouth went dry when Brother Kenny strode in to reception a moment later.

  Johnny was standing a little to the side so the brother didn’t notice him, his attention directed to O’Shea.

  ‘You wished to see me?’ said Kenny.

  Johnny was interested to see that the brother’s tone was polite, and he realised that he was responding to O’Shea’s smart appearance.

  ‘Yes,’ answered O’Shea. ‘I’d like to make a donation to St Mary’s.’

  ‘How very kind.’

  ‘Well, my nephew here, Johnny, is a former pupil.’

  Kenny turned around, and Johnny saw the shock in his eyes. He recovered quickly though and gave a phoney smile. ‘Yes indeed, I remember Johnny. A very talented musician.’

  Johnny swallowed hard, his blood boiling. In all his years in the orphanage Kenny had never once acknowledged his talent. He felt like screaming at his former tormentor, of reminding him of the beatings and his needless cruelty, but instead he stared Kenny in the eye, refusing to smile back.

  ‘Could we pop into your office, perhaps, to work out a few details?’ suggested O’Shea.

  ‘Certainly. This way, please.’

  Kenny ushered them in through the door, and the smell of the waxed corridor they entered brought back memories to Johnny of orphans on their knees, polishing its surface as if their lives depended on it.

  They came to an office, which Kenny unlocked, then the brother seated himself behind a large mahogany desk, indicating for Johnny and O’Shea to sit opposite him.

  ‘So, you very kindly wished to support St Mary’s? Mr Smith, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right,’ answered O’Shea, reaching forward and placing a ten-shilling note on the desk. ‘There you are.’

  Johnny saw the confusion on Kenny’s face.

  ‘That’s your donation?’

  ‘Have you a problem with that?’ asked O’Shea.

  ‘I thought…’

  ‘It’s just a small gesture,’ said O’Shea, cutting the brother off. ‘To compensate for disturbing your dinner, and perhaps to give the boys a little treat. God knows they could do with it from what Johnny has told me.’

  Kenny’s face darkened, but before he could respond O’She
a continued, his tone relaxed and almost friendly. ‘And talking of Johnny, I’d like you to oblige me by consulting your records. Johnny wishes to know who his parents were.’

  ‘Does he indeed?’ said Kenny, all pretence at goodwill gone from his voice.

  ‘He’s entitled to know who his family are.’

  ‘You said you’re his uncle. Surely then he knows who his family are.’

  ‘Not an uncle by blood or by marriage. But I’m like an uncle. And now he wants to know his background. It’s not a lot to ask.’

  ‘It is a lot to ask. It’s confidential information. He was fed, clothed and educated at St Mary’s. We owe him nothing more than that.’

  ‘That’s where we differ,’ answered O’Shea, his tone hardening. ‘I’d say he was beaten, starved and abused in St Mary’s. I’d say you owe him an abject apology.’

  ‘How dare you?’

  ‘But we’re not demanding an apology,’ said O’Shea, ignoring the brother’s anger. ‘We’ll settle for the information on his family.’

  ‘That’s not possible. Now I’d like you to leave.’

  ‘We’ll be happy to leave. But not without the information.’

  ‘I’m afraid you don’t understand. I’m not obliged to tell you anything.’

  ‘Well, you’re right about one thing. You’re right to be afraid.’

  Johnny had been fascinated by how O’Shea was handling Kenny, and now he saw the brother’s face begin to flush with anger.

  ‘Are you…are you threatening me?’

  O’Shea didn’t answer, but instead unbuttoned the jacket of his suit, reached into the inside pocket, and took out a Webley revolver. He placed the weapon on the edge of the desk, then looked Kenny in the eye.

  ‘I’m politely asking, one more time,’ said O’Shea.

  Johnny couldn’t help but enjoy the shock on the brother’s face.

  ‘You can’t…you can’t come in here and threaten me!’ he spluttered.

  ‘No?’

  ‘How dare you think that––’

  ‘How dare I? Well, that’s easy. I’ve spent the last two years fighting the RIC, the British Army, the Black and Tans and the Auxies. Putting manners on a bully of a Christian Brother is small potatoes.’

  ‘I don’t have to listen to this,’ said O’Shea, rising behind the desk.

  ‘Actually, you do,’ said O’Shea, taking up the gun and aiming it. ‘But if you think I’m bluffing, try walking out the door. I promise you, it’ll be the last time you walk anywhere. Your choice.’

  There was a long pause, and Johnny found himself holding his breath. Would O’Shea really shoot if Brother Kenny called his bluff? For a moment nobody said anything, and no one moved. Then Kenny breathed out angrily and sat down again.

  ‘Good,’ said O’Shea. ‘Now that we know I’m serious, we can put this away.’ He slipped the pistol back into his jacket pocket. ‘All right, Johnny, if you wouldn’t mind opening the door, Brother Kenny will lead us to the records office.’

  * * *

  The last rays of the evening sun shone in through the window, the temperature dropping and the wind blowing against the window pane. The records office felt cold and musty, but Johnny’s sense of numbness had little to do with the weather. He stared at his birth cert, and the St Mary’s records, his head swirling as he tried to process what he had learnt. Johnny Dunne, born May 13th 1906 to Norah Dunne, chemist’s assistant, and Josef Lazlo, musician. It certainly explained where his musical talent came from, but who was Josef Lazlo and how had he ended up in Ireland? Why did he not have his father’s surname? And why had Josef Lazlo and Norah Dunne placed him in an orphanage? He knew that if a woman who was unmarried had a baby it was often taken for adoption, and he had long since had to accept that that was probably what had happened in his own case. But Norah Dunne had an address in Athlone. Could her family not have taken her in, and spared Johnny the horrors of St Mary’s? Or maybe she had died in childbirth. There were so many unanswered questions. But knowing who his parents were meant he now had a starting point for more enquiries.

  ‘Ready to go, Johnny?’ said O’Shea. ‘I’ve jotted down all the details for you.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Before we leave though, you and I have a bit of business,’ said O’Shea, turning to Brother Kenny. ‘Beating the last two boys into the shower each time, and then making a laugh of it? That’s a pretty sick joke, mister. You need to stop that.’

  Johnny saw the anger flaring up in Kenny’s eyes. ‘Who the hell do you think you are!’ he snapped at O’Shea. ‘You got what you came for. Quit while you’re ahead, if you know what’s good for you.’

  ‘You’re the one who needs to learn what’s good for you,’ said O’Shea, then he suddenly pivoted and punched Kenny in the stomach.

  The brother doubled over and sank, gasping, to his knees. O’Shea grabbed him by the lapels and dragged him up until their faces were just inches apart. ‘If you do that beating-at-the shower routine to another child, it won’t be just a punch you get. Johnny is still in touch with boys here, and he’ll hear about it if you don’t stop.’

  Johnny was taken aback by O’Shea’s claim – he hadn’t been in touch with anyone in St Mary’s since the day he had left – but then Kenny wasn’t to know that.

  ‘If Johnny hears that you haven’t stopped,’ continued O’Shea, ‘I’ll be paying you a visit in the middle of the night. And the thump you just got, that will be like a caress compared to what I’ll give you if I’ve to come back here. Understood?’

  Johnny looked at his old tormentor, fascinated to see that the man who had frightened so many boys was now frightened himself. No longer a figure of terror, Johnny now saw him for what he was, an overweight, middle-aged man with bad breath and dandruff on his collar.

  ‘I said is that understood?’ insisted O’Shea.

  ‘Yes,’ gasped Kenny, ‘yes, it is.’

  ‘Good.’ O’Shea released the other man, then turned to Johnny. ‘I think we’re finished here. Unless there’s anything you want to say to Brother Kenny.’

  ‘I’ll never, ever, have anything to say to Brother Kenny,’ Johnny answered, looking at him with disdain.

  ‘In that case let’s get out of here.’

  ‘Yeah, let’s,’ said Johnny, then he turned his back on Kenny and walked briskly out the door.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘If Finland can be independent, why can’t Ireland?’

  It was a good question, and Stella didn’t have a ready answer. She was in the junior chess club with Alice, and Padraig Egan, the one boy in the club that she had never liked, had asked her the question aggressively.

  Finland had just won independence from Russia, and Stella had been coming to the view that perhaps Ireland should be independent of Britain. But she didn’t want to be publicly disloyal to her father, and she sensed that Padraig had posed the question to put her on the spot.

  They were in a break between games, and she could see that the other club members were watching her, curious to see how she would respond.

  ‘Maybe Ireland can be independent in time,’ she answered.

  ‘Not if people like your father have their way,’ said Padraig.

  ‘My father just does his duty,’ answered Stella, ‘he doesn’t get to decide on Home Rule or Independence.’

  ‘But he’s English, so even if he did get to decide, he’d probably want to keep us down.’

  ‘Don’t talk rubbish, Padraig,’ said Alice.

  Stella felt a surge of affection for her; it was typical of Alice to defend a friend.

  ‘Who’s talking rubbish?’ demanded Padraig.

  ‘You are. You’ve never even met Stella’s father, have you?’

  ‘No, but––’

  ‘Well I have. And he’s not the sort to want to put anyone down. So cut it out.’

  Padraig glanced around, seeking support, but Stella was pleased to see that the club members seemed to have been swayed by Alice.

&
nbsp; ‘Leave it, Padraig,’ said one of the other boys.

  ‘Or better still, do your fighting on the chess board,’ said Alice. ‘I’ll take you on, and if you beat me I’ll buy you an ice cream – and call you “your majesty”!’

  There was cheering and laughter from the other members, and even Padraig gave a wry grin. ‘You’re on!’ he said.

  Stella watched them setting up the chess board. She thought how lucky she was to have a friend like Alice. She thought too that it was clever of Alice to lighten the mood with humour, having made her point with Padraig. And what would Padraig Egan think if he knew that her other friend, Johnny Dunne, whose life she had saved, was actively engaged in the war of independence?

  Life was complicated, what with defending Dad on one hand, yet deceiving him regarding her involvement with Johnny, and her growing sympathy for his cause. She was about to take a seat and watch Alice’s match, when Mr Rooney, the local chess master and founder of the club, entered the room.

  ‘Stella Radcliffe,’ he called.

  ‘Yes,’ said Stella, rising from her seat.

  ‘Could we talk in private, please?’

  ‘Eh…yes,’ answered Stella, wondering why on earth Mr Rooney needed to speak to her in private. ‘I’ll be back to cheer you on,’ she said to Alice, then she crossed to Mr Rooney.

  He looked serious, and Stella felt a twinge of unease. But she had done nothing wrong, and she told herself not to be so fretful. Stepping out onto the landing, she saw her father, and she stopped dead, knowing that something important must have happened for him to interrupt her chess club.

  ‘Dad,’ she said. ‘What’s wrong?’

  He looked pained, and even as she asked the question, in her heart she knew the answer.

  ‘It’s…it’s Granddad,’ her father said. ‘I’m afraid…I’m afraid he’s gone.’

  Although Stella had known that this moment was coming, the shock hit her hard, and she felt her throat constricting and her eyes welling up.

  Suddenly Padraig Egan, and the war, and even Johnny Dunne were banished from her mind, as she grappled with the reality of never seeing her beloved Granddad again.