The Devil's Due: An Irish Historical Thriller

by L. D Beyer

  Earlier, when we arrived, the doctor only shook his head, his eyes telling us what his words couldn’t. The nuns didn’t argue this time when Seamus and I refused to leave Liam’s side. Their eyes, like the doctor’s, told us it was time. There Seamus and I sat, one on each side of Liam’s bed as we had since early morning, oblivious to the chill in the breeze from the open window.

  I heard a gasp, and Liam’s frail body shuddered. The lump in my throat grew but, after a moment, his body settled and his raspy pants continued. Wiping away my tears, I closed my eyes, praying for my friend as I had been since we had arrived.

  “Frank.” Liam’s raspy voice, barely a whisper, startled me. His eyes were glassy, full of pain.

  I wiped my own eyes, not from the shame of crying, but wanting to spare my friend the lack of hope my tears held.

  “Aye, Liam. I’m here.” I said softly. “Seamus is too.”

  Liam’s eyes shifted, found his brother, and I couldn’t stop the tears now as they stared into each other’s eyes. Without words, Liam and Seamus were talking, sharing one final time a lifetime of pain and sorrow and joy and hope and their bond as brothers. The tears rolled down Seamus’s cheeks as he nodded.

  “Frank?”

  Liam’s eyes found mine again.

  “Aye, Liam.”

  “Did we win?”

  “Aye, Liam,” I said, nodding and wiping my eyes again. “We won.”

  His lips curled, a faint smile. “Ah, that’s grand, Frank. That’s grand.”

  Then my friend closed his eyes for the last time. A moment later, he shuddered again, a choking sound in his throat this time, and then he was gone.

  ___

  Liam left the hospital the same way he had arrived, in the back of a cart, his head cradled in my lap.

  “We’re taking him home,” Seamus had told the nun, his voice barely above a whisper.

  “You can’t,” the nun scolded. “Not until…” Her voice trailed away under Seamus’s glare. She looked at me. There were forms, there were procedures—surely I would understand, her eyes seemed to say. My own glare matched Seamus’s and she backed away.

  I stood back as Seamus carefully tucked the blanket around his brother. With his hand, he gently brushed Liam’s hair, stepped back then, after a moment’s hesitation, folded Liam’s hands across his chest. He looked up at me and nodded. Together, we wheeled the bed out of the room, ignoring the reproachful looks from the nuns. A moment later, we wheeled the bed out of the hospital, into the harsh gray light of a city preparing for war.

  ___

  Liam was waked at his parents’ house in Drommore, a stone’s throw from my mam’s cottage. Like my own father had once, Liam’s father raised pigs and made his life from the land. Tara, one of Liam’s cousins, and my own mother had prepared the body. Liam was laid out on the table, the white sheets, ones that had never covered the living but were reserved for the dead, tucked neatly around him. A crucifix lay on his chest, and the beads of the rosary were laced through his fingers. On the table beside him, the candle flickered. Seamus, as he had done right up till the end, took his seat next to his brother. His parents—Liam’s mother and father—sat beside him. I knelt by my friend and said a prayer. When I finished, I stood and turned to Liam’s mother.

  “Ah, he looks good, Missus Ahern.” I said as I patted her arm.

  She glanced up at me and nodded. Her dark eyes were set above puffy, round cheeks that sank inward by her mouth, and the skin hung loose on her jaw. She looked much older now—I hadn’t seen her since the day I had fled my own house years ago—but in only a day the death of her child had surely aged her in a way that no years could. The tears, I could see, would not be long in coming.

  “Tara did a fine job laying him out,” I said, the first of many who would tell her the same in the hours to come.

  She nodded again then thanked me. Her eyes held mine for a moment before she let out a sob and grasped my hands.

  “Look what they did to him, Frank,” she pleaded. “Look what they did to my Liam.”

  I held her hand for a long moment, fighting back my own tears. Empty chairs were arranged around the room and in the next as well. The first of many mourners, and Liam’s friend since we were lads, I was expected to sit with the family throughout the day and the night as well, eventually joining the men in the kitchen for a wee wan when the bottle was passed.

  “I can’t stay, ma’am.”

  “I know,” she said, patting my hand now, and I wondered how much Liam and Seamus had told her. I turned to Liam’s father.

  “I’m sorry for your troubles, sir.”

  Mr. Ahern looked up and nodded.

  “Thank you,” he said quietly before his eyes settled again on the empty chairs across the room. Staring straight ahead, hands folded neatly on his lap and his spine stiff with Irish resolve, he would remain there for hours throughout the endless procession of neighbors and friends all come to mourn his son. People would soon fill the cottage, and the haunting sounds of the keening would soon fill the air.

  I left quietly before it did.

  ___

  Word of Liam’s death had traveled quickly, as news of a death usually did, and within days, those who needed to know were told. Telegrams and telephones weren’t needed, nor would they have done any good, as the people who knew Liam had little use for either.

  By the time I reached Mary’s, it was late afternoon. I found her outside, hitching the horse to the cart. She watched as I climbed off of the bicycle and leaned it against the wall.

  I shook my head, a silent answer to the question in her eyes. I told her what I had done since I had last seen her, of my search in Limerick for her son. She nodded, her eyes wet. I knew it wasn’t only for Liam. She nervously smoothed the wrinkles off of the black lace dress that I had only seen her wear to funerals. Today she wore it for Liam but I sensed she was filled with dread that she would soon be wearing it for her own son. We stared at each other in silence for a moment.

  “What will you do now?” she asked.

  “Go back to Limerick,” I said.

  “Tonight?”

  I thought about it for a moment. “Tomorrow. I’ll stay at the castle tonight.”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” she scolded gently. “You’ll stay here.”

  I opened my mouth to protest but never got a chance.

  “Billy’s sure to be in Limerick,” she reasoned. “And if he isn’t, he’ll be paying his respects to the Aherns. He certainly won’t be coming around here.”

  I didn’t think Billy was capable of showing such compassion, but I understood what she meant. Billy had other worries at the moment and wouldn’t be looking for me. A moment later, Mary flicked the reins on the cart. I watched as she disappeared into the mist. I stuck my hand in my pocket and found my father’s watch. I felt the ticking, but this time I wasn’t able to find any solace in the rhythm. Instead, it only reminded me that Tim was still missing and I had little time left to find him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  In the darkness before dawn, I set out on the bicycle following the same roads I had the last few days. The shepherd I had seen days before was nowhere to be seen that morning, nor was the sun. It was raining, a slanting hail that forced me to duck my head, barely able to see the road before me.

  I wiped the rain from my eyes and pedaled on in silence, sloshing through the mud and puddles, lost in my own thoughts. The rain matched my dark mood and allowed me to pass the carts, motorcars, and people I saw along the way with nothing more than a nod. The darkness of the night had given way to a cold, wet, gray morning. My trench coat cinched tight, hiding my priest’s collar, I was just another Irishman with neither the sense nor the choice but to be out in the rain.

  I had set out with the intention of going to Limerick. After only a few miles, I looked up through the lashing rain and spotted the intersection and the road to Ballyneety, near where I had seen Andrew days before. On impulse, I turned. He hadn’t said e
xactly, but I thought I knew where he lived.

  Fifteen minutes later, I was sitting in front of a fire, sipping a hot cup of tea, while Andrew’s mother fussed over the wet priest who had unexpectedly appeared at her door.

  “And where is it you’re from again, Father?” Mrs. Toomey asked.

  Caught by surprise, I sipped my tea as I thought of my answer. Over the last two months I had used half a dozen names including that of a long dead friend as well as that of a man whose passport I had stolen. But for the last few weeks I had been a priest and, for the life of me, I couldn’t remember what I had told Andrew.

  “New York,” I finally said. “But my family lives in Clare.”

  She nodded but said no more. She turned back to the fire, having insisted on making me breakfast. I sat in silence while the smells of ham and bread filled the room. Andrew, she had told me when I first arrived, would be back shortly, having been sent to a neighbor’s farm to deliver some eggs in exchange for butter and milk. Why he hadn’t waited for me in front of the Royal George, I didn’t ask, and I suspected she wouldn’t have known if I had. He had made it home safely, it seemed.

  The ham sputtered and sizzled when Mrs. Toomey placed it in the pan, and the smell soon filled the room. That a priest was wanting to see her son had left her worried, wondering what transgression he might have committed. I had told her the truth, that I had met Andrew on the way to Limerick as I was searching for Tim. I told her I was worried about both of them, about God’s children being caught in the battle that was sure to come.

  “Why did Diarmuid join?” I asked, before she thought of another question for me.

  I saw her stiffen. She turned slowly, and I saw the same look in her eyes that I had seen in Andrew’s.

  “There’s no telling with a boy like that,” she finally said. “Daft he is and with no schooling…” She paused and wiped her eyes. “Andrew is only twelve, but Diarmuid always thought him the older brother.”

  I frowned. Now I understood why she had been sending Andrew to Limerick. What we Irish called daft, British doctors called idiots and lunatics. The British send boys like Diarmuid to the asylums, many expected to labor in exchange for food and shelter. Never one to rely on the state, the Church provided its own answer. Idle hands make for the Devil’s work, the Church believed and the lunatics, especially the children were kept busy with lessons and work.

  But Mrs. Toomey hadn’t done that, preferring instead to keep Diarmuid at home. Caring for the sick, the elderly, and the daft had been the burden of Irish women for centuries. She had no intention, I suspected, of doing anything different.

  Something nagged at me: Diarmuid was daft, and I struggled to understand why the IRA would want him. My thoughts were interrupted when Mrs. Toomey placed the plate in front of me.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” I said. I hadn’t eaten yet, and the smell of the ham and warm bread had reminded me I was hungry. I reached for my fork but caught myself when I saw Mrs. Toomey frown. I stared at her for a moment before I realized what I had done, or rather what I had failed to do. Scolding myself silently, I folded my hands, bowed my head, and offered a prayer of thanks. When I was done, I looked up. I could see the question in Mrs. Toomey’s eyes: what kind of priest is it that forgets his prayer?

  “And Diarmuid, how is he?” I asked, hoping talk of her son would make her forget about me.

  “I don’t know,” she said. Her sigh filled the room. “He’s never been away from home,” she continued. “But when Billy Ryan came….” Her words trailed off.

  Billy, I thought with a frown. It didn’t make sense. If there was going to be another war, why had he been recruiting lads like Tim and Diarmuid, boys incapable of fighting? Suddenly I pictured the lad with the red hair spilling out from under his cap, his eyes full of fear, as he marched with the Free State soldiers across Sarsfield Bridge. Was it a ruse? I wondered. Were the Free Staters and the IRA filling their ranks with anyone they could, hoping to intimidate each other into surrender with their seemingly larger forces? Maybe. But with Billy, I wondered if it was something more.

  No longer hungry. I pushed the plate away.

  ___

  Andrew returned moments later. If he was surprised to see me, he didn’t let on. Soaking wet, he warmed himself by the fire while Mrs. Toomey fixed his tea. I gave him a few moments to dry off then smiled and nodded to the chair. He sat down, somewhat reluctantly, it seemed, his eyes downcast as the steam from his cup swirled around his face. The apprehension I had seen when we first met had returned, reminding me of my own experiences with Father Lonagan.

  “How’s your brother?” I asked.

  He glanced up at his mother before answering. She nodded.

  “Scared, Father.”

  “What do they have him doing?”

  “Marching,” he answered. Then he frowned, and a confused look came on his face.

  I nodded again, waiting for more.

  “They woke him up in the middle of the night and made him hide in the back of a lorry,” he continued. “They left him at the asylum…” His mother gasped at this but he shook his head. “Then they made him march back.”

  I thought about this for a moment. “Were there others with him?”

  He nodded then frowned again. “But they went to a different hotel this time,” he added.

  “Which one?”

  “The Glentworth.”

  I sat back and took a sip of my own tea as I wrestled with what this meant. I had been right. Billy was marching the same men into the city twice, maybe three or four times, making it appear as if he had a bigger force. But what did this mean for Tim?

  ___

  We set out for Limerick a short while later, Andrew perched on the handles while I pedaled. It had stopped raining—for the moment anyway—but the dark sky told me there was more to come. Still I had to carefully dodge the puddles that dotted the muddy roads and lanes. The ham and the bread I hadn’t been able to eat were now wrapped, tucked below Andrew’s coat. Worried that the other men might take advantage of him, Mrs. Ahern wanted to make sure Diarmuid was fed.

  “His name is Tim,” I reminded Andrew as we passed the cemetery. “He’s…” My words trailed off when I spotted the commotion in front St. Joseph’s Asylum. Dozens of men stood around, most in small groups, talking and smoking. Most wore trench coats, and many had bandoliers stretched across their chests. These men weren’t sitting like the men I had seen two days earlier. They were getting ready to march.

  I had heard that Tom Barry and the men from Cork had come to help defend the city against Brennan’s forces. Are these Barry’s men? I wondered. They wouldn’t know me, I didn’t think, and we were far enough away that no one would recognize my face. Still I unbuttoned my coat, letting my priest’s collar show, and kept my head down as we pedaled by. I could feel their eyes on me the whole while.

  As the asylum faded behind us, I continued. “He’s my size. Tall and thin, with curly black hair.”

  Andrew nodded.

  “And he has a scar on his chin.”

  Andrew glanced back, and I drew my finger across the right side of my jaw, showing him where.

  “I know, Father,” he said and I said no more.

  ___

  As they had for the last several days, lorries, Crossley Tenders, and armored cars raced through the city while troops marched to and fro. I avoided them—turning down side streets—when I could. And when I couldn’t, as I had done at the asylum, I turned my head and prayed no one would recognized me. We passed O’Mara’s Bacon, and I turned on Catherine Street. One block from the Glentworth, I pulled to the curb and let Andrew off.

  “I’ll meet you in the park,” I said. I had wanted to say something to lift his spirits—that everything would be grand—but knew he would see it for a lie.

  He nodded, then, without looking back, he made his way up the street.

  I waited in People’s Park, sitting on a bench. The path circled around the memorial—a Greek limestone co
lumn topped with the statue of a man named Rice. Who he was I didn’t know, but the memorial was almost one hundred years old. I watched a mother, across the way, bent over her pram, fussing with her baby. After a moment, she stood, smiled, and said something to the child, a mother’s soothing words I was sure, then turned the pram and began walking again. I watched until the path and the woman and her pram disappeared into the trees. Even in the middle of a city arming itself for war, life went on.

  It all made me think of Sean Murphy. He and I had sat on this very same bench, on IRA business, some eighteen months before. While old men with their race cards, mothers with their prams, and couples holding hands strolled by, we sat in wait for a man from Dublin—the same one who would show me how to make the bomb that would end Sean’s life. As it had then, it had rained earlier, and as I stared at the still wet stone of the path, I couldn’t help but think how much had changed since that day.

  ___

  Andrew found me an hour later. I watched him as he appeared from the trees then wound his way around the monument. As he had on the day I met him, he walked as if the weight of the world was pressing down on his shoulders. When he looked up, his eyes found mine. As he drew closer, I could see that he had only just wiped the tears away moments earlier.

  I stood. “What’s happened,” I asked.

  “They hurt him,” he blurted out.

  “Who?” I asked, but I already knew.

  “The IRA,” he said as he stared down at the ground. Then he looked up. Why did they do that? his eyes seemed to ask. He turned his back to me, and he wiped away another tear. When he turned around again, he told me that Diarmuid’s nose had been broken. After several questions, it was clear what had happened. For the first time in his life, Diarmuid was away from his home, away from his mother, away from his protective younger brother, and away from the comforting routine his life had become. Confused by the change and overwhelmed by the discipline expected of him, he had earned the wrath of one of the officers. I pictured the IRA men I knew, wondering which would strike a frightened child. There was only one man who would do that.