England's Janissary

  ‘Amen to that,’ said MacEoin.

  ‘Anyway,’ Connolly pressed on, ‘we need to do something before our friends back in GHQ decide that we are useless culchies! That is if they don’t already, God help us. We assumed too much and, Christ, don’t we all know what assumption is the mother of.’

  ‘I’ll sort this Flynn,’ Maguire said coldly, matter-of-factly.

  ‘You better,’ MacEoin replied equally flatly.

  Maguire was unimpressed. ‘Ach, Sean, I really don’t like the way that you lot seem to be trying to pin this on me. Especially when I was only following your orders – yours, Sean, not mine. If you’d told me to gun the bastards down, I would have done it. Didn’t Jerry McNamara have a clean shot at McLain and I stopped him taking it because of your plan? If he’d taken it we may not have got their guns but one more of them would be fertilizer by now! You told me to take them all prisoner and now I’ve lost my flaming thumb! What have you lost, eh, a bit of face?’

  ‘All right, all right, calm down, Joe,’ MacEoin soothed. ‘It’s war and shit happens. We’ve sent a message and that is what really matters, even if it was only to shoot a peeler in the arse!’ There was another ripple of laughter.

  ‘Christ, don’t I know people die in war, Sean, but it’s all over the papers about the woman and it looks bad!’ Maguire opined.

  ‘Sure, Joe, ’tis regrettable but aren’t the Brits and their lackeys panicking now. Every attack makes them panic even more. Every time they declare a state of emergency they piss off the people even more with their cack-handed attempts to crush the rebellion. Our job is to make sure they fail.’

  ‘And you, Joe, must keep the pressure on in your area,’ Connolly interjected. ‘Now McLain’s gone we need to keep the pressure on and let the peelers know no one wants them. They can either resign or we’ll retire them ourselves. The suits in the Dáil have ordered us to step up the boycott of peelers and their families. No one is to have anything to do with them—’

  ‘And if they do?’ Kiernan interrupted.

  ‘If they do, then we have a polite word with them and if that doesn’t work then maybe stronger measures will be needed. Sure, the McLain woman tells them that …’ Connolly smiled knowingly ‘I think that once the people see what happens to traitors then we will have few problems.’

  ‘The message has been sent.’ MacEoin looked at Maguire. ‘I want that shite Flynn dealt with, understand? Have him followed and when you get a chance, cap him.’

  Maguire nodded and smiled a cold, mirthless smile. ‘Sure, boss, I’ll get on to it. I’ll do it myself if you want.’

  ‘Whatever,’ MacEoin said dismissively. ‘There is something else I need you to deal with first, Joe. I’ve had a message from Mick that there is at least one informer in your area who needs to be dealt with.’

  Maguire looked up at MacEoin in surprise. ‘You don’t think that this one had anything to do with last Tuesday’s fiasco?’

  ‘No, I think not,’ MacEoin replied. ‘But this one is just as dangerous so be careful. The Brits have stepped up their patrols and as most of their soldiers are trigger-happy teenagers, I don’t want any of you taking unnecessary risks or we will all end up with our arses in gaol or worse and I’m sure none of us want that.’

  ‘Sean, we’d best be on our way,’ Connolly said as he flipped his fob watch back into his waistcoat pocket.

  ‘If you will excuse us, gentlemen,’ MacEoin said. ‘Sean is right, I’ve a meeting in Longford and I really don’t want to be late.’ He looked at Kiernan. ‘Thank Kitty for the tea, won’t you, please – Lawrence, and Joe, keep an eye on the enemy in your area. Hold back from Flynn for the moment but I sense that one will be trouble, so keep an eye on him. Well, you have your orders. I’ll let you know when we will meet again.’

  He said something in Irish but neither Kiernan, McGovern nor Maguire had a clue what he had said; none of them spoke the language. To be honest, Maguire wasn’t convinced that MacEoin did either.

  CHAPTER 4

  Drumlish, County Longford

  ‘CHRIST, WHY DOES it have to always rain in this miserable flaming country!’ cursed the sodden shape hunched into the rough collar of an ample khaki greatcoat. A moustachioed sergeant major barked from the front of the lorry, his voice harsh with natural authority. ‘I suppose you’d rather be in Iraq or Afghanistan waiting for some rag-head to cut your balls off, eh, Purton?’

  ‘It’s just that even Catterick has got to be better than this shithole,’ Private Purton answered sheepishly.

  ‘For God’s sake, Purton, all you do is bloody drip!’ snapped the sergeant major, rolling his eyes in mock horror. He knew that soldiers always complained; it was only when they stopped that he should worry. No, in a strange way whinging was good for the young British soldier.

  Purton sulkily slipped further into the depths of his worn khaki greatcoat as he was jolted into his neighbour, who grunted in protest. It was what the Irish called a soft day, damp and miserable with a gentle breeze coming down into Drumlish off Cairn Hill, but at least the rain had stopped, for now.

  Looking around at the other soldiers, Purton sighed. When he’d heard the news of the Armistice he was in a flea-bitten dug-out somewhere near Ypres and had visions of swanning around India with doe-eyed houris sipping chota pegs and watching the cricket from some sun-drenched veranda, not freezing his bollocks off in Ireland. If only he’d known then what he knew now, he wouldn’t have signed on as a regular!

  As ever it was cold, it was wet and it was well past lunchtime and Purton had long lost all interest in Ireland’s troubles as he fantasized about bully beef and chips. He was getting sick and tired of trundling around Ireland in a clapped-out old lorry waiting to be ambushed and he sometimes thought that it was a sad testimony to his lot that even cook-house fare had become the stuff that dreams were made of. So far he couldn’t work out why the hell anyone would fight over Ireland; the Fenians were welcome to it. ‘Where the hell are we?’ Purton asked and the sergeant major looked around once more.

  ‘This wonderful example of the Irish rural idyll nestled in the heart of our sovereign king-emperor’s demesne is called Drumlish, Purton. Now be quiet, there’s a good lad, before I have you on a charge!’

  A pedestrian shouted angrily as the lorry bounced through a pothole, splashing him with muddy water, and Flynn touched the peak of his cap as the convoy passed. The lead truck skidded to a halt and the sergeant major leant out of the cab. He glanced at the medal ribbons on Flynn’s tunic and asked the way to Cartrongolan.

  ‘Just down this road and turn left at the crossroads. You can’t miss it, sir,’ Flynn said, bracing up slightly as he spoke to the warrant officer. Sergeant majors were demi-gods in any British army unit and he knew that this man had not only earned but truly deserved respect. Officers were all well and good but it was men like him who were the real glue that held any unit together, the backbone of the army.

  Flynn didn’t miss the army; he missed some of his mates but he didn’t miss the bullshit and bluster. He didn’t think of himself as a proper soldier, anyway, not like the sergeant major who’d oozed regular army. Besides, peacetime soldiering was nothing like war service anyway. He wasn’t really sure where he belonged anymore.

  He saw a tall sandy-haired stranger hawk into the gutter as the convoy passed and resolved to ask O’Neill if he knew him. McLain would have known but the sergeant was long gone and his replacement, Sergeant Willson, was still settling in.

  ‘Well, now, Constable Flynn, don’t you look like you were wishing to be in them trucks with the soldiers.’ Surprised, he spun around to face the speaker, pulse racing, subconsciously preparing for trouble. The space was empty and, confused, he dropped his gaze slightly and looked straight into a pair of clear, green eyes, sparkling with amusement.

  The young woman’s head was cocked to one side as she laughed, flashing him another warm, bright smile as she studied him. Flynn prided himself on his ability to think clearly, but he
was lost for words, his thoughts in tatters, a strange feeling welling up in the pit of his stomach as well as elsewhere. It was a sensation he hadn’t felt in quite a long time. He wasn’t good with women but her smile and gentle curves captivated him.

  She casually pushed a damp stray lock of unruly wavy red hair away from her eyes. They were clear and bright, full of laughter, and they held his eyes as he drank in the contours of her face, studying every detail. Yes, it was a pretty face, he decided. He chewed the inside of his lower lip and narrowed his eyes, his brain racing to put a name to the alluring face.

  ‘I’m … I’m sorry, miss, I was miles away. What was that you said?’ he stammered pathetically. His right eye twitched and she giggled gleefully at his lack of composure.

  ‘I said, Constable Flynn – it is Constable Flynn, isn’t it?’ she said without waiting for a reply. ‘You looked like you were after going with them soldiers rather than staying with us here.’ She smiled mischievously. ‘I was just doing the messages for my ma when I noticed you. They say you were a soldier yourself once. In the war, was it? My oul’fella said you won a medal, for bravery, so they say.’

  ‘Do they now?’ he managed to reply. That was villages for you – everyone knew everyone else and everyone was related to everyone else – unlike Dublin where no one gave a damn about anyone, but that was cities for you too. She touched her hair again, gathering in her shawl against the chill, smiling.

  She was shorter than him by a head, five-four at a guess, about twenty or so and she looked familiar, but then everyone in the village looked familiar. Right now he really wished that he had paid more attention to McLain’s many attempts to impart his extensive local knowledge before he left. McLain seemed to know everyone and everyone knew him. That was sergeants for you but McLain was long gone.

  ‘Excuse me, miss, but have we met?’ He instantly regretted his absurdly brusque tone. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t think we’ve met. I’m sure I’d remember if we had …’ He hesitated again, realizing how that sounded as well. ‘Er … met.’

  ‘Call me Kathleen, Constable, Kathleen Moore. It’s my oul’fella’s store up on St Patrick’s Street, and you’ll be Constable Flynn from Dublin.’ Her eyes sparked playfully. ‘There now, we’ve been introduced.’

  ‘Miss Moore,’ he replied, touching his cap slightly theatrically. ‘I am Constable Flynn, and if I may say so, Miss Moore, you seem to know quite a bit about me.’ He smiled; it felt strange.

  ‘Do you not have a first name then, Constable Flynn?’ she persisted.

  ‘Kevin. My name is Kevin, Miss Moore,’ he stuttered.

  ‘And you were in the war then, Constable Flynn?’ She went on, nodding at his ribbons. He paused momentarily, suddenly conscious of the scar on his face. ‘My big brother Davey, he was in the army, too. Done for at Gallipoli he was,’ she stated, quite matter-of-factly, almost as if she was talking about someone else’s brother rather than her own. ‘Missing presumed killed they said.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Miss Flynn. I wasn’t at Gallipoli; I did my time on the Western Front, me and thousands of others. I was in my local mob, the Dublin Fusiliers. It seemed like a good idea at the time.’ He suddenly felt stupid for making that throwaway comment. ‘Yes, I was in the war, Miss Moore, like many others … Look, miss, it’s been a pleasure meeting you but I really must be on my way.’ He glanced at his wristwatch, growing uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. ‘Sergeant Willson will be waiting on me and I’m late.’ He paused. ‘Another time, perhaps?’

  Kathleen looked up at Flynn and smiled as he touched his cap again, in another mock salute before stepping off with a forced air of faux purpose. Behind him he heard her voice softly chase after him. ‘I look forward to it, Constable.’ He risked a glance behind and caught sight of her waving before he turned away, unsure of exactly what it was she was looking forward to.

  Fitzgerald watched the pretty red-haired girl chatting with the policeman and was disgusted by the way that she was so blatantly flirting with the enemy. ‘I can see that I will have to have a wee chat with you about your choice of friends!’ Fitzgerald muttered, before disappearing into a nearby bar.

  Kathleen was rather pleased with herself for finally managing to speak to the handsome young policeman and there was a slight skip in her step as she strolled along, thinking about him. She didn’t notice the two men emerging from the pub following her with their caps pulled low, heads down stiff with malice. She still didn’t notice them following her down the back lane behind her father’s house either. In fact, she was so caught up in her thoughts that the first time she noticed them was when she felt a hand seize her arm and spin her round.

  ‘Quiet now, you treacherous bitch, if you’ve any sense left!’ Fitzgerald hissed. ‘You better be after taking more care over who you talk to, d’ye hear,’ he added softly. ‘People might be getting the wrong impression, you chatting to a peeler an’ all. Shame on you for fraternizing with the enemy.’

  ‘Away with you now,’ she retorted, pushing Fitzgerald, oblivious of her danger. ‘And you, Mick Early,’ she added to the man’s companion.

  Early leant forward. ‘It’d be such a shame should anything happen …’ He left the threat hanging unsaid and suddenly she realized how alone she was. She was afraid; the alleyway was deserted. Fitzgerald drew close. His teeth were stained and crooked and she could smell the cheap tobacco on his breath. ‘Stay away, if you know what’s good for you.’ And then with a violent shove they were gone.

  She felt a surge of cold, naked fear creep up her spine like some malevolent spider and, trembling, her legs gave way as sweat exploded from her pores and tears welled in her eyes. The back gate latch scraped, making her jump.

  ‘Kathy?’ She heard an anxious voice from the back yard. ‘Kathy?’ Her mother emerged from the back gate. ‘There you are. And who was that with you? I thought I heard voices. What are you doing down there?’

  Kathleen quickly wiped her eyes with her hand and stood up. ‘No one, Ma, just me. I slipped,’ she lied.

  For a fleeting moment Flynn wondered if the girl’s interest was a honey trap; after all, why would a pretty girl be interested in him? He’d been warned about honey traps whilst in training but somehow it didn’t ring true. She didn’t seem like a Shinner, but then that could be wishful thinking. He made a note to himself to find out whether the Moores were ‘traced players’ or not.

  He was suddenly very conscious of the scar on his face and he traced its length with his fingers as he walked. Sometimes, the war seemed a lifetime away, as if it had happened to someone else. At times he wished that it had but it hadn’t and in the dark of the night it all came back to him in its vivid, lurid glory: the sights, the sounds, the smells.

  He hated being alone in the dark, alone with his memories, but that’s what whiskey was for. He had survived but, whether he liked it or not, part of him was still there, trapped in the trenches, and it dawned on him that maybe the girl’s brother’s death had trapped her there too. Perhaps he was the only person she had met who could give her a glimpse at the world her brother had inhabited. Maybe she thought that he could help her come to terms with what had happened. Perhaps they had that in common. Then again, was it possible she just fancied him, he wondered, and as his thoughts drifted he noticed a tatty piece of paper fluttering against a telegraph pole, touting for attention. Distracted, he didn’t notice the two men following him.

  He didn’t notice when they ducked into a doorway, suddenly intently interested in something or other in the window, when he stopped to read the poster. ‘Spies and traitors beware!’ it boldly declared in the large black ‘Gaelic’ script that the nationalists so loved. ‘Fraternizing with English soldiers and the traitors of the Royal Irish Constabulary is punishable by death! By order of the Irish Republican Army.’ Flynn thought that it was ironic that it was written in English despite the rebels’ enthusiasm for Gaelic. Hardly anyone spoke it anymore and it wasn’t for nothing that peop
le jokingly called it ‘Gaolic’ because most rebels learnt to speak it.

  He tore the poster down and stuffed the paper roughly into his jacket pocket. This was the fifth such poster he had found in the village in so many days and he half expected to find another one tomorrow. Someone in the village was putting them up and Flynn was curious to know who. ‘Constable Flynn! There you are!’ Sergeant Willson, McLain’s replacement, called as he bowled along purposefully, accompanied by O’Leary.

  ‘Me and Constable O’Leary here were off to old Tom Muldoon’s farm but something has just cropped up, so I’m needed here.’ Willson shoved a bike at Flynn and smiled smugly. Willson was maybe ten years younger than McLain and none of them knew much about him, except that he was old school like McLain and exuded the same calm, quiet confidence – but it was too soon for Flynn to tell whether it was a front or not.

  ‘I want you to have a wee chat with old Tom Muldoon. I’m told that since his missus died he’s been a wee bit too fond of the drink, so he has, but I have it that he’s a good man and his heart’s in the right place, if you get my meaning,’ Willson said quietly. ‘Truth be known, O’Leary here is a wee bit worried about the old fella. Says he was blathering on about something he needed to tell Sergeant McLain, but he wouldn’t say what to O’Leary here. Something important he said. Have a word with him and if he won’t make any sense then bring him in to see me, understand?’ Flynn nodded. ‘Oh, and tell the old fella that if he’s let his cattle go wandering on the king’s highways again, I’ll be having him up before the magistrate!’

  ‘I’ll tell him,’ Flynn replied. ‘Oh, and Sergeant, before I forget, I found this on yon telegraph pole.’ He showed Willson the IRA flyer. ‘Another one of those bloody IRA warnings.’