England's Janissary

by Peter Cottrell

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he’d said and, making a show of glancing at his watch, he had made his excuses and left. As he rose to walk away he’d felt awkward, aware of the sweat soaking his shirt. ‘I’ll try and pop around tomorrow,’ he’d said as he left.

  A flapping paper caught Flynn’s eye and he walked towards it. It was yet another rebel leaflet. He tore it from the tack that secured it and tossed it into a nearby bin before resuming his stroll. The sun was low in the sky as he walked towards the church at the end of St Mary’s Street and his thoughts momentarily drifted to the book he was re-reading, The Last Bow, a collection of Sherlock Holmes stories he’d carried with him in the trenches.

  He’d grown up on Conan Doyle and George Henty stories and reading had kept him sane amidst the insanity of war. Books were a place to hide from the horrors of everyday life. He stopped for a moment by the gates of the old cemetery and then turned on his heels to stroll back towards the barracks. Evening was drawing in and muffled voices drifted out into the street from behind drawn curtains and the usual repertoire of songs wafted from one of the pubs he passed.

  Despite the troubles in the country, life went on in Drumlish. The singing faltered slightly as he poked his head into the smoky bar but picked up again when he turned to leave. Halfway down St Mary’s Street, he paused.

  ‘Good evening, Constable,’ came a familiar voice from behind him.

  He turned.

  ‘Good evening, Kathleen.’ He smiled and took her hand.

  CHAPTER 12

  Balinalee, County Longford

  THE MUSCLES IN Sean MacEoin’s arms bulged as he sluiced cold water over his face. ‘A charaid,’ he said in Irish. ‘Hot work,’ he added, switching back to English and gesturing towards the two men watching him from the back of his forge. He wiped his blackened hands on an old rag. ‘Best we go round the back,’ he said as he led them through to a small back room where he usually took his lunch.

  The room was bare with a plain wooden table and a few cupboards fixed to its walls. The windows were dusty and here and there hung the odd cobweb. A white enamelled lunch pail stood in the middle of the table and crumbs from a long-eaten sandwich lay nearby. ‘Close up the shop for me will you, Paddy?’ MacEoin said to Doyle and he sat down on a stool, pulling a battered leather-bound notebook from out of his back pocket.

  As usual, the forge was neat and tidy, compact, orderly and organized, and each tool was in its place, close at hand and ready for use, arrayed with military precision. The forge told Doyle much about its owner, MacEoin: organized, methodical and ruthlessly efficient. It was just what he would expect from the man who was a living legend amongst the IRA and Doyle was in awe of him.

  MacEoin had put the fear of God into him in the old cottage. The meeting had felt like an inquisition, which in reality it undoubtedly was, and Doyle was convinced that, despite his innocence, he was going to be blamed for the cock-up at Muldoon’s farm and shot for treason. Suffice to say, it had come as a great relief to him that he had not. He’d sweated then as he did now in the stifling heat of the forge and felt like he was sealing himself into an oven when he heaved the workshop iron-bound doors shut and set up the closed sign in its grimy soot-stained window.

  A couple of army trucks rumbled by, kicking up dust, and Doyle drew back into the shadows before withdrawing quietly to where MacEoin and Connolly were poring over a tatty map. MacEoin looked up as he entered, smiled and, pushing his thick dark hair off his face, beckoned Doyle over. Doyle looked down at several scribbles near a small crossroads in the middle of a collection of houses on the Ballinamuck–Drumlish road.

  ‘Paddy, you know this area, don’t you?’ It was part question, part statement, his tone amiable, a calculating glint in his eye.

  Doyle nodded. ‘I do,’ he replied. ‘I’ve people there.’

  MacEoin nodded approvingly before turning once more to Connolly. ‘Where would you think would be a good site for an ambush?’ MacEoin looked up and smiled again at Doyle, a mischievous, boyish, winning smile. Doyle’s open face reddened. He was flattered that MacEoin had asked his opinion but hesitant to answer through lack of real experience. After all, he was a follower not a leader.

  ‘You done well when we hit the peelers at Ballinamuck, Paddy, my boy, and me and Sean here think you’ve got the makings of a decent section leader in you,’ said Connolly, ‘so tell us, Paddy, what would you do if it was your plan?’ Doyle stared intently down at the map sprawled across the worn table. He was not very familiar with maps and like most people had no idea how to read the complex pattern of numbered and lettered grids.

  MacEoin tapped the map with his index finger and Doyle leant forward, gazing intently, fascinated by the mass of small symbols scattered across the map and resolved to get someone to teach him how to read them. MacEoin’s finger rested firmly next to the word ‘Gaigue’, a nothing of a village where the roads from Ballinamuck, Drumlish, Aghadowry and Tawnagh converged.

  ‘Where will the enemy be coming from?’ Doyle asked softly.

  ‘Drumlish, this way,’ Connolly replied as he dragged his index finger along the line of the road.

  ‘Then if it was up to me, I’d put men here, here and here,’ Doyle continued, trying to sound confident and soldierly, ‘but shouldn’t you be asking Commandant Maguire? It’s his area after all and he’s my boss.’

  ‘Never you mind about Joe,’ Connolly said reassuringly. ‘Anyway, he works for me and besides he’s away in Belfast on business for Sean here and won’t be back in time for what we have in mind.’

  ‘Besides,’ MacEoin interrupted, ‘I want to use the column for this job; you local boys can act as lookouts for us.’ He looked at the locations pointed out by Doyle. ‘Good, you’ve done well. I couldn’t have chosen better myself!’ MacEoin smiled at Doyle, who couldn’t help smiling back as the blacksmith slapped him on the back. Doyle felt like he had passed some sort of test and was proud that MacEoin had endorsed his choice of fire positions.

  ‘Be a good man,’ MacEoin continued. ‘Pop into the workshop and put the kettle on. I could murder a brew. You, Sean?’ he said to Connolly, who nodded. ‘All the makings are in yon box along with a tin of condensed milk.’ Doyle picked up a slightly rusted tea caddy, half full of musty tea and an aging tin of Carnation evaporated milk before leaving the room. Behind him, he heard MacEoin saying, ‘The big fella’s told me he wants us to step up the pace in the county …’ Then his voice was muffled behind the closed door.

  He dumped the tins next to the stove and picked up a tarnished copper kettle and headed out a side door to fill it at the pump in the back yard. Through the back window he could see MacEoin and Connolly talking and pointing at the map but he could not hear anything they were saying. Even when he returned to the workshop and plonked himself down next to the stove to watch the kettle boil, he could hear no more than a low murmur. He slumped in the chair, rummaging through his pockets for a battered packet of cigarettes and, with a sigh, he placed one in his mouth and lit it against the stove, then sat back to resume his vigil.

  CHAPTER 13

  Roath, Cardiff, South Wales

  JIM O’LEARY SIGHED wearily and flopped heavily onto the wrought-iron park bench, propping his crutches against the end with a clatter. The gentle breeze caressed his face as he raked his fingers through his unkempt blond hair and without thinking stretched his right leg out, flexing his ankle. His knee ached and sometimes he thought he could feel his other leg doing the same but that was impossible, it wasn’t there, it had been incinerated months ago. He was just another amputee; the detritus of war, as far as most were concerned, whiling away the afternoon.

  Stuffing his hands deep into his trouser pockets, O’Leary slumped back to watch leaden clouds scud across the slate-grey skies. It was going to rain later, he thought; he could feel it in his remaining joints. Wales was a bit like his homeland, in that respect; it was often raining and, considering he had never left Ireland before in his life, he was surprised how much he
didn’t miss it. In fact, he felt relieved that he didn’t have to keep looking over his shoulder anymore.

  No, despite his injuries life wasn’t too bad really, once he’d resigned himself to his predicament. He had a generous pension from the constabulary, far better than its army equivalent, and his sister had made him welcome, finding space for him in the box room of her small red-brick terrace house off the busy Albany Road. It was just as well, really, as he didn’t have anywhere else to go. Even his sister’s husband, a swarthy short-tempered bucolic Welsh docker, had made him feel at home, although he suspected that that wouldn’t last much longer.

  McNamara quietly folded his newspaper and tucked it under his arm before walking slowly towards the one-legged man slumped on the park bench. He had waited until the park was deserted and a cruel smile played briefly on his normally sullen mouth as he caressed the handle of the small .22 calibre pistol that nestled in the depths of his jacket pocket. He felt a familiar tight ball of excitement begin to knot in the pit of his stomach as he closed in on his prey. He was going to enjoy this.

  It was what he had been dreaming of during all those nights he spent in captivity, all that kept him going during the interminable beatings that laughingly masqueraded as interrogation. They’d called the wounded policeman O’Leary, and he’d held that name in his head, fantasizing about what he would do when he found him, biding his time. And when the opportunity finally presented itself, he had been surprised how easy it had been to give his captors the slip and escape. Living on the run had not been so easy, nor had getting across the water when he’d finally managed to track down where O’Leary had gone. But here at last was the murdering bastard who had shot his little brother Jerry in the back of the head.

  It made no difference to McNamara that both he and his brother had already snuffed out several lives before that fateful day or that he had enjoyed putting a bullet into the brain of that snivelling traitor Muldoon. In fact, he’d rather enjoyed making the old farmer suffer for his crimes before he sent him on his way. No, what mattered was that his brother had been murdered by O’Leary and now, at last, was his chance to exact his revenge.

  ‘Hello, Jim,’ McNamara said quietly, as he stood in front of O’Leary. ‘I bet you weren’t expecting to see me, were you?’ The County Longford accent almost took O’Leary by as much surprise as hearing a stranger use his Christian name in the middle of Roath Park and he desperately tried to place the angry-faced man who loomed ominously over him but, try as he did, he couldn’t.

  ‘Do I know you?’ O’Leary spluttered.

  ‘You should do, you bastard. You killed my brother,’ McNamara hissed and O’Leary’s eyes widened in fear at the muzzle of the gun that hovered in front of his face. Suddenly, he felt alone in the empty park. McNamara squeezed the trigger.

  The bullet took O’Leary in the throat, shattering his larynx, although the small calibre and low velocity left him sitting on the bench as if nothing had happened. A trickle of blood ran from the entry wound and, unable to move, O’Leary began to choke, drowning in his own blood. His death would be slow and painful, just the way McNamara wanted it. Grinning, the gunman placed the pistol back into his pocket and stood back savouring the moment.

  ‘Does it hurt, Constable O’Leary? Oh, I truly hope so.’ O’Leary clawed feebly at his throat, his eyes wide in terrified disbelief. ‘Not long now. Maybe another five, ten minutes and sadly it will all be over,’ McNamara said quietly, before heading for the railway station and the first leg of his journey back to Ireland. All he had to do was find the other policeman and his mission would be complete.

  CHAPTER 14

  Moore’s General Store, St Mary’s Street, Drumlish

  TINKLE! TINKLE! THE bell made Kathleen’s father look up from the newspaper that he had long since stopped reading and watch the two men who entered his shop. As usual, business was pretty slow and he hadn’t seen a single customer all day. Perhaps my luck has changed, he thought as the two young men let the door thud shut behind them. However, something inside the shopkeeper made him suspect that these men were not the sort of customers he wanted.

  One of them whistled tunelessly as they made an exaggerated show of looking around the store, picking up the odd piece of merchandise and pretending to look at it before placing it carefully back on the shelves. Their heavy dark suits had seen better days, looking slightly worn around the knees and elbows, and their flat caps were pulled down low to shade their eyes, obscuring their features. He noticed that only one of them was wearing a collar and tie.

  Moore licked his lips nervously before speaking. ‘Good morning, gentlemen, and what would you be after on this fine morning?’ He suddenly felt awkward and uncomfortable as they ignored him and carried on browsing aimlessly until the one with the tie and a pocket watch hanging from his lapel sauntered up to the counter and looked at Moore with cold, dark, angry eyes.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Moore,’ Fitzgerald said, in a soft, gentle tone. ‘Business a bit slow of late, is it?’ It sounded more a statement than a question, as if the man already either knew the answer or didn’t really care. Moore’s pulse increased as he noticed the other man turn the closed sign on the door and deftly slipped the bolt too.

  ‘Look, I don’t have much, but take what you want from the till,’ Moore gabbled quickly, assuming that the two men were here to rob him. He could feel the sweat beginning to trickle from his balding temples down the side of his face. ‘It’s over there,’ he pointed at the till at the end of the counter. The man with the tie shook his head and sighed in obvious disappointment.

  ‘Don’t you go worrying yourself, Mr Moore,’ Fitzgerald continued. ‘We’re not here to rob you, just to have a little word.’ Suddenly, Moore was frightened, very frightened. There was something vaguely familiar about Fitzgerald; as if he’d seen him somewhere before but, much as he tried, his fear-clouded mind couldn’t place the man. To make matters worse his fear was rapidly degenerating into terror and he was rooted to the spot like a hare caught in a poacher’s lamp.

  ‘’Tis a terrible business you losing your son to the Turks and all, terrible business and in the English army too. Still, if they’d caught him? I hear the Turks did terrible things to their prisoners, terrible things. It must be a fearful thing to lose a child, eh, Eunan?’ Fitzgerald said, looking at the man by the door.

  Eunan Hegarty replied with a casual nod of accord. ‘Aye, a fearful thing.’

  ‘Look, my boy is gone these five years past. Who are you? Did you know my Davey? Were you at Gallipoli with him?’ Moore asked, grasping hopefully at a meagre straw. Perhaps the men had served with his son but the hope faded as quickly as it came.

  ‘Oh no, Mr Moore, your boy and me, we never met. Me and my friend here, we’re just a couple of patriots who happened to be passing and felt like a chat,’ Fitzgerald said, in a casual, almost friendly tone, but despite the faux bon homie there was a rising air of menace, a barely suppressed violence about the man as he chatted casually to the shopkeeper. Fear’s grip tightened its hold on Moore as he realized that the two men were IRA.

  ‘W…what do you want of me?’ he stammered, sweating.

  ‘It would be such a shame after such a terrible loss to lose all this—’ Fitzgerald gestured around the room ‘—or maybe something even more precious than just bricks and mortar, eh? After all, buildings can be put back up, stock rebought, but people?’ He paused and smiled mockingly at Moore. ‘Well, that’s another matter, Mr Moore, another matter entirely, is it not?’

  Behind him a large jar of pickled onions slid across the shelf and crashed onto the floor, shattering and discolouring the dusty floorboards with a lumpy pool of pungent vinegar. ‘Oops! Butter fingers,’ said Hegarty, with obvious insincerity.

  ‘You’re a married man yourself, Mr Moore?’ Again, more of a statement than a question, Fitzgerald continued, ignoring the shattered jar. ‘And young Davey had a sister, if I’m not mistaken. Pretty girl,’ he said, exposing a feral row of twisted, nic
otine-stained teeth, close enough for Moore to catch the stink of cheap tobacco and tea on his breath.

  ‘Look! Be careful, will you,’ Moore stammered pathetically. ‘What is it you want with me?’ he pleaded, dreading the answer as he miserably choked back his rising terror and fought to maintain his self-control.

  ‘Oh, nothing.’ Fitzgerald paused. ‘Well, nothing yet anyways, Mr Moore.’ The man’s empty, soulless eyes made Moore shudder; they were cold and glinted hard as flint in the shop’s lights. He flashed Moore another comfortless, mocking smile that dripped insincerity. ‘Would you be a patriotic Irishman yourself, Mr Moore?’ The question rang alarm bells in Moore’s head and deep in the back of his mind he was desperately trying to convince himself that he was experiencing some sort of hallucination brought on by overwork or stress. This just could not be happening to him.

  ‘Th … that I am,’ Moore stammered.

  ‘Then you must be mighty disappointed, mighty disappointed, that your wee girl, young Kathleen, is carrying on with a traitor, a peeler from yonder barracks? It must grieve a man deeply to be let down by his loved ones, his own flesh and blood. That is unless you approve?’ Fitzgerald leant over the counter and gazed intently at Moore’s face, drawing so close that the stench of the man’s breath was overpowering. Fitzgerald ran his eyes over the middle-aged shopkeeper’s features, close enough to reach over and kiss him.

  Despondently, Moore could feel himself being drawn into an abyss and the pressure on his bladder intensified as Fitzgerald frowned, a comic stage frown, and pulled back slightly. Moore struggled to look away but somehow he couldn’t; it was almost as if he was losing control over his own actions, in some sort of deadly hypnotic trance. ‘Now, don’t you go trying to tell me that you didn’t know about it, Mr Moore, because I know that would be a lie!’ Fitzgerald’s voice rose slightly, betraying a brittle edge of anger. ‘That traitorous little bastard of a peeler has been seen with your daughter and he’s even been here in your house,’ he spat, barely able to contain his disgust.