England's Janissary

by Peter Cottrell

  Moore was now in a terrible state and felt the strength draining from his knees, pouring down his body like water, and he was terrified that he would start shaking. Another jar of preserves slid from a shelf and crashed to the floor, shattering, disgorging its contents on the floorboards.

  ‘Oops!’ said Hegarty. ‘I always was so clumsy!’

  Moore felt a churning feeling in his bowels and fought harder to control his bladder, cursing himself for having taken a cup of tea just before the two strangers had entered his shop. He was sure he was only seconds away from filling his trousers. ‘Let me do you a very big favour, Mr Moore …’ Several more tins clattered across the floor. ‘… and give you some advice. Now listen very, very carefully because I will say this just the once, do you hear, just the once.’ Fitzgerald stood up and pushed his hands deep into the pockets in the skirts of his jacket.

  Behind him, Hegarty seemed to have lost interest in trashing the shop and strolled over to join his comrade by the counter, a cheery, boyish grin plastered across his craggy face. Moore watched, transfixed, as the collarless Hegarty stepped quickly around the counter, until he was standing by his side. Moore could see that Hegarty was stocky, powerful and desperately in need of a shave, his chin coated in a sheen of blue-black stubble. His dark blue eyes were fixed on Moore’s sweating face as he stood close enough for him to smell him.

  Moore suddenly yelped in pain as Hegarty twisted his right arm up his back until he thought that it was going to give way at the elbow and pop out at the shoulder. Excruciating daggers of pain shot through Moore as the IRA man used his other hand to drive his face hard into the counter top, shattering his nose with an audible crack against the polished wooden counter top. Coppery blood welled in his mouth and poured onto the wood in a bright crimson torrent. ‘Now, I’ve already had a wee chat with that bitch of a daughter of yours, Mr Moore,’ Fitzgerald said, softly dropping much of his polite facade, ‘but it seems to me that we are still pissing about here. As long as she wants to whore for the enemy, then I cannot really guarantee your safety or your family’s.’

  Moore felt himself convulse with pain and fear. This was the first that he had ever heard of anyone threatening his daughter and he struggled to lift his head but as he squirmed Hegarty painfully ground his face further into the bloodied wood. ‘Well, Moore, you seem a reasonable man to me and I like to think that I am too. So, I’ll tell you one last time. That peeler-loving bitch of yours stops carrying on with the traitor. Do you understand what I’m about, Mr Moore?’ Moore nodded as best he could in the circumstances, as the blood poured from his shattered nose. ‘Because if the fornicating slut doesn’t, I just can’t be held responsible for what happens, do you hear?’

  Again, Moore nodded. His shoulder felt like it was on fire as Fitzgerald seized his wrist and flattened his hand violently against the counter. Bang! ‘Aaaagh! Jaysus!’ Moore screamed, his eyes misting in pain as he felt himself begin to faint. Fitzgerald wiped the blood from the butt of his pistol on Moore’s shirt and popped the revolver back into his jacket pocket. Through tears of pain Moore gawped down in disbelief at his shattered little finger that was now splattered across the woodwork in a matted mass of gristle, bone and bloody flesh.

  ‘Shit!’ Moore hissed, as his captor released him and shoved him disdainfully to one side, like a piece of discarded garbage. The shopkeeper crumpled into a pitiful whimpering heap on the lino as pain shot through his hand. His nose throbbed as he felt the warmth spread across his trousers as his bladder gave way only moments before his bowels.

  ‘I think that will be all. We’re done here, Mr Moore, for now,’ Fitzgerald added ominously, with studied pleasantness in his voice. ‘Good day to you, and I wouldn’t be thinking of squealing to the peelers, there’s a good fellow. It would never do, so it wouldn’t,’ his voice receding. There was a final crash as Hegarty shoved yet another jar from the shelf, which fell and shattered before the door thudded shut, leaving the bell to tinkle like a soprano knell.

  Tinkle! Tinkle!

  In the back yard Kathleen was busily pegging up a bed sheet on the washing line when she heard a voice, harsh and menacing from behind her. ‘Don’t turn round, Kathleen, darling,’ it said and she froze in mid peg, the sheet hanging half secured to the line. She began to turn. ‘Don’t!’ the voice ordered again, cold as death, and she felt a hand shove her back towards the bed sheet. ‘D’you know what’s happening in your da’s shop, Kathleen? Do you know what is happening because of you?’ The voice continued without giving her time to answer. ‘Some of the boys are having a wee chat with your da. And d’you know what about, Kathleen?’ Again no real pause. ‘No? Well, let me tell you, shall I? It’s about you and that traitor you’ve been walking out with, to put it nicely.’

  Kathleen desperately racked her brains to place the voice. It was very familiar, painfully so. ‘You see, Kathleen, my wee darling,’ the voice continued, insipid with false pleasantness and friendliness, ‘it would be a terrible thing for anything to happen to your da, especially now your brother’s gone too. Would your ma be coping? A traitor’s bitch? There’s folk hereabouts take poorly to traitors and their whelps.’ Kathleen flinched, a tight knot of fear balling in her stomach.

  ‘I’d wished it hadn’t come to this, Kathleen, but you wouldn’t listen,’ the voice went on, ‘but if you want to go whoring yourself to a traitor then …’ She felt something hard press against the back of her head, followed by a metallic click. Her breath quickened, sharp, short, shallow breaths. ‘Sure, you’ll know what happens to traitors, don’t you, Kathleen, darling?’

  Fat tears welled in Kathleen’s eyes as she screwed them shut; waiting for her brains to be pushed through her face and splattered across the hanging bed sheet. ‘Say your prayers, ye fecking whore,’ he said. ‘Say your prayers! Say them!’ he shouted.

  ‘Er … Hail Mary …’ she whispered, scarcely able to contain her panic, scrabbling for the words. ‘… full of grace, the Lord is with thee …’ And then she was alone. It took a few seconds for the fact to sink in and a few more before she could move and when she did her knees buckled beneath her and she sank back against the yard wall, barely able to keep her feet, sobbing for breath. Her heart slammed against her ribs like a steam hammer as she sped off towards the back door. ‘Da!’ she wailed in terror.

  Pots and pans clattered to the floor as she bulldozed through the kitchen and stockroom before bursting out into the shop, where the tang of urine and excrement battered her senses. She caught sight of her mother and father locked in a fearful embrace on the floor behind the counter. Her father’s face was white as a sheet and she could see that he was shaking violently like a man who had seen the very devil himself.

  ‘Da, are you all right?’ she asked, and her father nodded weakly, trying to be brave in front of his daughter. ‘There was a man in the yard, Ma,’ she began, but her mother waved her hand to silence her.

  ‘Kathy, dearest,’ her mother said, ‘I think it’s best if you go away for a while.’ And she took her daughter’s hand and led her back out of the room towards the stairs.

  CHAPTER 15

  The Courthouse Inn, Drumlish, County Longford

  ‘SO THAT LITTLE gobshite McNamara’s escaped, you say, sir?’ Willson said, puffing out his cheeks in dismay.

  The resident magistrate nodded. ‘Yes, he has. Terrible business but still I’m sure that he’ll be picked up sooner or later. These people rarely travel far and usually come back to the scene of their crimes. Can’t help themselves, like a dog to his vomit, eh, Sergeant?’ The RM smiled. It was the fourth Tuesday of the month, when Major Edmund Forbes – a distant relative of the Earl of Granard – heard cases brought before him at the Courthouse Inn, which served as a temporary Court of Petty Sessions. This was usually a busy day for policemen but business was a little slow these days.

  Major Forbes was a dapper, compact, sharp-featured man in his fifties with bright, intelligent eyes, a neatly trimmed moustache and a well-made pin
striped suit topped off by a crisply starched Imperial collar and tie, signalling that he was once a scion of one of the minor public schools dotted outside Dublin. His head was crowned by an immaculate dark Homburg and pale grey gloves clutching a polished blackthorn cane completed the ensemble. ‘Well, Sergeant, let’s hope you have more business for me next month, eh?’ Forbes added. ‘It’s getting so it’s hardly worth me bothering showing up for court these days.’

  Willson nodded sombrely, barely concealing the worry. ‘Trouble is, sir, that the blasted Fenians have put the frighteners on the folk hereabouts and now they are keeping away from the police or the courts. They make them use their own so. The cheeky buggers even claim to have their own police force!’

  ‘Ah, yes, the Shinners and their blasted Sinn Féin courts. Kangaroo courts more like, if you ask me! The nerve of the blasted people, eh, what! Load of troublemakers the lot of them and the sooner we get them shipped off behind bars the better!’ Forbes railed.

  ‘I couldn’t agree more, sir,’ Willson added.

  ‘Well, well, another quiet day …’ Forbes said cheerily, tapping his cane to his hat brim. ‘And if I’m quick I’ll be able to get to the golf club for a quick round and a spot of lunch. You play at all, Sergeant?’ Forbes was an avid golfer and despite the risks seemed utterly unfazed by IRA attacks on RMs elsewhere in the country. He was the sort of thick-skinned individual who would have stood in front of a rioting mob and not only demanded but expected that they stopped when he told them to. Consequently, he was either too brave or too stupid to alter his usual routine – court in the morning, followed by lunch and a round of golf at his club outside Longford. It was such behaviour that had cost Colonel Smyth his life in Cork and it wouldn’t have surprised Willson if the same thing happened to Forbes if he wasn’t careful.

  ‘No, sir,’ Willson finally answered. ‘I’ve never got round to it,’ he added politely, recalling a quip he’d once heard that golf was an excellent way to ruin a good walk.

  Forbes climbed into the back of his elegant silver-grey motor car and turned back to face Willson. ‘Well, we’ll have to see about that, old chap.’ He beamed and then leant forward to tap his driver on the shoulder. ‘On! On!’ he ordered, before adding, ‘See you next month, Sergeant.’ The chauffer crunched the car noisily into gear, releasing the brake. The car lurched forward in a cloud of exhaust fumes and sped off down the street in the direction of the golf club, leaving the policemen in its smoky wake.

  ‘Yes, we’ll have to see about that, old chap!’ the sergeant muttered under his breath, imitating the RM’s crisp upper-class Anglo-Irish accent. Behind him, Constables Flynn and Mullan stepped out into the street, whilst Constable Reidy closed the courtroom door behind him. As usual, Constable O’Neill was back in the barracks’ duty room. Sometimes Flynn thought that O’Neill deliberately avoided going out much and he was inclined to put it down to the Ulsterman’s quietly perverse love of paperwork with its lack of risk. Alternatively, his time in the Irish Guards may well have given him a deep dislike of walking around. Either way, it spared the others the interminable monotony of the form filling or paperwork that seemed so dear to the RIC, so Flynn didn’t feel he could complain.

  ‘You’ll be taking up golf then, Sarge?’ Reidy quipped to his old friend with a cheeky grin, fully aware of Willson’s view of the sport.

  ‘Ach, away with you,’ Willson replied, ‘I’ve enough on my hands trying to look after you lot! Where would I be finding the time for golf!’ Flynn and Reidy laughed loudly at Willson’s outburst but Mullan, still the outsider, remained silent, unable or unwilling to share the joke. The northerner felt he had nothing in common with the others in the barracks, even O’Neill, and he constantly pestered Willson for a transfer to a barracks back in Ulster. Suffice to say that Willson felt that he had enough on his plate and even putting up with the brooding Mullan was better than being shorthanded, so chose to ignore his persistent requests. Besides, Willson thought as he turned the key in the courthouse lock with a loud, satisfying click, the constabulary in its wisdom posted Mullan to Drumlish, so he better get used to it! He slipped the key into his trouser pocket and felt it bounce off his truncheon and rest amongst the tangle of handkerchief and small change in his pocket.

  ‘What was that about McNamara?’ Flynn asked. ‘I thought I heard you and the major mention his name? Is the murdering bastard to swing yet?’ he asked anxiously. Willson shook his head in obvious disappointment.

  ‘No, he isn’t, Flynn. I’m afraid it’s bad news. The blackguard has escaped. Those bloody useless soldiers let him give them the slip! You know, I knew we should have kept the bugger here. I’ve never had a prisoner escape on me. It’s a bloody disgrace!’ he ranted. Flynn looked worried, very worried, his face pale and drawn. The other policemen looked at him, puzzled.

  ‘Who’s this McNamara then?’ Mullan finally asked.

  ‘Mick McNamara,’ Willson said, ‘is an evil little gobshite and it’s him we think shot our Constable Jim O’Leary earlier this year, before yous two got sent here, and now he’s out there, out there somewhere on the run. He’s an evil, spiteful little shite from an evil, spiteful little family – so, boys, we’d best keep an eye out for him. He may come back looking to even the score or something, what with his brother being shot and all. His sort always do.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Flynn replied unconvincingly, ‘if he’s got any sense, he’ll not be coming back here any time soon.’

  ‘Well, isn’t that just the problem, Flynn, m’boy,’ Willson said softly. ‘If the likes of him had any sense in the first place, they’d not have joined the IRA! No, I’m fearful that we’ve not seen the last of young McNamara, so all we can do is make sure that we take better care of him than your bloody soldier pals!’

  ‘Do you think that we should get in touch with Jim, let him know?’ Flynn asked, but Willson shook his head.

  ‘No need. Jim’s well away from here and well out of it. He’ll be safe enough.’ Somehow, Flynn didn’t feel reassured.

  ‘Anyway,’ Reidy chipped in inquisitively, ‘never mind that, you and the good major were jawing for an awful long time, Sarge. So what did the pompous old bugger want then? C’mon, share.’

  Willson frowned sternly at Reidy in mock severity. ‘Like it’s anything to do with you, Constable!’ he said, before dropping the facade and breaking into a beaming grin, while running his tongue over his neatly clipped moustache in contemplation and saying to no one in particular, ‘Do you know, I could murder a cup of tea.’ He could feel curiosity consuming the others and was enjoying the moment, teasing them. ‘The good major, as it happens,’ Willson went on, ‘has a wee job for us, a special mission!’ He winked at Reidy and strode off towards the barracks.

  A special mission! The words wafted pregnantly in the air behind him as he walked away and he felt like he was going to burst with excitement, waiting to hear which one would crack and ask what on earth he was on about. But to his chagrin they were playing him at his own game and walked in silence behind him until, after a few paces, he could contain himself no longer. ‘Well, it would seem that you three culchie eejits will be going for a wee drive in the country.’ The three policemen looked at Willson, who, smiling in triumph, walked on a few more steps further before speaking again. ‘Next Friday there’ll be a mail car coming from Longford and you three musketeers—’ He looked at them ‘—will be helping escort it to Ballinamuck.’

  ‘Oh, deep joy!’ muttered Flynn. ‘I’ve always been wanting to see the bright lights of Ballinamuck and now’s my chance at last!’

  Willson cast him a disapproving frown.

  ‘So, Sarge, what’s so important that it takes the three of us?’ Mullan asked, but Willson just shrugged his shoulders dismissively.

  ‘Damned if I know, Constable Mullan,’ Willson lied. ‘I just know that the good major is dead keen, so he is, that whatever it is gets from Longford to Ballinamuck. A gold-plated pair of golf clubs for all I know!’ Reidy snorted a
nd Willson continued, ‘And besides, it’s not just three of you. There’ll be two of the lads from Longford coming with it – Constables King and Brogan. Any of you know them?’

  Reidy nodded. ‘Know them both, good fellas. I worked with them up in town. Proper peelers, not like yer men here,’ he laughed, as he jerked his thumb at Flynn and Mullan.

  ‘Excellent!’ Willson chortled with genuine enthusiasm. ‘It’s about time we had some proper coppers around here!’

  At the barracks, Willson hung back and let Reidy and Mullan go in before he called Flynn over, making sure that they were out of earshot of the others. ‘Flynn, don’t go telling the others but when you leave on Friday I will have a packet for you.’ Flynn looked puzzled.

  ‘What sort of packet?’ asked Flynn, who despite his curiosity could hear alarm bells clanging in the back of his mind.

  ‘I can’t tell you and it’s best you don’t know,’ Willson said quietly, ‘but it’s really important and I’m relying on you to guard it with your life. When you get to Ballinamuck barracks there will be a fella there, a District Inspector Philip Kelleher. He’ll be expecting it and you are to give it to no one else, do you hear, no one, no matter what.’ Flynn nodded, none the wiser. ‘And tell no one either. I don’t want the lads to know,’ Willson added, tapping the side of his nose with his index finger in a gesture that was far from reassuring. ‘Now, Flynn, I want you to take a turn around the outlying farms before sunset. It’s always good to fly the flag on court days, just in case the local villains think they can have a free hand!’ Willson announced loudly before wandering through the door to his quarters.