England's Janissary

  ‘OK, who fancies a little bike ride in the country before supper?’ Flynn announced, from the middle of the duty room.

  ‘Aye, all right then, I’ll come with you.’

  To Flynn’s surprise it was O’Neill who had spoken. ‘The sergeant wants us to do the rounds of the outlying area before sunset, so best we get going,’ Flynn said, heading to the armoury to collect two carbines, whilst O’Neill headed into the back yard to fetch the bikes. ‘You ever heard of a District Inspector Kelleher?’ Flynn asked O’Neill as they pedalled along a quiet country lane.

  ‘Aye, that I have,’ O’Neill replied.

  ‘And?’ Flynn persisted.

  O’Neill smiled. ‘He’s a new boy with Crimes Branch Special over in Longford. He fancies himself as a bit of a spy-catcher. He’s like you, Kevin, a bit of a war hero,’ O’Neill joked. ‘Bit of a cowboy if you ask me.’ O’Neill went quiet. ‘Why do you ask? Not looking to transfer, are you?’

  ‘Good God, no!’ Flynn snorted derisively, ‘I’ve enough on me plate with you lot in uniform without wanting to play cowboys and Indians with the Shinners to boot! I just heard someone mention his name, that’s all.’

  O’Neill gave him a quizzical sidelong glance and carried on pedalling. Flynn had the distinctly uncomfortable feeling that his companion was less than convinced but he was intrigued and decided to try and find out more about Kelleher, as Crimes Branch Special was the CID-cum-Special Branch of the RIC and its detectives operated in plain clothes. They were shadowy figures who lived, and died, in a shadowy world.

  By the time the two policemen had completed their rounds the sun was low on the horizon and it was cold and damp. Flynn’s knees ached as they cycled down St Mary’s Street and he could see that the shutters were firmly closed on Moore’s General Store. He gave his watch a cursory glance. It was still early. ‘Will you be seeing Miss Moore tonight?’ O’Neill asked.

  Flynn knew that it was an open secret that he was seeing Kathleen but it still made him wince when O’Neill pulled his leg about his semi-clandestine trysts with his pretty young redhead. ‘No,’ he replied, resigning himself to the situation. ‘It’s getting late. I’ll probably see her in the morning.’

  When they reached the barracks, Flynn and O’Neill propped their bikes against the wall in the back yard and walked through the back door into the duty room. Willson was slumped in an old armchair and looked up from his copy of the Police Gazette. ‘Ah, there you are, Flynn, my boy. I want you and young Reidy here to come with me and cycle over to Ballinalee in the morning. It’s only neighbourly to visit now and then and besides the fresh air will do you good!’ he laughed. ‘I want to have a wee chat with their governor, Sergeant Hamilton, and see how things are for him and his lads over in Ballinalee these days. It’s always good to compare notes,’ he said, but Flynn was less enthusiastic.

  Blast! Flynn thought. There goes visiting Kathleen tomorrow. O’Neill gave him a sympathetic knowing look and shrugged.

  The next morning’s cycle ride proved to be uneventful enough and in the end Flynn found himself hanging around impatiently, glancing at his watch, whilst Willson chatted with his old acquaintance Sergeant William Hamilton. It was obvious that the two of them went back several years, had history, and Flynn was beginning to think that there wasn’t anyone that Willson didn’t know in the RIC’s socially dislocated extended family.

  Flynn looked around. The street was deserted and he came to the conclusion that he didn’t like Ballinalee but then it was fairly obvious that the locals didn’t like his kind much either. Their hostility wasn’t even thinly disguised behind the usual veil of forced politeness that seemed so common elsewhere. He became aware that he was being watched by a stocky, dark-haired man working in the smithy, with something that seemed to be more than casual interest, so he strolled slowly over to the forge, leaving Reidy to guard the bikes.

  ‘Hot day to be working in a smithy,’ Flynn said to the blacksmith, who slowly and deliberately put down his hammer and tongs and wiped his hands on an old cloth before muttering something in Irish.

  ‘Sorry, I’m from Dublin!’ Flynn said by way of explanation for his puzzled expression and the blacksmith smiled a warm, welcoming smile.

  ‘Aye, so it is,’ MacEoin replied. ‘So what brings you fellas all the way out to Ballinalee the day?’

  Flynn shrugged. ‘Search me. My sergeant doesn’t tell me a thing,’ he laughed, changing the subject. ‘Well, at least it’s not raining!’

  The blacksmith smiled. ‘Give it time, Constable, give it time. You know what they say around here, Constable. If you can see the hills, it’s going to rain and if you can’t, it’s already raining. Let’s hope it doesn’t pour, eh?’

  There was something about the blacksmith that made Flynn feel uncomfortable. For all his charm and chit-chat, it was obvious from the look in his eyes that he was no more a fan of the constabulary than anyone else hereabouts and his quip about it pouring rang silent alarm bells in the back of the policeman’s head. Yes, there was definitely something not quite right about the blacksmith but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it, not just yet anyway. He resolved to ask Willson if he knew anything about him when they were heading home.

  Flynn didn’t notice the curtain twitch in the cottage next door or McNamara, fresh back from Cardiff, peering down from the recess of the cottage’s upstairs gable window. McNamara couldn’t believe his luck when he recognized the tall, dark-haired policeman chatting to MacEoin, and he licked his lips in anticipation of his coming revenge. ‘It’s him! It’s him! It’s the bastard who shot our Jerry!’ McNamara squealed in violent agitation, his eyes smouldering with barely suppressed fury. ‘By Christ I’ll get you, you bastard, so help me, I will!’

  ‘Get away from the bloody window, you fool! Do you want the peelers to see you?’ Fitzgerald hissed angrily as he yanked McNamara back into the shadows of the bedroom. McNamara shot Fitzgerald a furious glance but the gunman wasn’t afraid of McNamara. In fact, there seemed to be very little that Fitzgerald was afraid of and he laughed at the other man’s attempt to intimidate him.

  For a moment, Flynn thought that he heard something but the noise of the blacksmith resuming his work masked whatever it was that had caught his attention. It was obvious to Flynn that the blacksmith had done with small talk and after a few moments he strolled back towards the barracks. To his horror it was well gone three in the afternoon before Willson finished his business with Hamilton. As they reached Drumlish he noticed the village beginning to go into its predictable routine as life, already slow, began to slow down further for the evening.

  Flynn had just finished putting his bike away in the shed when O’Neill came out clutching a steaming mug of tea. ‘There you are, big man,’ O’Neill quipped, before noisily slurping his tea. ‘And how was the exciting metropolis that is Ballinalee today?’ Flynn toyed with ignoring him but changed his mind and asked the Ulsterman what he knew of the blacksmith. O’Neill scratched his head and Flynn thought that he could almost see the man’s brain working behind his dark eyes. ‘Not a lot. I’m told that he fancies himself as a bit of a Shinner but I’m not sure that he’s anything to worry about. Ballinalee’s not my patch, Kevin.’

  Flynn nodded, content to accept what he had heard from O’Neill, and after a short pause added, as casually as he could, ‘You know, I think I’ll pop up the street for a wee while.’

  ‘If it’s young Kathy Moore you’re after, then I saw her with her da away in their dog cart whilst you were gallivanting out and about,’ O’Neill said, through a barely suppressed smirk. ‘Headed off to Newtonforbes, by the look of it.’

  ‘Really?’ Flynn replied casually, as he shut the shed door, sliding the bolt closed then strolling with O’Neill back into the barracks. ‘Perhaps they’re after picking something up off the train for the shop?’ The nearest railway station was at Newtonforbes. ‘I think I’ll wander over and find out when she’ll be back,’ he said as he locked his carbine onto the rack and hea
ded for the barracks’ front door.

  It was a short walk to Moore’s General Store and the route was so ingrained in him that he didn’t even recall walking it. The shop was quiet and the doorbell tinkled softly as he pushed the door open. The room was poorly lit, which surprised him, and the pungent stench of vinegar seemed out of place in the usually immaculate shop. At his feet, several dark stains discoloured the worn floorboards. He felt his eye twitch as the hairs prickled on the back of his neck. Something was wrong; something was very wrong. ‘Hello!’ he shouted. ‘Is anyone in?’ A door creaked open and he heard light footfalls getting louder as, head down, Kathy’s mother, Mrs Moore, shuffled into the shop, before letting out a deep, nervous sigh and looking up at Flynn.

  ‘Good afternoon … Oh, it’s you, Constable Flynn,’ she said nervously and Flynn could sense the fear in the usually bubbly woman’s voice.

  ‘Is everything all right, Mrs Moore?’ Flynn asked, and she shifted her weight awkwardly, fidgeting with her apron, looking frightened and worried to see him. ‘Is Miss Moore back from her travels?’ he asked, but the woman just stood looking at him, her tired eyes red-rimmed from crying and sunken with stress. ‘Is something wrong? Has something happened to Kathleen?’ he asked anxiously.

  She nodded. ‘She’s gone,’ she said tonelessly.

  ‘Gone? Gone where? When will she be back? What’s happened?’

  ‘There were some men …’ She faltered and then, collecting herself, pushing a stray strand of hair from her eyes, the way that Kathleen did, she continued, ‘They hurt her father, broke his nose and fingers, they did. They said she had to stop seeing you or something terrible would happen.’

  ‘Who? Who did?’ he repeated.

  ‘Who do you think?’ she spluttered, looking at him as if he was a halfwit. Suddenly the penny dropped and fear mixed with anger welled up inside him at the very thought that the IRA had threatened his Kathleen or her family, just because of him.

  ‘Where has she gone?’ he repeated.

  Mrs Moore looked at him and sighed, shaking her head. ‘It’s best you don’t know. Best for everyone. They won’t hurt her or my Dick if you don’t know, if she doesn’t see you anymore. I’ve nothing against you, Constable Flynn, you seem a decent man and you’ve been good to my girl but I won’t let anything happen to my Kathy or her da, so help me I won’t.’

  Flynn’s heart sank as his little world crashed down around his ears. Kathleen was all that had made life in Drumlish tolerable since the IRA had stepped up its efforts in the area. ‘She’s gone to Dublin, hasn’t she? She’s gone to stay with her aunt,’ he asked, remembering what Kathleen had said about her holidays by the sea as a child and the way that Mrs Moore’s eyes widened, as she struggled to hide her surprise, confirmed that he was right.

  ‘No, she’s not in Dublin,’ Mrs Moore said, without lying too much, and he knew that there was no point in arguing the toss but did his best to hide that he knew she was not being completely honest with him. Kathy had to be in Dublin, he thought as he left the shop, and if she was, he’d find her, or he didn’t deserve to call himself a Dubliner.

  That night, Flynn couldn’t sleep and it wasn’t just Mullan and Reidy’s snoring or the fear of what dreams may come that kept him awake. It was Kathleen, and he scoured his mind for anything she may have said about where her aunt lived in Dublin. There had to be something, a clue to where she had gone, and as he tossed and turned on his noisy bunk it struck him that she had talked about being by the sea. With a start he sat up in his bed. That had to be it! She wasn’t in Dublin at all; her mother hadn’t been lying. She was in one of the coastal suburbs that clung to Dublin Bay. The problem was, which one? It wasn’t much, but it was a start. Eventually, after much tossing and turning, he drifted into a fitful sleep until the unwelcome ringing of the alarm clock shattered his dreams at six o’clock and he struggled out of his blankets to wash and shave.

  Coughing, Reidy slumped out of bed and grunted as he opened the armoured shutters to let the first tentacles of daylight grope their way into the dormitory. From his bunk, Flynn couldn’t help noticing that the room stank of stale humanity. At least they had three hours to get ready so there was no rush to get up.

  Eventually, the mail car arrived, as expected, just after nine in the morning, and as Ballinamuck was only five or six miles away Flynn anticipated being there before ten. As Flynn looked from the dormitory window he could see that Reidy was already outside and the civilian post office driver seemed thoroughly pissed off, resisting any attempts by the others to strike up a conversation. Reidy, carbine in hand, was chatting to Constables Brogan and King.

  ‘I know it’s not far to Ballinamuck and there are five of you but take care, won’t you,’ Willson said to Flynn, as the Dubliner took his carbine from the rack in the armoury. Then Willson gave a quick furtive look around and discreetly slipped Flynn a small, tightly wrapped, flat brown package.

  ‘Believe me, Sergeant, I will,’ Flynn replied, as he slipped the package into his tunic pocket and secured the button.

  Trying hard to look as if he hadn’t noticed, O’Neill saw Willson pass Flynn something as they chatted in the armoury and wondered what it might be. O’Neill really hated being left out of the loop and mainly, as a result of his insistence upon running the barracks’ administration, he had done his best to be at the centre of things ever since he had arrived back in 1919. He made a mental note to see if he could get anything out of Flynn later.

  Click! Clack! Click! Clack! The duty room echoed with the sound of Flynn checking the working parts of his .303. The action was smooth, well oiled and clean, and he would make ready later. Old habits die hard, O’Neill thought, as he pretended to read the weekly situation report from Division before looking up at Flynn and smiling innocently. ‘Enjoy your little outing and don’t go doing anything foolish, my boy!’ he quipped.

  Ten minutes later the mail car was rumbling away down Main Street towards the post office and, unseen by its occupants, a mirror flashed from a cottage on the edge of the village. Up on Barragh Beg, one of the low hills to the east of the village, a lone figure lay in the scrub watching, waiting for the heliographic signal and nodded in approval as he saw the mirror flash once, twice, three times and then prised himself up off the ground, being careful to keep his silhouette from breaking the skyline.

  The IRA scout crouched low and squelching through a shallow gruel of slurry and mud, using the cover of a low scraggy hedge to crest the hill behind him. Just about keeping his footing, he slipped and skidded down the reverse slope for fifty yards or so before stopping to gaze down at two trenchcoated men lounging against a dark Tin Lizzie automobile parked in the lane below. The scout raised both his arms above his head and waved them in wide sweeping arcs.

  One of the men looked up and for a moment stared intently before tapping the other on the shoulder and climbing into the waiting Model T. The other raised both his hands and waved back in a series of sweeping arcs, copying the scout, before hoiking the starting handle out from the passenger side of the car and bending down to crank the car’s engine into life. The engine spluttered into life on the third turn.

  The man waved at the scout with the crank handle before leaping into the car. Even from where he was, the scout heard the gears crunch as the Ford lurched into motion and sped off down the lane in the direction of Gaigue. ‘Well, that’s me for the day,’ the scout said to himself, as he headed back towards the village. ‘I wonder what I’ll be having for my tea later?’

  CHAPTER 16

  Friday, 27 August 1920, Gaigue Cross, County Longford

  ‘KEEP YOUR WITS about you, lads,’ Flynn said nervously, to himself as much as to the others, as the mail car trundled its way through the narrow country road leading to Gaigue Cross. It was ideal ambush country, rolling ground, low stone walls and stacks of cover and he really didn’t feel happy with the situation.

  ‘Where’s this?’ Mullan asked, as they rolled into a suspiciously silent scatter
ing of low white-washed bungalows, clinging to the edge of the dirt road.

  Flynn leant forward from the back and called into Mullan’s ear, ‘Bandra. Bit of a dump.’ Mullan nodded. Flynn began to feel uneasy. The fields were empty, not even a cow to be seen. Where is everyone? Flynn thought, as he felt a nagging sense of anxiety begin to bubble to the surface, an old sixth sense coming back to life. Nervously, he laid his carbine across his knees, massaged the stock surreptitiously and made the weapon ready.

  Beside him, Constables Reidy, King and Brogan were chatting quietly to each other in muted, barely audible whispers, drowned by the rumble of the mail car’s engine and punctuated by the odd burst of laughter. Flynn felt no inclination to join in and made no attempt to broach their conversation. The driver ignored them all, locked in a miserable world of his own. ‘John,’ Flynn shouted across to Mullan, ‘you know, something doesn’t feel right. It is far too quiet!’

  John Mullan half turned in the front passenger seat and shot Flynn one of his rare lopsided, leering smiles before speaking. ‘Sure, Kevin, will you relax. What can the Shinners do? There are five of us, after all. We’d have to blunder into a pretty big flying column for them to take a crack at us!’

  Flynn knew that the Ulsterman was an experienced soldier like himself and yet Mullan didn’t seem to be perturbed by the stillness around them and had already turned back around before Flynn was able to reply. Somehow he didn’t feel reassured. He couldn’t put his finger on why he felt the way he did. Perhaps it was Kathleen’s sudden disappearance that had unsettled him or the way that most of the general public tried to avoid eye contact or having anything to do with anyone in the police. It was obvious that the IRA-ordered boycott of the police was biting deep.

  ‘Get a grip,’ Flynn muttered to himself. He knew it was a cliché, but everything was quiet, too quiet, and it was obvious that the normal rhythm of life that you would expect to see in any rural community was missing. There were no children, no adults, not even dogs roaming the street. It was as if everyone had just disappeared. Nothing seemed normal and in a strange way it reminded him of that awkward moment of tranquillity that occurred between the end of a bombardment and the cacophony of whistles that heralded an attack. It was the quiet before the storm, he thought, praying that he was wrong.