‘You may well get another one to go with that as well,’ he said, pointing casually at Flynn’s Military Medal ribbon. ‘Dubs, wasn’t it?’ he said with the air of a man who already knew the answer. ‘I was with the Leinsters myself, Ireland’s finest!’ he declared with a disarming smile.
‘Hardly,’ Flynn snorted. ‘You must mean the Royal Dublin Fusiliers if you’re on about Ireland’s finest!’
Kelleher laughed. ‘Old loyalties die hard, eh? I like that. Loyalty, that is.’ His demeanour hardened. ‘We were in the same division it would seem,’ Kelleher said. ‘Were you at Ginchy?’ Flynn nodded. ‘Me too. Now there’s an experience I’m not keen to repeat. Is that where you got the gong?’ he asked, too casually. Flynn had a feeling that he already knew the answer to that as well.
‘It is,’ he replied cautiously, wondering where this was going.
‘Tell me about it,’ Kelleher said, dripping with faux bonhomie.
‘It was a real bugger’s muddle,’ Flynn began, ‘and the battalion was all over the place, really in bits. My company commander was dead and this other officer dragged me off on a hare-brained counter attack. It was a miracle we weren’t killed. He got an MC and I got this,’ he said, tapping the MM ribbon.
Kelleher was watching him intently now, studying him almost. ‘Do you remember the officer’s name?’ he asked suddenly.
‘Yes, as a matter of fact I do, sir,’ Flynn replied. Kelleher’s gaze was fixed. ‘Lieutenant Dalton.’
Kelleher took another drag on his cigarette. ‘Emmet Dalton,’ Kelleher said, tossing a photograph onto the table in front of Flynn. ‘This him?’
Flynn looked closely at the picture. ‘Aye, that’s him,’ he replied. ‘Look, sir, you obviously know all about this, so why are you asking me these questions?’ Flynn asked irritably.
Kelleher held up his hand. ‘All in good time, Constable. Just indulge me for a wee while longer, please.’
Flynn glanced back at the picture. ‘Mr Dalton ended up as a major, so I heard on the regimental rumour mill.’
‘Oh, he did a bit more than that, Constable Flynn, a wee bit more than that. Major James Emmet Dalton MC, late of the Royal Dublin Fusiliers, is believed to be the commander of a particularly active IRA unit in Dublin and a very good friend of the big fella himself, Mick Collins!’ Flynn’s jaw dropped. ‘And you—’ Kelleher paused momentarily to add emphasis ‘—Constable Flynn, are the first member of the RIC I have met to admit to knowing him….’
Flynn spluttered. ‘I wouldn’t say I know him! We met once in the middle of a bloody battle!’
Kelleher smiled. ‘And you impressed him enough for him to write you up for a medal. Now, I’m not saying that you’re best pals or anything but he clearly liked you. You clearly impressed him.’ Flynn looked worried. ‘Don’t look so pensive, Constable,’ Kelleher continued. ‘Like I said, old loyalties die hard and I think that you are still true to your oath as a soldier and a constable, eh?’
Flynn nodded. ‘I know it sounds a bit trite, sir, but I gave my word to serve the crown,’ he said, ‘and I’ve been given no reason to go back on it.’
‘Good man! The king’s salt and all that!’ Kelleher declared. ‘Shame not everyone is so honest. There are those who have no qualms about betraying their trust and I have a feeling that you could be very useful yet for our cause.’ Flynn felt uneasy at the phrase ‘useful for our cause’ and shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
‘What do you mean, sir?’ Flynn asked.
‘There is a traitor in our ranks and I aim to flush him out,’ Kelleher said. ‘I can cope with the IRA – at least we have a good idea who they are – but the enemy within? Damn it! The gallows are too good for the treacherous little bastards!’ he declared. ‘You know, Flynn, I feel that I can trust you.’ Flynn felt Kelleher’s eyes on him, testing him. ‘In your report you say you recognized one of the men who ambushed you,’ Kelleher said, suddenly changing the subject.
Flynn nodded. ‘I’d seen the man before at the blacksmiths in Balinalee.’
Kelleher pushed another grainy photograph across the table. ‘This him?’ Flynn nodded again and the inspector smiled.
‘That, Constable Flynn, is Sean MacEoin. We’ve suspected for a while that he’s been running IRA operations in the county but you are the first person to give a positive identification. I may well get uniform to pay him a visit, if he isn’t already on the run. You know, Constable,’ Kelleher continued, ‘a man like you could be very useful to me. That packet Sergeant Willson gave you was a little test. Willson said you were a good man and I needed to see if I could trust you. You looked after my packet and didn’t try to open it. If you had, you’d have found it stuffed with old newspaper, that’s all. There are one or two hereabouts who wouldn’t have been so honest.’
Flynn’s eyes narrowed as he watched the inspector. ‘Useful in what way?’ he asked, his heart pounding.
‘That, I’m afraid, I can’t tell you just yet,’ Kelleher said, flashing Flynn one of his disarming toothy smiles. ‘How can I put it? Sometimes my duties require me to carry out special assignments of a politically delicate nature.’
Alarm bells clanged in Flynn’s head. ‘Please, sir, cut me some slack and spare me the “You’re just the man for the job” speech and cut to the chase, will you? What do you really want?’ Flynn blurted out and to his horror Kelleher burst out laughing.
‘The look on your face!’ Kelleher spluttered, trying not to choke as tears welled in his eyes. ‘Please, don’t look so worried, old chap, I’m not asking you to join some sort of loyalist death squad or anything. Lord no!’ Flynn relaxed, obviously relieved. ‘I’m not a big fan of the Shinners and the mess they’ve made of my … er … our country but I’m not a big fan of murdering them either. That sort of thing just adds fuel to the whole bloody bonfire. The rebels have a bizarre fascination with martyrdom after all. Personally I have no intention of supplying them with the stuff of yet another ballad. No, the powers that be want me to try and talk to them!’
The room was suddenly quiet and Flynn could hear himself breathe whilst the crunch of hobnails in the courtyard resonated in his ears. Outside, he could hear the birds twittering in the eaves and for the second time his jaw dropped. ‘I need someone reliable to watch my back, someone who doesn’t go to pieces in a crisis, someone who keeps his head in a fight and knows what to do in one, and if that man is also acquainted with someone in Collins’ inner circle, so much the better!’ Kelleher looked at Flynn. ‘Well, Constable, what do you say?’
Flynn’s mind raced. ‘What about Sergeant Willson? He won’t be happy, being left shorthanded again, what with Brogan and Reidy,’ he said.
Kelleher smiled. ‘Sergeant Willson is a bit of an old woman but he is a good man. He’s been very useful these last couple of months but the heart’s gone out of him. He’s applied for a transfer to the Liverpool City Police, you know, so I’m not sure he’ll be too worried. Besides, it was him who mentioned you to me in the first place.’
Suddenly, a small familiar voice in the back of Flynn’s head was screaming, ‘Don’t do it! Never volunteer for anything!’, but in all honesty he was already getting bored with ordinary police work – or more accurately the lack of it. IRA intimidation was widening the gap between the constabulary and the community and Flynn was increasingly worried about playing moving target to any would-be rebel with a gun. ‘So, Sergeant Willson will not be minding?’ Flynn asked as he looked at the grainy pictures of MacEoin and Dalton.
Dalton was in his British officer’s uniform, a neat toothbrush moustache on his upper lip, looking proud and smug sporting his MC and for a fleeting moment he was back in that trench at Ginchy. Mullan was dead because of men like these. Kathleen was sent away because of men like these. Ireland was turning to shit because of men like these. It was then that Flynn realized that it wasn’t the rebels’ politics he despised, it was their methods, and that he couldn’t care less whether Ireland was a republic or a monarchy as long as
it was peaceful. ‘All right, sir,’ he finally said, ‘I’ll do it.’
Kelleher broke into a broad grin. ‘Good man! I had a feeling that you’d say that. There’s a patrol leaving in about half an hour. I want you to go with it. It’ll wait in Drumlish whilst you collect your stuff then bring you back.’
Flynn nodded again and, as he sat wondering what he’d let himself in for, the inspector rose and strolled over to the door. His hand hovered over the handle and he turned to Flynn. ‘Oh, yes, I nearly forgot but I think you’ll be needing these,’ he said, tossing something else towards Flynn, who was barely able to suppress his grin as he looked down at the new object. There on the table was a set of RIC sergeant’s chevrons. It would seem that he had passed Kelleher’s test with flying colours. ‘From now on you’re an acting sergeant.’ Kelleher beamed. ‘With immediate effect, so get them sewn on and get yourself over to Drumlish. We’ll talk in the morning.’
Flynn picked up the stripes. Sergeant Flynn, he thought. Now there was something he thought he’d never hear again. The door thudded shut; the inspector was gone.
CHAPTER 18
Newtonforbes railway station, County Longford
IT WAS BLOODY obvious that Joe Maguire was not a happy man as he got off the train. ‘MacEoin wants to see you,’ Doyle said as they looked apprehensively at the plain clothes detective loitering by the station exit, obviously over-reading his paper, whilst another lounged, a little too nonchalantly, outside, eyeing up the passengers as they left. He was too well dressed to be anything else other than a detective. Only a complete halfwit would have been fooled and the policeman knew it; in fact, it was obvious that he counted on it.
‘Jakers, keep it down,’ Maguire hissed. ‘The place is crawling with peelers.’
Doyle shrugged. ‘Sure, everywhere is these days but I’ve lads watching over us.’ Maguire pretended to ignore the detective as they left the station and the detective pretended to ignore Maguire as he secured his tatty brown cardboard suitcase to the luggage rack of his bike. It was a game they played.
‘Aye, it’s a grand game, is it not. They watch us and we watch them and we all pretend that we’re not,’ Maguire said bitterly. Doyle looked puzzled; it was all a bit too deep for him but then he was new to the game too.
‘How was Belfast?’ Doyle asked in a pathetic attempt to drum up a conversation but Maguire just shrugged.
‘Shite as ever,’ he replied irritably. ‘Let’s go. I’ve got words for the boss too.’ Doyle lit a cigarette and puffed out a cloud of cheap blue-grey smoke whilst Maguire hopped onto his bike and pedalled off rapidly down the road, with Doyle cycling frantically to keep up. Behind them the detective folded his paper and walked into the railway station to join his companion.
‘What do you know about this Gaigue Cross business?’ Maguire asked when they were finally clear of the town.
‘I was there, Joe, me and some of the boys. MacEoin ordered it,’ Doyle replied. ‘Commandant Connolly said it was all right,’ he added nervously.
‘Did he now?’ Maguire replied, with obvious irritation. ‘We’ll see about that. They can do what they like with their flying column but I don’t like my boys pulling an operation without me! So what did they have you doing then?’ he asked Doyle.
‘Nothing much,’ Doyle responded. ‘They got the boys to act as scouts and to cover the escape routes. It was the column who did the shooting. It was them that plugged the peeler.’ Maguire nodded and Doyle could see that he was angry.
‘That’s not the fecking point!’ Maguire spat, white with suppressed rage. Doyle knew that Maguire had a fearful temper when he got going. ‘I’m sorry, Paddy, sure it’s not your fault. You were only doing what you were told, like a soldier should,’ he said quietly, aware that his anger was unnerving the boy. ‘So what else has been going on in my absence?’ Maguire asked.
‘Mick McNamara escaped from the Brits! He’s mighty bitter about his brother and none too pleased we left him,’ Doyle said excitedly. ‘They say that he did for one of the peelers who shot Jerry and now he’s after the other one!’
‘Well, it’s good news that he escaped but this is war and he shouldn’t take it personally. But then I would have expected no less from him,’ Maguire sneered.
‘The boss put me in charge of one of the cut-off groups,’ Doyle said, instantly regretting referring to MacEoin as ‘the boss’ in front of Maguire. Maguire grinned at the boy, letting the comment pass.
‘Well done, Paddy boy, your first command and in a real battle too! You’ll be a commandant before you know it!’ he teased and Doyle’s face flushed with pride as the lazy summer sun beat down on them. As they pedalled Maguire went quiet, mulling over what he would say to MacEoin, and by the time they reached the smithy his temper had cooled a little. This worried Doyle; he’d been told that cool was when Maguire was at his most dangerous.
Outside the forge Maguire flung his bike against the wall and strode into the shadows of the forge. Dint! Dint! Dint! MacEoin’s face was bathed in sparks as he rhythmically struck a red-hot iron bar. Even with the furnace, the forge was a welcome sanctuary from the summer sun. The blacksmith ignored him. ‘Sean!’ Maguire shouted. The hammer paused in mid stroke and MacEoin turned his head, looking across the workshop at the figure framing the doorway.
‘Joe, you’re back!’ MacEoin beamed as he put his tools down and wiped his hands on his apron. ‘Come on in!’
‘Who said you could use my boys?’ Maguire asked angrily, ignoring MacEoin’s outstretched hand.
‘What?’ he finally said.
‘You heard me! Who said you could use my men!’ he demanded and MacEoin’s smile slipped.
‘Keep the noise down! Do you want everyone to know our business?’ he said. Doyle could hear their raised voices and looked anxiously towards the RIC barracks, expecting it to disgorge gun-toting policemen at any moment but instead a bored constable looked out of the window and Doyle felt his stomach turn. Shortly afterwards the policeman disappeared and after a few moments he heard the crackly tones of a gramophone record coming from the direction of the barracks.
MacEoin pulled the workshop door shut, cutting out the street, before turning to face Maguire. ‘How many times do I have to tell you, Joe, they’re not your boys, they belong to the army, and I command in this county, so that makes them mine!’ he said slowly, deliberately, with a hard, threatening edge to his tone. Everyone knew that MacEoin was a bad man to cross, but then so was Maguire.
‘I don’t care what you or GHQ thinks – they are my boys! You know how it works; they picked me, not you. Your precious GHQ didn’t give me the job and without me most of them would give up and go home and you know it! So spare me the GHQ bollocks! No one around here gives a toss what Mulcahy or Collins think!’
The blacksmith remained quiet. He was all too familiar with the pseudo-democratic quirks and vagaries of the Volunteers’ command structure but he could not allow anyone, even Maguire, to defy his authority too openly. ‘Anyway, Joe, it was too good an opportunity to miss, you understand. My sources told me that it was a good target and a good opportunity to put pressure on the police.’ He decided not to tell Maguire the real reason for his decision to attack the mail car. ‘Besides, there was no way of getting word to you away in Belfast before the attack so I decided to get on with it. Sean agreed with me and, besides, it doesn’t do the boys any good to be idle for too long.’ MacEoin added, ‘Your boys done good, and we got one of the bastards to boot!’
Maguire looked far from placated. ‘I don’t bloody care, Sean. You used my boys without me knowing! So what was so flaming important about the post that you had to attack it?’ He could tell that there was something MacEoin wasn’t telling him and he couldn’t care less whether Sean Connolly approved of the plan or not. As far as he was concerned Connolly was so far up MacEoin’s arse that he might as well wear him as a hat. ‘I don’t give a shit what you do with your column boys but keep away from my lads, unless I say so!’ MacEoin st
ood stock still and silent. ‘Did you plan this pantomime before you asked me to go to Belfast? Is that why you asked me to go, to get me out of the way?’ Maguire squared up to MacEoin and for a moment the blacksmith thought that he was going to take a swing at him.
‘Joe, Joe.’ MacEoin raised his hands, attempting to ease the tension. ‘It was an opportunity too good to miss, that’s all.’ Maguire relaxed. The moment had passed and he felt the rage ebb from him. There was a noise behind him and he spun around, tensing once more, ready for action, and only relaxed slightly when he saw it was McNamara standing in the back doorway.
‘You left me, you bastard!’ McNamara spat accusingly.
Maguire’s hand slipped into his pocket and grasped the butt of his pistol. ‘There’s no need for that,’ MacEoin said as he placed his hand on Maguire’s forearm.
‘It’s a fecking war, you eejit,’ Maguire hissed at McNamara. ‘If I’d stayed then we all would have been in the bag or worse. Look, I’m truly sorry about Jerry but there was nothing I could do about it.’ McNamara looked unconvinced.
‘Precisely,’ MacEoin interrupted. ‘It’s a war and people die. Sadly, that is the nature of the business. Look, Mick, Jerry’s sacrifice will not go unremembered. He died for Ireland, for the cause, and it’s a price all of us here are prepared to pay. We all knew that when we volunteered, so let’s just hope that it wasn’t for nothing. It’s hard enough to be fighting the Brits; let’s not fight amongst ourselves. Isn’t that what the bastards want? That’s how they’ve always beaten us, by divide and rule!’
McNamara stared at Maguire in silence. ‘Happen you’re right,’ McNamara said eventually, ‘though I want those bastards in Drumlish to pay.’
MacEoin sighed. ‘There will be time enough for killing, Mick. Time enough, tiocfaidh ár lá.’
Maguire had always had his doubts about McNamara. He loved guns and killing too much and he was convinced that Mick wasn’t quite all there.
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