England's Janissary

  ‘Why the hell did they torch my bar?’ Kiernan asked, looking at the two bedraggled gunmen.

  ‘Why do you think?’ Maguire said. ‘Maybe because we shot one of their inspectors in this bar and the bastards have had enough! I told Sean it was a stupid idea!’

  Hegarty smacked his lips appreciatively. ‘At least Kitty is free.’ Maguire looked at him, puzzled. ‘The peelers lifted her after Kelleher was shot but Mr McGovern here got them to let her go.’ Maguire looked at McGovern, who nodded slightly, confirming Hegarty’s information.

  ‘No wonder they’re pissed off and I don’t think that we’ve seen the end of it. I think we need to get you out of here before the lynch mob comes back,’ Maguire said, looking out of the broken window towards the barracks. ‘Christ knows what that bastard Carroll will do next if he is prepared for his lads to burn down the bloody town. So we’ve got to get out of here. Larry, where’s Kitty now?’

  Kiernan blinked a few times as he struggled to think; his face was streaked with dirt and soot. ‘She’s … she’s over at the house,’ he finally stuttered.

  ‘The pair of you need to stay clear of here,’ McGovern said. ‘I’m going to lodge a formal complaint as soon as I get back to my office.’

  Hegarty took another pull of whiskey. ‘What good will that do?’

  McGovern sighed and looked at Hegarty as if he was talking to a small child. ‘It will make the Brits embarrassed, it will make them pay compensation and it will make them look bad in the papers. The last thing the great British public want to read about is their beloved bobbies going on the bloody rampage! That’s why. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a few phone calls to make.’ McGovern crunched back off out of the front door and was off down the street to his office.

  Maguire turned to Hegarty and said, ‘Look, go see if you can find any of the local boys and get a perimeter set up around the barracks. That way if any of the bastards come out, we can get them, just in case they decide to try and encore. Make sure you get someone to get out to the Longford road. That way we can see if the Auxies are coming. We also need to let Sean know what’s going on. When you’ve done all that, get over to the house. I’ll be there with Larry.’

  ‘I don’t think so!’ came a voice from the back of the bar and Hegarty and Maguire spun around, levelling their revolvers as they did so. Maguire let out a breath and relaxed, releasing the pressure from the trigger. There in the shadows Fitzgerald stood impassively blocking the blackened doorway that led to the office behind the bar.

  ‘Jaysus, Brendan, we could have bloody shot you, creeping up on us like that!’ Hegarty said, lowering his gun. Kiernan just stood there, rooted to the spot like a frightened rabbit.

  ‘You don’t think what, Brendan?’ Maguire asked. The foresight of his pistol hovered momentarily over the middle of Fitzgerald’s face before he lowered it, blinking to clear his vision.

  ‘The boss wants to see you,’ he stated, looking indifferently at the devastation around him.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Brendan, can’t you see that we’re in the middle of something here?’ Maguire snapped.

  Fitzgerald stepped closer, a brief, cold smile flickering across his lips. He looked unnaturally clean amongst the grime. ‘Don’t you go worrying, Joe, Sean sent me to fetch you. He needs to speak to you.’

  Maguire stretched out his arms and looked around in askance. ‘And what about all this mess?’

  Fitzgerald glanced disinterestedly around the room and then looked back at Maguire. ‘Like I said, don’t you go worrying yourself. Sean sent some back-up.’ Fitzgerald smiled a cold, comfortless smile. Even his normally yellowed teeth seemed white against the darkness of the room, like some sort of oversized rodent, Maguire couldn’t help thinking.

  ‘Eunan here can take charge. He’s good for it. I’ve already sent some of the lads to make sure the peelers stay bottled up in their little bunker. Best Larry here gets himself home,’ Maguire said.

  Fitzgerald turned to Hegarty. ‘Joe here is right, Eunan. Get someone up onto the Longford road to keep an eye out for the Auxies.’ Then he reached over and gently took the whiskey bottle from Hegarty’s hand and placed it carefully on the ruined bar. ‘I don’t think that the peelers will be making a fuss for a wee while yet. Things may be different later if the Auxies arrive. Besides, Joe, it’s only a fifteen-minute ride over to see Sean, so we can be back before the hour,’ he added reassuringly. ‘Anyway, Sean needs to know what’s going on here and I’m sure that he’ll want to have a say in how we play this, once we’ve worked out what the hell is going on.’

  Hegarty nodded briefly before slipping past Fitzgerald. He deftly picked up the whiskey bottle and was gone before Kiernan could make any comment about him pilfering his stock.

  ‘Think of it as a contribution to the cause,’ Maguire quipped, almost reading Kiernan’s thoughts as he shot Hegarty an angry glance before scurrying away through the ruins of his prize business.

  ‘Have you got a clue why the local plods have got it into their heads to torch the Greville and put in a few windows?’ Maguire asked Fitzgerald.

  The gunman shrugged noncommittally. Maguire watched him carefully; there was something about Fitzgerald’s manner he didn’t like but then there was no change there, he thought. ‘Come on, best be off – the car is out back,’ Fitzgerald said and turned towards the door without looking back to see if Maguire was following, his tone more like an order than a request, and Maguire felt that he had little option but to comply. After all, MacEoin was Maguire’s superior officer so it made perfect sense that he would want to speak to him. It was bound to happen sooner or later so he may as well get it over with.

  ‘You really do look like shit,’ Fitzgerald laughed, lightening the atmosphere as he led Maguire through the hotel. They stepped into the back yard where an idling car was parked next to a scorched stack of empty beer barrels. Dirty water mixed with stale soiled beer pooled amongst the cobbles and everything stank to Maguire like a bad hangover.

  One of MacEoin’s flying column lounged in the driver’s seat cradling a pristine .303 rifle, wearing a stained, rumpled trenchcoat, his battered slouch hat casting a deep shadow over his unshaven face, hiding his eyes, although Maguire could tell he was watching him. His chest was criss-crossed by two beige cotton ammunition bandoliers that gave him the look of a Mexican bandito from one of those Wild West films and all the man needed was a droopy moustache to complete the ensemble.

  ‘In you hop, Joe,’ Fitzgerald chirped, holding open the back door and Maguire climbed up into the car. Its canvas soft top did little to keep out the wet and the seat was already damp beneath his backside as water seeped through the seat of his trousers. The ‘bandito’ gave him a silent sidelong glance as Fitzgerald climbed into the front passenger seat and then turned away as he crunched the car into gear and it jolted into motion.

  A fine drizzle began to fall, bouncing amongst the puddles, and Maguire suddenly remembered how hungry he was. ‘Not long now,’ Fitzgerald said and after ten minutes or so Maguire could tell that they weren’t actually heading to Balinalee but one of the hamlets outside it. Ever since the Gaigue Cross operation, MacEoin had more or less been on the run and Maguire guessed that they were probably heading to Kilshrewley, one of the blacksmith’s favourite little hidey-holes.

  Eventually the car lurched to a halt outside a rundown cottage nestled in a fold in the ground and the motion made Maguire feel mildly nauseous. The rain was closing in and Maguire couldn’t see more than a hundred yards or so in any direction. Raindrops rattled noisily off the car’s canvas soft top and sounded like a ragged drum roll. ‘Shit!’ Fitzgerald muttered as the bandito applied the handbrake and he turned up his collar against the wet.

  Maguire felt the mud and water squelch over the tops of his shoes as he stepped out of the car and ran over to the front door. It was only a few yards but by the time he got there he felt like a drowned rat. Fitzgerald looked at Maguire and barely managed to suppress a smile; the man w
as as wet as he was despite his raincoat and hat. Inside was empty, the air smelt damp and Maguire could hear the rain bouncing off the slate roof, the watery tattoo aggravating the throbbing at the back of his head. A turf fire smouldered in the grate and he made his way over to it. Steam rose from his clothes as he rubbed the warmth into his hands.

  ‘So where is Sean?’ he asked. Fitzgerald silently shut the door and peeled off his sopping coat. His hat had already lost its shape and draped over his face like a scarecrow’s. Maguire began to feel nervous. ‘So where is he?’ he asked again.

  ‘He’ll be along soon enough,’ Fitzgerald replied as he tossed his hat onto a peg on the back of the door. Droplets dripped on the floor making a growing stain on the dirt floor, dark like blood.

  ‘Perhaps we should get back to Granard?’ Maguire asked.

  ‘He’ll be along,’ Fitzgerald said again and reluctantly Maguire plonked himself down in a seat by the fire and felt his clothes drying out as he sat there, whilst Fitzgerald sat at a table at the other end of the room, looking at his watch. The morbid silence hung heavily in the air. The door at the back of the cottage suddenly swung open and MacEoin strode briskly into the room. He looked tired, like he hadn’t slept properly in days, which he hadn’t. He shook his hat, scattering droplets around the room.

  ‘Jaysus, what a day!’ MacEoin declared to no one in particular as he tossed his coat over the back of a chair and sat down in the chair opposite Maguire. He smiled.

  ‘So, Joe, what happened?’ he finally asked, leaning back in his chair.

  ‘The peelers have burnt out the Greville …’ Maguire started.

  ‘Not in Granard, Joe. I mean when Pat Doyle got shot.’

  So Maguire told him and MacEoin listened patiently as he recounted his tale, every now and again nodding quietly. ‘And that is what happened, is it?’ he asked after Maguire had finished speaking.

  ‘To be honest, Sean, I don’t really remember that much.’

  MacEoin’s face hardened slightly as the firelight reflected in his eyes and he bridged his hands in front of his face, deep in thought. ‘You know, Joe, I had a feeling that you would say that. There’s nothing more you want to tell me? Nothing you’ve forgotten, eh?’

  ‘Shit, Sean! There is a load I can’t remember. The bastard fetched me a hell of a blow on the head. Jaysus, I’ve got the mother of all headaches and you are asking me all these bloody questions!’

  ‘So it would seem. But you know, Joe, I’ve got a wee problem.’

  Maguire’s brain raced as he watched MacEoin impassively doing his best to mask his emotions. He had an awful feeling that the blacksmith was fencing with him, playing a game of poker, and despite his headache, poker-faced Maguire fought to keep his wits about him. Where was this going? he thought.

  ‘My problem, Joe, is that I’ve been given a very different version of events, very different indeed.’

  ‘I don’t follow you, Sean,’ Maguire said, looking puzzled.

  ‘I’ve been told that you helped the peeler escape and it was you who killed Pat.’ MacEoin’s words felt like a slap across Maguire’s face.

  ‘Who says?’ he demanded angrily. ‘I bet it was that wee gobshite McNamara. He’d say anything to try and get me in the shit since his brother was shot. It was tough luck Jerry copping it like that, but that’s war, Sean, and the bastard has decided that it’s my fault. You’ve seen him – he’s a bloody basket case!’

  ‘No, it wasn’t Mick,’ MacEoin said sadly, shaking his head as the door creaked quietly open behind them. Maguire turned and saw a shadowy figure enter the room and the blood drained from his face as he recognized the man who he knew was his accuser.

  ‘I told him,’ said Constable Gary O’Neill, as he stepped into the light.

  CHAPTER 29

  Kingstown, County Dublin

  FROM WHERE KATHLEEN stood on the West Pier, Kingstown harbour was quiet and she could see the myriad little yachts and fishing boats bucking up and down at their moorings on the choppy brown waters whilst down by the lifeboat shed a couple of lifeboat men busied themselves cheesing down lines, making the place ship-shape, idling away the time before their next call-out.

  Around her lines sang and timbers creaked as the salt-laden breeze whistled through rigging shrouds and sent unsecured canvas flapping. If she’d known anything about the sea she’d have known that there was a storm rising and from the slate-grey skies Kathleen knew that she had best get undercover before the rain came.

  The smell of fish, mixed with the tang of salt in the air, made her hungry and she was acutely conscious that she had not eaten for several hours. The bitter wind ruffled her hair, sending curly red streaks across her face as she looked out onto Dublin Bay at the tattered wisps of smoke belching from the funnel of a distant Royal Navy gunboat, battling against the tide towards Dublin. For a brief moment she felt sorry for the men trapped in the pitching grey steel box and thanked her lucky stars she wasn’t with them. She loved looking at the sea but had no real urge to go on it.

  The truth be told, Kathleen badly missed Drumlish with its green hills, its fields and twee cottages, not like Kingstown with its harbour, its parks, church spires and big Georgian houses and so many people. Whilst the train journey had, as ever, been a bit of an adventure of sorts, mostly because she had never really been anywhere but Drumlish and her aunt’s house in Kingstown in her entire life, she could have done without it. In her dreams she had always wanted to travel but whenever she saw the crowded, filthy streets of Dublin she wasn’t so sure – yet Flynn had told her it was a beautiful city. ‘It’s a grand place,’ he’d said. ‘You just haven’t looked at it properly.’ She remembered his smile and how much she missed it.

  Maybe he was right. ‘In Dublin’s fair city, where the girls are so pretty,’ the song declared but from what little she’d seen of the place she was decidedly unimpressed. In fact, she had become distinctly unimpressed with Kingstown, sea views and all, and her aunt’s boarding house was beginning to feel more like a prison than a sanctuary.

  ‘Remember that for the time being no one must know that you are staying with your aunt,’ her father had instructed, waving his bandaged and splinted hand at her and for the first time she had noticed how old and worn he looked. There was a haunted, fearful look in his once-laughing eyes as he slouched under some invisible weight. She had never seen him look this way, not even when he got the telegram telling him that Davey was gone.

  ‘But why?’ she’d asked. ‘Surely I’ll be safe, all the way away at Aunt Rebecca’s. I may as well have emigrated, it’s so far from here!’

  Her mother looked older too and she pushed a strand of lank, lifeless red hair from her eyes as she spoke to her daughter. ‘These people aren’t mucking about, Kathleen, and after what they did to your father’s hand, sweet Jesus knows what they might be doing to you, if we don’t get you away from here.’

  ‘But what about my Kevin?’ she pleaded.

  Her mother gave her a baleful glance and sighed. ‘Child, that is why we must get you away, because of Kevin. They threatened you, Kathy, and …’ She trailed off, her eyes reddened with tears and in her head Kathleen could still hear the voice of the man who pressed the gun to her head in the back yard, the familiar voice that she still couldn’t quite place.

  ‘You see, Kathleen, my darling,’ the voice had said, ‘it would be a terrible thing for anything to happen to your da, especially now your brother’s gone too … sure, you’ll know what happens to traitors.’

  ‘Mick Early is one of them,’ she blurted, ‘and there was a man with a gun out back when they broke da’s hand.’

  Her mother’s face blanched paler and her father groaned as he buried his face in his good hand. ‘All the more reason to get you away, Kathy,’ Mrs Moore had gabbled, her face flushed with fear. ‘Remember, whatever you do, no one must know where you are,’ her father had said as he helped her on to the train. ‘I’ll let you know when it is safe to come home.’ She was haunted by
the look on her father’s face as he waved her off. ‘I’ll make them pay for this,’ he’d told her, as he’d hugged her one last time, but deep down they both knew there was nothing he could do, absolutely nothing. He thrust an envelope into her hand and said, ‘Give this to Aunt Rebecca. It will explain everything.’

  She had stuffed the envelope into her bag and watched her father disappear in a cloud of smoke as the train pulled away from the platform. For the entire journey she was convinced that everyone was watching her but despite her paranoia she knew that none of them were really interested in her. That is, except for the young man on the other side of the compartment who kept smiling at her from over the top of his book but she had a feeling that his motives were far from political. By the time she reached Dublin she had avoided saying a word to anyone, except the conductor when he checked her ticket.

  From Dublin, the trip to Kingstown was a nightmare of cabs, trams and strange accents but eventually she had found herself outside the familiar if somewhat faded facade of her aunt’s once-grand Georgian house, towering four floors over Mellifont Avenue off Upper George Street. When she rang the doorbell a short woman of indeterminate middle age answered the front door and smiled welcomingly. She had the same washed-out red hair as Kathleen’s mother and a friendly face that was reminiscent of her too.

  ‘Aunt Rebecca?’ Kathleen asked.

  The woman looked at her for a moment then replied, ‘Kathleen? Is that really you? And what brings you all the way to Kingstown? Are your parents with you?’ Kathleen shook her head and handed her aunt the envelope, who rapidly scanned the scrawled note then popped it into a pocket on the apron that she wore. ‘Come on in, Kathleen, come in,’ she said and ushered her into the house.

  The house had clearly seen better days and the stairwell smelt faintly of damp and mildew as she climbed to the attic room at the back of the house that was to be her new home until the holiday season ended and she was able to occupy one of the larger guestrooms overlooking the street. The rooms were light and airy with high ceilings and would make a pleasant change from the cramped attic.