England's Janissary

  It was almost as if their close shave in the Monto and the GPO had pushed McNamara deeper into himself, becoming more taciturn than ever. He’d said hardly two words to O’Neill since they’d got on the tram and the Ulsterman was beginning to appreciate why so many people gave McNamara a wide berth and why so many people thought that he was dangerous.

  ‘So why are we going to Kingstown?’ O’Neill had asked but McNamara hadn’t deigned to answer; he simply gave him a sidelong glance and then returned to staring out of the tram window. O’Neill had the uncomfortable feeling that McNamara was keeping something back from him, until it was too late for him to do anything about it. ‘Shouldn’t we have checked in by now?’ O’Neill began but McNamara cut him off.

  ‘Not here, not now. I’ll fill you in when we get there. Jakers, will you just have a little faith. Trust me.’ O’Neill felt far from reassured; the last thing he felt like doing was trusting his companion but in the circumstances he didn’t feel like he had much choice either. He gave a deep sigh and glanced out of the window, trying to conceal his nervousness; he had never really looked at Dublin before.

  It’s funny, he thought, how people never really stop and look around them. Even when he’d been a recruit at the RIC depot in Phoenix Park he’d never really bothered to explore the Empire’s second city. After all, where he came from Dublin was the nearest thing to Sodom and Gomorrah a Limavady boy could come across. Despite being his nation’s capital, O’Neill never really felt at home in Dublin, with its strange accents and its grand Georgian streets that contrasted starkly with the red-brick industrial linen towns that he called home. Whilst Belfast looked more like Manchester, with its linen mills and shipyards, than with any other town in Ireland, O’Neill was an Antrim country boy at heart.

  The Empire had brought prosperity to the north but it had not brought peace, far from it. There was a dark side to his homeland; beneath the prosperity was a land fractured by sectarian hatreds that all too often flared into self-destructive violence and O’Neill prayed for the day that his people would see beyond how they worshipped their God and saw that they were all Irishmen and women who were being exploited by the British state.

  ‘Don’t look so guilty and stop drawing attention to yourself,’ McNamara said quietly. ‘If you sit there looking like you expect to be arrested then it will only be a matter of time before you are, you should know that.’ O’Neill knew that he was right; after all, his experience in the RIC had taught him that.

  ‘Won’t they be looking for us?’ O’Neill asked.

  McNamara shook his head. ‘Why should they be? It’s not like what happened doesn’t happen every day,’ McNamara said matter-of-factly. ‘Besides, they haven’t got a clue who we are, so who will they look for? We’re not local boys so the G Men won’t be looking for us,’ he said, referring to the plain clothes detectives of the Dublin Metropolitan Police’s G Division, its detective branch. ‘The G Men’ll be too busy keeping an eye on the local players anyway.’

  He’d often heard policemen refer to active rebels as ‘players’ but it was strange to hear an IRA man use the term. It was as if the Troubles were some sort of game and, somehow, sadly, it seemed to make sense – after all, regardless of side, unless you were in the game you did your damnedest to get on with life as best you could. Trust the British, O’Neill thought, to treat the destiny of Ireland like some sort of glorified cricket match! If indeed it wasn’t the winning or losing but the taking part that mattered to the Brits, then it puzzled him how on earth they had managed to build their bloody Empire in the first place!

  ‘You still haven’t told me why we are going to Kingstown?’ O’Neill asked as they stepped off the tram.

  ‘Settling an overdue account.’ McNamara scanned the street, alert, his hands thrust deep into his raincoat pockets.

  ‘I must say, Mick, my boy, you’ve cleared everything up nicely. Now I know exactly what we are doing, I’m much happier indeed.’ O’Neill paused momentarily, trying to contain his anger and frustration. ‘Now, if you don’t give me a straight bloody answer, I’m going to get back on the bloody tram!’

  ‘All right, O’Neill, I’ll tell you why we are here. Commandant MacEoin—’ O’Neill had never heard McNamara use Sean MacEoin’s Volunteer rank before and it made him suspicious ‘—wants us to take care of some unfinished business for him,’ he lied. ‘You see, that loyalist tart of your former comrade-in-arms, Constable Flynn, is hiding out around here and the boss wants us to use her to flush him out from under whatever stone he’s hiding under and take care of him.’

  ‘Are you sure? Sean didn’t mention any of this to me,’ O’Neill began suspiciously but McNamara cut him short.

  ‘Why would he? You’re only along for the ride because the boss couldn’t spare anyone else; if he had, then I could have offloaded you on GHQ ages ago.’

  ‘So how do you intend to “flush Flynn out” then?’ O’Neill asked, feeling distinctly uncomfortable with the situation. He vaguely remembered McNamara waving a letter around and shrieking like a banshee when he had been censoring the mail with O’Brien back in Gaigue. He rolled his eyes. ‘Please don’t tell me this has got something to do with that blasted letter you were blathering on about?’

  ‘And what if it is? I put it back in the post and Flynn will have got it by now, so I expect that he’ll be winging his way to the seaside to see his slapper any time now. All we have to do is find her and then wait and if we’re lucky that shite Maguire will be with him, and we’ll kill two birds with one stone.’

  ‘I’m not so sure.’

  O’Neill had got along well with the young Dubliner back in Drumlish and he wasn’t keen on seeing Flynn dead; to be honest, he wasn’t keen on doing anything until he’d spoken to someone in GHQ. He didn’t trust McNamara one bit. ‘First things first, we need to find somewhere to stay and get some scoff. Shouldn’t be too difficult. It’s not like its high season or anything – there are bound to be loads of places with space. Then we have to find Mellifont Avenue. That’s where we’ll find the loyalist bitch,’ McNamara announced as he strode off towards the seafront, with its myriad guest houses and hotels. ‘You still got your warrant card?’ he asked nonchalantly.

  O’Neill nodded, confirming that he still had his RIC identity card with him and asked, ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘Because it will come in useful!’ McNamara replied.

  By the time they reached the seafront the wind had picked up and a slight spray was whipping in from Dublin Bay. O’Neill didn’t like the seaside at the best of times and although his family dragged him up to wind-blown Portrush as a child he’d avoided the sea like the plague whenever he could. He had too many bad memories of vomiting over the side of troopships to be taken in by the ‘romance’ of the sea.

  It was then that O’Neill noticed the rows of salt-rimed Georgian houses sporting ‘Vacancies’ signs in their neat bay windows and doily-lace curtains. McNamara drew short in front of one of the less ostentatious hotels, the very originally named ‘Sea View’. ‘This will do,’ he said, and climbed the steps without waiting for O’Neill to acquiesce.

  It was dark by the time they had finished eating greasy egg and chips, washed down with strong orange tea. ‘Drink up, O’Neill,’ McNamara said, through a mouthful of egg-sodden bread. ‘There’s work to be done!’ He pushed back his chair and stood waiting by the door of the deserted dining room for O’Neill to put down his tea and join him.

  ‘Is everything to your liking, gentlemen?’ the landlady asked as she emerged smiling from the kitchen to collect their dirty plates.

  ‘It’s grand, Mrs Doyle, just grand!’ McNamara beamed, as O’Neill pushed past him into the hall.

  ‘I’ll be locking up at ten, gentlemen,’ Mrs Doyle said. ‘So make sure that you’re back by then, please. Besides, it’s not good to be out and about at night these days. You’ll not want to be out after curfew, gentlemen,’ Mrs Doyle added.

  ‘Sure, we’ll be back long before
then. We just thought that we’d take a wee turn along the prom before turning in,’ McNamara said, trying to avoid being drawn into conversation with Mrs Doyle. Ever since they had arrived at her boarding house she had been trying to fathom out who they were and what they were doing in Kingstown, not because she was being exceptionally nosey but because that was just the way people were in these parts.

  She smiled sweetly, accepting that her latest probe had been neatly parried, and proceeded to clear the table with feigned disregard for what the two men were up to. She consoled herself with the thought that they’d crack soon enough and let slip, especially if their ‘turn along the seafront’ took them past a pub or two. She’d not met an Irish man yet who hadn’t kissed the blarney stone after being in his cups.

  ‘Nosey bitch!’ McNamara declared out in the street, flipping up the collar of his overcoat against the evening chill. ‘Come on, it’s this way.’ McNamara’s shoes crunched on the cold ground and as O’Neill followed, he felt his joints aching arthritically, a memento, like Flynn’s, of his time in the trenches. He found it hard to match his companion’s rangy gait. He could sense McNamara’s impatience as he bowled on down Queen’s Road past the yacht clubs and the marina with its bobbing boats chafing at their moorings in the breeze. If he’d been in the mood, which was unlikely, O’Neill would probably have found the whistling of the wind through the boats’ shrouds musical, magical even.

  It was cold and the backing offshore wind cut through O’Neill like a razor as it whipped spray across the street and made a sterling attempt to wrench his hat from his head. ‘We’re here,’ McNamara suddenly announced when they stood on the corner of Mellifont Avenue and Victoria Terrace. He leant against the wall and nodded in the direction of a row of Georgian townhouses. ‘The bitch is over there.’ The heavens opened and it started tipping down with rain.

  ‘Great! So what now, big fella, eh?’ O’Neill declared.

  ‘Get back!’ McNamara snapped and shoved O’Neill into the shadows. ‘Peelers!’ he hissed as he saw two blue uniformed Dublin Metropolitan Police constables strolling down the street towards them. Instinctively his hand pawed the gun nestling in his coat pocket. The policemen stopped outside a house halfway up the street and, after a brief discussion, knocked on the door. A shaft of light lunged out into the night, silhouetting what looked like a middle-aged woman. O’Neill could feel the tension in McNamara as he watched. The woman said something inaudible and the policemen stepped into the light.

  ‘Shit!’ McNamara cursed. ‘That’s the house. That’s the flaming house.’ He was angry, frustrated even. ‘Blast, we’ll have to come back tomorrow. I want a wee word with young Miss Moore. Come on, let’s get back and get some sleep. We have a long and busy day ahead.’

  CHAPTER 39

  Sunday, 21 November 1920, Phoenix Park, Dublin

  IT WAS STILL dark and the RIC depot was deserted, on the cusp of waking, when Flynn and Maguire made their way through the morning chill to the MT office at the south-western corner of the parade ground. Their shoes crunched loudly on the gravel and Maguire was sulking because when he’d told Flynn they would go to Kingstown in the morning, he had hoped it would be after breakfast.

  ‘I thought that we’d get an early start,’ Flynn had said cheerily but Maguire just blew noisily on his hands, in an exaggerated attempt to keep warm, and muttered darkly. Unsurprisingly, the MT office was closed. It was quiet, the lights off, and through the window Flynn could see a figure slumped in an armchair nestled up to a pot-bellied stove. It was the MT department’s duty driver, napping. Flynn rapped loudly on the flaking green-painted door. A hacking cough punctuated the stillness of the office and a muffled voice cursed as the door scraped open, revealing the freshly woken incumbent. He had all the dishevelled charm of a man robbed of his sleep.

  ‘What?’ the man said irritably in a thick English west country accent that betrayed his anger, suspicion and foreignness.

  ‘We’ve come to collect our car,’ Flynn said, flashing his warrant card.

  The constable looked in disbelief at the clock – it said 6.32 a.m., and then back at the two men. ‘What bloody car. It’s half six! This is the first I’ve heard of this, so go away and come back later when the MT officer gets in. Now piss off.’ He went to close the door but Maguire gently shoved Flynn aside and wedged his foot in the door, forcing it open. His face was deathly pale, his eyes dark and dangerous, and as he smiled at the Englishman, his face reminded Flynn of a skull.

  ‘Excuse me, Constable, what is your name and number?’ Maguire smiled sweetly, his head cocked to one side.

  ‘Why do you want to know?’ the constable asked nervously, looking at Maguire’s empty eyes with renewed suspicion.

  ‘Well, my friend, I need to be able to tell Brigadier General Winter, the director of intelligence operations in Ireland, who countermanded his orders and refused to give us the transport he authorized. That is why, my friend.’ The constable visibly paled. ‘Look, I’ve got the director’s personal phone number here …’ Maguire began rummaging in his pocket. ‘Why don’t you give him a call and discuss it with him? I’m sure that he’ll appreciate the early-morning alarm call; after all, he’s usually up and about at this hour. Who are you again, old chap?’ Maguire gave the constable a sickly sweet rictus smile and held out a folded piece of writing paper between the first two fingers of his right hand. The constable stared at it for a few moments and licked his lips as Maguire waved the paper gently under his nose.

  ‘All right, all right, that really won’t be necessary. You can have that one over there …’ He pointed at a brown touring car parked in the corner of the MT yard. Maguire beamed as he took the vehicle’s paperwork from the constable, who was obviously glad to be shot of them.

  ‘Thank you ever so much, old chap, that’ll do nicely. It’s been a pleasure doing business with you. I’ll be sure to tell the director how helpful you’ve been.’

  Despite the cold and damp, the car started smoothly enough and the bored sentry showed no curiosity whatsoever as they pulled out of the camp – people came and went at all sorts of strange hours anyway.

  The depot approach road was lined with tall trees and Flynn turned left at the junction, opposite the civil service cricket ground onto Chesterfield Avenue, the wide, straight boulevard that slashed straight across the middle of Phoenix Park, like a knife wound leading out of the park into the heart of the capital. He reckoned that it would take about half an hour to drive the twelve or so miles to Kingstown and he didn’t expect any traffic.

  Weak tendrils of autumn sunlight had begun to creep through the city’s streets by the time they had reached the banks of the Liffey and they drove along the north bank, past the grey stone edifice of Royal Barracks. It was early and Dublin was having a lie-in, like the lazy city always did every Sunday. ‘For a moment, back there, I thought that we’d be walking!’ Flynn said.

  ‘Always ask an officious twat for their name and they start flapping. It works every time!’ Maguire joked, as he slouched back in his seat, pulling his hat over his eyes. ‘Now be a good chappie, would you? Shut up and drive. Wake me when we get there.’

  CHAPTER 40

  Sunday, 21 November 1920, Kingstown, County Dublin

  ‘I’M COMING! I’M coming!’ Kathleen’s Aunt Rebecca called, as she scurried down the hall to the front door, doing up her housecoat. It was early, 6.47 by the hall clock, and she wondered who on earth would be knocking on her door at such an ungodly hour on a Sunday morning. She didn’t go to Mass that often so she rarely rose early on Sundays outside the holiday season, and hoped that it wasn’t some priest coming to berate her.

  Through the front door’s frosted glass she could see the outline of two men on the doorstep and keeping the door on the chain secured she opened the door a little and peered through the gap. One of the men held up an RIC warrant card and smiled reassuringly. ‘Good morning, ma’am, I’m sorry to disturb you at this early hour on a Sunday,’ he said ingratiating
ly, in a soft Northern Irish accent. ‘My name is Detective Constable O’Neill and this is my colleague Detective Constable McNamara. May we come in, please?’ McNamara flashed Aunt Rebecca a warm, friendly smile as she took the door off the chain and swung it open.

  ‘Is there something wrong, Constable? It’s just two of your colleagues called around last night. They said it was just a routine check but nothing seems to be routine these days.’

  ‘It’s nothing to be alarmed about, ma’am. Please, could you tell me if there is a Miss Kathleen Moore from Drumlish living at this address?’

  Aunt Rebecca looked worried. ‘She’s not in any trouble, is she?’

  McNamara smiled pleasantly. ‘No, not at all, we just need a wee chat with her, that’s all. She’s not in any trouble. Could you go fetch her for us, please?’

  Aunt Rebecca directed the two men into the guests’ parlour at the front of the house and invited them to sit before leaving to fetch Kathleen. McNamara plonked himself on a gaudily coloured chaise longue and looked around the over-stuffed room full of pot plants and photographs whilst O’Neill stood at the large Georgian window, looking up and down the street. It was still quiet and the leaden sky promised more rain to come. He felt nervous. McNamara still hadn’t explained his plan to him and he wasn’t convinced that they really were acting on orders from MacEoin. ‘Look, I think that we should go. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.’ The look on McNamara’s face told O’Neill that he had no intention of leaving without seeing Kathleen and with a deep sigh of resignation the Ulsterman went back to looking out of the window. He could hear the cries of the gulls coming in from the sea as they wheeled overhead.