England's Janissary

  Kathleen followed her aunt into the parlour and looked at the two men waiting for her. The man by the window looked vaguely familiar, as if she had seen him before somewhere, but she couldn’t quite place him. He turned and smiled and then the penny dropped. ‘Constable O’Neill! I didn’t recognize you without your uniform.’ She smiled. ‘So what brings you all the way from Drumlish?’

  ‘The same thing that brought you here in the first place, Miss Moore. Kevin Flynn.’

  ‘Kevin? What about Kevin? Has anything happened to him?’ She looked afraid.

  ‘Has he been in touch?’ McNamara asked.

  Kathleen looked blankly at him and then back at O’Neill. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked again.

  ‘Nothing to worry about – we just need to talk to Kevin. Has he been in touch since you wrote to him?’ McNamara asked. Suddenly Kathleen felt a knot in her stomach. How did they know that she’d written to Flynn? She tried to stay calm but she could already feel her head begin to spin. O’Neill was speaking again in his soft Ulster accent, dripping with forced concern and sincerity … just like the voice of the man who had threatened her when her father had been beaten up.

  ‘I know you!’ she blurted, suddenly afraid.

  O’Neill smiled reassuringly. ‘Of course you do, Kathleen. I worked with Kevin over in Drumlish.’

  ‘No! I know you. I know you. It was you … it was you …’ Her voice trailed away. Aunt Rebecca looked confused as she glanced from Kathleen to the two policemen. ‘You threatened to kill me!’ Kathleen said quietly.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ O’Neill said. ‘Why would I do that, eh?’

  ‘I think you gentlemen should leave,’ Aunt Rebecca interjected, placing herself between the policemen and the girl. ‘I think that my niece has answered enough questions for now.’ She turned her back on the men and placed a comforting hand on Kathleen’s shoulder.

  ‘Aw, sod this!’ McNamara snapped, pulling a stiletto from his coat pocket and seizing a fistful of Aunt Rebecca’s red hair, jerking her head back so that her chin pointed towards the ceiling. The woman’s green eyes widened in terror and surprise as she felt the point of the knife dig into the flesh at the side of her neck. Its rubbery surface resisted momentarily before giving way under the pressure with a quiet ripping sound. McNamara smiled as he felt the blade grate against the woman’s spine as it burrowed into the gap between it and her windpipe before he wrenched his arm forward, tearing through it in a welter of spraying blood that splashed across the girl’s face. Kathleen screamed.

  O’Neill was rooted to the spot as the full horror of what had just happened crashed down on him like a hammer blow. ‘What the hell did you do that for?’ O’Neill shouted in disbelief. McNamara let Aunt Rebecca’s twitching body fall to the floor like a discarded rag. A grotesque gargling noise rasped from her severed trachea as she rapidly exsanguinated onto the parlour carpet, convulsing momentarily before lying quietly in the spreading incardine puddle.

  ‘Where’s Flynn?’ McNamara asked coldly, his normally dead eyes shining with near orgasmic excitement as he waved the gore-stained blade at Kathleen. Terror crashed through her body, momentarily paralyzing her, her eyes transfixed by her aunt’s bloody corpse and instincts of fear, fight or flight sent a surge of adrenalin coursing through her body. Kathleen ran.

  ‘What the hell did you do that for?’ O’Neill shouted again and McNamara lunged forward, seizing a handful of Kathleen’s hair just as she reached the parlour door. She screamed as her head wrenched backwards and he yanked her off her feet back into the room, where she landed on her back with a thud, leaving her winded and gasping for breath. Something warm and sticky soaked through the back of her dress and her hands were wet. She screamed again. ‘Shut it, bitch!’ McNamara hissed and he kicked her violently in the side.

  ‘Jesus, what did you do that for?’ O’Neill repeated. He could already feel the noose tightening around his neck. McNamara straddled Kathleen, pinning her to the floor as he grasped one of her breasts and squeezed it in his left hand, holding the gore-gobbeted knife blade millimetres from her right eye, hovering over the pupil. She blinked involuntarily as something dripped into her eye and sobbed, mesmerized by the razor tip, as it trickled like a scarlet tear down her face.

  ‘Mmm … well, I can see what that shite Flynn sees in you,’ he muttered, as he groped her. ‘Now, let’s start again, shall we? Where is Flynn?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Wrong answer, bitch! I wonder how much he’ll fancy you after I’ve taken your eye, eh?’ He pushed his weight down on her, pushing his groin against her stomach. Kathleen keened pathetically as the blade began to descend towards her right eye. Sickened, O’Neill turned his back on the nightmare that was unfolding in the guesthouse parlour.

  He didn’t want this but short of shooting McNamara he couldn’t see any way of making it stop. He dragged his old police revolver from his coat pocket and cocked it with a gentle click. He knew that he had no choice if he was to end the insanity. The hairs rose on the back of his neck and he steadied his trembling hands as he gave one last look up the street, just as a brown touring car swung around the corner and glided to a halt in the street outside. The driver glanced across the street and up at the ground parlour window and straight into O’Neill’s eyes. It was Flynn. O’Neill was suddenly afraid, very, very afraid. ‘Jesus Christ, it’s them!’

  McNamara paused, looking up, his eyes shining in excitement, the blade almost touching Kathleen’s eye. ‘What?’ he asked, looking at O’Neill.

  ‘It’s Flynn … shit … Maguire is with him!’

  McNamara grinned like a Cheshire cat. ‘It must be Christmas!’ He twisted his hand into Kathleen’s hair and tugged her to her feet. ‘I’m going to enjoy this.’

  CHAPTER 41

  Sunday, 21 November 1920, Kingstown, County Dublin

  WHAT THE … IT can’t be, Flynn thought, doing a double take as he climbed out of the car and looked straight into O’Neill’s eyes. ‘Joe, it’s that bastard O’Neill!’ he shouted and ran across the road towards the front door. Maguire was about to speak when the parlour window exploded and a bullet ricocheted off the cobbled street, punching a hole through one of the car’s rear doors.

  ‘Now, the MTO won’t be liking that!’ Maguire shouted as he ducked back down behind the car, pulling out his gun and cocking it. ‘Are you all right, Kevin?’ he shouted across the street to Flynn, who was now huddled in the doorway. He ducked down as two more shots rang out, shattering the frosted glass above Flynn’s head. Flynn gave Maguire a ‘thumbs up’ and despite feeling like crying inside, he forced himself to smile.

  ‘O’Neill! Come out with your hands up!’ Flynn shouted.

  Bang! Another chunk of wood flew from the door frame, causing Flynn to squirm before snatching a quick glance through the tattered remains of the frosted window. Kathleen was streaked in blood, her wavy hair matted with gore, struggling, her head forced back by a forearm locked around her neck whilst McNamara stood behind her, shielding himself with her body, his arm straight out, pointing his gun at the door.

  Wide-eyed, she jerked when she saw Flynn’s head poke over the broken glass, throwing McNamara’s aim as he snatched a shot. The bullet went wide, ploughing into the coving in a shower of plaster dust. Flynn ducked down again, panting to control his breath. ‘Shit!’ he muttered before shouting, ‘If you harm her, McNamara, I swear …’

  Bang! A bullet smashed through one of the lower panels of the door, missing his head by inches as he huddled lower, wrapping his arms around his head. Blood pounded in his ears and he fought to overcome the paralysis that was creeping through him. ‘If you don’t move, you die,’ he heard a voice shouting inside his head, the same voice that had kept him alive during the war. Move or die!

  Maguire cursed under his breath and glanced up and down the street, steeling himself to move, feeling the tension building in his leg muscles, feeling his heart hammering on his ribcage. Heads were poking out
of doors and windows as people were drawn by the ruckus they were causing. ‘Call the police!’ he shouted frantically, hoping that someone in middle-class Kingstown was still willing to cooperate with the authorities. Then, he was up and running, head down, to join Flynn on the front steps, as fast as his legs would carry him. He let out a guttural growl as he flung himself down heavily besides his cringing companion. ‘So, what’s the plan?’ he said, flashing Flynn a toothy grin.

  For a fleeting moment O’Neill had to remind himself that he wasn’t back in the trenches. The house had become an abattoir, the walls daubed with blood and as everything spiralled horribly out of control he felt his life slipping through his fingers like fine sand. He had to do something and he knew that if it wasn’t soon, he’d be dead. McNamara stood in the hallway grappling with Kathleen, who he was trying to use as a shield. O’Neill looked down at the bloody footprints on the carpet and then back at the mess in the middle of the parlour floor that had once been Kathleen’s Aunt Rebecca. O’Neill wasn’t a squeamish man but the sheer pointlessness of it all made him feel sick.

  ‘Sean never ordered this!’ he shouted at McNamara. ‘Sean would never have ordered this, you fecking lunatic! Christ, you’re on your own, you sick bastard!’ O’Neill made a break for the back of the house.

  ‘Come back, you gutless shit!’ McNamara shouted and struggled around to snap a shot off at O’Neill as he vanished through the door at the end of the hall. Seeing her chance, Kathleen managed to wrench herself free and sank her teeth into McNamara’s wrist, tearing the flesh and drawing dark blood. ‘Bitch!’ he shrieked as she broke free and sprinted up the stairs, screaming in blind terrified panic. Frantically, McNamara snapped off another two shots at the front door before dashing up the stairs after Kathleen.

  ‘I’m going to kill you, you loyalist bitch!’ he shouted, clearing the stairs two at a time whilst, ahead, Kathleen rushed blindly on without a thought of where she was going or what she would do. She spat several times to try and get the fragments and taste of McNamara’s blood from her mouth and felt herself heave as she fought off the urge to vomit.

  Flynn heard McNamara scream and raised his head again just in time to see the gunman’s heels disappearing up the stairs. He grabbed Maguire by the collar and heaved him to his feet. ‘C’mon, the bastard is getting away!’ He shoved the shattered doorway open and the two men stepped cautiously into the hallway, weapons at the ready. Every nerve, every fibre of Flynn’s body screamed at him as he walked the razor’s edge between life and death.

  Thud! Thud! Thud! The hand grenade bounced down the stairs into the hallway. Instinct kicked in. ‘GRENADE!’ Flynn screamed, diving through the parlour door, luging across the bloodstained carpet and thudding into the body that sprawled in the middle of the room. Maguire was slower and the blast caught him just as he tumbled down the front steps. The grenade shredded the hallway, wrecking the clock and shattering what was left of the windows before tearing the remnant of the front door from its hinges with a loud crash.

  Flynn coughed violently, clearing the blood that was pouring from his nose. His ears were ringing painfully and as his vision cleared, he found himself staring into Aunt Rebecca’s dead-fish eyes. ‘Jesus.’ He grimaced and pushed himself up onto his knees. Blood was everywhere. ‘Joe, are you all right?’ he shouted. There was a grunt from the hallway. Flynn gave a quick look up the stairs before dashing back to the front door where Maguire was slumped. ‘Joe!’ he shouted again, ears ringing, oblivious of the volume of his voice.

  Maguire’s face was a bloody mess. His left eye socket oozed dark blood and a fragment of shrapnel had gouged a deep trough along his left cheek, leaving a small flap of skin that exposed the muscle and bone below. He was staring, fascinated, at his left hand – the index and middle fingers were missing. ‘Bugger!’ Maguire muttered repeatedly as he turned his hand around, mesmerized by the blood that dripped from the shattered stump of his hand. ‘I’ve lost my fingers!’ he finally declared and Flynn resisted the compulsive urge to point at the severed digits in the street and say, ‘No you haven’t, they’re over there!’ Somehow, he didn’t think that Maguire would appreciate the joke.

  He quickly ran his hands over Maguire but thankfully couldn’t find any other injuries. The dark oozing blood told him that the grenade fragments hadn’t cut an artery, so at least Maguire wouldn’t bleed out on the steps. Flynn saw a floral embroidered cloth lying crumpled on the hall floor and, keeping one eye on the stairs, snatched it up and tore it in half lengthways, wrapping it around Maguire’s shattered hand. He used the other half to bandage his comrade’s head. ‘I’ll not lie to you, Joe, you look a mess but you’ll live. Now, you sit here a while and rest. I’m going to get McNamara.’ Maguire’s head lolled slightly and Flynn shook him violently. ‘Stay awake! Don’t go to sleep, Joe!’ Maguire looked at him with his good eye and nodded, giving him a weak smile, exposing his bloodstained teeth.

  McNamara hadn’t bothered to see if the grenade had taken care of Flynn and Maguire; he had just dropped it and run. If Flynn was still alive he could deal with him later; right now, he was more interested in catching Kathleen and taking care of her. Even better if Flynn was only wounded by the blast, then he could watch Kathleen die before he finished him off too.

  By the time Kathleen reached the third floor she realized that there was nowhere to go and, as there were no guests, was no one to help her either. She darted through one of the bedroom doors and slammed it closed behind her, fumbling with the flimsy lock before rushing to the window. She wrenched the window open, looking frantically for the fire escape. ‘No!’ she wailed. She was in the wrong room; the fire escape was next door. She looked down for a fleeting moment, contemplating jumping before she accepted that the drop would probably kill her. She paused for a moment to watch O’Neill throw away his coat and dash for the back gate, before she turned and ran back to the door.

  Although it seemed like longer, it only took a second or two to unlock the door and swing it open. She froze. McNamara was standing at the top of the stairs, his back to her. He heard the door click open and turned slowly. He smiled. ‘Hello, Kathleen.’

  She tried to slam the door but McNamara threw his full weight against the door, forcing it inwards and hurling Kathleen across the bedroom, where she crashed into the washstand in a flurry of splintered wood and broken porcelain. Her landing drove the air from her lungs and before she could get up she felt a savage blow crash into her ribs. Sobbing, she crumpled to the floor and McNamara kicked her again.

  ‘Get up, bitch!’ he ordered as he wound his hand into her hair again and heaved her to her feet. McNamara held her face close to his own. He was so close she could smell him. He smiled, all teeth, like a shark, and gazed into her eyes, basking in her fear. He was enjoying himself.

  Flynn heard a crash and a scream on the floor above and made a lunge for the last flight of stairs. Unthinking, he cleared them two or three at a time in his haste to get to Kathleen, oblivious of the possibility that McNamara could be waiting for him at the top. When he reached the top landing he frantically looked around, his weapon held cocked, ready, in front of him. One of the bedroom doors was stoved in, hanging on its hinges, and he heard a piercing scream and a loud thud. ‘You bitch!’ He heard McNamara’s voice from the direction of the room and walked towards it.

  Flynn saw Kathleen’s swollen cheek and black eye above McNamara’s forearm clamped firmly around her throat, shielding his body, his chin level with the girl’s right ear. His pistol was pressed upwards, deep into the soft part of her throat, threatening to splatter her brains over the ceiling. His eyes were wide, shining with manic excitement and he smiled when he saw Flynn in the doorway.

  ‘Take another step and I’ll k …’ McNamara began to say. The bullet smashed through his front teeth, gouged along his tongue and tore through his spine at the base of the skull, severing his spinal cord and sending his quadriplegic body crashing against the wall. The Luger tumbled from his nerveless f
ingers and went off as it bounced on the floor, drilling a hole in the skirting board near the door. Kathleen fell to the floor and sat in a puddle of urine as her bladder gave out and, wide-eyed in stunned silence, she watched Flynn walk slowly, deliberately, across the room towards McNamara’s limp body. Flynn thought that he saw McNamara’s eyes move slightly as if they were following him.

  ‘I didn’t come here for a chat,’ he muttered before firing three more shots into the gunman’s head in rapid succession, ruining what was left of his face and shattering his skull. ‘That’s for Jim.’ Flynn stood looking down at McNamara for what seemed like an age, as if he were trying to fathom what he had just done. He looked stunned and the pistol dropped from his hand with a dull thud as he fell to his knees next to Kathleen. She fell into his arms and it was only then that she noticed that he was trembling, even more than she was. ‘You’re safe now,’ he muttered, and then, sobbing with relief, she kissed him passionately.

  ‘Shit! Where’s the key? Where’s the bloody key?’ O’Neill cursed, as he frantically scrabbled around for the back door key. The grenade blast was contained in the front hall but he flinched all the same before pulling his revolver from his coat pocket and firing twice at the lock. The noise was deafening in the confines of the kitchen and hurt his ears but the lock fell apart as he hoped.

  After several fierce kicks the door finally moved and O’Neill was through it and into the back garden. He looked down at his bloodstained overcoat and discarded it by the back steps before looking around quickly for an escape route. He ran off down the path, through the gate and off into the lane that ran behind the houses and he didn’t stop until he reached the corner at the end of the row. Steadying his breathing, O’Neill tried to blot out the receding ringing in his hears and pounding blood rushing through his head.