England's Janissary

  ‘And you think that will be an end of it?’

  Dalton looked at Flynn, a flicker of doubt in his eyes. ‘Jesus, Flynn, as I live and breathe, I hope so, I truly hope so. Even the unionists up in Ulster might see sense eventually. Sure, there’ll be those who won’t like it, you know, but if we handle it right, then who knows? Christ, don’t we have to try? Nothing’s the same anymore. Who’d have thought the British would recognize our right to govern ourselves? Who’d have thought that the snotty subby you saved all those years ago at Ginchy would end up a brigadier general in an Irish army? If there is trouble, I could use good men around me.’ He looked at Flynn. ‘Just say the word and there’s a commission in it for you. Lieutenant Flynn – that’s more than the British ever did for you.’

  Collins stuck his head out of the car window. ‘Oi, Emmet, will you stop gassing with the peelers and get over here! We don’t have all day!’

  ‘Think about it, Kevin. It’s been good seeing you again. Take care.’

  He patted Flynn on the arm and then walked across the street to the waiting car, leaving him alone with his thoughts. Flynn had to admit that he quite liked the sound of ‘Lieutenant Flynn’ – it had a ring to it.

  He looked at his watch, the German watch he’d acquired one night during a raid on a German trench all those years ago on the Somme. For a brief moment he thought about the man he’d killed, the man he’d hacked to death with a shovel on a dark, wet night. Sometimes it felt like it was another life; that it had all happened to someone else. Sometimes he truly wished that it had.

  Maguire emerged from the park and walked huffing and puffing over to Flynn. ‘What did yer man Dalton want?’ Maguire asked as he lit a cigarette. His eye patch reminded Flynn of a pirate, a livid scar slashed across his left cheek like a second smile. ‘He offered me a job in the new Irish army,’ Flynn said.

  ‘He always was a cheeky little bastard, was our Ginchy!’ Maguire said, almost affectionately. ‘Look, our shift’s over and I could murder a drink. Is there anywhere around here that sells stout?’

  ‘Jesus, Joe, this is Kensington not Kilburn, though I thought I saw a pub down that way that sold Guinness.’

  Flynn pointed off down the road and Maguire’s face split in a broad grin, his remaining eye glinting in the streetlight.

  ‘All right, let’s give it a go but I swear to God if any little gobshite tries to draw a bloody shamrock in the head I’ll shoot the little fecker!’

  Copyright

  © Peter James Cottrell 2012

  First published in Great Britain 2012

  This edition 2012

  ISBN 978 0 7198 0601 8 (epub)

  ISBN 978 0 7198 0602 5 (mobi)

  ISBN 978 0 7198 0603 2 (pdf)

  ISBN 978 0 7090 9330 5 (print)

  Robert Hale Limited

  Clerkenwell House

  Clerkenwell Green

  London EC1R 0HT

  www.halebooks.com

  The right of Peter James Cottrell to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988