by M J Lee
Strange. She'd never seen anything like it before. Was it Eastern European? Why would a young boy born in Bradford have a badge from Eastern Europe? Maybe, it wasn't from there at all.
In the centre was a stylised figure. Or was it an F?
She went back to the original photograph. The badge was small, perhaps just one inch around, Where would it have been worn? On the lapel as in the picture. But it looked vaguely military. As a button? On a belt? On a cap?
There was just too little to go on, but she knew where to go. Time to pay a visit to an old friend who made a living selling deactivated guns to criminals. Or at least, he had made a living until she put him away for three years.
Chapter Fourteen
Cheetham Hill, Manchester. November 16, 2015.
The bell rang as Jayne stepped through the door. The shop was on a terrace in Cheetham Hill, surrounded by a kosher butchers on one side and an Oxfam on the other.
An old man bustled through from the back. 'Hold your horses, I'm coming.' As soon as he saw Jayne, he stood still and held up his hands in mock surrender. 'DI Sinclair, I ain't done nothing wrong, clean as a whistle, me.'
'It's just plain Ms Sinclair, Herbert. I left the police a few years ago.' She could see Herbert Levy's shoulders relax visibly. He brought his arms down and stuffed them in a pair of voluminous trousers that had been made around 1945.
'This is a social visit then, Mrs Sinclair?'
'Oh Herbert, you know I don't do social.' She moved into the shop, dancing her way through the assorted uniforms, gas masks, ammo boxes, grenade launchers, trenching tools and other paraphernalia of the arms and militaria specialist.
'So you're a customer then?' he suggested tentatively, 'I can do you a very good price if you're looking for something for the man in your life.'
'How about cyanide?' suggested Jayne as she dodged a green rucksack hanging from the ceiling.
'You always did like a little joke, DI Sinclair.'
She ignored his use of her old title and didn't correct him. 'Not dealing anymore, Herbert?'
'I don't know what you mean. I'm strictly kosher these days. A specialist in arms and militaria. Good business it is too. More money than fencing or thieving.' He moved behind the counter putting it between himself and Jayne.
She leant in to look closely at an old gas mask, touching the lens with the tip of her index finger. She held the finger up so Herbert could see.
'Cleaning was never my strong point, DI Sinclair, I've got better things to do with my time than play around with disinfectant and carbolic soap.'
'I'm surprised you even know the words, Herbert.' She wiped the dirt on her index finger on one of the uniforms, making sure he saw her. 'And how are you spending your time these days?'
'Oh, doing this and that…'
'This and that? Sounds very precise, Herbert. We'll try again, shall we? How have you been spending your time?'
Herbert appeared to think for a while. 'Most of the time, I've been studying. Picked up the habit in prison.'
'I hope that's all you picked up.'
'Like that gas mask you touched. That's a 1940 issue that one is. You know they issued over 38 million gas masks at the beginning of the war. Walt Disney even made a Mickey Mouse gas mask for the kiddies. Expected the Germans to bomb Manchester with phosgene gas they did. Only a few left now. 'Cos it's you, I'll let you have it for fifty quid. Can't say fairer.'
'Not interested, Herbert. I'm after information.'
'I told you, DI Sinclair, I'm not fencing anymore. Too many visits from your friends over at Cheetham Hill nick. Me, I sell this stuff all over the country now. I got a website,' he said proudly. He reached beneath the desk and handed her a card. 'Herbert Levy and Son, Arms and Militaria. Best cash prices for anything military. Beneath the heading there was a long list of items he bought and sold, each categorised under separate headings: Badges, insignia medals, citations. Uniforms, headware, equipment, webbing. Armour, swords, bayonettes, grenades, inert shells and cases. ARP, Home Gruad and utility clothes. Trench-art, flags, manuals, log books, letters, diaries, leaflets, postcards.
'You seem to have covered it all, Herbert, even if the spelling and punctuation leave a lot to be desired.'
Levy smiled proudly. 'I covers it all except I don't do German stuff. I've got my principles.'
'I'm sure you have, Herbert.' She pointed to the and Son part of the card. 'I didn't know you were married.'
He smiled again this time more sheepishly, 'I'm not, DI Sinclair, but the name gives the shop more gravitas. The punters want to buy from a settled business.'
'Not a fly-by-night shyster?'
The sheepishness changed to indignation. 'I made a mistake, DI Sinclair. I paid my debt to society and now I'm an honest merchant dealing in a very desirable product.'
'So, Mr Honest Merchant, you can deal in information for me.' She took out the picture the bike courier had brought round to her house and removed the note from Rob, before passing it over to Herbert Levy. 'What do you make of this?'
Levy studied it, sucking in breath through the gap in his teeth. 'Don't see many of these.'
'What is it?’
Levy looked up at her, cunning etched into every line on his unshaven face. 'What's innit for me, Mrs Sinclair? You did say you'd left the force, didn't you?'
'My personal thanks and gratitude, Mr Levy.'
The smile remained on his face. 'And?'
'And a promise I won't ring my old mates at Cheetham Hill nick, asking them to pay a visit to your shop to check every single piece of your merchandise.' She picked up the gas mask and blew the dust off it. 'I do presume you have proofs of purchase for everything here.'
Levy held up his hands again. 'Now, now, Mrs Sinclair, just a joke between friends, a little light-hearted banter.' He picked up the picture again. 'It's a cap badge, I think. Could be a belt buckle but it looks a bit small for one of those.' He bent down beneath the counter and began searching for something.
'Is it Russian? Or Eastern European?'
He came up with an old catalogue with an auctioneer's name and the date 1997 stamped boldly on the cover. 'What was that? Russian? You are a card, DI Sinclair. It's Irish. See the letters there...' He pointed to the middle of the badge. '...Gaelic that is. Just a minute and I'll find it for you. I know it's in here somewhere.' He flicked through the catalogue, occasionally lifting his head and comparing the picture with an image on one of the pages. Finally, there was another intake of breath through the gap in his front teeth. 'Here it is. Nice bit of kit. If you want to sell it, I'll make you a good offer.' He turned the catalogue round to face her.
She leant over. It was the same image as the badge on the picture of John Hughes as a young boy. She read the caption out loud. 'The Dublin Brigade badge was issued in the lead up to the 1916 rising. It consists of an eight pointed star intertwined with a sunburst (the traditional Fianna symbol for battle) The words "Drong Áta Cliath" are written on a belt inside the star sunburst. This would translate as "Dublin Brigade". The letters "FF" also intertwine in the centre stand for "Fianna Fáil", not the political party, but rather Fianna as in the old Celtic army and Fáil, the Irish for destiny. Officers would have worn a whiter metal version while lower ranks would have a bronze example.'
'Beautifully read, Di Sinclair. Just like you were giving evidence in court.'
'It's Irish?'
'As gefilte fish. Quite rare, these days. The Micks will pay well for one of these. In fact, they'll pay well for anything to do with the Easter Rising.'
She stared at him, not understanding.
'Police education these days...' He shook his head. 'Dublin 1916. Easter. The Irish took over the city...'
Chapter Fifteen
Dublin. April 24, 1916.
He felt a little awkward standing on the step of the tram with his bandolier, his knapsack and his rifle. He could see by the way the others were staring out into the street and avoiding the eyes of the other passengers, they
felt the same. Even Fitz had gone quiet as they trundled towards Liberty Hall.
The mobilisation had been an on-off-on affair. They received a notice on Good Friday, telling them to assemble at Liberty Hall at 11 o'clock on Easter Sunday morning. Fitz had been the first to complain.
'Not another bloody march.' He waved the paper with his orders on it in the air. 'And for the love of Jaysus, they're telling us to bring rations for three days as well as all our kit. Where are we marching to this time? Timbuktu?'
'Probably just another parade like St Pat's day. Show the colours to Dublin.'
'Dublin couldn't give a flying feck about the colours. They'll all be at the races in Fairyhouse. Which is exactly where I should be too. I've got my eyes on a lovely wee filly.'
'And how many legs does this one have, Mr Declan Fitzgerald?'
'Ach, Michael you have an awful tongue on you. Racing is the sport of Kings and myself.'
'Looks like you're going to be racing through the streets of Dublin yourself this time.'
When they had read the notice of cancellation of the parade on Easter Sunday morning, Fitz had been ecstatic. 'Finally, somebody has knocked a bit of sense in their heads. For feck's sake, nobody wants to be traipsing around the country during Easter when they can be relaxing with a few jars and enjoying themselves. Talking of that, me throat's as dry as a weasel's jockstrap, fancy a pint or three in Rathfarnham?'
Michael thought about it. They had been living at St Enda's for six months now. It was cheaper than living in the city but being miles out and stuck on the school campus had meant little or no excitement.
'I've my essay for Tranter. You know what a stickler he is for timing.'
'Ah, have a day off. The essay and Tranter won't be back until after Easter. You've your whole life in front of you to write essays but there's only today for sinking a few jars.'
Who could resist Fitz? So they went out into town, returning only when the street lights were lit and the jars had been drunk.
Slightly the worse for wear, Michael had been woken by Oscar Tully on Easter Monday morning.
'Will you get yourself up?'
'Wha? Wha's up?' He tried to shake the beer from his head only succeeding in stirring it up once more.
'The parade's on again. I got a note this morning. We're to be at Liberty Hall by eleven with full kit and rifle.'
'What? Away with ye, it's been cancelled. Didn't you see the paper yesterday?'
'Aye, well it's on again. I'm off to wake the others.'
Michael struggled out of his warm, welcoming bed, dressed quickly and put all his kit together. Luckily, he hadn't unpacked it since yesterday. The sandwiches were looking worse for wear but what the hell, they would only be gone a couple of hours. A quick march up and down the streets of Dublin to show the people who they were, followed by a few speeches and he would be home this evening in time for lights out. He left the sandwiches beside his bed. There was bound to be food provided by the Cumann na MBan.
He looked at his watch. Nine o'clock already. He would have to get a move on.
Well, get a move on he did, and here he was standing on the deck of a tram on his way to the city centre with Fitz beside him. His friend had taken an age to wake too, moaning constantly about missing the races at Fairyhouse for some damn march through the suburbs of Dublin. But eventually, he had got him up and dressed and down to the drill hall. There they had been met by Eamon Bulfin and half the company that had bothered to come.
The tram was moving as slowly as ever, stopping every 100 yards or so to let passengers alight and pick up new ones. There were only eight of them on board, the other members of their company either not getting the message or already doing something else that day.
The ones that had managed to make it on time, looked smartly turned out. Two were wearing the green uniforms made by Lalor the tailor, with the two lieutenants, Eamon Bulfin and Harry Boland, in full uniform. The rest, himself included, were in mufti but with the accoutrements of the military: a bandolier across his chest with 20 rounds of ammo stuffed in it, a Howth rifle that he still hadn't finished paying for, a long-barrelled Smith and Wesson his brother had given him on his last leave from the army, and green puttees wrapped around his legs. In his case, they were all he could afford from Lalor's.
Bulfin had given each of them a cap badge as they assembled that morning. A small bronze badge with the emblem of the Fianna and their brigade designation proudly stamped on it. Michael, Fitz and the others had pinned it in the centre of their assorted hats. It was the one piece of kit they all shared.
The tram trundled on. Outside, Dublin was going about its business on Easter Monday. Well, as much business as ever got done when there was racing on at Fairyhouse. The streets were quiet with only a few brewers' drays delivering beer to the pubs to slake the thirst of the racegoers when they returned that evening.
The tram itself was half empty, or at least, it would have been had it not also carried the kit of the eight men from the Dublin Brigade.
They swung into St Stephen's Green.
'That's it. That's as far as I'm going,' announced the driver.
'Will you not take us on to Liberty Hall?'
'Not me. This tram's for the Green. It stops here and I takes my rest and my dinner.'
Michael looked at his watch. 12.30 already. By the time they had assembled at Rathfarnham Chapel, waited for the latecomers and then walked to Terenure to get the tram, it was past eleven o'clock. They would be late. E Company, 4th Battalion late again. Willie Pearse would be writing it down in his little book, shaking his head and tutting as only he could tut.
The other passengers were pushing past them to disembark from the tram.
'I'm ordering you to take this tram to Liberty Hall,' shouted Bulfin.
The driver turned off the engine and the tram went silent. 'It's staying here and so am I.'
Bulfin took his revolver from its holster at his hip. The dark metal of the barrel still shiny and new.
'I'm ordering you to take this tram to Liberty Hall.'
The driver stared at him. 'This tram stops at St Stephen's and won't go an inch further. Now then if you gentlemen would get off my tram, perhaps you could start marching to Liberty Hall.'
A large woman with a poor, mousy husband in tow pushed past Michael. 'Will you not go home to your mammies, and leave the poor man alone.'
Her husband backed her up. 'You should be at church on your knees before God on this Easter Monday, not marching through the streets of Dublin.'
Fitz took a step towards the man and he retreated behind his wife.
Eamon Bulfin looked at his watch.
'Let's just get down and walk, Eamon, it's not more than ten minutes from here. We'll soon catch them up,’ said Michael.
Eamon looked at his watch again, and then at the driver still sitting stubbornly in his seat.
'Right then men, get your kit and rifles, we're going to march to Liberty Hall,' he commanded as if this had been his intention all along.
'Get a move on, will ye? Me tea is getting cold and I've another tram to drive at one.'
They assembled as best they could on St Stephen's Green and then marched off with Eamon Bulfin in the lead and the rest of them following in his wake.
The people of the city, enjoying an early stroll with their families or simply breathing in the fresh air of the day, ignored them. The city itself was quiet as it always was on a public holiday with half the people at mass and the rest at the races.
It was only as they were approaching Liberty Hall that they began to realise this Easter Monday was different. A young boy, who couldn't have been more than thirteen was the first to greet them.
'You're late,' he said picking his teeth with a toothpick, 'they've all gone.'
'Where to?' asked Eamon.
'Dublin,' answered the small boy before running off into Liberty Hall.
A few seconds later, a man dressed in the bandoliers and wearing a badge of the Irish
Citizen's Army stepped out to greet them. 'You're late,' he said.
'It's a long way from Rathfarnham,' mumbled Eamon.
'Aye, well you'll have to catch them up. You can take some bombs with you. They're on the handcart over there.' He pointed to an old cart with the legend, James Hewitt, Painters and Decorators, painted onto the side. Loaded on to the cart was a heap of wooden boxes.
'Where have they marched to?' asked Eamon using his best officer accent.
The man took his cap off and scratched his bald head. 'The GPO. Haven't you heard?'
'Heard what?' asked Fitz, receiving looks that could kill from Eamon.
'It's started.'
'What's started?'
'The Revolution. It's today.'
Eamon was getting exasperated with the man. 'What Revolution? We're here for the march.'
'There is no march, not today. We've taken over the GPO, and the Four Courts and the Union. We've taken over the city. Ireland is rising.'
'What do you mean, man? What's going on?'
The man spoke slowly as if talking to a five-year-old. 'Don't you understand the English? We have taken over the city. The revolution has begun. We're going to throw the Brits out finally, after 700 years.'
Slowly, it dawned on Eamon, Michael, Fitz and the others what was happening. 'What shall we do?' asked Michael.
'Well, they all marched off to the GPO about an hour and a half ago. If I were you, I would go there. That's the HQ.'
Eamon took charge again. 'You heard the man, get your things together. We're marching to Sackville Street.'
There was a new spring in the men's step as they marched to the Post Office down Abbey Street, the cart trundling behind pushed by the young boy and two of the men.
There were more people on the streets. A few stopped and looked at the men as they strode past. Michael thought they might be excited at the idea of Ireland being free, but on their faces, he could only see indifference as if they didn't care. Or worse, as if it meant nothing to them.