by M J Lee
'I thought we were supposed to fight.'
'Those are the orders from Plunkett,' said Willie Pearse.
'And does General Connolly agree?'
'He does. We are to surrender to the Brits this afternoon. The order has gone out to the other detachments in the Four Courts, Boland's Mill, the College of Surgeons and the South Dublin Union.'
'So that's it then?' I said.
Pearse didn't answer.
I went and sat down on the floor next to Michael. ‘We’re giving up,’ I said.
He just sat there playing with his shoelace, wrapping and unwrapping it around his finger.
‘Did you not hear what I said?’
There was a long sigh and, in a quiet voice, he said,’Was it worth it?’
‘We’ve gave the Brits a good run for their britches.’
‘Aye, but at what cost?’
‘Nothing we can’t afford, and twice as much again.’
‘Paid in children and old people?’
‘Paid in bullets and dead soldiers. Listen, Michael, do you ever think the Brits are going to give us our freedom out of the goodness of their hearts? One day, they’ll just say to us, ‘Here you are lads, a free Ireland, go and enjoy yourselves.’ A pig’s arse, they will. We’ll have to fight for every inch of sod and every ha’penny brick. Do you mind me?’
And then I remember, he looked at me with his head cocked over to one side, ‘I don't know, Fitz. I just don’t know.’
Bulfin’s head appeared in the hole in the wall. ’Get your kit together.'
We traipsed out to Moore Street and assembled out there, a dirty, raggedy-arsed band of proud men lined up along the road.
Willie Pearse called us to order. 'Attenshun! Left turn. Quick march.' We strode down Moore Street and across Upper Sackville Street to the Gresham Hotel side.
I looked over my shoulder at the ruins of Dublin; the ragged teeth of demolished buildings, smoking fires, soot-stained walls and, here and there, piles of debris which children climbed on top of to play King of the Castle. And over it all, a thick pall of smoke smelling like it was something from Dante's Inferno.
We were halted by a group of British officers just below Gresham's. Willie Pearse went over to talk to them and came back to tell us to lay down our weapons. One by one, we walked to the tram track, placing our rifles, revolvers and bandoliers between the lines. Michael laid down his Howth gun with extra care. He had never fired it once during the revolution. He didn't even know if it would fire.
I followed him with my Lee Enfield and my Webley, adding them to the pile. Seeing them there, with the rest of the arms and ammunition, gave the fight a certain authenticity, a badge of courage for me. We had fought a good fight.
As soon as we had finished laying down our arms, British soldiers ran up to us and began to search our pockets.
'You'll find nothing there, you English bastard,' I shouted at one of the soldiers. I watched as Michael quickly removed his cap badge and hid it down the front of his trousers.
'Gotta search you anyway. And besides, I'm from Dublin myself, from over near Cabra way. Youse lot had them worried, you did.'
'Aye, had ourselves worried even more,' I replied.
The soldier from Cabra took out my cigarette lighter and clicked the wheel. 'That's a good flame, that is.'
'Me mammy gave me that.'
He flicked the lid closed and put the lighter in his own pocket. 'Thank her from me.'
While the search had been going on, a crowd had begun to gather on the side of the road. It wasn't long before the catcalls began.
'Ach, youse should be ashamed of yourselves.'
'Go and fight in France if you want to fight.'
'Look what you've done to our city.'
'Should be shot the lot of them.'
The crowd began to push forward, threatening us. The soldiers pushed them back with the butts of their rifles
'Go away back to your mammy, you shites.' An old woman, her head shrouded in a black shawl, shouted through broken teeth. She leant forward and spat at Michael. The spit arched upwards and landed between his feet.
'Next time, I'll get ye.'
The people would change their tune eventually. Shame it took the deaths of sixteen good men to help them see the truth.
The soldiers formed two lines on either side of us and marched us toward the Rotunda. I wasn't sure whether they were there for our protection or to prevent us from escaping. A bit of both probably.
We marched past the jeering crowds of women, men and children, some spitting, some shaking their fists, some just standing there shouting the foulest curses at the top of their voices.
The British ordered us to sit on the lawn in front of the Rotunda. It was soon packed with men as other groups were crowded into the same area. Michael and I sat back to back on the wet grass.
'Well, we did ourselves proud,' I said.
'You think, do you?' he replied.
'Aye, I do. Another glorious failure. But for a week, we held back the might of the British Army and controlled our city.'
'They might not agree with you.' Michael nodded towards the crowds at the end of the street.
'Ach, they'll come round, they always do. But next time, we're not going to lose and we're not going to play like gentlemen.'
'There's going to be a next time?'
'Michael, haven't you realised?' I said, 'For a clever man, you can be a stupid ass. This is just the beginning, don't you realise? It's just the beginning.'
And it was. But for Michael I think it was the beginning of the end.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Dublin. November 18, 2015.
She switched the machine off. So Declan Fitzgerald and Michael Dowling were good friends. Were they the DF and the MD in the inscription?
Don't jump to conclusions, Jayne, examine the evidence. Remember what happened in the Yorkshire Ripper case. Six months of wasted activity, even interviewing Peter Sutcliffe and letting him go, all because the copper in charge was convinced the Ripper was a Geordie.
She corrected herself. The man in the inscription was probably Michael Dowling. Now she had to find evidence that linked Michael Dowling, a man in the Irish Volunteers, with a British soldier killed in Flanders in 1918. But what could it be? She didn't have an answer to that question yet and wondered if it would ever come to her.
Captain Ellis was hovering behind her. 'Did you find what you were looking for Mrs Sinclair?'
'I think so. Or at least part of the answer. Declan Fitzgerald mentions Michael Dowling in his witness statement. They were obviously close.'
'From what I know and have researched, they were comrades in arms. Went to UCD together and fought in the Rising together. Dowling was slightly wounded and they both ended up being interned in Frongoch.'
'What's Frongoch?'
The Captain laughed. 'A place in Wales. You could say it was the University of Irish Freedom.'
'I don't understand.'
'After the Rising, most of the participants were sent across to England and interned around the country. The more dangerous, or what the Brits believed were the more dangerous, were sent to an old German POW camp in North Wales at a place called Frongoch.'
'How can I find out more?'
'I don't know. We have a few bits and pieces here. But I guess any records that exist will be held in London at the National Archives.'
'Thank you for your help. Could I get a printout of these pages?'
'No problem. You know Declan Fitzgerald's daughter is still alive?'
Jayne sat up in her chair. 'How can I find her?'
'I remember her coming to the launch of the archives. She's an old lady but still active in the movement.'
'Active?'
Captain Ellis laughed again. 'Like her da, she's still fighting for a united Ireland. Even after the Accord, she was writing to the papers, denouncing the 'treachery'.'
'How could I get hold of her?'
'She's in the
directory, I think. Lives out Ballsbridge way, never married as far as I know, except to the cause, of course. Hang on a minute, I'll find the address for you.'
He went back to his desk and pulled out a telephone directory. 'I still like these 'oul things. An archivist and his bits of paper.' He flicked through the thin pages, stopping at F and scanning his finger down the page. 'Here she is. Ellen Fitzgerald. There's the number. I'll print out the pages for you while you make the call.'
She dialled the number on the page. A home number. Maybe the woman was only the one that used landlines these days. She couldn't remember the last time she had used hers.
A querulous voice answered the phone. 'If you're one of those telemarketers, ye can feck off.'
Jayne held the phone away from her ear. 'Ms Fitzgerald? Ms Ellen Fitzgerald?'
'I'm not interested in life insurance, answering any ruddy survey or getting me windows fixed. They're not broken.'
'It's okay, Miss Fitzgerald, I'm not selling you anything or from a telemarketer.'
'What do ye want then?'
'I'd like to talk to you about your father, Declan Fitzgerald.'
The phone was quiet. 'What about me father?'
'Could I come round to see you?'
'What about me father?' Louder now, querulous again.
Jayne employed the voice she used when questioning nervous witnesses. Don't lead them. Ask open-ended questions. Use a neutral tone. Push for detail but don't suggest anything to them. 'I'm at Cathal Brugha Barracks, the Military Archives. I'm researching Michael Dowling. Did your father know him well?'
The voice changed again. It was more wistful now, almost sad. 'He knew Michael well. Said he was the best man that ever lived. I never met him of course. He was gone before I came into the world.'
'Gone? You mean dead?'
'I don't know, me da never said. Just gone. I've got some pictures if you want to see them. Me da kept them safe through everything.'
'I'd love to see them, Miss Fitzgerald. When could I come round to see you?'
'Well, I have the bingo this afternoon. And after that, I've promised Father Sylvian help with the Christmas decorations. But you could come and see me tomorrow morning.'
'About nine o'clock?'
'Make it nine thirty. After me tea and toast.'
'I'll see you tomorrow, Miss Fitzgerald.'
The voice became suspicious again. 'You're sure you're not after selling me something?'
'I promise. I just want to talk about your father.'
'See you tomorrow at nine thirty. And don't forget now.'
'I won't. See you tomorrow.' Jayne copied the telephone number and address from the directory.
Tom Ellis handed her the printouts.
'How do I get to Ballsbridge?'
'Where are you staying?'
'The Woodham.'
'I would get a taxi if I were you. My bet is you don't have the time to navigate our public transport system. You need a degree in maths to work out the timetable.'
She held out her hand. 'Thank you for everything, Captain Ellis.' She felt the warmth of his grip again.
'Glad to be of help, Mrs Sinclair. I hope all the trouble you are going to is worth it.'
'So do I, Captain. So do I.' She would have to stay in Dublin another night. Paul would not be happy. More than that, he would be furious. But if she checked out of the hotel and interviewed Ellen Fitzgerald, she could get the 1.30 flight out of Dublin back to Manchester, and arrive with plenty of time to cook the bloody dinner for Paul's bloody obnoxious boss. 'God, I hate being a wife,' she said out loud and instantly a wave of guilt hit her.
Captain Ellis raised his head. 'My wife says exactly the same thing. Is it something to do with us men, do you think?'
Chapter Twenty-Six
Dublin, Woodham Hotel. November 18, 2015.
She opened the door to her room. As soon as she stepped into it, she knew something was wrong. It was as if the air was different, sullied. She could even smell that somebody had been there, somebody who was not the maid.
Cautiously, she advanced into the room. It looked exactly how she had left it, except tidier. The maid had been there. Perhaps, she was over-reacting. Her mind was playing tricks, the feeling of being followed had affected her.
She sat down on the edge of the bed. Not like her at all. Normally, she was calm and collected, the job had taught her that. Dispassion. The ability to look at even the most callous murder and not show or feel a drop of emotion. But this case was getting to her. The stone through the window. The feeling of being followed. The sense that something was happening she knew nothing about.
She shook her head. Pull yourself together, Jayne Sinclair. You were a copper for 21 years, act like one. She thought about getting a stiff drink from the mini-bar, but she hated the taste of whisky. Perhaps she would go out later and get a bottle of wine and some chocolate. That's what she needed, a good bar of chocolate before she went through the onerous task of calling her husband and the client.
The first was a difficult call, telling him she was staying an extra day. And then she remembered her client was lying in a hospital. Was he conscious? Would he be able to speak? Had he died already? If he had, all this work was in vain.
She stood up, took off her coat and threw it over the back of the chair. But before the wine and chocolate, she needed to check her emails. She went to the wardrobe and opened the door. Inside was one of those small, box-like safes always found in hotels. She tapped in the numbers 0403, the date of her wedding to Paul. The number she always used when she needed four digits for a password. Each time she thought of that day. Her happiness, his smiles, the laughter of friends, the line of bobbies as she left the registry office, truncheons extended to form an arch. It always made her happy.
But where had it all gone wrong? She and Paul constantly bickering, never having time to actually listen to each other. Perhaps, if they had children, it would have been better. But then she thought of her friends who had divorced despite the children. The sad women left behind with a couple of kids while the men went off to find a new field to plough.
The funny thing was, being police was supposed to be deadly for marriage. The long hours, shift work, the constant threat of danger. She and Paul had survived all that intact. It was when she stopped being police the trouble started. As if Paul now wanted her to be the dutiful, old-fashioned wife, staying at home parked in front of the stove. She couldn't do that any more than she could iron a shirt. Why was he expecting it from her?
She pressed the open button on the safe, the date 0403 still illuminated in green in a small window.
Strange, why was the number still displayed. It should have gone off when she closed the door this morning.
She reached in.
Nothing.
It must be at the back.
Her hand explored the interior.
Empty.
She bent down and stared inside. A grey metal wall and a fabric-lined base stared back at her but nothing was inside.
She had put her Mac in here this morning before she left, hadn't she?
She looked around the room. It wasn't on the desk or beside the bed. She thought back to this morning. Getting dressed, making the decision not to carry her Mac, putting it inside the safe, closing the door, pressing the keys with the number she always used. 0403.
She looked inside the safe again.
Empty.
Her Mac was gone. But, who would have stolen it? The maid? Doubtful, she would have had to know the combination.
Somebody else from the hotel? Of course not.
There was a noise outside her room. Somebody was there. She took an umbrella from the wardrobe, creeping quietly to the door and listening. Somebody was outside.
She wrenched open the door and raised the umbrella, ready to strike hard at whoever it was.
A maid stood there, her arms holding towels. 'Turn down service,' she said.
Jayne lowered the umbrella. She co
uld feel her face reddening, the cheeks becoming hotter. This case was getting to her. She shook her head, 'No, thanks.' She turned away but as she did so a thought occurred to her. 'Did anybody go in my room today?'
The maid smiled. 'I let your husband in. He'd forgotten his key. Guests are always doing that. Men particularly.' She watched Jayne's expression. 'I did do the right thing, didn't I?'
Jayne smiled. 'He's always losing the bloody keys. Typical man.'
The maid smiled back. 'Can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em. That's what my ma used to say, and she should know, her having six kids and all. Anything else I can get you. Some water?'
'No, I'm fine, thank you.' Jayne closed the door. A man had been in her room. Was it Paul? Had he come to Dublin without telling her?
She picked up her mobile from the desk and called him.
'Hello.'
'Where are you?'
'Good afternoon, good to hear your voice, Jayne. Good to hear yours, Paul.' He mimicked the conversation they should have had before saying, 'Where am I? Where I always am at this time of day. Sitting in my office, working on a stupid presentation that I have to deliver to the European sales team in exactly...ten minutes.'
'You're not in Dublin?'
'Noooo, why? Should I be?'
'No...it's nothing, just wanted to hear your voice,' she lied, 'sorry for disturbing you, finish your presentation.'
For the first time, concern crept into Paul's voice. 'Is everything ok, Jayne? You sound a little strange...anxious.'
She forced herself to laugh. 'It's nothing. The stress of the case, that's all.'
'Well, see you later, do you want me to pick you up at the airport?'
She thought for a moment. Now was not the time to tell him, but she was going to do it. 'Actually, Paul, that's why I called. I have to stay another night in Dublin.' She hurried on before he could say anything, 'I'll get the 1.30 flight back tomorrow, so I can still cook dinner, don't worry.'
She could hear a loud sigh on the end of the line. The voice when it spoke was eerily calm as if this were just one more in a long line of disappointments. 'This dinner is important to me, Jayne. It's what I've been working hard for.'