"And what's that supposed to mean?"
"You know damn well. He'll be on the streets by now, looking for you -"
"And I'll be ready."
"Jaysus, Joseph and Mary! God bless Finola's soul. How did she put up with -"
"So you're backing out?";
"I am not. Won't I do anything reasonable? Won't I stay at your side if you want me? Won't I drink and eat with you, watch your back -"
"But you'll not come looking for these two men of mine?"
"I'll not go within a mile of them with Riordan involved. Nor would any man with an ounce of sense. I'll stick by you if he comes looking for you - that's different - but I'll not go looking for trouble meself."
"Then I'll go alone," Pat said flatly.
"Will you talk to Mulligan first. Sure he'll tell you the same -"
"I'll talk to no one," Pat hissed furiously, rising from the table, "and neither will you. 'Tis a poor day, Tim, that's all I can say - a bloody poor day when a man can't look for help from his friends."
And with that he left - ignoring Tim's pleas to stay and talk things out - ignoring even Mulligan's wave of farewell.
"You've not listened to a word I've said," Brigid complained as Sean rose from the table. "You've not even finished your dinner."
"Are you feeling all right, Sean?" Maureen asked anxiously.
"Aye, grand," Sean said, collecting his jacket from the hook on the door, "it's just I've a bit of a job to do this afternoon."
Brigid gave him a sharp look. "Well you be at Ammet Street by seven. I'll not have Pat Connors say you never got his message."
"Sure won't I be back long before that:"
"Well you make sure. I'll make sure too, because I'll be round there myself to give the place a bit of a clean." Brigid frowned at him. "And no fighting now. And don't you forget about that other business either."
Sean smiled at Maureen as he went out of the door. Poor Aunt Brigid - forever reminding him to stop asking questions about the IRA. She was always worrying, without cause really, Sean thought gloomily. He was getting nowhere, and had almost given up hope of finding out who had killed his donkeys. Not that he would forget. Forgive if you like, but never forget. It was one of the rules.
Such were his thoughts as he walked along the Quays - but his mood changed as he started up the hill towards Palmerstown. He pictured Mrs O'Flynn as he had seen her yesterday, dressed in her fine wool coat and jaunty hat. God, she was beautiful. The loveliest woman in Ireland. Even her ears were pretty. He had never considered ears before, ears were just ears. But not Mrs O'Flynn's, hers were moulded like sea shells. And her eyes shone all the time like she was enjoying some secret joke. And her smile ... those lovely white teeth ... and the way she cocked her head when she looked at him. Sean shook his head in bewilderment. He hoped he would say the right things. Sometimes he got tongue-tied. But she never hurried him, that was another marvellous thing about her.
He had to walk up the lane to reach the farmhouse. He dreaded that. It would be an ordeal. He paused, remembering the last time, that terrible morning when he had raced all the way from the Quays. He had heard Molly from here, that awful pitiful braying which had stabbed his heart. He took a deep breath, then walked as far as the long meadow. It was worse than he thought - it hurt more. How many times had he been up here, bursting with excitement at the prospect of a day with the animals. Now they were dead, buried over there, beneath brown earth already dotted with weeds. It would grass over next spring. Nobody would know what lay under the earth. But he would know, and would never forget.
He looked bleakly across the meadow, then sighed and turned to hurry on to the farm. The yard was tidier than he expected. Enough jobs for an army according to Mrs O'Flynn, and he was wondering what they might be when the door opened. She stood in the entrance. "That was a terrible look on your face back there," she said, "I wanted to cry. I was coming to fetch you."
She was wearing a dressing-gown, at least Sean supposed it was. The nearest he had ever been to one was standing outside Switzer's windows and wondering who would buy such a useless garment. It seemed senseless to dress twice ... once into a dressing-gown, then into clothes.
"Well?" she opened the door wider. "Will you be coming in, Mr Connors?"
He squeezed past into the kitchen. It was steamy inside, not smoky, but thick white steam like dense fog. Condensation ran down the walls and dripped everywhere. Through the haze he managed to make out a galvanised bath-tub propped up by the door. It was still wet, inside and out.
"You're an early bird," she smiled, "I'm not even dressed from my bath."
He fought the urge to look down her cleavage. But where else to look? To stare into her face was rude, but gaps in the dressing-gown made him swallow hard ...
"Sit yourself down, Mr Connors. Here, let me take your jacket. What with the oven fire and everything, sure the only way at times is to wear nothing at all."
It was hot. Stifling. Not just warm, but hot, steaming jungle hot. Sean had never been there on bath day before.
She set the jacket across the back of a chair. "Will you do as you're told and sit down. Then I'll be getting some tea," she cocked her head, "or is it Guinness these days, Mr Connors?"
Guinness? He had tried it once and thrown up. He couldn't even stand the smell. "Tea's fine, Mrs O'Flynn, but wouldn't I be doing the jobs first?"
"You'll do nothing until you tell me where you've been hiding yourself. How long is it since we last had some crack, just the two of us? You must have a hundred things to tell me."
Sean couldn't think even of one. He watched her fuss with the kettle. The heat was suffocating. Even without his jacket it was unbearable. The thick heavy-knit sweater prickled his skin. His feet itched in his boots. But Mrs O'Flynn seemed to glow. She bloomed. A rose-coloured flush added lustre to her cheeks, and the white kimono tantalised with glimpses of skin which Sean felt sure would be miraculously cool to his touch. If he dared touch. God, he remembered when she had let him touch her before. The memory made him sweat all the faster. His body hardened. He crossed his legs in an effort to sit still, while responding to her chatter with nods and shakes of his head. He groaned under his breath, telling himself she would think him a fool unless he said something. She would tire of being polite and throw him out. Swallowing hard he said - "Will I open the window, Mrs O'Flynn?"
"And let in a draught? Wouldn't I catch my death if you did that?"
The kettle boiled and they had tea, the drinking of which made him sweat all the more. Tea seemed to leak out through every pore in his skin. He was awash with sweat. Rivulets trickled down his chest. The waistband of his trousers turned soggy. He stuck to his chair. But the steamy atmosphere and hot blast from the fire were not the only causes of his discomfort. The kimono was a peep show. Whenever Mrs O'Flynn moved Sean caught a glimpse of heaven. Gaping sleeves revealed slender arms - the neckline showed the curve of her throat and the line of bare shoulders. But enchanting though they were, such views were nothing compared to the thrust of her breasts and the enticing cleft between them - a sight so riveting that Sean forgot his manners and stared. Vivid recollections of his last visit filled his mind - Mrs O'Flynn locking the door and drawing the curtains, shedding her coat and opening her blouse - guiding his hands onto her breasts. "There Sean," she had whispered, "isn't that what you wanted?" Please, oh please, let her do it again!
"Why Mr Connors - I do believe you've stopped listening to me."
His eyes snapped up to meet hers. Something in her look was different. The amused twinkle had gone. Her mood had changed. But changed to what? Her face bore an expectant expression - as if she wanted him to do something.
"I was asking if you liked my new dressing-gown?"
He swallowed. "It's grand, Mrs O'Flynn. It's the first one I've seen."
"It's the first one I've owned." She rose quickly in a graceful blur to pirouette like a dancer. The skirt flared high and wide. Sean sucked his breath as he glimpsed ankle
and calf and thigh.
"I bought it this morning," she said with a teasing smile, "after seeing you. Do you know why? Because you make me feel young again. A young girl, in love with life, everything ahead of me - oh, I can't explain, the words won't come but I know how I feel."
She was still on her toes after the pirouette, her hands smoothing the kimono over her breasts. In response to his compliment she curtsied deeply, folding a leg under her to kneel at his feet. She reached up to twine her fingers in his, then drew his hand down to her lips. Her hair tumbled forward. She kissed his wrist and the back of his hand, his palm and each finger. Sean tingled all over. Then she placed his thumb between her lips and sucked strongly, sliding his thumb in and out of her mouth with a slow, purposeful rhythm. Sean's toes curled. His whole body jerked. Every nerve end throbbed. His other hand reached for her, but she drew away and rose to her feet.
"Weren't we talking about my kimono," she said breathlessly. "I want your advice. It's reversible - white one side, peach the other. Which do you like best?"
Suddenly, magically, the sash fell away and the robe opened. She caught the hem and twirled round and round. The only naked woman Sean had seen before was the bronze replica in Phoenix Park, and he had averted his eyes from that because Maureen had been with him. But Maeve O'Flynn was flesh and blood, not bronze - and Sean was alone with her, uninhibited by other people. He was too excited to be embarrassed. Overwhelmed - and astounded by the mass of dark pubic hair which climbed in riotous abundance. She came to him then, pushing his knees apart to smother his face in her breasts. He cupped her buttocks with his hands, and with a shiver of shock glimpsed the kimono as it slipped past onto the floor.
That day lived in Sean's mind for the rest of his life, but details escaped him. Undressing for instance. And moving from the kitchen to the bedroom. One second he was in the chair, nuzzling her breasts, marvelling at the swell of her nipple under his tongue - then they were on the bed. He wanted to feel her all over, wanted to touch, squeeze, explore, admire, give thanks, worship the lush ripeness of her body. But when his hand moved down into her fur she moaned. He pulled away, thinking she was in pain, but she drew his hand back and pushed his fingers deep into those tightly coiled hairs. The experience was too overwhelming to be enjoyed. He was emotionally bewildered, astonished. Shivering with excitement - and then trembling with fear. She burrowed beneath him in a frenzy of movement, raking a leg sideways to hoist him above her. Suddenly he was terrified. Panic choked him. She was writhing like a mad thing, wet with sweat... her hands rubbing him, exciting him ... forever drawing him into the damp mass of fur at the top of her legs. Maureen's words exploded in his mind - "That Mrs O'Flynn is a bad woman. Wicked, I know she is." Sean's feverish brain erupted. He pulled away and gasped for air. He was trapped between her legs. He tried to sit up.
Her knees rose to cross behind his shoulders. Her legs encircled him. He was in shock. He remembered female spiders ate their mates. Oh God, she's biting me now! She'll eat me! Panic! Her hand guided his penis into her. He was being sucked in. He groaned - with pleasure and terror "I know you will eat me alive, Mrs O'Flynn, but don't stop now whatever you do!"
Quite unknown to Sean his father was also in Palmerstown, driven there by Eamon Donovon, Pat's cousin who had fought in the Rising.
Pat had called on Eamon after leaving Mulligan's Bar, and although apprehensive Eamon had felt obliged to help an old comrade. So they had driven to Palmerstown in search of the men Pat had identified the previous night. But the men were not to be found. Observation of the farm yielded no sign of them, neither did a tour of the lanes. Eamon left the car to make enquiries at the farm, and returned with the news that the farmer himself was looking for them - "They never turned up for work this morning, and their cabins are empty."
Pat swore. "You know what's happened, Riordan has taken them under cover."
Eamon nodded. Old IRA tactics - men on the run usually hid out in Kerry or the like, or until the threat to their safety was removed.
Pat cursed again. He had been too clever by half. Not only had he lost the men he was looking for, but now they were ready for him - Riordan was ready.
"What will we do?" asked Eamon.
"Drive for a bit. Keep looking. Try the pubs and ask around."
They spent another hour combing the neighbourhood - with predictable lack of success. Pat considered what he knew about Riordan. They had been comrades in arms against the British. Then they had gone opposite ways. Riordan had led flying columns of anti-Treaty IRA all over the south. These days he was a respectable publican, but rumours lingered on. Some said he was still active in the IRA, and at least one man - Pat's informer - said Riordan was responsible for killing the donkeys. And Pat believed him.
Eamon was getting nervous. "Wouldn't we better be telling the Garda?"
Pat made a gesture of disgust. He tried to put himself in Riordan's position. It cost money to send men into hiding. Riordan wouldn't like that - not if he were paying. So what would he do? What would Pat do? Finnegan was right. Remove the threat ... Riordan would come looking for him - or send some of his men.
"Where next?" Eamon asked.
Pat had an idea. Not much of one, but options were thin on the ground. "Riordan might know about me," he said thoughtfully, "but he doesn't know how much I know about him. Not yet anyway."
Eamon remained silent in the parked car.
"Suppose you were Riordan and I walked into your pub? What would you do?"
Eamon gasped, "Do you know Riordan's pub? Full of his cronies with dogs in their pockets."
Dogs was old IRA slang for revolvers. Pat shook his head. "Forget them. You are Riordan, right, and I come up to your bar counter. I lean across and whisper in your ear. I know you were killing the donkeys, says I, and I'm here for a reckoning."
"But you haven't the proof?" said Eamon nervously.
"You don't know that. You can't - not for sure."
Eamon stared.
"Well," Pat persisted. "What would you do?"
"Don't be a damn fool. One of his men would rip a knife into you before -"
"Then I'll need you there to watch my back. Just like the old days -"
Eamon shook his head. "I'll not go into Riordan's pub with you. Not by myself. It's bloody crazy. Walking in like -"
"So we'll need help. Who would lend us a hand?"
They thought about that. Eamon bitterly regretted becoming involved, but it was too late to back out. The best he could do was improve the odds. So they talked of men they knew ... friends ... men who might hold a grudge against Riordan. Half an hour later they had a list of eight names.
"Will you come, then?" Pat asked.
Eamon squirmed unhappily. "I'll come ... if the others join in."
"Right then," Pat smiled grimly. "Let's away and see the first of them."
Two miles away from where his father sat talking about possible death, Sean Connors - to his surprise - was still very much alive. He basked in sensual pleasure as Maeve O'Flynn's skilful fingers roused him again.
"Is that nice?" she asked coyly as she nibbled his ear.
"Wonderful, Mrs O'Flynn."
"Did you really think I was after murdering you?" she giggled.
Sean blushed. He could hardly believe what was happening. He glanced to where his hand cupped her plump breast and marvelled at his own accomplishment. It seemed so natural - as if he had been doing it all his life. How stupid to have been afraid, how understandable for her to laugh. Not that he minded now, her soft laughter was as warm as her body. They had made love four times and Sean had already learned the knack of withdrawing from her just before he climaxed.
And Maeve O'Flynn was delighted. Already she was planning further meetings, scheming up ways to arrange her husband's absence more often. She was set to achieve the best of both worlds - an old man to give her security, and a young admirer who could be taught to make love in all the ways she wanted.
She propped herself up on
one elbow to look down at him. Her hair tumbled forward. She brushed it back and the flowing movement of her arm lifted her breast so gracefully that the very simplicity of the act made it beautiful. Sean's eyes filled with wonder. Everything about her was beautiful. She caught his expression and smiled. "Do I take it you are pleased with me, Mr Connors?"
He could think of no suitable reply. Words sounded inadequate. So instead he drew her mouth down to his, while his other hand moved to open her legs.
Tim Finnegan was drinking himself into a stupor in Mulligan's Bar. Pat's parting words corroded his conscience. It was a poor day, Finnegan admitted, a bloody poor day when a man turns yellow on a friend. But Jaysus, I'm fifty-one. When a man gets to my age he stays out of trouble. God Almighty, Pat must be fifty himself. Fifty! And there's him charging round like a wild bear - ready to fight the world - and all for the sake of some donkeys!
But no amount of solitary boozing could resolve Finnegan's problem. Guilt engulfed him. He had let Pat down ... now Pat was in danger, with maybe a score of Riordan's men out looking for him. Finnegan shuddered. Eventually he could stand it no longer - he called Mulligan over and confessed the whole wretched story. Mulligan was incredulous at first, then disgusted, and finally boiling mad - "You just let him walk out? Without raising a finger to stop him?"
"I tried! May God strike me dead if I didn't. But once Pat Connors ..."
Mulligan was no longer listening. Instead he was looking round the bar for help. He needed good men and he needed them fast. He thought quickly ... Eamon Donovon, Pat's cousin, would help. And Paddy Sullivan was a good man, so was Ulick, his brother. Then there was ... Mulligan made a list, while at the same time shouting for his son. A boy of twelve ran in from the street. Hurriedly Mulligan rattled off a dozen names and their likely whereabouts. Then he pushed the boy through the door, urging him to get the men back to the bar as quickly as possible.
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 90