Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1

by Ian St. James

  Finnegan was still babbling, "I wish to God I'd gone now. That's the honest truth. If anything happens to Pat -"

  "Shut your mouth," Mulligan snapped angrily. Not every man in the bar could be vouched for. Mulligan knew the doubtful ones, and enough were present to add to his worries.

  Time passed slowly after that. Behind the bar the hand of the clock seemed to stop. At five-thirty the boy was back, most of his messages delivered. Most, but not all - "Mr Donovon was out, Da. He went out in his car with Mr Connors."

  Brigid, of course, had no suspicion of any of this. As far as she knew Pat Connors was about his business as usual, and young Sean was out earning a few coppers. And Brigid herself had been busy that day cleaning her house from top to bottom, worrying about Maureen being late back from Confession, and giving Tomas his tea when he arrived home from his vegetable patch. She wished she had cleaned Pat's room on Thursday, her usual day for doing it, but she had been sniffing with a cold all week and not felt up to it. Even now she felt far from well but a promise was a promise and at least Maureen would come round to Ammet Street to give her a hand.

  The door banged and Brigid sighed with relief. Ever since the trouble with the Protestant boys she had felt uneasy about Maureen walking home along the canal. Most weeks Brigid met her, but her cold had put her so far behind this week that nothing had been dealt with in its usual fashion.

  "Have you seen Uncle Pat?" Maureen asked as she entered the kitchen. She had been stopped twice on her way home by men looking for Pat Connors. "Friends of his," she added hurriedly, seeing Brigid's look of alarm. "Mr Sullivan was one of them. His brother was with him, you know, Ulick that works in the market."

  "What did he want with Pat?" asked Tomas.

  "Just had I seen him," Maureen shrugged. "Then wasn't I asked again on the corner by another man."

  Tomas went back to his paper. The sort of life Pat led people were forever asking after him, wanting favours most of them.

  Brigid blew her nose noisily. "Well, drink your tea then," she said to Maureen. "You can tell Pat Connors half the world is out looking for him when you see him at Ammet Street."

  "Is Sean about?" Maureen asked hopefully.

  "Sean is not. And didn't he promise to be home by now, with his Da expecting him at seven."

  "He'll maybe go straight there," Maureen said in Sean's defence. "Didn't he say he'd see us -"

  "In a room covered with dust unless we get a move on," Brigid said sharply, glancing at the clock. "Come on, finish your tea, and we'll get round to Ammet Street."

  They were holding a council of war in Mulligan's Bar. Four more of Pat's friends had assembled in answer to Mulligan's summons. Tim Finnegan's story was carefully digested.

  "Pat should have told us himself," Billy Timms said, voicing the general opinion.

  Mulligan pulled a face. "Sure you know what a mulehead he is. Isn't it typical he'd go by himself."

  "But he's not. Eamon is with him - and Finnegan would be if he had any guts."

  "Riordan," one of the men whispered fearfully. "Wouldn't you know that bastard would be behind it."

  Billy Timms cut him short. "So what's happened so far?" he asked Mulligan.

  "I sent the Sullivan brothers out looking for him. Then Garret arrived and he went too."

  Timms drummed his fingers on the counter. That was a waste of time, he thought, splitting up the forces in a futile search. Pat and Eamon could be anywhere. Still up at Palmerstown most likely. Timms cursed, thinking Eamon should have known better.

  Mulligan read his mind. "Wouldn't you think Eamon will talk some sense into him. Sure the pair of them could walk in that door any minute."

  But the door from the street remained ominously closed.

  Finnegan whispered, "It's the boy I'm worried about."

  They swung round to stare. Finnegan twitched. He prodded a matchbox along the bar with a nicotine-stained finger. "It's young Sean I'm thinking of now. Riordan's a vicious devil."

  Others might have dismissed it as the rambling of a man in drink - but Mulligan's eyes narrowed. He pursed his lips in a soft whistle. "If Riordan got hold of the boy, that would stop Pat dead in his tracks. Finnegan could be right. Riordan might go for the boy. Hasn't he hit Pat through the boy's donkeys already?"

  Billy Timms stared. He was shorter than Mulligan and a few years younger - a strong, tough man who worked in the docks. Hard grey eyes looked out from a weather-beaten face. But even his expression showed a flicker of fear. "Has anyone seen young Sean? What does the boy do with himself these days?"

  But nobody knew.

  Sean was desperately late. He would have to run all the way to reach Ammet Street by seven. He stood just inside the kitchen door while Maeve O'Flynn kissed him goodbye.

  "Here," she whispered. "There are nicer ways to say goodbye than this." She guided his hand under her kimono.

  "I must go," Sean protested. "Honest, Mrs O'Flynn, I must."

  But she was merely teasing and made no complaint when he pulled away. They had agreed people would worry if Sean failed to keep his appointment. Things would be arranged differently in future, Maeve promised herself that.

  "Until tomorrow then," she whispered.

  Sean turned for a last look at her. How could he express himself? It would sound so inadequate to say "Thanks for a lovely afternoon" to the woman who had changed his whole life.

  She smiled and pushed him to the door, "Go on, away and see your Da ... and don't be late back here in the morning."

  So he said nothing and left, walking hurriedly down the lane and onto the road. He broke into a trot. He skipped, light-headed with joy. His mind burst with exquisite pictures. Mrs O'Flynn on the bed - under him - on top of him. So many different sensations, so much discovered ... the most shattering experience of his life, the most exhilarating, the most pleasurable, the most...

  But he ached. God, he ached! After a mile he ceased to run and contented himself with a brisk walk. Time and again he pictured Mrs O'Flynn. He remembered scene after scene. Then - suddenly, he was struck by a thought. A terrible thought! "People will know!" He stopped dead in his tracks. "The Da will find out. Aunt Brigid will know. They will see it on my face. They will know - I must look different. It stands to reason. They will know ..."

  The thought took hold. It was wicked, what he had done. Maureen was right - Mrs O'Flynn was a wicked woman. "Now I'm wicked too," he moaned. What if the Da finds out? Suppose anyone finds out? "Mary Mother of God," he muttered. "Won't they skin me alive." Even that mattered less than their shame. He imagined them turning their backs, not meeting his eye, talking among themselves. Aunt Brigid avoiding Father Murphy on the street. Poor Tomas, even more bent than ever. And Maureen! His blood froze. "Dear God, Maureen will kill herself!"

  Suddenly he dreaded going to Ammet Street. His father read him like a book. His father would say, "Well, son, and what have you been doing?"

  "Fucking Mrs O'Flynn, Da - and it was grand!" Sean groaned in horror. "What have I done - oh Jaysus!"

  He walked on, dawdling now, dragging his feet, weighed down by guilt. Even his smell was different. He pushed up a sleeve to sniff his arm.

  Her musky scent filled his nostrils. "Like she sprayed me all over. Jaysus, I smell different, I look different... they will know for sure."

  He stopped at the side of the road. What a terrible secret. But how to keep it a secret? He had never lied to the Da before. Nor to Aunt Brigid or Maureen, or anyone. Not real lies. It was one of the rules. His spirit plunged. Then, like a pinpoint of light at the end of a tunnel, he glimpsed a ray of hope. "Sometimes to tell the exact truth is damaging," his father had counselled. "Answer a question with a question ..."

  Sean's heart pounded. To use the rules against the Da was the hardest test he could imagine. But he had no choice. "Oh God," he prayed, "let nobody find out. Let nobody find out and ... and I'll never do that again. Never, never, never. I promise God, honest I do."

  Even a bargain like tha
t - the sacrificing of so much future pleasure, failed to alleviate Sean's foreboding. His despair deepened at every step. Something awful was about to happen - he just knew, something terrible, even worse than losing the donkeys. He walked down the Quays like a pilgrim in the valley of death. The great bulk of Guinness's brewery loomed up on his right. The misty waters of the Liffey swirled dark and sinister on his left. A feeling of doom enveloped him. His earlier euphoria was completely forgotten. He was aware only of a premonition. And it was with that feeling of utter helplessness that Sean shuffled towards Ammet Street.

  Mulligan experienced a great wave of relief. Pat Connors had just walked through the door, followed by Eamon Donovon.

  "Thank Christ, you are here," Mulligan shouted, rushing out from his counter.

  Pat was astonished. He and Eamon had searched the town, when his friends were all here, assembled and waiting. They knew what had happened, one look told Pat that. Finnegan had talked, that much was clear.

  They crowded round. Mulligan returned to his side of the bar and drew a couple of pints. Then the details of the afternoon were told - the futile excursion to Palmerstown, and the growing realisation that Riordan was ready and waiting.

  "He'll not play cat and mouse with me though," Pat said, lowering his voice as he told them of his plan to confront Riordan in his own pub.

  There was a moment's silence, then Billy Timms said, "You'll not go there alone."

  "Well then," Mulligan challenged, "do I hear you lot hollering to volunteer?"

  Embarrassed grins appeared and heads nodded in assent - but Mulligan was not ready to celebrate. He was worried about Sean. Ever since Finnegan had come up with the idea Mulligan had fretted about it. In a low voice he explained the theory to Pat. Pat went white. Every drop of colour drained from his face. He knew it was possible, he knew it! He swore viciously. He had played this all wrong. Old age was making him soft. He had forgotten his cunning. By Christ, if anything happened to young Sean ...

  "Well?" Mulligan asked. "Where is he, Pat?"

  Pat glanced at the clock. Sean was probably at Brigid's place, or on his way to Ammet Street by now. "Come on," he said quickly, "we'll get Sean off the streets before we do anything else."

  Brigid arrived at Ammet Street at twenty to seven, later than she had intended, having been delayed first by Maureen, then by a neighbour wanting to borrow some sugar. "Always the way," Brigid sniffed to herself. "Start late and a hundred things crop up to make you even later."

  Now she was out of breath from walking too fast and irritated by Maureen's chatter. "Will you save your breath for cleaning that room," she scolded.

  They climbed the stairs, Brigid wheezing with her chesty cold. She hoped Pat was not home yet. She worked quicker with him out of the way. Tomas was the same, forever getting under her feet and complaining he couldn't find things after she had tidied up after him.

  "Here, I'll open the door," said Maureen, holding out her hand.

  Brigid fumbled for the key in her bag. She handed it to her daughter and then clutched the balustrade, overcome by momentary giddiness. "It's just this wretched cold," she grumbled, "I'll feel better in the morning."

  Maureen was outside Pat's door. "That's funny, the key won't turn."

  "Here, let me," said Brigid, advancing along the landing.

  "No, it's turning. It's just stiff, that's all..."

  Maureen's words died on her lips. The door splintered to matchwood. A flash of light scorched the whole landing. Walls erupted. Masonry tore into fragments. Debris hit the stairs in a great swirling mass, ripping the banisters away with hurricane force. Timbers fell spinning to the lobby below. The uppermost stairs collapsed, leaving a gap to the half-landing. People below screamed as ceilings caved in. Outside the street was drenched with splinters of flying glass. The roar and force of the explosion rocked the Quays.

  Pat Connors dropped his blackthorn stick and ran the last twenty yards to the corner. A column of oily smoke rose above Ammet Street. Fear rooted him to the spot. He cried, "Sean! Dear God - Sean!"

  Doors opened, people spilled out. Pat heard shouts, screams. He glimpsed shocked faces. Then he was running - "Sean! Sean! Where are you, Sean?"

  A girl had fallen, hit by a shard of flying glass. She crouched, hands at her head, blood oozing between her fingers. Pat skirted her and ran on - "Sean! Sean!"

  A boy got in the way. Pat brushed past and raced into the building "Sean!"

  He stumbled towards the stairs, blinded by dust and smoke, to clamber over mounds of pulverised plaster. He side-stepped a fall of masonry which plunged down like an avalanche. The handrail had gone - banisters had been torn away. Stairs jutted out like the ledge on a cliff face, ending in mid-air. Pat almost fell over the edge. He scrambled back, cursing with fear. "Sean!" he roared, peering up into the swirling dust.

  "Da! I'm here!"

  Pat whirled and lost his footing. He slid and half-fell to the foot of the stairs. His son rushed over, panting and coughing. They fell into each other's arms, sobbing with relief.

  Sean had been at the bottom end of Ammet Street when the explosion occurred. He had raced all the way - fearing to find his father's mangled body in the wreckage. For a split second he relaxed, safe in his father's embrace. Then his premonition jolted him rigid. He pulled away and stared into his father's face. "Maureen and Aunt Brigid! Da, they were coming round to clean your room."

  The dread feeling hit Pat like a hammer. He peered through the dust up to the half landing. The edge of the first floor was dimly visible. It was knee deep in debris.

  "Da, would you think - oh no - NO" Sean ran past and began the ascent of the stairs, stumbling to keep his balance.

  Pat pulled him back. "Get out, boy. Get out. Leave this to me."

  "But Da, they're up there - I just know - I know!"

  Sean's premonition. This was his punishment. God's punishment. God's wrath for what had happened that afternoon. Yet it was unfair. Brigid and Maureen hadn't done anything. Brigid and Maureen were the kindest, most wonderful people in the world ...

  "Pat!" shouted a man from the entrance. He emerged into the dim light, shielding his eyes and coughing from the dust. It was Billy Timms. He clambered up to the half landing and he gasped when he saw Sean, "I went to Brigid's place looking for you. But where's Brigid herself? Tomas said she had come round here -"

  The sob torn from Sean sounded inhuman. He rushed at the fallen masonry, heaving great blocks against the wall to build stepping stones to the floor above. Pat and Billy Timms threw themselves into action. Tears smudged Sean's dust-grimed face as he worked. Jagged rubble cut his hands. Panic gave him strength. He moved as much debris as his father. He stood back and shouted Maureen's name. His anxious eyes searched the debris on the upper floor. Below, other people gathered at the foot of the stairs, shouting advice, shifting rubble, and trying to fashion a ladder from the broken balustrade.

  Fifteen minutes later Billy Timms hoisted himself painfully up to the floor above. The first thing he saw was a human hand thrust out from the fallen timbers. It was Brigid. Timms knew she was dead as soon as he touched her.

  Pat scrambled up the makeshift ladder, with Sean behind him. Pat found Maureen. He pushed Sean away, not wanting the boy to see the mutilated face. "Billy," he shouted, despair in his voice, "get Sean back down below." When Sean protested Billy Timms thumped him on the point of his chin. The boy's knees buckled, his eyes glazed and he dropped like a felled tree.

  Pat was crying. Tears wet his face for the first time since Finola died. He stumbled on, through a gap into his room. He hardly recognised it - the far wall was totally devoid of plaster - bare bricks, broken and cracked, gave it an unfamiliar look - but the skirting board was intact. Pat dropped to his knees and scrambled through the wreckage, digging furiously until his hands closed on the precious notebooks. A tremor shook his body. Much else that was precious had been destroyed that day - but the Connors Rules were intact.

  Chapter Seven
/>   That Saturday marked the end of Sean's boyhood. His ripening maturity accelerated fast after that, especially when his father took him to Coney Island.

  Not that Pat left Dublin without resolving his outstanding score with Liam Riordan. Riordan had more to answer for than ever before. The deaths of Brigid and Maureen shattered everyone.

  Tomas was a broken man. Brigid had been his life. Without her and Maureen, Tomas withered like a plant pulled from its roots. The rest of the family, weighed down by grief, gathered about him in a shield of loving kindness - Sean too, whom Tomas regarded as an adopted son much of the time, stayed close to the man's side. But Tomas was inconsolable. He withdrew from a world which in any case had never captured his interest. He had created his own world and filled it with Brigid and the children, the church and his vegetable patch. But now Brigid was gone and Tomas wallowed in a well of despair. Even Father Murphy, the aged priest who had known and loved the family for most of their days, even Father Murphy was unable to provide comfort.

  The funeral itself, with the coffins closed to hide the mutilated bodies, was a raw, agonising ordeal so heart-rending that few got through it without breaking down. At the graveside Tomas had to be physically restrained from throwing himself into the open pit. People on all sides keened and wept with unrestrained passion. Heaven was the richer, but the world was the poorer for the passing of Brigid and Maureen - and when their goodness was praised by Father Murphy the poor man choked up and had to be led sobbing from the congregation.

  Pat Connors mourned with the rest of them - more so, tormented by the knowledge that Brigid and Maureen had lost their lives because of him. He could not look at Tomas without being swamped by guilt. Yet one man shared that guilt - Liam Riordan. "I'll kill that bastard before I die," Pat swore in the room above Mulligan's Bar, to which he had moved with the few possessions recovered from Ammet Street.

  But there was a matter of equal importance - one which had given meaning and purpose to Pat's existence for almost fourteen years. Sean and the rules! To pass on the accumulated experience of a lifetime. The need to do that kept Pat from Belfast, which is where Riordan was suspected of hiding ...