Pat locked himself away after the funeral and brooded. He barely slept for making his plans. Then, two days later, he was ready. He went downstairs to the bar for a drink.
"Still no sign of Riordan," Mulligan reported softly. "Word is he is hiding out in Belfast."
Pat scowled. "He will stay there right enough. At least till the hue and cry dies down. Then he'll come crawling back here. Unless ..."
Unless what, Mulligan wondered? Pat Connors was not the man to let things rest, but the Garda were helpless as usual, defeated by lack of witnesses and faced by a wall of silence.
But half an hour later Mulligan knew that Riordan would not dare to even come home ... and Pat Connors was sending him a message to prove it.
Sean forgot Mrs O'Flynn, at least until Wednesday. Then he was sent on an errand down the Quays, and a woman looked at him with such frank appraisal that Mrs O'Flynn burst into his mind. He blushed, while the woman smiled knowingly as if amused by secret thoughts. She knows, he thought in panic, she knows about Mrs O'Flynn and me - what we did - she can see it in my face! He hurried away in an immediate sweat. Maybe women saw things hidden to men? Aunt Brigid would have seen it - and Maureen - they would have seen it and been ashamed. Guilt sharpened his grief. Tears pricked his eyelids. He drew a deep breath, to control his emotion - to cry here, on the Quays, to be seen weeping, would be intolerable. But his heart ached for Aunt Brigid. Poor, dear Aunt Brigid. And Maureen - sweet, gentle Maureen whom he would have sent to the sun had she lived ...
He wandered the Quays for an hour, reluctant to return to the doom laden atmosphere at Brigid's place. It was his first escape since Sunday, and a relief to get away from the sound of sobbing and the sight of red rimmed eyes. So he walked - across O'Connell Bridge, past the rebuilt Post Office, then along Abbey Street and beyond the theatre. People on the streets laughed and shouted as if nothing had happened. Yet Sean's whole world had turned upside down.
Eventually he retraced his steps to the Quays, walking over the familiar cobblestones, to become absorbed in watching the usual hustle and bustle. The sight took him out of himself. Soon he was caught up in his game of watching people earn their daily bread. No matter what else happened, the gombeen men went on wheeling and dealing. He sighed, and suddenly itched to be among them, pitting his wits against theirs in the never-ending game of building a fortune. Just seeing them made him feel better. He sucked in a great lungful of air to rid himself of his depression, and partly succeeded, but it would close in again, he knew that, it would close in again when he returned to Brigid's place.
So why return? The question so stunned him that he stopped in his tracks. But why - the question ought to be asked - why return at all? So much had changed, his whole life ... he would have to leave one day, so why not today? The idea took his breath away. His mind blurred with the consequences - suppose he did leave - where would he go?
He would live with his father. Why not? They would find somewhere together. How much better than just seeing each other on a Saturday. His spirits rose at the prospect of living in an adult world, full of his father's friends, politicians, newspapermen, all arguing their heads off as they put the country to rights. But would his father agree? Suppose his father preferred to live alone. Sean went cold. His mind clouded with doubt. He argued back and forth. He could not stay with Tomas forever. But what was expected of him?
The idea buzzed round in his head until he could think of nothing else. He decided against returning to Brigid's. Instead he changed direction and made for Mulligan's Bar, rehearsing his arguments as he walked, screwing up his courage to face his father.
Pat Connors was finalising plans of his own. He sat in the room above
Mulligan's Bar and discussed details with the Sullivan brothers and Eamon Donovon.
"Right then," he said. "That wraps it up. Don't forget, leave the woman to me."
"What about Riordan's son? If he tries to interfere -"
"A son?" Pat said in surprise. "I never knew Riordan had a son?"
Eamon nodded. "About the same age as Sean. Maybe a year or so older."
Pat's mouth tightened. "Riordan's son gets treated the same as Riordan's wife. I'll deal with the pair of them."
"What about the Garda?" Eamon asked.
"Fixed," was Pat's only comment. He had spent the morning with the Garda. Most of the senior police officers were old friends. Many had fought the British with Pat. Several owed him their lives. Today they would repay past favours.
Paddy Sullivan rubbed his hand across his chin. The light was dim in the room, but alcohol had bronzed and polished Paddy's face until it shone like a copper kettle. "You want us at Riordan's pub at three-thirty, right?"
Pat nodded. He checked the safety catch on his revolver, then slipped the weapon into a holster beneath his jacket.
Eamon was about to say something when the door opened. Mulligan poked his head into the room. "Your boy is downstairs, Pat. Shall I send him up?"
Ulick Sullivan swore and pointed to the crate of explosives in the middle of the room. "We'll want to hide that first."
But Pat shook his head. It was time Sean learnt what went on in the world - no point in teaching him the rules then denying him chance to see them used. "Sean's coming with us," he announced bluntly, "so he may as well come up now."
They all protested, Mulligan included - but Pat was adamant. So after arguing for ten minutes, Mulligan led Eamon and the Sullivan boys back down to the bar. "Right, Sean," Mulligan jerked his head, "you can go up now."
Sean took a deep breath. He rehearsed his arguments one last time, then climbed the stairs, little suspecting that his own idea was about to be swamped by a far more momentous one.
By half-past three Billy Timms and Tim Finnegan had been in Riordan's pub for an hour. Not that they were drinking heavily - two pints each, barely enough to quench Finnegan's thirst - but it was hardly a social occasion. They were there to count the house, in particular identify potential heroes - those who might rush to Mrs Riordan's aid when the trouble started. Hopefully nobody would know about the trouble until afterwards - and afterwards would be too late.
It was a large bar, and crowded. Riordan was not the biggest gombeen man in town, but far from the smallest. He owned a butcher's and a draper's as well. "If only he had stayed out of politics," Finnegan mused, "he'd have a lot to be thankful for."
Billy Timms grunted. Every publican in Dublin was in politics, one way or another - even Mulligan, though Mulligan was all right. Timms watched four men in the corner, all of whom bore the mark of Riordan's bully boys. As for the rest of the crowd ... his gaze wandered, pausing here and there to examine the bulges in men's jackets, wondering if they hid a revolver. Timms slid his hand into his own pocket and caressed the cold steel of his gun.
Finnegan muttered, "Three thirty. Where in God's name is Sullivan?"
Exactly at that moment the street door opened and Ulick Sullivan entered carrying a can of paint and some brushes. He wedged the door back as Paddy arrived with a step ladder. Both men were dressed in overalls and were quite obviously ready for work. Paddy bumped and barged his way across the crowded bar, knocking at least three people with the ladder. "Watch what you're doing," a man shouted angrily. Paddy swung round to answer and delivered a nasty blow to another set of shins.
Billy Timms hid a smile. Like old times, he thought, remembering the decorating business in Abbey Street. Mick Collins himself couldn't have done better.
The barman rushed round to investigate - "What the hell are you doing?"
"And what does it look like?" Paddy answered, bumping into a table. "Aren't we here to paint the place on Mr Riordan's orders."
"Sure nobody told me," snapped the barman. He would have protested further but Ulick asked him to hold a can of paint. Danny Hoey came through the door, staggering under the weight of a full set of ladders. Wind and rain blew in from the street - a newspaper swirled in at knee height. "Shut that bloody door," someone shouted. Danny s
napped back - "Will you wait till I get inside. Besides, there's a lot more to come yet."
Billy Timms's nod of approval was almost imperceptible. Even so he continued to watch the men in the corner - especially when one of them placed a hand on Paddy's shoulder. Paddy won't like that, Billy thought, just as Finnegan nudged his knee. Billy looked across to the door. Pat Connors stood in the opening, with Sean a pace behind him. Billy cursed. Sean's involvement was something new. He studied the boy and breathed a small sigh of relief. Sean's face lacked colour, but apart from that he looked steady enough.
"Take your hands off me!" roared Paddy Sullivan. There was a scuffle at the bar. Everyone turned to watch. If they hadn't, Ulick would have dropped a can of paint - or Finnegan would have started an argument -or Paddy would have created another diversion. And while people were distracted Billy Timms watched Pat Connors and his son walk across to the private rooms at the back of the bar. Billy watched, but nobody else did - they were too busy arguing with Paddy Sullivan and the rest of the "painters".
Pat's revolver was in his hand as he went through the door. The small room was empty. An open door opposite revealed the foot of a staircase in the passage. "Lock the door," Pat said over his shoulder. Sean bolted the door to the bar, just as a woman came down the stairs and into the room. Pat reached her before she could cry out, his gun arm encircling her neck and his left hand clamping over her mouth - "Listen, Mrs Riordan, and listen carefully."
The petrified woman went rigid with fright. There was very little struggle. She was middle-aged with pepper-and-salt hair, and dressed in a grubby smock.
"Do as I say and you'll not get hurt," Pat hissed in her ear.
She rolled her eyes and nodded her head.
"Get rid of those people in the bar," Pat said. "You are closing for alterations. Do exactly as I say and you'll not be hurt, but exactly understand?"
She shuddered as the muzzle of the gun pressed into her neck. Pat repeated his instructions - then he released her. She fell forward, grabbing a chair for support, gasping and retching as if about to be sick.
Suddenly footsteps sounded on the stairs, then in the passage. A boy hurried in. His eyes widened as he saw them. Pat moved with astonishing speed, looping an arm round the boy's throat and jabbing the revolver into his face. The woman's hands flew to her mouth to stifle her words - "Oh God ... no -"
"Shut up," Pat snarled, tightening his grip on the boy.
The woman whimpered. She seemed about to fall on her knees to beg for mercy. Sean's instinct was horror. He stepped forward, wanting to reassure her, wanting to help - until he remembered Aunt Brigid and Maureen, and what his father had said in the room above Mulligan's Bar. He remembered what he must do and steeled himself to do it. He risked a sideways glance at the boy. He knew him - not well, but he had seen him around. Older than me, Sean thought, but I'm as big as him. The boy squirmed in Pat's grip, twisting until the revolver prodded his eye. The woman continued to plead - "Please - not him - please -"
"Call the barman," Pat interrupted. "Tell him to close up. The painters outside are ready to start work. Say you forgot to tell him before - right?"
She was too frightened to understand. Her eyes fixed on her son, "Please -"
"God Almighty! Do as you are told!"
She shuddered as if Pat had slapped her. Pat snarled, "I'll break his bloody neck unless you do as you're told!"
The woman cast another beseeching look at her son, before turning and walking like a sleepwalker across the room. Sean stood beside her, unbolting the door, he opened it a crack. The noisy argument was continuing in the bar. The woman placed a hand on the wall to support herself, drew a deep breath and called to the barman. Her voice was weak. She called again, drawing on her strength. Eventually the man came to the door. She issued her instructions. He protested. She insisted, panic adding stridency to her voice. Grumbling the barman went away. Sean sighed with relief. As he closed and bolted the door, the woman fell against the wall, sobbing with released tension. Sean turned away, and undid the rope from around his waist.
"We are tying you up," Pat told the boy. "A precaution, that's all. Behave and you'll be all right."
Pat released him and the boy collapsed into a chair - bent double by a paroxysm of coughing and gasping for breath. Sean moved swiftly to bind the boy's feet - then moved behind the chair to tie his wrists. The boy twisted round, his eyes blazing. Sean quelled the tiniest flicker of fear. He worked on the knots and had just finished when a muffled knock announced that Billy Timms was asking to be let in from the bar.
Timms took the scene in at a glance. "Okay in front," he said, "everyone is clearing out. Tim is locking up. Paddy is dealing with the barman."
Pat nodded, then turned to his son - "Open the back door."
Sean went into the passage and found the back door. A Garda stood on the step a very senior Garda judging by the badges of rank on his cap and epaulettes. He nodded at Sean, and led the way briskly back to the room.
Mrs Riordan was sitting on the arm of the chair next to her son. She gaped at the uniform. Hope flared in her eyes. But it died a second later.
"Mrs Riordan," the Garda said without ceremony. "I have a warrant for your husband's arrest in connection with the murders of Brigid and Maureen O'Hara -"
"No," she gasped and shook her head. "No ... not Liam -"
"If you know of his whereabouts it is your duty to inform me," he continued. "I must also warn you that warrants may be issued to arrest you and your son for conspiracy -"
"My God! What are you saying -"
"I expect to have such warrants by six this evening, in which case I shall arrest you both," he paused. "If I can find you, of course."
Bewilderment was written all over her face. "What does he mean?" she was asking herself. The whole world had gone mad. She cast an imploring look at Pat, searching for an explanation. But Pat's expression remained blank - and the policeman was already marching out to the passage and through the back door.
Ulick arrived from the bar, weighed down by two heavy cans, one in each hand. He went out to the passage, then clumped up the stairs, leaving a strong smell of petrol in his wake.
"Mrs Riordan," Pat said evenly, "you've ten minutes to pack to escape arrest. You and your son are catching the five o'clock train to Belfast."
"Belfast?" The boy found his tongue. "What about this place? Who will look after things? The Da will go mad if-"
"Tell him in Belfast," Pat said with indifference. He turned to the woman, "Time is passing. You have less than ten minutes now."
She stared around the room, a dazed look on her face. Shock befuddled her mind. She couldn't think, couldn't believe what was happening. Blank unseeing eyes sought familiar objects, trying to focus on reality. But reality had been supplanted by nightmare. Arrest? The five o'clock train to Belfast? This was her home. What would she take, what would she leave, what could be sent for later? A moan of despair escaped her lips. Her total helplessness was pitiful. Sean turned away, unable to watch.
"Nine minutes left," Pat said so coldly that his son shivered.
"I'll help you pack upstairs," Billy Timms said not unkindly.
"Pack?" she echoed blankly, as he took her arm and led her from the room.
Paddy Sullivan came in from the bar. He nodded to Pat. "Everything is fixed in the cellar. Time is short though."
Pat slid his revolver into its holster. "What about the street outside?"
"Being dealt with," was all Paddy said as he went back to the bar.
Ulick returned from upstairs, sprinkling petrol from a can. "Upstairs is drenched in the stuff," he told Pat on his way through to the bar.
Suddenly the boy screamed. "You're going to burn us alive! You're going to murder us -"
Pat knocked him almost out of the chair. "I warned you. Start shouting and I'll gag you."
The boy burst into tears - and was still sniffing when his mother returned. She dropped her suitcase and rushed to his side. Panic
gave her courage. She screamed at Pat - "You're burning us out. Damn you for your cruelty. Damn you! Damn you ..." She collapsed in a flood of tears, her arms around her son.
"Time is running out," was Pat's only response.
Sean looked at his father in horror. He would never have believed this cold remorseless anger. Billy Timms struggled into the room with a canvas bag stuffed with clothes. Mrs Riordan sobbed and shrieked, "Mary, Mother of God! Will you stop! I can't think! I need more time."
The boy interrupted, "Get the money. The Da will want the money."
She swayed to her feet, sobbing, peering furtively through her fingers, as if afraid of Pat hearing.
But Pat had heard. "We are not thieves," he said with icy contempt. "There's not a man here who would touch a penny."
She whirled round to the sideboard and wrenched open a door. Papers, letters and old newspapers tumbled out. She stumbled under the weight of a heavy box.
"Here," Billy Timms bent to open the suitcase. "Put that in here."
"Is that it then?" Pat demanded.
The woman's last reserves of pride and self-respect crumbled. She flung herself at Pat's feet and grovelled - tugging his trousers as a supplicant might the robes of a bishop. She begged for more time. She offered him the cashbox. She wailed and wept, but Pat ignored her. "Loosen that hobble, Sean," he said, pointing to the boy.
Sean obeyed and a minute later the whole party was making for the back door.
Two motor cars reversed up the alley. Mrs Riordan was bundled into one, flanked by Billy Timms and Pat Connors. Sean climbed into the front, next to the driver, and watched the Sullivans guide Liam Riordan's son into the second car. Then they were away, passing a Garda at the bottom of the alley, who touched his cap when he saw Pat.
They circled the block and came out fifty yards from the pub. The normally busy street was almost deserted. Men dressed in overalls had roped off a section round the pub. Ladders stood against the wall as if work was about to commence - but nobody was working. Instead the men stood beyond the ropes, looking expectantly towards the pub. Suddenly a muffled explosion shook the whole building. Window panes shattered and burst onto the street. A great sheet of flame belched up from the bar. Tongues of fire and sooty black smoke licked out through one of the broken windows.
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 92