Mrs Riordan sobbed uncontrollably, "Twenty-one years. We lived there twenty-one years. Worked, saved ... God, what is to become of us now?"
"Twenty-one years," repeated Pat. "That's a long time. Longer than the life of my niece. She was only sixteen - sixteen - when your husband murdered her."
"No! Not a girl - Liam wouldn't -"
"He's a murdering bastard. A killer of women and girls ... and donkeys”
Fire swept through the pub with the speed of light. Smoke swirled upwards, caught by the wind. Inside the building orange-tipped flames spat and crackled in every room. Outside the very air shimmered in the heat haze.
They drove round the corner and arrived just in time to see the front of Riordan's butcher's shop erupt into shards of splintered glass. Then a whump of flame preceded a cloud of dense black smoke. A moment later that building too was engulfed in fire.
The draper's shop was already ablaze when they reached it. Garda were barring entry to the street. The two cars halted on the corner to give the occupants a good view of the destruction - then they moved off, as sedate as a funeral procession.
Mrs Riordan wept all the way to the station. Her misery tugged at Sean's conscience. He felt confused, sickened by events. Nothing said above Mulligan's Bar had fully prepared him. He was horrified. Yet unable to stifle other emotions - respect, and a tingling thrill that his father had delivered such a terrible punishment. Rough justice, harsh, brutal - yet justice of a kind. But the punishment was not over.
"Give your husband a message from me," Pat Connors shouted above the woman's sobs. "He's finished in Dublin. I've wiped out his businesses - and if he ever sets foot here the Garda will arrest him for murder."
Tears fell even faster. The sobs grew louder. A sound cracked like a whiplash. Sean shut his eyes and bit his lip. Another crack, as Pat slapped her again. "Look at me, damn you," he roared. "You're looking at a widow-maker. Tell him that. And tell him to watch his back - because some day soon I'm coming to Belfast to kill him!"
The car stopped in the station forecourt. Sean kept his eyes front, afraid to look over his shoulder. The woman whimpered until a back door opened and Pat heaved himself out onto the pavement. The other car drew up alongside, and the Riordan boy emerged from the back seat. The rope had been removed from his wrists. He was made to carry the canvas bag and the suitcase as the procession set off down the platform. Seats had been reserved on the train. Pat Connors handed tickets to Mrs Riordan, and repeated his warnings to her, perhaps for the boy's benefit.
It was a minute before five o'clock.
"Goodbye, Mrs Riordan," Pat said, as he handed her up into the carriage. "You should pray that you never see me again."
The boy clambered up after her. He heaved the cases onto the luggage rack, after which he turned to lower the window. He was trembling and white-faced, but his eyes blazed at Sean. "I'll kill you for this one day," he hissed. "Bloody well kill you. You remember my name, Matt Riordan. It will take you to your grave." Then he spat through the lowered window into Sean's face.
Sean had no time to retaliate. The window slammed shut. A guard blew a whistle, the engine shuffled its wheels - and the train was moving. The boy curled his lip as he stared down into Sean's eyes - and the next minute he had gone.
Sean could feel the hatred as much as he felt the saliva running down his cheek.
"Here," his father held out a handkerchief. Sean wiped the spittle away, and turned to follow them back to the car! They drove off slowly. Sean sat in a daze, the terrible events vivid in his mind. So much had happened, so quickly ... Mrs Riordan's misery, the boy's hatred, the violent destruction ... Suddenly he recalled Billy Timms coming into the room at the pub and saying - "Paddy is dealing with the barman."
"What happened to the barman, Da?"
His father was in front next to the driver. "Tell him, Billy," he said.
Billy Timms would rather not, that was clear from his face... but Pat's tone brooked no argument. "We chained him down in the cellar. Paddy set the explosives around him."
Sean clenched his fists and drew a deep breath. He pictured the man struggling to free himself... minutes ticking away ... seconds
"He was the one who set the explosives in Ammet Street," his father said. "We found out that much."
An icy chill slid up Sean's spine. He closed his eyes to blot out the picture of the cellar, but the explosion echoed in his mind. He saw the scene outside the pub ... watched glass cascade from the windows of the butcher's shop ... and saw the oily smoke rising above the Riordan's draper's. Most of all he remembered the hate in Matt Riordan's eyes "I'll kill you for this ... remember my name, Matt Riordan ... it will take you to your grave." Sean shuddered. He was afraid, but he was aware of something else. He was learning the rules.
Next morning Sean said goodbye to Tomas and the family. Of course he would see them again, when he came back from the magic island with his father, but the relationship would never be the same. Sean sensed it when Tomas hugged him goodbye - and Michael looked as sad as the grave when he shook hands.
The morning papers were vivid with photographs of the gutted pub. Tomas was almost sure Pat was involved, but he said nothing. He might have, had he known Sean had been part of it - Tomas would have been appalled by that - but Sean held his tongue.
So Pat Connors and his son left for Coney Island. Each wore strong boots and carried an oilskin cape against the weather. Both sagged slightly under the weight of their rucksacks. Pat walked with the aid of the blackthorn stick he had used since the civil war, and if the prospect of walking several hundred miles daunted him, not a flicker of concern showed on his face. He would never undertake a more important journey. Fourteen years had been spent in its preparation. Not for a moment did he doubt the rightness of what he was doing. Nor did he question Sean's ability to learn, the boy's quick mind delighted him. Pat's only worry was about his own abilities as a teacher. The importance of what he had to convey made him question his own competence. But he felt sure the timing was right. It was right to remove Sean from Dublin ... right to give him something to think about, to take his mind off grieving for Brigid and Maureen.
As for Sean, so much had happened that it was hard to absorb. Not that he would admit that to his father. So he walked proudly at his father's side, matching his stride, vowing to keep pace no matter how far or fast they went.
They talked as they walked - easy talk, without restraint, more like friends than father and son. And Pat, keyed up to start, began immediately. Not that Sean recognised it as a lesson. Pat's way of teaching was quite different to that of the Christian Brothers. Pat told stories ... funny stories, sad stories, inspiring stories ... tales which captured Sean's interest so completely that he passed the lane leading up to the O'Flynn's farm without even noticing.
Pat's theme was history and the men who made it. And he had an uncomfortable respect for the truth - enough, for instance, to admit that the 1916 Rising had not been universally popular. Many Irishmen had hated it. When British reinforcements landed at Kingstown they were met by Irish women bringing tea and biscuits. And afterwards - when the rebellion was quashed - few in the crowd cheered as they watched Michael Collins and the others marched down to the docks under escort. Most had cursed and flung rotten vegetables. Even when the men returned, less than a handful of people greeted them. Most turned their backs. Employers shut their doors. Shopkeepers refused credit...
Pat chuckled, "You'd never know now. The men who took part are counted as heroes. It's been made to look like a popular rising, but the truth is we sometimes got better handling from British soldiers than from the Irish."
There was no bitterness in Pat's voice - resentment would have defeated his objective. He sought to show what the world was really like - not what it should be, nor what it might one day become. "Know it for what it is, Sean. Know men for what they are. Know that and you can deal with every man in it."
They ate at a farmhouse that night and slept in a barn,
to be up at dawn and on the road again. Pat recalled his earlier journey to Sligo, when Finola had died birthing Sean. He had stormed across the countryside, black with rage and bleak with heartache. Now it was different. They walked at a leisurely pace and made frequent stops to shelter from the rain or admire a view. And Pat talked nonstop and, to his surprise, without consulting his notebooks. He counted those as his most precious possessions. He had been terrified of losing them in Ammet Street. But now he was unfolding his rules he found that he knew them too well to need written words.
Sean listened and questioned, and sought to crystallise his father's experiences into black and white solutions. His father restrained him. When Sean flatly condemned all Irishmen who had failed to rally to the flag in 1916, Pat shook his head. "The Irish are no better than anyone else. Most people keep their heads down when things are uncertain. They wait 'til it's safe. Only when an issue is decided will they venture an opinion." He chuckled, "And then most of them go along with whoever is winning."
Pat stopped by a stone wall. The land fell away, dipping into a valley. On the far side sheep were circumventing a stream, perhaps looking for a crossing. Pat pointed - "See those sheep, seven of them following the other one. They will follow him anywhere. Not because he knows where he is going, but because it saves them thinking for themselves - if they can think, which the poor dumb creatures probably can't. Are you contemptuous of them too?"
"But Da, they're just sheep -"
"Are you contemptuous?"
"Well no ... I mean, you can't have contempt ... it's the way they are."
"Exactly," Pat grinned. "It's the way most people are too. So why be contemptuous of people but not sheep?"
"But people should have minds of their own -"
"Should?" Pat cocked his head. "Sure there you go again. Changing the world. But you'll not change it that way. You are starting all wrong. Assuming things which aren't true, assuming people think for themselves. They don't as a rule, not most people. They just follow the crowd and don't you forget it."
And Sean never did.
They reached Sligo on the fourth or fifth day, Sean lost track of time - time and places were less important than his father's talk, which was as well perhaps because Coney Island disappointed them. The surrounding cliffs loomed larger in Pat's memory than in reality. Nor was the sea so rough, or the island as mysterious. Sean was disappointed too unrealistically he had imagined a tropical island, with the sun blazing down from a brilliant sky. Coney Island was not like that. But Saint Patrick's Wishing Chair and the tumbledown cabin were still there - so father and son spent a couple of days on Coney Island, walking, talking, arguing, laughing and enjoying each other's company.
Perhaps memories of the priest turned Pat's mind to Catholicism and the power it holds over the Irish. He recounted his reservations, not aggressively but with the patience of a man who has tried a medicine and found it not to cure his ills. He was only bitter when it came to the Church's ambivalence towards Irish Republicanism. He remembered the Bishop's pastoral which condemned the Republican oath in such outright terms that unrepentant Republicans were refused confession by many priests. He told of devout men going to the firing squad having been refused communion, and of men who died without the Viaticum. "The church can't make up its mind," he said, and to prove his point told stories of other men at confession with other priests - "I stole, Father" "What did you steal, my son?" "Explosives, Father" "For use in Ireland, my son?" "No Father,, for use against the British in England" "Oh well, that's all right my son" said the priest, happily giving the IRA men absolution.
Sean frowned. "You're confusing me, Da."
Pat laughed. "The church gets confused about things which are none of its business."
"Everything is the business of the church," Sean declared doggedly.
Pat was delighted - "Sure, Brigid would be proud of you - and that's nothing to be ashamed of for she was a grand woman right enough."
"But even you go to mass again now," Sean persisted.
Pat scowled. It was true, he had returned to the fold. He had kicked against it for years, until finally he was trapped by his blossoming political career. A man could no more hold elected office in Ireland without going to mass than he could fly through the air.
"There are times you have to balance what you want," he said sorrowfully. "Going to mass does me no harm, even if I want to throw up at times. It is expedient Sean, and that's something I want to talk about. Sometimes a man has to eat shit. It goes against the grain, you holler and scream, but sometimes you have to accept something unpalatable to get what you want."
It was a hard lesson for a boy to learn from his father. Perhaps Pat's uncompromising language made it harder. But he illustrated his point with a whole string of stories to get his meaning across ... until Sean grudgingly admitted the word "expediency" to his vocabulary.
Generally Pat trod, carefully in shaping his son's thinking, always careful to avoid confrontation, indeed demonstrating a rule in the process - "Direct confrontation is the first impulse of fools and the last choice of wise men. But when it is unavoidable, strike hard. Strike to kill."
Which prompted Sean to voice his worry, "Will you really go to Belfast, Da, to kill Liam Riordan?"
"If I don't, I reckon he'll come looking for me, sooner or later."
"He might not. He might stay in Belfast like you told him to."
"Then he will have got away with murder. He will have murdered Brigid and Maureen and got off scot-free. Is that what you want?"
Sean struggled for an answer. Of course he wanted Riordan punished. The man should suffer the wrath of God - he would suffer the wrath of God - but Sean was afraid for his father. His father was the one permanent rock in Sean's life - if anything ever happened - he shrank from the idea. Slowly, in faltering words, he tried to express himself.
Pat heard him out, letting love respond without a display of sentimentality which would have embarrassed them both. Then he said, "I must do it, Sean. It's part of the rules I live by. I wouldn't be me if I ran away from it. But I'll strike a bargain with you. Liam Riordan can have a stay of execution, as long as he stays out of Dublin."
Which was how it was left. Sean was pleased, but his dreams that night were interrupted by a thin-faced boy with furious eyes - "I'll kill you for this, remember my name - Matt Riordan - it will take you to your grave."
They left Coney Island the next day. Back on the mainland they stayed a while on the beautiful shores of Lough Gill. Each day was different. No plan was rigid. Once a week they stayed at a pub and soaked in a hot bath, but other than that they slept in barns, or farms, or cabins. Irish hospitality was plentiful and although Pat paid for whatever food and lodging they received, it cost little. By day they fished for trout or salmon, or walked and climbed hills - but always they talked. They talked and talked and talked.
Pat described every man he had ever known - the weak and the powerful, the brave and the cowardly, the famous and nonentities. He dissected character, analysed behaviour, commented on ambitions - but always with the purpose of showing Sean men as they are. He talked of greed and lust, pride and vanity, power and corruption. He invented situations and placed his characters in them with the skill of a playwright - then asked Sean to define how each man might react under stress, testing his understanding while apparently playing a game. And time and again Sean delighted him with explanations as clear as they were convincing. They talked mainly of the Irish. Of men like Charles Stewart Parnell, whose demands for Home Rule for Ireland had dominated British parliamentary life in the eighteen-eighties. Of Parnell's rise to power, and his subsequent fall after the greatest sexual scandal ever known in politics. They talked of Eoin MacNeil, Connolly and Pearse - of Collins and de Valera. And throughout it all Pat sought to demonstrate how some men gravitated to power while others were shoved aside. How some men led, while most followed.
They talked of the Irish language, which many wanted to become the dominant tong
ue in Ireland. Pat was uncertain - "It's part of our heritage all right - but half the world speaks English. Future generations won't thank us if we stick them with a language only used on this island. Wouldn't you think we are insular enough, without that?"
Pat talked of "the black rules". Not everything could be achieved by adhering to such simple principles as "a promise given is a promise kept", or "preserve your reputation as you would your life”. Pat unveiled another set of rules. At times, Sean was told, it pays to cheat!
Perhaps that was the hardest lesson of all, because it tarnished his image of his father, and jarred against Brigid's upbringing. But Tomas and Brigid would not have survived five minutes in the power struggles which Pat described - as his son recognised. Despite which Sean clung to many of his childhood values, and resisted his father's arguments. Not that Pat was dismayed by that - it was not his intention to turn his son into a scoundrel, but merely to teach him the pragmatism of power ... to show there were times to turn all other rules on their heads. To lie was unacceptable generally, but occasionally huge objectives could be won by use of the big lie. To cheat, even to murder, had been the way of powerful men through the ages, and Pat quoted historical references by the score. Not that they sounded historical. Pat made them come alive. Sean saw the characters as flesh and blood, he suffered their setbacks and rejoiced at their triumphs. Set in the context of their sprawling lives, the occasional big lie seemed almost acceptable - Sean could see no way to avoid it.
It was a huge experience for Sean. The concepts embodied in his father's rules were awe-inspiring. Pat moved on with his shanachie's skill ... drawing examples and parallels, creating imagined case-histories which put his characters into impossible situations. "Get out of that," he challenged - and time and again Sean did. Sean enjoyed it ... but it was only a game. He could not imagine a real life situation in which he would be so ruthless - until he remembered Matt Riordan. "I'll bloody well kill you," Matt Riordan had hissed. Sean whispered under his breath - "Someday you'll try, but now I'll be ready for you."
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 93