The sentence was reduced. Only one of Miley's legs was to be shattered by a bullet. They dragged him outside to the yard and held him over a milk churn. Matt fired from less than four feet away. He spewed up afterwards, and woke that night bathed in sweat, with Miley's terrible screaming in his ears. But he had obeyed orders. Discipline was essential. His father would be proud.
Perhaps it was Matt's unquestioning obedience which led to him being given an early command - or perhaps the name Riordan was enough. But whatever the reason his chance came a week later. The IRA was to mount an offensive - reprisals were to be taken against Belfast industrialists for their discriminatory employment practices. An example was to be made. Matt could hardly believe his luck. A chance for revenge ... less than six months after being beaten senseless by Averdale's thugs! Not that Averdale was mentioned in the briefing - Matt was simply told to prepare a plan for striking a prime target, and to present his ideas within seven days.
He thought of nothing else. Time and again he walked past the Averdale factory, noting security precautions, gauging distances, calculating the effect of bomb blast. But he abandoned the idea ... the nearby houses were too close ... Matt had memories of being carried across the threshold of one such house after being kicked half to death. He remembered a woman's kindness, her tears and words of comfort... and he could not do it. He dared not risk hurting her. But it had to be Averdale, one way or another ...
Then he read something in that morning's Belfast Telegraph. Beneath a photograph of Brackenburn ran the headline -
"Another art treasure for Lord Averdale".
"After one of the most fiercely contested auctions ever held in Sotheby's famous sale-rooms, Constable's Willow Trees, widely regarded as being one of the finest examples of English landscape painting, was purchased by Lord Averdale for the record sum of eleven hundred guineas. Among those bidding against Lord Averdale were several representatives of foreign art galleries - including Mr Isadore Newton of the Carnegie Museum of Fine Arts in New York and Herr Heinrich Hoffman of Berlin. Commenting afterwards, a joyous Lord Averdale said he was greatly relieved to have saved this treasure for Great Britain. His Lordship also confirmed that Willow Trees will shortly occupy pride of place in Brackenburn's Long Room, which together with the gallery at Brackenburn now houses the most important art collection in Northern Ireland..."
Eleven hundred guineas for a painting! It seemed blasphemous to Matt. Kids were starving in the Falls. His own mother was sick. Poverty marked every house for miles around, yet eleven hundred guineas had been paid for a painting. And Holy Christ, just look at that house! It was bigger than the ships being built in the yards. Outrage left Matt feeling ashamed - ashamed for any man who could turn his back on the sick and needy to indulge himself in an ... an irrelevance. Matt turned back to the photograph of Brackenburn. He had never seen it before. It was a palace, as long as a street, taller than a church ...
He was still shaking with anger and disgust half an hour later when he went in search of Ferdy Malloy. He wielded the rolled-up Telegraph like a club in his hand. But Matt had made up his mind about one thing. The search for a target was over.
Lord Averdale was quite unaware of Matt Riordan's existence. Elsewhere to inhabit the same city might create common interests - paths might cross to establish some contact, even a nodding acquaintanceship - but not in Belfast. The division between "the haves" and "the have nots" was unbridgeable. If Mark Averdale thought of the Falls Road at all it was with a shudder of distaste. It was a festering seed-bed of revolution, a reminder of the need for B Specials and a strong RUC. But in fact thoughts of the Falls rarely crossed Mark Averdale's mind especially at a time when he was so immersed in other matters.
Had Lord Bowley's death occurred earlier Mark might have gone to Africa to settle the estate himself - as it was, by the time the news reached Brackenburn Mark's encounter with Sheila O'Brien had changed the course of his life. Not that he was unaffected by the news, he was genuinely upset, in many ways the Bowleys were the closest thing to a real family he had known. The tragedy jolted him - but life goes on, and brings with it the need to make decisions about all manner of things which in Mark's case now included the Bowley estate. However his anxiety was settled by the lawyers in Nairobi who wrote to say that the estates could be run by a contract manager for the time being ... and of course there was no urgency about the newspaper in Dublin, which had more or less run itself for years. So with everything in abeyance Mark's thoughts turned greedily back to Sheila O'Brien.
Seeing her filled him with an exquisite mixture of pain and pleasure. It was tantalising, so near yet so far. Hunched in his greatcoat on the park bench near her home, he devoured her with his eyes. The urge to confront her was sometimes so compelling that he had to cling to the wooden slats to stop himself from rushing up to her. Once he was terrified that she had recognised him. He jumped up and hurried away, with yet another picture of her in his mind. He was a walking camera - he had only to close his eyes to see her - in her white coat or a favourite green woollen suit - but always dressed. He ached to see her as Rouen had painted her. Every night he stared at the painting in his room and every night reached the same conclusion - that Rouen's nymph and Sheila O'Brien and her child were somehow three generations of the same woman. And she was his woman. She had been since he was sixteen. He had hidden her in his room then, safe from other men's eyes. He had worshipped her ever since. But he longed to make sure the resemblance was total - that it extended beyond hair and eyes and alabaster white skin.
The chance reunion with Ashendon had been a stroke of good fortune which Mark had seized with both hands, but he would have achieved his objective even without Ashendon. Single-minded ruthlessness was an Averdale trait.
Finding a photographer's studio in Chelsea had been easy, but finding one which suited his purpose had taken more time. Kate would be his for six precious hours. He would gaze on her nakedness as Rouen had looked on his nymph all those years ago - but there would be a difference. Where Rouen's genius had worked on canvas, Mark would record on film ... and although Rouen possessed the skill of a master, Mark had the thoroughness of an Averdale. His camera probe would be total ... every angle, every inch, every half inch would be photographed. It would be the most comprehensive study of the female form ever undertaken - and for that Mark needed a very special photographer.
Humphrey Leonard had not wanted the job. His initial reaction was to dismiss the man as a freak. Halfway through their second meeting he almost asked the man to leave the studio. But the fee made Leonard reconsider. It was a great deal of money. So much so that he agreed to ponder the technical problems involved and give Mark an answer the following day.
So Mark made a third visit to the studio and listened carefully as Leonard outlined his proposals. The construction work would be considerable ... the technical difficulties profound ... the cost even higher than originally supposed - but yes, the project was possible! Mark parted with a large sum of money and returned to Ulster.
Some weeks later he telephoned Leonard, using the assumed name of Montgomery. "Yes," Leonard confirmed, "the construction is finished. When you are ready I will hire a model and we can have a dummy run."
Mark travelled back to London. He was growing tired of the capital. The talk at his club was mostly of impending war, which Mark dismissed as depressing nonsense. It was inconceivable that a politician as experienced as Chamberlain would be troubled by an upstart like Hitler. Besides, with the French as our allies Germany would not embark on expansion in Europe. So, having expressed his views to all and sundry, Mark fortified himself with a large brandy and then took a cab to Chelsea.
The interior of the studio had been rebuilt. Mark was astonished. He began to appreciate the technical problems which Leonard had been set to master. They had been mastered, there was no doubt of that - Mark was thrilled with the result, and even more thrilled with what he saw through the scaffolding - a naked girl, reclining on a green chaise lon
gue. She was beautiful. Her long black tresses hung loose over one shoulder, tips of hair brushed one breast. Mark stared through the glass and silver slats of the custom-built apparatus and was reminded of a precious jewel set in a casket. But this jewel was flawed compared with Kate. Her face relied on youth for its vitality, Kate's bone structure would survive the years. This girl's legs were sweetly curved, but Kate's were longer and more graceful. This girl was obvious, whereas Kate was subtle and mysterious. Mark registered each difference with a little glow of satisfaction, pleased that even the most sought-after model in London was less beautiful than Kate. But then Kate was perfect. Flawless. Unique.
Mark's approval of Leonard's arrangements set the wheels in motion, and it was on the following evening that Ashendon had telephoned Eoin O'Brien. "The studio is booked ... a month's time ... you might warn your wife ... tell her to expect a certain amount of man-handling, so to speak ..."
Mark made good use of the month. He stimulated O'Brien's anxieties underlining in countless ways that O'Brien could only preserve his presence at the hub of things by collecting the fifteen hundred pounds due from "Brown & Company". The money had to come through. O'Brien was never allowed to forget it ... as in turn O'Brien never allowed his wife to forget the importance of her approaching visit to the photographer's studio. And Mark increased the pressure by heaping ever more responsibilities on O'Brien. At no time did the man disappoint him. O'Brien had the constitution of an ox - working all hours in a superhuman effort to master every aspect of Mark's investments. Mark was delighted. He had hired the best general manager in Ulster who was quickly beginning to feel indispensable. Mark was glad - it would make it harder for O'Brien to ask for a week's leave in order to accompany his wife to London. Mark had plans of his own for that week which he had no intention of allowing O'Brien to complicate - so on the Wednesday of the third week he delivered his bombshell. Even then he disguised it too sweetly for O'Brien even to notice.
"I'm making you managing director of the engineering company," Mark announced, "and I've arranged for you to join the board at the yard." He smiled as he added another carrot. "Of course you will be entitled to director's fees as well as your salary. It will give you another eight hundred a year."
O'Brien was jubilant. Hard work had earned a dividend already. He flushed a quick glow of gratitude to the man on the other side of the desk - but then came the catch. "I'll be away next week," Lord Averdale said. "In Dublin mostly, sorting this newspaper out. But I have every confidence you'll deputise for me here."
What could O'Brien say? His mouth opened but no words came out. Next week? What would Sheila say? But he could hardly ask for time off - not now.
He bought some flowers on the way home. He told Sheila it was to celebrate his new appointments, but of course it was nothing of the sort, and after dinner he broke the rest of his news - that she would have to go to London without him. He cast around in his mind for a suitable chaperone but knew it was hopeless. Nobody would understand. Even their closest friends would be shocked. O'Brien was shocked himself if he let his mind dwell on it ... Good God, how had it all come about?
O'Brien left the worst part until last - breaking the news that Kathleen too would have to pose nude. Sheila reacted with predictable indignation - for her child to appear in a party dress would be fun, but undressed - besides how would she explain it? Kathleen would tell people afterwards. Their guilty secret would be revealed ... but even for that O'Brien had worked out an answer. Twice in the recent past Kathleen had been examined by the doctor, and each time she had been required to strip off. So why not again? After all, it was a medical examination in a way - the sculptors were interested in bone structure.
Sheila accepted there was no alternative, but it sullied her pleasure. Taking Kathleen was an inhibiting nuisance - but Ashendon promised it would be for only ten minutes of one session - after that Sheila could relax and enjoy herself. She was greatly pleased that her husband would be absent. Ever since seeing that look in Ashendon's eye she had sensed a pleasurable excitement. Not a day passed without her rehearsing the pose adopted by the model in The Looking Glass, practising the heavy-eyed look of seduction and the languid pose. She knew she could do it.
In Dublin Sean Connors was recovering from his upset with the Widow O'Flynn. Years later he counted her as one of the luckiest things ever to happen to him, but at the time he took it hard. He was scratchy and ill-tempered for days following that Sunday visit to the farm. Male pride had taken a knock and he was at a loss to know how to deal with it. He felt so confused - it was not so much that he wanted to marry the Widow O'Flynn as the misery caused by the prospect of losing her. Finally, after days of wretchedness, he divided a piece of paper into two columns and wrote "For" at the top of one and "Against" at the top of the other. Then he tried to crystallise his thoughts. It was far from easy. Under "For" he wrote "because I'm in love with her" but defining what that meant defeated him. So after struggling for half an hour he turned to the opposite column, and met with a surprise. Reasons "Against" flew from his pen - starting with those she had given herself, that he was barely seventeen and she was twenty-eight, and by the time he was that age she would be forty. Nobody stayed young forever. He groaned aloud. "Saggy tits," he whispered, "suppose she gets saggy tits?" It was an obscenity to imagine her like that - but it could happen. And big thick ankles and a gut bigger than half the boozers in Mulligan's Bar. He shuddered again. And at twenty-eight he was bound to be as horny as ever. Wouldn't he just die of frustration?
The list grew as if the pen had a mind of its own. He was in no position to support a wife ... what would the Da say? Da would go mad! Men would laugh, women would snicker. And dear old Tomas ... it would break his heart... Sean felt sure of that without knowing why.
The page looked one-sided when he finished. So much for love, he thought wryly, knowing he had half-joked himself into a mood of acceptance. Even so, he admitted, if I loved her enough none of these reasons would matter ... but they did and he knew it. He tore the paper into shreds and sat thinking about Maeve O'Flynn - "I'll be your woman as long as you want me," she had said, "but never your wife." He was touched by that. "She must think a lot of me to say that - and to make a man like Jim Tully wait."
He clung to the thought, but after a while was unhappy even with that. It was wrong. His love might be less strong than he had imagined, but ... well, he was fond of her. Too fond to take advantage. "This way you'll remember me with love in your heart," she had said - and there was love in his heart. Besides he even liked Jim Tully. After which ... it was not easy, pangs of jealousy interfered with good intentions ... but at last he decided, and acted the same day, burning his boats in case he changed his mind in the morning. He wrote to her, apologising for his behaviour on the Sunday and saying she had been right about everything. And he went a step further, promising to see Jim Tully about premises for her tea-rooms. Which is what happened on the Thursday - when Tully took him to lunch at The Bailey in Duke Street.
Sean had explained his problem by the end of the meal. "So that's it," he summed up, "I've done my best to help out, dealing with the labourers on a Saturday morning and so on, but... well, it seems to me that you'll be able to help the Widow O'Flynn more than I can."
Tully's eyes gleamed. "Sure wouldn't it be a pleasure. And you'd like me to take over this weekend - is that what you mean?"
The changing of the guard. Sean seethed with mixed-up emotions. He had endured agonies of heartache, but to his surprise most of the pain had already passed. It was like a weight lifting from his shoulders. Suddenly he felt free - as free as a boy tending donkeys. His life was his own again - he had nothing to hide from his father or anyone else.
Not that Tully was easily fooled. "You're a good man as a friend," he said with a quizzical look. "Everyone says you've been good to the Widow O'Flynn right enough. I'm the same - a good friend and a bloody bad enemy. It's a favour I owe you and we'll leave it at that - but if there's anything you
want in this town you come to me first. Do I have your word on that Sean Connors?"
So that was that. Sean was racked with jealousy again on the Friday night and the Saturday morning, but he stayed away from the farm, and it was not until Monday that he learned the outcome - when a letter arrived at the office. It was postmarked Saturday, and the Widow O'Flynn had written:
Dear Sean,
I don't know if I'm pleased or angry. You learn new tricks faster than a puppy, but sure didn't you always. Your letter hurt. I cried all night. Except that - well most of it was what I was trying to tell you myself. Would you believe here's the two of us trying to be kind to each other and inflicting more pain than mortal enemies. But some of the things you wrote were nice - I kept your letter and read it every day. I'll never forget you, Sean.
Jim Tully arrived yesterday and came again this morning to see to the men - so he delivered your message without really knowing it, which is what you meant him to do all along. He's nice but he's not you, Sean, and I wish he would stop talking about you - he thinks the world of you, did you know that?
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 104