Evil for Evil: A Billy Boyle World War II Mystery

by James R Benn

  The Lug o' the Tub sat near the edge of the road, its whitewashed stone walls gleaming in the moonlight. The overhanging thatched roof loomed darkly, and the smell of peat smoke floated in the night air. There wasn't much room to park, so I edged the jeep off the road as best I could. Bicycles leaned against the building and one old sedan was parked beside it. No other jeep was in sight.

  I opened the door and stepped into a haze of yellow lamplight, cigarette smoke, and murmured conversations. The bar was set along the wall to my left, and necks craned as they do in neighborhood bars all over the world, checking out the newcomer. I had new Yank written all over me, and the locals, in their white shirts and vests, or shabby old suit coats that had once been their Sunday best but now wore the shine of decades, turned away as one, grinding out cigarettes and sipping their Guinnesses. The barman nodded, ever so slightly, keeping his eyes on me as I scanned the room. Tables were set along the walls, and small groups huddled over their drinks. Four GIs sat at one, grimly drinking warm beer and probably thinking of bars back home that had actual women in them. Clough was not much for nightlife, and the clientele was decidedly male, and on the grayer side of that sex. In the farthest corner, with his back to the wall, sat Grady O'Brick. He raised his glass to me and as he did, his drinking partner turned around. Pete Brennan grinned when he saw me, a cigarette at the corner of his mouth drifting smoke across his squinting eyes.

  "Come join us, Billy Boyle from America," Grady called out to me. I saw they were near the bottom of their glasses, so I nodded and went to the bar.

  "What are they drinking?" I asked the barman, hooking my thumb back in Grady's direction.

  "Tonight it's Caffrey's Ale," he said. "They brew it up in Antrim, a good Ulster ale."

  "Make it three of those. They drink together often?"

  "You new around here, Yank?" He raised an eyebrow as he began the slow pour from the tap, expertly wiping foam from the glass and starting another. His shirtsleeves were rolled up and his forearms were strongly muscled, as the rest of him looked to be. His weight was starting to settle, though, and from the flecks of gray in his dark hair I figured him to be close to fifty, and not a man to speak out of turn.

  "Yes, I am."

  "I can tell by your color. You've been in the sun, and we don't get near enough for that shade of yours."

  "You should be a detective," I said.

  "If I were, I wouldn't walk into a pub in any part of Ireland and start asking questions about regular patrons. Apt to be bad for business. Know what I mean?"

  "Listen, I didn't mean anything by it. Grady asked me to stop by, and I didn't know they knew each other, that's all. The name's Billy Boyle," I said. "My family came from Donegal, in the Republic."

  The barman set aside the first glass, topped off with an inch or so of foam. He wiped his hands on his bar rag and offered me one for a shake. "Tom McCarthy. You must be that officer Grady rowed in from the flying boat."

  "Like I said, you should be a detective." He grinned, and it seemed that I'd fallen on his good side with my name, family history, and maybe the connection with Grady O'Brick. "Do you know Pete Brennan as well?"

  "Oh, Pete, he comes in when he can. Likes to sit by himself most nights, but he and Grady have struck up a friendship, as you can see." He finished with the second glass and began to work on the third, tilting it and letting the amber liquid slide down the side, stopping for the foam to settle down. "Young Pete has seen the elephant, he has."

  "You can tell?"

  "I served with the Dublin Fusiliers in the last war," Tom said. "Saw a fair bit. I survived Gallipoli. Not many men standing today who can say that." He brushed the foam from the top of the last glass and set it down.

  "You can tell then."

  "Aye, and Pete has seen more of the old rogue than any man's a right to. It weighs on him, the idea of going back to all that. They sent us from Gallipoli to the trenches in France, and I can tell you, these things do weigh on a man."

  "Has Pete told you any of this?"

  "Not in so many words. Grady passed some on, the rest is in his eyes. I can see you've come from the war but it hasn't torn you up complete yet."

  "Doesn't mean I want to go back either," I said as I counted out the price of three ales.

  "Aye, but you will."

  There was nothing I could say to that. I left the money on the bar, grasped the three glasses, and headed for the table.

  "Saint Billy it is, come to the rescue of some thirsty gents," said Grady, laughing at his own wit.

  "Thanks, Lieutenant," said Brennan as I sat down next to him.

  "Name's Billy, Pete, at least while we're drinking together."

  "OK, Billy, then here's to you," Pete said as he raised his glass.

  "Fad saol agat," Grady offered, raising his glass and smacking his lips.

  "Long life to you," I translated for Pete.

  "Ah, a Yank who knows the old tongue!"

  "Fad saol agat, gob fliuch, agus bas in Eirinn," I said, giving out the full version of the toast. "Long life to you, a wet mouth, and death in Ireland."

  "I'll take two out of three," Brennan said.

  "Well, it is the first time I said that one here in Ireland. It sounds a lot more nostalgic back home in Boston."

  "It's a fine thing to hear you have visions of the old sod in America, Billy Boyle. Do you know your name in Gaelic, boy?"

  "I know the family name used to be O'Baoighill. My grandfather came to America with that name on a note pinned to his coat."

  "It's good you know that, boy. But it's a thing for certain that he never spoke it aloud in Ireland. Them peelers would beat you to a pulp. O Bruic, that's my name in Gaelic, but I still speak it quiet like--force of the habit, you know."

  "So, Grady O Bruic, tell me, why did you warn me to watch myself the day you picked me up in that boat?"

  "I knew the American police were fallin' over each other to find the lads who took those guns. Are they good guns, boy? Anyway, it seemed to me that with a Yank copper waitin' for you, and you lookin' a good Irish boyo, that they'd be bringin' you in to do the dirty work as it were. Get in with the locals, you know, and worm the truth from them. If you put the finger on the IRA, your life wouldn't be worth an empty glass of Tom's good ale. And if you didn't, then all the blame would fall on you like spring rain comin' off the Mournes. Just my way of thinkin', mind you."

  "I'm in no position to disagree. Someone emptied a BAR into the Killough RUC station this evening while I was there. They missed me, but killed one of our guys, Lieutenant Sam Burnham."

  "Jesus Christ," Brennan whispered.

  "Only him?" Grady said. "Why, for heaven's sake? Why shoot an American and leave all those RUC coppers alive?"

  "Jesus Christ," Brennan said again, staring into his glass, as if there were answers floating in the foam.

  "Easy, Pete, easy, boy," Grady said, his voice low and soothing.

  "He was a decent man," Brennan said through gritted teeth. "They always seem to go first. Then the brave ones, then the guys who keep their heads down, and finally the cowards and goldbricks. It got so I'd watch the replacements come ashore and I could tell right away which they were, how long they'd last. I hated them, with their quick, nervous laughs, always wondering what to do to stay alive when they were already dead."

  "This isn't Salerno," I said, trying to match Grady's tone. Brennan's eyes stayed glued to his glass.

  "The place doesn't matter, don't you know that? It didn't matter to Sam, and it doesn't matter to those guys over there," Brennan said, his head nodding in the direction of the GIs drinking at the other table. "Italy, France, it doesn't matter. Do you want to know what matters, Billy?"

  "What?"

  "Geometry. Intersecting lines. They're everywhere, you just can't see them. Right now, this very minute, there's a bullet in a case of ammo somewhere, maybe in a factory in Germany, maybe stockpiled in Rome. It's moving, slow or fast, but it's moving, and so are you. Sometimes you
both sit for a while, but sooner or later, you move. They send us to some beachhead, and the Germans order more ammo. Think about it," Brennan said, drawing lines in the air. "You can't stop it. A German truck brings up ammo, including your bullet, close to the front. Another truck brings you up to the line. Now you're in your foxhole, maybe a quarter mile away. You and that bullet have traveled hundreds of miles, from different parts of the world, and now you're close. A Kraut sergeant brings a case of cartridges up to his platoon, hands them around. Another Kraut loads his rifle, all the while you're moving, just like that bullet, on a path to an unknown place."

  "Intersecting lines."

  "Yep. And that's the only place that matters. Where the lines intersect. Don't matter what country, because once they do, once you and that bullet finally meet up, you're nowhere." Pig was in Brennan's left hand, his belly being rubbed smooth.

  "Maybe they won't intersect," I said. Brennan looked up from his glass for the first time, and drew on his cigarette. He tilted his head and exhaled, then turned to look at me, his eyelids halfway shut against the smoky haze.

  "I had you figured for a smart guy, Billy."

  I took a drink. It was my turn to stare into the foam. The GIs at the other table all laughed quick, nervous laughs. I'd seen it too, the eager-to-please grin, the darting eyes, the intense desire to learn the secret of staying alive, as if we were magicians who had learned a special trick.

  "Pete," I said. "Thornton wants to bring you in. He has the MPs out looking for you."

  "Why?"

  "Couldn't tell you. Why do you think?"

  "I haven't done anything."

  "Do you know Andrew Jenkins?"

  "That bastard," Grady said, setting down his glass with a thump. "That Unionist coward Jenkins? Why would a good lad like Pete know the likes of him?"

  "I don't know that he does, Grady. I do know that one of Jenkins's trucks was used in the theft, and that he delivers foodstuffs to the base regularly. As he did this afternoon, right, Pete?"

  "How would I know?"

  "Because you saw him, or his truck, at least. Made you a little jumpy, according to Lieutenant Jacobson. Why would that be?"

  He put Pig back into his pocket. "Jumpy? He's wrong."

  I put the picture of Red Jack Taggart on the table. "Is this the man you saw with Eamonn, the red-haired guy?"

  "Yeah, that's him. Beady little eyes."

  "Old Red Jack himself," Grady said. "I didn't know he was up north."

  "Yeah, it's him. Pete saw him in here with Eddie Mahoney."

  "Hey, I just had a drink with Eamonn once, that's it."

  "Pete, if you have anything to be worried about, now would be a good time to let me know."

  "I got plenty of worries, but they're all named Fritz or Hans. Now excuse me."

  I slid off the bench and let him by. He was heeled, as I was. Except for MPs, Brennan and I were the only two I'd seen walking around wearing sidearms on and off duty.

  "Where's your jeep?" I asked.

  "Around back."

  "I didn't see it anywhere, and I looked. Where?"

  "Down a lane, behind a hedge. What do you care? Sir?"

  "Well, Sergeant, it seems to me you're hiding from someone. I have to wonder who."

  "Good night, Grady," Brennan said. He ignored me and walked out with that rigid straight-legged walk of someone who knows he's had too much to drink and is doing his damnedest not to show it.

  CHAPTER * THIRTEEN

  "THE CURSE OF the livin' among the dead, that's what the lad's sufferin' from," declared Grady. "He believes everyone but him has a date with a bullet. It's comical like, if you know what I mean. All a soldier wants to do is go on livin', and there's one who can't stop, and it eats him up inside. Almost comical but it fails the test," Grady said.

  "What test?"

  "No one's laughing, boy." With that he let out a wheezy string of air, more sigh than laugh. Grady O'Brick's hair was gray and his face lined and pale. His shirt was worn at the collar and elbows. A ragged scarf hung around his neck against the chill. His glass was empty and the look in his eyes said he was too proud to admit he was broke.

  "This is good ale," I said. "Will you have another with me?"

  "That's kind of you, boy, I will. They teach good manners in America."

  "My folks tried their best," I said, and brought the empty glasses over to Tom. I wasn't thirsty, I was tired, but I knew Grady would be more talkative with a fresh pint to lubricate his tongue. While Tom pulled our pints, I watched the four GIs trying to figure out the British coins. Farthings, pence, and shillings were spread out on the table as they ran their fingers over them, arguing about their worth. It made me feel like an old hand, and as I confidently thumbed out shillings to pay for my ales, I realized I was older than these guys. They looked nineteen or twenty tops. When I was their age I was still wearing blue, and now here we were in khaki and brown, the only difference between us an easy familiarity with English coins and killing men.

  That depressed me. I'd been shot at, either directly or indirectly, and I was far away from anyone who cared about me, if Diana still did. I was in the country of my ancestors, but on the wrong side of the border. One of the few people who had treated me decently was dead, and the closest I'd gotten to finding the BARs was the business end of one. I shuffled back to the table and slid onto the bench. Cool foaming bubbles spilled onto my hands as I set down the glasses.

  "Slainte," I said, toasting Grady.

  "And to your health too, Billy," Grady said. "Best you look to keep it."

  "Couldn't agree with you more," I said. "Tell me, Grady, do you think Pete is hiding from Jenkins?"

  "There's plenty good folk who fear to speak to the man. Any Catholic who wanders lost into his neighborhood in Armagh is not likely to leave alive. Those streets and alleys belong to the Red Hand. Jenkins is a devil, a man filled with hate, the worst of a bad lot."

  "I'd bet there are some Catholic neighborhoods a Protestant should be afraid to walk in."

  "Maybe, maybe. But here in the north there's no justice for a Catholic. The RUC are as likely to kill us as arrest us, and they turn a blind eye to Jenkins and his crew. Some say the Red Hand gets their arms directly from the RUC and the British army. It's a bad business all round."

  Grady shook his head and took a drink. I did too, and the fresh, sharp taste of the ale cut through my weariness.

  "You didn't really answer my question."

  "Pete's a good lad who's been through a lot. Why not leave him be?"

  I wasn't getting anywhere with my questions, so I thought I'd circle around and come at them from another direction. "You've been through a lot too," I said, glancing at his hands.

  "Aye, but that was long ago."

  "What happened?"

  "I was a young man, that's what happened," Grady said, offering a sad smile that faded as quickly as it came. "I had ideals, and I was ready to die for a free Ireland. After the Easter Rising, I joined the IRA. They had us training out in the hills, climbing Slieve Donard, showing us how to set up ambushes, that sort of thing. A lot of foolishness, we all thought. We wanted guns, and we wanted to fight the British and the Loyalists too."

  "Did you get them?" I asked, as Grady wet his whistle.

  "Oh, aye, we got them. We'd been broken down into cells, as they called them. Ten lads in my cell, and the only person who knew anything was the man in charge, to best keep plans secret, you know.

  Everyone in the IRA swore to keep secrets, and everyone told their pals and mothers everything. But Mick the Master, he took it all serious."

  "Mick the Master?"

  "Aye. Mick O'Flaherty. He was foreman on a Protestant farm, and that's what everyone called him. And it fit, let me tell you."

  The door opened, and a couple of local fellows came in. Grady's eyes darted over them, to Tom the barkeep, and then back to me. He leaned in, his voice lower.

  "We did get our guns. Mick the Master got an Enfield rifle; th
e rest of us got pistols or old shotguns. They weren't much, but we put them to good use. We raided police stations, ambushed Black and Tans, and built up our own arsenal. Mick the Master knew his job well, and he made sure we followed all the rules. Never say nuthin' is what he told us. Not a word to anyone outside the cell, not even to brag you were in the IRA. We went about our work like there was no war at all. Some of the boys didn't like the idea of folks thinkin' them cowards for not joining up but Mick didn't care. When we've won, he'd say, then everyone will know. One lad, he couldn't wait. He told a girl, and she told her da, and he told Mick."

  "What happened?"

  "Mick took him out into the hills and came back alone."

  "He killed him?"

  "Executed him. Difference bein' it was war, and the poor lad had to die so's none of us would do the same, and get everyone killed. To be fair to Mick, it worked, in a way."

  "But someone talked?"

  "I'll get to that, but I think I'll be needin' a whiskey to tell that tale. It's not something I speak out loud more than once a decade."

  I got a double whiskey from Tom. The GIs had left, and the pub was quiet. Soft clinks of glass on glass, the strike of a match, and an occasional word from Tom to the two men seated by the door were the only sounds in the room. I set the glass in front of Grady and waited. He wrapped his ruined fingers around it, watching the amber liquid swirl and settle.