When Shadows Fall

by Paul Reid

  Adam steered the car into the uncertain track beyond. It climbed quickly. When the hedging gave way into unruly mountainside, he looked back and saw Limerick, Cork, and Waterford all in one broad sweep of plain and hill. The car began to rock as the fissures became too deep for the wheels, and so he got out and proceeded on foot. Sweet-smelling meadows surrounded him. Grass and heather covered everything, rippling in the breeze. Nothing moved but for distant sheep. He wondered if he had taken a wrong turn.

  Then, ahead through a copse of oak trees, he spotted the snout of a chimney breathing grey smoke up onto the mountain.

  Timmy Hannigan, he thought, I’ve brought your diary home.

  The homestead in sight, he quickened his pace, hopping over a tumbled stone wall and catching his breath as the gradient steepened. There was a ragged acre or two cleared for crops and a timber byre balanced on the flat of a bank. The house itself was of uncut stone and thatch and a small garden fronted it, squalid with briar and bramble.

  Adam walked up, scattering chickens out of his way. “Hello? God bless this house.”

  There was no reply. But a movement round the side of the house caught his attention. Tethered to a rope, a dog raised its slumbering head, gave a token growl, and went back to sleep again.

  “That’s far enough now.”

  Adam started at the voice. He turned to see a man emerge from the cluster of scalped trees behind the house, holding a pitchfork in his hands. He glowered at the dog and spat. “And you’re as useless as tits on a boar, you dumb hound!”

  The dog didn’t seem inclined to acknowledge the rebuke. Adam took a wary step back.

  “My apologies, I didn’t mean to surprise you, sir. The name’s Bowen.”

  “One of Kempton’s hired suits, are you?” The man was about forty, with a rough beard and an angry thrust to his jaw. His clothes were threadbare, his boots caked with muck. “Have you no shame but to be harassing a poor widower with small children to feed?”

  “Er, I think you have the wrong—”

  “Tell that overfed slurry heap that he’ll have his rent as soon as I have it. But we’re not moving. As God is my witness, we’re not moving. And if you try to force us . . . ” He advanced with the pitchfork.

  “Fair enough, easy with that.” Adam gave him space. “I’m not here about any rent. I’m looking for the Hannigan family. Might I be in the right place?”

  The man regarded him carefully for a moment. “No. You’re not.”

  Adam sighed. “I was given a map. See? I thought I’d found it.”

  The man lowered the pitchfork and cleared his throat. “The Hannigan family . . . I’m sorry. I thought you were somebody else. Come inside with me for a moment.”

  Cautiously, Adam followed him. The interior of the cottage consisted of an open kitchen area and beyond it another room, presumably for sleeping. The floor was strewn with a couple of mouldering mats and a pot of stew bubbled by the fire. He thought at first the place empty, but then shapes stirred in the shadows, and two waxen-faced creatures emerged, blinking with big owlish eyes.

  “I’m sorry if I gave you a scare there,” the man grunted. “These are my children. We’ve been having some trouble with the landlord lately. I thought you were another agent sent to scare us.”

  “I shouldn’t have crept up here like that.”

  “What is it you want with the Hannigan family?”

  Adam told him, sparing none of the details. He took the diary out of his inside pocket. “It’s a small gesture, I know, but I thought it would be important for them to have it. I told Timmy himself I’d deliver it here.”

  The man, who had introduced himself as Dwyer, shooed the curious children out of the way and pulled up stools for himself and Adam. He retrieved a half-full whiskey bottle from the rickety dresser and put it on the table with two glasses. “That’s a sorry story, right enough. I’d heard the lad met his end over there, but I didn’t know it was at the hands of his own. You’ll take a drop?”

  Adam didn’t want to refuse the man’s hospitality. “Maybe just a small one.”

  Dwyer poured him a generous measure. “A nice little lad, Timmy. He had a hard time after his father died, though. I remember when he ran off to Dublin to enlist. A lot of local boys did. Most of them never came back. A bloody foolish war.”

  “Mistakes were certainly made.” Adam wondered if the man would ever get round to directing him to the Hannigan house. The protocols of Irish hospitality could be incredibly time-consuming. “Timmy’s family must have suffered after his death.”

  “Aye. That they did. That they did.” Dwyer’s shoulders were hunched, his arms on the table. He looked much older now. “I’m afraid you’ll not be able to give them that diary.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “They’re not around anymore.”

  Adam looked at him. Dwyer coughed and wiped his mouth.

  “Drink down that glass and let me show you something.”

  Once they’d drained the whiskey, Dwyer led him round the back of the farmhouse, through a copse of trees, and along the top of a field where a few skinny cows grazed. “You see out yonder?” He pointed across the gorse-stubbled moorland to where a rotten timber fence circled an acre of weeds. Adam saw a house he had not spotted earlier. It was more a shell now, its roof collapsed, its walls scrawled with ivy.

  “I’m afraid that’s all you’ll find of the Hannigan house now,” Dwyer told him.

  Adam stared with rising unease. “I take it they’re gone?”

  “Aye. Timmy’s mother is where my Bernadette is now, in Ballyporeen cemetery. I heard his eldest sister went to England, and the younger ones were flung out to relatives all over the country. I have no idea where they could be.”

  “What happened?”

  “The house was torched. Six months ago. The girls escaped but the mother didn’t.”

  “Jesus.” Adam stared at the blackened walls, the skeletal remains of the roofing. “Who burnt it?”

  “The Brits, of course. The local coppers turned a blind eye. In fact, it may even have been the fine men of the Royal Irish Constabulary what put them up to it. But ’twas done at night, and not only did they get the wrong house, they couldn’t even get the right road. They were after an IRA safe house where an active unit was said to be sheltering. Mighty hungry for IRA they are in these parts. Only, like I said, they got the wrong house, and the poor Hannigan crowd paid the price.”

  Adam closed his eyes.

  Ready, aim, fire!

  Timmy’s head disintegrated under blistering lead. The blindfold fell.

  “Let’s leave this now, Mr. Bowen.” Dwyer shuffled his feet. “Come on, let’s go back and have another sniff of that bottle.”

  Adam was barely listening as he gazed at the pitiful ruin. A creeping cover of cloud had cast a shadow over the hill. It was suddenly cold.

  “Mr. Bowen?”

  “Yes.” Adam shook himself. “Well, I thank you for your time, Mr. Dwyer. I’ll not detain you anymore.” He looked down at Timmy Hannigan’s diary in his hand, cradling it gently now as if it had taken on some extra sacred significance.

  “You’ll be heading back to Dublin, I suppose?” Dwyer asked.

  “I will.”

  “You’d want to mind yourself. It’s become like the wild bloody west out there.”

  As he clambered over the ditch boundaries and found the track back to the car, Adam felt a weariness that drowned his earlier bright mood. Around him the landscape seemed to be a shade less beautiful, wilting under an air of sombre memory, as if the ghosts of past tragedies still haunted the hills and vales. He was impatient now to be away from here. He wished he’d never come in the first place.

  Damn them. Damn them.

  Inside the car, he sat awhile, still holding the diary. Twenty long minutes passed, half an hour. Then he closed his eyes briefly, steeled himself, and opened the pages.

  A random entry, it said:

  1 SEPTEMBER 1914. They sent u
p some more oilskins and blankets from the depot this morning. Thank God. Mam you should see the rain, its terrible bad and hasn’t stopped in a week. The germans are near paris now, thats what the sarge said. I think we will stay here and fight them if the bloody french would do their job proper. The sarge’s leg is bad, he is giving out a lot to the lads. The lads are giving out too. I didnt see the lieutenant in two days but he came in this morning and gave out to the sarge for not keeping us lads in shape. The lieutenant is quite okay I think and he only gave out to me once when I left my rifle in the rain.

  Adam sighed, closed the page over, and after a moment, picked out another:

  26 APRIL 1915. Oh Mam you could not believe how awful a place this is. We are in a village called saint julien in belgium, the western part of belgium I think. The huns are all around us and they are using poison gas. Lots of the canadian lads died in it. We are in a woods while I’m writing this, and the lieutenant is allowing us to burn the candles we have left. He said tomorrow we’ll be pulled out. He looks shocking pale, but still Mam none of our platoon died. The lieutenant is brave in a fight, braver than I am. I think he looks after his lads good.

  Adam snapped the diary shut. He placed it back into his canvas bag and started the engine.

  Once he was out on the main road, the afternoon darkened and droplets of rain began to patter on the windshield. Thunder rumbled in the mountains to the southeast, where an ugly, bruise-coloured bank of clouds promised a storm by evening. He hurried his pace and made steady progress up beyond Cashel and past Portlaoise, aiming to stop by nightfall in Kildare and find lodging. The thought of a hot meal and a warm room cheered him a little. It had been a bitter, inflective few hours since that morning.

  But there was an obstacle soon after.

  About six miles out from the Kildare border, at a quiet crossroads surrounded by expanses of fenced grazing, he saw a Lancia parked across the road, blocking passage. For a moment he thought it unattended, but then he saw them.

  Soldiers.

  They were farther up the road, walking next to a military truck. The truck was trundling slowly in his direction, and Adam counted twelve privates with rifles. He braked gently.

  From aside the Lancia another solidier emerged and gestured for him to stop. He obeyed, and the man approached. He was about twenty-two, with a wispy, unconvincing moustache adorning his upper lip, like a smudge of dust. He carried his rifle casually but his eyes were cold.

  “You. Hold fast.”

  “What’s the problem, Private?” Adam grunted. “I have a long drive ahead of me.”

  “What’s your name?” the man asked. His accent was brash Cockney.

  “Bowen.”

  “From around here?”

  “I’m from Dublin. And it’s Lieutenant Bowen, incidentally.”

  The soldier hesitated a moment, casting a dubious glance over Adam’s attire. “Lieutenant?”

  “Royal Dublin Fusiliers.” Adam played the rank card. And the man improved his manners a little. He lowered the rifle.

  “Apologies, Lieutenant, but the road’s closed for the minute. Perhaps you might find another route.”

  “I don’t fancy adding another two hours of back lanes to my journey, Private. What’s the complication?”

  “No complication. Anti-insurgent operations in progress. Are you off duty today, Captain?”

  “Operations?” Adam peered up ahead to the advancing truck. “Will this take long?”

  The soldier sneered. “Oh, I’d imagine not. A local IRA suspect is under interrogation.”

  Adam could see nobody.

  The private called back to his comrades. “Are we about done?”

  The truck rolled closer. The axles were just high enough so that Adam could see soldiers’ feet beyond the wheels at the far side. There was laughter and catcalling. Eventually the truck passed level with his car.

  Jesus Christ.

  The unfortunate suspect had been tied to the back axle, his wrists bound fast, and he was evidently no longer able to stand for his knees dragged bloodily along the gravel. Adam swallowed.

  “You gotta give ’em a bit of rough treatment once in a while,” the soldier explained. “Only sort of language this scum understands.”

  Then Adam realised he was wrong. And his stomach heaved.

  It wasn’t a man tied to the truck. It was an old woman.

  A second cord had been fastened round her neck, linked to her wrists, making her gag for air. Her weathered face was crimson, and her knees were gashed and lacerated from the stones on the road. It was plain that she could barely breathe.

  “Had enough, you bony old bitch?” a voice growled, the one in charge, a bald, bawling sergeant. “We’re all tired. Give us the bloody right answers, and you can go home. No?” He rapped the side of the truck to get the driver’s attention. “Don’t be shy on that pedal, Smithy. Give her some exercise.”

  The truck accelerated. The woman was bounced and butted along, the veins in her neck straining to bursting point.

  Furious, and with a fighter’s instinct, Adam was out of his car in less than a second, shoving the door so hard that it knocked the private off his feet. None of the others had yet noticed him. He stormed towards the truck, yanked the door open and hauled the shocked driver out. The driver landed heavily on the road, cracking his chin, and the truck juddered to a halt.

  Chaos erupted.

  The air was filled with a dozen outraged roars, the howls of the injured driver. They charged for Adam in a rapid pack, fixed to tear him to pieces. Adam reacted instantaneously. He hauled the driver up by the collar, wrested the pistol from his belt and placed it to his head.

  “Back. The lot of you! Don’t move.”

  They circled like snapping wolves, stayed for the moment but readying to attack. “You’re a dead man, Paddy,” the sergeant rasped, moving closer.

  Adam cocked the gun. “One more step, shithead, and I’ll paint your friend’s inner matter all over you.”

  The driver whimpered. “Do what he says, Sarge, please.”

  “Sensible advice, Sergeant.” Adam glowered at him. “Now untie that woman. Put her in the car. I’m taking her with me.”

  “Like hell you are—”

  Adam jammed the muzzle into the driver’s eye, prompting the man to release a jet of urine all over his boots. “I said now. Move it!”

  “You’re wasting your time, Paddy.” One of the soldiers at the back inclined his head. “Look for yourself. She’s had it.”

  Adam kept the pistol on the driver and nudged him forward until he could see. The woman’s eyes were open but staring vacantly into the ground. He shuddered. “You murdering curs.”

  “Bit of a waste of time, eh?” The sergeant sauntered towards him. “Are you going to let our man go now, mate?”

  “No.” Adam glared at him. “No, I think I’ll keep him.”

  “Hah!” The sergeant sneered. “The thing is, Paddy, any moment now we’re going to take hold of you and rip you limb from limb. Go ahead and shoot Smithy if you want. Think I care? He’s a blubbering lump at the best of times.”

  Adam held his ground. “Is that so?”

  “Yes, that’s fucking so.” The sergeant continued his stealthy advance, until they were only feet apart. Laughter spread around the unit.

  “You horrible bastards,” the driver wept.

  “Change of plan, then.” Without warning Adam suddenly shoved the driver aside, grabbed the sergeant and knocked the pistol from his grip. The sergeant was taken off guard for a second, long enough for Adam to clutch his shoulder and stick the pistol into his neck. The remaining soldiers sprang at them, and the sergeant roared like a bull elephant.

  “Back! Jesus Christ, back.”

  “Listen to your sergeant, boys,” Adam warned. “He’s changed his tune now a little bit, hasn’t he?” He began to edge in the direction of his car, its engine still running, and he maintained a chokehold on the sergeant with one hand while gripping the pisto
l with the other. “What do you say, Sarge? That poor driver was expendable enough to you. Are you as expendable yourself? Tell them to come get me.”

  The sergeant’s face turned puce. “Don’t,” he croaked at them, “don’t you fuckers move.”

  “Well done, Sergeant.”

  Adam got him as far as the Ford. Here he had a comfortable twenty yards gap from the soldiers, and he released his captive while keeping the pistol poised.

  “Get in. You drive.”

  “You’ll never get away with this,” the sergeant panted.

  “Shut up and get in. And you might just live.” Adam was unable to quell the anger that still bubbled up inside him, the anger and despair at the dead woman and Timmy’s burnt home. He turned back to face the other troops as they paced angrily about the truck, growling threats. “Me and himself are going for a little journey together. I’ll let him go at the county border a few miles ahead, on condition that I’m not followed. But if I see your truck behind me, just once, then . . . ” He blew imaginary smoke from the pistol’s muzzle.

  There was nothing they could do and they knew it. Adam climbed into the passenger side of the car. He jerked the gun at his new companion. “Now drive, like your life depends on it. Which it does.”

  The sergeant sullenly obeyed.

  They covered five miles without talking. Then Adam asked, “Why were you torturing that old woman?”

  He received no answer for several moments. Then the sergeant glared across at him. “That old woman is IRA filth. A terrorist.”

  “Of course she is,” Adam sighed.

  “She bloody is, mate. You know why? Because she’s been feeding and sheltering a whole nest of the bastards the past few months. And they were the ones behind a recent ambush, killed four RIC. Irishmen with families. You think she’s innocent? Think again, mate.”

  “So that’s how it works.” Adam stared ahead. “Give someone a bowl of soup and a bed for the night, and you get what’s coming to you.”

  The sergeant rolled his eyes. “You don’t understand, do you? We’re here to help you people. And instead of thanks we get bullets and bombs, ambushes at roadsides.” He shook his head in contempt. “Fucking Irish.”