When Shadows Fall

by Paul Reid

  “Killarney, eh?” Adam nodded obligingly. “I’ve never been to Kerry. Perhaps some day.” He couldn’t help but notice her vivid green eyes and lightly coloured lips.

  “Oh, I shouldn’t right now,” she tutted. “You’ll have read the newspapers, of course. Hoodlums with guns, lurking behind ditches, planting bombs.”

  “So I believe.”

  “Yes. And when I think of brave souls like yourself, going out to fight in faraway lands for our freedom—and those brigands in Kerry and Cork and elsewhere, trying to tear asunder every sacrifice you made.”

  Adam nodded reluctantly as a bottle was lowered over his glass. A bitter chardonnay—he’d have rathered a decent pint of stout. “Don’t trouble yourself about it, Mrs. D’Arcy, isn’t it? I’m sure the right fellows will win out in the end.”

  Her hand touched his arm discreetly, and she smiled. “Brave souls.”

  Adam, me boyo, he thought, you’ll not ruin poor Bernard Laide’s night by getting off with the accountant’s wife. He stood up.

  “You’ll have to excuse me, Mrs. D’Arcy.”

  With the pretence of the restroom, he headed straight for the bar.

  Tara exchanged worried glances with Clarice Guthering. Both James and the colonel had been draining wine throughout the main course, and now, spurning the Waldorf pudding, the colonel bawled for brandy.

  “Dear me,” James tried to protest, his eyes swimming, “I’m not much of a drinker, old fellow.”

  “Nonsense, boy. You’ll have a snifter with your father’s dearest friend and think of merry England.”

  They sank a measure each.

  The colonel ordered again. “Let’s nurse it this time, Bryant, for the Bible shames a drunkard. Eh?” He chortled under his walrus moustache and swallowed a glugful.

  Two became four inside twenty minutes. By the fifth, both men were teary eyed with mirth after the colonel relayed an old joke about a French milkmaid and a Scottish parson. James almost fell off his chair and had to grip the tablecloth for support.

  “Wodehouse wouldn’t have written it better!” he guffawed. “Really, Colonel, that takes the spoon.”

  Tara sat quietly, as did Clarice Guthering, their gazes focused solely on the pristine linen tablecloth.

  “Ah, forgive me, ladies.” James finally remembered them, dabbing a napkin to his eye. “We have been most rude. But your husband, Mrs. Guthering, is a wicked hound. Tara, darling, will you have more wine?” His eyes were glazed, his speech slurred.

  “No, thank you, James,” she whispered, “and please stop calling me darling. Can you have the waiter bring some water? I’ll be gone a moment.”

  She rose from her chair, and James almost upended the table as he sprang to observe the social protocol. More buffoonish laughter followed her as she crossed the busy ballroom.

  She never made the toilets, however. Just then, an unholy battle erupted inside the bar.

  Adam ducked his head to dodge a flying barstool.

  “Easy now, friend. You almost hurt me.”

  “I’ll kill you!”

  His attacker was big but presently under the restrain of four beefy pairs of arms. “You filth, I’ll—”

  “Gentlemen. Gentlemen!” An alarmed manager arrived at the scene. “Really, this is too much. What on earth is going on?”

  Adam shrugged and retook his spot at the bar where he’d been enjoying a particularly satisfying Guinness. “I was minding my own business when those rugby lunatics made a go for me.”

  “He started it,” the red-faced aggressor snapped. “You all heard it, you fellows. You heard what he said.”

  “What club did he say he’s from?”

  “Who said what?” the manager demanded. “Now look, this sort of tavern behaviour might be tolerated at other establishments in Dublin, but let me say that at the Gresham—”

  “He said he could understand the IRA’s anger.” The man spat in Adam’s direction. “And I’m having none of that talk. My brother—”

  Adam raised a hand calmly. “I meant no offence. We were simply having a discussion.” They’d been a dislikeable bunch from the outset. Noses in the air, self-appointed authorities on everything. He hadn’t been able to resist a few retorts to their loudly aired opinions.

  “My brother,” the other insisted, “was murdered by the IRA. A soldier protecting his own country and blown to bits by a roadside bomb. And you have the rotten nerve to pass that comment.”

  “I didn’t know about your brother. I’m sorry,” Adam sighed.

  “Outside,” the man snarled. “You and me, now!” He struggled against the pinioning arms.

  “I’m not fighting.” Adam shook his head. “And I’ve apologised.”

  “Hang about.” One of the arresting men released his grip. “Did he really say that? That the IRA would see to the Brits?”

  “I never said that—”

  “Of course he fucking did! I fucking heard him.”

  “Language, gentlemen,” the manager shrilled in horror.

  “All right.”

  The attacker was released. Now Adam had five men squared against him. One of them jabbed a finger. “Is that right, boyo? You’ve some fun to make of us, do you?”

  Adam didn’t answer. He raised the Guinness glass and appraised it regretfully.

  “Now, you boys.” The manager recovered some strength in his voice. “You will all apologise and shake hands, or else you will leave promptly. The choice is yours.”

  “I’ll leave.” Adam shrugged in capitulation. “I didn’t mean to cause a fuss.” After what he’d experienced in recent times, he knew he wasn’t going to rub along well with these people.

  But they weren’t going to let him go quietly.

  As the rugby pack they were, over a thousand pounds of meat, they came for him. Adam quickly nipped one last slug from the Guinness and buried himself in low as if to carry the ball. Bodies piled on top of him.

  “Out!” screeched the manager. “Out with him!”

  They were a solid wall of muscle. He fought but couldn’t get free. His arms were viciously grabbed, his legs, his neck, and he couldn’t suppress a gasp of pain.

  “And let’s split the floor with his fucking head!” cried the first attacker.

  Adam became the rugby ball now; they hoisted him high, heaved their arms, and lofted him through the air. Even as he sailed towards the outer hallway, he tried to twist himself midair to cushion the impact.

  And to his horror, he saw a girl standing dumbstruck in the middle of his path.

  The jumble of flying limbs and feet crashed into her before Tara knew what was going on. She was knocked backwards, landing heavily, and only the thick carpet saved her from serious injury under that monstrous weight.

  She coughed for air, and the human missile clambered off her in an instant, swearing.

  “Damn it, miss. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  A phalanx of bodies followed him through the doors. “Look, he’s attacked that woman. Get him, lads!”

  “Hold!”

  A louder, whip-crack voice penetrated the clamour.

  Tara was still on her back, starry eyed. She wheezed in pain and raised her head. She saw James standing nearby, his mouth open in stunned outrage.

  “What the hell is this?” James demanded.

  The rugby pack held off a moment. One of them said sheepishly, “A troublemaker, sir. We were trying to eject him when he pounced on that girl.”

  James came forward, sobering quickly. “That girl, young man, is with me. Who’s behind this horseplay?”

  Tara had recovered her breath by now. She clambered up, yanked her dress down, and faced James. “It wasn’t his fault. He was—”

  “It was entirely my fault, miss.” The man in question stepped back and dusted off his cuffs. “Sorry for dropping in on you like that.”

  Against her will, she couldn’t resist the smile that his quip brought to her lips. “No, really, it wasn’t your—”r />
  “Hold fast, you.” James approached him. “Stand as you are. You attacked my dear Tara, did you? Another young fool, showing off in front of the lads.”

  “I’m not showing off,” the stranger answered. “And I don’t want to cause any trouble.”

  Tara stared at him. In absurd distraction, she realised he had blue eyes. Hauntingly beautiful eyes. “Wait,” she said, putting a hand on James’s shoulder. “It was an accident. Let him go, James.”

  “The hell I will.” James looked back towards the slack-jawed rugby players at the bar door. “Did this chap start all the ruckus?”

  “He did!” they barked in unison.

  “Well, then.” James’s alcohol-reddened face coloured further with protective anger. “It seems I have a brigand to apprehend.”

  “James,” Tara pleaded. “Just let him go, it was an accident.”

  Ignoring her, James went for the man’s arm, intending to wrest his hands behind his back in an arrest. But the drink had made him clumsy. The next movement was a blur, and the man unleashed a powerful punch into James’s stomach, doubling him over. “Jesus,” James gasped in pain, collapsing on the floor. “Jesus . . . ”

  “You’ve killed him,” cried one of the onlookers.

  “I told you I didn’t want trouble!” the stranger growled. He turned back to Tara. “Really, miss, I am sorry. I bid you goodnight. You might be kind enough to tell the Laides at table eleven that I was taken poorly.”

  She stared at him. “But, where are you going?”

  “Enough, now.” The white-faced manager attempted to reassert control. “He’s going now, folks. Perhaps we’ll all return to the ballroom. Is that the band starting up again?”

  Laughing uneasily, the mob of lads patted each other’s backs and shuffled into the bar. Tara glanced down at James.

  “The brandy,” he gurgled, “I think I’m going to vomit.”

  He pulled himself up, staggered forward, and fell through the door of the ladies’ toilets. Tara watched the double doors of the lobby, where the stranger had exited, for several moments.

  And in a rare moment of “to blazes with it,” she followed.

  Adam stomped up the wet footpath. It was raining again and the pools of water splashed over his shoes and slacks. His head was down and he marched fast, almost willing an enemy trench to appear. A bayonet in his hands.

  “Wait!”

  The voice stalled him. When he turned back, he saw a vision that made his heart stop in his chest. Golden hair slickening in the rainfall, a face that weakened his knees, a dress that hugged the most alluring figure he’d ever set eyes upon. Then, finally, he remembered who she was.

  “Miss, I said I was sorry. Really.”

  “I know.” She hurried to catch up. “And I said it wasn’t your fault.”

  She came closer to him, close enough for Adam to see her eyes, smell her perfume. He felt at once a pang of want. But instead he cleared his throat.

  “I didn’t mean to hit your husband. I hope he’s all right.”

  “He’s not my husband.”

  “Or whomever he is. I didn’t plan that. I just wanted to go home.”

  “I wanted to go home too.” She smiled. “James is drunk. I want to go home, and that’s where I’m going now.”

  He glanced dubiously at the tumbling rain. “Bad weather for it, miss. Shall I walk you to a hackney?”

  “Please.” Again she smiled. “If it’s not an imposition, that is. But I really do want to leave here. Tonight was a horrible night.”

  “I won’t argue with that. By the way, I’m Adam. Adam Bowen.”

  “Tara Reilly,” she replied shyly. “Oh, and the doorman gave me a brolly. You’re a little tall, but . . . ”

  “Allow me.” Adam felt warm all of a sudden. “I’ll hold it, you step under.”

  Together they turned their backs on the noisy ball.

  “It’s not so terribly glamorous as it sounds,” Adam chuckled. “A lot of dusty old deeds and tedious contracts.” They were well away from the hotel now and had relaxed a little in each other’s company.

  “Still, a solicitor. On top of being a soldier too!” Tara looked at him with admiration.

  “Trainee solicitor,” he reminded her. “I have a way to go yet to catch up with my brothers. But what about you? You mentioned you worked in an office?”

  They passed the General Post Office, crossed over the canal, and went down Aston Quay towards the Ha’penny Bridge, with precious few hackneys to be found in the rain. Tara was sheltered under her brolly but Adam had received a decent soaking. Not that he cared, wonderfully distracted as he was now by the woman beside him.

  “That’s right,” Tara said. “Dublin Castle, in fact.”

  He slowed his pace. “Dublin Castle?”

  She glanced at him. “What?”

  “Oh, nothing.” Somewhere inside, an ominous feeling stirred his pulse. “But what do you do for the Castle?”

  “Why, I’m a high-ranking member of His Majesty’s administration, of course.”

  Now he stopped walking altogether. “You are?”

  She laughed. “You seem impressed. No, I’m merely a clerical assistant in the civil service. I work in the stationery office. Paper and pencils, that sort of thing.”

  “Stationery? Ah. Wonderful.”

  “I would hardly have thought so.”

  “I mean, it’s wonderful that you have a steady job like that.” With his pulse settled he found his feet again. They continued walking, down Essex Quay and Wood Quay, the Liffey waters a swirling soup beside them. They passed the Guinness brewery on their left and carried on in the direction of Kilmainham. The distance was hardly noticed. There was an intimacy unspoken but of which they were both aware. It was broken only when they reached a junction between a parkland and a street of terraced housing.

  “Oh.” Tara stopped. “So soon. I hadn’t even realised.”

  “This is home?” Adam asked with some disappointment.

  “Yes. I live on Wilton Row, around the next corner.”

  “I’ll walk you there.”

  “No, Adam.” She touched his arm. “No, I’ve imposed enough. You must get yourself home before you catch a cold.”

  “You’ll be all right from here?”

  “Certainly. I’m very grateful for your taking me home.”

  “Sorry I couldn’t find you a hackney ride.”

  Her eyes twinkled in the soft glow from the streetlamps. “That’s all right. I rather enjoyed myself.”

  “Me too. Well, then.”

  There was a silence. Adam bit his lip, knowing he’d like to say something more, but not fully sure what it should be. “Well, then,” he said again.

  She watched him expectantly, as the rain continued to patter on top of her brolly. “You’re sure you don’t have far to go?”

  “No. I mean, yes, I’m sure I don’t have far to go.”

  She smiled and sighed. “Well, good night, Adam.”

  “Good night.”

  She abruptly turned and hurried into the rain. Then he called out, “Tara!”

  She stopped, hesitated, and looked back.

  “I . . . ” He glanced round awkwardly. “I hope you’ll let me know if you’re ever in need of a hackney again. Send word to Bowen and Associates and you’ll find me.”

  Her mouth opened into laughter. A stray tress of hair had fallen onto her cheek, and even through the gloom of the night, Adam was stirred at the sight of such winsome perfection.

  “I’d like to, Adam. Very much.”

  And with that she moved on, disappearing around the corner into the sprawl of houses, and he was alone on the street.

  Shaking the water from his suit, he headed home.

  Rourke had given him an address and a time. On Monday evening, Adam left work just after six o’clock. Duncan was already gone and Allister was completing his nightly routine of tidying his files into orderly stacks and cleaning his desk with wood polish.


  Adam walked as far as James Street and passed the back of the Guinness brewery, a heady scent of roasted hops upon the air. A “Closed” sign hung inside the glass panel of a door on the street corner. A broader sign above, barely legible through the grime, read Bodley’s Newsagent & Tobacconist. He peered through a side window. The interior sill was speckled with dead flies and a curtain of indeterminate colour screened the room beyond. He knocked on the pane.

  For several moments nothing stirred, but then he detected the wavering light of a lantern through the door’s frosted glass, and somebody pulled back the bolt.

  It was not the face he’d expected.

  “Hello, young man.” An elderly woman, short and corpulent with a gummy smile, greeted him kindly. “Can I help you?”

  “I, uh, I’m not sure,” Adam muttered. “My name is Bowen. I was given this address.”

  “Ah. It’s my son you’ll be wanting, I suppose. Please come in.”

  She ushered him into a dark, fusty room cluttered with old chests and boxes. The layer of dust coating the oak counter made it evident that the premises had not seen business in some time. The old woman stooped through a low doorway and Adam heard her say, “There’s a lad outside wants to see you.”

  She turned back to him and smiled. “Would you like some tea, young man?”

  “He doesn’t want tea,” said a gruff voice, and a man came out to the front, middle-aged and bespectacled, his moustache twitching like an addled schoolmaster. “Thank you, Mother, that will be all.” He cast a glance at Adam. “Yes?”

  It was a dubious reception to say the least. Adam shrugged. “Maybe I’d like to buy a newspaper.”

  “A comedian, are you? The sign said closed.”

  “My name is Bowen. I was told you’d be expecting me.”

  “Bowen.” The snuff-stained moustache screwed up. “No, doesn’t ring a bell. You must have the wrong address.”

  “I don’t think so. This is the place. Colum Rourke gave it to me. You know him?”

  “No, no, there must be a mistake.” The man pulled closed the door joining the two rooms. He put a finger to his lips. “That’s enough of that. My mother doesn’t know anything of these affairs. I’ll thank you to lower your voice.”