When Shadows Fall

by Paul Reid

  Adam cleared his throat and descended the steps. Allister was hunched over Lydia’s desk, their faces inches apart, though Lydia was evidently straining to increase the distance.

  “Adam!” Allister pulled back and scowled. “What are you doing, skulking back there? Were you eavesdropping?”

  “Eavesdropping on what, old boy?” Adam asked innocently.

  Allister’s face reddened. “On nothing. It was a private conversation. Are you leaving now?”

  “Yes. It’s heading for six.”

  “Then just go.”

  Adam gazed at him a moment, then he nodded to Lydia. “You’re leaving too, Lydia? Come along then, I’ll walk you to the tram.”

  Relieved, she followed him out, and once he waved her off on the tram, he continued on foot. The night skies were clear and starlit. An edge of cold touched the streets. He found a cab to take him to the Wild Geese and let himself in. Brawny dock workers off their shift lined the bar, and the air stank of meat pies and sweat. The youth behind the bar, whose name Adam couldn’t remember, gave him a nod and gestured to the billiards room. Adam called a pint of Guinness and went inside.

  “Shut the door, if you please, Mr. Bowen.” Michael Collins was already sitting on the edge of the billiards table with a map, some newspaper cuttings, and a photograph spread across it.

  “How’s it going?” Adam greeted him self-consciously. “Sorry, I should have shouted you a drink.”

  “Never mind that. I want to have a little chat. How do you feel about a small bit of travelling?”

  Adam looked at him. “I thought I’d done enough travelling. What for?”

  “Have a seat. Martin will bring your drink in.” Collins pushed the photograph across the table to him. “Do you recognise that ugly brute?”

  The photo was of a British officer, swagger stick in hand, tall and raw boned and somewhat harsh of countenance. Adam shook his head. “Can’t say I do.”

  “Major Dirk Ripley of the Third Battalion Cameron Highlanders.” Collins glowered at the picture. “As ruthless a butcher as Britannia’s ever sent to these shores—and that’s taking in some desperate company. One of our boys in Wicklow shot dead Ripley’s predecessor in a raid some time ago, an officer called Tanner, and Ripley’s been with the regiment in Munster since, treating the province as his own private shooting estate. He’s behind the torture and execution of dozens of folk, both our lads and innocent locals. They say his favourite hobby down there is to travel the countryside in an open touring car, using farm labourers in fields as target practice for his fowling piece.” Collins coughed and spat. “You read about the big bust up near Skibbereen last week?”

  “I read something about an engagement. The newspaper said the area was an IRA hotbed.”

  Collins scoffed. “That Brit parrot-piece the Irish Times said it was an IRA hotbed. It was no such thing. Ripley wanted to scare the surrounding villages so he made an example. He makes war on women and children without qualm. They even shot dead a priest for extra sport.”

  “A bad apple, so.”

  “For sure. And according to my source at the Castle, a bad apple who will soon be heading to London for a meeting with the war chiefs.”

  “Sounds like you have ears in all the right places.”

  “Well, this is a terribly tough fellow to get at,” Collins grumbled. “We’ve tried, but he’s surrounded by security day and night. But if he goes to England, it’s likely his guard will ease a little, being on friendly soil. I can get his travel schedules and train numbers, as it seems all of the Irish contingent will be journeying together—detectives, army brass, secretaries. And that is where we might have an opportunity.”

  Adam nodded warily. “So what’s my involvement?”

  “You know London, don’t you? How well do you know it?”

  “London? I was there after demobbing. And I stayed awhile. I liked it, actually.”

  “Fine city, fine city,” Collins agreed. “And I’ll wager you can still handle a gun.”

  “I had one in my hand for four years, yes. But I’m sure you’re not short of gunmen. What is it you want me to do?”

  “It’s quite simple,” Collins told him and began tidying up the maps and documents off the table. “I want you to go to London, and I want you to shoot and kill Major Dirk Ripley.”

  Duncan closed his eyes briefly, shook his head, and leaned back on his armchair. “You know what, Adam? You have me baffled. I’d almost think you didn’t want to work here at Bowen’s. More time off? I gave you time off a few weeks ago.”

  Adam shifted his feet by the doorway. “I know. I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you.”

  “Impossible. It’s out of the question.”

  “Perhaps I shouldn’t have started working for you so soon. I have, oh, loose ends to tie up.”

  “Loose ends, is it?” Duncan snorted in contempt, then he sighed. “Look, I do want you here, Adam. And I want you to do well. But you’ve not got off to the best of starts, to be quite frank. And another absence is hardly likely to help.”

  “I know all that. But I can’t succeed here until I’m fully committed to it, Duncan, and right now I have other matters to deal with.”

  “Such as?”

  “Nothing you’d like to be bothered with. Give me a few weeks, please. And after that, hopefully, things will have fallen into place.”

  Duncan was not placated. “This isn’t a labour exchange I’m running, you know. You can’t just pop in and out on a whim, seeing what suits and what doesn’t. I expect dedication from my team.”

  “And you’ll get it. I promise.”

  “If you weren’t my brother . . . ” Duncan shook his head again. “Allister will not approve, I can tell you that. All right, Adam, I’ll give you a month to see to your loose ends. If it takes any longer than that, I’ll be filling your spot with somebody else.”

  Adam breathed a quiet sigh of relief. “Thanks, Duncan. I appreciate it.”

  “Here, before you go.” Duncan pushed a thick brown envelope across the desk to him. “Make yourself useful. Allister needs those documents for a civil discovery at city hall this afternoon. Drop them off at his flat on your way to wherever you’re going. Quick now, before he leaves.”

  Adam swallowed his frustration. “Er, yes, sure. But couldn’t Lydia—”

  “I’m not asking, I’m telling,” Duncan said. “You’re still officially on the payroll here, Adam. My payroll. Now do as I say.”

  “Yes, Duncan.”

  It was the last place he wanted to visit, or rather the last person he wanted to see, but Duncan was sticking his neck out for him and so Adam had to oblige.

  He found the address on Merrion Street easily enough, an affluent apartment block converted from an old Georgian mansion near St. Stephen’s Green. Allister lived in number six. He knocked once, holding the packet of papers under his arm. Footsteps sounded on a wooden floor, hurried footsteps, and when Allister opened the door there was an eager smile on his face.

  It dropped instantly when he saw Adam.

  “You! What are you doing here?” Allister looked flustered all of a sudden, and Adam gazed at him.

  “Everything all right? Have I come at a bad time?”

  Allister did a quick scan of the outer hallway. “No, just, I—come inside a second.” He pulled Adam in and closed the door. “Wait here.”

  As Adam stood beside the hat stand, curiosity piqued now, he could hear Allister rummaging at something in the living area. He reemerged after a few moments.

  “Well? What do you want? I’ve got important business on today.”

  “I know, that’s why Duncan sent me.” Adam handed him the envelope of documents. “He said you needed those for your, what’s it called, discovery?”

  Allister glanced at the packet. “Oh, yes. Indeed I do.” He snatched them from Adam’s hand. “Thank you. You can be going now.”

  “Don’t mention it, a pleasure.” Adam turned, about to leave, but just then there
was another knock on the door. Allister froze.

  “Wait! Go into the sitting room. I-I have to deal with this.”

  Adam shrugged and did as instructed. The living area was big and pristinely kept. He sat on the sofa, hearing the sound of the front door being opened. Voices, or rather whispers. He couldn’t follow their conversation.

  As he leaned against the soft back of the sofa, he felt a hard edge underneath one of the suede cushions. A book. The cover was nondescript but inside were pictures on every page, hand-drawn with a graceful flair, and Latin inscriptions underneath them.

  Adam baulked.

  Young men, pink cheeked, lithe bodied, and naked, doing things to each other that would have shocked Oscar Wilde, not to mention Catholic Dublin. He blinked to ensure he wasn’t imagining it, then quickly he closed the book and replaced it under the cushion. “Jesus,” he murmured to himself. “I never knew that of you, Allister.”

  The voices at the door were heightened now, despite Allister’s attempts to whisper. Adam heard him hiss in frustration, “No, I said I can’t. Just go away. Go away!”

  The door slammed. Allister came into the living room, breathing heavily in agitation. “Er, sorry about that, I was just . . . that was just a neighbour, er, looking to borrow some tea.”

  “Say no more.” Adam rose from the couch. “I’ll be going now.” He noticed how Allister’s eyes darted to the cushion where the book was concealed. “Oh, and there’s one other delicate matter, Allister. I’d better mention it, but I dare say you might not be pleased.”

  Allister’s face fell so far it could have landed on his feet. “What?”

  “I’ll be taking leave from the office for a while. A month or so. That’s all right with you? Duncan said you’d be annoyed.”

  “Leave—oh.” Allister put a hand against the wall to steady himself. “Yes, yes, that’s fine. Best of luck.”

  “Thanks.” Adam winked and headed for the door. “See you in a few weeks.” He let himself out, walked down the stairs, and emerged out onto the street.

  There was a figure outside, leaning casually against a lamppost and smoking a scented cigarette. He looked Adam up and down and smirked. “Ah, I knew he was lyin’. Allie’s in love now, is he?”

  Adam stared at the youth, wearing a bowler hat tipped jauntily to the side with a beige frock coat and striped trousers. “I’m sorry? Who the hell are you?”

  The other sauntered towards him. “Never mind. Business is business.” He thrust a tinted card into Adam’s pocket. “If you ever fancy a Cointreau and lemonade, lampkin . . . ”

  With that he strode off. Adam removed the card and read it. The services offered left little to the imagination.

  He moved in the opposite direction, glancing back once at the apartment block. There was a face in a window higher up. Allister’s apartment. His complexion had been drained of all its colour. Their eyes met for a moment, before Adam shook his head and walked away.

  Tara wore a cream pleated skirt and a lace blouse along with her mother’s treasured sapphire necklace and blue shoes to match it.

  When she let herself into the stationery office that Wednesday morning, Colleen stared at her in bemusement. “I hadn’t realised they’d changed our dress code,” she remarked sourly. “You’d certainly never guess this was a place of work.”

  Tara let the sniping bounce off her. “I’m going out after work, Miss Murphy. That’s why the outfit. Nice, isn’t it?” She knew she looked good today, she knew he would think so too.

  But six o’clock was a long way off yet.

  The day inevitably dragged by with its usual stubborn monotony, yet the male clerks calling for supplies made their admiration obvious. Her confidence grew.

  Whilst fetching Colleen’s tea, she encountered James in the corridor. His surprised delight was instantaneous.

  “Now that’s more like it,” he enthused. “Getting into the spirit of London already, are we?”

  “What? I mean, no. Just some new clothes I thought I’d air.” She sensed it risky to allow James any further into her personal life than necessary. She’d already told him far too much before.

  “You must be going somewhere special later.”

  “No. Well, yes, meeting a cousin for dinner. A relation. A relative.”

  “Ah, how delightful. Have a lovely evening.” James nodded and carried on.

  Delightful—I hope so too, she thought. What if Adam had changed his mind? Or forgotten? That would be heartbreaking to say the least.

  But it wasn’t so. Shortly after six o’clock, when she walked through the gates of Dublin Castle in her cream and sapphire, Adam Bowen was waiting outside.

  If he had seemed handsome to her before, now he cut an utterly resplendent figure in charcoal jacket and trousers, smoky-chrome waistcoat, white shirt, and neat grey tie. He tipped his trilby hat and said, “I could die happy right now. And I’d be a contented man. Tara, you look beautiful.”

  She flicked a hand to swat away the bold compliment, hiding the pleasure it stirred in her. “You haven’t been waiting, I hope?”

  “Not at all. Come on, let’s be away from this grim castle. I’ll call a hackney.”

  “A hackney? I thought you said Bewley’s on Westmoreland Street. That’s only two minutes’ walk.”

  He grinned and winked.

  The Abbey Theatre on Lower Abbey Street had been founded in 1904 by W.B. Yeats and Lady Augusta Gregory. Tonight they were showing The Jackdaw, about a mysterious South African stranger who enters a Dublin shop in the owner’s absence and pays ten pounds for a bird he admires. News of this extravagant splurge on a jackdaw sets the denizens of Dublin into a frenzy to acquire as many of the species as possible. Though a short play, Tara enjoyed it immensely, particularly when she learned that the South African had in fact been the shop owner’s estranged brother, and merely bought the bird as a way of giving her money without offending her feelings.

  After the play they took another hackney to St. Stephen’s Green. A doorman in a tall silk hat showed them through the double doors of the Shelbourne Hotel, and they were led to a table by a window overlooking the lamplit vista of the green. Fires burned at both ends of the room, and the clientele was decidedly Anglo-Irish with a generous scattering of European and American tourists, well-heeled and delighting in the decadent splendour of the Shelbourne.

  With her stomach full of ice cream and chartreuse jelly, Tara stirred her coffee, weary but deliriously happy. “This was such a wonderful night. The best ever.”

  Adam smiled as he rested his chin on his hand and gazed at her. “And if I was to invite you out again sometime, what would you say?”

  Without replying, she reached for his hand and kissed it. “That’s a little bold for me, but I hope it answers your question.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “I rather think it does. Here’s to boldness!” Glancing round the busy restaurant, he then lowered his voice. “There’s just one thing. I’ll be going away soon. Not for long, just a few days. Perhaps when I’m back I can meet you?”

  “Of course. You’re away on business?”

  “That’s right. Next week, in fact.”

  He didn’t give away any more, but she realised his absence suited her. After all, she was going away too, to London with James. She sensed she ought not reveal this just yet, as Adam might misunderstand.

  “That’s all right, Adam. Your work is important, and I’ll be quite busy myself, as it happens.”

  “Good. I wouldn’t want you to think that I’d simply disappeared or lost interest.”

  She smiled. “I wouldn’t think that.”

  “To be honest, I wish I was back already,” he sighed and caressed the soft skin of her hand. “So you’ll wait for me, then?”

  “Oh, I will.” She returned the caress. “Don’t worry, Adam. I know we’ll meet again. Hopefully sooner than we expect.”

  It was wrong to withhold things from her so soon.

  Adam remembered the look in her e
yes the other night. Genuine affection, genuine caring. As he felt himself. And yet one of his first acts, at this early stage, was to lie to her.

  But Tara would have baulked at the truth. He daren’t tell her that he was being sent to London to carry out a high-profile assassination, to gun down a man in cold blood. He still couldn’t believe it himself, even now, and pangs of guilt assailed him as he counted through the steps ahead. There was no turning back, however—he wouldn’t allow that, despite any misgivings. The target was legitimate, a legitimate military target, and so he turned his mind once more to the job at hand.

  Mick Collins promised him a kitty for their passage, and he was to meet with another IRA operative to acquire weapons. He was walking there now, to a nondescript building on Sackville Street, a little way up from Nelson’s Column.

  The face that greeted him could hardly have been less friendly. The room was a musty loft above a haberdashery, inky dark but for a single skylight in the slanted roof. It smelled of damp clothes and some other more disturbing odours.

  “Larry Mulligan?” Adam asked tentatively. “I was told to ask for Mulligan.”

  “You’ve found him,” answered the face, heavy-jawed on a squat neck. “Stop standing there like a moron and come in.”

  Adam stepped inside. It was deathly cold.

  “The big fellow says you need guns,” Mulligan grumbled, looking like someone with an eternal grudge against the world. “It seems nobody can organise their own shit without raiding the Wicklow brigade. Just as well for you all that I’m so damned good at acquiring the stuff.”

  “I’m sure everyone is much obliged,” Adam murmured, already developing a strong dislike for the man.

  Mulligan blinked suspiciously. “I don’t recognise you. Name?”

  “Bowen.”

  “A Dub, are you? Aye, and a posh one too, from the sounds of your accent.”

  Adam shrugged. “So what about those weapons?”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that.” Mulligan smirked. “Ever handled a gun before? I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”

  “I’m sure the big fellow wouldn’t have sent me here if I couldn’t handle a gun.”