When Shadows Fall

by Paul Reid

  “What brigade are you in?”

  “None. I report directly to Collins.”

  “And where did the weapons experience come from? Grouse shoots on Sundays?”

  Adam hesitated. “I served in France.” With increasing resentment towards Britain’s activities in Ireland, ex-servicemen were becoming ever more unpopular.

  “The British Army.” Mulligan spat in disgust. “The king’s lickspittle. And so why should I trust you?”

  “You shouldn’t, I suppose. But as I understand, Mick Collins gives the orders.”

  “Does he now? We’ll see about that. What job is he sending you on?”

  “You know Mick. It’s all confidential.”

  Mulligan cleared his throat noisily and took out a box of Woodbines. “You’re too cocky for my liking, boyo. Where’s the other pup? I was led to believe that I was providing guns for two.”

  “I haven’t been introduced to him yet, but you can give me the information.’

  Mulligan didn’t speak further until he had the lighted cigarette clamped between his lips. “I don’t exactly carry an arsenal around in my back pocket. Come back here tomorrow evening. The weapons and ammo will be ready for collection. And mind you take care of them, for they stay my property. Understand?”

  “I do.” Adam blinked against the cloud of tobacco smoke blown into his face. “Many thanks. It’s been an honour.”

  He was glad to leave the company of the loathsome Mulligan, and he walked back up Sackville Street, into Gardiner Street, and found a house with a blue door and a brass plate that said “Wolverington Taxidermist.” Collins had wanted to introduce him to his partner for the London operation, and Adam was curious to meet the man now, aware that the two of them would be fairly close bedfellows for a week or so.

  “Adam Bowen, sir!” Mick Collins greeted him with his usual daunting enthusiasm, practically bounding across the room to pump his hand. “Thanks for making it over on short notice. Did you find Larry Mulligan?”

  “I did.” Adam nodded wryly. “Not exactly a people person, is he?”

  “Oh, Larry’s a bit on the hard-boiled side, but don’t mind that. He’s the man with the guns and that’s all that counts. You’ll have tea, Adam? Come into the kitchen, Liam’s inside.”

  Liam Clancy was the second man picked by Collins to carry out the hit on Ripley. He was short and skinny, about twenty-two, with an intent but friendly expression. He shook Adam’s hand. “Heard we’re going on holidays together.”

  “All expenses paid,” Adam agreed.

  “Now, boys, let me go over a few things.” Collins yanked a chair to the kitchen table. “A sea crossing has been arranged, for which the captain has already been paid. Give him no other money. If he gets stroppy, stick a pistol between his teeth and tell him Mick says hello. I also have the address of a safehouse in London where you’ll stay. I want you in place before the target reaches the city. This is the itinerary for all the Irish attendees that my Castle source copied.”

  He produced a sheet of times and places, evidently scribbled down in haste. “They’ll take the passenger liner to Liverpool and then a train to Victoria Station in London. It’s at the station that you must execute the operation, for you’ll not get another chance.”

  “It’s a busy station,” Adam pointed out. “How will we spot him?”

  “You’ll know the expected time of the train’s arrival. The entourage will have their own private compartments. You simply look for the one with all the military brass getting off, and from your photographs you’ll know Ripley.”

  “Won’t there be security at the station?” Liam asked. “Coppers and such. How do we get away?”

  “The map I’m providing you with has an escape route traced back to the docks, which should allow you to disappear before the bells and whistles arrive. You’re to familiarise yourself with the route in the days before the operation. That’s why I’m sending you over early.”

  “How far away is the safehouse?”

  “It’s in South Hampstead. A decent walk but manageable enough for young bucks like you. Don’t return there after the hit, though. Get back to the boat and lie low.”

  “The boat,” Adam muttered. “I take it we’re not getting a fancy passenger liner like our friends. What’s the transport?”

  Collins grinned. “You didn’t sign up for the glamour, did you, boys? She’s a private merchant vessel, taking whelk and blue mussel to London. The Freya Angelica—a romantic name for a rather ugly mistress. You’ll find her at Kingstown port and a Welsh captain by the name of Jackson.”

  “Lovely.”

  “Jackson’s done runs for us before. You won’t get much conversation out of him, but he’ll have you there on time.” Collins rose up. “I have to be going. The boat sails at eight Saturday morning, lads. Make sure you collect the gear from Larry Mulligan first. Major Ripley arrives in London on Tuesday, so let’s not make a pig’s ear of this. Here, don’t forget the paperwork.”

  He threw them a map, photos of Ripley, an address for the safehouse, the copied itinerary, and a pouch of cash. Adam counted over one hundred pounds.

  “That’s for your food and some contingency funds in case of emergency,” Collins told him. “Any leftover change, and I’d be mightily glad to see it.”

  Liam studied Adam. “You ever done this kind of thing before?”

  “Bowen’s killed plenty men before,” Collins answered for him. “You’ll be fine, gentlemen. Christ, try not to look so miserable about it.”

  Following another charmless meeting with Larry Mulligan, Adam was entrusted with two Webley revolvers and two derringers for backup, along with their respective ammunition. He carried the lot in a haversack that, with his woollen fisherman’s garb, looked perfectly innocuous.

  It was a little after dawn on Saturday when the hackney dropped him to the wharves at Kingstown port. A blue-grey mist hung above the waters of the bay and the cold air pinched his cheeks. It was quiet but for a group of fishermen in salt-encrusted jerseys packing crates of herring and bass, and out from the foggy quay Liam Clancy emerged with a small bag of clothes and spare boots.

  “How goes it, Bowen? Got the gear?”

  Adam indicated the sack in his hand. “Money, maps, guns, and bath soap. Where’s our lady?”

  “That’s her, I reckon.” Liam pointed down the quay to where an old fishing boat with a blackened smokestack rode the high tide. The name Freya Angelica was just about discernible on the peeling hull.

  “I’ve got first call on the executive suite,” Adam declared. “Come on, let’s go introduce ourselves.”

  “Wait. Did Mulligan give us much ammo?”

  “No. He said it doesn’t grow on fucking trees and that we were to be wise with its usage.”

  “Typical brigade commandant. Tighter than a Scottish pawnbroker.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Ripley is only one man, and if we do it properly, we’ll have bullets to spare.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  The grossly overweight Captain Jackson greeted them with a scowl and a blast of whiskey breath. He directed them gruffly below decks to a tiny cabin and told them to stay out of the crew’s way. There were no bunks, just two mouldering mattresses squeezed between the bulkheads.

  “Think he’ll bring down the cheese tray and chardonnay soon?” Liam enquired.

  “Why don’t you go up and ask him?”

  The Freya Angelica left with the departing tide, leaving a long, smoky trail in her wake. There was a light swell once out on the open sea, but they made brisk progress down the flank of Leinster and across the channel towards the Cornish coast.

  After a few hours Liam was looking decidedly pale. “I’m no sailor. Damn it, but I’m hobbled. Where’s the latrine on this filthy bucket?”

  “Just follow the smell,” Adam advised him. “And quickly now, before you spew all over me.”

  They rested poorly in the squalid confines of their cabin as the vessel steamed east
for England. Dinner that evening was ham sandwiches and the very foulest home-brewed ale. Adam pored over the map, in particular the sketched line through the streets that traced their escape route. Eventually, bleary-eyed, he rolled up his coat and placed it under his head as a pillow. “What about you? Ever done anything like this?”

  “I’ve put a few bullets in a few cops and soldiers,” Liam said. “Nothing like this, though.”

  “A rather ugly business,” Adam said.

  “It’s supposed to be ugly, though, isn’t it? And effective. We’re sending a message. To all of them.”

  “Indeed.” Adam pictured a crowded railway platform, the echo of gunfire, commuters scattering in panic. He adjusted the coat under his head. “Maybe we’ll take in a theatre show and all.”

  The Lady Charlotte steamship of the British and Irish Steam Packet Company had been rolled out of Belfast’s shipyards only a month before. Her newly painted, six-hundred-foot lines gleamed brilliantly in the sunset and the twin smokestacks rose high enough to dwarf the dock cranes on the quay. With a crew of four hundred and berthing for over a thousand passengers, she had ushered in a lavish new era for cross-channel travel.

  As it was a late crossing, James instructed Tara to book them each a cabin for rest. “Take advantage of the department dibs,” he insisted, “and enjoy a taste of luxury.”

  Her cabin, when she eventually found it through the maze of carpeted corridors, was warm and spacious with panelled walls, a mahogany writing desk, and a queen-sized bed. There was even a liquor cabinet stocked with wines and spirits.

  James’s cabin was around the next passage. He told her, “Don’t be too long. When you’re ready we’ll go up to the lounge for an evening meal and a nightcap, and I’ll introduce you to the rest of the entourage.”

  It was past ten o’clock when the lights of Dublin receded into the night and the ship entered open sea. On the top deck the restaurant was in full swing, waiters in black waistcoats scurrying between the tables while a pianist played soft airs in the background. A scent of fish and sauces wafted from the kitchen as James procured a table underneath a giant crystal chandelier.

  “Oh, lobster,” he hummed in approval. “Excellent. That’ll go down well with some decent Chablis. How about you, Tara? Shall I order for both of us?”

  The main course exceeded her expectation, and she followed it with a rather spectacular chocolate fudge cake. Over coffees James introduced her to the others—secret service men, diplomats, and secretaries, prim folk in the main but made merry by the wine and cuisine. The bar remained open, and laughter was soon echoing into the tall ceiling.

  By midnight Tara longed for the cool sanctuary of her cabin.

  “Quite right,” James agreed. “We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow. Best get some sleep.”

  He followed her below, a little unsteady on his feet from the wine and the gentle tilt of the ship.

  “Docking at five,” he told her, as she fumbled for the key to unlock her door. “Don’t sleep in. It’s straight on the London train once we’re ashore.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Bryant. It was a fun night. See you in the morning.”

  He peered over her shoulder into the interior of her cabin. “Everything all right in there? Got everything you need?” For a moment he looked as though he would step inside to inspect himself.

  “It’s fine,” she assured him. “Perfect. So good night.”

  He grinned. “Plenty room, eh? Room for two, I should imagine. Ah, well.” He rubbed his hands. “I must hit the hay myself. Until the morrow, then.”

  When he left she locked the door and sat on the edge of the bed, pulling off her shoes and tights. Through the tiny porthole, the sea was impenetrably black but for the frothy line of the ship’s wake passing underneath the deck lights. Engines rumbled faintly below, deep in the bowels of the vessel. She closed down the window shutter, undressed, and climbed into bed.

  It seemed only minutes later that the hall porter knocked and they were in England.

  The mighty Thames was cluttered with barges and small craft, jostling for mooring berths. Captain Jackson took the Freya Angelica downriver to the loading docks and deposited Adam and Liam on the quay in the midst of a thunderous downpour. Hats clutched on their heads, they hurried up the road to the first dockside tavern where a fire blazed invitingly within. With a mug of tea and a steak and kidney pie each in front of them, Adam laid the map across his knees.

  “We’re on the wrong end of the river, first of all. Hampstead is to the northwest, and it’s too far to walk from here. We’ll get a hackney. Collins can go hang.”

  They told the driver that they were insurance salesmen. He waxed lyrical about the weather, and they tipped him generously when he dropped them on Finchley Road.

  “How far from here?” Liam asked. “It’ll be nice to sleep in a proper bed. That old fishing tub stank like an abattoir.”

  Adam consulted the map again. “Follow me.”

  It was still raining, but ten minutes later they were outside a brown-bricked, semidetached house facing a football pitch. A woman with grey hair tied in a bun and a Cockney accent ushered them inside.

  “You lot will be snuffling with colds by morning,” she fussed and made them remove their sodden coats and shoes in the hallway. “Go through to the sitting room. There’s a fire lit.”

  The room smelt of pipe smoke. An old man with a beard rose from a rocking chair and gave a toothless smile. “Ah, lads, ye’re most welcome. Sit, sit.” His accent was soft and jaunty. The deep south of Kerry.

  “You can call me Seanie,” he said, shaking their hands. “This is Mrs. O’Toole, my wife. And don’t be worrying about the accents of her. She’s of Killarney stock like myself. Moved to London with her parents when she was three.”

  “I’m Adam, this is Liam,” Adam said. “We’re very grateful for your help.”

  “Not at all.” Seanie waved him away. “Sure I’ve met Mick Collins from Clonakilty before. Only too happy we are to help out his friends.”

  There was a network of sympathisers, both Irish and English, around London and other cities. They proved invaluable in helping men like Adam and Liam to stay underground, and the movement made sure to compensate them in return.

  “You’ll have something to eat, lads?” Seanie asked.

  Liam was about to reply in the affirmative when Mrs. O’Toole said, “They’ll freshen up first. There’s hot water and clean towels upstairs, boys. Afterwards you can join us in the dining room.”

  They had been given a bedroom each, a pleasant surprise after the squalor of the boat. Water was heated off a gas stove and piped up to the bathroom, and once he was washed Adam changed into fresh slacks and shirt before balling his fisherman’s getup into the haversack.

  A low arch led from the kitchen into the dining room, which was just big enough to accommodate a table, four chairs, and a sideboard laden with pictures of saints and popes. Above the sideboard a framed oil painting of Jesus Christ had been mounted on the wall.

  “Something smells good,” Liam enthused.

  From her modest facilities Mrs. O’Toole rolled out a spread to feed a battalion. Taking their plates she piled them high with cuts of ham and turkey, floury potato mash, and dollops of cabbage and drowned the lot in throat-scalding gravy. Seanie and Liam applied themselves to it like they were digging a mine. Adam ate as much as he could comfortably accommodate, but his appetite was sorely diminished by his mounting nerves. Mrs. O’Toole kept a reproving eye on him as he nudged the slivers of meat round his plate.

  Eventually Seanie O’Toole sighed, sat back, and patted the round hillock of his belly. “We’ll have tea, missus,” he suggested, and as she padded off to the kitchen he leaned forward on the table, grinning gleefully. “Oh, I envy you two. ’Tis a merry dance you must be leading the peelers. So what are you up to over here? You can tell me.”

  Adam exchanged a cautious glance with Liam. “I’m afraid we’re not permitted to divulge th
at information, Seanie. But let me say that your assistance in the matter is greatly appreciated.”

  “Ye lucky devils.” Seanie’s eyes twinkled. “What I’d give to be a young man again. I haven’t been home in nearly forty years. Ach, there’s nothing for me there now.” His attention wandered a moment. Then he perked up again and said, “Well, you’re both more than welcome. Will you be staying long?”

  “Not long. Not long.”

  “Aye, I know. But it’s great to have you. You know, I never had any sons.” Again a wistful pause. He looked behind his shoulder. “Ahoy, Adam, reach into that sideboard behind you. There’s a decent malt inside. Will ye share a wee drop with me, lads?”

  But before they could answer, Mrs. O’Toole returned with teacups and a milk jug. “You’ll both be up early tomorrow, boys. Best to bed after your tea, then.”

  “Yes,” Adam agreed. “That would be for the best, ma’am.”

  Seanie’s head lowered in disappointment.

  Adam’s room was at the back of the house, his bed made up with a flower-patterned eiderdown and feather pillows. It was getting dark outside. He peered out across a meshwork of lanes and cropped lawns, garden gnomes and greenhouses, lit by streetlamps and glistening in the soft rain. He drew the curtains.

  Night brought a black sleep.

  It was still dark when Tara and James disembarked the ferry at Liverpool. There were bleary eyes and a few sore heads as they clambered onto the first-class carriages on the London train, and Tara found herself allotted into a compartment with James and a couple of overweight diplomatic aides. She was dozing off even before the train rumbled out of the station, and she didn’t wake until the first fledgling rays of dawn began to creep above the hills to the east.

  “It’s good to be home,” James murmured, gazing through the window.

  England sped by, the smoky sprawl of Lancashire, the green and forested East Midlands, the spires of Coventry City. Their carriage attendant wheeled up a breakfast of poached eggs and kippers with a pot of coffee, so that they were enlivened a little by the time they reached Tottenham. From here it was only a small onward journey to Victoria Station in the heart of London.