When Shadows Fall

by Paul Reid

  “Ah. That.” Adam looked at his pint. He felt no thirst for alcohol. “The troubles in this country. Don’t they affect you?”

  She also looked warily at her glass. “Yes. They have done.”

  “I’m trying to—trying to do something about it.” This wasn’t going to be easy. But she’d have to understand. She’d have to.

  “For de lady, surr.” A little voice abruptly intruded, and they both turned to find a four-foot girl in bare feet holding a bundle of rather sorry-looking weeds.

  “For the lady, sir,” the child repeated, sniffling through red nostrils. The hatch opened again, and the landlord stuck his head through.

  “Out,” he growled. “I warned ye before, now get out!”

  “Easy,” Adam told him. He rummaged in his pocket and thrust a few shillings into the child’s hand. She gazed at them in awe.

  “Now run along,” Adam told her, “and don’t give that money to your da either. Buy yourself some food from the stalls.”

  Without a word she scampered through the door, clutching the coins in her hand.

  “Hmm. Now where was I?” Adam looked again at Tara. “Oh, yes . . . ”

  She smiled and squeezed his hand. “You’re a good man, Adam Bowen. I can sense it. I sense it every time.”

  Adam stiffened at her words. “Am I?”

  He saw Timmy Hannigan pleading under his blindfold. He saw the poor dumb sergeant flying from his car, bouncing on the hard road, and rolling into the bushes. He saw Liam Clancy rippling under the bullets and collapsing on the platform of Victoria Station.

  “Yes, I’m a good man,” he said sadly.

  Tara’s face dropped. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “I’m being sent to Cork soon. For a special job. I won’t be gone long. You don’t mind?”

  “Of course I don’t mind you going to Cork. But there’s something else, isn’t there?”

  “No. Nothing.” He’d lost it now, lost the nerve, lost the moment. “We’ll talk about it some other time. But for tonight, let’s just enjoy ourselves.”

  When they finished their drinks, she asked, “Did you have anything to eat today?”

  “I did have a decent breakfast,” he said.

  “Well, I’m starving. Let me return the compliment of the drinks and make you a nice meal back at my house.”

  “I wouldn’t like to intrude.”

  “You wouldn’t be.” She laughed. “I’m asking you to come home with me, Adam. Will you do me the honour?”

  The question was heady with unspoken implication. He took a moment to reply, his voice husky. “I’d like that very much.”

  When the child with the flowers ran through the pub door, she inadvertently stepped on the foot of a big brawny shadow outside. He snapped at her. “Get out of it, you brat. Before I knuckle you.”

  Edging closer to the window, he watched the couple inside, heads lowered over their drinks, whispering conspiratorially.

  The man, the stranger—Mulligan shifted uncomfortably as he watched him. His head was turned at an angle so that Mulligan couldn’t see him properly, but still . . .

  And then the glow of light caught him just right.

  Mulligan’s eyes opened.

  Jesus, that’s what’s-his-name. One of Mick’s boys. The lad who went to London.

  Bowen! That was it. Mulligan recalled him now. Bowen had come to the flat on Sackville Street looking for guns. Mulligan hadn’t liked him. In fact, he knew there’d been something off about him. And here was the same man now, sharing cosy drinks with Tara Reilly, the very harpie herself.

  What did it mean?

  Bowen was one of them. A spy. Hardly surprising with a background like his, Anglo-Irish toffs, fighting for king and empire. And the lovely Tara Reilly on his arm to help him along with it.

  Mulligan breathed furiously.

  Right now, he could march in there, pull his revolver, and blow both their heads apart. But the bliss would be short-lived. There were policemen up the street, a soldiers’ truck farther down it. They wouldn’t arrest him, they’d simply kill him.

  No, bide your time, laddie, as his father would have advised.

  He walked away. But he wasn’t dejected. He was angry.

  They’d killed his father, people like Bowen and Reilly. They’d wiped out entire generations of good Irish people for their own avarice. And they reckoned they could rule the whole world forever.

  But they’d reckoned without Larry Mulligan.

  The night was chilly, and so Adam took it upon himself to light the fire in her house. When the curtains were pulled and the room warm and the food bubbled aromatically on the stove, he found it a cosy world.

  After eating they went into the sitting room and sat on the couch. They talked for an hour or two, innocent, evasive. When a silence descended between them, when the only sound was the ticking clock, Adam checked his watch.

  “I’m so sorry. I’ve kept you up far too late. I-I should go.”

  “That’s all right,” she murmured, nestling her head towards his. “I’m not quite so tired yet.”

  They kissed for the first time in her bedroom. She worked her fingers at his necktie and pulled it from his collar. His hands ran along her dress and grasped her waist, searching out the sleek contours of her body. Her breath quickened. She invited him closer.

  He opened his shirt and let it fall to the floor. She gasped at his naked flesh.

  “Oh, my darling. You’re scarred.”

  “I know. I’m ugly.”

  “No.” She laid a hand on his chest and kissed it, kissed his shoulder, his neck. “No. You’re beautiful.”

  He met her lips with his. “Say when enough,” he murmured.

  “I will,” she promised.

  He felt her loosen his belt buckle and slide his trousers from his legs. Just as gently she slipped out of her dress. Each of them took that moment to just stand, to just gaze upon the other’s bared body. Then he reached out to touch the pearly texture of her thigh and used the same gentle motion to lower her onto the bed. She opened her legs beneath him. He felt lights dance inside his head as he entered her, and he thought that he must wake up at any instant, that this was all too perfect to be real. The darkness enclosed them together, wrapping them into a dream-like world of ecstasy and release, of restraints abandoned and pleasures surrendered to. The hours drifted by, untouched.

  And when he did wake up, it was almost eight o’clock, morning traffic audible through the window. He blinked in the light as she drew apart the curtains.

  “Good morning.” She smiled shyly. He was lying naked, the blankets having tumbled away from him. He grabbed them quickly. “Sorry about that.”

  She was wearing a light blue dressing gown, and she began to pick up his clothing from where he had discarded it the night before. She folded his trousers and shirt across a chair and said, “Can I make you some tea? Coffee? And some toast, perhaps. Or bacon?”

  Her awkward manner discomfited him a little. “Tara, last night, I hope you’re not regretting it. I hope it wasn’t just the wine that made you . . . I mean, that made us . . . ”

  She perched herself gingerly on the edge of the bed and gave him a sad smile. “No. It wasn’t the wine. I’m glad you stayed with me last night.”

  He felt relieved. “Me too.” But there was an unsettled look in her eyes, and he asked, “What is it?”

  “Adam,” she sighed, “I don’t ever want to be a disappointment to you. Not ever.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “My life is not so simple as you might imagine it to be. I have . . . oh, things.”

  He sat up. “So do I. Believe me, I do. But is that any reason for us to doubt each other?”

  She gazed at him. “No,” she answered eventually. “No, I don’t think it is.”

  “Thank God.” Pushing aside the blanket, he leaned across and kissed her. “Go put on that coffee and bacon, Tara. And I’ll get dressed before I embarrass both of us an
y further.”

  That brought a light back to her face. She laughed and went downstairs with a hummed song on her lips. Adam edged off the bed and stared through the window at the Dublin morning.

  “Please God,” he whispered, “whatever happens, let nothing take her from me.”

  The more conspicuous you were, it seemed, the more inconspicuous you were.

  That evidently was Michael Collins’s attitude, for despite a £10,000 bounty placed on his head by the British government, he rode round Dublin on a bicycle in broad daylight, dined out in the most popular restaurants, and drank in bars teeming with Tommies.

  Thus Adam followed his example in travelling down to Cork. These days virtually every man with an Irish accent was a suspect, and individuals could be stopped, searched and interrogated at the whim of any policeman or soldier. So to stand out from the guilty masses, he bought himself a first-class ticket for the train and wore a sharp new suit to give him a touch of flair. He boarded the train at King’s Bridge Station and showed his ticket to an attendant who escorted him to a warm, leather-upholstered compartment with mahogany panels and thick burgundy carpeting. Ensconcing himself amongst the well-heeled should make him less likely to draw a suspicious official eye.

  As the train chugged south through the flat pastureland of Kildare they were served eggs, toast, and tea. Next to Adam sat a wan-faced man, the pallor of his profession no doubt, reading the Irish Times and regularly checking his fob watch. He ate his eggs rather noisily and slurped down some tea before returning to the newspaper. Opposite them was a young couple, fashionably dressed, haughty disdain in their eyes and reeking of old money. They had their daughter with them, a girl of about three, with chestnut pigtails, a floral-patterned dress, and an impish twinkle in her eye. She bit her nails consistently, drawing hisses of disgust from her mother, who eventually rummaged in her handbag and produced a lollipop to occupy the child’s mouth.

  The couple disembarked at Limerick Junction, with the lollipop by then forming a glutinous puddle on the carpet. Adam’s remaining companion folded his newspaper and shook his head.

  “A naughty little bother, what? When I was that age I would have had the mischief tanned out of me.”

  Adam nodded but said nothing.

  “Want my copy of the Times?” the man offered.

  Out of politeness Adam accepted. “Thank you.”

  However, no sooner had he begun reading the front page articles than the man leaned in again.

  “A banker, are you?”

  Adam frowned. “Sorry?”

  “I thought you might be going to the banker’s conference in Cork City, like myself. You’re not in the trade?”

  “No. I’m more in the legal side of things.” Adam rebuked himself for answering so readily. Yet it was an innocent question, and to appear cagey might tweak the other’s curiosity even more.

  “Ah, indeed.” The man smiled enthusiastically. “A solicitor? You look too young to be a barrister.”

  “Er, that’s right. Well, a trainee solicitor. I haven’t finished all the exams.”

  “So you’ll be serving your articles, then. What firm are you with?”

  Adam hesitated. The last thing he felt comfortable with was having a conversation about himself, especially given the reasons for this particular journey. Yet there was no front to be put over his involvement with Bowen & Associates. That much, at least, was legitimate.

  “It’s a family firm, actually. Bowen and Associates. Founded by my father, but my brother is at the helm now.”

  “I see. Well, it’s a pleasure. Clinton Duffy is the name.” The man thrust his hand out, and Adam shook it.

  “Adam Bowen. How do you do.” He wondered if the banker would insist on questioning him all the way to Cork.

  “You know, it’s funny,” Duffy said, “but I’m in need of a dab of legal advice myself as it happens. Something of a land deal that went wrong. Would you have experience of such affairs?”

  “Well, my brother—”

  “I’m mighty sour about it, to tell you the truth, and I intend to seek satisfaction.” Duffy gave a disgruntled harrumph, and the white jowls pouring over his collar quivered in sympathy. “A landowner agreed the sale of a site to me, something of a gentleman’s agreement, and I gave him a deposit two months back. Now, however, the slippery beggar can’t prove title, and without seeing title I’m damned if I’ll go one more step with him. I want my money back, confound it.”

  “Indeed.” Adam realised there was only one quick way to extricate himself from the conversation. “Duncan, my brother, would be only too happy to help you. I’ll give you our details, and you can have the secretary make an appointment with him.”

  “Wonderful, sir. It’s a matter I’d like to put to bed. I’ll be in touch with your office once I return to Dublin.”

  Adam thought that that might placate Duffy awhile, and he picked up the newspaper. They were nearing Mallow in north County Cork, green, hilly countryside under grazing, pretty in the sunshine.

  But after a few minutes Duffy piped up again.

  “You know, Mr. Bowen, I must admit I’m rather a ball of excitement about this trip to Cork. I shouldn’t really say, of course. But,” he smiled giddily, “it’s something a little beyond the pale of my usual banking duties.”

  Before he could elaborate, there was a knock on the compartment door and the attendant enquired if they would like a drink. It was past the midday mark, and Duffy nodded agreeably. “A Scotch neat, if you please. In fact, make it a double.”

  “I’ll have the same,” Adam said, for it might make the journey with Duffy go a little faster.

  Drink each in hand, Duffy carried on. “I tell you, a lifelong career in the banking trade couldn’t have prepared me for the business I’m to be involved in now. The IRA.”

  Adam thought he had misheard. “Excuse me?”

  “Perhaps you’ll know, having an ear in the legal world. Mum’s the word, of course, but strictly on a confidential basis, you being a solicitor and all, I’ll let you in on some of the latest happenings.”

  “Please do.” Adam discarded the newspaper.

  “We’re going after it. The lot of it.” Duffy lifted his chin smugly. “I’ve been given my orders.”

  “The lot of what?”

  “The IRA’s cash, of course. Those rascals have been raising funds the length and breadth of Ireland to run their terror campaign. Without the money they’d be finished. And that’s exactly what’s going to happen. There’s been a careful investigation going on for some time, and when they least expect it, we’re going to pounce. The entire rebel movement will be wiped out overnight.”

  Adam wasn’t sure how much of this could be boastful exaggeration, but he was at a loss for words. Mick Collins was the person responsible for amassing funds from sympathisers around Ireland. More money again came from America and elsewhere. Every ounce of weaponry they used was dependent upon it.

  “Overnight,” Duffy repeated. “We’ll wipe them out overnight.”

  “You said we, Mr. Duffy. Who’s we, exactly?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t discuss that side of it, Mr. Bowen. You’ll understand.” But Duffy had already drained most of his whiskey and seemed eager to talk. “Let’s just say that my own cousin is in at the high end of it. He’s a magistrate, and one of a handful of fellows directing this noble effort.”

  Details, Adam thought. I need details.

  But he was frustrated when the train stopped at Mallow and two women joined their compartment, a young, red-haired pair who looked like sisters. They smiled and Duffy made a perfunctory gesture of rising from his seat in courtesy, though his sagging bottom hardly left the leather.

  And that was the end of the conversation, for Duffy promptly closed up his mouth in the presence of the two women.

  Adam was restless. He simply had to know more, yet how?

  At Kent Station in Cork City, he watched in dismay as Duffy bid him a slurred good-bye, gathered
his suitcase, and waddled off onto the platform.

  “Mr. Duffy!” He went after him.

  “Mr. Bowen.” Duffy blinked. “Was there something else?”

  “Not at all. But you forgot to take the office details. You know, for your little land problem.” Adam handed him a card with the firm’s name, address, and telephone number. “Call any time.”

  “Ah. Thank you indeed, sir. I hope we’ll be in touch with each other very soon.”

  Adam watched him go. “Me too, Mr. Duffy,” he murmured, “for I’d like to get to know you a whole lot more.”

  There was a two hour wait in Kent Station for the connecting train to West Cork. A thunderous downpour drummed on the corrugated roof, and Adam withdrew into a deserted café where he was served some dubious tea and a soggy meat pie. For a time he stared through the window and watched the misty sheets of rain rolling over the tracks. A bell tower rang out somewhere in the city and the day darkened. He thought of Clinton Duffy, heading for his hotel with his clever plans in play.

  Wiped out overnight.

  Duffy was right. Without the funds that Collins was able to raise, the movement was finished. No money, no guns, no hope.

  The connection to Bantry left behind schedule. The day was drifting towards bleak evening as the train chugged west over the Chetwynd Viaduct into sodden, shadowed countryside. Adam slumped inside the empty carriage, beginning to doze as darkness fell. Hours slid by. There was a lengthy delay when a herd of cattle broke a fence and strayed onto the tracks.

  It was almost eight when a hand grasped his shoulder and shook him awake.

  “Your stop, sir?” The attendant gestured outside to a tiny, barren platform. In the shaky lamplight, Adam made out a sign that read “Bantry.”

  “Yes. Thank you.” He blinked a few times, yawned, and went to fetch his case.

  Outside, the rain had eased but a bitter gale howled through the station. The lamps guided his way down a grassy path to a gate swinging noisily in the wind. A single car was parked opposite by a quay wall, its canvas hood closed and its engine running. Adam hesitated; the car’s lights flashed once and then a man climbed from the driver’s side.