When Shadows Fall

by Paul Reid

  But there were soldiers and policemen in the streets, too. Far more than what was normal for a Sunday afternoon, Adam thought. They moved with unsettling urgency, trucks roaring past, and random pedestrians were being stopped and searched. He watched them warily. Was the crowd making them nervous? Was there a problem?

  After lunch they walked in the direction of the football grounds at Croke Park. A huckster in a moth-eaten shawl called to Tara, trying to tempt her to some late autumn offerings. Tipperary’s supporters were congregating in groups, boisterous with their first experience of the capital. The loudest voice, however, came from an aging policeman who was thundering at a poplin seller.

  “Fourteen slain,” he spat, “and that’s only the last count. The IRA death squads had a bloody rampage.”

  Adam stopped, listened, and edged closer to the conversation.

  “Didn’t I just say it to the wife, that there was something wrong this morning?” The trader shook his head with incredulity. “Fourteen?”

  “British intelligence men and detectives, I’ve heard,” the policeman answered. “The very cream of the crop, and the IRA have wiped them all out. There’ll be hell to pay over this.”

  “Adam?”

  Tara had moved on in the crowd, but now she turned back to see where he was gone.

  “Coming,” he said.

  They rejoined the throng and Tara looked at him. “Are you all right? You seem a little bewildered.”

  Fourteen. The very cream of the crop. It had the paw prints of Michael Collins all over it.

  “What? Yes. I’m all right, thank you. Come on, I want to get a good spot for the football.” He glanced back once at the policeman, and then continued on towards Croke Park.

  News soon spread of the early morning killings. There was unease in the crowd. Heads leaned towards each other and voices were taut with tension.

  Nonetheless, there was a football match to be played.

  “Something happened this morning, didn’t it?” Tara asked Adam, as they squeezed their way towards the canal end of Croke Park.

  “It’s nothing,” he told her. “Just enjoy the game.”

  “Adam, I can hear everybody talking about it.”

  “All right,” he sighed. “There were some shootings. That’s all I know. But let’s forget about it.”

  She closed her eyes for a second. “It’s the IRA. They’ve been killing people, I’ll bet.”

  “I’m sure they had their reasons. Here, this way, I want a spot higher up.”

  “Butchers. Will they ever stop?”

  But Adam hadn’t heard those words. He tried to manoeuvre them a better vantage point as spots were rapidly occupied.

  Behind schedule, at quarter past three the teams jogged out onto the grass. Both captains were summoned to the centre by the referee while the other players took up their positions. The referee gave a few gruff warnings about conduct, the captains shook hands, the whistle blew, and the ball was in the air.

  Tipperary seized the early initiative, their big midfielder gathering the ball and placing a pass out wide to the right-hand forward. The youngster twisted away from the attentions of two Dublin defenders and delivered a quick hand pass to the centre forward, who deftly kicked it high and over the bar.

  The crowd roared.

  Dublin immediately launched a counteroffensive, hoofing the ball out to the Tipperary forty-five-metre line. A clash of bodies sent the ball spinning clear; it was scooped up by a corner forward who curled it with the inside of his boot and watched it sail safely between the posts. Another roar.

  A point apiece.

  It continued with breathtaking pace, neither side giving quarter, and Adam bellowed as a Dublin forward was upended by an overzealous defender. “Penalty,” he insisted. “Come on, ref, take that dirty fellow’s name.” He grinned at Tara. “Penalty for Dublin. This could put us three points ahead.”

  The goalkeeper, muttering at the injustice of it, took up position on the goal line in readiness. The Dublin forward placed the ball on the penalty spot and moved a few steps back. The crowd’s voice was now a wild dissonance, both sets of spectators doing their level best to out-howl each other. Tara looked up at Adam and laughed. “I can’t hear a thing!”

  Adam was about to reply, but then he stopped. The penalty hadn’t been taken yet. The heads on the pitch were looking in the opposite direction.

  “What is it?” Tara asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  None of the players moved now. They stood with their hands on their hips, gazing towards the canal end gate.

  “Something’s happening,” Adam said uneasily.

  The clamour of anticipation in the crowd died away. They saw that the penalty wasn’t going to be taken, and they strained to see the source of the disruption.

  A voice rang out near the gates, a panicked voice, but his words were indecipherable. In the next instant there was a violent crash and the sound of splintering wood. A stream of men ran onto the pitch to where the players watched in bafflement.

  “Soldiers,” someone cried, and a gasp of fear rose from the crowd.

  “Adam?” Tara glanced at him. “What’s happening?”

  “I said I don’t know.”

  The soldiers congregated in the middle, and for a few moments an eerie, uncertain silence descended on the park.

  A silence abruptly shattered when they lifted their weapons.

  Automatic fire rattled through the air and across the terraces. It pinged off iron and concrete and slammed into flesh, sending the crowd into a heaving, screaming frenzy. They surged forward to get off the terraces and bodies fell, blocking the way. From the turnstiles a second wave of men advanced.

  In their Tam o’Shanter hats, the hated Auxiliaries were unmistakable. They turned their guns on the stampeding spectators, and then on the players. One was hit and collapsed on the grass, blood seeping through his jersey. Then another.

  “Get down!” Adam thrust his hand on Tara’s neck and dragged her through the maelstrom, through the chaos. “Get down!”

  “I can’t,” she cried.

  He pulled her off the terraces towards the gates. Bodies clogged the path, slowing them. Now there was rifle fire coming from the canal bridge, too. People trying to climb over the walls were hit and spun clear. The main horde surged outside, maddened by terror, and an armoured car rolled out of St James Avenue. Its machine guns unleashed a cacophonous volley into the storm, and the crowd broke left and right, caught in a wicked trap.

  “Stay with me,” Adam yelled at Tara. “Don’t leave my side.”

  Tara’s eyes were huge with horror. She stumbled as Adam yanked her along. There was a young, dark-haired woman sprawled facedown over a drain. A few feet away lay the body of a boy, no more than ten. The fusillade kept up at a blistering rate, bullets skittering off walls and pavements.

  “This way,” Adam shouted. They ran towards Ardilaun Road and around a terrace of houses. Faces at the windows gaped out in disbelief. More running feet, and a section of RIC appeared at the top of the road.

  “Shit, more of them.” Adam bundled Tara into a garden. They crouched down behind a timber shed and waited until the body of men had charged past. Adam rose up for a look.

  A straggling RIC officer almost collided with him. For a fleeting second both men glared at each other, then the officer whipped up his rifle and took aim.

  Adam was close enough to rip it from the man’s hands. He swung the butt round and smashed it across his jaw, knocking him into the garden. Tara let out a scream.

  “Move it, Tara,” Adam snapped, relieving the weapon of its ammunition and then tossing it aside. “Get out of here.”

  They managed to make it through several streets as far as the North Strand Road, the clamour behind them beginning to recede. Finally they reached Fairview Park and staggered into the woodland¸ shaken and out of breath. Neither could speak. They stared at each other, struck dumb by shock. There was nothing from Croke Park n
ow. The only sound was birdsong and the gentle whisper of pine trees.

  “They have destroyed without trial. I have paid them back in their own coin.” Michael Collins on the killing of the British spies.

  “Shots were fired to warn wanted men, who caused a stampede and escaped in the confusion.” A Dublin Castle press release on the massacre at Croke Park.

  “It seems to be agreed that there is no such thing as reprisals, but they are having a good effect.” Member of Parliament Lord Hugh Cecil’s satirical comment on the British policy of reprisals against the Irish population.

  Adam didn’t bring Tara home that evening. He instead took her to the Long Hall on George Street, for a meal, a glass of wine. Anything . . .

  Her hands were still shaking.

  Adam’s hands were not shaking. He was relieved. Surely now, at least now, she would understand.

  “A murderer’s business,” he broached the subject carefully. “They knew what they wanted to do. And by God, they did it.”

  “What?” Tara had barely spoken in hours. She stared at the menu. “I think—I think I’m not so hungry.”

  “I can understand that.” Adam gestured for the waiter to give them a few minutes. “Tara, today was horrible. I should have brought you home. But at last now you see.”

  She rubbed her eyes tiredly. “How could they have done it?”

  “It’s what they do,” he said.

  “But those people were innocent. They keep on killing innocent people.”

  “It’s what they do.”

  She bit her lip, tears sliding down her cheek. “Innocent people. Who are these murderers?”

  “I don’t know. But we’ll get the better of them, eventually.”

  “Innocent.” She lifted her head to him. “Soldiers from England, here to help us. Policemen from Ireland, here to help us. And the IRA have killed them all.”

  He stared at her. “What do you—”

  “Dear God, Adam,” she wept, “please, please help me. Ireland is dying in a horrible way, and I can’t take it anymore.”

  The waiter returned to light the candles on their table. Adam gave him a dismissive flick of his hand and looked at Tara.

  “Policemen, soldiers—what are you talking about? The innocent people were those victims at Croke Park.”

  “I know!” She slapped the table with sudden anguish, and the heads of the other diners turned in their direction. Adam shifted.

  “Easy, Tara. You’re upset, that’s all.”

  “You have no clue, do you?”

  “I know, I know you’re upset. But you misunderstand what happened today. Those who died this morning, the IRA killed them because—”

  Her eyes cleared of tears. They opened fully, sheer steel, unblinking. “The IRA are the killers. And I know. They brought the killing today. The IRA kill fathers, mothers, children. And they all deserve to die in return.”

  Her voice had risen, and cutlery clattered around them. Women’s heads lowered and their gentlemen glowered at the waiters. Two of them moved politely towards Tara.

  “It’s all right.” Adam rose to his feet. “Time we were going anyway. That wine is corked.”

  He tried to take Tara’s arm but she shook it off. He tried again, stronger this time, and forced her to her feet. He gestured for the waiter to bring her coat and then wrapped it around her body. “We’ll go now, Tara. I think we should leave.”

  Outside, she began to cry. “I’ve ruined our night, Adam. But you don’t understand—”

  “Oh, I understand fine,” he muttered. “What in heaven’s name kind of nonsense are you talking about? You saw what happened today.”

  “Oh, I saw. You have no idea of what I’ve seen. How would you?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? I’ve seen plenty of things.”

  “You’ve got no idea,” she retorted. “No idea at all. Oh, I know you fought in the war, Adam. But you’ve had an easy life otherwise. I have not.”

  He shook his head. “You’re like a different person. Explain to me what’s going on.”

  “And why should I? Why? You’d never understand.”

  “Fine. I’ll take you home, then.” He tried to dispel the anguish her words had stirred in him. This was happening too fast. He couldn’t think. “And I believe I’ll go home myself too, actually. There’s little else for us to say but goodnight.”

  He escorted her to her house, but she didn’t ask him to light the fire or have a cup of tea. Instead she went upstairs without a word, leaving him to lock the door behind him as he left.

  It was far from curfew but there were soldiers and policemen everywhere in the city centre, charged with a nervous, angry energy. Adam was careful to avoid them as he turned down Duke Street and entered Davy Byrne’s. It was quiet inside, for most punters had the good sense to stay at home. He ordered a Guinness and a glass of malt and sank them in quick succession. The bartender poured another stout.

  “A bad day out, sir,” he said. “Probably not a night to be wandering the streets.”

  “Yeah.” Adam pushed some coins across the bar. “Keep the wet stuff coming, my man.”

  A few more customers entered after awhile. Adam paid them no attention, until a hand tapped his shoulder and a familiar face greeted him.

  “Bowen. I hope you haven’t been burning the candle at both ends in here.”

  Adam turned to him. “Rourke, by God, you’re a sore sight for eyes.” His voice was merry and starting to slur. “Never mind, buy a drink for you? Pull up a stool.”

  “The big fellow won’t like to see you getting drunk.” Rourke looked very sober and reproving. “Not tonight of all nights.”

  “I have my own problems to worry about,” Adam grunted.

  “They spoke highly of you in West Cork, you know. An intelligent, disciplined young man, they said.”

  “Rourke, I want to be left alone for a while. Think you can manage that?”

  “And they’re hoping to see you down there again soon, with a different brigade this time. There’s an operation planned. A big one.”

  Adam snorted and returned to his pint.

  “They’re going to engage the enemy head-on, and they want you to be a part of it. Mick will tell you the details himself. It’ll be a bloody affair, and worse now, I’d imagine, after today.”

  Adam was thinking about Tara’s expression in the restaurant, that look of haunted anger in her face. His own head was swimming with confusion, his emotions swirled about in a tide of alcohol.

  “Well?” Rourke pressed him. “Are you going to be on board for this?”

  Adam gave him a dark smile. “I’m not walking away from anything. Yes, you can be sure I’ll be on board.”

  He thought about seeing Tara before he left. But he changed his mind.

  Too soon, he felt. Too soon to question. For the time being it was easier to live in some limbo of denial, to pretend she hadn’t said the things she had, that nothing was different.

  But things were different. Those words, spoken with the candour of grief, had opened a chasm between them, deep and wide. A line of dialogue, a mighty axe stroke cleaving their cosy world apart. Tara wasn’t even aware of it, but once she learned the truth herself . . .

  He stared through the window of the train. Outside strong gales harried black clouds across the landscape, trees bent beneath a low sky. Nobody else joined him in the compartment.

  He was met off the train in Dunmanway and put up in an inn near Clogher. The next day he was mobilised with thirty-six other men on a rutted boreen that overlooked a wild vista of wind-ripped trees and heather. The brigade commandant was a thin, quick-eyed man with a head of startled-looking hair. He greeted Adam with a handshake.

  “I’m Tom Barry. One of Collins’s fellows, are you? I’m told you served.”

  “I did,” Adam said. “Royal Dublin Fusiliers. France mostly.”

  “I was a sergeant with the Royal Field Artillery in Mesopotamia,” Barry replied. “Damn hot c
ountry out there, battling the Turks for sand and ego. It was outside Kut-el-Amara that I first heard of the rebellion in 1916. Where were you?”

  Barry had an abrupt style about him. Adam cast his mind back. He’d been on his way home on furlough when a communiqué was distributed around the ship, telling of the bloody street battles, the shelling of the rebel positions. “On a boat. I remember it well.”

  Barry sniffed, looking him up and down. “You know, I learned nothing of my country’s history when growing up. I was taught about the kings and queens of England, how the various dynasties came to the throne. About Trafalgar and Waterloo and Cecil Rhodes and Chinese Gordon. I didn’t know about Ireland’s own achievements. I didn’t know about the spread of Christianity and learning throughout Europe by Irish scholars, but I was certainly taught all about the blessings of civilisation that Robert Clive and the East India Company brought to dark and heathen India. And yet when 1916 happened . . . ” He gazed off to the distance. “1916 changed everything for me. And so here we are, sir, in wild West Cork.”

  “I think we must have had a similar education,” Adam agreed. “So you have a role for me here?”

  “I might, too. I’d like you to take charge of one of the sections. They tell me you made good progress with the lads out in Bantry.”

  “I hope so.”

  “You’ll have a harder week’s work with us. Did Mick Collins tell you what I’m about?”

  “He mentioned something about an engagement.”

  “The Macroom Auxiliaries.” Barry glanced back to the mustered men nearby and lowered his voice. “They know nothing of it yet. We’ll have to put them through their paces for the week, and Saturday is time enough to lay bare our plans. You’re up to it?”

  “You give the orders, Commandant, and I’ll follow them.”

  “Can you ride?”

  “Haven’t been in a saddle since the war, but I’ll manage it.”

  “Lay about later when the sections are dismissed. I want to show you my ambush position.”

  After the day’s exercises, with the light still holding, they rode northeast across the fields and made for a road that was half lost between rocks and bramble. Along with Adam, Tom Barry brought the other section leaders and set out his plan.