When Shadows Fall

by Paul Reid

  Outside King’s Bridge Station he took a tram to the office on Lower Baggot Street. It was ten o’clock. Duncan would have half a day’s work done by now, the tiresome enthusiast that he was.

  The morning sky looked villainous. He reached the building before the clouds opened, brushed off his coat, and let himself inside. Lydia was at the reception desk. Her mouth opened in surprise. “Mr. Bowen! It’s—why, we weren’t expecting you.” Her hand went instinctively to her hair and she blushed.

  “The sight of your pretty face makes all my struggles worthwhile, Lydia.” Adam winked at her. “Yes, I’ve been on the road a bit. Sorry for taking so long. Where are those two hardworking brothers of mine?”

  “Allister went to see a client in Stillorgan, sir.” Lydia was permitted to use Christian names when distinguishing one Mister Bowen from another. “And Duncan is upstairs. There’s somebody with him, though.”

  “I’ll wait in my office. I must speak with him.”

  “Of course, sir. Would you like some tea or coffee?”

  “No, thank you. I won’t be staying long.”

  He eased into his old dungeon and screwed up his nose at the smell of must. There were files on his desk, most of them untouched since he’d left. Duncan’s muffled voice could be heard through the gypsum wall. Another male voice answered him. Adam put his ear closer to listen.

  “Have no fears on that score,” Duncan was saying. “Confidentiality is a cornerstone of any legal firm worth its salt.”

  Adam couldn’t follow the client’s softer voice. But he heard something about “potential embarrassment” and “powerful antagonists.” Duncan then said, “You’d be surprised, sir, by how common a dispute of this nature is. Be assured, I have settled far more complex ones in my time. Yours will not present a problem.”

  “Good, excellent.” Adam could decipher the man’s words better now. “Thank you, Mr. Bowen. I feel a little more relaxed now. I must say I’m glad you were recommended to me. A stroke of good fortune.”

  Duncan chuckled. “Well, I’m glad of that, too. You met him on a train, you said?”

  “Yes. On the way to Cork. He was quite adamant that I should come to see you and explain my predicament.”

  “Delighted to hear it. Adam has not been with us long, but this kind of enthusiasm I love to see.”

  “A very bright young man. He’ll make your company proud yet, Mr. Bowen.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Duffy.”

  Behind the wall, Adam’s legs had turned mutinous.

  Duffy.

  He’d forgotten all about that name. The man on the train, the banker going after the IRA funds. He’d sent him to Duncan himself, and sheer bloody coincidence now had the very man sitting in the next room. With everything that had happened in the meantime, Adam had never relayed the information to Collins.

  He heard the sounds of chairs scraping as both men stood up. Quickly he nudged his door shut. Duncan shook hands with Duffy and escorted him downstairs. They said their good-byes at the front door. Then Adam heard Lydia’s voice.

  “What?” Duncan thundered. “He’s upstairs? What the—”

  He stormed up the steps and pulled Adam’s door open. “Where in Saint Bernard’s backside have you been?”

  Adam was rapidly trying to gather his next move. The appearance of Duffy had confused everything. “Duncan, I told you I’d be back.”

  “Did you now? I could have been fooled! I gave you four weeks off. That was nearly two months ago. What have you been doing?”

  “I’m sorry. Things took a little longer than planned.”

  Duncan’s chest had started to wheeze. He took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. “Unprofessional, Adam. Damned unprofessional! Your files were left unattended, I’ve had concerned clients calling about delays, and I’ve had to finish half your work myself. A bloody awful show.”

  “I’m out of line.”

  “And I’ve every mind to sack you.”

  It would have been easy to finish it right there. Let Duncan sack him. Walk out for good, just as he’d wanted to.

  And yet he knew he couldn’t let Duffy and his plans slip away again. So he nodded contritely. “You’re absolutely right, Duncan. I apologise. I’ll not take my position for granted again.”

  “Oh, you intend to stay, do you?”

  “Of course. I’m proud to work here. I value my place in the firm.”

  Duncan huffed and grunted but then began to relent. “I suppose we got through without you. But don’t ever leave me in the lurch like that again. It’s a disgrace! Still,” he finally allowed himself the hint of a smile, “I know you didn’t forget about us entirely. That client who just left . . . ”

  “Oh?” Adam enquired innocently.

  “Duffy was his name. Clinton Duffy. You should remember him, Adam. He said you were most helpful in discussing a legal matter with him and that you referred him to me personally.”

  Adam frowned. “Really? Hmm . . . ah, hold on. Yes, now I have him placed. A fellow who works with the bank?”

  “That’s him. He has a grievance over some land that he paid a deposit for in good faith, no doubt hoping to flog the lot in a few years to some industrial developer. The thing is, the seller can’t prove ownership, and an adjoining landowner is claiming adverse title, which threatens to spoil all the fun. Piddling, run-of-the-mill stuff really, but Duffy has good connections in Munster, so I’d like to serve him well. Well done to you. This is the kind of client I want to build relationships with.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Adam said. “Tell me, did you learn much about him? Where he lives, what kind of work he does for the banks, that kind of thing? I’m just curious, really.”

  “A few things. I must draft some notes on the meeting while my mind is fresh. I take it you’re staying with us today?”

  “Of course. I’ll just ask Lydia to make me some coffee.”

  He’d get those notes on Duffy, however he managed it.

  Once again, he was back at war.

  Larry Mulligan had been sitting inside his dank flat on Sackville Street for two days, smoking Woodbines and chewing his nails. When finally there was a knock on his door, on Tuesday evening, he was ready to throttle the person at the other side.

  “You took your time, you bollox,” he snarled at the visitor. “You’d better have something useful for me.”

  Young Billy McDonagh manned the reception desk at Vaughan’s Hotel on Parnell Square, in between his schooling. Vaughan’s was an unofficial, alternative headquarters for the Republican leadership. Michael Collins liked to drink there and used to stay the odd night until police surveillance made it too risky.

  Billy stepped into Mulligan’s flat, deeply unhappy. “Look, I couldn’t find out much at all about Bowen. Most of the lads don’t know him very well yet. He reports directly to the big fellow, but Mick hasn’t been in for some time. And you told me to be discreet, so I didn’t ask too much.”

  “Nothing at all?” Mulligan rolled his eyes. “You’re a shit-sack excuse for a volunteer, aren’t you?”

  “Come on, Larry, don’t be like that. I know he’s a solicitor, that much I found out. Bowen and Associates—that’s his company. But he hasn’t been to Vaughan’s lately, that I can promise you. If he had been, I’d have come straight over to you.”

  Mulligan grunted and went to sit on his bed. He lit another Woodbine, and through the whorls of smoke he warned Billy, “He’s going to show up sooner or later. And I want him for myself, Billy. You understand? Nobody else. You tell me where he is, and I’ll deal with him on my own.”

  Billy shrugged. “What’s this man supposed to have done, Larry?”

  “Never you mind, you fucking clerk. This is an IRA disciplinary matter, and I’m in charge. When Bowen shows, or if you find out where he lives, you tell me.”

  “I promise, Larry.”

  “Good.” Mulligan blew tobacco fumes into the ceiling. “Adam Bowen and his little traitor tart won’t be ahead of me for
much longer.”

  Adam’s first, reluctant day back at work stretched late into the evening. Duncan and Lydia had already left, while Allister had been out all day at consultations and their paths hadn’t crossed yet. Adam dawdled about his office and made a go of reading a ridiculously long engineer’s report on a piece of waste-ground near Rathmines that Dublin Corporation wished to run sewerage pipes through. The landowner was refusing to agree to the wayleave allowing the Corporation to lay pipes on his land, and so Adam’s task was to arrange a compulsory transaction.

  Duncan’s parents-in-law were visiting him and Sarah to take dinner, hence his early departure. He’d been grumbling about it all day. “Her old fellow thinks I’m the son he never had, you know,” he complained to Adam. “Have you ever heard anything so ghastly? Plus he likes quoting scripture after dinner. Scripture, whilst I’m waiting on my dessert. Of all the black-hearted villains—”

  Lydia left shortly after Duncan to catch a tram back home to her parents, and thus Adam now had the place alone. He turned out most of the lamps downstairs then went up to Duncan’s office. The largest room in the building, it smelled of leather upholstery and cigar smoke. Bookshelves strained under the weight of dusty old law reports, and there was a row of filing cabinets lining the wall. Adam tried the drawers, but they were locked. Not as easy as that, then.

  The only key Duncan had given him was for the main door to the building. It wouldn’t fit these cabinets. There were a few papers scattered on Duncan’s desk, mostly receipts and acknowledgements and social invitations. The office was otherwise scrupulously tidy, which wasn’t like Duncan. For all his wizard-quick legal brain, he was mostly bumbling and messy at the best of times. Then again, it wouldn’t be Duncan who kept the office so spick and span.

  Lydia, Adam realised. Both Duncan and Allister depended on her for almost everything. Diligent, conscientious Lydia—could she be the one unwittingly frustrating his efforts?

  He returned below and went to her desk. Her own drawers were locked fast, and he swore at her efficiency. The furniture was Victorian, the locks old. He recalled watching one of the privates in his platoon, when they were trying to break into a German granary, use the pin of a belt buckle to open the door’s lock. It had worked that time, and so he searched Lydia’s pristinely kept desk and picked up a paper clip. He worked it straight and then tried it inside the hole, manoeuvring it deftly, frowning in concentration. Eventually, after several minutes of application, he heard a click and the lock was released. Progress at last.

  Next to a pile of notepads was a set of keys. He kissed them and hurried back up to Duncan’s office. With trial and error, he found the matching one for the cabinets. Hordes of paperwork stuffed the insides, but thankfully they were arranged in alphabetical order.

  A, B, C, D—Davis, Dermot, Dillon, Downey—

  Duffy.

  He pulled out the sheaf. There was some brief correspondence and a set of notes written up by Duncan on Duffy’s particular case. Adam eased himself into Duncan’s chair to begin his reading.

  And then he froze.

  The front door had opened. There were footsteps on the floor below.

  Swearing, he thrust the papers back inside the cabinet and slid the drawer closed. He pushed Duncan’s chair back in place and made his way out to the stairs.

  “Hello?” he called.

  There was no answer. He peered below and saw a pool of shadow move across the floor.

  “Who’s there?” he demanded.

  Someone took a sharp intake of breath. A female sound.

  He cursed and marched downstairs. “Who’s there? Is that—? Oh, dear. It’s you. I’m sorry.”

  Lydia was standing by the door, white-faced. She took a faltering step back. “Mr. Bowen! Thank goodness, I thought there was an intruder.”

  “Lydia,” he sighed. “Didn’t you go home?”

  “Yes, sir. But I forgot my scarf, and it’s begun to rain again outside, so I just thought to fetch it.” She hesitated. “You’re, um, you’re late in the office, Mr. Bowen. Can I help with anything?”

  Adam didn’t answer.

  He was staring towards her desk. Lydia hadn’t noticed it yet, but he’d left her drawer pulled wide open, the one he’d forced with the paper clip. “Er,” he stuttered, “no, I’m fine, Lydia. You run along home now. It’s getting late.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” She put her hat back on and then moved towards the desk.

  “Where are you going?” He moved quickly to place his body in her way. “Don’t worry, I’ll lock up the building.”

  “Oh, yes, sir. Just going to tidy up my things before I leave, a force of habit.”

  “But you’ve tidied them already, haven’t you?” Adam forced his mouth into a smile. “All work and no play . . . you should be away having fun for the night.” At any instant she would look beyond his shoulder, see the drawer open, the keys removed.

  “Sir?” She gazed at him nervously. “Are you all right, sir?”

  “Yes!” He guffawed. “Perfectly so.”

  “Er, that’s good, sir. Now, if I could just get by you to my things, and then I’ll be on my way.”

  “Lydia.” He leaned across and rested one hand on the desk to block her view. With his other hand he rubbed his chin in a poise of thought. “Lydia. Oh, Lydia.”

  Her eyes widened. “Sir?”

  “Lydia, has anybody ever told you how beautiful you are?”

  It was a crude stroke, but the fastest one he could think of.

  She spluttered in mortification. “Sir! No, I mean—I mean, I should be leaving now.”

  “So soon?” He grinned in relief and to encourage her on her way, he reached across and lifted a stray lock of hair from her forehead. “Oh well, it was worth a try.”

  She shivered under his touch. Then she whispered, “Once, somebody did tell me that, sir. But it wasn’t you.”

  “Hmm?”

  Subtly she moved a little closer. The embarrassment in her cheeks had gone, replaced by a brave twinkle in her eye. “It means more that you have said it, sir.”

  This is backfiring.

  He shifted his feet to keep space between them. But with Lydia’s attention now solely on him, he was able to slip one hand behind his back, deposit the keys, and nudge the drawer closed. He relaxed.

  “Lydia,” he gathered himself, “it was rude of me to speak like that. You must excuse my impulsive actions. Please, don’t let me detain you any longer.”

  “I’m not offended, sir,” she said, lifting her head to his. “I’ve often thought about you.”

  The front door opened.

  Allister squinted in the faint lamplight. “What on earth—”

  Adam was still leaning with one arm on the desk, Lydia’s face just inches from his. Allister breathed slowly.

  “My good God. I had thought the place empty.”

  Adam groaned inwardly. “Can’t anyone go home? I mean, Allister,” he coughed, “what are you doing here?”

  “I should rather ask you the same question,” Allister replied. “I didn’t even know you were back. Might I enquire what was happening just before I entered?”

  Lydia’s face burned blazing red, as though she’d been scalded. She pulled away. “Mr. Bowen. Nothing, Mr. Bowen. I-I just came back to get my scarf. I’m late already, my parents will start to worry.” With shaking hands she scooped up her handbag, bustled past the glaring Allister, and left the office.

  Allister looked in her wake for several seconds before his gaze slid back to Adam. “What was going on?”

  “Really, Allister,” Adam sighed. “What is it you think you saw?”

  “I saw you,” he hissed. “And I didn’t think you could stoop so low. You were—you were touching her.”

  Adam was in no mood for more pretence. “Well, you’re the expert on moral behaviour, brother. I’m going now.”

  “What? You stay where you are. What do you mean by that?”

  “Never mind.
”

  “I don’t,” Allister took a deep breath to gather his dignity, “I don’t know what you think you saw that time, at my apartment. But whatever it is, you’re wrong. And I won’t suffer your lies being spread about me. I won’t! Do you hear me?”

  Adam fetched his coat and hat from the stand. “Your own business is your own business. Nothing to do with me.”

  “How dare you! Adam, if you even try to—well, I’ll, I’ll . . . ”

  “Good night, Allister,” Adam said. “See you in the morning.” He shut the door behind him.

  Allister’s apartment on Merrion Street was a well-appointed, two-storey unit with a living area that overlooked the park lake in St. Stephen’s Green. He had furnished it himself to his own tastes: rosewood chairs, mahogany sideboards, a cream Chesterfield sofa with brass castors, and an elaborately decorated mirror over the mantle. The coffee-coloured carpet was as soft and deep as it had been the day it was laid, as Allister never wore shoes inside and didn’t encourage visitors to either. He abhorred the idea of their grubby shoes tramping all over his floor or draping their dusty coats across his sofa.

  It being a Thursday evening, he would normally have taken a hackney to the Wellington Arms to meet friends for dinner and a drink. It was an established practice. A small group of them had been chums ever since Trinity, being similar to each other in their taste and refinement, well-educated and well-off, aficionados of theatre and academia, though shy of sports and anything with a loud engine. They were all unmarried too, and so the customary Thursday night get-together had become a vital social outlet. And the routine never altered. Seafood or steak and a few glasses of wine. Always home by eleven. At work the next morning by eight. Allister liked routine, and routine was good. A bedrock on which one builds success.

  Tonight, however, he was in no mood. He had walked the streets awhile before going home, thinking furious thoughts, driving his own head wild with imagination. Once home he poured a whiskey. It sat there still, barely sipped. He didn’t even drink whiskey often, for the smell made him nauseous, but he was in a dark mood and he wanted a dark-tempered drink to match it.