When Shadows Fall

by Paul Reid

  “District Inspector James Bryant.” Marjorie smiled coolly. “How unfortunate that you have come all this way on account of some dreadful clerical error. We shall address it in due course. In the meantime, however, let you and your men have a drink in the bar on my hospitality before you return to your stations. Your legal representatives shall hear from ours within the week. Thank you and good evening.”

  Adam’s palms were clenched on his knees. His knees shook. The window’s no good. The drop will kill me. The lobby door. No, the lobby’s guarded.

  James bowed his head. “A gracious gesture, Mrs. Bowen, but I’m afraid there has been no mistake. Adam Bowen is to be placed under my immediate arrest.”

  “What’s the charge?” Duncan howled in near apoplexy. “Goddamn your eyes, man, answer me!”

  James ignored him. “Adam Bowen,” he came closer to the table, “I am placing you under arrest on suspicion of activities to subvert Crown law. You don’t have to answer, but . . . ” He rolled out the cautioning and then leaned towards Adam’s ear. “I see your head moving, but no point making a run for it, for I have a dozen men surrounding the restaurant. Now be a gent, will you?”

  Marjorie rose from her chair. Quentin went to help her, but she swatted his hand aside. “Young man.” She turned a venomous gaze on James. “My son is innocent of your charges. He is a respectable son of Bowen and Holmes stock. Good families, loyal servants of the Crown for generations. You’re Bryant, you said? You must be Welsh, with a name like that. Sheepherders, your people? Coal miners?”

  “I am English, ma’am,” James answered.

  “You will apologise to my son. And then you will leave. You and the rest of your noisy churls in the corridor.”

  “And pack your bags for England afterwards,” Duncan thundered, cheeks red with outrage. “You’ll have no future in the police force either, you blackguard. I know people in London. I’ll have a word in the right ear, by God I will.”

  James nodded politely. “Sincerely, ladies and gentlemen, I do regret the necessity for this. But I’m only doing my job.” He turned back, snapped his fingers, and suddenly a burst of dark uniforms shoved through the doorway. They made for the chair where Adam sat.

  He leapt into action.

  Grabbing the chair in one hand, he hurled it at the uniformed mob. Two antagonists were knocked out of the fray. Sarah screamed. Quentin began to faint. Even Marjorie’s pallor lost a touch of its composure.

  The rest surged forward, and Duncan was knocked off his feet. He crashed over the table and sent the glasses and candelabra flying over the far end. Adam dodged to one side. A strong paw grabbed his shoulder and yanked him back.

  “Get him,” Allister yelled above the chaos. “Get him!”

  Several more brawny arms poured in. He fought but couldn’t get clear. With their sheer weight, they forced him to the ground and piled their bodies on top of him.

  “All right, don’t suffocate him,” James warned. “Just hold the bugger.”

  “He’s guilty, he is!” Allister jumped to his feet, flapping his hands in excitement. “Did you not know? He’s IRA, Mother. IRA! He’s one of them.”

  Adam began to choke. There was a knee crushing painfully into his neck, his face pressed on the floor.

  Cursing like a lunatic, Duncan heaved himself off the table, his shirtfront a mess of red wine and mustard sauce. “What the devil is going on? Allister!”

  “Duncan, he was spying on our clients,” Allister declared giddily. “He’s a spy for the terrorists. He took notes on Clinton Duffy, and he was going to pass them to Michael Collins. Michael Collins!”

  “Allister!” Uncharacteristically, Marjorie actually shouted. “Allister, sit down!”

  Allister retook his seat, shivering with exuberance.

  Adam had stopped struggling.

  “Easy there.” James tapped one of the constables. “Let him breathe. Very well, folks, let’s be reasonable. Everybody sit down. Thank you, yes, Mr. Bowen,” he gestured to Duncan, “please, sir.”

  Panting and deflated, Duncan sat.

  But Marjorie remained standing. She walked past James and faced the swearing pack who were holding Adam down. And she hissed, “Get off my son.”

  Struck dumb, they instantly obeyed. James rolled his eyes in irritation. “Madam, I must insist that you take your seat.”

  “Silence,” she snapped.

  When Adam was able to turn over, gasping and half-blue, she leaned down to him and asked, “Is it true, Adam?”

  He wheezed in pain, unable to answer.

  “With every respect, ma’am, we haven’t time for this,” James said, stepping towards her.

  “Adam. Is this true?”

  His throat unclogged eventually. He forced himself to meet her eyes, for he was done now with running, with hiding.

  “All of it.”

  She nodded and straightened up, turned her back, and resumed her seat.

  James waited. “May I, ma’am?”

  “You may,” she said.

  The constables hauled Adam to his feet and bundled him through the door.

  “I told you, didn’t I?” Allister was laughing. “I told you. All along I knew he was trouble. All my life. I told you—”

  “Allister,” Marjorie cut across him, “do shut up.”

  The sheets of rain cast a silvery shimmer in the twin beams of the truck lights. In the front passenger seat, James had one foot planted against the dashboard while he hummed absently to himself and cleaned his pistol. Adam had been secured amongst the constables in the back.

  “You know the damnedest thing?” James glanced round. “I can’t help but think we’ve met before. Your face looks familiar. Have I had the honour already?”

  I knew it. That confirmed it. Yet even as Adam racked his brains, he couldn’t recall a Detective James Bryant before. Instead he simply shrugged and gave no reply.

  “Ah, well. Never mind.” James winked slyly. “We shall get to know each other all the more closely tonight, I imagine. Tell me, Bowen, can you carry a tune? Hold a note?”

  Adam stared at him, uncomprehending, and James grinned.

  “I only ask because you’ll be singing a song for us later on. A merry song indeed. About your friend Collins—the Big Fellow. I must say I’m looking forward to hearing it.”

  The constables chuckled. One of them jabbed a pistol into Adam’s ribs. “Now that’ll be a pretty thing, eh, boyo? Lots of singing goes on down in them dungeons. We hears it all the time.”

  They drove on through Howth village and around the harbour, through dark roads deserted of people, lights showing in the odd window. It was draughty inside the truck, and the constables rolled cigarettes to keep their fingers working. The rain kept up a steady attrition. Every so often James peered back at Adam.

  “Still can’t put my finger on it, though. I know you, Bowen. I just don’t know how I know you. That vexes me. Any ideas?”

  Adam kept his tongue. He wasn’t thinking about the detective’s familiarity anymore, he was swallowing with deep unease the reality of his situation. Where would they bring him? If it was the Castle, he didn’t rate his chances of coming back out again. The war had become far more vicious in recent months. The interrogation would be brutal, and suspects falling victim to fatal “accidents” were ever more frequent in number. There was a look in that detective’s eyes. Not cruel, but certainly ruthless. A man who would stop at nothing in the pursuit of his goal.

  For a time there was silence as the truck bumped along. James returned to cleaning his pistol. The driver swore as the truck’s wheels lost traction on the rain-scoured road, and he wiped the screen with a cloth.

  “Much longer?” James asked him. “How many miles to the city centre?”

  Adam knew he couldn’t tackle all their brawn alone. But he needed only to better one of them, like he had with the soldiers back in Tipperary. While they were all distracted, waiting for the driver to answer James’s question, he suddenly lunged
at the nearest man, the one who looked the slowest and least clever. The others roared and immediately pounced on top of him.

  James glanced round and barked, “For Christ’s sake, keep him under control, will you?”

  Adam was on his knees on the floor of the truck with somebody’s arm locked round his neck, a hand seizing his chin.

  “We have him, sir,” one of them panted. “The little cur had a go. Not going to get very far though, are you, filth?”

  They dragged Adam up and tried to shove him on the seat. Then the first man, who Adam had attacked, gave a howl.

  “Wait! Shit!”

  In the struggle, Adam had managed to pull the man’s pistol from his belt and now he jammed it against his head.

  “Get back,” he shouted, pushing himself clear with the gun poised. “Back, or he’s dead.”

  The constables gave space awkwardly, stooped under the low roof. “You let him go, boy. You’re in enough trouble.”

  “Stop the truck,” Adam demanded. “Stop here, now.”

  James watched with impatience and scoffed, “Stop the truck? What in heaven’s for? Goodness, man, we’re already behind time.”

  “Then I’ll kill this bastard, and see you wipe his brains off your face.” Adam cocked the pistol.

  This time James laughed. “Well, that would be a pity. But the rest of you, you know what to do once he pulls that trigger. ‘Suspect killed while trying to evade custody.’ That will be the official line for my paperwork. All very tidy, really.”

  They each had a gun trained on him now. It would be all over in seconds if he shot his captive. The window of opportunity was closing fast.

  “There’s a good man,” James said calmly. “Now put down the gun, if you please, for if you don’t—”

  Adam’s next reaction was too fast for even James to follow. He shoved the constable aside, dropped to his knee, and fired a shot straight ahead. There was an earsplitting report inside the confined cabin, and in the same instant the truck’s windscreen shattered with the bullet’s impact. Glass sprayed in every direction and the driver shrieked, instinctively pumping the brakes. On the treacherous road surface the wheels skidded and the truck reeled to the left. It bounced violently over the roadside stones and careered against a ditch. The left wheels rode up, and the entire vehicle listed to the right before crashing onto its side in a clamour of tearing metal and burst rubber. Bodies were tossed and thrown together. Someone screamed with the audible snapping of bone. The truck slid on for several yards before coming to a stop, smoke spewing from the engine.

  For a few seconds there was stunned silence. Then the groans and cries began, the constables piled atop each other between crushed railings.

  In the front, it took James several seconds to register what had just happened. He’d been flung across to the driver’s side, and he grunted in confusion, spitting blood between his teeth. The driver was unconscious. James’s pistol had slipped from its holster and he strained to reach it. “Get up,” he croaked. “Secure the prisoner!”

  Something hissed beneath the chassis. There was a dull thump as the fuel ignited and flames shot out from the mangled engine. James kicked furiously, trying to clamber free. He managed to haul himself upside to the passenger door and climb out before falling to the ground. A motorcycle guard arrived back and yanked the goggles from his head.

  “Detective! What the hell happened?”

  James grimaced and clasped his ribs. “The prisoner—where is he?” He pushed the rider out of the way and stormed to the back of the truck. The inside was black with bodies, scrambling out in haste before the fire spread.

  Uniformed bodies all, and no sign of James’s suspect.

  He bellowed in outrage and kicked the ruined truck. “I don’t believe it, he’s got free! Get after that bastard. Go! I’ll kill him for this. I’ll bloody well—”

  Then suddenly he froze.

  Enlightenment—it picked its moments strangely.

  Now he remembered why he knew Adam Bowen.

  The clouds dispersed but a fog had settled on the fields, a ghostly miasma that seemed to shift and undulate in the moonlight. Adam lay behind a mound of turf and listened to the yelling of the detective on the road. He harangued his constables to give chase, but they were evidently in poor shape, for none had followed Adam yet.

  A vicious ache seeped through his shoulder from the impact of the crash, and there was a bloody rent in his arm, but otherwise he’d escaped serious damage. And he was fit enough to run, he reckoned. He’d have to do that now, before a fresh batch of hounds was put to his trail.

  Ducking low, he moved across the field to a fast-moving stream. He crossed on the boulders to a wooded bank where he found a mill wheel adjoined to a stone building. With no coat he felt the effects of the rain-chilled night, and he crept towards the mill to seek a minute’s shelter and consider his next move.

  The mill must have been a long time disused, for the doors were unlocked and hanging off their hinges. Inside, it stank of mouldering hay and slurry—probably used for housing cattle. On the beams above, roosting pigeons moved nervously at his entrance.

  If there were animals kept here, there must be a farmhouse. Inevitably the first calling-point for the police. Adam had to move before them. It was a hefty hike back to the city centre, several hours at least. He needed transport if he was to make it.

  He left the mill and found a track that wound between gorse thickets and rustling groves, twice tripping in the darkness over logs of wood. After some minutes he heard a dog give a yelp, and then a warning bark. There was a light visible through the trees. When he reached it, he found a small cottage with a thatched roof, but he hesitated. The dog was still barking somewhere, and he didn’t relish being charged by some great shaggy brute from the shadows.

  As he waited, the dog’s noise eventually disturbed the house. The door opened and a man appeared, wearing an old coat over his nightclothes, holding a lantern. He gazed around, scowled, and turned to blaspheme at the dog tethered nearby.

  Adam took his chance.

  “Hello, sir,” he called, marching confidently across the yard. “Sorry to trouble you of an evening.”

  “Who’s that?” The old man squinted and lifted the lantern higher.

  The dog almost strangled itself as it tried to spring to action. Adam stepped into the light and smiled. “Terribly sorry. Didn’t mean to alarm you like this.”

  The man silenced the dog with a gruff reprimand and stared at Adam in wonder, at the blood on his shirtsleeve. “Good God, son. Have you been shot?”

  “No, no,” Adam laughed foolishly. “No such business. No, I had an accident with my motor back on the main road. I’ve been looking for some help.”

  The man blessed himself. “Come in, come in. Let us have a look at you.”

  “No need, just a few bumps and bruises. I’m actually more in want of a favour, if you can manage it.”

  The old man waved him on. “Come in for a tot of brandy, you poor devil, and ’twill take the shock off you.”

  “No, honestly. I’m in rather a hurry to get to the city. You don’t by any chance have transport here, do you?”

  “Transport?” He rubbed his jaw. “I can get you a ride on the creamery truck in the morning. It goes all the way to the city.”

  “No car?”

  “Car? Christ, no. Dangerous things. But hold on now . . . ”

  Adam waited.

  “My brother keeps a motorcycle in the shed, a Bradbury something-or-other. A dirty, noisy yoke, I can’t stand its—”

  “I need it,” Adam interrupted. “Please, I’d be very grateful. I simply have to get to the city.”

  “Hmm.” The man looked doubtful. “It’s not really mine to offer.”

  The police hadn’t yet relieved Adam of his personals. He fished in his pocket and drew out a ten-pound note.

  The man’s eyes widened. “Well, I suppose, he’d hardly miss it for the night or two, would he? But you’ll r
eturn it?”

  “I will.” Adam handed him the money. “You’d never throw a coat into the bargain, would you?”

  “Jesus, take mine. But hold up now, you said you’re going into the city?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But the curfew—you’ll never make it on time.”

  “Perhaps.” Adam shrugged on the woollen coat. “I guess I’ll just have to be discreet, won’t I?”

  James paced up and down the road, swearing in frustration. It had taken over an hour to move the wrecked truck and lift the injured into ambulances.

  “For the last time, I’m fine,” he growled, brushing away the hand of a concerned police sergeant. “Where’s my bloody transport? I sent for another damned truck, didn’t I?”

  “Shouldn’t be much longer, sir.”

  Finally it arrived with a new squad of constables. James immediately climbed inside. “Back the way you came,” he ordered the driver, pointing in the direction of the city. “I’ll tell you exactly where to go.”

  Adam Bowen would have long disappeared into the surrounding fields and back roads by now. James knew there was little point in a nighttime pursuit.

  But it didn’t matter.

  He had a new lead to use.

  She could be asleep by this time, but she could damn well wake up fast. And start answering questions.

  “Wilton Row, Kilmainham,” he told the driver. “There’s somebody I need to say hello to.”

  The motorcycle was a four-horsepower Bradbury with Dunlop tyres and a padded seat, but it proved rickety on the roads. Adam doubted its ability to stay in one piece, much less get him all the way to the city. But it puttered along, slowly eating up the miles, though he had to pull in several times when he saw oncoming patrols.

  He made the city lights with twenty minutes to go before curfew. He thought of Vaughan’s in Parnell Square, as he desperately needed a safe haven and returning to his flat was impossible. Yet Vaughan’s was risky too. Everywhere was risky, in fact. They would have thought of all the likely locations, no doubt assisted by Allister in all his helpfulness.