by Paul Reid
He braked and pulled into a trash-choked alleyway. The wind whistled and gnawed at his ears, and he rubbed his eyes to clear away the grime.
There was one address even Allister couldn’t know about.
He checked his watch.
How the hell am I going to explain this? he wondered. Where will I even begin?
And yet he simply had nowhere else to turn now.
So he moved on again, took the long route around Dublin’s northside, through Clonliffe and Phibsborough, and crossed the river at Queen Victoria bridge. Kilmainham was a short journey along the south quays. Traffic was diminishing with the onset of the curfew and honest citizens scurried towards their homes. Bands of Auxiliaries rode through the streets, predators of the night, and once a flashlight was turned upon him as he passed, but he wasn’t challenged.
With relief, he found the sign that said Wilton Row.
At that very moment Tara was putting on her dressing gown. She’d had the fire lit earlier but now it burned low. The milk was warmed off the stove, and she slipped a spoon of honey into the cup and sipped it by the dying embers.
There was a loud bang on the door.
She froze.
It was after ten o’clock. The curfew had started, and it couldn’t be Adam, who had spoken of a family get-together tonight.
Larry Mulligan.
The image of his face flashed through her mind, a dreadful thing. Had he found her? The gun—it was upstairs. Hardly time to even reach it.
Another pounding on the door, louder this time. She turned off the lamp and crept into the sitting room, nudging the curtains aside.
Her visitor was not alone. There were men gathered on her pathway and on the road outside. She heard a voice calling her name.
The sense of relief was tremendous.
Unlocking the front door, she gaped at him. “James, I thought—I thought you were Mulligan.”
“I’m not here about Mulligan.” He brushed boldly inside. “Hope you don’t mind, Tara. And you lot, disappear.” He gestured to the constables behind him. “Stay close, but out of sight.”
“James?” she asked in bewilderment.
He closed the door. “We need to talk.”
She followed him into the kitchen. “What’s happened?”
He went to the stove and peered down at it. “I’d like some coffee. If you’ll permit it.”
“I’ll boil some water.”
“Thank you.”
When it was done, he mixed a strong cup and leaned against the kitchen counter. Tara sat and waited.
“James? Please. Tell me what’s going on.”
He blew on the coffee. “I had rather hoped you would tell me.”
“But I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“I had a somewhat eventful evening, Tara. I was in Howth. I arrested somebody. IRA. Or actually I had him arrested, until the scoundrel got away from me. And I’d like to find him again, as soon as possible.”
She shrugged. “If it’s not Mulligan, then I fail to see what it has to do with me.”
“Oh, really?” He gave a grim chuckle. “I’d like to believe you.”
“James.” He was starting to frighten her. None of this made any sense. “James, if there’s something wrong, please, tell me.
For several long moments he held her gaze. Then he sniffed and nodded. “All right, Tara, I’ll hold my faith in you. For now. But the fact remains, you see, that my IRA suspect is a man known to you.”
She began to wonder if he was drunk. But he didn’t look drunk. He looked tired.
He walked towards the window and checked outside. “I had to rack my brains, of course. I knew I’d seen the blighter’s face before, I just couldn’t remember where. Then it came to me.” He turned to her. “The Gresham Hotel. The lobby, to be exact. The brawler from the bar.”
Still confused, she shook her head. “James, you’ll have to be clearer. What are you—”
“He hit me.” James chuckled again, recalling it. “Caught me a nasty blow, too. I’ve been wanting to redress that ever since. Yet when I found him, I didn’t even know who he was.”
“Who? Who are you talking about?”
Before he could reply, there was a tap on the window. James put a finger to his lips and went to open it.
The constable in the back garden whispered, “A chap has just parked a motorcycle on the road, sir. Looks like our man.”
“A motorcycle?” James smiled. “Resourceful fellow. All right, stay out of sight until he comes in.” He closed the window again.
Seconds later, somebody knocked on the front door. James looked across at Tara. “Answer it.”
“Who is it?” she pleaded.
“Answer it.”
Adam waited, his heart thumping. This was a safe haven, but he’d have to tell her everything if it was to remain so. He owed her, in any case. She deserved to know.
He was about to knock again when he heard footsteps inside. The moment of truth, it was suddenly liberating. Only with the truth could they finally be secure.
The latch opened slowly. A face appeared, eyes blinking in trepidation.
“Tara,” he exclaimed. “I’m so sorry about this. You’ll have to let me in. I’ll explain.”
“Adam?” Tara stared back at him as though he were an utter stranger. “But this makes no sense.”
“I know, I know,” he said hurriedly, glancing back. “Can you let me in, Tara? I’m in a spot of bother.”
“But he said—” She glanced behind her. “But this is Adam. You said you were looking for—”
Adam was already pushing past her. “This can’t wait, Tara. I’m sorry.” Then he hesitated. “What did you say? Who were you talking to?”
Her mouth opened soundlessly. Her lip quivered.
Something moved in the shadows.
The pistol butt slammed hard on the base of Adam’s neck. He fell against the wall, grasping at a picture frame for support. It came loose and fell to the floor. He landed on top of it.
Everything went black.
Tara’s hands flew to her mouth and she screamed. “James, no! What are you—this is—”
James replaced the pistol inside his belt and he nodded calmly. “I know who it is.”
“No.” She swayed, her hands beginning to shake. “No. No!”
The constables carried Adam’s unconscious form to the truck. They put him in the back, and this time they manacled both his hands and ankles, not wanting to repeat the mistake of not cuffing him in the restaurant.
James was still in the kitchen, finishing his coffee. “Well, that went rather better than I expected. Why, he walked right into our hands.”
Tara was sitting by the stove. She hadn’t spoken for several minutes.
James watched her awhile, and then he sighed. “Look, I’m sorry, Tara. I’m sorry I had to use you like that. And I’m sorry Adam Bowen is not the man you thought he was. But you’ve had a lucky escape.”
She lifted her face and rubbed her eyes.
“A bad act, he is,” James went on. “And far more dangerous than I first realised, as I learned earlier. But tell me,” he peered into his coffee thoughtfully, “did you love this man?”
She didn’t reply. Her face sunk back into her hands.
“I see.” Resentment edged his voice. “Well, I don’t expect you to thank me. And no doubt you won’t. But I’ve just saved you from the clutches of a very wicked and violent man. Think on that awhile, for I must be going.” He went to rejoin his men but paused in the hallway. “I had suspected, of course, that there was somebody else. It’s the Castle for him, though. And now that we are all a little wiser tonight, I hope,” he shrugged, “I hope that you’ll come to me soon.”
He left then, purposefully whistling a tune, and closed the door behind him. Tara heard the sound of the truck engine’s gunning before it pulled up the street. She closed her eyes. There was an inner dam inside her, holding her emotions in check.
It broke.
Adam, her Adam, was one of them. And the knowledge of that was simply too much. She cried into the empty night, until the small hours and beyond, until dawn and daybreak and birdsong, until she at last fell asleep upon the kitchen floor.
The passageways beneath Dublin Castle were draughty and dark. Oil lights hanging from low archways provided guidance. The walls of uncut stone dribbled water and stank of old fungus, resembling more a smuggler’s lair than an official premises.
They had walked for some bit when James, out of breath, said, “In there. And tie him. He’s waking up.”
They opened a stout oak door and Adam was bundled inside. James lit a lamp, and the constables, knowing their routine, secured Adam by cuffing his hands over a low wooden beam above his head. He was just tall enough to keep his feet on the ground, but the strain on his arms quickly brought him back to aching reality.
“Uncomfortable, isn’t it?” James agreed. “I do apologise, old boy. One shouldn’t complain, though. After all, nobody will hear you down here, I can promise you that.”
The constables shuffled in anticipation and grinned at each other.
Adam tried to swallow the pain in his head and arms. But it was difficult to. He grimaced and then forced a smile. “You again. You’re quite keen on me, aren’t you?”
“I’m disappointed you don’t recall me, Bowen. I knew we’d met before.”
“Yes. And I don’t need any milk this week, thank you.”
“Hah. Riotously funny, Bowen. But no. It was at the Gresham Hotel, at a benefit night. I was there with a female companion. You decided to help yourself to her, as I recall.”
Adam worked his bruised brain. And finally he recalled. “Ah, yes. Now I remember. You were drunk that night. The slurring, staggering, toffee-nosed Englishman making a nuisance of himself.” He chuckled. “I hope somebody put you to bed.”
James grinned too. “Indeed. Which reminds me. I owe you something.”
He bunched his fist and drove it into Adam’s unprotected stomach with sudden, vengeful power. Such was the weight behind it that Adam’s feet were plucked off the ground as his knees doubled up in agony. Coughing for air, his face turned red. The constables beamed in approval.
James stepped away, admiring his knuckles. “I’ve been waiting to do that for a long time, Bowen. And it was worth it. But now, my dear fellow, we really ought to get down to business.”
Adam couldn’t get his breath back. He cawed in panic, his feet dancing for purchase on the ground. “Don’t,” he panted, “hurt Tara. She has nothing to do with this.”
“This?” James clapped his hands. “Ah, we’re making progress already. What’s this you speak of, Bowen? You’re admitting to wrongdoing, I take it? But you can elaborate for me. You’re small fry, of course, and I care little about you, but your information could be interesting. So you’ll talk?”
Adam nodded wearily.
“Good,” James said. “I understand that you’re close to Michael Collins. We can’t even get a photograph of that rascal, not to mind catch him. But maybe you can help?”
Adam tried to speak but his voice caught hoarsely. “Water . . . I need a glass of water.”
“My pleasure.” James clicked his fingers at the constables. “Get him water.”
A mug was brought, and the constable lifted it to Adam’s lips. Gratefully, Adam slurped in a mouthful.
“That’s it.” James stepped closer and smiled. “Refresh yourself, old fellow. And now, where were we? You were about to talk. You were about to be a sensible man and tell me everything.”
Adam hadn’t swallowed the water. He swished it round his mouth a few times, thrust his neck forward, and spewed the lot into James’s face.
James swore and staggered back, clasping his face. “Jesus Christ, you brute—”
Adam smiled. “Just go home, Detective. Just go back to your own country, and leave us with ours.”
James’s face turned crimson as he rubbed it frantically with his sleeve. “You, you disgusting animal. How dare you put your filth on me, you scum!”
“I thought we were going to talk.”
“Damn you! And yes we are. Yes, we are.” James removed his coat, and then, without warning, he snatched at Adam’s throat.
Adam’s eyes rolled as his air was cut off. The veins in James’s wrist swelled with the strength of his fury, and he held for several long moments, only releasing when Adam began to fall unconscious.
“Wake up,” he snapped, slapping the side of Adam’s face. “You’re not going to fall asleep on me, Bowen. You’re not getting out of this so easily.”
Adam choked and spat, pain bursting through every contour of his skull. Now he could feel his shoulder joints loosen, his own body weight pulling them to breaking point.
“I was polite,” James hissed. “I gave you water. I just wanted to talk. But you want to do things differently, don’t you? So be it. Big fucking mistake, Bowen.”
He gestured to the watching constables. One of them pushed aside a table and began to clear some space inside the cell. The others twitched in nervous anticipation. James rolled up his shirtsleeves.
They began.
Adam’s screams echoed throughout the dank, barren corridors beneath Dublin Castle. But as James promised, there was nobody to hear him.
Storms gathered in the morning. Above the Dublin mountains, cloud banks like choppy seas thickened and grumbled and rolled towards the city. Tara could hear shrill whistles through the chimney, last night’s soot shaken back on the grate. The first portentous droplets beaded the window.
She braved the rising wind and gathered some wood from the garden. Once she’d coaxed the fire back to life, she poured a whiskey. For a long time she sat with the glass clutched in her hands, staring into the quiet, nervous flickering of the flames.
The unmasking of Adam was a knife into her very soul. She had cried every single teardrop that she possessed during the night, bleeding herself dry on the floor of cold linoleum. Bled dry by betrayal.
Bled dry by him.
Sweet Adam.
She thought of her family, lying in the cemetery less than a mile away. Her parents, proud but gentle people, and her brother, a sometimes tiresome yet lovable rogue. All three killed on their own doorstep.
Adam had stroked her hand so many times, whispering his warm assurances. She’d felt safe in the cocoon of his love. They had lain together in the very house that her parents’ farm had paid for. The farm where they’d been ruthlessly gunned down.
By the IRA. Adam was one of them, just as Larry Mulligan was. Had Adam murdered innocents too, like Mulligan? She couldn’t bear the thought.
The tot of whiskey made her trauma smoulder. The storm outside howled and tore at her garden. She rose and watched it.
He’d never once discussed his political sympathies with her, but still, of all people, she wouldn’t have suspected this of him for a second.
But I love him. I do. No, I cannot, I must not.
The IRA—they were all the same. They had murdered her family in cold blood.
Mother, Father, dearest Denis. Her head dizzied, her emotions towered and raged and fought one another. She trembled and tried to still her tears, recalling the promise she’d made a long time before. Placing the .38 revolver into her handbag, she left the house and began walking towards Dublin Castle.
He who did this to you walks free and uncaring. You are in heaven. But I will send him to hell.
“Morning, miss.” The sentry’s eyes lit up with surprised pleasure as he recognised her. “Unusual to see you on a Saturday morning, miss.”
“Yes, I know.” Tara cleared her throat, keeping her handbag against her coat to conceal the shape of the pistol within. “My superior has given me an urgent task.”
“Ah. Detective Bryant? He came in here last night with a suspect. He’s still in the grounds, I should think.”
“Where, exactly?”
“Don’t know that, miss. But I can find
out.”
“No need. I don’t require him right now.”
He grinned and touched his cap. “Off you go then, miss. And you mind yourself.”
She heard him informing the other sentry in the guard hut, “See that one? She fancies me.”
She knew she couldn’t be seen by James. Not now. James, ironically, would probably try to stop her, but she couldn’t be stopped in what she had to do.
The archives room was closed. The canteen was open. Laughter. Coffee cups. Big feet.
She took a descending stairwell. It went below Dublin Castle, into a colder, darker world. Oil lamps burned. In their faint light a guard was reading a newspaper. Behind his chair was a locked steel grille. He glanced up at Tara’s approach. “Excuse me, where are you—” He frowned. “Hold on, don’t I know you?”
She forced a smile. “Yes. Yes you do. I work for District Inspector Bryant.”
“Ah, that’s it. What are you doing down here, ma’am? These are the holding cells.”
“I need to go inside.”
“You what?”
“I need to go inside.”
“Begod, ma’am, begging me pardon, these are the cells. You can’t go in there. In fact, there’s a suspect in one of them as we speak.”
“I know.” She paused, knowing she was about to run out of excuses. “I was told to pass a message to him. To the suspect.”
The guard stared at her. “Detective Bryant told you to pass a message to the suspect?” He frowned, bit a fingernail, and frowned again. “That’s a little unorthodox, if you don’t mind me saying.”
“The detective knows best,” she said. “And he’s very strict.”
“Oh, is he now?” Sourly, the guard rose up. “Fine, fine. But I’ll have to come with you.”
No!” She almost shoved him back on his chair, and then she smiled. “No, there’s no need. What I have to do won’t take a moment. I promise.”
He raised his hands in resignation. “Suits me grand, ma’am.” He unlocked the gateway and handed her a set of keys. “Pass on your message and be out again. Don’t talk to him. At least the villain is behind bars, so he’ll not hurt you.” With a scowl he bent to retrieve his newspaper. “There’s another door ahead. Open it and you’ll see him. Be quick, or I’ll have to follow you down there myself.”