by Paul Cuddihy
‘God save Ireland, said the heroes…’
The old man in the corner started to sing. Mick thought he recognised the tune and he was sure the old man heard, in his own mind, the right words, but no one else would know what he was saying.
‘God save Ireland, said they all…’
A cough from the shadows and another ball of smoke. Mick finished and turned round.
‘You’re a grand man for the stories,’ the smoking man said.
‘Not a word of it a lie and that’s the truth,’ Mick said.
‘No doubt, Mick. No doubt.’
Mick stared at the orange glow in the darkness.
‘Whether on the scaffold high…’
‘Who are you then?’
‘Just call me your guardian angel.’
Mick took a step forward.
‘This is not the time for jokes,’ he said. ‘You know my name so I’ll have yours.’
‘Or the battlefield we die…’
The smoking man took a deep draw on his cigarette and stepped out of the shadows.
‘You don’t know me,’ he said and it was true. Mick didn’t recognise him at all. The brow of his cap hid his eyes and cast a shadow over half his face every time the cigarette lit up.
‘Oh, what matter when for Erin dear we fall.’
‘Meath?’ Mick said.
‘Close. Westmeath.’
Mick nodded. It was a gift he had and it had won him many a drink and more than a few shillings over time. ‘Two guesses is all I need,’ was always his bet to identify the county of the speaker. If he needed a third go, then the drink was on him and there weren’t many times he had to dip his hand in his pocket.
‘So what do you want with me?’ Mick said.
‘There’s someone been asking after you,’ the man said, taking a final suck on his cigarette before flicking the tiny end in the direction of the old man who was staggering back and forth trying to fix his trousers.
‘Who?’
‘Short fella. Thin. Nose all bent out of shape.’
‘Are you joking me?’
‘Dresses all in black. Do you know him?’
Mick nodded.
‘He’s been offering a tidy sum for any information and it won’t take much to persuade someone. You know what it’s like yourself.’
‘So he’s here then,’ Mick said, more to himself than the smoking man, but he still got a grunt of agreement in reply. The news shouldn’t really have surprised him, yet he shivered like someone had walked over his grave. Part of him was surprised that it had taken so long, yet there was a nagging question at the back of his mind as to how the man in black had found him at all. Even as it pushed its way to the front of his mind, Mick already knew the answer.
It didn’t take too much thought to figure out he was hiding somewhere in Britain. He’d fled without a penny in his pocket so America was out of the question. Then it was just a process of elimination. That it had taken almost two months told Mick the search had begun in England – Liverpool probably, then Manchester, and maybe down to London, before heading up to Glasgow.
‘Just watch your back, Mick,’ the smoking man said. ‘That’s the message I was sent with.’
‘Who sent you?’
The smoking man laughed, a gruff sound that quickly became a heavy cough.
‘Your guardian angel … and that’s no joke.’
Mick nodded and slipped back inside the pub, wishing he could make his excuses and leave, but there was a fresh pint and a whiskey waiting for him along with an eager audience which would quickly turn nasty if he didn’t finish what he had started.
He sat back down and clutched his pint, taking a long gulp. His eyes remained on the door at the back of the pub that led out to the toilet but when it opened it was only the old man who staggered in, crashing straight into the back of a heavy, red-haired drinker who spilt the contents of his jug over the floor. He spun round, ready to flatten the culprit, but when he saw who it was he merely shook his head and turned back to his company.
Still the smoking man didn’t appear and Mick realised he’d slipped away as discreetly as he’d appeared. Someone slapped Mick’s shoulder, eager for the rest of the story, and a pain shot down his left arm, reminding him where he’d stopped his tale.
2
GALWAY KISS
Mick knew he’d been shot but he wasn’t giving up without a fight. He managed to push himself about thirty yards downstream, thankful of the mist that aided his escape. There were many voices now at the river as Mick had reached the other side. The first time he tried pushing himself out of the water a pain like a hot branding iron on tender flesh fired through his torso and he let out a scream as he fell back into the water. The soldiers immediately raced towards the source of the noise, one or two of them letting off indiscriminate shots that disappeared into the mist.
He tried again to get out, this time biting down on his tongue as the pressure of his emerging body put almost intolerable strain on his shoulder, but Mick knew it was now or never. Falling onto dry land, he staggered to his feet and stumbled until he collapsed and rolled forward, disappearing from the flat land into a ditch that was invisible to the naked eye. Mick started grabbing at the grass and shrubbery, ripping it up and dropping it on top of his body. It was a pathetic attempt at disguise which would probably be spotted right away but he didn’t know what else to do. He only knew that he couldn’t run any further.
The soldiers were still on the far bank of the river, though he heard a voice ordering someone to search the other side, quickly followed by the splash of a body entering the water. Mick tried to regain control of his breathing but it didn’t help that he was shivering as well now. He lay flat on his back and wished the mist would clear so that he could catch one last glimpse of the blue sky before they found him.
The waiting was the worst part. Waiting to be captured, executed or worse. Tortured. He clenched his fists, ready to throw at least one punch. It would never be said that Mick Costello went down without a fight.
He tensed at the clattering of a rifle on wet boots. Footsteps grew closer and were almost on top of him. He was tempted to hold his breath but knew he’d give himself away when he eventually had to exhale, so he tried breathing softly through his nose. Mick glanced to his right and saw a black, leather boot, so close he could just about kiss it. One step backwards and the boot would crush his face, but it didn’t move.
‘Any sign of him?’ a voice asked out of the mist.
‘What do you think?’ the soldier muttered before shouting, ‘Not yet.’
Mick could hear another horse approaching on the other side of the river and he grabbed hold of the boot, taking its owner by surprise, knocking him off balance and toppling him to the ground. He was upon the soldier in an instant, his thick fingers embracing the man’s neck and squeezing as hard as he could, no longer caring that his left arm felt like it was going to fall off.
The neck was scrawny and under-fed but still the soldier thrashed and kicked and fought like a drowning man. Mick knelt on the man’s arms and kept squeezing, trying to push the life out of him. He knew it was just a matter of time but he still had to be quick. It was the legs that seemed to die first, seconds before the rest of the body caught up, and when Mick released his grip the soldier sank limply to the ground.
Mick blessed himself as he took a quick glance at the purple face, tongue sticking out like a drunken man, but he was already unbuttoning the red jacket. He wouldn’t say a prayer now. He’d save it for the morning after.
‘Riley. What’s going on over there?’
Mick pushed his foot into the first black boot, which was too small. He curled up his toes and pushed again. It would have to do. He snatched the rifle up and began to walk away when he realised he’d forgotten the hat. Without that he was wasting his time. It fitted snugly on his head and he tipped it forward to hide as much of his face as possible. He nudged the lifeless body with the toe of the black boot and it roll
ed into the ditch. Mick took a few steps back and realised that it was almost completely hidden from view.
‘RILEY!’
‘Sir?’
‘Any sign of him?’
‘Nothing, sir,’ Mick said in a near perfect Cork accent. It was another one of his gifts.
‘Well, get back over here. We’ll spread out and wait till the mist clears. Then there’ll be no hiding place for him.’
Mick inched himself into the water, holding the rifle aloft with his right hand and swimming with his left, though he quickly changed. The pain in his left shoulder was marginally more bearable holding the weapon than trying to push through the water. When he got to the other side he clambered onto the grass, stifling a groan as he accidentally put his full body weight on his injured shoulder. Standing up, he bowed his head and shuffled back towards the rest of the soldiers.
‘No sign of him then?’ said a voice in the crowd.
‘No, sir. Nothing,’ he said, finger poised on the rifle’s trigger, ready to swing into action at a moment’s notice. If he was going down he was going to take as many of them with him as possible. He stopped and waited but no one said anything. A cigarette tin was thrust under his nose and his fingers scrambled among the tobacco to rescue one of the white sticks. He grunted thanks and stuck it in his trembling lips. A flame drew closer to his face, its outer glow offering comforting warmth to his skin and he moved the cigarette closer, drawing deeply on it and nodding.
Most of the soldiers rested lazily on their rifles. One or two had sat down but the ground was still damp. Mick knew he was too wet to bother about the cold seeping through his body but opted to remain on his feet. Whatever might happen, he wanted to give himself a standing start.
He was glad no one wanted to talk to him. It wasn’t that he couldn’t maintain the Cork accent but he didn’t know anything about the recently departed Riley and knew he risked exposing himself as soon as he opened his mouth. It was still early in the morning. These men had probably been awake at least an hour or two before they’d arrived at his cottage and were thankful of the temporary respite.
The rumble of hooves approaching out of the rapidly thinning mist seemed to act like an invisible jolt and men sprang to attention while those on the ground quickly scrambled to their feet. The man in black appeared before them, drawing up his horse a few feet from the assembled group. One of them – the sergeant, Mick guessed – stepped forward with a shake of his head.
‘He can’t have got far,’ the man in black said.
‘His body might have sunk, sir,’ the sergeant said. ‘Devlin said he definitely hit him.’
‘Well then, I want a body. Get your men in that water and start searching.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The sergeant spun round as the soldiers looked every which way but at him, the appeal of a dip in the icy water lost on all of them. Mick guessed he’d be chosen. He was already wet, after all.
‘I want two men to come back with me to the cottage,’ the man in black said. ‘We’re taking his family in. If he’s still alive that should flush him out.
The sergeant nodded and suddenly every pair of eyes was eagerly trying to catch his.
‘Murphy and Riley … RILEY!’
Mick looked up, then immediately down again, mumbling ‘Sir,’ and shuffling forward till he stood shoulder to shoulder with another soldier he presumed was Murphy. He’d been too busy thinking about his family. What would this incident do to them, his mother in particular? His teeth crunched together angrily and his finger twitched on the trigger, but he managed to fight the urge to lift the rifle and strike down the man in black.
But he was being sent back up to his cottage. The man in black had already brusquely steered his horse around and was galloping away up the field, so he began running just off the left shoulder of Murphy, who led the way. Mick glanced round at the rest of the soldiers who shrunk with every step he put between him and them until they vanished. Ahead of him and Murphy were only fields and random clumps of mist, now isolated like lost sheep searching for the flock.
He kept his eyes on his companion, who was concentrating on running across the heavy ground, his irregular breathing a sign of the physical struggle. Mick slipped in behind him and smashed the rifle butt down on the man’s skull. He fell forward, his face sinking into the turf and Mick had spun his rifle round and thrust the bayonet into Murphy’s back before he’d a chance to even register the first blow. He pulled and tugged until the flabby flesh released the silver blade, now dripping with blood, and he stood, poised to repeat the motion, but Murphy didn’t move. Mick blessed himself and then moved on towards the cottage with a surer and quieter step.
He heard the sobs before the cottage came into view, but when he saw his home, he almost charged at it with a blind rage. The peat roof was already ablaze, beyond the point of any rescue even if the whole of Galway had turned up with a bucket of water each.
The man in black stood back from the burning cottage, hands on hips, admiring his handiwork. Mick’s family cowered at the side. His sisters clung to each other and wailed, though the cackling flames had dulled the sound, while his mother was on her knees tending to Patrick who was lying flat on his back in the mud. His brother was a fiery character and the fact he was only eleven wouldn’t have stopped him trying to protect the family and their home.
Mick strode past the fire as it devoured all the memories of his life thus far, happy and sad. The man in black, wearing a satisfied smirk, looked at him.
‘Keep an eye on them,’ he said, nodding towards Mick’s family. ‘I had to sort the boy but the women shouldn’t be too much trouble.’
Mick grabbed his hat, throwing it at the man in black, and raised his rifle. The man’s eyes opened wide at the same time as his mouth, which no doubt wanted to cry out some plea for help or clemency, but a tiny noise like a creaking door was all that escaped. Mick pulled the trigger and the rifle jammed.
Like a slap on the face it seemed to force the man in black into action and he snatched at the pistol in its holster, but it was barely in his hand when Mick swung the rifle wildly, knocking the weapon out of the man’s hand. In the same motion he stepped forward and crashed his forehead off the bridge of the man’s nose, flattening him.
He raced over to where his family remained, silent and stunned at what they had just witnessed. Bridget still couldn’t quite recognise her brother in a soldier’s uniform until he started speaking.
‘Mammy, you need to go. Now! They’ll kill us all if they find us.’
His mother nodded but her eyes strayed to the prone figure of Patrick. Mick knelt down beside his brother, sliding his good arm under the young boy’s back and levering him up.
‘Patrick, listen to me. You need to get mammy and the girls away from here.’
Patrick nodded groggily as a dribble of blood trickled down the side of his face from the wound on his temple.
‘You’re the man of the family now. I’m counting on you. Can you do it?’
Patrick nodded again, this time trying to inject more vigour into the action.
‘Come on, let’s be getting you on your feet,’ Mick said, helping the injured boy up and keeping a tight grip round his waist even after doing so.
‘You need to go to John McDonagh’s place,’ Mick said, looking at his mother. ‘Tell him what happened. He’ll help you out. You’ll be safe there, but you need to go now.’
Mick glanced back at the man in black who still writhed on the ground like a snake. Saint Patrick was meant to have got rid of all of them, Mick thought with a grim smile. He turned round and stared at his sisters.
‘You three need to help mammy. No more crying until you get to McDonagh’s. Okay?’
The three terrified girls nodded.
‘Go! Now!’
Mick ushered them away and they began to stagger off like wounded beasts. There was no time for goodbyes. Mick didn’t look back at them as he strode across towards the man in black, his eyes se
arching the ground for the rifle, though when he heard voices floating into earshot about the noise of the fire which was now hungrily devouring the cottage, he glanced round. His family was almost out of sight now and he knew it wasn’t them.
He stopped and listened again. It was the rest of the soldiers. They’d found Murphy or Riley, or both, and he knew they’d be upon the cottage in minutes. He had to delay them long enough to let his family get as far from here as possible and give them a chance of reaching McDonagh’s safely.
His feet crunched on the rifle as he scurried about and he grabbed it up, breaking into a jog round the side of the burning building, stopping to go back and claim the man in black’s pistol. Taking up a position against the wall where he’d hidden earlier in the morning when the soldiers first arrived, he cocked the pistol. When the first shadowy figure appeared on the brow of the horizon he fired. The shot missed its target but still forced the soldier to throw himself hastily to the ground, no doubt followed by the rest of his comrades.
Slowly, Mick could see heads and bodies appearing, though they stopped beside the foremost soldier. Mick breathed deeply and waited. The soldiers must have known it was only one man they were facing but who wanted to be the one who took the bullet so the rest might overpower the shooter?
It was a few minutes before the red jackets began to move forward. Mick grabbed the rifle, closing his left eye and staring through the sight with his right eye. If the thing hadn’t jammed, he’d have a much better chance of hitting someone, he thought, training the sight on the bobbing head of the sergeant and pressing the trigger in frustration. A roar burst out of the weapon and Mick spun back, tumbling across the grass and dropping the rifle. He heard screams and shouts and knew instinctively that the sergeant was dead. Another sign of the cross, more than he’d ever do in a month of Sundays.
The man in black’s horse stared at him as he got to his feet. Mick smiled and raced over to the massive beast. It reared as he leapt on top of it, nearly sliding over the other side as he battled for a few moments to get it under control. He knew his family would get to John McDonagh’s and he also knew they’d be safe there. Now he needed to look after himself. He steered the horse away from the burning cottage and it was then that he heard the sobs. He looked down at the man in black who remained head down in the mud, face buried in his hands, and he was crying like a baby. Mick shook his head and dug his heels into the beast, gripping the reins as it galloped away.