She nodded. ‘I don’t want to bring shame to Da. So, yes, please.’
Bill rolled towards her, pulling her to him. He held her face between his palms and kissed her. ‘If that’s what you want, that’s what we’ll do.’
‘Soon?’
‘Soon.’
‘You’ll ask Da?’
‘I will.’ Bill jumped to his feet. ‘Put your stockings and shoes on and we’ll go and ask him now.’
*
‘Spit it out, son.’ Bob grinned.
He knows. Bill struggled to keep the embarrassment under control. ‘You must know by now, Bob, that I think a lot of your daughter…’
‘I should hope so; you’ve been courting her a while.’ Bob chuckled. ‘Look, lad, I know you’re both so young but I’ll put you out of your misery. Our Annie’s told me, and I’m under strict instructions to tell you…’ He stopped before clapping Bill on the back. ‘To tell you yes, of course you can marry my girl.’
The date was set for two months’ time. It was the happiest time of Bill’s life but it lasted just a few sweet weeks. The cough that had plagued Annie for months became worse and she became lethargic and reluctant to leave the house. Sometimes, too tired to even talk, she just lay on the sofa in the front room with Bill holding her hand. As the weeks went by she grew worse. The date for their wedding came and went.
‘We’ll wait until you’re better, love.’ Bill stroked her forehead. ‘We’ve got the rest of our lives to get wed.’
But, calling in one morning after a night shift he was met at the door by her father.
‘She’s worse, Bill. The doctor’s been and said she’s to have no visitors. It’s bad.’ His eyes were bloodshot and his mouth trembled. ‘She’s sweating and coughing up such phlegm. It’s bad,’ he repeated, closing the door without another word.
Bill stumbled home. Unable to sleep he left the house and climbed the steep path up to the moors, fighting against the wind that took his breath away and threatened to blow him over. Once he stood and, head back, screamed obscenities into the bleak grey sky before stumbling on over the tangled dead heather and dips of cracked peat. It was almost dark before he clambered over the last stone wall and back onto the path. In the distance he could see the lights in the windows of the cottage on Greens Tenement and felt sick with terror for Annie.
There were no lights on in the kitchen when Bill opened the back door. His stepmother was sitting in the rocking chair by a small fire. She spoke without looking at him. ‘Message from one of the lads from the mine. That Heap girl died this afternoon.’
Staring through the window of the train; seeing nothing, Bill wondered if Annie had been his one chance of having a decent life. A home. The brooding anger burst from him and he spat on the floor.
‘Hey-up, that’s my bloody boot you filthy bastard.’ The soldier opposite half-rose off the seat.
Bill lunged at him, fists clenched.
Chapter 67
1920
Willing to face a rough and dangerous task? Want to earnten shillings a day to save your country? Winston Churchill, British Secretary of State for War, appeals to you. We need temporary Constables to assist the Royal Irish Constabulary against the illegal uprising. Threemonths training given before being sent to Ireland.
Bill studied the notice outside the town hall in Bradlow, his lower lip held between his teeth. Constables, he thought. Bobbies then. That’s what it means. He grinned. Might be interesting to be on the right side of the law for once. No more ducking and diving, which was all he’d been doing for the last few months. Right, no harm in going along to see what’s what, he thought, heaving his kit bag onto his shoulder. He was sick to death of dossing around anyhow, cadging the odd job here and there, living hand to mouth. Ten bob a day was three pound ten a week. It was a damn sight more than he had in his pocket.
And who did that lot in Ireland think they bloody were? Why did they always think they were so sodding special?
Sitting on his bed and polishing the metal buckle of his belt he looked around the church hall, watching the twenty men laughing and talking as they settled into the new place. There was a tense, excited buzz in the air. It was almost like the days in Manchester just before they were sent to France. Almost. Although it hadn’t taken as long for them all to get to this out-station in the back of beyond.
They hadn’t asked him much at the interview. They took no notice of his constant cough or acknowledge his explanation that the damp weather had given him a bit of a cold. But they must have known from his records that he’d been gassed. In fact he could tell they were desperate, glad to have him. Which was a change. The only bit he’d hated was being in the boat across the Irish Sea; too much like the time he was sent off to France. Too many shitty memories.
And then the training at that place, Phoenix Park, had been a bloody joke. The bloke from the RIC hadn’t a clue how to handle men, especially the kind of blokes they’d recruited; a rough bunch. But it appeared that’s what them in charge wanted. Most of the men he’d been living with over the last four months were ex-soldiers full of resentment against authority, and sour for the way they’d been treated after the war. They needed to be watched, he’d worked that out way back.
But Bill had got the measure of most of them, knew who to trust and who to avoid.
There was none of the easy friendship he’d found with Boardman and Riley, though. Bill screwed up his face. Why had that crossed his mind? He tried to shut out the thought, it always led to thinking about what happened to them. The nightmares were bad enough, he couldn’t think about the way they copped it in the daytime as well.
The man on the next bed was reading a newspaper.
‘Owt we should know about?’ Bill nodded at the paper.
‘Same old, same old.’ Adam Brown had arrived at Limerick Junction among a crowd of other recruits on their way to Dublin on the same day as Bill. ‘Bastards need a good lesson. Ambushed and killed two policemen in Cork. Middle of the day.’ He raised his top lip into a sneer. ‘And nobody saw, of course.’
‘As usual.’ Bloody Irish. Bill sniffed. ‘I’m ready for some grub, I don’t know about you?’
The smell of liver and onions, coming from the small kitchen area, filled the whole building. There was a clatter of knives and forks as one man dropped the pile of cutlery on to the long wooden table, followed by a cheer from someone at a bed further along the room.
‘I’ll wait until I see what it looks like first. Last night’s effort was shite.’ Adam Brown scowled. ‘If it’s as bad as that he’ll get it shoved up his jacksie.’
‘No, it’s Simms in charge tonight. He’s not a bad cook.’
The other man just grunted. Bill gave his belt a final rub and stood up to thread it through the loops of his dark green RIC tunic. That was another bloody cock-up; not enough uniforms. So RIC tunics, belts and caps, khaki army trousers. Bill gave the trousers a quick brush. Nowt matched but at least he’d make damn sure he was smart.
Tommy Simms, a short, thin man, appeared at the door of the kitchen, struggling to carry a large saucepan and a metal spoon.
‘Grub’s up, lads.’ There was a mad rush for the table and he backed up to the kitchen doorway to avoid being knocked over. ‘Whoa, you daft buggers, tha’s worse ’n kids.’ He struck out wildly with the spoon, balancing the saucepan in one hand before running forward, almost out of control and banging it onto the table.
Watching, Bill laughed. Simms was fiery, and his Birmingham accent grew thicker the madder he got. Which was often. The man had been in the middle of a scrap at the docks in Cork when Bill had first seen him after stepping off that damn ferry.
But later, lying on his bed, idly thinking about that, Bill knew the meal breaks, the training, the cleaning and pressing the daft uniform, was only passing the time. He was restless and ready for some action. Backing up the RIC in this place in the middle of nowhere was a job; they were being paid to suppress an armed rebellion of some militant Irish against the British Go
vernment. It was different from being at war with the Huns and being told what to do by some idiot junior officer who’d only just left his mam. Here, they were their own bosses.
Bill sucked on his teeth turned his head on the pillow to study the poster pinned to the wall above the door. He’d seen it many times since he’d signed on.
If a police barracks is burned or if the barracks already occupied is not suitable, then the best house in the locality is to be commandeered, the occupants thrown into the gutter. Let them die there – the more the merrier. Should the order (“Hands Up”) not be immediately obeyed, shoot and shoot with effect. If the persons approaching (a patrol) carry their hands in their pockets, or are in any way suspicious-looking, shoot them down. You may make mistakes occasionally and innocent persons may be shot, but that cannot be helped, and you are bound to get the right parties some time. The more you shoot, the better I will like you, and I assure you no policeman will get into trouble for shooting any man.
RIC Divisional Commissioner for Munster, Lt. Col. Smyth, June 1920
Well, that said it all. Bill cracked his knuckles one by one. Can’t argue with that. They were being given full rein to do what they wanted. For the first time since he’d left France, Bill recognised that he had a purpose. He’d show the Irish bastards who was boss.
Chapter 68
July 1921
As far as Bill was concerned it was a routine patrol; just like they’d been doing for the last twelve months on the streets of Killaire. Mostly boring, sometimes spiced with a bit of excitement.
He and his six mates swaggered down the middle of Manor Street, pointing their rifles towards anyone who dared to catch their eyes, shouting at the kids, the ‘dirty tykes’ playing on the pavements, watching with satisfaction as women, arms crossed and chatting on doorsteps, melted back into the houses.
There were usually eight of them sent out together, but Ronnie Clayton had disappeared. The rumour was he’d scarpered back to the mainland, hadn’t the stomach for the fight against the rebels. Never had. Secretly, Bill had a bit of sympathy for him, though he hardly acknowledged it, let alone told any of the men at the barracks. In the ten months he’d been in Dublin he’d seen things just as bad as he’d seen at the front in Arras.
A stone came from nowhere and hit him on the shoulder. He swung around with a curse but couldn’t see anybody. He fired a couple of rounds in the general direction. The other men laughed, followed suit; the shots echoing in the now empty street.
Bill rubbed his shoulder where the stone had caught him. Bloody Irish were worse than animals. Leave them to rot in this stinking pit, he thought; there was nowt here he’d want, so why Lloyd George was so bothered he didn’t know. Stupid bloody Government, it wasn’t them in Parliament risking their necks for ten bob a day. Happen Ronnie Clayton had the right idea after all.
They stopped in front of the general store.
‘You going in for the fags, Howarth?’ It was more of a statement rather than a question. They took it in turns each day to go into the shop and take what they wanted.
Bill nodded, noticing one of the windows was boarded up. The lazy bloody owner obviously hadn’t bothered to replace the glass that Irish bastard had fallen through last Saturday. He moved towards the shop. There was still blood, a large dark stain, covering the step in the doorway, where they taught those scum a good lesson. Where, as they lay unconscious, Bill and four of his mates had shown the scum’s girlfriends what a good fucking was.
It had been a bloody good way to round off the last patrol of the night.
They’d intended to swing by their usual pub, McCarthy’s, to sort the buggers out there. But, passing Guthrie’s, they’d heard quiet music, voices singing low.
‘“And will Ireland then be free?” says the Sean Bhean Bhocht…”’ Hang on.’ Brown frowned, thrusting his arms across the other men. Stopping them in their tracks. ‘Listen.’
‘“Yes old Ireland will be free from the centre to the sea, And hurrah for liberty,” says the Sean Bhean Bhocht.’
‘Bastards.’ Brown glared towards the door of the pub and then at each of the men. He grinned. ‘They need a good lesson.’ He hit one clenched fist against the palm of his other hand. ‘Let’s give it to them.’
But when they crashed through the doors the singing had stopped. Four men were in the centre of the smoke filled room playing snooker. In one corner a couple of old men sat in chairs by the fire, flames blazing high despite the warmth of the summer’s evening. A few others leaned against the bar, pints in hand, feet on the brass rail. The pub owner was wiping glasses.
‘Don’t stop on our account.’ One of the soldiers deliberately knocked against the snooker table as they pushed their way towards the bar.
‘We don’t want any trouble gents,’ the barman murmured, reaching for pint glasses from the hooks above him. ‘Drinks on the house?’
‘Keep ’em coming and we’ll think about it.’ Bill shoved two men aside, propping his rifle against the front of the bar. When he looked around the ones who’d been playing snooker had disappeared.
It was a good night. Free ale in Guthrie’s pub. Two girls.
Bill told himself the girls had been up for it, coming out of the store and stepping over the bloodstain. He threw the packets of cigarettes to each of the other six men, pushing away the memory of the look of terror on the first girl’s face, only remembering the defiance on the face of other one. And he chose only to recall the globule of saliva that landed on his cheek as he grabbed her. The red rage in him, fuelled by the beer, was the same he’d carried all through the war. Sometimes it had been the only thing that kept him going.
But it wasn’t enough now. He was sick to the back teeth with Ireland, of having to watch his back whenever they went out on the streets, of the hatred from the bastards who lived in the poky houses, watching from behind the net curtains. Of the dirty way they fought. It was nowt like the war where you knew where the enemy was. Here they appeared from nowhere and buggered off just as quick.
The first drops of rain were slow and heavy, spreading splodges of dark grey on the pavements, settling then soaking into his jacket, drumming onto his cap. Even the bloody rain was different in this god-forsaken place, Bill thought, swiping his hand across his wet face.
The shot came from nowhere. The group of soldiers circled, backs to one another; rifles pointed first one way, then another.
‘Where the fuck did that come from?’ Bill could feel Tommy Simms’s thin shoulders shake as they pressed closer.
He gritted his teeth. ‘How the fuck should I know.’
‘Take cover.’ The new sergeant, Bill couldn’t even remember his name, bellowed the order. ‘Make for the church.’
The rain suddenly increased, pelting pebble-like onto the road and stinging Bill’s face. His rifle was slippery in his hands and he felt the sick fear of everything being out of control. Barely able to see, he scrambled over the piles of rubble, slid on wet stone inside the bombed out church, making for some sort of safety.
He crouched against one of the walls of the old church cursing his luck and rubbing his shoulder. There was a wheezing in his chest; his cough was bothering him again. And the scar of his old wound throbbed, took him back to the other times when fear turned his guts to water. He’d got himself into another bloody hole with this lot. He thought about the words of his sergeant; a bluff red-faced Cockney, puffed up with his own importance.
‘Remember the words of Lt. Col. Smyth,’ he’d shouted, strutting along the front of the bedraggled line of volunteers from the mainland. ‘I’ll remind you of them now. You make these bastards pay for what they’ve done. If you see any of them with a gun, if you see them talking in groups, if you see someone walking towards you and you don’t like the look of them, you shoot the bastards. And if they argue, you shoot them. We show them who’s the boss; who’s in charge.’
Well, Bill shifted uncomfortably, squinting into the rain and trying to find a drier place,
he was damned sure him and his mates around him weren’t in bloody charge right at this sodding minute. Those bastards on the roof had well and truly got them cornered. His ears rang from the echo around the ruins of the rifle shots that pinned them down like scared rabbits.
They got Tommy Simms. He tried not to look at the remains next to him, but he could smell the warm blood and piss. Half of Tommy’s head was missing. Blood frothed on the rough stone behind him, the pinkish slime of brain shining wet in the rain. Slivers of bloodied flesh and white shards of bone were splattered on the sleeve of Bill’s jacket. He gritted his teeth against the rush of bile and swallowed, shuffling forward, squatting, anxious to get away from the corpse. When he glanced back it was as though the eye that remained in what was left of Tommy’s skull was staring right at him.
He heard the scrape of wood above him as a window opened. Swathes of starlings rose above the ruins, chattering, spiralling against the grey bank of cloud. Bill flattened himself against the wall, squinting along the length of his raised rifle. The sky was momentarily blocked out by a shape and he fired upwards as it hurtled towards him. He collapsed under the weight of the body. The air taken from his lungs momentarily stilled him.
Cursing and crying, he fought to free himself. He threw the corpse off him. Pressing his boots on the ground he grabbed on to gritty stones for leverage and scooted backwards. The corpse was naked, the face battered beyond recognition. But he knew the tattoos on both arms, the image of Jesus on the cross, the word, “Mother”. Slowly, unwilling, he let his eyes move along the twisted limbs, the fingers were splayed, bloodied. There were no nails. He slid his gaze over the shattered kneecaps to the feet. There were no nails on any of the toes. But it was the other mass of blood his gaze returned to. He closed his eyes but against the lids still saw where Ronnie Clayton’s cock had been sliced off. He looked back at the head and saw what he hadn’t seen before. The lad’s penis was stuffed into his mouth.
Bill gave in to the lurching in his stomach.
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