“Ah, that’s a long story, isn’t it now, sonny? Don’t let them stop you.”
“Who?”
“The politicians, who else? Weren’t they the ones who betrayed the republic then and are still betraying it now?”
The damned Irish are always indirect and opaque, I thought. And when they approach senility they don’t even understand themselves.
“Why do they care whether I find out the truth or not? Is it the gold?”
“Sure, who wouldn’t want to find the gold? It would be worth millions and millions now, wouldn’t it? Ah, but they’ll never find it, will they, not till Judgment Day when Sir Roger comes back to tell.”
“And Daniel O’Kelly.”
“Aye, that one too.” The old man closed his eyes. “ ’Twas exciting to be young in them days, sonny. Young people today don’t know what youth really means. They don’t care about the republic, one and indivisible.” He opened his eyes for a moment, and they were glowing. Then he closed them again. “’Cept maybe those fellas up north, and most of them being eejits too.”
“Eejits too.”
Dead silence. Had he fallen asleep?
“How did Michael Collins die?”
His eyes jerked open. He sat up, startled. “You shouldn’t be asking that question, should you now?”
“How can I find out the truth about Liam and Nell unless I know the answer to that question?”
He shook his head in dejection. “Them were great days, but they were terrible too. Maybe we shouldn’t have any memories, sonny, not at all.”
“I must find out how he died.”
“ ’Tis a long story and myself an old man who doesn’t remember all that well.”
I put my hand on his chest. “Who wanted to kill Nell and Liam?”
“Wasn’t it the same ones that betrayed the republic?”
“Will they try to kill me?”
His eyes opened wide and fixed on me. “Not unless you find out what they did.”
I felt my flesh crawl. So it was a dangerous game. “But are not they all dead?”
“Don’t they have children and grandchildren, just like Liam and Nell? And haven’t they profited from what happened even until now? Does betrayal ever die?”
He struggled to his feet, leaning heavily on his thorn stick.
“Do you know why they wanted to kill Liam and Nell?”
“They wanted them out of Ireland forever. Your folks wanted to live. They knew there was no hope of fighting the traitors. So they kept their secret.”
“What secret?” I yelled.
The old fella tottered away.
I grabbed him. “What secret?”
“Don’t let them stop you, little Liam,” he murmured. “Don’t let them stop you. ’Tis time the truth be told before they betray the republic again.”
“What truth, for the love of God?”
He clung to my arm. “Big Liam, as we called him, Big Liam and Little Nell, they couldn’t tell the truth. But times are different now. You can. Tell the whole truth.”
He pulled away from me and pitched slowly away from the canal bank towards the street.
Was he a plant? I wondered. For the same side as Angela Smythe and Superintendent Conlon? Or for the other side? Was there another side, in addition to this feeble old man with dim memories and an ancient love for Nell Malone?
Whatever the truth was, it was not merely, if I were to believe the old fella, part of the dead past, but part of the living and dangerous present.
I would need another long talk with Angela Smythe, to whom I had made a promise about which I now had doubts, even if I couldn’t quite remember what it was.
Not, however, till after my date with Nuala Anne McGrail. Usually I was lucky if I had one woman on my mind. That was bad enough. I had no idea how to cope with two sets of desires.
If the old fella was for real, if he was not a plant, if he was not a clever actor, if he was not part of a game someone was playing with me . . . then it seemed that there was a decisive question at the heart of the matter, the question that had made the old man jump:
Who killed Michael Collins?
–– 12 ––
THOUGH OVERCOME with ill-health, Collins still persisted in going to Cork. Officially it was for the purpose of inspecting the army garrisons; on the night before his departure he had a conversation with Mr. Moylett, and during the course of it he expressed his real intention. “I’m going to try to bring the boys around. If not, I shall have to get rough with them.” The old loyalties still persisted, accentuated by his ill health and gloomy foreboding of the future.
He said to [Liam] Cosgrave: “Do you think I shall live through this? Not likely!”—“this” apparently meaning the civil war. He made a gloomy joke to his typist and she repeated it to Joe O’Reilly. So it went on. Under the weight and the personal responsibility attached to the civil war and torn by loyalties, his great strength was breaking. He was finding it difficult to concentrate, and was in the constant grip of a restlessness as he had never known before.
On the morning of his departure, a friend advised him that it was foolish to go, to which Collins replied that his own fellow-countrymen would not kill him.
O’Reilly awoke at six o’clock in the morning and the last he was ever to see of the man he had served so faithfully was of Collins waiting for the armored car to arrive.
He wore a small green kit bag over his back, his head was bent in gloomy meditation, and O’Reilly thought he had never seen anyone so tragically dejected. Collins, thinking himself unobserved, let himself fall slack in the loneliness and silence of the summer morning.
Collins went to the Curragh and there inspected the army units. From the Curragh he proceeded to Limerick. From there he set out for Mallow in County Cork. It was the beginning of the end of the last journey of his life.
—Rex Taylor
Michael Collins (1961), pp. 196–197
–– 13 ––
“GEORGE, WHAT do you know about Michael Collins?”
“The astronaut?”
“The Irish revolutionary.”
“Not a damn thing, Punk. You pulled me away from the eighth graders to ask me that?”
“Would you find out all you can about him, particularly about his death?”
“It’s important?”
“Very important.”
“Can’t you find out over there?”
“No.” I was phoning George from a public booth on Pembroke Street, the way they do in the Robert Ludlum stories. 007 indeed.
I thought of Angela again and was momentarily distracted from my conversation.
“It’s been a long time since you’ve been so excited about anything. Punk. Is there a girl involved?”
“Not at all.” I smiled at the pun I was planning. “Only a Holy Grail.”
“Huh?”
I had stumbled back to Jury’s and into the swimming pool for the second time that day. I worked the alcohol and the hormones out of my bloodstream, told myself I was an eejit for being neither fish nor fowl with Angela, and decided that I would take no further action till I heard from her.
Then I realized that George could find out a lot for me without stirring up the “other side,” whoever and whichever the other side might me.
Also George had contacts.
“That friend of yours who works for the government?”
“Who?”
“Tony.”
“The gumshoe?”
“Spook. Find out from him if (a) there’s any secrets at his place about the death of Michael Collins and (b) whether there’s any alert on those secrets now.”
“Tony owes me. If he can find out anything without stirring up the other spooks, he will.”
“And don’t tell anyone what you’re doing, especially not Mom and Dad.”
“Are you in any danger, Punk?”
“No way.”
Which may or may not have been the truth.
“You received Ma’s papers oka
y?”
“Fine.”
“I made copies of some of the stuff that seemed important, just in case.”
“Always the prudent priest.”
“Except in my choice of brothers.”
I ambled back to Jury’s deep in thought. Well, trying to be deep in thought. The alcohol was out of my bloodstream. The hormones, however, were another matter.
I’m not much of a lover, I told myself. So how come I turned her on so quickly? Or did I? Was it all part of an act?
Had she been abused by her friend in the SAS? Did I think I could heal her from that? Coyne, you gotta be kidding!
My agreement with her was not unreasonable. Maybe, all things considered, I should let sleeping dogs lie. Even if the old fella was right that the traitors were still a threat to the republic, what difference did it make to me?
I’d call Angela in a day or two, after the party at Longwood-Jones’s, to find out what she had learned. Then I’d fly home. My call to George had just been a precaution.
Did she really find me attractive? Or was she just an accomplished woman 007? On Her Majesty’s Secret Service?
I stopped dead across the street from Jury’s. How did I know she worked for the Brits? I had seen no proof that she was an English diplomat. Maybe that was part of this crazy game whose rules I didn’t know.
Then why tell me to call her at the embassy?
I waited for the light to change and crossed the street.
She probably was what she claimed to be. However, I had been dumb not to ask to see her credentials.
Sean Connery would never make that mistake.
And he would have taken the woman to bed immediately.
I sighed over the inconvenient fact that reality is not as easy as an adventure film.
Tomorrow I would have to deal with the ineffable Nuala Anne McGrail, who, I told myself, might be the cause of all my problems.
I tried to blame Nuala for everything and found that it didn’t work.
Whatever she might be, she was not an enemy.
A threat, a danger, perhaps. An opportunity, well, maybe. But not an enemy.
I imagined again the feel of Angela’s breasts against my demanding fingers. Then I thought about the same embrace with Nuala. No doubt about which set of breasts I preferred.
If the latter woman wanted to resist me, I might have found myself on the flat of my back on the cobblestones.
I grinned happily to myself and then phoned the American embassy and told the cultural attaché that I would be bringing a guest to the dinner at His Lordship’s
He said that he had assumed I would.
I wondered what that meant.
However, my dreams that night were about Angela, not Nuala. And about Kel Morrisey. And about a redhaired woman with flashing, passionate eyes named Nell Pat Malone.
Braver than all the men.
–– 14 ––
“MS. McGRAIL is waiting for you in the lobby, Mr. Coyne,” the soft Dublin voice of the concierge informed me.
“Is she now?”
“Yes, sir.” I caught a hint of a grin and a twinkling eye in the woman’s voice. “She certainly is.”
“Then I’d better be right down, hadn’t I now?”
“I would strongly recommend it, sir.”
I applied a final tug to my white tie, glanced in the mirror, decided that I looked ridiculous, and, heart pounding fiercely, left my suite and rode down the elevator.
When I turned the corner from the corridor into the lobby, I saw Nuala standing near the door of the gift shop in the confident pose of a young woman who came into the lobby of a luxury hotel every day of her life, a faintly amused smile on her face and utterly indifferent to the admiring attention she was attracting.
She might have been twenty-five, an experienced and poised woman of the world.
I confess that I stopped dead in my tracks. Where had I found this radiant young countess?
She was dressed quite simply—an off-the-shoulder white gown, fitted tightly at the waist, a black cape, a single silver pendant around her neck. Her hair was piled high on her head, increasing the regal effect, and there was ever so slight a trace of makeup adding color to her face.
How had Nuala, perhaps with the help of friends, contrived to create such a mesmerizing effect?
They watched TV, didn’t they? They went to films, didn’t they? And even in the West of Ireland, you could buy Vogue, couldn’t you?
“Good evening, Ms. McGrail,” I whispered softly. “You look lovely tonight, as always.”
“’Tis himself now.” Her accent had changed from Gaeltacht to Dublin. “And looking like a member of the House of Lords in all his finery.”
I kissed her, permitting my lips to linger on hers. She tolerated their presence and maybe, just maybe, responded with a touch of pleasure.
“The Court of Saint James wouldn’t be good enough for you, Nuala.”
“If I weren’t in my ladylike mode”—she cocked an eyebrow at me—“I might have a scatological comment on that remark.”
“Countesslike, I’d say.”
“Actually I’m trying for the grand duchess effect.”
“It has been achieved, Your Grace.”
Her confidence suddenly vanished and her lovely white shoulders slumped. “I don’t want to disgrace you, Dermot Michael.”
“That you will surely not do.” I gently straightened the shoulders back into place.
“Is there too much boob?” Her hand fluttered to her throat.
“Not for a formal dinner, Nuala,” I assured her. “Any more might be a bit risqué and any less might be a bit prudish.”
“You’re sure now?”
“Indeed yes.” I kissed her again.
“You’ll be ruining me lipstick,” she protested but not seriously.
“You did find something to wear, didn’t you?”
“It’s all borrowed.” She laughed, her confidence restored. “Except for the dreadful obscene underwear, which embarrassed me altogether when I bought it, and I’m not sure this terrible thing will function right all night long.”
I extended my arm around her waist and pointed her towards the door. “I bet you loved every second of it.”
“I didn’t say that I didn’t, did I?”
And we both laughed happily, two young people who just then approved very much of one another.
A liveried gentleman appeared at the door. “Mr. Coyne, His Lordship sent me over to pick you up. My name is Arthur.”
“Good evening, Arthur. This is Ms. McGrail.”
“Good evening, Ms. McGrail.”
“Good evening, Arthur.” A grand duchess at least.
The car was, need I say, a Rolls. Nuala caught my eye and rolled hers.
Arthur discreetly closed the window between the front and the back of the car, leaving me alone with this sweet-smelling bog flower, this ravishing druid princess, this Celtic goddess with wondrous breasts, this mythic heroine returned from the past.
I wanted to put my arm around her, but my nerve failed me.
As Arthur eased into the heavy traffic on Pembroke Street, she poked my arm.
“I never did ask why you’re so important as to merit an invitation to a dinner at Lord Longwood’s.” Her well-educated Dublin accent was still well nigh perfect. When Nuala took on a role, she did it to perfection.
“Well.” I squirmed uncomfortably. “He devours all the literary journals from both sides of the Atlantic. So he happened to read my two short stories that have been published and he told the American cultural attaché that he liked them. In fact, he thought I must be Irish because, as you know, Nuala Anne, only the Irish can write good short stories.”
“He never did!”
“Ah, but he did. Anyway, the attaché happened to mention that he’d run into me at a concert, and His Lordship insisted that I drop over for a bite.”
Dead silence from my young friend. New data were being processed.
&nbs
p; “And yourself never telling me that you were a published writer.”
“Two little stories, Nuala.”
“Tell Arthur to take us back to Jury’s.”
“Why?” I feit my throat tighten in panic.
“I’m not going to walk into that dinner without having read your stories first.”
Don’t fool around with the grand duchess. No way.
“Is that all?” I reached in my jacket pocket. “I brought them both along.”
“Ah, wonderful Dermot.” She patted my arm approvingly. “He thinks of everything.”
“I try.”
I also tried to take her hand. She withdrew it firmly. I turned on the reading light behind her head.
She read the ordination and first Mass story first. I heard her snicker.
“Do you like it?”
“’Tis hilarious, Dermot Michael. The young priest is your brother George?”
“Not exactly. The story is not completely autobiographical.”
She began the second story and my stomach tightened.
When she had turned the first page, she reached for my hand and held it tightly. I made no attempt to escape.
“Dear God, Dermot. So this is the girl who died?”
“More or less.”
“I want to cry, but if I do I’ll ruin me makeup.”
“The show must go on.”
“So I’ll cry tomorrow . . . and pray for you, poor dear Dermot Michael.” She squeezed my hand. “No wonder you look so glum now and then.”
“Do I?”
“Like you’re far away thinking of someone else.”
“Sorry.” Tears were stinging at the back of my eyes. I wanted her consolation and yet I didn’t want it.
“Sure, it’s not your fault, is it now?”
“Did you say you’d pray for me? I thought you didn’t believe in God?”
“I only said”—she pulled her hand away in exasperation—“that if there is a God, I don’t see why He’d waste His time with eejits like us. But there’s no harm in praying to whom it may concern, is there now?”
“To whom it may concern?”
“Sure, like the mail that comes addressed to ‘occupant.’ ”
I laughed and she laughed and her hand edged its way back into mine.
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