She nodded again. “I have a terrible confession to make, Dermot.”
Now what? Did she have a lover or a boyfriend somewhere? Well, if she did, so what?
“I grant absolution beforehand to my penitents.”
“I’ll get that from me priest. . . . Well, I’m terrible ashamed of myself and it’s hard to admit it but I did read the rest of your story despite the confidential note you put on it and if you fire me, won’t it be what I deserve?”
“Do you think I’ll fire you?”
“Well, if you’re interested in what I think, I’m thinking that you put that warning on just to torment me and you wanted me to read your imitation of your man Seamus and you’re surprised that I haven’t read it before.”
I hugged her and kissed her cheek. “Marie Fionnuala Anne McGrail, you’re wonderful.”
She leaned against me. “So was your story and itself all about a woman and water and life and vitality and mystery and wonder. If it was about me, wouldn’t I be awful flattered, but course ’tis not about me, is it now?”
I felt the fabric of her bra under her (blue and gold Notre Dame) sweatshirt. “And if it was about you?”
She sighed. “I’d be tempted to think I’m pretty important and that wouldn’t be right, would it?”
I released her from my grip. “My word was not important, but wonderful.”
“I can print out a copy for me ma?”
“Glory be to God and all the holy saints of Ireland, you wouldn’t be showing that lascivious story to your ma?”
“It’s not lascivious and Ma’s not a prude.”
“Would she even let me in her cottage next week if she knew I was thinking such dirty things about her daughter?”
“They’re not dirty, Dermot. I’m not a prude either.” Her eyes were glistening with tears. “They’re beautiful.”
Oh, boy, I’m in deep trouble right now. How do I get out of it?
“I’m glad you like my story, Nuala, and you can certainly show it to your ma. I hope she likes it too. . . . Now, what about the tour of this Royal Hospital place that you said we had to take?”
“Sure, we’d better hurry or we’ll miss it.”
The young woman who conducted the tour was a couple years older than Nuala. She had all the facts down about the architects and the kings and the princes and the lord lieutenants and all the rest of the important people whose pictures hung above the “great hall” where the old soldiers ate their meals, a room that had as much warmth and intimacy as Holy Name Cathedral without the stained glass—not a place to eat your morning meal.
Nuala beside me was restless at the end of the tour. She waited till several other questions had been asked and then put up her hand, as if hesitant and modest.
“Ah, ’tis been a grand tour,” she began, “;and yourself giving a brilliant presentation about all them royalty and noble folk that paid for this glorious place. But wasn’t there now another culture going on at the same time in Ireland”—she gestured at the paintings of the kings high above us—“as them fellas, another tradition, a bit older as a matter of fact and a bit more Catholic, and isn’t it a shame now that there’s no sign of it in this marvelous room at all, at all?”
“Aren’t you absolutely right?” The other young woman, recognizing one of her own kind, was smiling happily. “Absolutely right. But, sure, didn’t the government of the Republic of Ireland want to restore this old building just the way that it was at the time of its glory? So isn’t the only thing Irish in the whole place the St. Patrick’s blue of the carpet?”
I guffawed, loudly I fear. Everyone else laughed, including Nuala, who realized she had met her match and, being a good sport, especially since the match was another woman, was not about to make a scene.
“Wonderful,” she whispered to the young woman as we left. “Grand.”
“Brilliant,” I added, thus honoring the two essential Dublin adjectives.
Well, as I said, one thing led to another. We rode out to Howth on DART and wandered about and watched at the sea with its orderly ranks of whitecaps piling up on the shore like lines of parochial school students marching into school. Several more little kids, some Vikings and some Celts, caromed into me and thus required my attention.
I then proposed that we see Remains of the Day, which Nuala had admitted she had yet to see. “And myself hardly having the time to go to the films at all.”
Time or money, I supposed.
She was delighted at my suggestion.
Nuala was a good date, a fun date. She did not complain or sulk or nag, as not a few of my previous dates had done. Rather she enjoyed herself with charming exuberance and entertained me with a steady flow of stories about her family, her friends, her teachers, and her fellow students.
Nuala lived in a world of delightful eejits.
We ate sandwiches at O’Neill’s before the film and herself knowing everyone in the pub but escaping without a song because, as she explained, she didn’t sing on Sundays unless she was paid for it.
After the film which she thought was both “grand” and “brilliant,” I insisted on tea at the Shelbourne, arguing that jeans and sweatshirt were not inappropriate there even on Sunday because people would think she was a Yank tourist, especially with the Notre Dame sweatshirt, and Yank tourists could get away with anything, couldn’t they?
“Irish American, Dermot Michael . . . and wasn’t I trying to find a Marquette sweatshirt, but sure they don’t have any in all of Dublin’s fair city.”
I was permitted a “tiny sip of sherry,” which in fact amounted to two glasses. I contended that the “jars” were so small that the two should only count for one.
Then she asked, “Would you ever take me out to the Abbey Tavern in Howth for the singing?”
“Woman, I would, though ’tis nothing but a tourist trap for Yanks, ah, Irish Americans.”
“I’ve never been there.”
“Then we’ll go.”
Despite her claim that she never sang on Sunday unless she was paid for it, Nuala sang loudly and charmingly at the tavern. In short order she was leading the songs. She began with “Molly Malone,” accompanied by a saucy tilt of her head towards me.
The crowd applauded enthusiastically. Then my Nuala took over. They went wild when she sang “Danny Boy” in Irish—“Maidin i mBeara,” I was later informed, as if every eejit knew that.
After that triumph there was no holding her back.
“You know every song that Percy French ever wrote,” I told her.
“And some of his songs he didn’t write too,” she boasted.
The manager asked her whether she would like to sing there two nights a week. Nuala said she had a job already and was attending Trinity College but when she was finished with the job . . .
The manager said that she should stay in touch with him. Please.
Had she expected that she might receive a job offer?
Certainly she did, and why not?
She’s a shrewd one, isn’t she? Just like Ma!
When we left the Abbey Tavern at eleven-thirty, we discovered that the clouds, which had rolled in while we were at Howth, were the forerunner of a fierce rain storm. Lightning cut jagged lines across the night sky and torrents of rain poured down on us.
We were both drenched by the time we finally found a cab that would take us back to Irishtown Road and around the corner to one of the side streets behind the pumping station and across the River Dodder from the electric works. By the time we pulled up to Nuala’s flat, the rain had stopped but the sky was still dark and glowering.
“I hope you’re not angry because I went job-hunting and myself not telling you.”
“Not at all,” I said. “And on that subject, your translations are excellent, pretty much publishable the way they are. I’ll be flying home after our visit to the West next weekend. I’ll lend you my Compaq and leave copies of the diaries with you. You can Federal Express them to me in Chicago every day. I may come o
ver in the spring to finish it up. You can count on employment till then. There isn’t any rush, so if they want to hire you at the Abbey Tavern, don’t let this job stand in the way. I’m sure you can find a way to do both.”
A nice, romantic speech at the end of a pleasant date, right?
“You’ll be going home next week, is it now?”
She seemed surprised because I hadn’t told her I was. In fact, I had just made up my mind about it myself.
“I am.”
She wanted an explanation.
So I thought of one. “I want to make some arrangements with the publishers about the book.”
“Ah,” she said, patently unconvinced.
I paid the taxi because it would be only a short walk to Lansdowne Road and back to Jury’s.
“You’ll catch your death of cold if it rains again,” Nuala warned me for the record, as Mom and Ma had warned me about rain for all of my life.
“Yes, ma’am.” I provided the same response that had satisfied them.
Perhaps, I thought, this relaxed and happy young woman is the real Nuala, the ur-Nuala who lurks beneath all the masks. A nice girl, fun on a date, hard not to like.
At the door of her flat, I bent over and kissed her.
I meant it to be a casual good-night kiss. That’s how it started out. I had forgotten that when a young man and a young woman spend a long and enjoyable day together, their hormones begin to get ideas. Our casual affection became passionate, violent, demanding. My hands found their way under her sweatshirt and up to her breasts for which I had longed since I had first seen her. She yielded herself to my caresses as eagerly as I caressed her.
“I love you, Dermot,” she moaned.
That did it. I must either stop or respond that I loved her too. I forced myself to stop.
“I’m sorry.” I gasped.
“Don’t be,” she replied.
That’s when they hit us.
From that instant on it was like a surrealistic dream you have with a high fever, lightning and thunder and the great hulking monsters of the electric works looming against the blazing sky and big men pounding me into the ground.
Their initial hit felt like a truck had rolled over me, first the front wheels and then the back wheels. Nuala screamed. I was dazed by the impact of two solid bodies and confused by suddenness of the attack and the deep darkness.
As I hit the wet pavement the rain started again. A quick flash of lightning illumined the scene—two men on top of me, one holding Nuala, and a fourth standing near her with a knife.
“We’re going to cut your girl up a little, focker.” the man with knife said with a sneer as the darkness returned, “to teach you not to meddle in things that are none of your gobshite business.”
In a mental flash as bright as the lightning I realized that while I had destroyed all the output from the diary translation, anyone could come into my suite, and read the computer files.
We were in deep trouble this time, four of them and by the skill with which they had put me down, not amateurs.
Nonetheless, they had underestimated me, as people usually do when it comes to a fight.
That’s what I had the fight with the Fenwick coach about.
Besides, I had to save Nuala.
I shoved with all my strength against one of my assailants. He grunted but hung on.
We were outnumbered and outfought.
I had to save Nuala.
Nuala was busy taking care of herself, as she promised she could.
The second scream I heard was not from her but from one of the other two men, “She’s cut me, Paddy! I’m bleeding! She’s got a focking knife!”
Then he screamed again.
A focking knife, is it?
The two men holding me down were distracted by their friend’s screams. They released their pressure on me. I kicked and shoved and then chopped. Somewhere an arm broke and another man cried with pain. I clubbed down with my wrist in the direction of where I thought a neck might be, and there was a loud sigh as someone lost consciousness.
I stumbled to my feet as another bolt of lightning tore across the sky just behind the pumping station. I saw Nuala, her white down jacket covered with blood, swinging a trash can at the man with the knife. It hit his head with a loud thud the instant the lightning flash died.
Who said we were outnumbered?
I charged the man with the knife.
A roar of thunder, scarcely a second away, drowned the end of his yell. I hit him yet another second later, burying my head in his stomach. He collapsed with a loud “oof” as the breath rushed out of his gut.
I fumbled in the darkness and found his knife. I grabbed it and pressed it against his neck. “Call off your friends, focker, or I’ll cut your throat wide open!”
There wasn’t anyone left to call off. The man Nuala had stabbed was still screaming that he was bleeding to death. The other two sounded like they were trying to get on their feet and figure out what was happening.
Nonetheless, the knife wielder was most cooperative. “Clear out,” he choked, “or the focker will murder me!”
Then I heard cars slamming to a halt, doors opening, and hammer of feet on the sidewalk.
“Seventh Cavalry, Dermot,” Patrick called. “In the nick of time.”
“A trifle late,” I gasped.
Yet another lightning explosion, right above us now with almost instantaneous thunder, revealed Nuala swinging the trash can again, this time at a dark figure who was certainly Patrick.
“Ouch,” he shouted. “Dermot, call off Grace O’Malley here.”
“That focker is on our side, Nuala.” I yelled. “He’s a Yank!”
“Irish American!”
Grace O’Malley indeed.
The entire incident did not consume more than a half minute, much less time in the event than in the telling.
Someone turned on a couple of flashlights.
“Good heavens, Dermot”—Patrick sounded dismayed—“you’ve made quite a mess here.”
Blood, mixed with rain, had drenched the pavement. “Henry, tie up that man’s wrist. He’ll be much less trouble to us alive than dead. . . . Joseph, drive Dermot and Grace O’Malley back to his hotel and secure it. . . . Dermot, you can safely leave the rest to us. I don’t think your friend with the knife at his jugular vein will want to argue with my Uzi.”
“You were late.” I struggled to my feet.
“Sorry about that. Bad weather, you know.”
Another pair of arms took possession of me, but not another assailant. Nuala, alias Grace O’Malley, was clinging to me for dear life, her heart pounding, her body shaking like that of a child in convulsions.
“She made me take the knife,” she choked. “I didn’t want to, but she made me.”
“Who, Nuala, who?” I held her tightly and tried to soothe her with comforting hands.
“Your gram! She said I might need it!”
–– 40 ––
“ ’TIS GRAND stuff, truly it is.” Nuala gulped a large swallow of Bushmill’s Single Malt (Green Label). “Faith, I haven’t known what I’ve been missing.”
She was wrapped in one of Jury’s terry-cloth robes, over her minimal but functional white underwear. Her jeans were salvageable; her white jacket was slashed and covered with blood, as had been her Notre Dame sweatshirt, which I had promised to replace with one of my Marquette supply in the morning. The assault had dazed and numbed her, but it had not made her hysterical or caused her to weep.
Grace O’Malley indeed.
She asked several times if she had “murdered the poor man” whom she had sliced up with her knife and whose blood had ruined her jacket.
I told her that she had not. Patrick and his friends would take care of him.
That satisfied her.
When Joseph had pulled up in front of the hotel, she had regained enough of her self-control to dispute with me.
“I’ll not spend the night in your room.”
> “Don’t argue with me, woman. You will too. I’ll not have you in Irishtown tonight, after what has happened.”
“I will not!” She had jumped out of the car, tumbled forward, and sagged against me. “Oh, Dermot, take care of me.”
That settled that.
“Who were those men?” she asked me as she took her second gulp of the Green Label.
“The attackers? I don’t know.”
“No.” She gasped as the whiskey hit her stomach. “Patrick and his bunch?”
“They work for the American government and don’t try to name which agency.”
“Do you work for them too, Dermot?”
“No. They’re interested in protecting me, however.”
“I won’t ask why”—she sighed—“because after another jar of this”—she gestured with the glass at me—“sure, I won’t hardly know me own name.”
“I’ll explain everything in the morning. I’m sorry about all this.”
“I’m all right,” she insisted. “I’ll be grand after a good night’s sleep.” She peered at me over the glass. “Now I know what I’m like in a crisis, don’t I?”
“Grace O’Malley!”
“A terrible fierce and dangerous woman.” She sipped more of her drink. “I scare myself.”
“I’m sorry it happened, Nuala. All my fault.”
“You’re a good man, Dermot Michael Coyne.” She licked her lips, so as not to waste a single drop of the precious fluid. “And yourself telling me you have to think everything out!”
“I didn’t mean to put you in danger. I thought they wouldn’t know about the translation. I was an eejit not to realize they could sneak in here and look at the computer.”
“ ’Tis all right. Wasn’t Patrick there with his friends?” She finished her jar and filled it again.
“I should have told you.”
“Tomorrow morning, Dermot.”
I was still angry—at myself for the chances I had taken, at Nuala for carrying a switchblade, at Patrick for being late, and most of all at the other side, which had put my woman in jeopardy. I’d take care of them in the morning.
“Where did you get the knife?”
Irish Gold Page 31