Bury the Living (Revolutionary #1)

by Jodi McIsaac

  She drew herself up. “I think you should listen to your friend. I’m doing no harm here, and I’ve my dog to protect me.” As if on cue, Bran growled long and low. “Besides, I would hate to have to report to your superior how you harassed a pious woman while under the influence of that vile drink.”

  Pete looked like he wanted to argue, but his friends had better sense—or perhaps it was the size of Bran’s teeth that put them off. “We’ll leave you, miss,” one of them said. “But it’s not safe for a woman to be out this time of night. Praying or no.”

  “I can take care of myself. You take care of him.” They caroused around the corner. Nora leaned against the door in the prison wall with relief.

  “Nicely played,” a voice whispered through the door. She spun around.

  “Thomas!”

  “I thought they’d never leave. Hang on while I put this damn thing together.”

  She kept her eyes on the road, listening to the clanking of metal and Thomas’s occasional grunts.

  “Keep it down,” she whispered.

  “You couldn’t have sent me something quieter?”

  “Just hurry.”

  There was a crunching, grinding sound. Then a snap.

  “Gods be damned!” Thomas hissed. “It broke.”

  “What? The padlock?”

  “The bolt cutter. Handles snapped clean off. I can’t get enough leverage. I’ll have to try again tomorrow.”

  “You can’t! They’re going to execute you in less than two hours!”

  “I told you: it won’t happen. I’ll be grand.”

  “I won’t be grand! We have to get you out of here and find Lynch! He’ll be dead in two days!”

  “Well, I can’t very well climb the bloody wall, can I?”

  “Jesus. How have you managed to stay alive for hundreds of years?”

  “I told you: it’s—”

  “Aye, the curse, I know. Now stand back.”

  She knelt down and opened her bag. Underneath the gun was the only backup plan she’d been able to come up with at the last minute—besides shooting her way into the jail, of course. A tight coil of rope. She only hoped it was long enough. She tied one end to a rock the size of a rounders ball. Then, after casting a glance about for any straggling revelers, she took several steps back and threw it as hard as she could over the wall.

  She cleared it—just. The absence of a thud against the other side of the wall hopefully meant Thomas had caught it. She kept hold of her end and hurried back to the door. “Did you catch it?”

  “Yes. Can you tie it to something on your side?”

  Nothing was within reach. “It’s not long enough. Just climb already! I’ll hold it.” She quickly tied a loop in her end and then stepped into it. She sat back on the rope and braced her feet against the prison wall, hoping her weight would be enough.

  His first pull nearly tore the rope out from under her, but she tightened her grip and leaned back, praying the knot would hold. Bran wove around her legs, whimpering. “Come on . . . ,” she muttered. Sweat ran into her eyes, stinging. She craned her neck upward. Finally, there was a flash of white hand; then Thomas’s face appeared. He slung his body on top of the wall, panting. Then he hauled up the rope and wedged it into a crack at the top of the wall, the rock holding it firm.

  “You can let go now,” he whispered down. She lifted the rope over her head and stepped back. Thomas rappelled down the side of the wall, jumping the last few feet to land beside her. Bran ran up to him, tail wagging.

  “Hey, girl,” he whispered, giving her a pat. “Let’s get out of here.”

  They set off down a nearby lane, staying clear of the flickering streetlights. After they’d crossed a couple of streets, Nora stopped. “Keep dickie for me, will ye?” The street was mostly deserted, except for a couple of rickety topless cars parked outside a pub that still had its lights on. The sound of voices and a lone fiddle trickled out under the door. She tried the door of one of the cars, which looked like a Model T. It was unlocked.

  “Get in!” she whispered, slipping into the driver’s seat. Instead, Thomas leaned against the side of the car, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

  “Ever driven an automobile before?”

  “O’course I have! Jesus! Just not . . .” She stared blankly at the dash, then bent over to look for the starting wires. Hot-wiring a car in the nineteen nineties had been easy. But this contraption . . . Did it even have wires? Where was the ignition?

  “I think this is what you’re looking for,” Thomas said, lifting the hinged cover off the engine at the front of the car. Nora jumped out and peered around him.

  “Those wires,” she said, pointing. “We need to connect them.”

  “I’ll do it,” Thomas said. “You hit the starter. It’s on the floor. On my signal.”

  Nora climbed back into the cab and found a lever on the floor. She craned her neck out the window and watched him fiddle with the wires. When he gave her a thumbs-up, she pumped the lever and the engine came to life, uncomfortably loud. Thomas quickly closed the engine cover and let Bran into the back of the car before climbing into the passenger seat. Nora gripped the steering wheel.

  Sweet Jesus. What would Eamon say if he knew she was stealing a vintage Model T?

  “You do this often?” he asked as they turned down a laneway, away from the pub. “Break people out of prison? Steal automobiles?”

  Nora huffed. “Only when necessary.”

  She could feel his eyes on her. The road. Look at the road.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “I told you. I’m no one. Just a messed-up kid from Belfast who got sent to 1923. Maybe I’m being punished.”

  “For what?”

  “Nothing. It was a joke.”

  He directed her through a maze of side streets and laneways. The streets were empty, save for the odd dog or drunkard. The car was slow and jerky, and she could feel every pebble under the wheels. But the farther they drove, the more she relaxed. Thomas was free. Would they go looking for him? Was one lone Republican worth a manhunt?

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “To Lynch, of course. I thought you knew where he was.”

  “I know he’s somewhere in the Knockmealdown Mountains. But it’s a big place.”

  “So we look until we find him.”

  It didn’t take long to get out of the city. The headlights of the car were dim, and Nora could barely make out the road.

  “We’re almost there,” Thomas said. “Take the next road to the right.”

  Nora slowed. Then headlights blared in their eyes.

  A large metal barrier and an army lorry loomed ahead of them. Nora killed the headlights and swore, then threw the car into reverse but didn’t step on the gas; she was frozen with indecision. Should they try to bluff their way through, or would it be safer to make a run for it?

  “It’s too late, they’ll have seen us,” Thomas said. His eyes were wary. Bran growled in the backseat. Two soldiers walked toward them, weapons drawn.

  “Thomas, we cannot get arrested. There isn’t time.”

  She scanned the area around them, but it was too dark to see anything. We’ll use that to our advantage. She stepped on the pedal and backed away from the roadblock. The army lorry’s engine started. “Let’s run.” She slammed on the brakes and threw open the door. Thomas was already at her side. He grabbed her hand, and they plunged off the road, Bran racing after them. They were in a field of some kind, but it was too dark to see anything. Tall grass whipped at their hands. Shouts chased them, and the thunder of boots, but then they were in the trees, Thomas pulling her along, this way then that, lifting her over roots and stones as though it were broad daylight. The shouts faded. The soldiers were going the wrong way. She clung to Thomas’s hand, sure that if they lost each other they would not find their way back together again. They ran. And ran. And ran.

  Finally, he slowed. A stitch in her side made her double over. Bran pushed he
r wet nose against Nora’s cheek.

  “It’s safe. We can rest for a while,” Thomas said.

  “How did you . . . ? It was like you could see,” she panted.

  “I’ve spent a lot of time in these fields and woods. There’s a patch of dry moss over here. Let’s sit.”

  They listened to each other breathe for a long while. Then Nora put her face in her hands. “Ballix!” Lynch would be killed the day after tomorrow, and here they were lost in the middle of nowhere, with no car and with Free State soldiers at their heels.

  “We’ll find him, Nora. I want it as much as you do.”

  Do you? “Even if we find him—which would be a miracle at this point—and save this secret deal between him and Cosgrave, then according to you, the curse will be broken.”

  “Aye.”

  “Are you so anxious to die?”

  His breath hitched. “I am.”

  “I have a lot of questions for when this is over.”

  “I imagine you do. I’ve my own questions as well. I’ve met a lot of strange and interesting people, but never someone from the future. But let me ask you just once, right now: Why is saving Lynch so important to you? Are you really such a patriot?”

  A patriot. Was she? At one time in her life, she’d have answered yes without hesitation. She’d fought for her country. Bled for it. But would I have done the same if Eamon hadn’t died?

  “I love Ireland. I do. And she deserves to be free and whole.”

  “But?”

  How could she tell him the truth? He was practically a stranger. And yet he’d been inside her head for months, and besides Brigid and the Brigidine Sisters, he was the only person in 1923 who knew who she really was. She wanted to tell him—a realization that both confused and frightened her. How would he view her once he knew the truth?

  She buried her hands in Bran’s brown fur. “I told you the war continues in the North. My father was a Volunteer. He was killed when I was very young. My brother Eamon, he only wanted peace. But I was stupid. Selfish. I got in trouble with the Provos—that’s what the IRA becomes. They wanted him to sign up. He did it, but only to protect me. He never wanted any of it. And then . . .” Thomas’s arm settled around her, and she stiffened. But he left it there, warm and accepting, inviting her confidence. She softened and rested her head against his shoulder.

  “He died?” Thomas asked softly.

  “Aye. Beaten to death by Protestant paramilitaries.” Even as she said it, the rage flickered inside her.

  “And you want to avenge him.”

  “I want to fix it. Make it so it never happens.”

  “You’ve buried your dead, Nora. Don’t try to bury the living as well.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It just means that I know a thing or two about regret. About moving on without the people you love. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that you’re not the one who died.”

  She shrugged off Thomas’s arm. “We should keep going. Maybe we can get back to the car.”

  “They’re still out there, looking for us,” Thomas said. “We need to be careful.”

  “If we’re careful, Lynch will die . . . and so will my brother.”

  “Bran.” Thomas jerked his head, and Bran slunk into the woods.

  “Where’s she going?”

  “To find Lynch’s exact location for us. It’ll make our path easier in the morning. Save us some time.”

  She shivered. Thomas wrapped his arm around her again. “We’ll make better time in the morning. We’re less than a mile away from the Gillies farm. I reckon it’s safe to go that far, so long as we’re careful.”

  Her heart warmed at the thought of seeing Mrs. Gillies, and she had to admit Thomas was right. If they blundered their way back to the car now, they’d almost certainly get caught. She got to her feet and waited for him to point the way. He offered his arm, which she could barely see in the impenetrable darkness. She wrapped hers through it, and he led her like a blind person around rocks and hedgerows.

  They smelled it before they could see it. The unmistakable scent of burning wood. She tensed as the first whiffs reached them. They picked up the pace.

  “It’s just over the next rise,” Thomas said.

  Maybe it was a bonfire. Maybe a farmer clearing his field. Maybe . . .

  They crested the hill. The darkness was pierced with the red glow of coals. It was all that remained of the Gillies family home.

  “No,” Nora breathed. She let go of Thomas’s arm and plunged down the hill, her eyes fixed on the embers.

  “Wait!” Thomas whispered. But Nora ignored him, her heart pounding in her ears, driven forward by the fear of what she might find.

  The home was a blackened shell. Most of the thatched roof was gone, and scorch marks lined the windows. Broken furniture and crockery spilled into the yard. Scraps of books, a shattered mirror, and a soot-covered teakettle. “Mrs. Gillies!” Nora called, wheeling around wildly. “Mr. Gillies! Stephen!” For the first time, she was glad Pidge was in jail. At least she was safe from whoever had done this.

  Thomas arrived at her side, his face grim. There was movement in the doorway of the stone barn, which looked untouched. Thomas grabbed her arm. “Stop. Whoever did this might still be here.”

  She wrenched her arm out of his grip. “Then they’ll have me to answer to, won’t they?” She drew her pistol from her beaded bag and stalked toward the barn. “Whoever is in there, come out slowly!”

  A figure emerged. Mrs. Gillies stood trembling in the doorway. Her skin was blackened with soot, her hair wild and frizzy in the dim light of the embers of her home. Nora stashed the gun and rushed over to her. “Are you hurt?”

  Mrs. Gillies shook her head. Her eyes were rimmed red and her lips cracked.

  “I think she’s in shock. Thomas, your jacket.” Thomas had already shrugged off his jacket, and he gently settled it around Mrs. Gillies’s shoulders.

  “She should sit down.” Thomas led them to a large stump in the front yard. Nora lowered Mrs. Gillies down and sat beside her, her arm around her shoulders.

  “What happened?” she whispered. “Where are the men? Are they okay?”

  Mrs. Gillies tried to speak, but nothing came out except for a dry rasp.

  “Thomas, see if you can find an unbroken cup in there,” Nora said. “The water pump is behind the barn.”

  Mrs. Gillies swallowed hard and tried again. “They took them.”

  “The Free State?”

  Mrs. Gillies nodded, her lips clamped shut.

  “Oh no.” Nora felt a great wave of nausea. “I’m so sorry. I should have . . .” Her apology hung limply in the air between them, useless.

  Mrs. Gillies didn’t meet her eyes. “They were hiding out on the Hill of Allen with some of the other lads. Staters picked them up earlier today, then came round and burned all the houses.”

  Nora stayed silent. How could she and Pidge have been so reckless? Mr. Gillies and Stephen would be lucky to escape the firing squad. It wouldn’t matter to the Free State that the weapons they’d found here last week had been smuggled in by Pidge without her parents’ knowledge.

  “Mrs. Gillies, I—” But what could be said?

  Mrs. Gillies patted her knee, then moved her hand away rather quickly. “What’s done is done. I signed up for this life when I married Sean. How could our children be anything but revolutionaries? I just hope . . .” She stared at the blackened remains of her home. “I tried . . . I tried to put it out. But I couldn’t.”

  Thomas returned with a chipped mug full of clear water. Mrs. Gillies sipped it. “Is this your young man? The one you were looking for?” she asked, cradling the mug in her lap.

  “Aye.”

  “I see. And Pidge? Do you have any word from her?”

  Nora had to look away. “Not since they moved them. I went to North Dublin Union, but they wouldn’t let me in. I sent her a letter.”

  Mrs. Gillies nodded. The water seemed
to have revived her somewhat. “She wrote to me. Told me you’d signed the form.”

  “I’m not a traitor. I have my reasons. There are things that only I can do . . . and not from inside a prison.”

  Mrs. Gillies patted her knee. “I know there are things you can’t speak of, Nora. I won’t ask you. But Pidge is young. She doesn’t understand. She’s angry, and who can blame her?”

  “I know.” Nora stared at the embers, the way she might have done around a dying campfire. But this was a family’s home. A family’s life.

  “I don’t want her to know what happened here,” Mrs. Gillies said. “She might not be strong enough to take it.”

  “I tried to talk her out of the hunger strike. I did everything I could, but she was set on it.”

  Mrs. Gillies sniffed, and her mouth grew tight. “Pidge has a fire in her. I’m not sure it will be quenched until she’s given her life for the Republic.”

  “It won’t come to that. They’ll release her.”

  “They released Brenda Moynihan last month, after twenty-seven days on strike. She died this past week. Influenza. Too weak to fight it off.”

  Nora struggled with what to say. How could she promise this woman that she wouldn’t lose her entire family? She couldn’t predict the outcome. “It will end soon. The war. I can’t say what will happen next, but this war—Irish against Irish—it’s going to be over soon.”

  “I wish it were true, Nora.”

  “It is. Trust me.”

  Thomas knelt down beside them. “She should get some rest. Do you have somewhere you can go?” he asked Mrs. Gillies. “We can take you there.”

  She shook her head. “I’ll be fine in the barn for now. The McQuarrys will take me in in the morning, I reckon. At least until the men are back.”

  “We’ll stay with you until morning,” Nora said, her voice tight. She wanted to find Lynch, she wanted to keep going, but she couldn’t leave Mrs. Gillies here all alone. Besides, it was well past midnight. She wouldn’t get far without some sleep.