The Devil's Due: An Irish Historical Thriller (21 page)

“I know who you are,” he said. His arms were folded across his chest, but there was no tension in his face, no violence in his eyes. Only a question. 

I raised my eyebrows, an amused look, but said nothing. I slipped my hand in in my pocket, finding the gun.

“You’re Frank Kelleher.”

It was a statement, not an accusation; still I felt a tingle in my spine. My hand tightened around the gun. There weren’t any weapons in the room except, I noted, for the spades. I wondered if he had a gun himself, or maybe a knife.

I glanced at the two old men, content in their silence, and then at the door.

“Aye,” I answered, my eyes narrowing, waiting to see what he would do, wondering again why he had brought me here. If he had meant to trap me, he had trapped himself instead. 

“I never served,” he said. “Still, I took care of the lads when I could.”

I nodded but said nothing. He had provided food and shelter, possibly billeting men from time to time as they hid from the British. He supported the IRA, or had at one point, but that meant nothing to me. Not now, not with Billy after me.

“Mick told me you would be coming,” he continued.

I hadn’t expected that. “Mick?” I said softly as I studied him. “Are you sure it’s not Billy you mean?”

He nodded. “Aye. And Billy too.”

I waited but he said no more. “And what did they tell you?”

He shook his head and let out a sigh. “Mick said you didn’t do the things Billy said you did. And as for Billy…” He never finished the sentence and didn’t have to.

“And what do you believe?”

He stared at me for a moment. “I’m a man that makes up his own mind,” he said. Then he nodded to the floor above. “It’s Mrs. Murphy you’re here to see, is it?”

“Aye,” I nodded, relaxing a little. Despite that, I kept my hand on the gun. “Might I have a word with her?”

___

If Martin had sent word for Billy, it would be several hours before he came. Still, I checked the window every few minutes. Finding nothing, I sipped my tea and looked at Mrs. Murphy.

“Sean was upstairs then?”

“Aye. He was spreading the paraffin.”

She sat back, heavily it seemed, weighed down by the story I told her. She was an older woman, sixty I guessed, but with the Irish it was difficult to know. The harsh life we lived left many looking old by the time they were forty. Like the men in the pub, her cheeks were puffy below her eyes but sunk in sharply around her mouth where her teeth had once been. Her eyes were set back in her head and had a haunted look, unable to let go of the suffering that had followed her. She had lost her husband and one of her children and, like my own mother, she still wore the widow’s black.

She looked at me again, her eyes returning to the present. “Was he brave, my Sean?” It came out so soft, I almost didn’t hear it.

“Aye.” I nodded. “Sean was brave.”

She nodded slowly and her eyes drifted off again. In the flickering light from the lamp, I could see they were wet. I left certain details out, not wanting to upset her. Sean had died bravely and that was enough. I pictured him as I had last seen him

___

“Jesus! And what is it you have there, Frank? A baby?”

I grinned, nervous. “The sooner we can get out of here, the better I’ll be,” I muttered below my breath as I placed the crate gently on the floor and began checking the wires.

“It’s a proud father you are,” Sean said as he clapped my shoulder. He must have leaned over, his mouth right next to my ear. “Boom!”

I jumped, my breath escaping in a hiss.

“Jesus, Sean! What the fuck are you on about?” I shook my head. 

“Sean, Frank.” I heard Dan’s hiss. “Just do your jobs.”

Sean grinned once more at me then went off to spread the paraffin. I looked back at the crate and sighed. How the hell had I been chosen to be the bomb man?

Sean was full of stories, always looking for a laugh. I looked at Mrs. Murphy.
Maybe he took after his father
, I thought. I could see nothing of Sean in her tired eyes. For Sean, unlike his mother, life was too painful to take seriously. I remembered once, in the middle of a battle as my own heart hammered in my chest, Sean’s eyes full of mischief as he taunted the British, his laughing voice ringing over the sound of the guns.

“It’s the mighty British Army is it? The forces of the Crown?”

Sean elbowed me in the ribs, his eyes twinkling with laughter as bullets chipped the stones above our heads.

“God love you, lads, but you’re fucked.” Another elbow, another laugh. “Today’s your lucky day, lads. You’ll be going home. Of course you’ll be full of lead and in a box. But still”—he laughed again—“you’ll be going home!”

Sean and I crawled to the side, chips of stone raining down on our heads. The British had more ammunition than we had, and Sean’s taunting helped to even the odds. He poked his rifle up above the wall.

“It’s no wonder you’re losing the war! You can’t shoot for shite! I’m over here, lads, over here.”

We crawled on as the British fire swung to where we were. Meanwhile Billy sent a flanking party to the side.

Sean and I crouched again. “Ahh, Frank,” he said softly, “did I ever tell you about the lass I met in Dublin?”

___

“He did his part?” Mrs. Murphy asked, dragging me back along with her to the present.

“Aye. He did,” I said. “Even as he died, he cursed the British.”

“Come and get me you daft bastards!” I had heard Sean taunting as the guns blazed, the Tans at the foot of the stairs, Sean somewhere above. Suddenly there was a scream, and I realized he had been hit.

There was a moment when the gunfire stopped, the only sound the crackle of the fire. Then I heard him again.

“Frank!” he screamed. “The baby, Frank!”

One Tan spun on his heel, searching before he spotted me by the door. I dove to the side.

“The baby, Frank! The baby!”

I slammed my hand into the plunger.

It was midafternoon two days later when I lay down next to a large rock, hidden in the heather near Mullin’s Cross. From where I was, I would be able to see the men drilling. It was unlikely, though, that they would see me and not unless Billy sent out scouts, something I didn’t think likely. If what Padraig had told me was true, it would be another hour at least before any of the men arrived. As I settled into wait, my eyes darted around, searching for movement while my ears tried to sort out the rustle of the wind through the heather from the more ominous sounds of soldiers slipping forward. All my senses told me I was alone, but still I wondered if Billy knew I was coming.
Had Padraig betrayed me?
Or Martin?
I shook my head at the thought as I had done a dozen times before. The pain in Padraig’s eyes had been real. He himself had been betrayed and his allegiance to Billy broken. As for Martin, I didn’t know. But he would have no way of knowing that I would be here today. Still, the doubt nagged at me.

I had done what I had come back to do. Whether the families believed me or not, I wasn’t sure, but there was little more I could do to ease their pain. Now, though, instead of setting out for Abbeyfeale, away from Limerick and Billy as I should have, my promise to Mary and Mrs. Murphy’s last words only pushed me closer.

“I’m an old woman but still I hear things.” Mrs. Murphy had said, her eyes steady on mine. She shook her head. “The men in the pub, the young lads, they talk.” She paused and her eyes had narrowed. “There’ll be another war, for sure.”

“Aye.” As much as I didn’t want to see it, I thought so too.

“Good,” she had said, catching me by surprise. “Sean didn’t die just to see Ireland split in two.” She had grabbed my wrist, her eyes suddenly intense. “Finish it, Frank. You owe it to Sean. Make his death mean something!”

I sighed. That I had an obligation to Mary, I couldn’t deny. But did I have an obligation to Mrs. Murphy too? Did I have an obligation to Sean to finish a war he no longer could? I sighed again as I tried to shake the questions from my head. I couldn’t afford to be distracted by such thoughts.

Yesterday, after meeting with Mrs. Murphy, I had stopped by Mary’s on the way back. She had the things I needed, wrapped in another blanket, along with some more potatoes and bread. I told her what I had learned, about Billy’s weekly drills and what I planned to do. Her eyes were red, and the swelling below them told me she hadn’t slept well. When I was leaving, she reached out and grabbed my arm, staring at me for a second as her eyes brimmed with tears.

“Find him, Frank,” she pleaded. “Please find him.”

I had spent another night in the castle, my own sleep troubled as the faces of the people I knew haunted my dreams. The eyes troubled me the most: Liam’s, old before their time; Father Lonagan’s, filled with the arrogance of the Church; my own father’s, no longer capable of dancing or dreaming; and my mother’s, cold and hardened against the death that constantly chased her. As I twisted and turned on the hard stone floor, Mrs. Murphy’s eyes begged me to fight, a free Ireland the only price for her son’s death, while Mary’s eyes, already full of grief for her lost husband, were now filled with anguish at the thought of losing her only son. I saw the bitterness and anger in the Sheehys’ eyes and the destroyed hopes reflected in Sinéad’s.

And then there was Kathleen, waiting for me in Abbeyfeale. Her eyes reminded me of the promise I had made, the one I had failed to keep. They were angry and scared.

___

It was 4:30 before I spotted two men walking up the long road from a direction I hadn’t expected, coming from Tipperary. Their rifles were slung over their shoulders, their bulky trench coats pulled by the wind. Ten minutes later, I saw more, then the columns, two lines of men marching, rifles slung over their shoulders, a military precision to their step. I was too far away to recognize faces, but their movements were those of soldiers, not the hesitancy of fifteen-year-old boys. There were over a hundred, more than I had seen the day before.

At five o’clock, a motorcar crested the hill and, as it drew closer to the waiting men, I strained to see who was in it. I didn’t think it was Billy. Three men climbed out, and I squinted in the fading light, trying to see their faces. Too far away to see clearly, I decided to get closer. I wondered again about scouts but pushed the thought from my mind. I had lain, hidden in the heather for hours, long before any troops had arrived, and I hadn’t seen anyone.

It took me twenty minutes to slide forward on my belly to a point where I could finally see. I heard the voice, the sharp order carried to me with the wind, as the men were called to muster. I watched the lone figure, pacing back and forth in front of the men. I couldn’t see the face well enough, but with the bushy hair and the unlit pipe he carried in the palm of his hand, it could only have been Ernie O’Malley. And that he was here now, assembling troops mere miles from Limerick City could only mean that the fighting was just days away.

Realizing Tim wouldn’t be here—not amongst the war-hardened soldiers I saw below me—I was just beginning to turn, preparing for the long crawl away from the mustered men, when I heard the sound of another motorcar. It bounced and slipped its way down the lane as the driver navigated the ruts and mud. Moments later, I watched as Billy and Kevin hopped out. Billy shook hands with O’Malley. I couldn’t hear the words but could only watch as Billy pointed down the road and then across the fields. O’Malley nodded and, as Billy climbed back into the motorcar, the men were called to parade formation.

Then, with Billy and Kevin in one car, O’Malley and his officers in another, the men were paraded down the road. With less than an hour of light remaining, I thought I knew where they were going. When it was safe, I slipped out of the heather and followed from a distance, the whole while worrying about Tim. O’Malley’s presence meant war was looming. Tim would never survive once the shooting started.

I cut across the field, running where I could, knowing I had to get there before they did. Fifteen minutes later, I took up a position across the field from O’Shea’s barn. The temperature dropped as the light faded, and the lanterns flickered in the windows as the men filed inside. It was too dangerous to get any closer, and I wondered for a moment if they were planning on marching into Limerick tonight.
Not likely
, I told myself, but still I waited to see what they would do.

An hour later, I spotted the silhouette of a lone bicycle coming down O’Shea’s lane. The rider stopped, leaned the bicycle against the wall, and approached several men outside. I was too far away and the light that spilled out of the barn was too dim to tell who it was. But something about the shadow I saw sent a prickle up my spine.

Several minutes later, the rider left with three other men, pushing his bicycle now as he walked with them. The rest, it appeared, were staying at O’Shea’s for the night, or at least I hoped they would be. I wasn’t certain the rider was Tim, but his size and hesitant gait told me it probably was. They disappeared into to the darkness of O’Shea’s lane. Suspecting that they would be going to town, I slipped out of my position and set out across the field again, staying well clear of the road.

Some thirty minutes later, I lay in wait by the crossroads. I heard the squeak and rattle of the bicycle and the sounds of hushed voices before I saw them. Suddenly three men appeared flanked by a boy pushing a bicycle.

One look at the face and my heart sank. It wasn’t Tim.

___

It was after midnight when I reached the castle. With IRA men all over the county, my journey had been slow as I avoided the lanes and fields where other units might be. After stopping to steal more peat, I slid the stones back and climbed down the steps and into the ancient chambers where I prepared to settle in for the night.

In the glow of the fire, I struggled with the forces that tugged at me, each in a different direction, and with the decision I had to make. Caught in currents no man could control, Ireland edged closer to war—one Mrs. Murphy so desperately sought but one that would surely kill Tim. I had given Mary my word that no harm would come to her son, and the thought of failure weighed heavy on my shoulders. And although I had made no such commitment to Mrs. Murphy, her plea to take up a rifle again—the only comfort for her grief a united Ireland—troubled me more than I had expected. And then there was Kathleen, waiting for me in Abbeyfeale, reminding me of the promise I failed to keep.

In the middle of it all was Billy.

Shaking the thoughts from my head, or trying to anyway, I opened the bundle Mary had given me the day before. As I ran my hand along the cloth, I made my decision.