The Devil's Due: An Irish Historical Thriller (27 page)

Dressed as a priest again, I sat next to Seamus as, one-handed, he gave the reins a slight tug, calling ahead softly to the horse. The horse stopped with a snort and dropped its head, content to wait for Seamus’s next command.

Behind us, the hay was piled high in the back of the cart, Mick hidden below along with the guns I hoped they wouldn’t need. My own was in the burse that hung heavy at my side. The bible, the Holy Water, the oil, and the bread I’d left on Mick’s table. I stared at the front of the Glentworth Hotel, hoping Tim and Diarmuid hadn’t been moved again. A group of men, ones I didn’t recognize this time, stood out front behind the sandbags that had been stacked in front of the door. Two carried rifles but several were smoking, their backs to the street. I glanced up. The two men perched in the windows regarded us for a moment. One of them turned and said something and both laughed as they glanced back at us.

I stared back at them and their smiles vanished. They bowed their heads—from the shame of mocking the giant man in the cart and the short priest with him. One made the sign of the cross.

“What do you make of it?” I asked Seamus.

“I don’t know,” he said as his eyes narrowed.

We had been wondering ever since we had passed the asylum earlier. There had been no troops marching through the streets today. Like the men before us now, those we had seen were sitting on the sandbags, talking and smoking. Most had given us only a casual glance. But it was the smiles that really seemed odd.
Had a truce been reached?
I wondered. Had the Free State withdrawn their forces? Not sure what to make of it, I climbed down.

“Mind yourself now,” Seamus said. He called softly to the horse then gently flicked the reins.

I watched him for a moment until the cart turned the corner. If everything went according to our plan, Seamus would see Martin coming the other way. Out of sight, Seamus and Mick would wait while Martin crossed Catherine Street, stopping on the corner for a cigarette. From there he would be able to see the front of the hotel. I could only trust that he would be there, I told myself, as I turned and began to make my way across the street, dodging the motorcars and lorries that raced across the cobblestones.

Wearing caps and dressed in trench coats—the uniform of the IRA—the four men in front of the hotel turned to watch me. Younger than me, they couldn’t have been more than nineteen.

“Good day, Father,” one said as another held the door. “The lads will be glad to see you.”

I stopped short.

“And how are the lads, son?” I asked, trying to cover my surprise.

“Grand,” he said with a smile, “everyone’s grand.” He stepped out of my way.

Still I hesitated.

“Forgive me, son. I’ve been all night with a sick child. Has something happened?”

“Aye, Father.” He smiled. “Brennan, that shite.” He spit on the ground. “He’s leaving.” An agreement had been reached, he told me, and the war that had seemed certain had been averted. Brennan’s Free State forces would retreat from the city and the Strand, and Castle Barracks would be turned over to the local IRA, men from the Mid-Limerick Brigade, men I likely knew. All other barracks would be turned over to the city government while remaining IRA divisions—forces from Clare, from Tipperary, and from Galway—would retreat to their respective counties.

“The lads and I,” he said as he gestured to the men beside him, “are from Cork.”

“Tom Barry’s men?” I asked.

“Aye,” he answered proudly.

“And the Limerick men?” I asked. “Are they here? In the Glentworth?”

“Aye. Some are, Father. But most left last night.”

“I’m looking for a lad named Tim Reidy,” I said. “From Kilcully Cross. St. Patrick’s Well Parish.”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Father. I don’t know him.”

When I had asked about Diarmuid, the answer was the same.

___

I left the Cork men there, confused, I was sure, at my abrupt departure. I breathed a sigh of relief, thankful that Tim and Diarmuid would be spared the fight that neither would have survived.
But where are they?
Would Billy have let Tim or Diarmuid go? If the fight wouldn’t come to him, would he set out to find it?

I walked along Catherine Street, glancing across but not seeing Martin.
He must be with Seamus
, I told myself. I turned at the corner, expecting to see them both. The street was filled with motorcars and lorries and horses and people, busy going about their business—but Seamus and Martin weren’t anywhere to be seen.
Where have they gone?
I wondered. I turned around and crossed Catherine again. They must have gone to the Royal George, I thought as I tried to shake the feeling that something was wrong.

In the noise of the street—the clip-clop of the horses, the squeaks and rattles of the drays, the roar of the motorcars, and the shouts and sounds of daily life returning to normal now that the war had been averted—I didn’t hear the lorry until it was upon me.

With a screech of brakes, the lorry skidded to a stop. I turned to the men jumping from the side, their rifles held ready. I stared at their faces, at men I once knew, dressed in their trench coats and wearing their caps, pulled low now over hard eyes. In the middle of the men stood Billy. He stepped forward, stopping two feet away.

“So the traitor has returned,” he said, loud enough so all would hear. I stared back but said nothing. His eyes were darker than I remembered. The muscles in his jaw twitched, betraying the violence within. Two men stepped past him and grabbed my arms. I stared back at Billy, watching his hands, knowing what was coming, knowing there was nothing I could do to stop it. The fist came at me, and I turned my head. A second before a rainbow of colors and a flash of pain exploded inside, I saw him in the lorry.

Sitting with his arms folded across his chest and wearing a scowl was Martin.

A wave of panic hit me and I coughed and spit out a mouthful of blood. Gasping, I gulped a lungful of air. My head was spinning and I struggled to think. I could feel the cold dirt of the barn floor pressing against my cheek, the pain pulsing through my arms, my legs, my chest. I opened my eyes and stared at the black earth before me. Lying inches from my nose were two small chunks that looked strangely familiar. Red or black, I couldn’t tell, but a moment later I realized what they were. I coughed again and ran my tongue over my gum, where my teeth used to be.

“Where is he, you traitor?”

I didn’t answer, and the boot came at me again, slamming into my ribs this time. There was a burst of pain, and I heard something crack, or maybe I felt it, I couldn’t be sure. I struggled to breathe, each mouthful of air like a knife in my side.

“Where is he?” the voice demanded again.

I didn’t answer—I couldn’t have even if I wanted to, struggling to hold on as waves of pain swept over me. The darkness was coming—I felt it as much as I saw it—and this time I wasn’t sure if I had the strength to hold on. But I had to.

This is Mick’s stable
, I told myself, something to focus on other than Billy’s boot.

The boot came at me again, and my head exploded in a rainbow of blues and purples.

This is Mick’s barn
, I told myself again. Billy had brought me there, looking for Rory. But Rory was no longer there.

“Get him up,” I heard, and rough hands grabbed me below the arms. I screamed as the pain tore through my body. I took several breaths, fighting to hold on.

Mick’s barn
, I told myself again. But Rory wasn’t there. The frigid water hit me, and I gasped again, struggling to breathe. I coughed and spat once more and there was Billy before me, the empty bucket dangling by his side. I shivered, the water soaking through my clothes but clearing my head.

He stared at me, his eyes dark with violence, but there was something more. I had known him long enough to see the worry hidden in his eyes.

“You’re a daft man, Kelleher.” He shook his head. “You should have stayed in America.” 

I looked up at him through swollen eyes. It was a foolish thing to do, but I did it anyway. I waited until he leaned close, his dark eyes piercing, his mouth a sneer. I spit a mouthful of blood. He flinched, but he wasn’t fast enough. He wiped his eyes as the blood,
my blood
, ran down his cheeks and chin and dripped onto his shirt. His eyes flashed and he raised his hand.

“Do they know what you did?” I shouted, then wondered if I had said it at all.

The fist slammed into my head, another flash of colors, and I told myself that surely I had said it. Out loud. I slumped forward, the only thing that kept me from falling were the hands that held me up.

Rory wasn’t there, I told myself. He was in Adare. I felt the rough hands again, pulling then pushing, as I was forced back into the chair. My arms were stretched behind my back, and I screamed out again as the pain coursed through my ribs. I closed my eyes and waited for the fist, certain this time it would send me away.

But it never did.

“He’s here,” I heard from the darkness.

Unsure what that meant, and knowing I could do nothing about it, I focused on what I knew.

I helped Mick with the morning chores, letting the hens out of the fowl-house while he tended the horses. I thought Martin had gone back to sleep, next to Seamus by the fire. I was returning from the well, the bucket of water for the horses sloshing at my side and there was Martin, pedaling the bicycle up the lane. Mick was watching silently.

“And where’s he off to?” I asked.

“The pub,” he said as Martin disappeared around the turn. “He’ll be back by midday,” he added, although I could hear the doubt in his voice.

By the time he returned, Padraig and Rory were gone, on their way to Padraig’s shop in Adare, where Rory now was surely still bound and gagged.

___

I heard the metallic click, the cock of the revolver, and opened my eyes.

Billy pointed the gun at the ground before me. Then he turned and motioned to the shadows.

“You’ve a job to do,” he said.

“I can’t.” I heard, the voice, soft and high. A shiver ran up my spine.

Rough hands, the same ones that must have held me earlier, pushed the boy from the shadows.

I stared at the boy who would have been my nephew, had I only married Kathleen. Tim’s eyes darted back and forth from Billy to me. Billy held the revolver out and, when Tim didn’t take it, Billy grabbed his hand and wrapped it around the gun. Then Billy grabbed his shoulders and turned him toward me.

“Are you one of us?” Billy asked before pointing at me. “Or are you a traitor like him.”

Tim shook his head, and the tears slid down his cheeks. Time slowed, and I watched as he raised his arm, the gun shaking in his hands. He pointed it at my chest. I stared up at him and something flashed across his eyes.

“No, Tim,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.

“Shoot him!”

He flinched at Billy’s shout, his eyes pleading with me, telling me he didn’t have a choice.

“Shoot him!” Billy yelled again.

Tim raised the gun until it was pointing at my head. He took a breath, wiped his eyes, and let out a long sigh. The gun stopped shaking.

“No, Tim,” I said again, for the first time feeling scared.

Tim just shook his head and I could see he had made up his mind. Then, before I could say anything else, he spun, faster than I ever thought he could, dropping into the crouch that Billy had taught him.

The metallic click of the hammer falling on an empty chamber was loud in the barn. Billy stared back at my nephew, at the gun that was now pointing at him. Tim pulled the trigger again only to be rewarded with the same empty sound. His eyes went wide, a look of panic, as Billy calmly reached for the gun. As he grabbed it, his eyes never left Tim’s.

“I had my doubts about you,” he said as he pulled the bullets from the pocket of his coat. One by one, he loaded these into the gun.

Tim was crying again.

“You’re a traitor,” Billy said, “just like he is.” He turned the gun again and held it out. I wasn’t surprised when Martin stepped from the shadows.

Martin grabbed Tim’s arm, leading him outside. Before he disappeared, Tim’s eyes caught mine. Like those of an animal that finally gives up, deciding it’s time to die, Tim’s eyes were filled with defeat.

“It’s me you want, not him.” I pleaded with Billy.

He stared back at me, his face clouded in darkness.

“He’s just a boy,” I said again.

Billy said nothing as he stared back at me, his eyes narrowed—a look of arrogance I had seen many times before.

I felt the panic flood my stomach. Tim’s cries and pleas from outside, loud at first, now seemed to fade. Time seemed to hang still for a moment, and there was nothing I could do to stop what happened next. I flinched at the bang of the gun and let out a wail, knowing I had failed him. I pictured Tim slumped in the dirt outside, the young lad who had wanted what he could never have—to be a soldier. I had failed him. I had failed Mary.

There were two more shots followed by voices, hushed, urgent. I looked up at Billy and saw him flinch. Suddenly he lunged to the side as the barn door slammed open. Mick rushed in, his gun searching before he found Billy. He fired twice. Billy stumbled, grabbed onto the post to keep from falling, then slumped to the floor.

Padraig hobbled over, his own gun held ready as he stared down at Billy.

“He’s alive,” he said, glancing back at Mick.

“I know,” Mick said softly. “I told you no more killing.”

Defiant as ever, Billy pushed himself off the floor, first to his knees, then to his feet. He turned slowly, and I saw where Mick’s bullets had struck him. The stain on the shoulder of his trench coat began to spread. His eyes fell on Mick, then on Padraig, then me before settling back on Mick. They were filled with hatred.

“So what’s it going to be now, lads,” he said as he placed his hand over the wound, pressing to stop the bleeding. “Which one of you is man enough to finish it?”

Mick shook his head. “There’ll be no more killing.”

I heard the door of the barn and, a moment later, I saw Tim step from the shadows. The tears were gone. His eyes were clear now, the look of determination I had seen only moments earlier now back.

I shook my head. “No,” I said but no one heard me.

Tim stepped calmly forward, the gun steady in his hand.

“No,” I said again, the words nothing more than a wheeze.

Billy, Padraig, and Mick glanced my way before their eyes shifted to the door.

“No, Tim,” I said, louder this time.

Whether he heard me or not, I don’t know. I could only watch, helpless as the gun roared, flames spitting from the end of the barrel.