Allegiance: A Dublin Novella (20 page)

The hotel room had a loo of its own, a luxury William had never been able to boast. No expense was spared in His Majesty’s Service, and even the lavatories seemed no exception: tile floor, claw foot tub, silver taps, polished mirror gleaming in the sterile light. A small room, but clean and tidy, with electric bulbs glaring over him as he looked into the mirror. The face that looked back at him was not as well-kept.

He splashed his face with cold water until he felt the strength creep back into his legs; then he stepped into the tub and pulled the chain on the shower. He would not close his eyes when he put his head beneath the spray. When the hot water ran out William turned off the shower and reached for a towel – two a day, every day since he’d been here. No expense spared. He walked back to the sink and stood there, watching his reflection blur in the steam. He drew his hand across the glass and wiped off a patch of clarity.

There were dark circles beneath his eyes. The dreams came every night now – dreams of blood and horror and death, dreams of skin and sweat and heat. They had always dissolved to fragments in the light of day, but now they came too fast, hiding behind his eyelids every time he blinked. He could not shake the remnants of his vision, or the cold feeling still knotted in his chest.

His shaving kit sat beneath the medicine cabinet. William glanced at it, then at his face, and then he rubbed his jaw and reached for the brush. There was a sort of comfort in this ingrained habit, this set of methodical movements; he spread the warm soap across his face, then picked up his razor and scraped a slow, careful stroke down his cheek.

His father had not taught him how to shave. As a child he had sat on the floor countless times and watched his father squint into the mirror above the basin, wiping the blade on his sleeve, but he had never played along with a comb or the back of a butter knife. It seemed like something that only men did, and William had known he was far from being a man. He had been content to watch the razor flash in the light as it moved down his father’s face, guided by a steady hand.

Once, he asked: “Does it hurt, Da?”

“Sometimes. But that just means you’re going too fast, or your blade is not the best.” His father looked down at him, his face still half-dotted in soap, and winked.

“If anything hurts you that much, wee man, it’s likely you’re not doing it right.”

Outside in the bedroom, his belongings lay arranged in their usual tidy order. His shoes peeked from the edge of the bed, side by side and pointing out. His briefcase with its stacks of files lay on the table with the evening newspapers scattered around it.
Day 28 at the Four Courts
,
read the Times
.
Four rioters shot by Free State police
.
And the Independent:
The Fighting Continues. When will our City be safe again?
Atop the stack lay an envelope stamped with the seal of the MI5. Inside it was William’s assignment: he would leave King’s Cross four hours from now on a second class train bound for northern England. Suspected tax fraud in a group of unionists. Not all punishment required a ball and chain.

William shaved slowly, blinking at his reflection through the steam. The razor slipped in his fingers and he winced; bright blood welled up and trickled down his throat, catching on the line of his scar. He watched it pool along the raised skin.

You love what you bleed for
,
his father had once said.
And sooner or later, you bleed for what you love.

William wiped the traces of foam and blood from his face and dropped the towel on the floor. He closed his shaving kit and carried it out with him into the bedroom, where the first tinges of gray dawn had begun to replace the stark moonlight. William’s skin prickled in the cool air as he dressed himself carefully, snapped his suitcase closed, and reached for his jacket.

From inside his jacket pocket he withdrew an envelope labeled in his own handwriting:
Official Notice, Agent to Headquarters
.
He propped the letter against the stack of files and picked up his identification card.
William Young, On His Majesty’s Service
.
The stock paper made a heavy ripping sound as he tore it in two. William held the halves in his hands for moment; then he lay the pieces face down in front of the letter, picked up his suitcase, and walked out of the hotel room, not bothering to switch off the lamp behind him.

Dearest Meg,

Today I will wire you the majority of this month’s pay. There will not be another. I told you that this assignment would be my last, and so it shall. I cannot say anything more right now, but my work here is over. You once told me that I am not what they want me to be. You were right. I am not what anyone wanted me to be, least of all myself.

There is only one more thing I must do before I come home. It is a dangerous thing – likely the most dangerous thing I have ever done. There is a possibility that I will not return. I don’t tell you this to worry you – I tell you this because if the worst should happen, this letter will be the only notification you ever receive. If you have not heard from me three weeks from today, burn this letter and tell no one you received it.

I know you don’t understand, Meg, and I am truly sorry. I will explain everything when I get home. I pray that will be soon. I love you, my dear sister. It’s likely I am too late, that I will not be able to be of any help or do what it is that I am setting out to do. But I would never be able to look you or your daughters in the face again if I did not try. I have to do what’s right. And if the worst should befall me, then when I see Mum and Da I’ll tell them I did the best I could.

It’s not over yet.

All my love,

William

24.

May 25, 1922

Summer bloomed on the streets of Dublin. The sky above the chimneys was blue, only slightly stained by coal smoke; the brick and stone caught the sunlight and nurtured it to a welcome warmth. It had rained the day before – the everyday smells of mud and rubbish were temporarily washed away, leaving the city clean with the scent of wood fires and salt air brought in by the wind. On a day like this the crowds should have been out in full, shopping and socializing in the Saturday markets – men in their shirt sleeves and women in linen blouses, picking through the cherry harvest and wandering through booths filled with fresh flowers and new dresses. But on this Saturday morning the streets were nearly empty despite the beautiful weather. Instead of lively chatter there was only a tense and muted murmuring, broken by the occasional streetcar bell or barking dog, and in the distance hummed the faint sound of lorry engines.

William could feel eyes on him as he walked down Wicklow street. The whispers grew bolder, rustling like leaves in his wake; three times he heard his name spat out in the snatches that reached his ears. He kept his gaze straight ahead and walked. In front of the cloth shop two women turned their backs as he passed; another pulled her child behind her as if to remove him from the reach of William’s poisonous shadow. William kept walking.

The pub sign swung a little as he took hold of the doorknob and then paused. He looked at the front window; in the freshly cleaned glass, his reflection squared its shoulders. The doorbells jingled loudly as he entered.

The bar had been restocked with spring shipments, new wine and old whisky and the glasses all gleaming on their shelves. The chairs stood turned up on their tables with his broom propped in the far corner. His apron no longer hung on its peg. At first he thought the room was empty, but as his eyes adjusted to the indoor light he saw a figure bent before the fireplace, scraping the last of the winter ashes from the hearth. He didn’t move as the door closed behind him, but the friendly greeting came at once: “A good morning to you, friend, can I help?” When there was no reply, Gerald straightened from his work and turned around.

William wondered how he must have looked, standing there on the welcome mat – unshaven, sleep-deprived, hollowed-out and drifting at the end of an unraveling rope. Could the past month be seen on his face, in the yellowed bruises there? Did he look as battered as he felt? If so, Gerald gave no sign. He stared at William in silence, his face going carefully stiff. It made him look very old.

“William!”

Footsteps rang out as Mary came flying down the stairs. She ran into William’s arms and embraced him fiercely – he put a hand on her hair, but his eyes remained on her father. Close behind her came Ruan, barking and thumping his tail madly as his paws scrabbled on the floor at William’s feet.

Mary abruptly drew back, her face drawn with worry. “How did you
—
what are you doing here?”

At last, William found his voice. “I came to warn you.” And then to Gerald: “I need to see Adam.”

Gerald dropped his scraper into the hearth and wiped his hands across the front of his apron. “I don’t know where Adam is,” he said. “And I wouldn’t tell you if I did.”

“Da!”

“Go upstairs, Mary.”

“But Da—”

“Do as I say, girl!” Gerald’s eyes flashed; for an instant William could see what he must have looked like as a young man. It was a formidable sight.

Mary touched William’s arm; she looked about to speak, but no words came, and her eyes filled with tears. All at once she turned away and fled back up the staircase. When she was gone, William expected to see fury rise in Gerald’s face, abhorrence, disgust; he waited for the curses and the shouts of rebuke. Instead he heard only a single weary sentence.

“Haven’t you done enough, lad?”

“Gerald, I don’t— look, I’m not asking for anything. Just tell me where Adam is, and you’ll never see me again. Please, I’ve got to find him.”

“Find someplace else to ease your conscience. You’ll get no absolution here.” Gerald pulled his apron off and wiped his hands with it, then held it clenched in his fists. “I gave you my trust, boy. I brought you into my home, into my
family
—” His shoulders slumped. “They told me I was a fool to do it.”

“No one has ever shown me kindness like you did,” William said. “I never wanted you to get caught up in this. I tried to stop it. I was only trying to—” He sighed. "I never wanted this. ”

Gerald shook his head. “You’re not the man I thought you were.”

And there was nothing William could say to that.

“Go home, William. Go back from where you came.”

“I can’t. I quit.”

Gerald's eyes widened; William used the moment to press ahead. “They’re coming, Gerald. It’s not going to be good. My
—
the
—
the orders are show no mercy. I know Adam’s going. I know what’s in his mind. He’ll get down there any way he can, and if he does, he’s going to die. You’ve got to believe me. I know you can’t trust me, but you’ve got to believe me.” The words were tumbling out of him; in his exhaustion he felt himself close to panic. “Please, for the love of God, Gerald, tell me where he is. I swear on my life, I’m trying to save him.
”

Gerald listened to William’s pleas with no visible reaction. His face, always so robust and lively, looked tired and gray. Ruan, cowed by the hard voices, began to nudge at William’s ankles; the gentle thumping of his tail and his whines for attention were the only sounds in the room for a long time. Then Gerald tied his apron around himself again and bent to retrieve his scraper from the ashes.

“I don’t take the word of strangers.”

William’s gaze rose to the landing, where Mary clutched the banister with white knuckles, her face streaked with silent tears. William’s heart ached. He turned to Gerald, who had already stooped back to his work, scraping in long harsh strokes at ashes the same color as his hair. William bent to give Ruan a gentle scritch behind the ear.