Allegiance: A Dublin Novella (3 page)

The papers strewn across the bed were covered equally in stark black type and his own scrawled handwriting. He had thrown away the photographs before he left the Director’s office, but there had only been two: a newspaper advert of Gerald at the door of the pub, and a grainy mug shot of a suspected triggerman, someone called Kelly. Sullivan was the in and Kelly was the checkmark, but neither were of great importance. William scanned down the list of names and information. It looked the same as all the others: common workers, everyday men trading information and keeping the real conspirators from getting caught. The more these men got comfortable with him, the better chance he had at getting close to his real targets – the leaders, or those who knew who their identity.

William read through the blurry type, scowling in concentration. Now here was a young one – father’s whereabouts unknown, mother dead for some years, older brother a munitions smuggler presumed dead after the Rising in ‘16. Dock worker, no criminal record. Seen with known faction members, including some suspected of smuggling cash from America. William nodded to himself. A well-liked lad with a tragic past – definitely the sort needed for the heart, if not the brains, of a rebellion.

And what does that make me?
he thought, and grinned.

The evidence was circumstantial, but given the culture of the IRA it seemed a fair bet the lad was involved more heavily than appearances let on. More importantly, William’s instincts prickled on the back of his neck the moment his eye caught the name. This boy was one to watch, he knew it without question. He circled the name with broad strokes of his pencil. Adam Elliot.

A knock at the door and he nearly leapt off the bed. The papers were gone and the case snapped shut before he even heard the soft voice on the other side of the door. “Mr. Young?”

The floorboard clicked into place and he said, “Come in.”

Mary’s gold hair caught the lamplight as she peeked around the door. William looked up at her from where he lounged on the bed, reading spectacles on his nose and well-worn novel in his hands.

“I brought you some water and another pillow, if you like. Sorry to be disturbing you.”

“No, Miss Sullivan, you’re not disturbing me at all. Thank you for thinking of me.”

She entered, tray in her hands and feather pillow tucked beneath one arm. She set the water on the nightstand and plumped the pillow a little before setting it at the end of the bed. William managed not to smile as he watched her take in the room with a quick sweep of her eye: the suitcase sitting open on the chair; the wallet and watch on the nightstand; the shoes beneath the bed; the novel in his hands. Remembering herself, she looked back at him and clasped her hands together.

“Well, so, then, will you be needing anything else?”

“No, thanks very much, Miss Sullivan.”

“I’ve told you to call me Mary.”

He looked at her over the rim of his spectacles and smiled. “Only if you’ll call me William.”

“It’s a deal, then.” She turned as if to go, then paused. “Oh, yes
– if you’d like, I could show you around a bit tomorrow, where the markets are and such. And the post, in case you were wanting to send word to your family.”

He admired her tenacity, that was for certain. He decided it was time to give her something in return. “Actually I did want to telegram my sister, so that would be lovely, thanks.”

“Oh, your sister? Does she stay back in Glasgow with your parents, then?”

“My parents are dead.”

She gave a little “oh!” and covered her mouth with one hand. With the other she crossed herself. “I am sorry for prying, William. I’ve no right to run on so.”

He gave her a kind smile. “Think nothing of it, lass. It happened a long time ago.”

He could feel her eyes on his throat as he leaned over to reach for his glass of water. In the lamplight the shadow of his scar would be deeper, the lines more vivid. He rubbed at his neck until she averted her eyes; when she looked back at him, her face had changed. William saw understanding there, and something else as well – empathy. He swallowed the rest of the water, his throat gone suddenly dry.

“Well, I’ll leave you then,” she said, and moved towards the door. When she reached the threshold, William spoke quietly.

“Mary?”

She turned in the doorway. “Yes?”

“Thank you for showing me kindness.”

“We must all do our part,” she said, and the door clicked softly behind her.

4.

January 17, 1922

When William was fourteen he had worked a summer in his uncle’s pub in Glasgow. His father had said it would be a good learning experience – both to see what it was to earn your pay, and to see what fools men could be when they were in their cups. By the end of that summer his father was dead, and the money had bought William a new suit of clothes and a train ticket to London. But by then he had already learned both lessons well.

The Flag and Three was filled to capacity, noisy and smoky and practically swaying with the rollicking of its occupants. They sat round every table and elbowed each other at the bar, hollering to be heard. In one corner two lads were going full-force at the fiddle and bodhrán, and the tables there had been pushed back to clear out a dancing space. It swirled now in a blur of clapping hands and twirling skirts as a group of young folk stomped and swung through a frantic, sweaty version of “Scarce O’ Tatties”. The surrounding patrons clapped and whistled and praised the attributes of the most enthusiastic skirt-twirlers.

William watched the scene from the kitchen door. He was still amazed at his unbelievable luck. He had already heard several familiar names in the midst of all the shouted greetings, and this was only the third hour of the first night. Gerald was going full steam, handing out pint after pint and pouring the whisky as well, laughing as heartily as the tipsiest of his clients. William smiled and went back to wiping out the next set of clean glasses. He’d found that “fetch and carry” meant “fetch more whisky” and “carry out the empty pints”, and he had already been downstairs twice to change the barrel. Not much was different since the last time he’d been on this side of the bar.

Mary passed him in a rush, her arms full of damp towels. She smiled as he held the door open for her.

“Quite a crowd,” he said above the din.

“Aye, it’s Saturday,” she replied. “They’ve all got to make sure they’ve something to confess tomorrow or the week’s not worth it.” She winked at his laugh and hurried into the kitchen, her braid flying out behind her.

The song ended as abruptly as it had begun and the room broke into applause. The dancers fanned themselves and gulped down their drinks, and a fresh wave of flushed faces bellied up to the bar. William took a breath, tugged at his apron, and moved to the counter to joined Gerald behind the counter. He was distributing pints as fast as the tap would fill them, pressing glasses into waiting hands and plucking the coins without turning his head; William approached him as he dropped a jingling handful into the box.

“Do you need some help?”

“What’s that you say?”

“I said do you need some help?” William shouted. Several heads turned in his direction.

“Oh, that would be grand, lad. Can you run a tap?”

William slipped in beside him, forming a two-man pint assembly line. The men at the bar eyed one another over their drinks.

“Who’s this then, Gerry?” said one, a brown-haired young man perched rather precariously on the farthest stool. He gave William an evaluating look. “Hired new help, have you?”

“Sure I had to, didn’t I, to keep up with you drunkards?” replied Gerald. “This is William, lads, and make him welcome.”

William smiled and handed the young man a pint, dropping his coin into the box. “William Young. Nice to know you.”

The man’s eyebrows shot up. “Jesus, it’s a bleedin’ Prod!”

“Watch your tongue, boy,” said Gerald. “This man is a guest under my roof.”

At that, the customers grinned. “Taken in another stray, have you, Gerald?” called one.

“He’s helped all the wayward souls in Dublin, so he has, and now he’s recruitin’ from Edinburgh!” said another, to general laughter.

William slid them both fresh glasses and picked up their coins. “Glasgow, actually,” he said pleasantly.

That sent a few murmurs through the crowd. “Well then, Glasgow,” said the first lad, “Tell me something. What brings a fucking Scotch Prod into the center of Dublin?”

The noise at the bar dropped a notch. Several more drinkers craned their necks to get a better look. Gerald glanced at William, but William was still smiling that small, genial smile. He stuck a glass beneath the tap and poured.

“Why, the warm Irish hospitality, of course.”

Most everyone laughed, and the talk round the bar resumed its former pitch. Gerald poked a finger into the young man’s shoulder. “Now you mind your manners, Andy, and don’t go besmirching our cultural reputation any further,” he said. “William’s left Glasgow for good, and we of all men know that the past is a man’s own and none of our affair.”

William took the cue and dropped his eyes, waiting for the whispers he knew would follow.

“So it is,” Andy said, “So it is.” He smiled then, and stuck out a hand. “Andrew Byrne is my name. Welcome to our side of the Sea.”

William shook his hand firmly, returning the smile to show no hard feelings. He plucked a stray shot of whisky off the bar and raised it. “
Sláinte
,” he said, and tossed it back.

The drinkers raised their glasses, shouting a chorus of “
Sláinte!
” before draining them dry. William saw many glances in his direction, some less subtle than others, but they were cursory and short-lived. All but one – a dark-haired man sitting in the back corner, drinking straight from a bottle and staring at William with hard-edged eyes. William recognized him instantly – it was the triggerman, Kelly. William noted the man noting him and then turned his attention back to the bar.

He was pouring the box of coin into the drawer when the doorbells clanged violently and the room erupted into shouts of greeting. William’s knuckles flexed on the wood when he recognized the name they were calling.

“Good evening to all in this house,” said a clear voice.

“Adam, ya skiver, you’re late as usual!” shouted a drunken reply.

“What kept you, Elliot?” called another.

“More like who kept him, and where is she now,” yelled a third.

More laughter and shouts of welcome, and William turned around. Pushing through the crowd was a bright-eyed young man, several years younger than himself, with his cap cocked too far in one direction and his grin cocked too far in the other. He was clean-faced and well-dressed, pale brown hair curling out beneath his cap and clear skin glowing in the smoky light. Hands clapped him on the back as he approached the bar, and he smiled at each face in turn and dipped his head in greeting. He elbowed himself in next to Andy and looked at William with curious and still-sober gray eyes, smiling politely, and then Andy shoved at him and broke his attention.

“Elliot, you bastard, you owe me a pint. Pay up, and add another for interest.”

“So I do, Andy, so I do,” said the boy. “Gerald, a pint for this thirsty gentleman and another for myself, if you please.” He pulled a wad of notes from his pocket and dropped one onto the bar.

“Jesus!” cried the man to his right. “You should be buyin’ us all pints, and supper besides!”

“Well then I wouldn’t have any left to give to Holy Church, now would I?” replied the boy. The notes disappeared into his pocket.

“Alright, enough of your showing off, you young dosser,” said Gerald, looking at the lad with unconcealed affection. The boy returned the look, then turned to William.

“I don’t think we’ve met, sir.”

Gerald, softened both by the new arrival and the amount of whisky he had consumed, grasped William around the shoulders and pulled him forward. “This is William – he’ll be helping Mary and me round here from now on. William, this is young Adam Elliot, a friend of my family since birth.”