Dancing With Mortality (4 page)

Michael hadn’t slept well. He’d
woken twice, once from a dream of being surrounded by hooded men pointing
machine guns at him. He’d fired at them, but his gun had no bullets and all he
could hear were repeated loud clicks as he desperately pulled the trigger again
and again. Then, the second time, he’d opened his eyes from a dreamless sleep
and not known where he was. It took a few seconds to remember he was in
Siobhan’s spare room. Thoughts of the beach crowded his mind, but eventually
he’d drifted off again.

He got up around 7.30 and found Siobhan had already gone to
work. She’d left a note though: ‘On early shift, help yourself to everything.’
He rummaged through the fridge and kitchen cupboards, eventually settling for
fried eggs on toast and a large mug of tea.

The previous evening had been difficult after he’d told
Siobhan that Tom was on the beach with him.

‘So he’s dead then. Another wasted life. Or do you not see
it that way, Michael?’ She didn’t look at him, busying herself with the
cooking. She slammed the frying pan onto the hob and filled it with mince.
‘Jesus, we all grew up together.’

He had no words of comfort to offer her. He muttered something
about everyone knowing the risks.

She looked up, her face a mixture of grief and anger. ‘It’s
madness. Sure I want the Brits out just as much as anyone, but not like this.
We kill them, they kill us and everything stays the same. Except it doesn’t, does
it? People I care about die.’

They’d eaten in silence. Siobhan didn’t want the TV or the
radio on. After dinner they sat quietly in the dining room, working their way
through the wine she’d bought. Siobhan alternated between staring out the front
window and trying to read a book. Michael decided not to initiate any
conversation. Siobhan was convinced of the futility of the armed struggle, and
he knew that if he started any kind of dialogue she would simply steer the
conversation back to that issue before long. It wasn’t something he wanted to
discuss that evening. He could have done with a bottle of whiskey to dull his
thoughts.

About 10ish Siobhan closed the book and got up.

‘I can’t concentrate. And I’m up early tomorrow. Good
night.’ She turned to him and planted a kiss on his forehead. ‘Sleep well.’ She
went upstairs.

Soon after, he did the same.

He finished his tea, and turned on
the television. He caught the morning news. There was a report on the ‘Beach Incident’
as they had dubbed it. The eight casualties were mentioned, but nothing about
the one who’d got away. He switched the set off.

He needed to report the ‘Beach Incident’ to his battalion
commander in Belfast. Doubtless the word had already reached them up there. But
they wouldn’t know who, if anyone, had survived or eluded capture. And they
wouldn’t be at all pleased to have lost such a large weapons shipment. He
anticipated an awkward conversation. Not wanting to use Siobhan’s phone, he
decided to find a public phone box. Taking the spare key from its hook in the
kitchen, he slipped on his jacket and walked out the door.

The day was cold but bright, with little wind and a
cloudless sky. Michael paused at the top of the small flight of stairs leading
to the street, looking carefully to right and left. A few men in suits and
overcoats were walking briskly to what he imagined must be their office jobs. A
trio of binmen were emptying bins into a rubbish truck about 20 yards away.
Nothing felt out of place – a normal Dublin morning as far as he could tell.
Being constantly vigilant had become second nature to him though, and his
senses were tuned in to the environment as he descended the steps. He turned
left, and walked swiftly past the rubbish truck and onwards toward the main
road.

Maybe I’m overdoing it, he thought. No one should know of
his presence in Dublin, and theoretically not many people even inside the IRA
knew how active he was operationally. He’d tried to keep a low profile over the
years, and to a certain extent he thought he’d succeeded. But he knew
allegiances in his organisation could change, and it was never wise to assume
the intelligence services were ignorant of his identity either. So far, he’d
not been detained or arrested, and he wanted to keep it that way. He continued
to scan the street as he walked, but could see nothing to alarm him. Of course,
they could be observing him from a window or from a passing car. He sighed, –
paranoia must be the price of freedom after all. Lighten up, man.

A few minutes later and he stood in a phone box, feeding
loose change into the slot. He dialled a Belfast number and waited, still
scanning the area for anything unusual. The call was answered after three
rings.

‘Fitzpatrick Carpentry, how can I help you?’

Michael knew the voice, but before acknowledging it there
was a ritual to be followed.

‘I need a custom made bookcase for a specialised book
collection,’ he began.

‘What’s your specialised subject then?’

‘The Easter Uprising, 1916.’

‘A fascinating period of Irish history. Are you wanting to
place an order now?’

Michael concluded the coded exchange ‘Yes, that would be
grand.’

‘I know that voice. What happened to you then, Michael?’

‘Hello, Colin, all well with you I trust?’ Colin Fitzpatrick
was his immediate superior, and the commander of the battalion to which he
belonged.

‘Fine, thank you. We were wondering if anyone got out. Tell
me what happened.’

Michael recounted the events on the beach and his horseback
escape.

‘And you had no idea you were being ambushed?’ Fitzpatrick’s
voice was calm and level, but Michael detected an undertone of doubt. He
answered promptly, with a touch of indignation.

‘Of course not. Do you think I’d have got myself into any
such situation?’

‘Ok, Michael. We lost good people, not to mention valuable
arms. I thought security was tight on this one. I wonder where it slipped up.
Where are you now?’

‘Dublin. I’ll wait a couple of days and then be on my way
back to see you.’

‘You at a hotel?’

‘No, I...’ He paused for a split second. ‘I mean yes, just
off O’Connell Street.’

He wondered if the pause had gone unnoticed. He thought it
best to keep his sister’s house out of the conversation. She wasn’t affiliated
to the IRA in any way, and she wouldn’t be amused by him giving her address to
his colleagues.

‘Call me when you get back to Belfast. We’ll have a talk
then.’ The phone went dead.

Michael felt mildly surprised. Fitzpatrick hadn’t asked many
questions. Just waiting till I show up, I guess, then it will be a full
debrief. He was also probably angry that all the organisation, planning and
expense lavished on the arms shipment had been wasted. Understandable.

He zipped up his jacket, stepping out of the phone box.
Reflecting on the brevity and the content of the conversation, he neglected his
usual vigilance as he retraced his steps back to the house.

Siobhan came home late afternoon.
She seemed in better spirits, but he could see the anxiety in her eyes when she
looked at him. He tried to distract her by suggesting they go out for dinner.

‘It’s my last night with you. I’m getting the bus back up
North in the morning. Let’s go to the Italian round the corner, I’ve got
money.’

‘We had bolognese last night, Michael. Should you be going
out after what’s happened?’

‘It’s fine, Sis. Stop worrying. And I’m sure there’s more to
Italian cuisine than bolognese. Come on.’

‘Alright then. I’m having a long soak in the bath first
though. You can entertain yourself until I’ve finished.’ She grinned at him.

That’s an improvement, he thought.

It was quiet at Gennaro’s. The proprietor knew Siobhan from
previous visits.

‘Ah, pleasure to see you again Signorina. Not many people
tonight, so you can choose your table.’

‘Hello, Stefano – this is my brother. Be nice to him.’

‘Your brother! But he doesn’t have your beautiful red hair.
He has your eyes though. Please, take a seat.’

‘No, you’re right Stefano,’ she laughed. ‘What happened to
your beautiful red hair, brother?’ She reached up a hand and ruffled Michael’s
jet black locks.

‘You’re the only redhead in the O’Reilly family. You’re a
freak of nature, Sis. Either that or the milkman’s got some explaining to do.’

They settled on a corner table, and after perusing the menu
decided on Ravioli and a bottle of Chianti. Michael felt himself beginning to
unwind, only now recognising how tense he’d been for the last two days. After
the second glass of wine Siobhan started to loosen up too. She began telling
him her plans for the future.

‘When I’ve saved enough I’m going to buy somewhere by the
sea, and manage a hotel. Somewhere that gets the tourist trade in the summer.
You can come and visit of course.’

‘Mmm, sounds good. Suppose I should stop doing building work
and find something more lucrative to do. Never did go to university in the end.
And I’m nearly 30. I thought you wanted to go to America.’

‘Yes, that’s an option too. I haven’t really worked it all
out yet, Michael. When I do I’ll be sure to let you know.’

The talk continued over a second bottle of Chianti and an
ice cream dessert. For a few hours Republicanism and dead friends, if not
forgotten, were temporarily relegated to the backroom of memory. Around 10.30
they said goodbye to Stefano and returned to the house. Siobhan was a little
unsteady on her feet. She put her arm through Michael’s and they weaved ever so
slightly to the front door.

‘I’ll make some tea,’ she said, heading for the kitchen.

‘Ok, I’ll be next door.’ Michael walked into the living
room, switching on the light. He stopped dead in his tracks. The room was
occupied. A man wearing a balaclava stood next to the fireplace, pointing a
pistol at his midsection. He had one finger to his lips. Michael stood immobile
in shock as the visitor motioned him to sit on the sofa. He forced his legs to
move and then sat down, his brain racing. The man once again raised his finger
to his lips and moved quietly to the door, waiting. Michael did as he was bid,
and said nothing.

The gunman was behind the door when Siobhan arrived, holding
two mugs of tea. She saw Michael’s grim expression first.

‘What is it?’ she began, then, as she closed the door, saw
for herself.

To her credit she stifled a scream when she saw the raised
finger. She exhaled with a long moaning sound as the mugs left her hands and
shattered on the bare wooden floor. Then she took an involuntary step
backwards.

‘Sorry to alarm you,’ came a voice from behind the
balaclava. ‘I need a word with your brother. Why don’t you sit down next to
him?’

Siobhan moved to the sofa, her breath coming in quick gasps.
For a minute everyone was silent. Michael was inwardly cursing the fact that
he’d relaxed his customary vigilance, and wondering who the hell this man was
and for what purpose he’d been sent. Siobhan was willing herself to calm down.
She took a few slow breaths, waiting for her heart to stop thumping.

‘How the hell did you get into my house?’

Michael put a hand on her arm. ‘Don’t get angry, Siobhan.’
He looked at their visitor. ‘What do you want?’

The man stayed by the door, gun levelled at both of them.
‘The business of an arms shipment in Cork, Michael. After your phone call this
morning it was discussed long and hard. Certain conclusions were reached.’ His
voice was clear and calm. He’s done this before, thought Michael. An
executioner. He tried to place the accent. It wasn’t Irish, maybe Northern
England. Certainly nobody he’d ever met.

‘What conclusions?’

‘Eight men shot dead, allegedly resisting arrest. But one
miraculously escapes, riding a horse no less. In an operation that was supposed
to be watertight. And you simply rode away. That’s a little too convenient for
the high command to stomach, Michael. You sold us to the enemy.’

Michael found himself feeling very clear-headed and focused,
but certainly not relaxed. His body felt wound up like a spring. Ready to
uncoil, should that be an option. The effect of the wine he’d consumed was no
longer clouding his perception, adrenalin had overpowered alcohol. Still, the
situation was on a knife edge.

‘That is ridiculous. I’m owed the chance to tell my side of
it in person.’

‘Those aren’t my orders. You know what happens to
informers.’ He turned the gun directly on Michael.

Then everything happened at once. The assassin fired as
Michael threw himself to the left. He felt the bullet rip through his jacket
and into his shoulder, then he hit the floor.

The man’s aim had been distracted by Siobhan, who leapt from
the sofa and threw herself directly at him, screaming abuse and clawing at his
eyes. He stumbled back in surprise, his gun arm momentarily dropping to his
side. Then he recovered himself, delivering an uppercut with his left that sent
her reeling backwards. He lifted the gun and fired one silenced shot into her
stomach. She collapsed with a loud sigh, back onto the sofa.

 But the diversion had given Michael enough time to draw the
Browning from his jacket pocket. He aimed and squeezed the trigger, drilling a
neat hole straight through his assailant’s forehead. The man was dead as he
crashed backwards on to the wall, and slid down it to the floor.

The Browning wasn’t silenced, and the echo of the shot
reverberated. It seemed to come off the walls like waves, and he knew it must
have been heard. His shoulder had gone numb, but that didn’t matter. He rolled
off the floor and knelt next to his sister.

She sat with her head bowed, both hands clasped to her
stomach. Her breath was coming in sobs as he stroked her hair. He put his palm
under her chin and gently lifted her head. They looked at each other, and time
seemed to stand still.