Shamrock Green (16 page)

‘I didn't arrest you the last time, Hagarty,' the policeman said. ‘I'd nothing to do with your unfortunate experience. I wasn't even serving in Dublin.'

‘Your kind,' Fran said, ‘your dirty, shite-eating kind cost me my wife and sons. And for what? For nothing. On the strength of a hint from some bloody informer, you ruined my marriage and cost me my college career.'

‘Blame yourself, Hagarty, not the law. You may have got off with your neck the last time but don't pretend you're not guilty of treasonable offences. I know you, man, I know what harm you've done and what harm you're capable of doing.' The policeman's skin was whiter than bleached cotton and he spoke through clenched teeth, like a dog that would bite you if you got too close. ‘You're a damned duplicitous blackguard and what you've done tonight is unforgivable.'

‘In the eyes of the law, Vaizey, I'm guilty of no crime. And this time I can
prove
my innocence. This time I have a witness who'll swear under oath I was with her last night, all night, and all day today. Sylvie, is that not so?'

Mam clasped one of Fran's hands, the one without the glass in it. At that moment her mam looked like a doll, like a speaking doll she'd seen on the stage of the Empire three or four Christmases back. She'd thought that the doll was alive and had cried against Daddy's shoulder when he'd told her it was just a trick performed by the man with the doll on his knee. Oh, how she had loved that speaking doll and had hated her father for spoiling the illusion.

‘Will you, Sylvie?' Daddy said. ‘Will you swear you spent the night with this man?'

Mam closed her eyes and opened them again. ‘Bring me a Bible and I'll swear with my hand on it.' She leaned forward against Fran's arm. ‘There, Gowry! Are you happy now?'

Jansis let out a little groan, like a door creaking in the wind. Mr Vaizey raised his fist as if he were about to punch Fran, then let his hand fall again. Fran smiled and shook his head and said, ‘Now, what can I be doing for you, since you went to all this trouble to find me?'

‘You bastard!' Mr Vaizey said. ‘I know you orchestrated the whole thing. But your henchmen bungled it. Redmond survived.'

‘Redmond? Our dear, deplorable Johnny? What's he been up to now?'

‘Did you really suppose I'd fall for your tricks and arrest McCulloch?' the policeman said. ‘You and Flanagan set it up, didn't you? Now you'll sit back and bask in the glory and let others take the blame. At least the volunteers have guts enough to challenge us openly and not hide away behind a woman's skirts. And I expected more from you, Mrs McCulloch. I'm disgusted. Frankly disgusted.'

‘I don't know what you're talking about, sir,' Fran said.

‘Gun-running, for one thing. German weapons, purchased with money you skimmed from the Clan.'

‘Ask
him,
' Fran said, nodding towards Daddy, ‘about the guns.'

‘He knows nothing about guns,' Vaizey said. ‘You're the one with the guns.'

‘If only that were true,' Fran said. ‘Tell him where you hid the guns, McCulloch. Go on, be decent, give the poor inspector something to show for his night's work.'

‘I know nothing about guns,' Daddy said.

Maeve knew that her father was lying. She might even have blurted it out if Jansis hadn't crushed her elbows into her ribs, holding her so tightly that it hurt to breathe. If that was a lie, then Daddy might have told more lies; everything Fran said might be the truth and everything Daddy said might be lies. Suddenly she didn't know who to believe, who to turn to – Mam or Fran or Daddy, her gruff, growling Daddy, who had never been one with the rest of them and did not believe in the Irish cause. Then Mam leaped from Fran's knees and shouted at Daddy. Daddy lifted his hand as if to strike Mam. Fran was on his feet, spilling stout from the dregs in the glass in his hand, and Daddy and Fran were wrestling like bears.

Maeve's confusion curdled into revulsion. She thrust back against Jansis, broke away, ran blindly into the corridor, into the kitchen and plunged out into the yard. She threw herself on to the coal box where, knees to chin and arms wrapped around her shins, she sobbed and sobbed in fear and confusion and waited for someone to come and fetch her and tell her what was true and what was not.

But this time no one came to fetch her, not even her dear old dad.

*   *   *

Sylvie dropped a slice of bread into sizzling fat. Gowry was at the table, wolfing down ham and eggs. Her first lover, Forbes, had been a finicky eater. She had never liked that about Forbes. She preferred heartiness in a man. For an instant she wanted to put out her hand and ruffle her husband's hair, but the gesture would have been tactless under the circumstances. She had slept with another man and boasted of it; not even Gowry could be expected to forgive her that.

‘Is Maeve asleep?' he said.

‘I don't know. She put herself to bed.'

‘Shouldn't you go up?'

‘Jansis is with her.'

‘I'll go up when I've finished.'

‘Best not,' Sylvie said. ‘Leave her. She's had a shock.'

‘She isn't the only one,' Gowry said.

Sylvie placed the pan on the cold end of the stove.

‘What are you going to do now?' she said.

‘Sleep in one of the empty rooms.'

‘You don't have to, Gowry.'

‘Oh, but I do.' He lifted the bread in both hands and bit into it, wiped grease delicately from the corner of his lips with his knuckle. ‘Will he be back?'

‘Not tonight, no,' Sylvie said.

‘Tomorrow?'

‘Probably.'

He went on chewing. ‘Is it Hagarty you want, Sylvie?'

‘I think it is.'

‘Aren't you sure?'

‘It's a bit late to change my mind now, isn't it?'

‘Why did you do it?'

‘He – he persuaded me.'

‘To lie for him?' Gowry asked. ‘To furnish him with an alibi?'

‘It wasn't a lie,' Sylvie said. ‘He
was
with me all weekend.'

‘And before that?'

‘Yes,' she said. ‘Before that.'

Gowry chewed for a while in silence, then said, ‘He's better placed to take care of you than I am, I suppose.'

‘Better placed? What do you mean?'

‘Well off. Rich.'

‘Fran's not rich. He's hardly got a penny to his name.'

‘Is that what he told you?'

‘He didn't have to tell me. It's as plain as the nose on your face.'

‘Sylvie, I think you've been duped.'

‘If you saw his place, his room…'

‘You have, I take it?'

‘Yes.'

‘Often?'

‘Often enough.'

‘Where is it?'

‘Endicott Street,' said Sylvie.

‘Which side?'

‘The far side, up towards the Mountjoy.'

‘There are worse places to live,' Gowry said.

She wondered why he was so calm, if he hoped to draw her into a full confession, into telling him what Fran and she had actually done in Endicott Street. Her foster-father had always been curious about what Forbes and she did together in the bedroom and she had been free with the intimate details, mischievously leading her foster-father on. She would not do that to Gowry, though, not now she had all but traded him away.

He handed her his empty plate.

She put it on the stove.

‘Hagarty isn't what you think he is, Sylvie,' Gowry said. ‘He isn't just a scribbler for the trash press. He's a paymaster for the brotherhoods.'

‘A paymaster?'

‘He brings money from America, a great deal of money.'

‘He told me all about it.'

‘All about it? That,' Gowry said, ‘I doubt.'

She leaned against the cold end of the stove, arms folded. Her guilt was diminishing rapidly. She had anticipated – and deserved – recriminations, but this sly whittling away at Fran's character was not what she had expected.

She said, ‘How do you know so much about Fran Hagarty all of a sudden?'

‘Vaizey told me.'

‘Vaizey's a peeler. Surely you don't believe what a peeler tells you?'

‘Vaizey believed me, did he not?'

‘Fran didn't send you down to Woodenbridge. It was Mr Flanagan.'

‘Flanagan and Hagarty are obviously in cahoots. It's logical to suppose that if Hagarty is bringing large sums of money into the country then he needs someone who has a legitimate business to provide cover for him. Flanagan is a powerful man and a known sympathiser. Men like Flanagan, and your friend Hagarty too I imagine, are in it for what they can get, for a place in an Irish parliament and all the power and influence that money can buy.'

‘What does this have to do with trying to murder John Redmond?'

‘They didn't try to murder Redmond. If it had been a serious assassination attempt then Hagarty would have made sure it achieved its aim. From what I hear you could have shot Redmond with a popgun. No, it was just a bit of a show to excite and impress the moneymen.' Gowry shook his head. ‘Damn me, but I should have turned those guns straight over to the authorities.'

‘Why didn't you?'

‘I didn't want to get Charlie and my father into trouble.'

‘Where are the guns now?' Sylvie said.

‘I'll see to it that they are destroyed.'

‘Will you?' she said. ‘Or will you hand them over to your friend Vaizey?'

‘I'll hand them over to nobody,' Gowry said. ‘Especially not Vaizey.'

‘Fran will pay you for them, you know.'

‘Christ!'

‘If he has money behind him, as you say, he'll pay you.'

‘Stop it, Sylvie, for God's sake,' Gowry told her. ‘I've had more than enough for one day.' He got to his feet. ‘What's vacant? Room four?'

‘Yes.'

‘Is the bed made?'

‘Yes, but it may need aired.'

‘I reckon I can sleep in an unaired bed for one night,' he said and, plucking his tunic from the chair, made towards the door.

‘Gowry,' she said again, ‘what are you going to do?'

‘That depends on Flanagan.'

‘I mean about us?'

When he looked at her blankly, almost without interest, she experienced a sudden pang of regret, for she knew that she had lost him and, curiously, wanted him back.

He gave her the ghost of a smile, fleeting and faint.

‘I'll have to think about that one,' he said.

*   *   *

Maeve felt the touch of his hand on her brow, his fingers stroking her hair. She was not alarmed. She knew it was Daddy. She turned sleepily on the pillow. Her cheeks were hot and the events of last night were still in her mind like the eerie floaty feelings of the winter before last, when she'd been sick.

It was still pitch dark outside. Rain hissed in the street. The room smelled damp but she was warm and safe with Daddy by the bed, brushing her hair from her brow. ‘Sweetheart,' he whispered, his voice thick and soothing, like cocoa in a cup. ‘Sweetheart, I love you. I want you to remember that.'

She was not alarmed, though perhaps she should have been.

‘Aye,' she murmured, sleepily. ‘I'll remember.'

He put an arm behind her and lifted her from the pillow, held her to him for a moment, then laid her down again and tucked the blankets up to her chin.

‘Goodbye, dearest girl,' he said.

And was gone.

*   *   *

It was shortly after seven o'clock when John James Flanagan arrived at the garage. He wore no collar to his shirt and his ulster cape and colonial hat had both seen better days. They were the first items that had come to hand when the boy mechanic had arrived at the servants' entrance to the house on Merrion Square bearing an urgent message from Mr Roddeny.

The urgency of the message was apparent to John James before the boy had uttered a word, for the boy had been despatched not on foot or by tramcar but in a hired hackney, horse-drawn at that, which had been the first conveyance Mr Roddeny had been able to lay hands on at that ungodly hour of the morning.

The message was terse, but John James had managed to overcome the boy's awe and elicit from him the nature of the emergency, and such was the alacrity of John James's response that, rain notwithstanding, the limousine was still burning when he arrived on the lot.

Mechanics and drivers huddled by the wall of the maintenance shed, too wary to approach the crackling hulk in its pool of water and spilled fuel. Even Mr Roddeny hadn't dared tackle the blaze and when he had ordered the mechanics to run out with buckets and dowse the flames he had been greeted with such derision that he had prudently retreated to the kiosk to wait for the fire to burn itself out.

Smoke palled away over the line of charabancs and the stench of burned leather and melted rubber was strong enough to make you gag. It was the river of spilled fuel that really worried the boys, though, and they puffed carefully on their cigarettes, dropped the butt-ends at their feet and stamped on them quick to avoid igniting the petrol lake. When the hack came clipping into the lot they scattered and when Mr Flanagan came lolloping across the yard to the kiosk where Mr Roddeny had taken shelter, they stood well back.

Burned down to a shell, the Benz hissed and spluttered in the falling rain, then, as if to greet the boss's arrival, found within itself an unconsumed pocket of something combustible and released a small explosive roar and a gout of acrid smoke that billowed across the yard and had all the lads – John James too – covering their noses with their sleeves.

Mr Flanagan went into the kiosk and closed the door.

There was hardly room for two in the little wooden building.

Roddeny pressed himself back against the window and stammered, ‘There was n-nothin' I could do, s-sir, n-nothin' at all.'