When Shadows Fall (17 page)

The lights and the engine were still on, but no one stirred. For what seemed an eternity she lay sprawled on the cobblestone, rain spilling from the spiteful sky, and she shut her eyes against whatever horror was about to be unleashed.

Then the car’s engine raced. Its wheels spun before gripping the road, and it pulled away up the street, scattering slushy rainwater in its wake. At the junction with St. Stephen’s Green it turned left and disappeared.

Tara let out a sob of distress. Blood was starting to leak from the cuts on her hands and stabs of agony pierced her ankle when she tried to rise. But it wasn’t badly twisted. With the aid of a drainpipe she hauled herself up and hobbled a few feet, terrified that the mysterious vehicle would turn back. But she didn’t see it again, and when she eventually reached the lights of St. Stephen’s Green, there was a queue of cabs waiting to pick up the evening shoppers.

For a change she slept that night, a black sleep of trauma and exhaustion. Lightning streaked across the sky and thunder rattled the windows all night but she didn’t wake once, not until the storm abated, not until dawn crept between the curtains with the bleak promise of another day.

James pursed his lips. “It looks a little swollen. Can you walk on it?”

“Yes. It’s not as bad as I first thought.” Tara modestly relowered her skirt over her ankle. “I didn’t imagine it, you know.”

“I never said you did,” he replied. “All I’m saying is, you don’t know for certain that it was Mulligan. It could have been mistaken identity, or somebody lost, or—do forgive me—just some peepy man having a leer at you.”

They were in James’s office upstairs in Dublin Castle, Philip Black’s old room. Tara went to the window and sighed. “It was Mulligan. Him or one of his cronies. I’m sure of it.”

“But why wouldn’t he have shown himself?”

“I don’t know. All I know is that, if he’s trying to scare me, it’s working.”

“You should have let me bring you home.”

“No.” She shook her head. “This is my own problem, James. I’m the one who shot him.”

James sighed and rose from the armchair. He joined her at the window. “You mustn’t worry. I have men hunting Larry Mulligan as we speak. Once he’s rounded up and in custody, this will all be over.”

“You make it sound so simple.”

“And it shall be. Now,” he smiled, “I have something that may prove a distraction. Have you got a decent frock at home?”

She stared at him. “Excuse me?”

“Something dressy. There’s a gala night on next Friday at the Gresham Hotel, a benefit night for war widows. I’ve been invited to a table by one of my father’s old army friends. Myself and a guest, that is.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t look so terrified. How about it?” He winked. “Should be a rather grand occasion, actually. All the well-heeled show up to these things. Food and wine and as much dancing as you can trip over.”

“I don’t think so, James. I’m not in the mood.” Despite her misgivings, however, she found herself tempted. But unsure. “I can’t think it would be appropriate. You and me.”

“Oh, tosh. You’ll be there as my colleague. Ever been to the Gresham?”

She shook her head.

“It’s a veritable palace. King George has stayed there, in fact.”

“Really?”

“I’ve no idea. Probably.”

She laughed. After all the worry and sleepless nights, it sounded like a welcome diversion. “James, what would I even wear? My clothes are—”

“Ah. That’s not a problem, my dear. How about you and I award ourselves an extended lunch break today and take a stroll down Grafton Street? I hear Switzer’s has the latest fashions in from London and Paris.”

London and Paris. She couldn’t resist his infectious enthusiasm. “Hmm. Well, maybe . . . ”

“Wonderful!” He clapped his hands. “Then that’s settled. You, me, and the Gresham Hotel. And a night to remember!”

It was approaching eight o’clock and the Dublin evening was cool. Adam had arrived home a few hours before, and now he locked the door to his flat and walked up Leeson Street, struck by the city’s quiet calm and contradiction. It could be Kensington or Fifth Avenue or some other leafy suburb, yet hours earlier there had been a gun battle two blocks away between the IRA and the army, with seven men killed. Amazing it was how the place could revert to indifferent normality with such ease. Dublin might be a city of armoured cars and curfews, but it still had its theatres and taverns, weddings and wine parties, and life carried doggedly on.

He’d reached a grim realisation in Tipperary after seeing the woman’s murder. Those who had killed Timmy Hannigan, they were here in Ireland now and they were here to stay, and the murder of innocents would continue as sure as the Germans would have razed Europe to the ground if they hadn’t been stopped. If it took violence to defeat violence—well, Adam had already embraced that concept with his attack on the British sergeant in Tipperary.

Davy Byrne’s pub was busy. A mob of inebriated dockers were belting out songs in throaty voices, spilling beer and grinning like schoolboys. Adam made his way down to the far end of the bar, where a customer sat alone. The man saw Adam and signalled for service.

“Well, Lieutenant. How’s it going?”

“I told you, I’m not—”

“You’re right.” Colum Rourke grinned apologetically. “No more ranks, then. It’s plain old Adam from now on.”

“That’s better.”

“So, that information I gave you, was it any use? Did you make it to Tipperary?”

“I did.”

“And?”

Adam told him everything. Rourke whistled softly. “Jesus, Adam. That was you? I always knew you was a wild fellow. I read in the newspapers about that sergeant being abducted, but I never realised you were the scoundrel behind it.”

“At least I made the paper.”

“They’ll have a bounty on you yet. Attempted murder.” Rourke pushed two coins across the bar. “And Timmy’s family—a raw deal, wasn’t it?”

“You knew. Before you sent me. Didn’t you?”

“Jesus, no. How would I? Anyway, Tobin behind the bar said you called last night, asking for me. Was there something you needed?”

Adam paused, staring glumly at his hands. “Let me say at the outset, Rourke, that I’m no terrorist. I’m not out to guillotine the king. But I figured out who my enemy was back in the war. I’m only accepting that now.”

“The German was your enemy.”

“Christ, he was, the filthy, empire-grabbing pig. But he wasn’t alone. I found another enemy.”

“I’m afraid that enemy has followed you home. In fact, he never left these shores.”

“I know. And I’m not going to ignore that fact anymore.” Given recent British treatment of people, he wondered why he had ever gone to fight for them at all.

The landlord placed two pints of Guinness in front of them. Adam tipped the glass to his lips and took a long sup before wiping the cream from his mouth. “Excuse my manners.
Sláinte
.”

“Cheers.” Rourke saluted him but didn’t drink yet. “What exactly is it you have in mind?”

“I don’t know. But what I heard and saw in Tipperary, it can’t go on. I can help. I’d like to help.”

“We’ve plenty need for helpers, all right. Depending on how committed they are.”

“Like I said, I’m no terrorist, but I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty either. God knows, I’m used to dirty hands.”

“Oh, it may take a little more convincing than that.” Rourke glanced round the noisy bar and leaned his head to Adam’s. “If you want to follow up this conversation, then there’s somebody you have to meet. Until then, however, we’ll enjoy the fire and the pints. The fiddle player is about to start up a melody, and I’ll wager that fine-looking redhead over there will give us a song before the night is out.”

23 M
ARCH
1918
.
Mam me hands are shaking so much I can hardly write this. I love you Mam but I cant do it anymore. I cant fight. I wish I was home with you, but I’m scared I wont make it back. I want you to see all the words I’ve wrote for you, so I’m going to give this diary to a man who will make sure you get it. The lieutenant, I have wrote about him loads of times and I’ve been under his command four years now Mam. He’s a good man. Do you know what I actually carried him to a hospital myself Mam, to make sure he was okay. He would have done the same for me. By the way Mam, his name is Adam.

Adam closed the diary and rubbed his tired eyes. Morning was drifting towards afternoon and weak beams of sunlight fell upon the couch where he lay. He got up, made coffee, put the diary away, and decided that Quentin must be fretting about his car by now.

It was late afternoon by the time he arrived in Dalkey. White-crested waves slid across Dublin Bay and boomed against the cliffs as he parked up and wandered to the front door. Lizzie admitted him and said that Quentin and Marjorie were in the drawing room.

“Shall I announce you, sir?”

“That’s all right, Lizzie, I’m not the Sultan of Zanzibar.” Knocking once on the carved oak door, he let himself in.

Quentin was asleep in an armchair by the window, a novel open on his lap and his face peaceful in the soft firelight. A voice at once purred.

“Goodness me, is that my son who has just swaggered in looking like a South Seas pirate?” Marjorie was sitting at the sewing table with her embroidery and iced eyes and a small glass of sherry.

Adam bowed. “Hello, Mother. I see you two are keeping busy.”

“You could have shaved, Adam. Have you returned the motorcar?”

“I have, Mother.”

“Good. We’ve been inconvenienced without it. I missed Prudence Farrelly’s garden party in How
th yesterday. She’ll not look kindly upon the spurned invitation.”

“My apologies, Mother, and I won’t make a habit of it. This was important.”

“Well, explain that to your brother. Duncan is perturbed at you taking time off work so soon. You’ll have to make it up to him, if you take your future at Bowen and Associates seriously.”

“Oh, indeed I will, Mother. And I do. Take it seriously.”

“You shall stay for dinner.” It wasn’t an offer but a statement. “I’ll tell Lizzie to prepare for an extra mouth. Now, you did take good care of the Ford, didn’t you?” She put away her needles and rose up. “Oh, and before I forget, there was a letter for you the other day. Nobody will have your new address, of course. It’s there on the writing desk.”

“A letter? From who?”

“Dear me, Adam, I hardly read your private post. Here.” She handed him a small, gold-embossed envelope and then went out to criticize the servant.

Curious, Adam took up a letter opener and split the seal.

M
R. AND
M
RS.
B
ERNARD
L
AIDE

P
OLITELY REQUEST THE COMPANY OF

L
IEUTENANT
A
DAM
B
OWEN AND
G
UEST

At the Benefit Night for War Widows and Orphans

Organised by the Holland Charitable Trust

At the Gresham Hotel, 21-22 Sackville Street, Dublin 1

On 25 March 1920