Echoland

by Joe Joyce

  ‘I was wondering if I could make a request,’ he went on. ‘My mother is sick at the moment and I’d like to go and see her if I could.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Tomorrow. For the day. We’ve got all the Harbusch people covered and I don’t think he’ll be getting any more communications from abroad for a couple of days so I thought …’ he petered out, hoping he wasn’t pushing his luck.

  ‘You can do it in the day?’

  ‘Yes. Morning and evening trains.’

  ‘Okay,’ McClure nodded. ‘Keep it to yourself. If anyone asks, you were doing some undercover work.’

  Fourteen

  The smoke flowed by the window, blanking out the sky and the horizon and restricting the view to the nearer fields and hedges. Sunshine bathed lines of drying hay mellow and men and boys worked here and there, tossing forkfuls of hay into small piles. Cattle grazed green fields, their ankles deep in the lush grass. Farmhouses and fields moved by, the hedges heavy and the ditches marked only by trickles of water if there was any at all.

  Duggan sat with his back to the engine and watched the midlands go by. He shifted on the seat but its rigid uprightness wouldn’t let him slouch in comfort. He put his feet up on the seat opposite and leaned his head back and closed his eyes and tried to doze. But his mind wouldn’t let him, just as it had refused to let him sleep for hours the previous night as it tried to unravel the whole mess he had got himself into. Or, more accurately, that Timmy had got him into.

  He didn’t want to think too closely on the state Jim Bradley might be in. If he was still alive. And he didn’t want to think through Timmy’s implication that it was his own father that had shot Bradley’s father. He didn’t know what it would mean to him – he didn’t want to think about it – but he had to know if it was true or not. Timmy was an expert in implying all sorts of things while saying nothing. And even if it was true, so what? An RIC man was a fair target in those days. But what if his father had known about Timmy’s deal? That’s where it would get complicated.

  And then there was the problem of what to tell McClure, if he didn’t know about it already. He had a passing suspicion that McClure knew he was up to something and was giving him a free hand to pursue it. But how could he know about Timmy’s and Nuala’s machinations? One part of him wanted to tell McClure everything, hand over the whole Bradley problem to G2 and the guards. But if he did that he’d probably be out on his ear. If not court-martialled. The captain and the colonel would not take kindly to his solo run, no matter how much the colonel said he liked sideways thinking.

  He opened his eyes and the smoke had cleared from his window to the other side as the train re-orientated itself westwards and the sky opened up into a huge blue vault with a line of puffy clouds spread out in convoy near the horizon. The only hope was that Billy Ward would break or that Gifford would come up with something, he thought. Both were long shots.

  The train rumbled across the bridge over the River Shannon at Athlone and he counted off the stops, recognising more and more of the landmarks as he neared his destination, an old mill, someone’s farmhouse, a tight clump of trees on a small hill, a ruined abbey, a small lake where he used to fish for perch.

  He was the only one to alight at the small station and his father was waiting outside in the Ford Prefect with the windows open. He was wearing work clothes and had his shirt sleeves rolled up.

  ‘No uniform today?’ he said as Duggan sat in.

  ‘I don’t wear it too much these days.’

  ‘Your mother’ll be disappointed.’ His father started the car and edged it forward to the level crossing gates, waiting for the train to build up steam and move out of the station. ‘She’ll be in two minds, actually. She’s very proud of you in uniform but then she realizes what it could mean.’

  ‘She’s well?’

  ‘Very well. Taking a close interest in the war. Even listening to Lord Haw Haw every week.’

  ‘Why?’

  His father gave him a quizzical glance. ‘Because she’s worried about you, of course. Thinks she might learn something about their intentions.’

  ‘Lord Haw-Haw’s not going to let slip any secret plans.’

  ‘You can tell her she’s wasting her time.’ The train heaved itself out of the station and the gates swung open behind it and they drove off in the sudden silence.

  ‘You’re at the hay?’ Duggan asked.

  ‘Dry as a bone. We’ll be able to bring it home in a few days.’

  They drove in silence for a while and then Duggan took a deep breath when they were less than a mile from home. ‘There’s something I wanted to ask you.’ His father waited and Duggan went on after a moment. ‘Remember I told you about Nuala? Supposed to have been kidnapped? She wasn’t, she was just pretending. But her boyfriend has now been kidnapped by the IRA. At Timmy’s behest. They’re claiming he’s a British spy.’

  His father gave him a look of surprise.

  ‘His name is Jim Bradley. His father was an RIC inspector in this area.’

  His father took his foot off the accelerator and let the car coast into a gateway to a field and shifted the gear to neutral. He left the engine running and they faced each other.

  ‘Nuala told me about the Bradleys and Timmy. That Mrs Bradley did a deal with him. Sold him her uncle’s house very cheap in return for leaving her husband alone. But he was shot anyway. Crippled.’

  His father turned away and looked through the wooden gate at the field beyond and said nothing. Duggan turned his attention to the field too; he knew it as a great area for rabbits and could see the rising ground pockmarked with their burrows.

  ‘I thought as much,’ his father said at last. ‘I didn’t know for sure but I always suspected something like that.’

  ‘He says he didn’t shoot him.’

  ‘He was upset when Bradley was shot. Claimed that Bradley was feeding him information and shouldn’t have been targeted. But he’d never told anybody that, had never said anything about him, good, bad or indifferent.’

  Duggan took another deep breath. ‘He kind of implied that you did it.’

  His father’s look of surprise answered his unasked question and Duggan felt a weight rise from his shoulders.

  ‘He said that? That I shot him?’

  ‘No, he didn’t actually say it,’ Duggan said. ‘He implied it. You know the way he talks. Warned me that was a road I didn’t want to go down. Who shot Bradley.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ his father shook his head. ‘Timmy.’

  Duggan took out his cigarettes, offered his father one and lit both.

  ‘Nobody set out to get Bradley in particular,’ his father said. ‘All RIC men were fair game whenever a volunteer saw an opportunity. And that’s what happened with him. One of the lads saw him on his own one day.’

  ‘Coming from Mass.’

  His father nodded. ‘He didn’t move about much on his own. Maybe that explains why he was on his own that time. Thought he was safe because of Timmy.’

  ‘He didn’t know about the deal. His wife never told him. I think he still doesn’t know.’

  ‘He’s still alive?’

  ‘Lives in England. He’s in a wheelchair and his wife has had a heart attack. That’s why Nuala wanted to get money out of Timmy.’

  His father blew a stream of smoke out the side window. ‘Timmy was angry afterwards. Said Bradley was going to tip him off about a visit by some of the RIC top brass. But Timmy had never told the intelligence officer that. Or anyone else. And nobody paid much attention to his complaints. He was always about to pull off some great operation or other. Always waiting for another piece or two of intelligence to be put in place. But I did wonder later when he moved into that place after the truce.’

  They smoked in silence. After the relief, Duggan felt anger at Timmy’s devious attempt to deflect him. All Timmy had succeeded in doing was further alienating him.

  He filled in the gaps in the story for his father, how Nuala had met B
radley, her ransom attempts, his own encounter with Ward, and how he had been pursuing all this while supposed to be working for G2. ‘Should I report it all?’ he concluded.

  His father gave his dilemma only a moment’s consideration. ‘Yes,’ he nodded decisively. ‘You needn’t feel any loyalty to Timmy. And it’s your duty to report everything you know.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Duggan agreed, not relishing the prospect.

  ‘You’ve taken it as far as you can. You have to hand it over now to people who can take it further.’ His father paused. ‘Suppose this Bradley lad is killed. How will you feel then? When you knew things that might have got him released?’

  Jesus, Duggan thought. That was something he hadn’t really thought about. He hadn’t seriously thought that they would kill him. All over Timmy’s greed. And Nuala’s games.

  ‘But I don’t know where he is.’

  ‘Maybe the extra information you can give G2 will add to other things they already know. Maybe Timmy knows. Maybe they can get information out of him that you can’t. Maybe they can persuade the IRA that he’s not a spy, that it’s a personal vendetta. You don’t necessarily know the whole picture. You shouldn’t assume you do.’

  Duggan wondered again if McClure knew something about what he was up to.

  His father dropped his cigarette butt out the window and put the gear into reverse but kept his foot on the clutch. ‘Things happen in war that should never happen,’ he said after a moment. ‘It brings out the best in some and the worst in a few. Most just try to muddle through it as best they can. Once it starts most of it is out of everyone’s control. It has its own logic and it can be a terrible logic. Totally heartless,’ he shook his head as if at a memory and paused, making no effort to move.

  ‘It was the best time of my life and the worst time of my life,’ he said. ‘And most of the time I don’t know which it was. I saw men do heroic things and I saw men do terrible things. You can’t remember one and forget the other. But,’ he looked at his son, ‘at the end of the day the rightness of the cause is not changed by the wrongness of individual actions.’

  Duggan nodded, taken aback by the anguish in his father’s face, an anguish he had never seen before. He wanted to ask him for details, what it was he was talking about, but he couldn’t. It didn’t seem right. It was up to him to tell him or not.

  His father let up the clutch and eased the car back onto the road.

  ‘Please God you won’t have to go through it,’ he said as they went forward again. ‘We’ll be able to keep out of it this time in spite of all the armchair generals and amateur strategists plotting this and that.’

  Duggan flicked his butt out the window and they passed a neighbour driving a horse and low cart with a cock of hay and two children sitting on its dipping back.

  ‘You won’t mention anything about Timmy and Nuala to your mother,’ his father said, half order, half question.

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘She’d only tell Mona and there’d be hell to pay.’

  ‘Mona might know some of it already,’ Duggan suggested. ‘Nuala thinks so.’

  ‘I doubt it. They tell each other everything. And if Mona knew about it I’m sure your mother would too. And I’d have heard about it.’

  They drove up the driveway and were smiling when they went into the house.

  ‘What happened you?’ his mother looked at his face. The bruise was fading fast but still discoloured.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Just a knock. Playing hurling.’

  The sun was still well above the horizon when they arrived back at the station. Neither had mentioned Timmy during the afternoon as they worked on a neighbour’s hay, gathering it in from small heaps around the field and tossing it onto large cocks and tying them down. Duggan relaxed into the mechanical routine, enjoying the light physical exercise, listening to the desultory chatter around him.

  The level crossing gates clattered shut behind them and a minute later they heard the tracks vibrating as the train approached. ‘Take care of yourself,’ his father said, loading the ritual words with feeling as he shook Duggan’s hand.

  ‘You too,’ Duggan said, holding onto his hardened hand for a moment before he got out.

  The carriage was almost empty and he watched the familiar landscape slide by, feeling more at ease than he had been on the way down. At least he knew now what he had to do, even though he wasn’t looking forward to it. But his father was right. Whatever the consequences for himself, he couldn’t risk anything happening to Jim Bradley just because he was afraid of providing information to his superiors. At worst they’d probably send him back to the infantry, maybe demote him.

  At Athlone station he watched the heavy trunk from the water tank swing over the engine to top it up and lit a cigarette. As they set off again he turned his thoughts to Harbusch and tried to force himself to go through everything he knew about him, Eliza and Kitty Kelly, the letters they had intercepted and the patterns of their daily activities.

  His efforts to examine it all methodically broke down long before they reached Dublin and his thoughts roamed at random over Harbusch and Eliza and Timmy and Nuala. An idea occurred to him but he dismissed it with a half smile as being too fanciful as the train chugged into Westland Row. Gifford was standing on the platform, his hands behind his back, rocking back and forth on his heels in a parody of a policeman.

  ‘What’re you doing here?’ Duggan asked in surprise.

  ‘Pursuing enquiries,’ Gifford continued his pantomime performance. ‘There have been developments.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Billy the bard wants to talk,’ Gifford fell into step beside him and they headed for the steps beside the bar and went down towards the street.

  ‘Now?’ Duggan felt his hopes rise. Maybe they could work this all out and free Bradley without having to report anything about Timmy.

  ‘Now.’ Gifford stopped behind him on the stairs and took a small piece of hay from the back of Duggan’s hair. ‘Ah ha,’ he chuckled. ‘A clue. You went down there for a roll in the hay.’

  ‘Just to make hay.’

  ‘And was the sun shining?’

  ‘The sun is always shining down there.’

  They came out of the station and Duggan went to his bicycle which was chained to the church railings next door. Gifford got up on the crossbar and said, ‘Onwards, and don’t spare the pedals. And mind the tram tracks. It wouldn’t do to really fall off.’

  ‘Stop,’ Duggan said, picking up speed. ‘Don’t make me laugh.’

  ‘Just listen and keep pedalling,’ Gifford said as they went up Pearse Street and crossed O’Connell Bridge. There was little traffic and few pedestrians to be seen on the evening streets. ‘I talked to the owner of that garage. He rented it to a lad called O’Brien who I think is Billy’s sidekick, the one who was with him when they interrupted your daydreaming in Wicklow Street.’

  ‘I never saw him,’ Duggan grunted and swung into Bachelor’s Walk to face the setting sun.

  ‘I saw him. A lanky fucker. He matches the landlord’s description. And he lives in a basement in Dartmouth Square.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  Gifford told him. ‘So I went for a look see.’

  ‘You called on him?’

  ‘No, no, I went to spy on him. Loiter with intent. And as luck would have it my loitering and my intent were rewarded. O’Brien turned up and went in with a loaf of bread.’

  ‘Could Bradley be there?’

  ‘Could be. But I couldn’t stay, had to get back to Hansi for our afternoon walkabout. So I called in the posse. Told the bosses about O’Brien. Turns out that he’s not on anyone’s lists. They’ve set up some surveillance on him.’

  ‘Did you tell them about Bradley?’

  ‘No, just that O’Brien appeared to be a friend of Billy’s. According to information received.’

  They reached the Bridewell and Gifford hopped off the bar and rubbed his backside. They went in and
Duggan sat at the table in the interview room while Gifford went to get Ward.

  ‘Volunteer William Ward,’ Gifford announced as he walked in behind Ward. Duggan waved at the chair opposite him and tossed him his cigarettes. Ward sat down, took a cigarette and lit it.

  ‘You wanted to talk to us,’ Duggan said.

  ‘I’ll do a deal.’

  ‘Ah, Billy, Billy,’ Gifford interrupted with a world-weary air. ‘Do I have to spell this out for you again? You’re facing a hanging one way or the other. A neat one in Mountjoy if Bradley dies. Or a messy one in the Curragh when your friends find out what you’ve landed them in. The only uncertainty will be who gets to hang you first.’

  ‘The best we can do is leave you out of it all,’ Duggan offered.

  ‘You won’t let me go?’

  ‘Can’t do that.’

  ‘We’ll let you go off to Tintown without having to worry about what might happen to you there,’ Gifford offered. ‘Or having to worry about the government demanding the death penalty for you. You’ll be able to relax. Three meals a day. Irish lessons every morning. Learn a trade. Read improving books. Dig tunnels. Build castles in the air.’

  It sounded so attractive Duggan almost laughed.

  Ward closed his eyes and opened them and took a drag. ‘There’s a place near Leeson Street.’ He took another drag. ‘Dartmouth Square.’

  ‘What number?’ Duggan asked.

  Ward hesitated again and then told him.

  ‘And that’s where Bradley is?’

  Ward nodded.

  ‘Tommy O’Brien’s place,’ Gifford said casually.

  Ward’s head jerked towards him as if someone had struck him on the other side. ‘No names,’ he said. ‘I’m not giving you any names.’

  ‘Okay,’ Duggan soothed him. ‘Just tell us how many people are there. Guarding him?’

  Ward lowered his head and shook it.

  ‘We don’t want anyone to get hurt,’ Duggan said. ‘None of your fellows or our fellows. There’s less chance of any shooting if we know what to expect. If there’s no surprises.’