Still, the rosary was a very useful prayer, thought Eileen. She remembered how much she had resented the time spent on her knees when she was in school, trying to disguise from Sister Mary Immaculate the fact that she had a book open on the floor under her desk. Without a book to read the whole process had seemed interminable: fifty times Hail Mary … five times Our Father … five times Glory Be … and then followed by the Apostles’ Creed.
‘Visitors for Sam O’Mahony,’ said the warder into the phone. Outside in the yard a man and woman were returning from the main block. She noticed that the hand with which Liam put away the rosary trembled slightly and she felt sorry for him. He had not her advantage of knowing exactly how everything should work out. He would have to trust to a girl who had never been on a raid before and that, she guessed, was very difficult for him.
And then she forgot about Liam and concentrated on the part that she was going to play. ‘Now remember that you promised to let me do the talking,’ she said in a penetrating whisper into the ear of her supposed mother. ‘Yesterday, you talked and talked and I couldn’t get a word in edgewise.’
Liam, she was glad to notice, recovered enough to give an exaggerated sigh. She hoped that he wouldn’t get so confident that he would attempt to talk in that awful falsetto that he had been using on the ride into town, but she daren’t whisper a warning. She had gone over and over the procedure last evening, rehearsing again and again. Now, she told herself, was the time to relax and to play her own part as well as she could.
Everything happened as yesterday. The two were put on chairs in front of the barrier. Eileen stretched out her hands and laid them, palms upside, on the counter and Liam copied her. There was a moment’s unease when she noticed the hairiness of his fingers but by the time the warder came near, only the palms were visible. The warder gave a cursory glance and then went back to his telephone. Eileen saw Liam’s eyes go to the telephone wire and she frowned at him. The more he kept his head down and his face hidden inside the hooded arch of the shawl, the safer they would be.
And then Sam came in. He had a worried look on his face and his greeting to her was almost absent-minded. She wondered what was bothering him.
‘Well, even if yer ma didn’t turn up today, at least your auntie and your cousin are here,’ said the warder. He had an unpleasant jeering note in his voice, but to Eileen’s relief she heard the rustle of the newspaper and guessed that he was probably going back to his study of the racing pages.
‘Your mam couldn’t come today, Sam, and she’s that sorry,’ she said earnestly. ‘She told me to tell you to expect her tomorrow without fail. The thing is she got a big new order for some drisheen for the hospital. A doctor there has discovered that it is the best possible thing to give patients that are recovering from an operation. She’s been up all night getting the sausages ready.’
Did Mrs O’Mahony prepare the drisheen herself, or did she just buy it in and resell it? Eileen realized that she hadn’t a clue. Sam had never really spoken much about his mother, apart from saying how hard she worked to send him to school and how depressed he felt that now she was having to work even harder in order to maintain a man of his age who had not been able to get a new job. Eileen had always discouraged those conversations because, sooner or later, they would end with Sam declaring despairingly that he would have to go to England.
Liam, she noticed, had uttered a loud sigh of what was intended to be boredom. He fished out his pocket watch from his pocket, pressed the spring to open the lid and stared fixedly at its face. The toe of his boot nudged the side of her foot. Only another few minutes to go, she noticed as she glanced swiftly down at the timepiece.
‘And, you’d never believe it, Sam, but your mam is thinking of advertising in the Evening Echo for a messenger boy. Of course it would be an awful expense. She would have to buy him a bicycle. But then, you see, she knows a man who would get her one cheap.’
‘She’d be better off not to bother,’ said Sam in a voice that he tried to make sulky. ‘She’ll have to pay for one of those metal nameplates as well. And then there’ll be the cost of painting the name on it. And if the messenger boy gets into trouble, then she’ll be blamed.’
‘But you could paint the name on for her, couldn’t you, Sam?’ pleaded Eileen in as soft and coaxing a voice as she could manage.
‘Time’s up,’ said the warder. He picked up the phone and said into it, ‘Visitors coming out.’ Eileen felt her legs tremble as she stood up. By now, she thought, the boys in the waiting room should have stunned the warder, taken his keys and ripped out the telephone wire.
Beside her Liam had sprung to his feet with an alacrity that she feared might betray them to the warder. But when she turned around, the man had already pulled the keys out from his pocket and was, his back turned to them, bending down to open the door. Liam picked up the stool that he had been sitting on and whacked it down on the man’s skull. He fell with a crash that Eileen feared might be heard throughout the prison. In a second, Sam had leaped over the barrier and joined them. Liam put his hand in the warder’s pocket and drew out a pistol.
‘Leave that,’ said Sam. ‘I want no violence.’
‘Shut up,’ hissed Liam. ‘Mind your own business. We’re only doing this as a favour to Eileen. Either you come along with us and keep your mouth closed, or else trot back to your prison cell like a good little dog.’
‘Sam!’ Eileen looked at him imploringly. He was stubborn and inflexible she knew, but there was no time for argument. Already Liam had opened the door, looking left and right cautiously. He handed the keys to her and then boldly marched across to the waiting room.
‘Take this,’ she said and before Sam could object, she had taken off the huge enveloping shawl, opened it out and put it over his head, fastening it with the safety pin under his chin. It came down to below his knees and would hide the prison uniform from a casual glance. Quickly she locked the door of the visiting cell behind them. Now they were just two female figures, one with a shawl and the other bareheaded. Eileen thrust her arm into his and forced him to walk slowly across the yard. Anyone casually glancing out of a window would see nothing unusual. In any case, not many windows looked out on the space between them and the inner gate. All the cells and corridors radiated out from the visiting cell in the centre.
As soon as they emerged from the door, for a moment she thought that all had gone according to plan. Eamonn’s clerical collar gleamed white in the mist and Fred’s tall figure had gone ahead of him. There was a slumped-over figure lying on the ground and Eamonn was tying a gag over his mouth. Hands and feet had already been tied together with the man’s own belt. But why was Eamonn delaying over such matters?
Now she began to worry. Why had Fred gone ahead of Eamonn? She had planned that Eamonn was to be the one to go first towards the outside gate. This was the dangerous part. The warder at that gate would expect his friend at the inner gate to be the first through it. She had relied on the near certainty that he would be deferential towards a priest and hesitate to challenge him. Fred, she thought with exasperation, could never resist being in the limelight.
Steadily Eileen marched on, keeping a grip on Sam’s arm. Just one more gate to pass through. She could see the gate. It was very near. The warder had come out from the small wooden shed where he sheltered and she saw, even through the mist, the gleam of a pistol in his hand. Something had alerted him. He would have expected a telephone call and then the figure of his colleague. He shouted out a warning and Fred started to run towards him. The man lifted his pistol, took aim and then fired. A shot rang out. Fred fell to the ground.
For a moment, everything seemed to stop, almost as though a cinema reel had been frozen. Fred was on the ground groaning; Eamonn was bending over him; the warder was pointing his gun from one to the other. And then, with the gun still steadily held in an outstretched hand, he began to back towards his shed. Through the open door the telephone was clearly visible.
And its wir
es had not yet been cut.
Eileen dropped Sam’s arm. Quickly she groped for her pistol, securely stored inside the bulging leg of the bloomers. There was a tearing sound. The stitches were giving way. Impatiently Eileen tore her skirt from her waist. The threadbare, half-rotten material ripped away in an instant, leaving Eileen dressed only in Sister Mary Immaculate’s bright pink bloomers.
And a pair of well-polished, knee-high boots.
The man stopped. The sight mesmerized him for one dangerous second. By then Eileen had pulled the pistol from inside the stout elastic of the knickers. Every fibre of energy within her exploded as she raced towards him. The pistol was still in his hand, held outstretched; she saw it waver and she did not hesitate or slacken her pace. Sam’s life was hanging from a thread. If she failed now, he would die on the rope. Only the one warder was between them and freedom. She tried to fire, but somehow her finger refused to press the trigger. The first death, she knew from the hushed talk of the boys in the unit, was the watershed, after that, things got easier. She just could not pull the trigger and be sure of her target. Fortunately the man seemed to be mesmerized by the bright pink bloomers. Her eyes were fixed on his right arm and she aimed her body as though it were an arrow. In a moment she was on him, holding him for that vital second before Eamonn came up and brought the butt of a pistol down on top of the man’s head.
He dropped like a stone. Eileen gave one glance and at that instant the telephone began to ring. She instantly ripped out the wire, but it was probably too late. Probably the shot at Fred had been heard. In a moment all of the warders from inside the gaol would come pouring out, guns exploding. There was not a moment to be lost. She grabbed the bunch of keys from the unconscious man’s pocket and with steady hands unlocked the front gate. Eamonn and Danny had picked up Fred. He was groaning, so that was good; he was alive. Sam, to her exasperation, just stood very still and looked stunned and bewildered. The rain had begun to fall heavily and his glasses were misted over with it, giving him an odd, defenceless look. He still wore the shawl over his head, pinned under his chin and she hoped that he would keep it on until they could hide him somewhere safe.
‘Come on, come on, let’s get out, get out of here quickly,’ she hissed. Regardless of her strange appearance in pink bloomers and black shawl, she grabbed his hand and pulled hard. Then he started to run fast, dropping her hand in order to gather his shawl around him and hold it pinioned to his sides. She followed him. Now they were at the locked outside gate, and Eamonn and Danny, carrying Fred, were just behind them. There was no sign of Liam, but he had probably kept his head and stopped to gag and tie up the stunned warder.
All they needed to do was to get into the university, recover the motorbikes and the boys could take Sam back to Ballinhassig, as was planned, while Eileen herself stayed the night with her mother. She stood beside him and reached out to take his hand. Liam joined them, no longer wearing dress and shawl, but the respectable overcoat of the prison warder, which came down almost to ankle length on him, neatly covering the embarrassing bloomers. He had a set of keys in his hand. It took a few long minutes before he managed to find the small key that unlocked the wicket gate. Eileen waited, shivering with cold and excitement.
And then the key was in the lock and there was a click. Liam pushed the wicket gate open. At the last minute Eileen realized that they should have taken another prison warder overcoat for Sam; the shawl looked odd with a pair of trousers beneath it, but it was too late to think of that. She pushed him through the narrow opening, Liam followed her and then Eamonn and then Danny clutching Fred’s good arm in a firm, supporting grip. The other arm was tied firmly to Fred’s chest with Liam’s discarded shawl.
But then things started to go wrong. There was a roar of a powerful engine, a strong smell of diesel and an army lorry turned in from Western Road and raced up Gaol Walk, pulling up outside the gates to the gaol.
The five looked at each other with dismay. An army lorry from Collins Barracks was outside the gate, no doubt with some Republican prisoners within it who were to be held in the gaol. The impatient driver was sounding the horn and then alternating its raucous squawks with the rhythmic pulse of the siren. From behind them came the sound of shouts and of tremendous crashing blows against the door that she had locked to the visitors’ cell.
‘Unlock the gate,’ shouted Eamonn, and Danny obeyed him without a moment’s hesitation. Why unlock the gate? Won’t the soldiers arrest us? Eileen’s mind screamed the questions, but a second later, she realized that Eamonn had made the right decision. The big diesel engine powered up with a roar and a blast of evil-smelling smoke and it shot through the open gates without a moment’s hesitation. Somehow, with the mist and murk on the windscreen, the driver had seen nothing amiss. Two seconds later they were all through the gates and out onto Gaol Walk.
‘The bikes are down here,’ said Eamonn, his voice low and controlled. He set a steady pace, not running, but walking fast.
‘Give that shawl to the girl before she gets pneumonia,’ he said curtly to Sam and without a word Sam handed it over. The fog was getting worse. Sam in his dark clothes would be more inconspicuous than she with her torn dress. She was glad of the warmth of the shawl, but sorry that Eamonn had ordered Sam to do it. And he had handed it over without even looking at her. What was wrong with him? Wasn’t he grateful to be rescued?
‘Quick!’ said Eamonn. There was a shout from behind them and the noise of running feet. The engine of the lorry roared into action again. There was a sound of raised voices and of yelled commands.
‘Run!’ shouted Eamonn and Eileen blessed the fact that she no longer had the awkward skirt tangling around her knees. Liam, she noticed, had stuffed his skirt into the enormous bloomers and was overtaking Eamonn. Eamonn had torn off the clerical collar as if it might impede his breathing. Quickly she overtook him and ran to catch up with Eamonn. His was the slowest bike and she was the lightest weight. She would go with him. She could not risk being traced back to her mother’s house and putting Maureen into danger. She would go with the rest of them back to their hiding place in Ballinhassig.
Without wasting a second, Danny leaped on his bike and Liam used his shawl to bind the wounded Fred to Danny’s back. Then he was on his own bike and Sam had climbed up behind him. They shot out into the Western Road, going away from the city.
And then they heard the sound of the lorry reversing at high speed.
The soldiers from Collins Barracks had seen the stunned and bound figure of the guard and now they were after the gaol breakers.
FIFTEEN
St Thomas Aquinas:
… maledictus enim homo qui confidit in homine;
( … cursed be the man that trusts in man;)
Lucy had rung after lunch to remind the Reverend Mother that the meeting was to take place in Captain Newenham’s office which was situated in the Custom House. The Reverend Mother arrived by taxi and stood for a moment outside the building. Not even the fog could mar its beauty. Built at the spot where the north channel and the south channel of the River Lee diverged, it was a two-storied, three-bayed building, made from dressed limestone, and set over subterranean vaults. The recessed arcades had perfectly rounded arches and these were matched by the semi-circular tops of the three tall segmented windows on the next storey. The Reverend Mother gazed for a moment up at the Cork coat of arms on the pediment above the windows. Statio Bene Fida Carinis, it said beneath a carved picture of two castles sheltering a sailing boat.
A safe harbour for ships, she thought as she passed through the door opened for her with a flourish by a splendidly suited individual; a good harbour, but, perhaps not a good living place for a large number who inhabited crumbling houses built on top of the old marsh, not bene for those with bad lungs who breathed in the poisonous air of fog, smoke and gas fumes for most of the winter.
‘Mr Newenham is expecting you, Reverend Mother,’ said the official and politely preceded her up the carpeted stairway and
then through the magnificently ornate boardroom. ‘They are all in the Committee Room,’ he said. He turned the handle of a door at the end of the boardroom and stepping in, announced, ‘Reverend Mother Aquinas,’ and then stepped back to allow her to enter.
‘What a beautiful room,’ she said politely as Robert Newenham advanced to meet her. The walls were panelled in wood to door height, with a pale cream and gold wallpaper above it and then delicately patterned ceilings. Here and there hung some impressive maritime pictures.
They do well for themselves, she thought as she shook hands with the committee that Lucy had organized. Yes, Thomas Browne, lately assistant to the assassinated James Doyle and now acting city engineer – he was there. And so was the bishop’s secretary, Father de Courcy, a man of immense power, she had often heard it said. Little went on in the city of Cork without his knowledge. Apart from herself, Lucy was the only woman present and that, she thought with amusement, would suit her cousin. She had managed to have assembled, as far as the Reverend Mother could see, most of those who had been in James Doyle’s retinue when he came to give a key speech at the market about the wisdom of building a grand new market to replace the old. Knowing Lucy, she would have arrived just at the minute when the meeting was due to end, got herself taken upstairs to Captain Newenham and then flattered and tricked everyone else into remaining for a short presentation of Reverend Mother Aquinas’s latest charitable project.
‘It’s so good of you to come, Reverend Mother.’ Lucy came forward to plant a light kiss on her cousin’s cheek and then added, ‘We’re all admiring Mr Browne’s proposal for the rebuilding of city hall.’ The cluster of expensively-suited gentlemen moved obediently aside and the Reverend Mother saw that an easel had been set up, just where the light of the window would fall upon it. It was a marvellously-executed drawing, its decisive pen strokes delicately coloured in pastel shades.
A Shocking Assassination Page 17
