Blind Arrows

by Anthony Quinn

  ‘The courts would have dragged the case out for months, years even. Time that I would never get back with my son. My options were limited. Abandon my son to my monstrous mother-in-law, or trust in the slow and indecisive justice system. The first was unacceptable. I agonised over the decision for weeks.’

  Kant dropped the line of questioning. The agony of her separation was a formidable emotional obstacle, impossible to scale by logic or reasoning.

  ‘And what about you?’ asked Merrin. ‘You’ve yet to tell me why you were in the hansom cab that afternoon.’

  ‘Very well, let me confess. I’ve known more about your case than anyone else in Dublin Castle. My connection with it began in London, through a Daily Mirror colleague who wrote the initial reports about your son’s disappearance. He confided in me your mother-in-law’s suspicions that you might know something about Isaac’s whereabouts. He thought it would make a more interesting story, a front-page headline, but all he had to work on were the misgivings of your mother-in-law. He asked me to follow you while I was in Dublin. Unfortunately for him, I’m not a very good detective or a spy either. Our paths crossed, something passed between us, and from that moment I haven’t been the same.’

  ‘Not the same as what?’

  ‘I mean I was no longer myself. A reporter dabbling in the dangerous game of propaganda and spying. I became your servant, linked to you for ever, not by your kiss or your touch, but by the certainty that we were both operating alone, abandoned by fate to a city teeming with crooks and murderers.’

  For a moment, she appeared to relax, as though acknowledging there was no longer any need for secrecy or deception. He needed stronger confirmation of her feelings, so he grabbed her hands. He wasn’t afraid of bruising her. She yielded under his pressure. She understood his need, even though her hands were limp, boneless almost. He held her hands so tightly she couldn’t grip back, but her face and eyes welled towards him, as though mentally she was reaching out towards him. He wanted more from her so he pressed himself closer. Alarm flashed across her face. For a moment, he wondered had he miscalculated, misread her signals. She shrunk back, her eyes blooming with fear. She wasn’t looking at him, he realised. She was staring through the window, at a grey horse standing motionless in the front yard.

  The front door of the cottage shook. A sharp blow struck it and a chink of light flooded in. The bottom half of the door caved in and then the top. The figure of Isham shouldered his way into the cottage holding the butt of the rifle he had used as a battering ram. At a remove behind him stood a row of soldiers, their guns raised ready to fire.

  TWENTY-TWO

  The arrest of Lily Merrin was a sad little ceremony. Two soldiers led her out with rifles raised. Now that she was a prisoner, she looked transformed, remote and almost unapproachable, a peasant shawl draped about her head as she carried her small suitcase of belongings. The wind tossed her shawl, screening her face, so that Kant was unable to see what expression she was wearing.

  General Stapleton had arrived in a military car. He stood respectfully at the threshold, as though he were making a formal visit to the cottage. He looked reluctant to enter and examine Merrin’s hiding-place, as though it involved crossing a frontier to a dark, rebellious country. He turned smartly, saluted Isham, and conferred briefly with each of the soldiers, barely acknowledging the silhouette of Kant, who was kneeling on the ground.

  Under Isham’s interrogation, Kant tried to avoid revealing what he knew about the kidnap plot involving Merrin’s son. With a fiendish look on his face, Isham took out his gun and raised it to the reporter’s temple.

  Kant kept his mouth shut and wondered, when Isham squeezed the trigger, why the hammer had not moved. The gun was only on half-cock, he realised.

  ‘This is the last time you play this game of secrecy with the British Army, sir,’ Isham warned him as he pulled the hammer back a notch, and levelled the gun again at the reporter’s head.

  Kant listened to the sound of his heart beating in his chest. Although his body was weak, his heart felt strong and warm. He wondered what would happen to Merrin now that she had been arrested. He felt a generous burst of blood fill his veins at the thought of her vulnerability as a prisoner. It struck him that she needed his protection more than ever. He stared at Isham’s face, but he didn’t see the corporal. His gaze was inward, imagining the terrible dangers Merrin might face in Dublin Castle. At the risk of losing all, Kant gave in, and reluctantly briefed Isham and the general on the story he had gleaned from Merrin.

  When he had finished, Stapleton merely hesitated, as if conscious that a rebuke or threat was required, but all he gave Kant was a brief look of confusion. The reporter knew that, as far as the general was concerned, he no longer existed. Stapleton climbed into his car and sped off. His abrupt departure left Kant feeling more like a sacked employee, an unwanted visitor, a man whose role and name belonged to darkness.

  Isham mounted his horse, and nudged the beast towards Kant, who was still kneeling.

  ‘You deserve my most heartfelt congratulations,’ said the corporal, his face wearing a look of undisguised contempt. ‘For a man who looks as though he lives only on memories and remorse, you have a special talent. I knew if I left you to your own devices you’d bring me her head on a platter.’

  ‘I did what I was told to do,’ said Kant, climbing stiffly to his feet. ‘Find Lily Merrin with a minimum of fuss.’

  ‘You should have told Dublin Castle about your plans to search Furry Park. You should have sought assistance and advice.’ The horse nosed towards Kant, looming with its velvety nostrils, inspecting the reporter’s smell, before jerking back its head and neck.

  ‘I hadn’t time to tell anyone else.’

  The look of scorn deepened on Isham’s face. ‘You haven’t been thinking straight. You went about your job with the mentality of an amateur, and there’s nothing Collins likes more than crushing amateurs.’ His horse wheeled round with abrupt, reckless strength. The corporal held out his left rein and swung the animal back into position. ‘Collins has been playing a complicated game of chess with you right from the start, forcing you into positions where the only move you could make got you deeper into trouble. Time after time until the inevitable checkmate arrived. That’s what happened to your search for Merrin. Once you made the original error of assuming Collins’ men had kidnapped the boy to blackmail her into spying, you made a series of unavoidable moves that could have ruined Dublin Castle’s intelligence effort. Your short-sightedness could have led to your death and jeopardised the lives of others.’

  ‘I don’t understand why Collins allowed me to continue with the misapprehensions in the first place.’

  ‘It was to keep our noses out of his business.’

  ‘And what business is that?’ asked Kant, thinking of Collins’ secret bank accounts and his countless notebooks.

  ‘The business of war, of course.’ Isham tightened the reins and prepared to set his horse off into a canter. ‘Collins was never interested in peace negotiations with Stapleton or any form of compromise. My informers tell me he’s planning an all-out war against England, including a bombing campaign on the mainland. Innocent civilians will be killed, but that is of no interest to these ruthless Irish rebels.’

  He gave his horse a crack of the whip and sent it off on a galloping bolt along the beach, its hooves adding to the leaping sea spray. Kant watched until they were a tiny shadow stirring the stillness of the horizon. He made his own way back through the plantation of fir trees, breathing in deeply the cold pine scent, as though he were a man suddenly freed of an obsession, with duties to no one but himself. However, in reality, a deeper, more unsettling feeling had taken hold of him – the fear that Isham was correct, and that he had been sleepwalking through the streets of Dublin while Collins had been crystallising a plot more complicated and violent than even Dublin Castle could invent. Above all, he had the nag
ging dread that, now Merrin was a prisoner, her life was under threat like never before. He thought of his day as a bad dream that still held dreaded events in store.

  Back in his boarding house room, he stood at the window overlooking a street filling with marching soldiers and the dirty slick of sleet. He could hear the mournful shunt of trams carrying their passengers home. Metallic grit and soot mingled with the snowflakes and formed a dark web of melting ice on the glass. He wished he could wipe it clean, and see everything clearly, but his breath formed a layer of mist, obscuring his view further. Dublin was so filthy, the dark trams and horse-drawn carriages moving slowly, everything painted black to hide the grime. Even the uniforms of the policemen and soldiers passing in patrols were sullied-looking, a grubby camouflage merging with the foul streets. He wanted a dawn of unimaginable light to flood the city and rid it of the black melancholy of which he had been a prisoner for far too long.

  It grew dark in the room. He turned, feeling how stiff his neck had grown from the stillness. He lit a gas lamp and rolling back the carpet, removed the file of papers from its hiding place. He stared at the file for a while without opening it. He felt troubled by his own stupidity. Gone was the feeling of excitement at his powers of deduction and pursuit. Instead he’d launched a clumsy attempt to rescue a woman who had been the architect of her own disappearance, a willing hostage to the IRA. Somehow he’d forgotten his place in this little war, blurred his allegiances, said the wrong words, became snared in the wrong narrative. He felt embarrassed that General Stapleton had witnessed the fiasco at the cottage. He tried to think with a new clarity, but all he could see was a deeper darkness within himself. The darkness of a man adrift in a city full of conspiracies, with no bonds of loyalty, and no plans as to how to extricate himself from the mess.

  He lifted the file and it occurred to him that, if there was a way to comprehend the forces that had gathered around him, it might lie within its black leather covers. He studied the papers, this time with Isham’s warning ringing in his ears. It was to keep our noses out of his business. The business of war. He read down the list of names, and thought what if they weren’t the names of women, but something else, something that was necessary for an all-out war with England, a bombing campaign on the mainland? What if they were the names of chartered boats, and the dates not secret assignations but the sailing times across the Irish Sea?

  His thoughts were interrupted by a gentle tap on the door, followed by a whisper in a thick Dublin accent. ‘Are you in, Mr Kant, sir?’

  Kant put the file back under the floorboards and rolled out the carpet.

  ‘Yes?’ he said. He opened the door slightly. He didn’t wish to examine his visitors too closely, but what he could see in the dim light of the landing was two men dressed in sharp business suits, their hair combed straight back, eyes simmering with a dangerous light.

  ‘Where have you been, sir? We’ve been looking everywhere for you since Thursday.’

  He searched the dark perimeter of their faces. ‘Sorry,’ was all he could manage to say.

  ‘I should think so,’ said the leader of the pair. ‘You’ve overrun your account with Mr Collins.’ There was something black and fat weighing down his hand. He jolted the door open with his boot.

  ‘We’d almost given up on you,’ he said, his voice expressing exasperation. ‘Mick will not go easy on you. He hates Englishmen who break the rules.’

  ‘He has rules then in his line of business?’

  A passing train made a noise like a barrage of typewriters, their keys battering away automatically.

  ‘Oh yes, sir. Englishmen must not outstay their welcome. That’s definitely a rule of his.’

  ‘I was detained at Furry Park. Where’s Mick? I’ve something I need to discuss with him. Urgently.’

  ‘A little patience, sir. You’ll have your visit with Mick.’

  He checked the pockets of Kant’s jacket and trousers, ran his hands along the lining. They conferred with each other.

  ‘What sort of spy goes about with empty pockets?’

  ‘Mick said he was unhinged.’

  ‘This way, I don’t have anything to lose,’ explained Kant.

  ‘Everyone has something to lose in Dublin, Mr Kant. Even the poorest man can gamble on his life. What you mean to say is you are trying to avoid further losses.’

  Without preamble, he struck Kant in the side of the ribs with his fist. The blow made the reporter double over in pain. He tensed his body, waiting for the series of blows following each other in quick succession, but none came. He was aware only of his wheezy breathing coming in slow gasps. He took in a deep breath and straightened up. The pain of the blow settled deep in his chest, supplanting the habitual ache in his lungs.

  ‘I was ordered to bring you with a minimum of fuss,’ said his assailant, his face close enough to smell the alcohol and cologne. ‘In my book that means the two of us carrying you out, one at the head, the other at the feet. Of course, you could save us the bother of bringing you out unconscious.’

  Kant nodded, mechanically. It wasn’t fear of being struck again that made him agree, just the realisation that it would be entirely pointless to refuse. The first punch had been an indispensable formality, their calling card. The henchmen shoved Kant out the door and down the stairs.

  A sense of solemnity had fallen on the deserted streets. They hurried through the wet snow, carving out a path on the thinly crusted cobblestones. Kant felt a rush of fear as though they were descending a mineshaft into a deeper darkness.

  They stopped at a bridge over the Liffey. For a moment, he believed they were going to tip him into the swirling waters like a bagful of incriminating evidence, but then the lights of a car swept through the falling snow and centred their blaze upon the three of them. They lifted their hands to shield their eyes. The engine of the vehicle stopped and a door swung open. The henchmen grabbed Kant and pushed him blindly towards the light. He felt the metal of the car and reached for the door. A familiar face loomed up at him from the rear seat, a smile twitching the corners of his mouth.

  ‘Climb in, Mr Kant,’ said O’Shea.

  The reporter sank into the seat beside him, letting his wet head fall back on the leather upholstery. The car slid into first gear, and he felt himself scooped up and whisked away from danger.

  ‘I sense your despair, Mr Kant.’ O’Shea wore an intent expression on his face. ‘Desperate men make reckless decisions, which means risk, and there is always a financial danger when one encounters risk. As a life assurance manager, it is my job to reduce risk. Which is why I have organised this little trip with you.’

  TWENTY-THREE

  The car accelerated over cobblestones, taking the uneven road in easy style, its engine a silken purr. From his low seat, sheathed behind glass and insulating upholstery, Kant could not escape the feeling that he had crawled into a very sleek and expensive trap. Black curtains were drawn, shielding him and O’Shea from the chauffeur.

  ‘I didn’t know the IRA ran cars like this,’ he said.

  O’Shea shook his head. ‘Not the IRA, Mr Kant. The vehicle belongs to me.’

  Kant was impressed. ‘The insurance business must be a good thing to have going.’

  O’Shea smiled. He glanced at Kant’s threadbare coat, his worn shoes. ‘You might say I’m the only one to have a good thing going in Dublin at the moment.’

  ‘Then you should get out while you’re ahead. From what I hear, Mick is planning an all-out war. There’ll be destruction and chaos.’

  O’Shea’s eyes glinted. ‘Money is my obsession, not war, or freedom. How to get money and get it quickly. And right now I’m sitting on a sizeable fortune.’

  ‘Wrong. You’re sitting in the middle of a dangerous revolution.’

  O’Shea’s smile broadened. He began talking to Kant in the patronising way an adult talks to a child when something unpl
easant is about to happen, regaling him with distracting details.

  ‘These days there’s a handsome profit in helping freedom-fighters, don’t you know? Revolutions are the next big thing. Without large sums of money they’re just a load of hot air, like that piece of theatrical buffoonery that was the Easter Rising. Underground movements need money just like a body needs blood. How else are they to organise meeting places, safe houses, propaganda and weapons, and train their fighters?’

  Kant’s head was still ringing from the cold, and it took all his concentration to comprehend what O’Shea was talking about.

  ‘I didn’t know there was a profit in a guerrilla war.’

  ‘Not profit, Mr Kant, financial opportunity. When Mick recruited me to help raise finances, the volunteers were living on church collections. Practically begging on the street for money. I introduced a more systematic approach, and Mick put me in charge of fundraising. I began by squeezing money from fat-headed farmers and shopkeepers. Then we signed up the merchants and professional classes to shell out several times a year. We took advantage of their patriotic benevolence. Suddenly we had raised tens of thousands of pounds. But I didn’t stop there.’

  Kant nodded to keep up his side of the conversation.

  ‘I’m a money-spinner, you see, not a patriot. I built up the National Loan from a glorified street collection for prisoners to a sum worth several fortunes. I saw it as my right to access a little of that money. I rerouted my cut to a little bank in London and invested the money. Made a fortune then lost it. Fortunately, for me, the revolution was providing a steady stream of revenue. As chief fundraiser, I began to employ more effective methods at finding new sources of money. It’s surprising how easy it is to take money off people when they believe it’s a worthy cause. We screwed several widows out of their legacies, swindled money from large companies in the US. Big money, I’m talking about. All it took was a few accounting tricks to siphon off the funds from beneath Collins’ nose. He and his comrades were always on the prowl for guns, throwing money around faster than gamblers dealing out hands of cards. The IRA’s ruling council are revolutionaries, risk-takers, not the sort of men to hold on tightly to the purse strings. Especially the strings of a very large purse.’