by W. C. Ryan
The car comes to a halt and the driver gets out as lights begin to appear at the windows. At first he thinks the lights are candles, but then the windows explode outwards, the glass glittering like welding sparks as it falls to the ground, while great tongues of flame reach up towards the sky. He can hear the fire roar. It consumes the building. He can smell the burning flesh. He can hear the screaming.
And now he recognises the house.
CHAPTER 18
H
arkin is awake, the cotton of the pillowcase damp against his cheek. He gathers himself.
The house was Kilcolgan, of course, and he recognises the road as being the one that runs to it from the town. He goes back over the dream’s sequence again and again, and each time the feeling of dread in the driving car almost overwhelms him. He doesn’t like to think about the time before, after Passchendaele, when dreams and reality intertwined, but he can’t help but think that his present situation, with day visions of wounded soldiers and constant nightmares, is beginning to feel familiar. Harkin thinks back to Flanders and the mud, and how it could swallow a man who lay down for a moment’s rest. He feels like that now – that if he sleeps, the darkness will swallow him and he will never surface from it.
Harkin reaches for the brass lighter he left beside the stub of the candle, running his thumb back across the flint wheel. An orange flame spills out, along with the reek of petrol. The flame, like his hand, is unsteady, but he manages to light the candle. He checks his watch – a few minutes past five. He must have slept, which is something. The sky, when he pulls the curtain back, is black, and all that can be seen is his own faint reflection in the glass. Even with no electricity because of the curfew, there is always light somewhere in Dublin. Here, there is nothing. For a moment he is overcome by a sense of his own insignificance, the void that surrounds him reaching out into the universe, and he swallows so hard it turns into a half retch.
He needs to get out of this room; it stinks of his own fear. Harkin decides he will take the candle and the novel he brought down from Dublin and he’ll sit in the dining room until morning. Bridget will be up soon, if not Mrs Driscoll or Murphy, and they will surely give him a cup of tea. In the meantime, the book will focus his scattered mind. He dresses quickly, then closes the bedroom door behind him with the softest of clicks and feels out each step as he makes his way to the staircase, straining to make no noise. He doesn’t want to wake anyone. He just wants to sit for a while and bring his senses into line. When he reaches his destination, he sits himself down in the same chair he sat in the night before, and places the candle on the table in front of him.
He opens the book at the page he has marked. The hero has been spending a lot of time being chased around Scotland by German spies, if he remembers right, while being rescued by people he half knows at convenient moments. It is all nonsense, of course, but enjoyable all the same. Apart from the circle of light around the candles, the room is dark, except for the reflection of its flame on the cutlery and plates that are already laid out for breakfast. Somewhere in the room a clock ticks – fat, whirring clicks. He sighs, and something – a slight movement perhaps – makes him look up. There is the outline of a man sitting at the far end of the table, who seems to be examining Harkin in turn, before he looks away.
Harkin’s breath shortens but the man seems real enough. He must have been there all along, sitting quietly, watching him come into the room and making himself comfortable; one of the late arrivals from the night before, perhaps, here for the funeral and delayed by dug-up roads and barricades. He cannot quite see his face in the darkness but there is just enough light to make out that he is wearing an officer’s tunic and the faint gleam of three pips on the sleeve indicates he is, or perhaps once was, a captain.
Harkin opens his mouth to say something, to apologise for disturbing the man’s solitude, but there is something about the man’s stillness that stops him speaking. It’s conceivable, after all, that Harkin isn’t the only one who revisits the trenches and their horrors in the sleeping hours. He decides to leave the other man in peace. He’ll talk to him when the girl comes in to light the fire.
Harkin feels the outline of the cigarette case in his pocket, extracts it and lights one from the candle. The smoke hangs in the air, gently turning over on itself in the half-light. He didn’t smoke before he joined up. He didn’t even smoke when Maud gave him the cigarette case. His brother Martin told him that he would when he got to France. Martin wasn’t always right about things, but he was right about that. Harkin exhales a small cloud of smoke.
The book draws him in. He likes the way the story twists and turns – how no one is quite who they seem to be. He glances up from time to time at his fellow insomniac, but after that first cool examination, the man ignores him. He just sits with his hands folded on the table in front of him – a little like a priest. There is something familiar about the profile but he cannot place it.
The approaching dawn begins to colour the sky and the room takes on a pale grey light. Dawn is the coldest time of the day and Harkin can feel it nipping at his cheeks and nose. He turns another page and hears the sounds of movement in the house as the inhabitants begin to stir. Somewhere footsteps walk along a corridor and a toilet flushes. He can hear water moving though the pipes and the sound of an oven door opening and then closing somewhere in the back of the house. He smells bread baking, and lights another cigarette. At last, he hears shoes climbing the staircase from the kitchen. He places a finger on the page he is reading and turns to smile at Bridget when she enters.
‘Mr Harkin, are you up already?’ she says breezily. ‘Good morning to you. Can I get you anything?’
‘I’d love a cup of tea.’
‘Of course. Let me just get the fire lit and I’ll bring you up a pot.’
She walks quickly to the fireplace, kneeling down to clear the grate.
He wonders why she has not greeted the officer, but when he turns his gaze in his direction, he has left.
It is only later, when Harkin is going upstairs to his bedroom, when he glances at Arthur Prendeville’s portrait in its black-ribboned frame, that he recognises the man from breakfast.
CHAPTER 19
L
ater in the morning, Harkin, still unsettled by the experience in the dining room, takes advantage of the lull before the funeral to walk out along the coast road. The Protestant church where Maud is to be buried sits on the rise that overlooks Kilcolgan Strand, halfway between Mrs Wilson’s guest house and Kilcolgan, sheltered from the worst of the weather that comes in from the Atlantic by a small clump of trees, and it seems as good a place as any to head for. The walk will clear his mind, he hopes. As he walks along the drive, he looks inland to see the lower slopes of the hills blurred by the rain that must be falling over that way, while the upper parts are shrouded in cloud. The wind sends a shiver through his bones but the countryside – a mixture of bog, rock and gorse – is real and tangible and it’s what his mind needs at this moment and he loses himself in the rhythm of his feet.
‘A penny for your thoughts.’
Harkin turns, alarmed, but relaxes as he sees Sean Driscoll emerge from beside a whitewashed cottage, its walls pressed up against the road like a small bastion, his gleaming shoes picking a cautious path through the muck. He is wearing a black armband in anticipation of the funeral, and his hair seems to have been cut and oiled specially for the day. His limp is, if anything, more pronounced when he moves slowly.
He’s a good-looking man, Harkin thinks. I can see how a woman might fall for him.
‘I’m sorry if I startled you,’ Driscoll says, falling into step alongside him.
‘Did you get a hold of the priest?’ Harkin asks, disconcerted. He wonders what he must have looked like.
Driscoll gives a slight scowl.
‘He won’t even talk to me. Says he wants nothing to do with the business. Says he’d never have got involved if he’d known it would lead to murder.’
; ‘Is there another way to identify the source?’
‘I have some lads keeping an eye on him to see who he talks to. With luck that will throw up something.’
‘Let’s hope so.’
Harkin wonders, if the priest isn’t talking to Driscoll, that he might not be taking the same course of action with the source. A more direct approach might be necessary. A man like Vincent Bourke would be handy, he thinks.
‘What are your thoughts at this stage?’ Driscoll asks.
Harkin does his best to give a confident smile.
‘I’ve a few things to follow up on. What about Egan?’
‘I haven’t had a response as yet. But I can take you to Patrick Walsh, the gatekeeper, this afternoon.’
Harkin nods his appreciation.
‘There’s one more thing,’ Harkin says, feeling his way into the question. ‘There are some discrepancies between your account of the evening’s events and Billy’s.’
‘Go on,’ Driscoll says, frowning.
‘You say you were just behind Billy when you went into the house, but Billy says you were a couple of minutes behind him.’
The frown deepens, almost theatrically, and Driscoll’s eyes seem to take on some kind of affected stupidity. Except that Harkin doesn’t think, for one moment, that Driscoll is stupid.
‘He must just be a bit confused, what with all that happened. I was right behind him. No more than a few yards.’
Which is possible, Harkin supposes, and he still can’t think of any reason why Driscoll would want to kill Maud, even if he had the opportunity to do so. At the same time, he has the sense that Driscoll is not telling him the whole truth.
‘Billy said you were together earlier in the evening, when he saw whatever he saw?’
Driscoll meets his gaze and again there is the sense of something being withheld.
‘Look, I saw him out by the stables. He was shaken.’ He hesitates, as though considering his words. ‘He can get a little jittery from time to time. It’s not that unusual. He’s better than he was.’
‘When was this?’
‘Earlier,’ Driscoll says, his irritation clear now. ‘I saw nothing but I walked him back to the house. Around eight o’clock. It’s the time the family normally eat.’
‘Maud used to tell me the house was haunted,’ Harkin says, trying a different approach.
‘My mother might agree with her. She says the house takes getting used to. But it’s just an old house with not enough people in it. It’s easy to imagine things in the dark.’
Like seeing Arthur Prendeville sitting at the dining room table.
‘What I’m wondering is, if maybe you went down to the car before you came up to the house. I’m not accusing you of anything but it would explain that discrepancy.’
Driscoll stops, holding his ground.
‘I didn’t go anywhere near the ambush until I went down with Billy and the others. You can ask my mother. There was no time.’
Harkin smiles, attempting to reassure the other man.
‘I tried to talk to her this morning, but she was busy.’
‘The funeral has to be done just so, you see.’
‘But you’re not helping her?’
‘Best to stay out from under her feet, and Sir John’s people are better at this sort of thing.’
‘Anyway, I just wanted to understand why there was that difference in timing?’
‘Look,’ Driscoll says, eventually, ‘I should make my way back. Even if I’m not needed, I probably shouldn’t be missed.’
Harkin nods, wondering if Driscoll has even heard his question.
‘Any more news from the town?’
‘They burned the creamery last night and a few houses and they’ve been beating lads in the street, but no more killings. Teevan’s funeral is tomorrow, though.’
‘If you’d take my advice, you’ll be careful,’ Harkin says, after a moment’s hesitation.
Driscoll’s face loses some of its dissatisfaction, replacing it with an alertness that Harkin remembers from that other time.
‘Why do you say that?’
Harkin feels his tiredness dragging at him, but he’s also aware he must tell Driscoll about Vane and the danger he might represent.
‘Have you met Major Vane? I understand he’s a cousin of the Prendevilles.’
Driscoll shrugs.
‘He’s stayed at the house a couple of times. He buys horses for the army, I’m told.’
‘Did he pay any attention to you?’
Driscoll’s concern is more apparent now.
‘I don’t think he even noticed me.’
Harkin takes a moment to put his thoughts in order.
‘I had a conversation with him last night and there’s something about him I don’t much like.’ Harkin reminds himself he can’t specify his concerns, given the necessity of keeping Driscoll in the dark about the guns. ‘I’d be very wary of him.’
‘Why?’
‘He might be more than he says he is. If we know him, it’s under another name. They’re more cautious these days, since November. But I think we might have enough to identify him. How do you communicate with GHQ?’
Driscoll looks confused for a moment, then nods in the direction of the town.
‘One of the guards on the Dublin train acts as messenger.’
‘Is he working today?’
‘He is. He’s taking a package up for us.’
‘Good. I’d like to add this to it.’
Harkin hands Driscoll the letter he wrote the night before.
‘I think Vane must be his real name – if he’s people to the Prendevilles, he can’t have given them a false one. What he’s called in Dublin may be a different matter. Still, we have people in Dublin Castle who should be able to identify him.’
‘What did he say to you last night?’ Driscoll says, and Harkin can imagine how his mind is working.
‘I don’t think he knows I’m a Volunteer, but he asked some awkward questions.’ Harkin weighs his words and decides they are probably accurate, although he can’t shake off his uneasiness. He breathes out slowly. ‘If Sergeant Kelly knows about your involvement, then you might be known to the police in general. If that’s the case, then he might be after the column. So, I’d suggest you keep an eye on him. If you think he is suspicious, act quickly. Better making a mistake killing him than losing one of ours.’
Driscoll nods and Harkin has the sense that he is only speaking aloud what Driscoll had already decided. They stand in silence for a while.
‘Do you think he might have been close to Maud?’ Harkin asks.
‘Vane, do you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not to my knowledge,’ Driscoll says, although he seems hesitant. ‘To my knowledge she wasn’t seeing anyone at all.’
Harkin nods but he is not convinced by Driscoll’s response.
CHAPTER 20
T
he funeral is a modest affair, given the part Maud played in 1916 and her connections to the locality. If she had died in some other way, rather than in an IRA ambush, it’s likely there would be thousands here, with an honour guard of Volunteers and shots fired over the grave. The eulogies, such as they have been, have avoided mention of the rising, and there have been no symbols or flags to indicate her history. Instead, her passing is marked by columns of black smoke rising from the town where the Auxies and RIC have burned half the main street in revenge for Teevan.
Harkin looks around at the assorted relatives, gentry, and local tradespeople – sombre and long-faced, wearing dark clothes and with the surprised look of people accustomed to holding sway who find themselves on the losing side of a hedgerow war. When considered from that perspective, he supposes, it’s a not a bad turnout at all. It could even be considered impressive, given that there can’t be a person here who mustn’t wonder, with the fires burning in the town and the Auxies shooting left, right and centre, and the IRA no doubt planning to do pretty much the same in retali
ation, whether it is sensible to attend. Even grief is a political statement these days.
He finds he is sympathetic to the subdued crowd waiting for the coffin to emerge from the church, wondering if they might be next, but he reminds himself that this is, as much as anything, a war about land. For every big house like Kilcolgan that was built, there were a hundred small homes taken. The land that supports the big houses is, as often as not, rented back to the people whose land it once was. Maud and her like will always carry the burden of their settler ancestors. Even after hundreds of years, they are still seen as foreigners in their own country, trapped by their past and facing a bleak future. It occurs to Harkin that his sympathy might be as much for himself as for them. He is also standing at the edge of a past, looking into a future that is uncertain – if not terrifying.
Harkin swallows and acknowledges that he is not, by any objective standard, well. Sweat has drenched his shirt and yet he is shivering with cold. It is not just the physical symptoms that concern him. A dark, swirling current lurks just below his consciousness, and he fears that at any moment it may tug him down into a black place that he does not want to go to. He bites the side of his lip, welcoming the pain. The pain helps him focus on staying above the surface.
‘We meet again.’ The voice is quiet, level with his ear – almost a whisper.
Harkin recognises the voice and tries to gather himself, even as he feels the strength in his legs receding. With a final effort, he turns to face Hugo Vane, and is surprised by the major’s pallor. He doesn’t know what he expected, but he didn’t expect such obvious grief.
The major examines him and Harkin sees another emotion surface that he hadn’t expected: concern.
‘Are you all right?’ Vane asks.
‘I’ve felt better,’ Harkin admits, seeing no point in denying it. He’s also alarmed to feel a surge of gratitude at the unexpected kindness. He has to get a hold of himself.
