by M J Lee
'I know, I know. Don't worry, I'll be back in time.'
'See you tomorrow.'
'Love you.' It was the first time she had said it in a long time. She realised it came out tentatively, not as a declaration of her feelings. She waited for the reply. It was a long time coming.
'Love you too.'
Then the line went dead.
She sat down on her bed, finally kicking off her shoes. Tomorrow, she would have to get the interview done as quickly as possible. She would turn up early, the old lady wouldn't mind. Then pre-arrange for a cab to take her to the airport. She could leave nothing to chance.
She glanced at the safe once more. Her Mac still hadn't materialised. Somebody had stolen it, masquerading as her husband. But who? And why? It must be to do with the case. But why would anybody want to steal her Mac?
A shiver shimmied down her spine. That feeling of being followed had been correct. She must learn to trust her instincts again. A brick thrown through a window and now the theft of her Mac. It was all connected to this case. It must be connected
She thanked all the Gods she knew, and a few she didn't, that everything had been backed up to the Cloud. All that was missing was last night's notes and those she could remember anyway.
Why would anybody bother stealing her computer? All she had to do was buy a new one and download all her files onto it. The theft just didn't make sense.
She stood up and opened a bottle of the Woodham's free water. She could report the theft to hotel security, but they would call the police. Some half-baked Irish copper would be questioning her for hours. They might be able to get a description of the man who had entered her room from the maid, even a few pictures from the hotel cameras. But what would that do, except delay her even longer in Dublin. She couldn't risk that.
There was no point. Whoever had stolen it, knew what they were doing and knew how to break into a hotel safe. She remembered the brick through her window in Manchester. Who was trying to stop her investigation? And, more importantly, why?
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Dublin, Ballsbridge. November 19, 2015.
The taxi stopped in the middle of a row of terraced houses, each one painted in a slightly different pastel colour.
'Here you are, missus. Number 18, like you said.'
She handed over the money on the meter, adding 10 Euros as a tip. 'Now you'll be here at 11 o'clock to take me to the airport?'
'Don't worry, missus, punctuality is my middle name. Actually, it's Patrick, but I'll be on time anyway.'
She stepped out of the cab. '11 o'clock.'
'On the dot, missus. Or my middle name isn't...'
'Patrick.'
She closed the door and the taxi moved off. She stood outside the light pink house. A curtain moved in the downstairs window. She was early but she was certain the old lady wouldn't mind. Before she could knock on the door, it opened.
'You're early. I'm still after having me tea and toast.'
Tea was pronounced tay. The door opened wider.
'Well, come on in, the tea's getting older and the toast is getting colder.'
She stepped right into the front room of the house. It was like stepping back fifty years. Small and cosy, a flight of birds flew up the brown wallpaper, their wings desperately trying to escape. A two-seater settee, covered in quilted throws and old cushions was pushed to one side. A fire burnt in the grate giving off a scent of the earth, grassy and rich. Next to the fire, an old chair, the cushion indented from years of use, perched like a cat in front of the warmth. And, in front of the chair, a basket full of balls of wool, needles and a half-finished piece of knitting in bright pink.
'It's for the bairn, two doors down. They don't have much. I help how I can.' She pointed to the open door. 'Let me finish me tea and toast.'
Jayne followed her into the small kitchen with its old stove, single tap over a white porcelain sink and small table nestling against one wall.
'There's a pot of tea brewed. I'll get you a cup.'
A slightly chipped cup was placed on the table. Jayne pulled out the chair and sat down. 'I'd like to thank you for taking the trouble...'
The old lady held up her hand. 'We'll talk in a minute. Let me finish me tea first.'
She sat down opposite Jayne, putting the fingers into her mouth and pulling out her dentures, dropping them into a glass of water on the table. 'The bits of toast get stuck to the palate. They'll scrape the life out of me if I let them.'
She picked up the toast, dunked it in the half-drunk cup of tea and chewed it with her gums.
Jayne poured a cup of tea from the pot. It was thick and stewed, more like porter than anything else. She added a gulp of milk from a bottle on the table. The tea hardly changed colour, remaining a shade of tanned leather normally seen on cheap sofas.
Miss Fitzgerald finished the last of the tea and toast. 'That's me settled now for the morning. Let's go into the room and sit by the fire. It'll be a mite more comfortable there.'
Jayne supped her tea from the cracked cup. The tannins hit the back of her throat giving her a jolt. She quickly put it down and followed Ellen Fitzgerald back into the living room. The old woman took her place by the fire, the knitting needles clicking away between her fingers before she had even finished sitting down.
'Now, what was it you were after asking me?'
Jayne decided to dispense with the speech she had planned. This woman was all business despite her age. 'It's about your father...'
'A grand man, he was. Never gave up on the cause, although it gave up on him more than a few times, let me tell you.' She stared into the fire. 'He died believing in a United Ireland. One day, it will come but not in his or my time, I am thinking.'
'He took part in the Easter Rising?'
'He did and gave him a pension for it. Took them a while but they eventually got round to giving him the money he deserved. Penny pinching heathens the lot of them.'
'I read his testimony in the Barracks...'
'Aye, I went to the opening. I was invited you know,' she said proudly. 'Didn't stop me telling them shites what I thought of them and their free sherry.'
'He was quite detailed about the events of 1916 and later.'
'He told them a few things, I'm sure.' She stared into the fire once again. 'I have a few pictures in an old album in the sideboard over there. Not many mind, but I'll let you see them. Go and get them for me, will ye?'
Jayne followed the bent, pointing finger to an old dresser in the corner. She hadn't noticed it when she came in as it was covered with a white lace cloth and a collection of china figurines.
She walked over and opened the top drawer. Inside was a row of medals and a few old pamphlets printed in the 1970s. 'Troops out now' stamped in thick block capitals on the cover with a name beneath. Declan Fitzgerald.
'Just move that stuff aside. It's at the back.'
She reached into the drawer and felt the plastic cover of an old album. She pulled it out. On the cover was a seaside picture and the words, 'Memories of Tralee'.
'That's the one. Give it over here and I'll show you.'
Jayne passed the album over and knelt down beside the old lady. She noticed a faint smell, a mixture of milk and age and damp that came from her. A wrinkled hand, with one old cut healing slowly, opened the book.
'He used to love these pictures. They were his pride and joy. Many a night he used to sit in this chair and look at them. When he wasn't reading or working, of course.'
'He went to UCD?'
'He did. Studying history he was. But as he told me, he left without ever getting the certificate. Preferred making history to studying it, he used to joke. Well, they all did, didn't they? A lot of them left early and never went back.'
She pointed to the first picture. A man smiling at a camera dressed in a uniform. He was a handsome man, with a bright smile, and a devil-may-care attitude. Behind his head was a painting of the countryside, a backdrop from the photographic studio. It gave
him the air of a country squire, a man in uniform fighting for a country he loved.
'This was taken just before 1916, he told me. He borrowed the uniform from one of the other men. A bunch of them from their company in Rathfarnham went off to have their pictures taken one day. He said there was a group photo but the Brits took it off him in Frongoch.'
'The prison camp?'
'That's right. He was put there after the Rising. Said it was the best place to be for a revolutionary. He learnt more there than anyone else. Michael Collins himself was one of his teachers. Of course, they fell out later over the treaty but that was only to be expected. There's a picture somewhere...' She flicked forward past some family shots on a beach. 'Here it is. Taken from and an English newspaper, it’s a bit faded now. He often took it out and looked at this photo. I should get a copy made before it fades even more.'
The picture showed eight men, thin and shabbily dressed in clothes that had obviously seen better days. All were standing to attention, backs stiff and arms down by their sides. Nobody was smiling except one man. Behind them, Jayne could see the stone walls of their prison.
'Was this taken in Frongoch?'
'That's what my father said. Taken one day back in 1917, I think.'
Chapter Twenty-Eight
North Wales. Frongoch. March 19, 1917.
Michael would always remember the day the photographer came to Frongoch. Himself and Fitz had been listening to a lecture on guerrilla warfare by the adjutant, Dick Mulcahy.
Fitz elbowed him in the ribs. 'It's like being back at college, except here we're learning how to kill people.'
'Shush, your man is talking.'
'Always make sure the drivers are targeted in an ambush. If you stop the lorry, he can't go anywhere, can he? Kill the driver and you kill all the men in with him too.'
There was a sharp rap on the door. In walked Michael Collins as he often did, to check up on the men who were attending.
Mulcahy stopped what he was doing.
'Carry on, Richard. Don't mind me, I'm just here for a listen.'
Mulcahy returned to his blackboard sketch showing the best place to triangulate fire in an ambush. 'As I was saying, it's important to immobilise the driver. What's the best way to do that?'
'Shoot the bugger,' a voice with a thick Dublin accent answered from the back.
'Aye, that's the way to go. Shoot the driver and they won't be going anywhere quickly,' repeated Mulcahy.
Fitz turned to Michael and whispered, 'He's a bloodthirsty 'oul shite.'
Mulcahy stared at him. 'What was that Fitzgerald?'
'Nothing, sir, just clearing my throat, it's awful parched.'
'Well, clear it quietly.' Mulcahy looked down at his feet and then across at Collins standing by the window.
'There will be a lot of shooting by the time we're finished. Freedom will never come without revolution but I'm afraid the Irish people will be too soft-hearted for it. To bring a revolution to fruition you need ferocious, bloodthirsty men with no regard for death, or the spilling of blood.' Mulcahy's voice was rising as he warmed to his theme, his eyes becoming wilder the more he spoke. 'Revolution is no job for children, and it is no job for saints or sinners. During revolutions, any man, woman or child who is not for you is against you. Shoot them and be damned to them.'
The room was stunned by the vehemence of Mulcahy's speech.
A hand rose on the left.
'It's that Old Fenian, Rafferty. I wish he would shut up, whispered Fitz under his breath.
Collins appeared to hear and glared at Fitz.
'You want to ask a question, Mr Rafferty?' said Mulcahy.
'Aye, I do. You're talking a lot about ambushes and guerrilla warfare and shooting and the like. But what about Dublin? Are we not going to rise again like we did at Easter?'
It was Collins this time who spoke. 'Answer me this, Mr Rafferty, how big is the British Army?'
Old Rafferty shrugged his shoulders. 'I don't know. Millions, I believe.'
'And how big are we?'
Rafferty looked around the room. Around twenty men were sitting behind desks facing Collins at the front. 'The Volunteers?'
'Aye, us, the lads, the Volunteers.'
Rafferty rubbed the straggly beard on his chin. 'Again, I don't know. Maybe 1,000 in Dublin, more across Ireland.'
'So maybe 5,000 in total.'
'Aye, that would be a fair number.'
'And how many arms does the British Army have?'
He shrugged again. 'I don't know. Millions I am supposing.'
'And how many do we have?'
'There you have me, Mr Collins. I'm thinking you would know the figure far better than me.'
The rest of the class laughed, breaking the tension.
'I do, Mr Rafferty, I do. And I'll tell you it's not many. So answer me this, why would we take on the might of the world's largest and best-equipped army in an open fight with no arms and few men?'
Rafferty didn't answer.
'Look at us now, we did it once, our leaders were executed and we are here, locked up safe and sound beside some cold Welsh mountain.'
'But it was a glorious day for Ireland.'
Collins' face and his voice changed. He leant forward, his huge body dominating the tiny classroom. 'We've had enough of glorious failure in Ireland. We're the experts at 'glorious failure'. We sing songs about it, children learn it in their cribs, we celebrate the men who died gloriously as they failed.' He slammed his fist down on the table. 'Not anymore, gentlemen. Not anymore. Sixteen men died for our glorious failure, executed in Kilmainham Jail.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Next time, we will win and create a free Ireland. It's going to be bloody. It's going to be tough. And, by God, Mr Rafferty, there will be no fecking glory in it. But we will win, gentlemen. And in winning, we will write the new songs of a free Ireland.'
He looked at every man in the room. Then, a broad smile flashed across his face. 'Until that time, let's eat more of this swill the Welsh call food. There will be more lessons tomorrow morning, gentlemen, when you will learn about the terrible beauty of the enfilade. Before then, I have a few announcements. There will be a parade this evening at six pm. Apparently, we are to have some British press here this afternoon, no doubt to check up on the terrible animals they have imprisoned in their zoo. You will all be smart and shaven for the parade. None of your Dublin slovenliness, Fitzgerald.'
'No, sir. I mean, yes sir.'
'Good morning to you all.'
All the class stood up. There was the noise repeated throughout classrooms all over the country; chairs being scraped back, books closed, gossip among friends, the plaintive cry of a blackboard being wiped.
'Will you explain the ambush to me once again, Michael. What was Mulcahy on about?'
'We'll do it back in the hut, Fitz. It's all about creating crossfire and anticipating the actions of men under stress.'
'Thucydides is easier.'
'The Greeks always are. And he's tomorrow. Old Rafferty is giving the lecture. Your man was a teacher in Maynooth before the Rising.'
'Aye, I can still smell the priests on him.'
They saluted Collins as they walked past him and out into the corridor. As they reached the open air, Fitz stood up and breathed in. 'How long are we going to be in here?'
'As long as they want us.'
Here was Frongoch Camp in Merionethshire, Wales. They had been sent there after receiving a notice of Internment from a captain in Kilmainham Jail. There had been no trial and no judge or jury. Simply a piece of paper informing them of their fate.
At first, they had been 1800 strong but then many of the young lads had been released in June and then more in December. A gesture of Christmas goodwill the Brits called it. Now, there were just 600 diehards, left still locked up in the camp.
There were actually two camps. A North Camp with rows of wooden Nissen huts built to house the German POWs who had inhabited the area before them, and a South Camp in the stone buildings
once used to store grain. After the number of prisoners had been diminished, the North Camp was used as a punishment area. Over 100 men were imprisoned in there at the moment, all accused of offences against the order and governance of the camp. It was a badge of honour to be locked up in the North Camp, and Michael and Fitz had both done their time.
They walked across the open cobble-stoned square surrounded by buildings. Frongoch had been a distillery before the war and all the old buildings remained. The chimney of the old distillery towered blackly above them, casting its shadow through the long summer months and on into the winter. The first winter had been cold in Frongoch, the wind whistling down from the exposed slopes of the hills that surrounded them. Michael and Fitz had often huddled together in the shadow of the chimney desperate to escape the biting cold. But somehow they had survived despite the boredom, the bad food and the wet and damp.
The spring had brought a new freshness and vitality to the camp. Their lessons had increased as the days lengthened, becoming more intense and concentrated. Michael had also noticed a change in Fitz as their imprisonment had endured the second summer. The old joker who took nothing seriously had gone and a new commitment to the cause had emerged, gaining strength from all the others around him. Each night he was sitting with the old Fenians, talking to them about their experiences and how he could become a better soldier for Ireland.
Michael looked at him as they walked across the square to their huts at the other side of the camp. His face had changed too, the softness, almost babylike flabbiness had been replaced by grit and determination. He had lost weight, of course, they all had, but the gaunt features were more than just a consequence of their bad diet. It was as if their days here had hardened him, like soft clay that had been moulded and baked in an oven.
One of the guards called Myers approached them. He was a Scot, who had spent his life in the British Army and had seen action in the Boer War, one of the few survivors of Spion Kop. He leant forward as he passed them whispering through his moustache. 'Got some fags, lads, if'n you want 'em.' He coughed at the end of his sentence, a consequence of a German gas attack in 1915.
