by Ian McGuire
“If that’s your version of good news, O’Connor, I must confess, I’m feeling less than elated.”
“He may have escaped. It’s still possible.”
“If he’s gone away, then he’s no more use to us than if he’s dead.”
O’Connor doesn’t answer. Maybury looks at him.
“Don’t let your conscience trouble you now, O’Connor. We don’t have the time for that.”
“No, sir.”
They walk down the corridor to Maybury’s office. Michael Sullivan is already in there, sitting with his back to the fire. He is balancing a cup of tea on one knee. When he sees O’Connor, he nods and smiles. O’Connor asks him what he is doing.
“I was brought here. A fellow in uniform came to the house and asked for me.”
Maybury sits down behind the desk. O’Connor remains standing.
“Michael is here because we need to find Stephen Doyle,” Maybury explains, “and your nephew is the only person we know who has any connection to him.”
O’Connor shakes his head. Perhaps he shouldn’t be amazed by this, but he is.
“Even if we do find Doyle,” he says, “without a witness there’s nothing to link him to the killings. There may not even be any firm proof that he’s a member of the Brotherhood.”
“That’s all true enough, but I’m less concerned about what he’s just done, however heinous and disgraceful,” Maybury says, “than about what he’s planning. You’ve told me before that he’s in Manchester to cause serious trouble.”
“Yes. There’s no other reason for him to come here.”
“What happened with your notebook tells us he’s clever, and two fresh bodies tell us he’s ruthless. If we sit on our arses and wait around, who knows what carnage he might cause. Dead Fenians are bad enough, but if he starts killing Englishmen, we won’t ever hear the end of it.”
O’Connor glances at Sullivan, then looks quickly around the room as if hoping to find a solution to this nonsense hidden in the furniture.
“We could bring back the soldiers,” he suggests. “Set them to guard all the public buildings, patrol the thoroughfares.”
“That’s not possible,” Maybury says. “We need information. You know that.”
“We’ve already talked about it, Jimmy,” Sullivan explains. “I’ll go to the alehouse and say I have some money for Daniel Byrne, a gambling debt, but I need to give it to him myself directly. When I meet him I’ll tell him I’ve been thinking more about those things he said on the boat, about taking the fight to our enemies. I’ll make him think I’m eager to join the cause.”
O’Connor looks at Maybury.
“You can’t think Doyle is going to start telling his plans to a young fellow he’s barely met. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Not straightaway, perhaps,” Sullivan says, “but just as soon as I gain his trust.”
“Michael’s a persuasive fellow,” Maybury says. “He’s a decent talker.”
“They’ll find out he’s my nephew.”
“We’ve thought of that already. We’ve got him a room somewhere else, so he’s not living with you. The story is that he had a letter of credit sent over from New York—enough to pay his debts and tide him over for a week or two until he finds a position here that suits him.”
“Mr. Maybury says they’ll pay my lodgings and give me a hundred pounds reward if it goes off all right, Jimmy,” Sullivan says. “That’s a good amount of money.”
“And did he also tell you about the two men who just got killed for doing this kind of work?”
Sullivan looks across at Maybury and Maybury nods.
“I explained about the mistake you made with the notebook,” he says, “and I promised Michael that nothing that he did for us would ever be written down anywhere, so he has nothing to fear on that score.”
“I’m not afraid of the fellow,” Sullivan says. “I’ve met his kind before. If I keep my wits about me, I’ll be just fine.”
“It’s too dangerous,” O’Connor says, “and even if it works it’ll take months to win Doyle over. Now all the informers are dead, why would he delay that long? He must know we’re looking for him.”
“Then that’s a problem we need to address,” Maybury says. “We’ll need to find a way of speeding things along.”
“Not me,” O’Connor says. “I don’t want any part of this.”
Maybury rests his high forehead on the tips of his blunt fingers and gives O’Connor a strained and disappointed look. He then turns to Sullivan and smiles.
“Michael,” he says, “will you wait outside in the corridor a moment while I talk to your uncle alone?”
They watch him leave and wait until the door is closed. O’Connor wonders how much he truly cares about Michael Sullivan and decides he cares enough about him to not want him dead, which probably puts him a step or two ahead of Maybury.
“There must be another way,” he says.
“Then tell me what it is.”
“You can’t force him.”
“Force him? He’s fairly champing at the bit, can’t you tell?”
“I could take him down to the infirmary right now, show him what’s left of Tommy Flanagan’s face. That might change his mind quick enough.”
Maybury picks his fountain pen off his desk, examines it for a moment, then puts it back down.
“We can do this with or without you, O’Connor. With you would be a little easier, of course, and possibly a little safer for your nephew also.”
“You expect me to encourage him?”
“Not encourage, advise, guide. Make sure he doesn’t do anything foolish or take too many risks. He’s bright, but he’s still young.”
“I wouldn’t say he’s bright.”
“Even more reason to help him, then.”
“It won’t work. Doyle’s too clever. He’ll see straight through it.”
“All cleverness has its limits. Remember, he’s a fanatic too. His vision is skewed. People like that are always open to flattery if you catch them right.”
“I won’t help you turn Michael Sullivan into a spy. I’ve got too much blood on my hands already.”
“And you’ll have plenty more if Doyle does whatever he’s planning to. Have you thought of it like that? Without your informers, we’ll have no way to stop him.”
“I can’t do it,” O’Connor says again. His voice is low, constricted, restrained. He feels the sharpness of his failures jabbing like fishbones in his throat.
“You feel you have some family duty here. I understand—blood and water. Is he your brother’s boy?”
“My sister-in-law’s.”
“I see, the late wife again. That makes it harder, I suppose.”
“Perhaps.”
“You can keep him safe, don’t worry yourself about that. And this could be the making of him, you never know. He tells me he’s interested in becoming a policeman like you are.”
“He’s a bank clerk. He has no idea what he’s entering into. None at all. He thinks it’s a great game.”
O’Connor is angry but knows he mustn’t show it. He’s in too much trouble as it is.
Maybury nods but not in agreement. He leans back a little and pauses before speaking.
“The chief constable, Mr. Palin, is very exercised about the recent murders, as you might imagine. He thinks they reflect poorly on his stewardship of the city. In his opinion, you should be dismissed for your part in all this, sent back to Dublin for dereliction of duty. But I argued against that. I told him this was your best chance to make amends.”
It is a simple threat, unsurprising and easy to make, but O’Connor feels its crude power nonetheless. If he’s dismissed from his post and sent back home, that will be the end of him.
“Will you sit down at least,” Maybury says to him, gest
uring at a chair.
O’Connor hesitates for several seconds, then does as he is told.
“You made a mistake and this is the price. It could be much worse.”
O’Connor nods.
“I’ll need time to talk him through it,” he says. “And we should put lookouts near the alehouse, people the Fenians won’t recognize.”
“I can get some fellows down from Bolton. That’s easy enough.”
“Is the money ready? The hundred pounds you promised?”
Maybury shrugs.
“I wouldn’t call that a promise exactly,” he says, “more a possibility.”
“Then he’ll want it put down in writing before we begin, both the amount and when it’s to be paid in full.”
Maybury frowns across the desk.
“So you’re the lawyer now,” he says. “That’s a fresh development.”
O’Connor doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t look away either. A stiff and gelid silence fills the space between them. After a long half minute, Maybury shakes his head, and stretches for his pen.
CHAPTER 8
The next day, Michael Sullivan is sitting at a corner table in Jack Riley’s alehouse on Rochdale Road, with a half-full glass of porter in front of him. He has been there an hour already and is becoming fidgety. O’Connor gave him strict instructions to nurse his drink, keep his mouth shut, and wait. No skittles or dominoes or playing cards, and if someone says hello to him he is allowed to nod and smile, but that is all. Such extreme self-restraint strikes him as unnatural and perverse. If he is trying to blend in, why not just behave normally? What kind of a man goes into a tavern and sits on his own in the corner all afternoon? But Jimmy was insistent and there was something in his voice when he said it, a tinge of fearfulness or anger, that made Sullivan think he should take him seriously this time. They have given him the newspaper to read, but it is full of people and places he has never heard of. Moments like this, he wishes he was back in New York with his pals, but what’s done is done, and all pleasures must be paid for somehow, he supposes, so here he is in Manchester, sitting alone in the corner of the pub, glooming over his beer like the idiot cousin at a funeral.
After a little while longer, Jack Riley appears behind the bar, with his shirtsleeves rolled up and his waistcoat unbuttoned. He is a thin man, pale, with dark hair, oiled back, and side-whiskers. He is missing a tooth at the top and his nose is bent out of true from some previous fracas. Sullivan takes another sip of the porter and looks about the room. Just past noon and the place is half empty—there are three men playing dominoes by the fireplace and four or five more sitting about talking and smoking pipes. Fewer the better is the plan, the only witness they really need is Riley. Sullivan glances at the clock again, then cranes to look out the front window. Nothing to see. How much longer, he wonders, or is it possible they’ve forgotten, or the plan has changed in some way? He picks up the newspaper again and reads through the District News—suicide by poison in Warrington, a stabbing in Clitheroe, in Worsley a corporal named Cabusac has been committed to trial for shooting a cow while drunk. He decides he will have another pint, no one is keeping count, and, so long as he plays his part as instructed, what does it matter? He drinks down the remains and steps toward the bar. Jack Riley looks at him.
“Porter, is it?” he says.
Sullivan nods and Riley takes the empty glass.
“Haven’t I seen you before?” he says. “Aren’t you that friend of Arthur’s?”
“I don’t know any Arthurs,” Sullivan says. “I just arrived on the steamer from New York.”
Riley leans back on the pump and nods.
“Family here in Manchester? Uncles and cousins?”
“No,” he says, “no family.”
“Most people that come have family. So what brings you here?”
Sullivan shrugs.
“I had some trouble back home. I had to get away. Some fellow promised me a job in Liverpool, but nothing came of it, so now I’m here looking about.”
The door behind Sullivan opens and a policeman in uniform, truncheon in hand, pauses a moment to take off his helmet and then steps into the parlor. Riley, watching him, frowns.
“What the fuck does he want?” he says.
Sullivan turns around to look. It’s Fazackerley. Their eyes meet for a moment, then Fazackerley looks away. He walks slowly across to the bar, taking his own time about it, making his presence known. At long fucking last, Sullivan thinks.
Riley opens the flap of the bar and wipes his hands on a tea towel. Fazackerley, who is doing nothing quickly, pauses to take in the tableau—Michael Sullivan, an untouched glass of porter in front of him on the bar, Jack Riley with a look on his face.
“Are you the landlord?” Fazackerley asks.
“What if I am?” Riley says.
“We’ve had a complaint.”
“Where’s Rawes got to?”
“Constable Rawes is off sick today. My name’s Magee.”
Riley looks unconvinced.
“I deal with Rawes,” he says. “Me and him have an understanding between us.”
“Rawes is off sick, so you’ll have to deal with me today. We’ve had a complaint that you’re breaking the terms of your license by selling gin.”
Riley snorts and shakes his head.
“Gin?” he says. “Christ.”
“It’s a serious matter, and if it’s proven, we’ll close this place down. I’m here to arrest you. You’ll have to come with me to Knott Mill.”
“It’s a poor fucken joke. I never sold a drop of gin in my life. You can ask anyone here. They’ll all vouch for me, won’t you, lads?”
“We have witnesses that swear otherwise.”
“Then your witnesses are liars.”
“And you can tell that to the magistrate.”
“Why don’t you take a look down in the cellar,” Sullivan suggests. “If he’s selling gin, there’ll be bottles down there. Evidence one way or the other.”
Fazackerley turns to look at him.
“I’m not here to fossick around cellars. We have witnesses.”
“And the landlord here says the witnesses are lying.”
Fazackerley frowns and lays his truncheon down on top of the bar.
“Who are you?” he says.
“I’m a customer.”
“Name?”
“My name’s not important. What’s important is you check in the cellar, so you know for certain who’s lying and who isn’t.”
“I don’t need to check the cellar to know who’s lying. And if you don’t tell me your name, I’ll arrest you on suspicion.”
Sullivan laughs.
“On suspicion of what? I’ve only been in Manchester for a week.”
Fazackerley takes a step closer.
“You’re an American, I can hear it in your voice. We’ve been looking for an American who’s just arrived in Manchester, a man named Stephen Doyle. Is that you?”
“My name’s not Doyle.”
Fazackerley peers hard at Sullivan.
“But you’re a Fenian, aren’t you?”
Sullivan doesn’t answer.
“If you’re not a Fenian, then what are you doing supping in a Fenian alehouse?”
“Everyone’s welcome here,” Riley says. “We don’t check on a man’s beliefs before we give him a drink.”
“I was passing by, that’s all,” Sullivan says.
It is Fazackerley’s turn to laugh. He feels in his pocket and finds his handcuffs.
“I’ll take you both back with me,” he says. “We’ll get to the bottom of this.”
“Don’t be so fucken daft,” Riley says. “The lad’s done nothing wrong.”
“Oh, are you vouching for him now?” Fazackerley asks. “Friend of yours, is h
e?”
“I never seen him before today.”
“So you say, but I think there’s something going on here. I think there’s more to this than meets the eye.” He reaches for Sullivan’s arm and Sullivan pulls it away.
“You can’t arrest me,” Sullivan says.
“Leave the lad alone,” Riley says.
Fazackerley picks his truncheon off the bar and points it slowly, first at Sullivan, then at Riley.
“You two know each other,” he says. “I’m not so stupid. I can tell.”
Sullivan looks at Riley with what he hopes is an expression of comradely bemusement. Riley shakes his head.
“I’ve met some idiot fucken coppers in my time,” he says to Fazackerley, “but you take the prize.”
“You can both come peaceably, or I can step outside now and blow my whistle. It’s up to you.”
For a moment, no one moves. The domino players have stopped their game; everyone is paused, watching on in silence. Sullivan, heart drumming, hot fear gripping his insides, readies himself. Fazackerley makes a show of unlocking the handcuffs.
“Give me your wrists,” he says.
“You can’t arrest me,” Sullivan says. “You don’t have any right.”
“I’ll do as I please,” Fazackerley says. He steps forward and grabs Sullivan by the elbow. They lock eyes for a moment; their faces are a foot apart or less. Riley is behind them, unsighted. “Go on,” Fazackerley whispers to him, “now.” Sullivan can smell coffee and mothballs; he can see the snotty crosshatch of nose hair. He raises his fist and punches Fazackerley as hard as he can in the side of the face. The policeman grunts and stumbles backward against the bar, dropping his truncheon and smashing the glass of porter on the way down. Sullivan steps forward again, as if to continue the attack, but Riley blocks his way.
“That’s enough,” he says. “That’s enough now. Jesus Christ.”
Fazackerley pulls himself upright. He has a red mark across his face and a drop of blood near one eye. He points at Sullivan.
“You just wait there, you little bastard,” he says. “You just fucking wait there.”
He runs out into the street and blows three long blasts on his police whistle. Riley looks at Sullivan and shakes his head.
