by Mark McKay
The day was cold but bright, with little wind and a cloudless sky. Michael paused at the top of the small flight of stairs leading to the street, looking carefully to right and left. A few men in suits and overcoats were walking briskly to what he imagined must be their office jobs. A trio of binmen were emptying bins into a rubbish truck about 20 yards away. Nothing felt out of place – a normal Dublin morning as far as he could tell. Being constantly vigilant had become second nature to him though, and his senses were tuned in to the environment as he descended the steps. He turned left, and walked swiftly past the rubbish truck and onwards toward the main road.
Maybe I’m overdoing it, he thought. No one should know of his presence in Dublin, and theoretically not many people even inside the IRA knew how active he was operationally. He’d tried to keep a low profile over the years, and to a certain extent he thought he’d succeeded. But he knew allegiances in his organisation could change, and it was never wise to assume the intelligence services were ignorant of his identity either. So far, he’d not been detained or arrested, and he wanted to keep it that way. He continued to scan the street as he walked, but could see nothing to alarm him. Of course, they could be observing him from a window or from a passing car. He sighed, – paranoia must be the price of freedom after all. Lighten up, man.
A few minutes later and he stood in a phone box, feeding loose change into the slot. He dialled a Belfast number and waited, still scanning the area for anything unusual. The call was answered after three rings.
‘Fitzpatrick Carpentry, how can I help you?’
Michael knew the voice, but before acknowledging it there was a ritual to be followed.
‘I need a custom made bookcase for a specialised book collection,’ he began.
‘What’s your specialised subject then?’
‘The Easter Uprising, 1916.’
‘A fascinating period of Irish history. Are you wanting to place an order now?’
Michael concluded the coded exchange ‘Yes, that would be grand.’
‘I know that voice. What happened to you then, Michael?’
‘Hello, Colin, all well with you I trust?’ Colin Fitzpatrick was his immediate superior, and the commander of the battalion to which he belonged.
‘Fine, thank you. We were wondering if anyone got out. Tell me what happened.’
Michael recounted the events on the beach and his horseback escape.
‘And you had no idea you were being ambushed?’ Fitzpatrick’s voice was calm and level, but Michael detected an undertone of doubt. He answered promptly, with a touch of indignation.
‘Of course not. Do you think I’d have got myself into any such situation?’
‘Ok, Michael. We lost good people, not to mention valuable arms. I thought security was tight on this one. I wonder where it slipped up. Where are you now?’
‘Dublin. I’ll wait a couple of days and then be on my way back to see you.’
‘You at a hotel?’
‘No, I...’ He paused for a split second. ‘I mean yes, just off O’Connell Street.’
He wondered if the pause had gone unnoticed. He thought it best to keep his sister’s house out of the conversation. She wasn’t affiliated to the IRA in any way, and she wouldn’t be amused by him giving her address to his colleagues.
‘Call me when you get back to Belfast. We’ll have a talk then.’ The phone went dead.
Michael felt mildly surprised. Fitzpatrick hadn’t asked many questions. Just waiting till I show up, I guess, then it will be a full debrief. He was also probably angry that all the organisation, planning and expense lavished on the arms shipment had been wasted. Understandable.
He zipped up his jacket, stepping out of the phone box. Reflecting on the brevity and the content of the conversation, he neglected his usual vigilance as he retraced his steps back to the house.
Siobhan came home late afternoon. She seemed in better spirits, but he could see the anxiety in her eyes when she looked at him. He tried to distract her by suggesting they go out for dinner.
‘It’s my last night with you. I’m getting the bus back up North in the morning. Let’s go to the Italian round the corner, I’ve got money.’
‘We had bolognese last night, Michael. Should you be going out after what’s happened?’
‘It’s fine, Sis. Stop worrying. And I’m sure there’s more to Italian cuisine than bolognese. Come on.’
‘Alright then. I’m having a long soak in the bath first though. You can entertain yourself until I’ve finished.’ She grinned at him.
That’s an improvement, he thought.
It was quiet at Gennaro’s. The proprietor knew Siobhan from previous visits.
‘Ah, pleasure to see you again Signorina. Not many people tonight, so you can choose your table.’
‘Hello, Stefano – this is my brother. Be nice to him.’
‘Your brother! But he doesn’t have your beautiful red hair. He has your eyes though. Please, take a seat.’
‘No, you’re right Stefano,’ she laughed. ‘What happened to your beautiful red hair, brother?’ She reached up a hand and ruffled Michael’s jet black locks.
‘You’re the only redhead in the O’Reilly family. You’re a freak of nature, Sis. Either that or the milkman’s got some explaining to do.’
They settled on a corner table, and after perusing the menu decided on Ravioli and a bottle of Chianti. Michael felt himself beginning to unwind, only now recognising how tense he’d been for the last two days. After the second glass of wine Siobhan started to loosen up too. She began telling him her plans for the future.
‘When I’ve saved enough I’m going to buy somewhere by the sea, and manage a hotel. Somewhere that gets the tourist trade in the summer. You can come and visit of course.’
‘Mmm, sounds good. Suppose I should stop doing building work and find something more lucrative to do. Never did go to university in the end. And I’m nearly 30. I thought you wanted to go to America.’
‘Yes, that’s an option too. I haven’t really worked it all out yet, Michael. When I do I’ll be sure to let you know.’
The talk continued over a second bottle of Chianti and an ice cream dessert. For a few hours Republicanism and dead friends, if not forgotten, were temporarily relegated to the backroom of memory. Around 10.30 they said goodbye to Stefano and returned to the house. Siobhan was a little unsteady on her feet. She put her arm through Michael’s and they weaved ever so slightly to the front door.
‘I’ll make some tea,’ she said, heading for the kitchen.
‘Ok, I’ll be next door.’ Michael walked into the living room, switching on the light. He stopped dead in his tracks. The room was occupied. A man wearing a balaclava stood next to the fireplace, pointing a pistol at his midsection. He had one finger to his lips. Michael stood immobile in shock as the visitor motioned him to sit on the sofa. He forced his legs to move and then sat down, his brain racing. The man once again raised his finger to his lips and moved quietly to the door, waiting. Michael did as he was bid, and said nothing.
The gunman was behind the door when Siobhan arrived, holding two mugs of tea. She saw Michael’s grim expression first.
‘What is it?’ she began, then, as she closed the door, saw for herself.
To her credit she stifled a scream when she saw the raised finger. She exhaled with a long moaning sound as the mugs left her hands and shattered on the bare wooden floor. Then she took an involuntary step backwards.
‘Sorry to alarm you,’ came a voice from behind the balaclava. ‘I need a word with your brother. Why don’t you sit down next to him?’
Siobhan moved to the sofa, her breath coming in quick gasps. For a minute everyone was silent. Michael was inwardly cursing the fact that he’d relaxed his customary vigilance, and wondering who the hell this man was and for what purpose he’d been sent. Siobhan was willing herself to calm down. She took a few slow breaths, waiting for her heart to stop thumping.
‘How the hell
did you get into my house?’
Michael put a hand on her arm. ‘Don’t get angry, Siobhan.’ He looked at their visitor. ‘What do you want?’
The man stayed by the door, gun levelled at both of them. ‘The business of an arms shipment in Cork, Michael. After your phone call this morning it was discussed long and hard. Certain conclusions were reached.’ His voice was clear and calm. He’s done this before, thought Michael. An executioner. He tried to place the accent. It wasn’t Irish, maybe Northern England. Certainly nobody he’d ever met.
‘What conclusions?’
‘Eight men shot dead, allegedly resisting arrest. But one miraculously escapes, riding a horse no less. In an operation that was supposed to be watertight. And you simply rode away. That’s a little too convenient for the high command to stomach, Michael. You sold us to the enemy.’
Michael found himself feeling very clear-headed and focused, but certainly not relaxed. His body felt wound up like a spring. Ready to uncoil, should that be an option. The effect of the wine he’d consumed was no longer clouding his perception, adrenalin had overpowered alcohol. Still, the situation was on a knife edge.
‘That is ridiculous. I’m owed the chance to tell my side of it in person.’
‘Those aren’t my orders. You know what happens to informers.’ He turned the gun directly on Michael.
Then everything happened at once. The assassin fired as Michael threw himself to the left. He felt the bullet rip through his jacket and into his shoulder, then he hit the floor.
The man’s aim had been distracted by Siobhan, who leapt from the sofa and threw herself directly at him, screaming abuse and clawing at his eyes. He stumbled back in surprise, his gun arm momentarily dropping to his side. Then he recovered himself, delivering an uppercut with his left that sent her reeling backwards. He lifted the gun and fired one silenced shot into her stomach. She collapsed with a loud sigh, back onto the sofa.
But the diversion had given Michael enough time to draw the Browning from his jacket pocket. He aimed and squeezed the trigger, drilling a neat hole straight through his assailant’s forehead. The man was dead as he crashed backwards on to the wall, and slid down it to the floor.
The Browning wasn’t silenced, and the echo of the shot reverberated. It seemed to come off the walls like waves, and he knew it must have been heard. His shoulder had gone numb, but that didn’t matter. He rolled off the floor and knelt next to his sister.
She sat with her head bowed, both hands clasped to her stomach. Her breath was coming in sobs as he stroked her hair. He put his palm under her chin and gently lifted her head. They looked at each other, and time seemed to stand still.
‘It doesn’t hurt Michael, it doesn’t…’ There were tears in her eyes, and in his.
‘Don’t move, Sis. Keep your hands there. I’m phoning for help.’ He saw the blood seeping through the bars of her hands. ‘Why did you do that, Jesus...’
He rushed out into the hall, picked up the phone and dialled for an ambulance.
‘It’s a gunshot wound, I need them now,’ he told the operator.
‘Fifteen minutes sir, address please.’
Michael swiftly finished the call and rushed back to the living room. Siobhan was as he’d left her. He knew that the first hour after being shot was critical. She was losing blood. He ran to the bathroom and returned with a towel.
‘Need to put pressure on it now,’ he whispered. He held the towel over her hands and gently applied pressure. ‘Breathe, just breathe for me.’
She managed to look up at him and almost smiled. He could see the far away look in her eyes, and knew she was going into shock.
‘Love you,’ she whispered.
‘Shh, don’t talk.’ He kissed her forehead. ‘They’ll be here soon.’ Nothing more to do now but wait.
Fifteen minutes later he heard the sound of an approaching siren, swiftly followed by a loud knocking on the front door. He opened it to two burly ambulance men, who marched in with a stretcher. They glanced briefly at his bloodstained hands then looked at each other.
‘Where’s the victim? Is it you?’ asked one.
‘Living room. Follow me.’
‘He’s dead,’ said Michael as ambulance man number two looked at the balaclava clad gunman stretched out on the floor.
‘So I see.’ With no further conversation the two men proceeded to get Siobhan off the sofa and on to the stretcher while keeping pressure on her wound.
‘We’ll stabilise her as best we can in the ambulance,’ said one. ‘You coming with us son? You need attention too.’
‘No, not right now. Where are you taking her?’
‘St. James’s.’ The first ambulance attendant, a stocky man in his forties with a weathered face and curly graying hair, gave Michael a direct but not unkindly stare.
‘Listen son, I don’t know what’s gone on here, but I can assure you of two things: the Garda are right behind us, and you need treatment for that wound. I suggest you get it looked at by A&E before you do anything else.’
‘I know someone who can help. Please, get my sister out of here.’
Without further ado Siobhan was placed in the ambulance, which pulled away at speed with its siren blaring.
Michael acted quickly. He found a small pack that he knew Siobhan kept in her room. He filled two empty wine bottles with water, and fishing the corks from the rubbish bin sealed them as best he could. He found a pair of scissors in the kitchen drawer. All this he stuffed into the pack. He then proceeded to the bathroom, where he took two towels and added them to his haul. He looked into the mirror. His jacket was bloodstained around the right shoulder, but he had nothing else to wear. He’d lost some blood, but as far as he could tell it wasn’t affecting him too much – yet.
He ran upstairs to the spare room. In the wardrobe there was a bundle of cash, which had been destined for the men on the boat delivering the arms. The weapons themselves had already been paid for, but he’d brought several thousand pounds to the beach as a delivery payment. He stuffed the notes under the towels.
He went back to the living room. Placing one hand under the dead man’s head, he peeled off the balaclava with the other. The man looked to have been in his mid-thirties, with an inch long scar running vertically from his left eye. His prone body wasn’t carrying any extra weight and he looked strong and fit. Ex-army maybe. It wasn’t a face Michael knew from anywhere. He quickly extinguished the lights and grabbed the pack.
It was only after he’d left the house and been walking for ten minutes that his shoulder started to hurt. The throb accompanied his footsteps like a metronome as he walked into the cold Dublin night.
Chapter 5
It was nearing midnight. In the South Dublin suburb of Blackrock, James O’Donnell was considering one last nightcap before retiring and surrendering to a whiskey inspired slumber. He lifted his middle-aged frame from the chair, and deposited the book he’d been reading on the little table he kept close by. It formed a convenient receptacle for both book and whiskey glass, but not the bottle. He deliberately kept that on the far side of the room. In that way he resisted temptation for long enough to constitute what he considered to be a respectable period of abstinence. Not that he’d ever actually defined a ‘respectable’ period of abstinence. But whatever it was, he’d noticed it shortening recently.
‘James bloody Joyce, stream of consciousness rambling,’ he muttered, crossing the room. ‘Need to be lubricated just to keep up with it.’ He found the bottle and poured himself a generous measure. Then he sat down again and resumed his reading of Ulysses. This was his second attempt to get through the entire book without discarding it halfway. Well, he’d passed the halfway point this time, he thought with a twinge of satisfaction. But it was never going to be the easiest read as far as he was concerned.
He was jolted out of his musings by a sharp knock at the front door. Rather late for an unscheduled visit. He once more discarded book and whiskey glass, and moved across the r
oom to the window. Pushing the curtain to one side, he looked out.
The house was on the seafront. The living room window, when fully uncurtained, admitted a pleasant sea view. And if you stood where he was now, you could also look left and see whoever might be knocking at your front door. Unfortunately at this time of night only the street lighting could assist in illuminating his visitor. O’Donnell saw a well built man around six feet tall, with a pack on his back. And he had his left hand pressed to his right shoulder. The face was turned toward the front door, and the light wasn’t revealing much beyond the silhouette of a youngish man.
He tapped on the sash window to attract the young man’s attention then slid it down from the top. A chilly sea breeze swept through the gap.
‘The practice is closed. If you need a doctor I can give you a number for the person on call tonight. Or go to the local hospital.’
‘Doctor O’Donnell, I’m from Fitzpatrick Carpentry. I was here a while ago with a friend who needed treatment. Do you remember?’
O’Donnell took a long look at the face now fully turned towards him. He grunted in the affirmative. ‘That’s different, lad. Stay there, I’m coming to let you in.’ He slid up the window and went to the door.
Michael came inside. O’Donnell noticed his pale and drawn expression. He saw what looked like padding under the right shoulder of Michael’s jacket. And the bloodstains on the outside.
‘I cut up some towels and wrapped them around the wound,’ said Michael. ‘There’s no exit wound, so the bullet’s still in there, but I’m not bleeding too much. Just tired. It’s cold out there.’
‘Follow me to the consulting room.’ O’Donnell led him down the hall and opened a door halfway along. He switched on the light. ‘Lie on that bench. Take your jacket and shirt off first. Leave the padding on for now.’
