Shamrock Green (31 page)

Then, abruptly, the door flew open.

Sylvie stepped away from the sink and stood up straight.

Ames carried a table and chair into the cell, a square wooden table with its legs in the air, the chair, a cane thing, balanced on top.

‘You're for it now, missus,' Ames said, cheerfully. ‘By God, you are.'

He was strong and agile, like a circus performer. He righted the table with one hand and swung the chair down with the other, sweeping them into position in the centre of the room. She watched him, her posture defiant, her eyes angry, but with a strange, sick lurching in her stomach at what was about to take place. Ames went away again, leaving the door open. A moment later Inspector Vaizey entered the cell. He was eating a ham sandwich and carrying a mug of tea. He placed the mug on the table and signalled. Ames closed the door from outside. Vaizey put the last big bite of sandwich to his mouth and pushed it in with his forefinger. He wiped his fingers delicately on the side of his trousers and looked appraisingly at Sylvie.

‘Well, Mrs McCulloch,' he said, smiling, ‘alone at last, it seems.'

*   *   *

There were soldiers on the Strand, several army trucks whizzed past, heading towards the city, and artillery fire grumbled in the distance, but by the time Maeve reached the bridge near the end of the North Strand she had left the fighting behind.

It had been her intention to walk to Towers but she had covered barely a couple of miles before her arms began to ache and Sean, now wide awake, cried hard and unremittingly. She tried loosening the shawl to make a cradle but that didn't work and he continued to cry and cry until his little face was as red as a beetroot and Maeve feared that he would do himself an injury.

She seated herself on the pavement at the side of the road, laid the baby across her knees, lifted up his skirts and felt the towel, which was soaked and smelly. She thought of removing the nappy but she had nothing with which to replace it. She soothed him as best she could and looked forlornly in the direction of Malahide which now seemed impossibly far away.

Surprising amounts of traffic were rolling into the city, carts and trade vans, even an omnibus heading off, she assumed, to Howth to let the trippers see the ships that lay in the bay and the gunboats moored off the mouth of the Liffey. Odd to think that for half a crown you could stand on Howth Head and watch Ireland shake herself free of oppression.

She wondered if Sean were hungry, though it was still an hour short of his feeding time. She wondered if she should try him at her breast and then, blowing out her cheeks, realised how stupid an idea that was. Her breasts were dry bumps and sucking on them would do the poor wee soul no good. She really needed someone to tell her what to do. Perhaps she should go back to the Shamrock and hope that the soldiers had gone away and her mam had returned; but that would mean that the warehouse had fallen and Charlie and Peter, Jansis and Turk, her lovely Turk, were prisoners or, like poor Mr Whiteside, dead. She felt small now, shrunken by anxiety and responsibility.

The hack appeared on the Fairview corner. It was one of the old-fashioned kind with a sleek horse trotting between the shafts and a black hood, the driver, in a tall hat, riding above the cab.

Maeve wrapped the shawl over Sean and, lifting the satchel, got to her feet, stepped out into the road and waved.

To her vast relief, the hack drew to a halt by the kerb.

The driver had a face like a weasel and didn't appear friendly.

‘How much would it be costin' for a ride to Towers?' Maeve asked.

He leaned down and squinted at her. Sean howled.

‘I'm not goin' to Towers. I just been t' Portmarnock.'

‘Have you not got a licence?' Maeve heard herself say.

‘What sort o' question is that?'

‘How much to Towers?' Maeve said again.

He peered at her without pity. ‘Ten shillin'.'

‘Hah!'

‘Five then.'

‘Three.'

‘Show me the three.'

She dug into her pocket, fished out the coins and held them out in the palm of her hand. ‘There you are. See.'

‘Get in,' the driver told her.

*   *   *

‘Are you hungry?' Inspector Vaizey asked.

‘No.'

‘Would you care to share my tea?'

‘No,' Sylvie said. ‘Thank you all the same.'

‘Take off your skirt?'

‘Pardon?'

‘It's wet, isn't it? Why don't you take it off and let it dry.'

‘I'll do nothing of the kind,' Sylvie said.

‘I wouldn't want you catching your death.' Vaizey stroked his moustache for a moment, his head on one side. ‘Your blouse is wet too. Is that milk?'

‘Water, from the tap at the sink,' Sylvie said. ‘Where's Fran, where's Mr Hagarty? What have you done with him?'

Vaizey lifted the chair and put it down again. ‘Please be seated.'

‘I'll stand.'

‘No you won't. You'll sit.'

She hesitated, bridling and afraid, then seated herself on the edge of the chair facing him, her knees pressed tightly together. She glanced down at the dark water stain on her skirt and wondered if she would be obliged to give him what he wanted before he would set her free.

‘Well, that's better.' Vaizey leaned against the table. ‘Are you more comfortable now?'

‘No,' Sylvie said. ‘I won't be more comfortable until you let me go.'

‘Is Francis Hagarty your lover?'

‘What business is that of … Yes, he is.'

‘Is the child his?'

Sylvie nodded.

‘And your husband is fighting at the front with the Rifles?'

Sylvie nodded again. There was no moral justification for what she had done. She had betrayed her husband's trust to satisfy her desire and had climbed into bed with Fran of her own free will.

‘Does Hagarty reside at the Shamrock Hotel?'

‘Yes, sometimes.'

‘Does he come and go as he pleases?'

‘Of course – but I think you know that already.'

‘Where does he go when he's not with you?'

‘I have no idea.'

‘Don't you ask him?'

‘No.'

‘Why not?'

‘I'm not his keeper.'

‘You're really just his whore, Mrs McCulloch. Isn't that the long and short of it?'

‘Say what you like about me, Mr Vaizey, I'm not giving you any information.'

‘Is that because you won't tell or because you don't know?'

‘What difference does it make?'

‘It makes a great deal of difference,' Vaizey said. ‘You see, if you know something about Francis Hagarty's dealings with, say, the Germans and elect to keep it to yourself then I'm entitled to wring it from you. On the other hand, if you know nothing…'

‘The Germans? Fran wouldn't do business with the Germans.'

Vaizey pushed himself away from the table.

‘Why did you close the Shamrock?'

‘I didn't close the Shamrock. You cancelled my licence to serve drink and that did for the commercial trade.'

‘And the meetings of the brotherhood, did they also cease?'

‘You seem to know everything, don't you? If you've questions to ask, ask and let me be on my way.'

He walked behind the chair and leaned over it. ‘Look, I could have left you and your infant in the house in Sperryhead Road and let you take your chances with the soldiers.'

‘The soldiers are under orders not to harm women and children.'

‘Do you think I'm not under orders?' Vaizey said. ‘My orders are to apprehend everyone connected with this idiotic revolt and you, Mrs McCulloch, are sleeping with one of the leaders.'

‘Fran isn't a leader. He's just a journalist.'

‘Fran Hagarty is a lot more than just a journalist. He's an arms buyer, a gunrunner and a dealer in foreign currency,' Vaizey said. ‘He couldn't care less about independence. Hagarty is as much a threat to the integrity of the Irish brotherhoods as he is to the British government.'

He moved from behind the chair. Sylvie twisted round, not daring to let him out of her sight. He came around the chair and crouched before her as if he were about to lace up her boots. She drew in her feet and pressed her knees tightly together. He laid no hand on her, however, but squatted on his heels and spoke softly.

‘Before nightfall, by dawn tomorrow at the very latest,' he said, ‘your husband's brothers will be either dead or in prison and the Shamrock, your house, will be rubble. My task is to scatter the ashes of this outrageous uprising so that nothing of the sort can flare up again. The brotherhoods, the Citizen Army, most of the volunteers will be spared or given prison sentences; the real traitors will be charged with treason, found guilty and hanged. They are not my concern. My concern is with the half men, the grey men, opportunists like Francis Hagarty. Hagarty's part of a self-perpetuating myth, and if I don't do my job properly he'll fan that myth and more innocent people will suffer.'

‘What do you expect me to do about it? I'm not part of your myth.'

Vaizey sighed, got up and returned to the table.

‘I feel sorry for you, Mrs McCulloch,' he said. ‘You say you love this man, and perhaps you do – let's say you do – but loving a man is not the same as loving one's country and supporting a man is not the same as supporting a cause. It's not even your country, or your cause.'

‘What
do
you want from me?'

‘I need you to be my witness.'

Sylvie shot to her feet. ‘I'll never give court evidence against Fran.'

‘That,' Vaizey said, ‘isn't what I mean.'

‘What do you mean then?'

‘You'll see,' said Vaizey.

He rapped on the door and when it opened, stepped into the passageway. He nodded to Ames who closed and bolted the door, and Sylvie was left alone once more. Table, chair and tea mug had been left behind, however. Clearly the inspector wasn't finished with her yet.

She was baffled by what had taken place. She would have been less anxious if Vaizey had tried to pump her for information about Fran, Charlie and the brotherhood – but Vaizey probably knew more about the workings of the brotherhood than she did. The building was uncannily quiet for a time, and then, filtering up from deep within the building, came a sound, a soft sound, like a whisper of the wind. Her first thought was that Vaizey was coming back, that she would be punished for defying him, but as the noise in the passageway became louder she realised that someone – Fran – was calling her name.

‘Syl-vay. Syl-vay.'

She ran to the door and tried to reach the little grille, to pull herself up.

‘Syl-vay, Syl-vay, Syl-vay'
: closer now, louder now.

Scuffle of feet in the passageway, Ames guffawing and another voice, not one she recognised, yapping, ‘Move 'im along. Move 'im along.'

She hammered on the door and shouted Fran's name.

Fran cried out,
‘Sylvie, is that you?'

She snatched up the chair, flung it against the door and climbed upon it. She peered through the grille. She could see nothing but a fragment of empty passageway, nothing of Fran. A door slammed. Cold air breathed against her face. She jumped from the chair, carried it to the sink, hoisted it into the sink and clambered after it.

Balanced on the chair, fingernails digging into the window ledge, she peered through the dirty glass into the courtyard. The window was at ground level and she could not see the sky. Initially the courtyard was deserted, then, suddenly, Fran came running out across the cobbles. He ran like a man whose legs had been broken, lurching one way and then another. He wore nothing but trousers and a vest and he was still barefoot. She shouted his name. He turned and saw her or saw at least the arc of the window. He stumbled towards her, legs bent, arms held out as if he thought she might be able to pull him to safety through the glass. His mouth was open and he was shouting. Sylvie heard not a word, only the muffled crack of a revolver. Fran fell forward, his chin tilted up, blood trickling from his lips.

Sylvie shouted and slapped her hands to the glass, slapped her hands to the glass to pull him in. He crawled towards her, his lips redder than cherries. She could not make out whether it was the stranger or Ames or Vaizey himself who fired the second shot. Fran jerked, rolled on to his side on the sloping cobbles and squeezed his cheek against the window. Nothing separated them now but the thickness of the glass and the dirt on the glass, his mouth and cheek plastered against the glass, blood smearing the glass.

She called his name, saw his lips move, knew that he was saying her name, repeating her name over and over again. She saw the toe of a shoe, a trouser leg, and a fist holding a revolver. The third shot vibrated against the glass and there was blood all over the glass.

The chair swayed and tilted and Sylvie toppled backwards. She fell to the floor and lay there for a moment, winded. Then she scrambled to her feet, clambered back on to the sink and stared up at the glass. The glass was stained all red, and Fran was gone.

She climbed down out of the sink and righted the chair.

Something told her that she should weep, that Vaizey would expect to find her weeping and hysterical. She seated herself on the chair, facing the door, and waited for Vaizey to return. Ames came instead.

He escorted her out of the cell and along the passageway and down the steps to the iron door. He said nothing and she said nothing. He unbolted the door and opened it, releasing her into the world at large, to tell the world at large what she had witnessed and to assure all those concerned – including John James Flanagan, of course – that Mr Francis Hagarty would trouble them no more.

Chapter Sixteen

‘And why, may I ask, did you come here?' her grandmother said.