The 13th Apostle: A Novel of a Dublin Family, Michael Collins, and the Irish Uprising (24 page)

66

E
OIN’S
D
IARY

I
wonder what I have gotten my family into?

Mary and Dickie are in orphanages, Da is a pawn of the British, and Frank is about to be shocked into the reality of the movement.

I feel dejected, lost—like my world is spinning out of control. This revolution gets more demanding by the day, and I’m beginning to feel it’s only a matter of time before it completely devours us all.

Before Mick left for business in Munster and the West, he assigned Vinny Byrne and Joe Leonard from the Squad to come to 31 Aungier with me. He’s very worried about his office on the top floor and wants Vinny and Joe to get the files out of there. Mick also wants Frank to take a “vacation,” as he puts it. He’s worried that the British will not stop with harassing Da, and that Frank might be their next target. Frank was turned over to the Second Battalion, South Dublin, and will be moved to the Dublin Mountains to begin his “run.”

We got to the house after midnight and entered through the back entrance. As we were heading towards the stairs, a muffled voice called out, “Who’s there?” Vinny and Joe pulled out their guns.

“Don’t shoot!” says I, because I knew it was Da, even though his voice was queer.

He was sitting in his big chair, fully dressed. His lip was swollen full. “Daddy,” says I, “what have they done to you?”

“I’m alright, son,” he said. “Where’s Frank?”

I told him that Frank was under the care of the IRA, and he nodded that he understood.

“Mr. Kavanagh,” said Joe Leonard, “who did this to you?”

“Fellow by the name of Blood,” Da said and gave a little laugh at the irony. “I’m their ticket to Camden Street. They’ll be back in the mornin’ for me. I can handle it, Eoin, but I want you out of here. It’s not safe for you or your mates.” I told him we were here to get Collins’s files. He nodded. “Good,” he said. “Then get the hell out of here. They’ll be back here at 6:00 a.m. for me.”

“Why don’t you come with us?” asked Vinny. “We can protect you.”

“I don’t want to be a burden to you or Mr. Collins,” said my father. “They’ll get tired of me after a while and go on to something else. I can take it.”

“You’re a brave man,” said Vinny in admiration, and Leonard nodded his head in agreement.

We went upstairs and boxed up the files. I don’t know what’s in them, and neither do the lads. If it was important to know, Mick would have told us. We have a car, and we’ll move them over to Bachelors Walk. As we were leaving, I went to my father. We are not a demonstrative family. We don’t hug and kiss, and we never even think of saying the word “love,” but I felt it was important to show Da how proud I am of him. I went over and kissed him on top of his perfect hair. “I’ll keep an eye out for you, Da. And you can be sure that the boys in the street know what’s going on. So you’re not alone.”

“I know that, son,” he said. “I know I’m not alone. And believe me, the British know that, too.” He paused. “But stay out of this place. If they find you, they’ll do anything to get information out of you about Mr. Collins. So steer clear.”

We loaded the files into the boot of the car and left 31 Aungier Street with dread in our hearts, not sure that my father could survive the interrogation methods of Detective Sergeant Blood.

67

R
óisín came out of her flat in Walworth Road and rode out into Harrington Street on her bicycle, late for work. As she was about to turn into Camden Street, she was stopped by DMP Constable O’Shea as a military convoy came over the Portobello Bridge and moved on through. She thought of riding over to Clanbrassil Street to avoid the traffic but decided it wasn’t worth the time. She would stay put and follow the convoy—at a distance, for safety’s sake.

As she waited, she was shocked to see Eoin’s father in his throne sitting atop the cab of the first lorry. He was tied to the chair nice and tight. “Mr. Kavanagh!” she called out, getting Joseph’s attention. “Take care of Eoin,” he shouted back, before the truck accelerated and moved on down Camden Street.

Constable O’Shea still had his hand up to stop traffic. “Get out of me way, ya fat eejit!” shouted Róisín, as she pushed her bicycle around him and went in hot pursuit. Róisín pedaled at a furious pace and soon caught up to the lead lorry. “You gutless cunts!” she shouted into the cab at the two Tommies. “You should be bloody ashamed of yerselves. Cunts!” The lorry accelerated to get away from Róisín, but she was up to the challenge. And the faster she pedaled, the more angry she got. “Get out of Ireland, ya fookin’ hoors!” she screamed at the laughing Tommy nearest her. In total frustration, she propelled a large wad of saliva at the riding Tommy, hitting him solidly on the left side of his face.

“Jesus Christ!” came the Tommy’s response.

“English cunt!” spat Róisín.

“Irish cunt!” The Tommy turned to the driver and said, “Let her have it, Nigel!”

With that, the lorry swerved left and drove Róisín toward the sidewalk, where she landed with a bone-shaking thud.

“Róisín! Róisín!” Joseph called out, but Róisín didn’t hear him; she was seeing stars.

The lorry continued down the Dardanelles and made their left turn into Dame Street and found the safety of Dublin Castle. The two Tommies grabbed Joseph and took him directly to Detective Blood. “How was the trip?” he asked.

“They’re not throwing bombs anymore,” said Róisín’s Tommy.

“That’s good!” said Blood.

“They’ve got their ladies involved. The bombs have been replaced with fucking spit,” he added, as he continued to wipe the side of his face clean of Róisín’s spittle.

Blood was outraged. “So now you have Fenian cunts doing your dirty work,” he said to Joseph. “Not man enough to do your own filthy deeds! Well, little man, you’ll be paying for that.” Blood hit Kavanagh squarely in the lip with a powerful right hook, ripping open the old wound and spattering blood around the office. Kavanagh hit the floor, and Blood went right after him, giving him a vicious kick to the lower back. Then, holding his walking cane like a shovel, he drove the brass handle with the All-Seeing Eye into Joseph Kavanagh’s left kidney.

The two Tommies looked at each other in disbelief. “Hey mate, it was
only
spit,” the one protested, before adding, “He had nothing to do with it.”

Blood grimaced at the soldier as he lifted Kavanagh by the collar and led him to a cell down the hall. He threw Joseph into the cell, and the helpless barber fell face-first on the floor. For good measure, Blood went over to Kavanagh and gave him another kick in the kidney. “This will stop only when you tell me where your son is and where I can find Collins.” With that, he slammed the cell door shut. “I will get that Fenian bastard if it’s the last thing I do.”

When Kavanagh regained consciousness some time later, he had to pee. He released into the chamber pot. His piss streamed blood red, reminding Joseph who he was up against.

Róisín’s head felt wet, and her touch revealed blood. She dabbed it with a handkerchief and saw that it was only a superficial cut. “Are you alright, ma’am?” Róisín looked up to see Constable O’Shea, who put out a hand to help her rise. She ignored the help and continued to sit on the sidewalk, still trying to get her bearings.

“Get away from me!” she said to O’Shea. “Shame on you, working for those snakes.”

“Ma’am,” explained O’Shea patiently, “appearances can be deceiving.” O’Shea extended his hand again, and this time Róisín took it, confused.

“Deceiving, eh?” she said, rubbing her bruised bum.

“You know what I mean,” said the Constable.

“Yes, I think I do.” Róisín checked out her bicycle, which was fortunately unharmed. She had to get to work at the Mater. She hopped on and continued her ride down Wexford Street.

“Miss,” called out O’Shea. Róisín stopped and turned around. “Be careful!”

Róisín was forced to smile at the rotund DMP, feeling better knowing that she had a friend in the most unlikely place.

Róisín arrived at work, and her appearance shocked her co-workers. “Róisín,” gasped Sister Aloysius, the supervising nun. “What happened to you?”

Róisín was about to say, “The fookin’ British” but caught herself. “I had a little trouble with a lorry, Sister.”

“We’ll have to get that fixed,” said the nun. Peroxide made the wound sting, but she considered herself lucky. She knew she should keep her temper under control, but sometimes she couldn’t help it. As she changed from her trousers into her nursing attire, Róisín saw that she was bruised from her arse all the way down to the top of her knee.
My God
, she thought,
how I hate the British!
Then she thought of Mr. Kavanagh and Eoin, and she could feel her blood pressure rise and her face redden. There would be no simple relief, she knew.

On her way home that night, she made a quick stop at Dinny Doyle’s key shop in Henry Street. “Dinny,” she said, “could you make me a copy of one of these?” She held out her latchkey. New key in pocket, she continued on to the quays and Bachelors Walk. She went into number thirty-two and knocked at Eoin’s office door, but there was no reply. She knew Eoin always picked up the late post, so she sat on the landing and waited. About fifteen minutes later, Eoin arrived, surprised to find the landing blocked by Róisín.

“How are ya?” she asked as their eyes met.

He saw the bandage on the side of her head and replied, “How are
you
?” He touched her face gently, kissed the top of her head, and helped her to her feet.

“I saw your daddy this morning.”

Eoin slid his key in the lock, picked up the afternoon post off the floor, and threw his hat on his desk. “How was he?”

“He was on top of a British lorry in Camden Street.”

“He’s their hostage.”

“For how long?”

“A few days. They’re trying to stop us from bombing their convoys.” Eoin paused before adding unconvincingly, “He can take it.”

Róisín noticed that Eoin had a little stubble on his chin and above his lip. “You’re growing a beard,” she said with a smile.

“I didn’t shave today.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m homeless. Mick and Da don’t want me returning to Aungier Street. I slept here last night. I’ll survive.” Róisín reached for her handbag and winced. “What’s wrong?” asked Eoin.

Róisín smiled. “The lorry your Daddy was riding in drove me to the ground. I have an awful bruise.” Róisín undid her belt and lowered her britches to show Eoin her bruise. He moved her bloomers aside so he could see the full extent of the bruise, running from her left buttock all the way down her leg.

“You have a beautiful arse, Róisín,” Eoin said quietly.

“And you have a dirty mind,” came the response, punctuated with a laugh at the end. She pulled up her knickers and her pants and reached again for her bag. “Here,” she said, turning over Dinny’s brand-new key. “You’re not homeless. You can always stay with me.”

Eoin pocketed the key with a simple, “Thanks.”

“Be sure to stay away from Aungier Street,” Róisín said. “Mick is right. The Brits are looking for you. You’re their key to finding Collins.”

“That fooking film,” said Eoin.

“Yes,” agreed Róisín, “being the new Douglas Fairbanks wasn’t worth it.”

“Is anything worth anything?”

“Love is worth something,” said Róisín. She smiled at her Eoin and then kissed him gently on the lips. “Take it from an older woman, a woman of the world!”

“Well,” Eoin joked, “you are
older
!”

“You little imp,” exploded Róisín, pushing Eoin onto Collins’s couch. She was on top of him, and he wasn’t moving.

“You weigh a ton!” he protested in a teasing voice. Róisín planted a wet kiss on Eoin, and the struggle ceased. Eoin could feel his willie move, and they settled into each other’s arms. “Thank you,” said Eoin.

“For what?”

“You know what.”