The Convictions of John Delahunt (30 page)

Crawley leaned forward and looked at the floor. ‘What size boot do you take?’

His friend gave a sidelong glance and said, ‘What? Why?’

‘If you’re not willing to bet money, I’ll stake a brand-new pair of riding boots I bought in Cadiz.’

The other two chuckled. But for the next few minutes Crawley kept repeating, ‘What size boot do you take?’ as if his wager was in earnest.

Corcoran, the club secretary, entered the room with a sheaf of papers tucked under his arm. He placed the printed leaflets on the billiard table and spoke with the three men before the fire. Then he noticed me in the corner and came over.

‘Morning, John,’ he said. ‘Nose in a book again?’ He pulled a chair from the wall and sat down. ‘How is Mrs Delahunt?’

I folded the corner of the page. ‘She still lives.’

He smiled, but then said there was a slight matter that had to be dealt with. The mid-point of Michaelmas had just passed, and so my subscription for the second half of term was owing. ‘As you know, it’s just another shilling.’

I had not heard Corcoran make a personal demand for payment from any other student. Perhaps he suspected I was evading my dues.

‘Thank you for reminding me. I’ll bring the money in a few days.’

‘It’s just that—’

His attention was caught by a hubbub near the door, where a few members had congregated and spoke in raised voices. Others had risen from seats and craned their necks to look towards the entrance. The cluster of students moved into the room and then parted to reveal James O’Neill, smiling and shaking hands with club members. He was much thinner than I remembered, his brown hair was brushed back and he wore a green ribbon in the lapel of his jacket, which clashed with the blue of his cravat. Corcoran immediately got up and went to greet him.

I hadn’t seen O’Neill since the day I gave evidence at his trial. Although the Castle had used the statement that Sibthorpe took from me in order to convict him, I had been allowed to feign ignorance on the stand, and say that I hadn’t observed what transpired that night. But could O’Neill have remembered something else in the meantime?

I remained seated in the corner, unfolded the dog-eared page in my book and pretended to resume reading. But that seemed an unnatural thing to do when an old acquaintance had just entered, so I placed the book on the seat beside me. Corcoran shook O’Neill’s hand and they exchanged friendly words. I considered slipping out, but to reach the door I’d have to walk past everybody. Even if O’Neill’s back was turned, someone was bound to mention my passing.

As I pondered these things, O’Neill spoke with Corcoran in a voice loud enough so the group could hear. He said he would be departing for America in a few days to begin his new life, but felt he had to call in once more to bid farewell to the society and its members. The others mumbled a mixture of thanks and good wishes.

Then he noticed me over Corcoran’s shoulder. The good humour ebbed from his face and his brow furrowed. Corcoran followed his gaze, seemed to sense the significance of our reunion, and stood aside without comment. The others watched as O’Neill picked his way towards me.

He had to take a meandering route past sofas and strewn satchels, pausing at one point to push a chair beneath a desktop. I waited for him to get near, then placed both hands on my thighs and lifted myself up, timing it so I reached my full height just as he stood before me. He narrowed his eyes and stayed still, as if waiting for my features to swim into focus. After a moment I said, ‘Hello, James.’

At the sound of my voice he turned towards the others. ‘How long has he been a member?’

Corcoran hesitated, glanced between the two of us, and said, ‘Just a few weeks.’

‘Why didn’t anyone tell me?’

This time the club secretary made no reply.

O’Neill looked at me again and took a breath. ‘Delahunt.’

‘Yes?’

He extended his hand. ‘I never had a chance to thank you.’

I let his hand hover in the space between us for a moment, until a flash of uncertainty crossed his features, then I reached across and gripped it firmly. O’Neill placed his other hand on my shoulder and shifted to the side so he could address the room. ‘If any of you are ever called upon to stand by a companion, you would do well to heed Delahunt’s example.’

The other members regarded me keenly, and I felt uncomfortable beneath their scrutiny. Crawley looked sceptical, as if he couldn’t believe I warranted such praise from the club’s founder. After an appropriate pause, Corcoran said there were some new members for O’Neill to meet. Before he broke away, James leaned close and spoke in my ear. ‘I want to talk with you alone before I leave.’ With that he turned away. He spent the next half-hour chatting to students individually and in small groups. Other members of the society had heard of his presence and came to the common room to pay their respects. Eventually, someone suggested they go for a final drink, and O’Neill said he would catch up with them.

As most of the members filed out, O’Neill came back to my corner and sat beside me. He was silent for a moment, and he smoothed a crease in his trousers, displaying a self-consciousness I had never seen before his trial.

He said, ‘Would you like to come for a drink with us?’

‘I can’t.’

He nodded. ‘You’re right. I’ve hardly touched the stuff myself. Not since …’ He absentmindedly rubbed the ribbon that looped through his buttonhole. ‘I never had you marked as a Repealer, John.’

Perhaps this was a moment to be candid. ‘The truth is …’ I waited for him to glance at me. ‘I just like having a warm room to escape the weather.’

Another gust shook the window and O’Neill smiled at me. The ribbon came loose in his hand. He regarded it for a moment, then checked to ensure those in the room were out of earshot. ‘I’ll be glad when I don’t have to wear this thing any more.’ He slipped the emblem into his pocket. ‘My time in prison rather … altered my perceptions of my countrymen.’

‘What was it like?’

His eyes lost some focus. It was more difficult than he had imagined. That summer had been particularly hot. The inmates baked in the stone cells, and there was an outbreak of typhoid. The sound of the retching kept him awake at night; he could still recall the smells of the sickness, and the images of sunburnt men being carried from their bunks, not to return. In the overcrowding and degradation, fighting between prisoners was a daily occurrence, and he couldn’t believe their treachery and heartlessness.

I’d spent that time with Helen in Merrion Park. It had been quite warm, now that he mentioned it.

‘But the worst thing’, he said, ‘was being punished for something I couldn’t remember doing.’

I kept my eyes lowered, and scraped my fingers over the cushioned armrest leaving raised furrows in the nap of the cloth, which I then brushed down again. ‘You don’t remember any of it?’

‘Just a few things. Us leaving the pub. I can still picture the policeman arriving with the whistle in his mouth. Then him lying face down in the puddle.’ He pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘I remember casting about to see where his helmet had rolled.’

He remained still for a moment, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. The few students in the room paid more attention to our conversation, probably wondering why it had become so hushed, so solemn.

O’Neill said, ‘You were never much of a drinker, Delahunt.’ When I didn’t say anything he leaned closer to me. ‘You must have seen something that night.’

I continued to worry the fabric of the cushion. ‘As I said at the time, I’d already walked away—’

‘No,’ he said, and I detected a note of anger in his voice. But when I looked up at him, his eyes were not accusing, but rather anxious, almost pleading. ‘You don’t understand.’ The way they described the incident in court had kept him awake at night. He couldn’t accept the claims that he had been so brutal, and yet the witnesses, the Castle, the prosecutors, they all seemed so sure. He furtively checked the room, as if embarrassed to admit such things aloud, then reached over and held my sleeve. ‘What if it was to happen again, John? Could I stop myself? Would I even know I was doing it?’ His voice trailed off and he bowed his head.

Another student entered the common room. When he saw O’Neill in the corner he began walking towards him, but seeing the club founder apparently so dejected, the young man paused and joined some others by the hearth.

I pulled my arm away. ‘I did see what happened that night.’

O’Neill’s head tilted up.

‘And I’m afraid you did hit that policeman.’ He allowed his eyes to close briefly. ‘But it wasn’t as they described in court. You just swung your arms in the melee, and struck him … more by accident.’ Something occurred to me. ‘I couldn’t say that at the time, though. If I’d said you punched the policeman, even by mishap, you wouldn’t have stood a chance.’

He nodded his head. ‘Yes, yes. I understand.’

‘But you asked if you could have acted as brutally as the prosecutors alleged. Well, I can tell you, James, in all sincerity, that you were not capable of such a thing. Not that night.’

O’Neill’s eyes squeezed shut and he exhaled through his nose. ‘Thank you, John.’ He noted the clock above the mantel. ‘I’d better go and join the others. Are you sure you won’t come?’

‘I’m sure,’ I said and wished him well. We shook hands again.

‘If you ever find yourself in America …’ he said, and I nodded. With that, he turned and left the common room, pausing only to bid farewell to the few students who remained.

I stayed in my seat and looked out of the window. Rain still fell outside, with the occasional squall rattling against the panes. I felt a sudden pang of jealousy for O’Neill and his departure. I imagined sailing across the slate-grey ocean, standing at the prow of a barque, all my knotted entanglements and problems and pressures left behind, dissipating with each passing league. I wondered if it rained as much in America.

By midday the weather improved, and most of the students left to attend lectures or go home for the afternoon. Only Crawley remained, dozing with his head bent back over the top of the couch. His heavy breathing was the only noise in the room except for an odd spark that burst from the coals.

I got up and stood behind him. His mouth was slack and the bottom of his teeth visible. He hadn’t shaved, so a distinct line went across his throat and over a prominent Adam’s apple. I stood closer. My impulse was to trace a delicate finger along the neckline of his beard. I considered what would happen if he was found here in the radicals’ common room with a cut neck. The papers would love the mystery, the setting, and the politics, but there could only be one suspect. Still, the thought of the consternation made me smile.

The coals in the fire shifted and Crawley opened his eyes. He remained still, staring up at me for a second. Then he closed his mouth, leaned forward and cleared his throat.

‘I was just leaving,’ I said. ‘And thought I should wake you lest you sleep the entire afternoon.’

He fumbled at a chain in his waistcoat and removed a pocket watch, but didn’t open it. He said that was very kind of me.

I said, ‘Good day, Crawley,’ and left the room.

While climbing the stairs in Grenville Street, I passed Mrs Lynch and two of her children. She looked at me as I squeezed by and said, ‘So you’re leaving us?’

I paused on the landing. ‘Pardon me?’

But then one child struck the other, and their mother began to yell at them.

The door to our room was unlocked. When I entered, I saw Arthur sitting in my armchair. He watched me as I came in. Helen’s writing desk was bare. Her trunk was also missing, leaving a large dirt-free rectangle on the floorboards. The dishes from the meal last evening had been washed and cleared on to the dresser.

I closed the door behind me. ‘Where is she?’

He didn’t answer. I went towards him and stood in the middle of the room, suddenly conscious of the shabby appearance of my clothes. There was a seat at the writing desk, but that was Helen’s chair, so I perched on the end of the bed. I saw Arthur’s gaze sweep over the dishevelled covers.

‘I’ve taken her home,’ he said, and then withdrew Helen’s key from an inside coat pocket. It had a lilac ribbon tied to the bow so we could tell them apart – she said mine always jammed. He placed it on a side table. ‘She’ll no longer have any need for this.’

Since his youth, Arthur had been soft-spoken despite his background and education. Now his speech seemed to have an additional assurance. It was clipped and without inflection.

‘Why are you here now?’

‘Helen was only going to leave you a note. I said the least you deserved was to be told of her decision in person.’

I unbuttoned my coat, but kept it on for there was a nip in the air. ‘The decision wasn’t hers to make, Arthur. You’ll have to bring her back.’

An irritated look briefly came over his face, as if he’d hoped the conversation wouldn’t take this turn. He pinched his fingers beneath his nose and smoothed his moustache by expanding his thumb and forefinger.

Before he could speak again I said, ‘I thought you’d disowned her anyway.’

‘Our family will put all that behind us. Mother and Father have gone to Edinburgh for the winter, so Helen can remain in Merrion Square at least until she’s recovered. We’ll arrange a reconciliation in the meantime.’

‘You’ve no idea how that abandonment affected her. The amount of times I had to comfort her during the night while she wept.’ I looked down at the bed and shook my head. ‘Now you come here and claim her, as if your own family wasn’t the root of her unhappiness.’

Arthur remained silent so I pressed on. ‘All I have to do is report this to the authorities and Helen will be delivered back here in the morning.’

‘The authorities won’t care.’

‘Helen may have told you that I have friends in the Castle.’

‘She told me you live in fear of running into them.’

I forgot that Arthur had had his own dealings with Sibthorpe’s department. He knew what they were like. I was about to say that I’d just run into O’Neill, but Arthur cut me off. ‘Besides,’ he said, ‘Helen has no obligation to stay when you treat her with such cruelty.’