The Devil's Due: An Irish Historical Thriller (20 page)

“You don’t know?” Padraig stared at me for a second then shook his head. “Of course you don’t. How could you? Rory,” he continued as his eyes narrowed, “Rory is Billy’s nephew, his sister’s child.”

I felt a hollowness spreading in my stomach as it all became clear. Someone—Rory—had informed the British, and Billy needed to make an example. Spies and informants were dealt with swiftly and brutally. But he couldn’t sacrifice his own nephew so he chose me instead. Me, the only one left alive, and with no other witnesses, I was guilty.

By the time I left Padraig, my anger was slow, simmering. The injustice of what Billy had done—sacrificing me to cover for the sins of his nephew—left me wanting more than what I had returned to Ireland for. I wanted vengeance. A bounty on my head, placed there by the British, was expected, something that likely would have happened anyway, if not for Argyll Manor then for crimes I had already committed or those I soon would. But to have my own men turn against me and all for a lie? I crossed over the now-empty fields, leaning into a heavy wind as dark clouds roiled overhead.

It was a harsh land we lived in, and I often thought that’s what made Billy who he was. Cold and calculating, he was loyal when it suited his purpose. He could brutally inflict pain and punishment on his friends one day and then defend them until he was bleeding the next.

I never understood why Billy had taken up his rifle against the Ottomans, nearly spilling his own blood in a far off land against an enemy he didn’t know as he fought side by side with another. But then what else could a man like Billy have done? With war raging across Europe and beyond, he must have jumped at the chance. And when he returned, how different the country must have looked through eyes that had seen what his had in Basra and Bagdad. And how much it must have looked the same. Maybe for the first time he saw Ireland for what it was. But I suspected that he had always known. 

Billy joined the IRA not because the cause burned in his heart, but because he still had enough fight left in him when he came home. He joined because there was nothing left for him to do. And now that men were choosing sides, some joining the Free State and others staying true to our oath, it had always been clear, I suppose, which side Billy would choose. An end to the war was something he couldn’t fathom. And if the Republicans ever decided to lay down their arms, he would find a new war, in Ireland or elsewhere, it didn’t matter. As for the men he had fought side by side with, I wondered how he saw us. Were we nothing more than cannon fodder for a war that only he understood?

Maybe this was how I saw Billy now, but the signs had always been there.

___

I was nine at the time. We were playing in the churchyard, Sunday mass long over and no chores to do until the evening. Liam placed a small stone—his duck—on a large flat rock near the wall that surrounded the cemetery. Sean, Tom, Dan, Billy, and I stood ten paces away, our own stones held ready. One by one we took aim, trying to knock Liam’s off. Billy had the same aim then as he would later with a rifle. As Liam’s stone skittered away, we scrambled after it, our own version of Duckstone.

Billy ploughed ahead of us, the first one to hit Liam, with shoulder and head down like he would do on a football pitch years later. In the tumble of arms and legs, somehow, small as I was, I got my hands on the duck. Never one to lose, Billy tried to wrest it away. We tumbled and rolled on the ground, oblivious to the pain from the elbows to the ribs and the sharp rocks that found our shins.

It wasn’t surprising that I found myself on my back, Billy on top jeering at me. Not surprising but it had filled me with shame nonetheless. Billy sat on my chest, pinning my arms below me, the duck held triumphantly over his head. He was twice my size then, and there was little I could do to push him off. That didn’t stop me from trying.

“Get off!” I screamed.

That only seemed to amuse him. He began taunting me, bouncing up and down on my chest. His grin spread, his eyes dancing with malice as I struggled to breathe, thrashing all the while below his weight.

“Get off me, you shite!” I screamed again, or tried to, but with not enough air for any of the words, it came out as a grunt.

I heard the laughing and jeering from the lads, all except Liam who I saw out of the corner of my eye. Blood was streaming from his mouth.

“Get off!” I screamed again, or maybe it was Liam.

It’s a terrible feeling, not being able to breathe, and I began to panic, feeling trapped and helpless. That only seemed to excite Billy more, and he began to bounce harder. No sooner could I suck in a mouthful of air when it shot out with an
ooomf
as Billy came crushing down again. My vision began to blur and, as the tears slid down my cheeks, the laughing seemed to grow louder, a crescendo flooding my ears.

“Get off!” I heard again, or maybe I imagined it. Darkness began to creep across the edges of my vision, and suddenly I welcomed it. Oh, how I wanted an end to the helpless feeling, to the panic.

Suddenly the darkness receded and Liam was kneeling beside me, brushing my tears away. Gasping and sputtering, I sucked in a lungful of air, fueling the wails and screams and anguish that had been trapped inside. My small body shook with sobs. Through the tears, I saw Billy, hands over his own face, the blood streaming through his fingers as Dan led him away.

Liam would pay dearly for that later.

___

It wouldn’t do to confront Billy, not now, not while I was filled with anger, and not until I could figure out how to gain an advantage. Still, I felt as if I was being drawn to him, the confrontation inevitable as he sought to exact a punishment he had no right to and I sought to right the wrongs of the past. And now with Tim missing—likely run off with Billy, his head filled with the romance of war—our clash would come sooner rather than later.

Padraig didn’t know where Tim was, but the little he told me was enough. Billy, he had heard, had been drilling the men twice a week, six miles east of Limerick in a godforsaken, rock-strewn, heather-covered stretch of land near Mullin’s Cross, good for neither planting nor grazing. I remembered it from my own training. I would have to wait until Wednesday, though, to do some reconnaissance.

Meanwhile soldiers continued to march on Limerick, and the country continued to edge closer to war.

___

I stopped by Mary’s later in the evening, but she hadn’t been able to get what I needed. A wheel on the trap had broken and, by the time Mary had arranged for a neighbor to fix it, dusk was at hand. She only just made it back to the cottage before me.

Still she brought me news. Limerick City, she told me, was filling with soldiers.

“Brennan’s forces have the Castle Barracks,” she said. “And the Strand as well.” They had also commandeered the RIC police posts on Williams Street and Mary Street, she added.

“And the Republicans?” I asked.

“Just the local men,” she responded.

Where were the troops I had seen yesterday?
I wondered. They must have billeted somewhere outside of the city. Why were they waiting? Had they sent in scouts? Or had they sent in one or two men to negotiate, keeping the rest out of the city to avoid fighting? As it was, since I had returned to Ireland, I had more questions than I had answers.

Mary promised to try again tomorrow. She offered to put me up for the night, but still nervous about Billy, I declined. Still she provided some bread and potatoes and, after I stole some more peat, I spent another night in the castle. The conversation with Padraig swirled in my head; it was a long while before I fell asleep. I woke well before sunrise and, while it was still dark, I set out to find Mrs. Murphy.

___

Sean’s mother was a widow, his father’s death coming the same month I joined the IRA. Sean was a soldier by then, a source of pride for his father and one of worry for his mother. When his father died unexpectedly—his heart, everyone said—Mrs. Murphy was suddenly left to deal with her loss and the silence of an empty house. Sean was the youngest, the only boy out of six children, and by then, he was spending more time on IRA business than he was at home.

Mrs. Murphy’s worries were not unfounded. A year and a half after her husband died, Sean joined him, dying in the flames of Argyll Manor. Bad luck never comes alone. The Tans, not satisfied with Sean’s death, took their revenge on Mrs. Murphy as they had on Billy’s mother. As neighbors held her back, Mrs. Murphy cursed and screeched as the Tans set fire to her house, the flames leaping into the dark night.

When Sean died, Mrs. Murphy was left without a husband, without a son, and without a home. Sean’s sister, Siobhan, two years older and married and living not ten miles away in Croom, took her in.

Mrs. Murphy lived above the pub, Mick had told me. While her son-in-law, Martin, stood behind the bar—in the same spot as his own father had and his grandfather before him—Mrs. Murphy helped Siobhan prepare the stew and the bread, something for the men to wash down with their pints. The Tans didn’t know it, Mick said, but they had done Mrs. Murphy a favor, forcing her out of an empty house into one full of children and with a pub downstairs that needed minding.

I avoided the lanes and roads, tramping instead across fields, under a black sky. Two and a half hours later, as I crested a hill and clambered over a wall, I knew Mick’s cottage was only half a mile away. I thought about stopping in but, given the hour, I continued on. A half hour later, I heard the soft rush of the River Maigue and soon saw the outline of buildings in the mist ahead. Although the last two days had been dry, the clouds on the horizon told me the rain was coming. I approached cautiously, stopping by a chestnut tree on the edge of a field to survey the village. Other than the river, there wasn’t a sound. The houses were dark, silent. I checked the windows one by one, thankful to find them still shuttered. Seeing no one, I took my chance and sprinted across the last field, some hundred yards to the stone wall that edged the road. Crouching behind, I peered over and found Martin’s pub several buildings down across the way. The houses were quiet, sleepy, the soft baying of animals from the fields beyond and the smell of burning peat carried by the wind. From my position behind the wall, I had a view of the road, disappearing in both directions. I couldn’t see the river but could smell it now, its dampness filling my nose. It was early still, and I settled down in the tall grass behind the wall to wait, keeping an eye on the dark clouds overhead the whole while.

Over the next thirty minutes, I caught the soft glow of light peeking out from the shutters as, one by one, lanterns were lit in the homes that lined the road. Above the pub, the curtains fluttered occasionally as shadows passed by, young children to mind and morning chores to do. I waited. The wind swept across the field, stirring the grass at my side, and I glanced up again at the clouds building above my head. I heard the clank of a stove, the bang of a door, followed soon by another. A few people came and went, leaning into the wind and the day’s work ahead of them. Soon, a soft rain began to fall, and I turned up my collar and pulled my cap low, all the while watching as the occasional horse and cart or bicycle passed by.

As the morning wore on, the rain slowed—for a while anyway—and soon there were two old men standing by the pub, backs bent and held up by their canes. I glanced at my father’s watch; it was ten o’clock. It wouldn’t be much longer.

I assumed it was Martin who opened the door and welcomed the two men inside for their first pint. I had never met him; during Mr. Murphy’s funeral he had been home in bed with the fever. I stood and brushed as much of the dirt off my trousers as I could. Now that the pub was open, I wondered whether Mrs. Murphy was already inside.

___

“A fine day it is,” I said when I entered. The pub was dark, lit by several oil lanterns, the soft light flickering across the dark tables and even darker walls as I closed the door. I felt the heat from the stove in the corner, a comfort after my hours behind the wall.

Martin looked up, not surprised to see a stranger, or if he was he didn’t let on. He nodded then glanced down at the cups he was washing. The two old men, their faces gaunt, their cheeks sunken, gave me toothless smiles as they sipped from their pints, the smoke from their cigarettes drifting up to the ceiling. The place smelled like a pub should, of old men and smoke, of bacon and stale beer.

Martin dropped his rag and stood up straight as I stepped up to the bar. My age or close to it, he was half a foot taller than me, but he had the shoulders and arms of a man who spent time in the field as a boy and still did by the looks of it. He gave me a smile, a cautious one reserved for a stranger.

“Aye, a soft one at that,” he said as he studied me for a second. Something flashed across his eyes and then it was gone.

I felt a tingle in my spine but still I smiled. Martin glanced over at his two customers.

“You’re set for the moment, lads?” he asked, although it was clear he didn’t expect an answer.

They both nodded anyway, giving Martin the same toothless smile they had given me and then turned back to their pints, hunched over with their cigarettes and their silence. Martin stared at me for a moment then motioned for me to follow. Hiding my surprise, I glanced at the two old men then at the door before my eyes settled on Martin again.
What was this?
I wondered. I glanced back at the door once more, half expecting Billy to burst in, wondering if I had made a mistake. There was a moment of silence, Martin and I standing there, the only sound the two old men wheezing as they sucked on their cigarettes.

Martin nodded again, toward the door behind the bar. I studied his eyes, seeing only a question, nothing more. I pushed myself away from the bar, brushing my hand along my coat, feeling the reassuring weight of the Luger in my pocket.

He led me into the back room, one with several empty casks lining one wall, an empty table pushed up against another, and a bin full of turf for the stove. A broom, a dustbin, and two spades stood in the corner. He left the door open as he stepped inside. Wary, I stopped at the threshold. He left me there, a foolish thing to do if he meant me harm.