The Devil's Due: An Irish Historical Thriller (25 page)

In the darkness before dawn, I set out on the bicycle following the same roads I had the last few days. The shepherd I had seen days before was nowhere to be seen that morning, nor was the sun. It was raining, a slanting hail that forced me to duck my head, barely able to see the road before me.

I wiped the rain from my eyes and pedaled on in silence, sloshing through the mud and puddles, lost in my own thoughts. The rain matched my dark mood and allowed me to pass the carts, motorcars, and people I saw along the way with nothing more than a nod. The darkness of the night had given way to a cold, wet, gray morning. My trench coat cinched tight, hiding my priest’s collar, I was just another Irishman with neither the sense nor the choice but to be out in the rain.

I had set out with the intention of going to Limerick. After only a few miles, I looked up through the lashing rain and spotted the intersection and the road to Ballyneety, near where I had seen Andrew days before. On impulse, I turned. He hadn’t said exactly, but I thought I knew where he lived.

Fifteen minutes later, I was sitting in front of a fire, sipping a hot cup of tea, while Andrew’s mother fussed over the wet priest who had unexpectedly appeared at her door.

“And where is it you’re from again, Father?” Mrs. Toomey asked.

Caught by surprise, I sipped my tea as I thought of my answer. Over the last two months I had used half a dozen names including that of a long dead friend as well as that of a man whose passport I had stolen. But for the last few weeks I had been a priest and, for the life of me, I couldn’t remember what I had told Andrew.

“New York,” I finally said. “But my family lives in Clare.”

She nodded but said no more. She turned back to the fire, having insisted on making me breakfast. I sat in silence while the smells of ham and bread filled the room. Andrew, she had told me when I first arrived, would be back shortly, having been sent to a neighbor’s farm to deliver some eggs in exchange for butter and milk. Why he hadn’t waited for me in front of the Royal George, I didn’t ask, and I suspected she wouldn’t have known if I had. He had made it home safely, it seemed.

The ham sputtered and sizzled when Mrs. Toomey placed it in the pan, and the smell soon filled the room. That a priest was wanting to see her son had left her worried, wondering what transgression he might have committed. I had told her the truth, that I had met Andrew on the way to Limerick as I was searching for Tim. I told her I was worried about both of them, about God’s children being caught in the battle that was sure to come.

“Why did Diarmuid join?” I asked, before she thought of another question for me.

I saw her stiffen. She turned slowly, and I saw the same look in her eyes that I had seen in Andrew’s.

“There’s no telling with a boy like that,” she finally said. “Daft he is and with no schooling…” She paused and wiped her eyes. “Andrew is only twelve, but Diarmuid always thought him the older brother.”

I frowned. Now I understood why she had been sending Andrew to Limerick. What we Irish called daft, British doctors called
idiots and lunatics
. The British send boys like Diarmuid to the asylums, many expected to labor in exchange for food and shelter. Never one to rely on the state, the Church provided its own answer.
Idle hands make for the Devil’s work
, the Church believed and the
lunatics
, especially the children were kept busy with lessons and work.

But Mrs. Toomey hadn’t done that, preferring instead to keep Diarmuid at home. Caring for the sick, the elderly, and the
daft
had been the burden of Irish women for centuries. She had no intention, I suspected, of doing anything different.

Something nagged at me: Diarmuid was daft, and I struggled to understand why the IRA would want him. My thoughts were interrupted when Mrs. Toomey placed the plate in front of me.

“Thank you, ma’am,” I said. I hadn’t eaten yet, and the smell of the ham and warm bread had reminded me I was hungry. I reached for my fork but caught myself when I saw Mrs. Toomey frown. I stared at her for a moment before I realized what I had done, or rather what I had failed to do. Scolding myself silently, I folded my hands, bowed my head, and offered a prayer of thanks. When I was done, I looked up. I could see the question in Mrs. Toomey’s eyes: w
hat kind of priest is it that forgets his prayer?

“And Diarmuid, how is he?” I asked, hoping talk of her son would make her forget about me.

“I don’t know,” she said. Her sigh filled the room. “He’s never been away from home,” she continued. “But when Billy Ryan came….” Her words trailed off. 

Billy
, I thought with a frown. It didn’t make sense. If there was going to be another war, why had he been recruiting lads like Tim and Diarmuid, boys incapable of fighting? Suddenly I pictured the lad with the red hair spilling out from under his cap, his eyes full of fear, as he marched with the Free State soldiers across Sarsfield Bridge.
Was it a ruse?
I wondered. Were the Free Staters and the IRA filling their ranks with anyone they could, hoping to intimidate each other into surrender with their seemingly larger forces? Maybe. But with Billy, I wondered if it was something more.

No longer hungry. I pushed the plate away.

___

Andrew returned moments later. If he was surprised to see me, he didn’t let on. Soaking wet, he warmed himself by the fire while Mrs. Toomey fixed his tea. I gave him a few moments to dry off then smiled and nodded to the chair. He sat down, somewhat reluctantly, it seemed, his eyes downcast as the steam from his cup swirled around his face. The apprehension I had seen when we first met had returned, reminding me of my own experiences with Father Lonagan.

“How’s your brother?” I asked.

He glanced up at his mother before answering. She nodded.

“Scared, Father.”

“What do they have him doing?”             

“Marching,” he answered. Then he frowned, and a confused look came on his face.

I nodded again, waiting for more.

“They woke him up in the middle of the night and made him hide in the back of a lorry,” he continued. “They left him at the asylum…” His mother gasped at this but he shook his head. “Then they made him march back.”

I thought about this for a moment. “Were there others with him?”

He nodded then frowned again. “But they went to a different hotel this time,” he added.

“Which one?”

“The Glentworth.”

I sat back and took a sip of my own tea as I wrestled with what this meant. I had been right. Billy was marching the same men into the city twice, maybe three or four times, making it appear as if he had a bigger force. But what did this mean for Tim?

___

We set out for Limerick a short while later, Andrew perched on the handles while I pedaled. It had stopped raining—for the moment anyway—but the dark sky told me there was more to come. Still I had to carefully dodge the puddles that dotted the muddy roads and lanes. The ham and the bread I hadn’t been able to eat were now wrapped, tucked below Andrew’s coat. Worried that the other men might take advantage of him, Mrs. Ahern wanted to make sure Diarmuid was fed.

“His name is Tim,” I reminded Andrew as we passed the cemetery. “He’s…” My words trailed off when I spotted the commotion in front St. Joseph’s Asylum. Dozens of men stood around, most in small groups, talking and smoking. Most wore trench coats, and many had bandoliers stretched across their chests. These men weren’t sitting like the men I had seen two days earlier. They were getting ready to march.

I had heard that Tom Barry and the men from Cork had come to help defend the city against Brennan’s forces.
Are these Barry’s men?
I wondered.
They wouldn’t know me, I didn’t think, and we were far enough away that no one would recognize my face. Still I unbuttoned my coat, letting my priest’s collar show, and kept my head down as we pedaled by. I could feel their eyes on me the whole while.

As the asylum faded behind us, I continued. “He’s my size. Tall and thin, with curly black hair.”

Andrew nodded.

“And he has a scar on his chin.”

Andrew glanced back, and I drew my finger across the right side of my jaw, showing him where.

“I know, Father,” he said and I said no more.

___

As they had for the last several days, lorries, Crossley Tenders, and armored cars raced through the city while troops marched to and fro. I avoided them—turning down side streets—when I could. And when I couldn’t, as I had done at the asylum, I turned my head and prayed no one would recognized me. We passed O’Mara’s Bacon, and I turned on Catherine Street. One block from the Glentworth, I pulled to the curb and let Andrew off.

“I’ll meet you in the park,” I said. I had wanted to say something to lift his spirits—that everything would be grand—but knew he would see it for a lie.

He nodded, then, without looking back, he made his way up the street.

I waited in People’s Park, sitting on a bench. The path circled around the memorial—a Greek limestone column topped with the statue of a man named Rice. Who he was I didn’t know, but the memorial was almost one hundred years old. I watched a mother, across the way, bent over her pram, fussing with her baby. After a moment, she stood, smiled, and said something to the child, a mother’s soothing words I was sure, then turned the pram and began walking again. I watched until the path and the woman and her pram disappeared into the trees. Even in the middle of a city arming itself for war, life went on.

It all made me think of Sean Murphy. He and I had sat on this very same bench, on IRA business, some eighteen months before. While old men with their race cards, mothers with their prams, and couples holding hands strolled by, we sat in wait for a man from Dublin—the same one who would show me how to make the bomb that would end Sean’s life. As it had then, it had rained earlier, and as I stared at the still wet stone of the path, I couldn’t help but think how much had changed since that day.

___

Andrew found me an hour later. I watched him as he appeared from the trees then wound his way around the monument. As he had on the day I met him, he walked as if the weight of the world was pressing down on his shoulders. When he looked up, his eyes found mine. As he drew closer, I could see that he had only just wiped the tears away moments earlier.

I stood. “What’s happened,” I asked.

“They hurt him,” he blurted out.

“Who?” I asked, but I already knew.

“The IRA,” he said as he stared down at the ground. Then he looked up.
Why did they do that?
his eyes seemed to ask. He turned his back to me, and he wiped away another tear. When he turned around again, he told me that Diarmuid’s nose had been broken. After several questions, it was clear what had happened. For the first time in his life, Diarmuid was away from his home, away from his mother, away from his protective younger brother, and away from the comforting routine his life had become. Confused by the change and overwhelmed by the discipline expected of him, he had earned the wrath of one of the officers. I pictured the IRA men I knew, wondering which would strike a frightened child. There was only one man who would do that.

“He wanted to come with me,” Andrew said. He let out a sigh, and I knew before he told me what happened next. Seeing his brother again—his only connection to the only life he had ever known—Diarmuid had tried to leave. Billy had ordered him to stay and, when he refused, Billy had used his fists, a lesson both to Diarmuid and to anyone else who might defy one of his orders.

“He was a big man, was he, the one who did this?” I asked, picturing the thin upper lip, the square jaw, the crooked nose from Liam’s stone those years ago, the hooded, menacing eyes, and the broad shoulders.

“Aye,” Andrew said. “It was Billy Ryan.”

___

We left Limerick quickly, Andrew once again perched on the handles, me pedaling silently, lost in my thoughts. British versus Irish, landowner versus tenant, Catholic versus Protestant, Unionists versus Republicans, Free Staters versus Anti-Treaty—we Irish were forever choosing sides, preparing to fight. Trapped in our own history, it seemed, it was the only thing we knew how to do. As we passed by a column of troops marching on Limerick—the men we had seen earlier at the asylum—I didn’t bother to turn my head. I stared into each of their eyes and wondered how many of these young men would have to die before we finally laid down our guns.

Yet as these dark clouds chased me, I could still see my father’s face, could still see the earnestness in his eyes, could still hear his words:
When a thing is wrong, you have to make it right.
But how could I do that? I wondered. As if he had no answer himself, Andrew silently swayed and bounced on the bar in front of me. The only thing I had done, I realized, was make things worse.

I was lost in these thoughts as I pedaled down the rain-soaked lanes, over the hills and around the bends, past the farms and the sheep, past the whitewashed cottages and the women churning butter while the men struggled to hold the plows straight in the rocky soil. At the road to Ballyneety I stopped, intending to let Andrew walk the rest of the way. I didn’t want to speak to Mrs. Toomey, for there was little I could tell her. As if he knew this too, Andrew hopped down.