The Young Wan (4 page)

All of this happened in seconds. Soldiers were now pouring from the back of the truck. Rifles were cocked, and they jostled each other to get the space to extend their Brownings into a firing position. Young Bosco Reddin rolled under the truck. The soldiers now fell over themselves trying to get to the other side. But Bosco rolled just halfway, then came out the side he had entered and ran. It took a couple of seconds before the soldiers realized that Bosco was no longer under the truck.

“There he is!” called one, pointing down the street.

Bosco was running hard down the street toward the red brick wall that made his street a dead end. The wall was just six feet high, and Bosco had been vaulting it since he turned twelve years of age, two years ago. The wall was thirty yards from Bosco when the first volley of shots ricocheted well to his left side and behind him. Bosco knew they would adjust their aim to the right, so instinctively he darted to his left. He was correct. The next volley spat pieces of stone up on his right, but now the shots were abreast and ahead of him. Just ten yards to go.
Bang,
the next salvo came, and one bullet passed so close to Bosco’s ear that he heard it actually
crack
as it broke the air. The soldiers were shooting at will, and the officer was screaming at them. Bullets were whizzing in all directions. Windows were being shattered, even roof tiles were being damaged by errant ricochets. Bosco’s focus now narrowed to a single point. The red brick wall. From behind broken windows and in half-opened doorways he could hear the cries of encouragement from his neighbors.

“Run, Bosco. Run, son.” A woman’s voice.

Amazingly, he passed one very old man who was standing outside his front door propped up by a well-used hawthorn walking stick. Bullets were pinging all about the old codger, but he was impervious to them. As Bosco came abreast of the man he waved his stick.

“Don’t let the bastards get you, lad. Run, Bosco, run.”

Bosco ran. He reached the red brick wall. In one swift, smooth move he sprang from the ground, threw his hands to the top of the wall, and pulled his body up. Just as he was clear of the top of the wall, Bosco saw some splinters of red brick shoot up, and he felt a sting in his thigh. He was hit. Bosco’s body smashed to the ground on the far side of the wall like a sack of potatoes and began to roll down the slight hill toward the road. More numb than in pain, Bosco got to his feet and began to carry on down the street, dragging his now useless leg behind him. Halfway down Cunningham Street, Bosco took a right. He was now into the maze of back-street lanes that were like a second home to him. Blood was streaming from his right leg and trailing along the street, but here in the alleys of the Jarro, Bosco knew he would be safe.

Back on Bosco’s street, the army truck pulled away, loaded with soldiers, and leaving Bosco’s father lying in the middle of the street. There was no point in arresting the old one-legged man now. He was dead.

The siren above the iron foundry was screaming, and a gush of steam was spouting from its whistle. Day’s end. Constance turned the big key that locked the door bearing the legend “Accounts Office.” She checked the handle and, satisfied it was secure, she began to make her way across the cobbled yard. Along her way to the exit, numerous members of her father’s staff tipped their caps and wished her “Good night, miss.” She returned the greeting, using the first name of each and every person, without smiling. It was not from any sense of aloofness that Constance did not smile; rather, it was a sense of self-consciousness. Her teeth. Constance was an attractive woman, to a point: dark-red hair and pale skin with green eyes. She could turn a man’s head all right, so long as she did not smile. If God’s blessing on Constance was that she be born to a comfortable home, then his curse was that he had given her the most ludicrous collection of teeth imaginable. They grew in every direction except straight and were quite large. When Constance Parker-Willis smiled it was like looking at a badly kept graveyard. So, happy or not, Constance smiled as little as possible. She left her father’s foundry by the small gate on the western side, into Frowns Street. She buttoned up her coat, tied her headscarf, and pulled on her gloves. There was an icy chill in the air, and her breath was steamy in the early evening. She stuffed her hands into her pockets and began to make her way toward the City Centre, where she would catch the number-six tram home to Kingstown. She saw the body immediately as she turned into Windmill Lane. At first, from a distance, she thought he was a wino, lying drunk against the lamppost. The closer she got, the more apparent it became that this was a young boy. A dead or very badly injured young boy, for the pool in which he sat was blood, and not urine, as she had first thought. He was half propped up, and his chin was on his chest. She stooped over the boy and looked about for assistance. The street was empty. Constance knelt beside the boy and lifted his head. The handsome face of the boy took her breath away for a moment.

“Boy, wake up, boy.” She spoke gently as she drew the raven-black hair from his face. She took off one glove and felt his neck for a pulse. It was there, but only just. She saw the rip in the right leg of the boy’s pants and could see that this was where the blood was coming from. Laying the boy down, she tore open the pants leg, exposing the wound. Constance then removed her headscarf and made a tourniquet, pulling it tight around the leg. She now went back to trying to revive the boy.

“Boy, wake up, boy.” She slapped his face. His eyelids began to move. “Come on, son, wake up.” Slowly the boy began to come to. Constance heard men’s voices at the end of the street. She drew a deep breath to call out.

“Help,”
she screamed.

There were four of them, all workers from the foundry. They stopped in their tracks.

“You there,” Constance cried out, “help me here.”

“Miss Parker-Willis? Is that you, ma’am?” one of the men called.

“Yes, Thomas.” She recognized him too. The men came toward her. She looked down at the boy. He was awake, his dark eyes were looking into her face. She was so relieved to see him show signs of life.

“It’s all right, boy, help is here.” She smiled at the boy. His lips began to move.

“What the fuck have you got in your mouth, missus?” the boy asked before passing out again. The men had now arrived. They immediately recognized the boy as “Hoppy” Reddin’s son. They also knew a gunshot wound when they saw one; this boy needed a safe house.

Constance began ordering them: “You take his head. You there, cover him with your coat. I’ll go for a doctor.”

One of the men—Thomas, the man she had first recognized—held her arm. “Hold it, miss. We’ll take him to a doctor, don’t you worry about that,” he said calmly.

“But he’s been attacked. We should get the police,” Constance insisted.

“You don’t want to do that now, miss. You leave it to us.” By now two of the men had lifted the boy and were walking away with him. Constance went to follow them. Again she was restrained by Thomas.

“Listen, miss, you done good. Probably saved the boy’s life. Leave the rest to us. You go on home.” Thomas smiled at her. He relaxed his grip and made after the other men, who were now rounding the corner at the top of the lane. Thomas turned.

“Miss. It would probably be best for everybody, including your good self, if you forget you ever seen this.” He winked. In seconds Thomas was gone. Constance stood for a few moments, more than a bit confused. She never told anyone about that night, but she could not forget it. Ever.

CHAPTER THREE

The “safe house” the men had taken Bosco to was actually a two-room flat owned by Pascal Sheehy. Pascal had been a quartermaster in the old Irish Republican Brotherhood before they merged with Sinn Féin. Pascal had not been happy about the merger with Sinn Féin, but, a good solider, he had followed his leader, Michael Collins. Pascal had been enchanted by Collins since the big Cork man first arrived up in Dublin in 1916, and if Collins said it was good for the Brotherhood to merge with Sinn Féin, then he would follow. By the time Bosco had arrived in Pascal’s flat, the young boy had lost a lot of blood and was very weak. His feverish temperature lasted for days, and Pascal spent many nights just dabbing the boy’s forehead and upper body with a cool, damp cloth. Pascal did not know the boy at all, although he did have a passing knowledge of the boy’s father, Sean “Hoppy” Reddin. He had never met Sean but had heard the many stories told about his wild exploits on behalf of the organization, as Collins’ movement was known. Sean Reddin, Pascal had heard, after the 1896 Rising had escaped to Spain, where he spent some time fighting with some Spanish rebels. He had been injured, ironically, shot in the leg, in one of the skirmishes in the Catalan mountains. The injury had turned gangrenous, and Sean’s leg had been removed. Over the following year, Sean had been nursed back to health by a young Spanish girl named Maria Augustino, whom he fell in love with. They went on to marry in 1904. The following year, Hoppy and Maria returned to Dublin. Two years later, shortly after the birth of their only child, Bosco, Maria died of consumption.

Pascal sat by the boy, staring into his face. The boy looked foreign all right. He had the look of a young Spanish bullfighter. The leg was healing and the boy would eventually return to full health. Pascal smiled and dabbed the boy’s forehead with the cool cloth. He was happy in the knowledge that he had helped nurse him back to health and yet dreading the thought of when the boy was well again. For it would be Pascal that would have to tell Bosco he was now an orphan.

Constance’s life at this time was particularly busy. The youngest of her three sisters, Joanne, was to be married. For Constance this meant that, as well as doing her job in her father’s foundry, she would have lots of arranging to do at home. Even so, busy as she was, over the next few weeks her thoughts were constantly invaded by images of the young boy. She wondered: Where was he? Who was he? And was he still alive? She had asked around the foundry, but nobody seemed to know anything. Her inquiries were met with either blank stares or grunts of “I don’t know what you’re talking about, ma’am.” Even from those men whom she had seen carry the boy away. So, eventually, she just stopped asking. With Joanne now becoming the third bride of the Parker-Willis household, Constance would be the only girl unmarried. Constance’s mother, in an attempt, she was sure, to be sympathetic, would pat Constance on the hand and say things like, “For every old sock, there is an old shoe, dear.” On the other hand, Constance’s father would matter-of-factly bellow out his version of consolation: “Your Aunt Petunia died a spinster, and a very happy one at that. Marriage is not all it is cracked up to be, Constance dear.”

Constance’s mother would look dolefully at him and silently agree with a gentle “That’s true.” Of the two opinions, Constance couldn’t decide which was worse. Her mother regarded her as an old sock, and her father, even though she was just twenty-five, was already talking in terms of her being a spinster. Constance tended to agree more with her father on the subject of marriage. Marriage maybe was not all it was cracked up to be. Certainly not the kind of marriages she saw her sisters and her mother live in. She had watched her sisters over the years, each one trying to be more beautiful than the others, constantly dressing up and appearing at social events looking like a gardener’s exhibit. The sole purpose of which seemed to be to capture a man just like their father and then become invisible just like their mother. And Constance truly believed her mother had become invisible. For Constance had seen all the reasons a man would marry a woman vanish from her mother. Constance’s mother had fulfilled her obligation of childbearing—and not too successfully, in her husband’s opinion, for she had failed to produce a son. The children had been reared by nannies. All meals were prepared by the cook. The cleaning was done by the household staff. For conversation Constance’s father went to the Men’s Club on St. Stephen’s Green, and his sexual appetite was satisfied by the many affairs he was having about the town. And so it was that Constance’s mother was not required to provide her husband with food, intellectual stimulation, or sex. She was invisible. Constance Parker-Willis was not certain whether she were an old sock or indeed a spinster, but she was certain that she would
never
become invisible.

In any case, Joanne’s wedding came and went. The wedding itself was identical to the two previous weddings of Constance’s other sisters, and while Constance went back to work, over the next couple of months Joanne began her transition to invisibility.

Bosco sat on a hard kitchen chair by the open window, looking out to the lane below. His leg was propped up on a wooden Guinness crate. The wound had healed well, and although Bosco could walk with a slight limp he found he tired easily. Spring had arrived, and the sweet April air drifted in the window. He leaned forward out of the window and looked down. Pascal was standing outside the door of the flat, as he had been for the last thirty minutes. Waiting. At the far end of the lane another young man stood in a tweed suit and cloth cap. Just as Bosco looked toward the man, he turned and whistled to Pascal. Pascal acknowledged his whistle with a wave and promptly took the cigarette from between his lips. He threw the butt on the ground and stood on it. He straightened his suit just as a bicycle ridden by a very large man turned into the lane. Within seconds the man on the bicycle was below the window. Bosco watched as he casually swung his leg over the saddle and freewheeled the last few yards, to where Pascal stood. The man was wearing a long brown gabardine coat and trilby hat. He exchanged a few words with Pascal, and then the big man looked up at the window, meeting Bosco’s gaze. Pascal held the man’s bicycle, and Bosco could hear the downstairs door slam, then the heavy trudge of feet coming up the stairs. The door of the flat opened, and the man seemed not just to enter but to invade the room. His huge form made the already small flat now seem tiny. The man made no announcements or introductions. He took off his coat, held it over his arm, took his hat off, and brushed back the fringe of hair that dropped across his forehead.