Patricia Falvey (48 page)

“I was afraid he might kill you,” Fergus said softly.

He lit a cigarette and took a long draw on it. He puffed out a stream of smoke slowly and deliberately as he gazed up and down the street. I studied him. He looked sick, thinner than ever, with dark rings under his eyes.

“Theresa is taking great care of her,” he said.

“So I hear. That’s a great consolation!” My voice was bitter. “I have to go.”

Fergus put his hand on my arm. “Wait!”

There was something in his voice that alarmed me.

“I need to talk to you, Eileen.” He looked around quickly to make sure no one was listening. “I’ve information that’s eating me alive. I have to tell somebody.”

A sudden panic rose in me. Whatever Fergus had to tell me, I knew I did not want to hear. I laughed a bit too loud.

“If you’re about to tell me you’re after murdering your mother, Fergus, I’m not sure I can keep your secret—even though Mrs. Conlon was always a bloody oul’ bitch. You’d be better off going to a priest.”

“Jesus, Eileen. For God’s sake, this is serious.” Fergus sounded desperate.

“Are you going to stay out there all night, Miss O’Neill, when all decent people should be home in their beds?” P.J.’s voice bellowed through the air.

Fergus jumped like a rabbit. I looked back toward the Ceili House door.

“Aye, P.J.,” I said, “I’m coming now.”

Taking my cue, Fergus stamped out his cigarette and called out to P.J., “I have to be getting home myself. My oul’ biddy mother will raise ructions if she has the tea ready and I keep her waiting. Good night now!” He picked up his mandolin case. “I’ll come to the house,” he whispered, and then he was gone.

That night, I lay awake as the beat of the drums from Scarva echoed in my ears. They beat a tattoo of trouble to come. Whatever it was Fergus had to tell me, I did not want to know. It would mean trouble. And I had trouble enough.

L
ater that week, I heard that Owen had returned from England. I couldn’t wait to see him. I knew he would be over to the house as soon as he could get away, so when I heard his familiar knock on the front door I flew into the parlor, opened the door, and threw my arms around him. Then I froze. It was almost midnight. He wore his uniform, and his face was blackened with dirt. His hands were bloody, and he had a wild look in his eyes. I almost thought he was James by the cut of him.

“What in the name of God happened?” I said as I pulled him into the house. “Look at the state of you.”

“A bit of a skirmish,” he said. “Nothing serious.”

I didn’t believe him. I boiled water and tore up some clean rags. I knelt in front of him and bathed his hands. He watched me. I thought I saw tears in his eyes, but I couldn’t be sure if they were just aggravated from the dirt. He seemed jumpy, too, looking over his shoulder.

“Did you lock the door?”

“Yes.”

“Put out the lights, Eileen.” It was a command. I dimmed the gas lamps and went back to bandaging his hands by the light of the fire.

“Something happened, didn’t it,” I said.

He put his bandaged hands around the mug of tea I had set in front of him. “Yes.”

I waited. He would take his own time telling me.

“Our unit ambushed some of James’s men tonight. We had information they were planning an attack on a train at the Newry Viaduct. We were waiting for them when they arrived. We killed several of them. Others got away. Two of my men were shot and killed.”

I sucked in my breath. “Was James there?” I had to know.

“Yes. James was there.” Owen’s voice was flat.

Something strange had come over him. Where was the man who had danced me around the kitchen, smiling and happy? A shiver of fear ran through me.

“Did you kill him?”

I sank to the floor and looked up at Owen. His face was buried in the shadows of the firelight, and I could not read it.

“Is he dead?” I whispered again.

Owen let out a long sigh. “He should be,” he said at last. “I had him in my sights, but I let him go.” He looked straight at me. “You see, it occurred to me in that moment that maybe you still loved the man, in spite of everything he has done to you. And if I killed him… well, you might never forgive me. Would you have?”

I stood up. “What kind of a question is that?” I shouted.

“A fair one, I would say.”

“Well, it’s not fair. I love you. I will always love you. You know that.”

“Do you still care for James?” Owen’s eyes blazed in the firelight. “Answer me, Eileen, would you have forgiven me if I had killed him?”

“I don’t love him,” I cried. “I hate him for all the things he has done to me. But you’re right, Owen, I could not have forgiven you.”

We sat in silence for a while, staring into the dying fire, both of us lost in our own thoughts. Owen had let James live on my account. How much he must love me to do that. I wanted to hold him in my arms and tell him how much I loved him, too, but the look on his face held me back.

“I’m sorry, Owen. You’ve tarnished your reputation on my account. You’ll have no loyalty now from your men. You’ll have lost their trust—or worse! Och, Owen, they might kill you—shoot you in the back and say you were a coward or an informer!”

“Yes, they well might. They would only be following the rules of this ugly war.” He smiled, an odd little smirk with no mirth behind it. “It was worth it, though, wasn’t it, Eileen? It was worth putting a price on my head to save your beloved James for you?”

“That’s not fair!” Tears pricked at my eyes. “I didn’t ask you to spare his life. You made that decision yourself.”

Owen’s temper flared. “What would you have had me do? You just admitted that you could not have forgiven me.”

“No, I would not have. But what do you want from me now, Owen? Do you want me to get down on my knees and thank you for saving the life of the father of my child?” I sank to my knees in front of him. “Is this what you want?”

Owen stared at me. A muscle in his jaw twitched, and his eyes turned dark. Something cold wrapped around me, as if all heat had left the room.

“There is no need for that,” he said. “Anyway, I have decided to retire from the army immediately. I don’t belong there. It was a mistake for me to reenlist.”

He pushed back his chair and stood up.

I reached over to hug him. “I’m sorry, Owen,” I cried.

He pushed me away. “I must be going now,” he said. “Both sides will be looking for me. My men will be eager to avenge the deaths of their two comrades, and I am as likely a target as one of the Republicans. And of course, James has lived to fight—and kill—another day. I shall have to watch my back at all times.”

He looked down at my belly. “Take care of yourself, Eileen.”

“I’m so sorry, Owen… ,” I began, but he was already out the door.

I realized that Owen had come to the house hoping against hope that I would say I didn’t care if he had killed James as long as he himself was safe. Jesus, I wanted to make myself say those words. But I could not. Much as I hated James for everything he had done, God help me, I was still not ready to see him dead—and certainly not by Owen’s hand. How could I live with Owen knowing he had been the one who killed Aoife’s father? Owen had given me his gift of James’s life, but it had cost me his love. It was a price I did not think I could bear.

THERE WAS TALK
at the mill about the gunfight at the Newry Viaduct. The story was in all the newspapers. The names of the dead were noted in the articles. James’s name was mentioned along with the fact that he had escaped. Theresa’s face shone. Again, she was the center of attention. The people around Queensbrook and elsewhere took a morbid interest in these reports. Old men recounted the events as if they had been there themselves. Most of the Catholics loved the notion that the fight for freedom was still going on, though few of them were willing to lift a finger to help the Cause. The Protestants praised the army and the Ulster Volunteers and the B-Specials for their bravery. They had no doubt that the IRA would give up eventually. After all, Collins had turned his back on them. No part of Ulster would ever be united with the Republic, they said; the fellows that kept fighting were eejits at best and murderers at worst. I said nothing. I had paid a higher price than most for the Cause, and I for one knew it had not been worth it. I had lost James over it, and now I had lost Owen as well. I wanted no part of the fecking Cause.

Owen watched me from outside Shields’s office. I felt his eyes on me, but he made no attempt to come over and talk to me. I ignored him and went on with my work. My heart hurt at the thought of his sadness—and my own. There were no words I could say to him that would make things better. He would have to deal with it by himself. And if he could not… I didn’t want to think about that. I was tired. I just wanted to lay my head down somewhere and rest. I didn’t want to think about anything. I wiped my forehead with my hand, leaned over my machine, and closed my eyes.

“All right there, Eileen?” Shields’s voice startled me.

I straightened up. “Aye,” I said.

“You’re pushing yourself too hard, girl. It’s home with your feet up you should be.”

I looked at him. I opened my mouth to make a sharp remark, but Shields put up his hand. “I know. You’ll work until you drop or the child drops, whichever comes first.”

He walked away. I saw Owen disappear into Shields’s office. If he had heard the exchange, he said nothing. I shrugged and went on with my work.

ON THE FOLLOWING
Monday night, Fergus appeared at my door. My heart sank when I saw him standing there. I was hoping that whatever it was he had wanted to tell me, he had thought better of it and decided to keep silent. I tried to get rid of him.

“I’m dead on my feet, Fergus,” I lied, “I’m not up to visitors.”

But he was not to be put off. He pushed in the door and took off his cap.

“This won’t take long,” he said.

I sighed. “I’ll make tea, then,” I said.

He followed me into the kitchen and sat in the armchair beside the fire. He didn’t even wait for me to make the tea.

“I… I have information that James and the boys are planning to set fire to the mill.” He spat out the words as if ridding himself of a poison.

I slammed the kettle back down on the hob and swung around.

“What?” I cried. “When?”

“This coming Friday night.”

“Who told you?”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Fergus. The old cautions about naming names never leave you.

“How do you know it’s true?”

“It’s true.” His tone was matter-of-fact.

I stepped back and looked at him. He lit a cigarette and puffed away nervously.

“What do you want me to do about it?”

He looked at me in surprise. “Jesus, Eileen, you have to warn them. The Sheridans, Shields, the lot. They have to be warned.”

“Why don’t you go to the police yourself?” I snapped. “I have a feeling maybe you have friends among them.”

Fergus gave me a sharp look. “That’s not your business,” he said. “But let’s put it this way: If the police found out, they would let the mill burn first and enjoy the sight. There’s no love lost between them and the Sheridans because there’s still Catholics working at the mill. They’d stand back in the shadows, cowards that they are, and wait for the ashes to fall. Then they’d arrest James and his men
after
the deed was done.”