When Shadows Fall (38 page)

Tipperary seized the early initiative, their big midfielder gathering the ball and placing a pass out wide to the right-hand forward. The youngster twisted away from the attentions of two Dublin defenders and delivered a quick hand pass to the centre forward, who deftly kicked it high and over the bar.

The crowd roared.

Dublin immediately launched a counteroffensive, hoofing the ball out to the Tipperary forty-five-metre line. A clash of bodies sent the ball spinning clear; it was scooped up by a corner forward who curled it with the inside of his boot and watched it sail safely between the posts. Another roar.

A point apiece.

It continued with breathtaking pace, neither side giving quarter, and Adam bellowed as a Dublin forward was upended by an overzealous defender. “Penalty,” he insisted. “Come on, ref, take that dirty fellow’s name.” He grinned at Tara. “Penalty for Dublin. This could put us three points ahead.”

The goalkeeper, muttering at the injustice of it, took up position on the goal line in readiness. The Dublin forward placed the ball on the penalty spot and moved a few steps back. The crowd’s voice was now a wild dissonance, both sets of spectators doing their level best to out-howl each other. Tara looked up at Adam and laughed. “I can’t hear a thing!”

Adam was about to reply, but then he stopped. The penalty hadn’t been taken yet. The heads on the pitch were looking in the opposite direction.

“What is it?” Tara asked.

“I don’t know.”

None of the players moved now. They stood with their hands on their hips, gazing towards the canal end gate.

“Something’s happening,” Adam said uneasily.

The clamour of anticipation in the crowd died away. They saw that the penalty wasn’t going to be taken, and they strained to see the source of the disruption.

A voice rang out near the gates, a panicked voice, but his words were indecipherable. In the next instant there was a violent crash and the sound of splintering wood. A stream of men ran onto the pitch to where the players watched in bafflement.

“Soldiers,” someone cried, and a gasp of fear rose from the crowd.

“Adam?” Tara glanced at him. “What’s happening?”

“I said I don’t know.”

The soldiers congregated in the middle, and for a few moments an eerie, uncertain silence descended on the park.

A silence abruptly shattered when they lifted their weapons.

Automatic fire rattled through the air and across the terraces. It pinged off iron and concrete and slammed into flesh, sending the crowd into a heaving, screaming frenzy. They surged forward to get off the terraces and bodies fell, blocking the way. From the turnstiles a second wave of men advanced.

In their Tam o’Shanter hats, the hated Auxiliaries were unmistakable. They turned their guns on the stampeding spectators, and then on the players. One was hit and collapsed on the grass, blood seeping through his jersey. Then another.

“Get down!” Adam thrust his hand on Tara’s neck and dragged her through the maelstrom, through the chaos. “Get down!”

“I can’t,” she cried.

He pulled her off the terraces towards the gates. Bodies clogged the path, slowing them. Now there was rifle fire coming from the canal bridge, too. People trying to climb over the walls were hit and spun clear. The main horde surged outside, maddened by terror, and an armoured car rolled out of St James Avenue. Its machine guns unleashed a cacophonous volley into the storm, and the crowd broke left and right, caught in a wicked trap.

“Stay with me,” Adam yelled at Tara. “Don’t leave my side.”

Tara’s eyes were huge with horror. She stumbled as Adam yanked her along. There was a young, dark-haired woman sprawled facedown over a drain. A few feet away lay the body of a boy, no more than ten. The fusillade kept up at a blistering rate, bullets skittering off walls and pavements.

“This way,” Adam shouted. They ran towards Ardilaun Road and around a terrace of houses. Faces at the windows gaped out in disbelief. More running feet, and a section of RIC appeared at the top of the road.

“Shit, more of them.” Adam bundled Tara into a garden. They crouched down behind a timber shed and waited until the body of men had charged past. Adam rose up for a look.

A straggling RIC officer almost collided with him. For a fleeting second both men glared at each other, then the officer whipped up his rifle and took aim.

Adam was close enough to rip it from the man’s hands. He swung the butt round and smashed it across his jaw, knocking him into the garden. Tara let out a scream.

“Move it, Tara,” Adam snapped, relieving the weapon of its ammunition and then tossing it aside. “Get out of here.”

They managed to make it through several streets as far as the North Strand Road, the clamour behind them beginning to recede. Finally they reached Fairview Park and staggered into the woodland¸ shaken and out of breath. Neither could speak. They stared at each other, struck dumb by shock. There was nothing from Croke Park now. The only sound was birdsong and the gentle whisper of pine trees.

“They have destroyed without trial. I have paid them back in their own coin.”
Michael Collins on the killing of the British spies.

“Shots were fired to warn wanted men, who caused a stampede and escaped in the confusion.”
A Dublin Castle press release on the massacre at Croke Park.

“It seems to be agreed that there is no such thing as reprisals, but they are having a good effect.”
Member of Parliament Lord Hugh Cecil’s satirical comment on the British policy of reprisals against the Irish population.

Adam didn’t bring Tara home that evening. He instead took her to the Long Hall on George Street, for a meal, a glass of wine. Anything . . .

Her hands were still shaking.

Adam’s hands were not shaking. He was relieved. Surely now, at least now, she would understand.

“A murderer’s business,” he broached the subject carefully. “They knew what they wanted to do. And by God, they did it.”

“What?” Tara had barely spoken in hours. She stared at the menu. “I think—I think I’m not so hungry.”

“I can understand that.” Adam gestured for the waiter to give them a few minutes. “Tara, today was horrible. I should have brought you home. But at last now you see.”

She rubbed her eyes tiredly. “How could they have done it?”

“It’s what they do,” he said.

“But those people were innocent. They keep on killing innocent people.”

“It’s what they do.”

She bit her lip, tears sliding down her cheek. “Innocent people. Who are these murderers?”

“I don’t know. But we’ll get the better of them, eventually.”

“Innocent.” She lifted her head to him. “Soldiers from England, here to help us. Policemen from Ireland, here to help us. And the IRA have killed them all.”

He stared at her. “What do you—”

“Dear God, Adam,” she wept, “please, please help me. Ireland is dying in a horrible way, and I can’t take it anymore.”

The waiter returned to light the candles on their table. Adam gave him a dismissive flick of his hand and looked at Tara.

“Policemen, soldiers—what are you talking about? The innocent people were those victims at Croke Park.”

“I know!” She slapped the table with sudden anguish, and the heads of the other diners turned in their direction. Adam shifted.

“Easy, Tara. You’re upset, that’s all.”

“You have no clue, do you?”

“I know, I know you’re upset. But you misunderstand what happened today. Those who died this morning, the IRA killed them because—”

Her eyes cleared of tears. They opened fully, sheer steel, unblinking. “The IRA are the killers. And I know. They brought the killing today. The IRA kill fathers, mothers, children. And they all deserve to die in return.”

Her voice had risen, and cutlery clattered around them. Women’s heads lowered and their gentlemen glowered at the waiters. Two of them moved politely towards Tara.

“It’s all right.” Adam rose to his feet. “Time we were going anyway. That wine is corked.”

He tried to take Tara’s arm but she shook it off. He tried again, stronger this time, and forced her to her feet. He gestured for the waiter to bring her coat and then wrapped it around her body. “We’ll go now, Tara. I think we should leave.”

Outside, she began to cry. “I’ve ruined our night, Adam. But you don’t understand—”

“Oh, I understand fine,” he muttered. “What in heaven’s name kind of nonsense are you talking about? You saw what happened today.”

“Oh, I saw. You have no idea of what I’ve seen. How would you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean? I’ve seen plenty of things.”

“You’ve got no idea,” she retorted. “No idea at all. Oh, I know you fought in the war, Adam. But you’ve had an easy life otherwise. I have not.”

He shook his head. “You’re like a different person. Explain to me what’s going on.”

“And why should I? Why? You’d never understand.”

“Fine. I’ll take you home, then.” He tried to dispel the anguish her words had stirred in him. This was happening too fast. He couldn’t think. “And I believe I’ll go home myself too, actually. There’s little else for us to say but goodnight.”

He escorted her to her house, but she didn’t ask him to light the fire or have a cup of tea. Instead she went upstairs without a word, leaving him to lock the door behind him as he left.

It was far from curfew but there were soldiers and policemen everywhere in the city centre, charged with a nervous, angry energy. Adam was careful to avoid them as he turned down Duke Street and entered Davy Byrne’s. It was quiet inside, for most punters had the good sense to stay at home. He ordered a Guinness and a glass of malt and sank them in quick succession. The bartender poured another stout.

“A bad day out, sir,” he said. “Probably not a night to be wandering the streets.”

“Yeah.” Adam pushed some coins across the bar. “Keep the wet stuff coming, my man.”

A few more customers entered after awhile. Adam paid them no attention, until a hand tapped his shoulder and a familiar face greeted him.

“Bowen. I hope you haven’t been burning the candle at both ends in here.”

Adam turned to him. “Rourke, by God, you’re a sore sight for eyes.” His voice was merry and starting to slur. “Never mind, buy a drink for you? Pull up a stool.”

“The big fellow won’t like to see you getting drunk.” Rourke looked very sober and reproving. “Not tonight of all nights.”

“I have my own problems to worry about,” Adam grunted.

“They spoke highly of you in West Cork, you know. An intelligent, disciplined young man, they said.”

“Rourke, I want to be left alone for a while. Think you can manage that?”

“And they’re hoping to see you down there again soon, with a different brigade this time. There’s an operation planned. A big one.”

Adam snorted and returned to his pint.

“They’re going to engage the enemy head-on, and they want you to be a part of it. Mick will tell you the details himself. It’ll be a bloody affair, and worse now, I’d imagine, after today.”

Adam was thinking about Tara’s expression in the restaurant, that look of haunted anger in her face. His own head was swimming with confusion, his emotions swirled about in a tide of alcohol.