Read Online Ashes In the Wind by Christopher Bland - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Christopher Bland
Ads: Link
running to a mark, lifting a large ball up and back behind him, then whirling it forward with a leap in a powerful underarm throw, the ball clattering along the rough road. His opponent follows. Each throw is accompanied by a loud cheer from the spectators, who then run forward to the next marks.
‘That thing is solid iron, weighs twenty-eight ounces; you’d need to be a strong fella to lift it, never mind hurl it. Look, that one’s marking the best line for his man’s next throw.’
‘How far do they go?’ says Tomas.
‘Three miles or so. You win with the fewest throws. My uncle won the Cork Championship over the Knappagh course three years ago with twenty-two. You loft the ball over the corner when you get to a bend in the road.’
The bowling, which involves argument and betting as well as throwing, holds them up for an hour.
‘I’ve not seen the like in Kerry,’ says Tomas.
There are no roadblocks, although beyond Ballygarvan there is a trench, four feet deep and three across, cut into the road.
‘Bloody Tans,’ says Denis.
‘It’s most likely our people,’ says Tomas.
The earlier hold-up and the long detour add two hours to their journey, and they arrive in Cork just before the nine o’clock curfew. They spend the night in the Queen Victoria. Tomas has been forbidden by Frank to visit Station Road.
‘The house is watched day and night. You’ll wind up inside if you go there.’
The next day Tomas and Denis walk together along the Quays and cross the north channel of the River Lee to South Mall. The County Club is a late Georgian town house in grey stone with wrought-iron balconies on the first floor. A small brass plate by the door confirms that they are studying the right building. They look at the club for a few minutes; no one enters or leaves, and there is no sign of a police guard. When a man comes out on one of the balconies they walk away to Patrick Street.
On the following morning they go back to the club by the same route. Tomas goes in first, followed by Denis; the porter at the entrance looks up and looks away. As they go into the smoking room they pull out their revolvers. The man on the right of the fireplace sees them and begins to rise out of his chair, reaching inside his jacket pocket; his left sleeve is empty. Tomas walks towards him, fires twice and the man slumps back into the chair for a moment, chest covered in blood, then gets up as Tomas fires again. He falls forward, tries to speak, lies still as blood comes from his mouth, staining the carpet a deeper red. The three other men in the room are silent and still. The shots have been violently loud in the confined space. In the sudden silence that follows, a waiter drops his coffee-cup-laden tray with a clatter.
It is all over in three minutes. Fifty yards up the street a car is waiting, and ten minutes later they are back in the Queen Victoria.
‘That was easy enough,’ says Denis as they walk up the stairs.
‘You didn’t pull the trigger,’ says Tomas. He feels a sick excitement, realizing that this time killing a man had indeed been easy. The power the revolver had given him was real. That night he wonders whether he will see Kitty again and what he will say to her if they meet.
The following evening Tomas and Michael are sitting in a corner of the Queen Victoria’s saloon bar, each nursing half a pint of mild.
‘Stout’s too bitter for me,’ says Denis, and Tomas agrees. Frank O’Gowan comes in, carrying a copy of the Cork Constitution .
‘You’re headline news. “Appalling horror in Cork City – five masked men kill defenceless war hero in his chair by the club fire,”’ he says. ‘You did well. The air in Cork City is sweeter for the killing of Inspector Smyth.’
Frank takes them up to the bar and orders three whiskeys.
‘It’s a celebration,’ he says, talking more loudly than usual. ‘By rights it should be five whiskeys for the two of you.’ He sees the look on Tomas’s face.
‘That thing is solid iron, weighs twenty-eight ounces; you’d need to be a strong fella to lift it, never mind hurl it. Look, that one’s marking the best line for his man’s next throw.’
‘How far do they go?’ says Tomas.
‘Three miles or so. You win with the fewest throws. My uncle won the Cork Championship over the Knappagh course three years ago with twenty-two. You loft the ball over the corner when you get to a bend in the road.’
The bowling, which involves argument and betting as well as throwing, holds them up for an hour.
‘I’ve not seen the like in Kerry,’ says Tomas.
There are no roadblocks, although beyond Ballygarvan there is a trench, four feet deep and three across, cut into the road.
‘Bloody Tans,’ says Denis.
‘It’s most likely our people,’ says Tomas.
The earlier hold-up and the long detour add two hours to their journey, and they arrive in Cork just before the nine o’clock curfew. They spend the night in the Queen Victoria. Tomas has been forbidden by Frank to visit Station Road.
‘The house is watched day and night. You’ll wind up inside if you go there.’
The next day Tomas and Denis walk together along the Quays and cross the north channel of the River Lee to South Mall. The County Club is a late Georgian town house in grey stone with wrought-iron balconies on the first floor. A small brass plate by the door confirms that they are studying the right building. They look at the club for a few minutes; no one enters or leaves, and there is no sign of a police guard. When a man comes out on one of the balconies they walk away to Patrick Street.
On the following morning they go back to the club by the same route. Tomas goes in first, followed by Denis; the porter at the entrance looks up and looks away. As they go into the smoking room they pull out their revolvers. The man on the right of the fireplace sees them and begins to rise out of his chair, reaching inside his jacket pocket; his left sleeve is empty. Tomas walks towards him, fires twice and the man slumps back into the chair for a moment, chest covered in blood, then gets up as Tomas fires again. He falls forward, tries to speak, lies still as blood comes from his mouth, staining the carpet a deeper red. The three other men in the room are silent and still. The shots have been violently loud in the confined space. In the sudden silence that follows, a waiter drops his coffee-cup-laden tray with a clatter.
It is all over in three minutes. Fifty yards up the street a car is waiting, and ten minutes later they are back in the Queen Victoria.
‘That was easy enough,’ says Denis as they walk up the stairs.
‘You didn’t pull the trigger,’ says Tomas. He feels a sick excitement, realizing that this time killing a man had indeed been easy. The power the revolver had given him was real. That night he wonders whether he will see Kitty again and what he will say to her if they meet.
The following evening Tomas and Michael are sitting in a corner of the Queen Victoria’s saloon bar, each nursing half a pint of mild.
‘Stout’s too bitter for me,’ says Denis, and Tomas agrees. Frank O’Gowan comes in, carrying a copy of the Cork Constitution .
‘You’re headline news. “Appalling horror in Cork City – five masked men kill defenceless war hero in his chair by the club fire,”’ he says. ‘You did well. The air in Cork City is sweeter for the killing of Inspector Smyth.’
Frank takes them up to the bar and orders three whiskeys.
‘It’s a celebration,’ he says, talking more loudly than usual. ‘By rights it should be five whiskeys for the two of you.’ He sees the look on Tomas’s face.
Similar Books
