bombs.’
‘Two, I think,’ McClure interrupted. ‘Unless there was an echo. Not far from here.’
Duggan knew he lived in Rathmines but his knowledge of the area was vague: the only times he’d been there had been to go to his uncle Timmy’s house. The lieutenant, waiting for someone on the phone, signalled to him and pointed to a spot on a map of the city on his desk.
‘Griffith Barracks,’ Duggan said into the phone.
‘What? The barracks was hit?’
The lieutenant shook his head and moved his finger a little to the right.
‘No,’ Duggan said. ‘Near there. South Circular Road.’ He twisted his head to read the street name under the lieutenant’s finger. ‘Donore something or other. I’ll get up there.’
‘Do that,’ McClure said.
The lieutenant raised a finger to hold Duggan while he finished his conversation. ‘Wait a moment,’ Duggan said to McClure.
‘There’s more reports of explosions north of Drogheda and near Dundalk,’ the lieutenant said, putting down his phone. It rang again immediately. ‘And somewhere near Enniscorthy,’ he added, picking up the phone.
Duggan repeated what he had said.
‘Jesus Christ,’ McClure said. ‘I’m on my way in.’
Four
Duggan drove fast, his window open and collar up, listening for further sounds of planes and explosions. But the night was quiet, broken only by the distant bell of a fire engine or an ambulance. He followed the directions the sentry had given him, across Kingsbridge, right onto James’s Street and left after the hospital. An ambulance bell began ringing as he got closer and then there were people hurrying along the footpath beyond Rialto. He parked the car near a cigarette factory and joined them, hurrying up the middle of the road, littered with stones and glass and bits of slate.
The street lighting, such as it had been, was out, but there were lights on the road ahead, vehicle lights and flashlights darting back and forth. The windows were gone in all the houses, curtains hanging out, and roofs blotched with random holes. Some of their occupants stood by their doors, looking shocked, overcoats and dressing gowns over their nightclothes, their breaths ballooning in the cold air, staring in silence at the centre of activity farther on. The air was sharp and bitter and smelled of gas and cordite and left a taste of dust on the tongue.
At the junction with Donore Avenue two gardaí with outspread arms were trying to keep people back. ‘Please,’ one of them said. ‘Keep out of the way. There’s still people in the collapsed houses.’
‘Captain Duggan, army headquarters,’ he said to him and passed by.
The litter on the road turned into a carpet of debris as he neared the centre of the explosion. A couple of the terraced houses had collapsed into a heap of rubble and rescue workers were still pulling chunks of masonry and bits of carpentry off the piles. The front walls of other houses had fallen out, exposing tilting upper floors, beds covered in plaster, dining tables, chairs smashed against walls, pictures askew. A little red oil lamp was still burning in front of a statue of the Virgin Mary on the return of a house missing the second flight of stairs.
Two fire engines were angled to cast their headlights on the rescue workers and an ambulance, lights on, waited behind them. A group of soldiers were trying to clear a path through the debris, shovelling bricks and stones and glass to one side. The only other noises were the hum of engines, the mumble of voices, and the crash of falling masonry as bits fell off some of the damaged houses and the rescue workers sifted through the demolished ones.
‘Do you have somewhere to go?’ an ARP warden asked a young woman with two small children hanging onto her nightdress. Her hair was covered in dust and the children’s faces were streaked with dirt. ‘Mrs McCarthy will take us in,’ she said, on the verge of tears. ‘Down the road.’
The warden called over one of
‘Two, I think,’ McClure interrupted. ‘Unless there was an echo. Not far from here.’
Duggan knew he lived in Rathmines but his knowledge of the area was vague: the only times he’d been there had been to go to his uncle Timmy’s house. The lieutenant, waiting for someone on the phone, signalled to him and pointed to a spot on a map of the city on his desk.
‘Griffith Barracks,’ Duggan said into the phone.
‘What? The barracks was hit?’
The lieutenant shook his head and moved his finger a little to the right.
‘No,’ Duggan said. ‘Near there. South Circular Road.’ He twisted his head to read the street name under the lieutenant’s finger. ‘Donore something or other. I’ll get up there.’
‘Do that,’ McClure said.
The lieutenant raised a finger to hold Duggan while he finished his conversation. ‘Wait a moment,’ Duggan said to McClure.
‘There’s more reports of explosions north of Drogheda and near Dundalk,’ the lieutenant said, putting down his phone. It rang again immediately. ‘And somewhere near Enniscorthy,’ he added, picking up the phone.
Duggan repeated what he had said.
‘Jesus Christ,’ McClure said. ‘I’m on my way in.’
Four
Duggan drove fast, his window open and collar up, listening for further sounds of planes and explosions. But the night was quiet, broken only by the distant bell of a fire engine or an ambulance. He followed the directions the sentry had given him, across Kingsbridge, right onto James’s Street and left after the hospital. An ambulance bell began ringing as he got closer and then there were people hurrying along the footpath beyond Rialto. He parked the car near a cigarette factory and joined them, hurrying up the middle of the road, littered with stones and glass and bits of slate.
The street lighting, such as it had been, was out, but there were lights on the road ahead, vehicle lights and flashlights darting back and forth. The windows were gone in all the houses, curtains hanging out, and roofs blotched with random holes. Some of their occupants stood by their doors, looking shocked, overcoats and dressing gowns over their nightclothes, their breaths ballooning in the cold air, staring in silence at the centre of activity farther on. The air was sharp and bitter and smelled of gas and cordite and left a taste of dust on the tongue.
At the junction with Donore Avenue two gardaí with outspread arms were trying to keep people back. ‘Please,’ one of them said. ‘Keep out of the way. There’s still people in the collapsed houses.’
‘Captain Duggan, army headquarters,’ he said to him and passed by.
The litter on the road turned into a carpet of debris as he neared the centre of the explosion. A couple of the terraced houses had collapsed into a heap of rubble and rescue workers were still pulling chunks of masonry and bits of carpentry off the piles. The front walls of other houses had fallen out, exposing tilting upper floors, beds covered in plaster, dining tables, chairs smashed against walls, pictures askew. A little red oil lamp was still burning in front of a statue of the Virgin Mary on the return of a house missing the second flight of stairs.
Two fire engines were angled to cast their headlights on the rescue workers and an ambulance, lights on, waited behind them. A group of soldiers were trying to clear a path through the debris, shovelling bricks and stones and glass to one side. The only other noises were the hum of engines, the mumble of voices, and the crash of falling masonry as bits fell off some of the damaged houses and the rescue workers sifted through the demolished ones.
‘Do you have somewhere to go?’ an ARP warden asked a young woman with two small children hanging onto her nightdress. Her hair was covered in dust and the children’s faces were streaked with dirt. ‘Mrs McCarthy will take us in,’ she said, on the verge of tears. ‘Down the road.’
The warden called over one of
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