to was overwhelming. James was the first person she had ever felt ready to confide in.
He stared at her. After a long moment, her words hit home. “Oh. Good God. I see.”
She wiped her eyes again and forced a smile. “Aren’t you going to arrest me?”
“Am I—goodness. Arrest you—I—not quite. Though I’m a little shocked, I must admit. I am a policeman, after all.”
“And I’m a criminal.”
He sighed. “You’re a victim. I’ll say that much.”
“I’ll be a dead victim soon enough, once Mulligan is fit to come after me.”
“Certainly not.” James shook his head. “I wouldn’t let that happen. I’ll put a stop to old Larry’s gallop.”
“How?”
“Tara, there are dark elements at work on this island. They’ve reemerged out of the hills and bogs where they began, and Larry Mulligan is typical of the ilk. That’s why I’m here, and my colleagues.”
“The Larry Mulligans have always been here, Detective Bryant. I know my country.”
“And so do I. There are two Irelands. There is the loyal, industrious Ireland, and there is the shadowy, ill-bent Ireland. But we’re here to help. And we’ll defeat the Larry Mulligans, too. It’s a fact. Every last one of them will end up in gaol or facing down a firing squad.”
“I’m not looking to put men in front of firing squads, Detective. Certainly not my own countrymen. Only Mulligan, and anyone else who would make war on innocents.”
“The Irish rebels are all the same, Tara. They’ll destroy this country, drag it back down into the swamps of its own history. We’ve seen it all over the empire.” He paused to take a swallow of wine. “God, but I’m famished. Have you eaten?”
She realised she was starving. “No, not much. But I’ll cook when I’m home.”
“Well, if you’re interested, they do a delightful minestrone here, and their steak is probably the best in Dublin.”
The sound of it made the juices run in her mouth. She smiled. “Dear me, Detective, I think my rumbling tummy has just answered for itself.”
“Excellent.” He patted her hand in appreciation. “I’ll put the orders in, and then we can talk some more. And, Tara, I really do need to learn a little more about you and Mulligan. As I said, I want to help.”
Tara was relieved to find that her earlier disquiet was easing. “There is something, actually.”
“Yes?”
She hesitated. “Something I overheard when I was waiting for him outside the pub. They’re planning a raid. You should probably hear all about it.”
The packet ship steamed into Kingstown on a gentle tide. Ahead, Adam could see a seaside promenade and granite piers and a church steeple. The wind tousled his hair and he breathed in deeply. His first sight of Ireland in what seemed like a lifetime.
Union Jacks fluttered on strings of bunting arranged on the dock, for he wasn’t the only soldier returning home. Anxious parents and wives and excited children gathered quayside. Adam cared little.
Months of recovery in the hospital at Brighton had blighted his mind almost as badly as the war had done. The wards were forever stuffed to the brim with half-mad men, groaning in throes of physical and mental agony, the air rank with their sweat and soiled bedsheets, and no end to their cursing, fighting, and wailing. At night, just as he finally fell asleep, there would be a roar and he’d awake to see a figure charging down the ward, attacking an imaginary enemy as three or four nurses tried to pin him down. The youngster next to him would periodically jerk back and forth in his bed, arms working furiously, trying to pull loose a bayonet that he had jabbed in the chest of a German. His face white with panic, he used to plead with Adam, “Help me, please. I can’t get it out!” Adam would roll on his other side and shut his eyes, desperate for the release of oblivion.
They kept him for several months while his limbs mended and his sight returned to normal, and but for a few
He stared at her. After a long moment, her words hit home. “Oh. Good God. I see.”
She wiped her eyes again and forced a smile. “Aren’t you going to arrest me?”
“Am I—goodness. Arrest you—I—not quite. Though I’m a little shocked, I must admit. I am a policeman, after all.”
“And I’m a criminal.”
He sighed. “You’re a victim. I’ll say that much.”
“I’ll be a dead victim soon enough, once Mulligan is fit to come after me.”
“Certainly not.” James shook his head. “I wouldn’t let that happen. I’ll put a stop to old Larry’s gallop.”
“How?”
“Tara, there are dark elements at work on this island. They’ve reemerged out of the hills and bogs where they began, and Larry Mulligan is typical of the ilk. That’s why I’m here, and my colleagues.”
“The Larry Mulligans have always been here, Detective Bryant. I know my country.”
“And so do I. There are two Irelands. There is the loyal, industrious Ireland, and there is the shadowy, ill-bent Ireland. But we’re here to help. And we’ll defeat the Larry Mulligans, too. It’s a fact. Every last one of them will end up in gaol or facing down a firing squad.”
“I’m not looking to put men in front of firing squads, Detective. Certainly not my own countrymen. Only Mulligan, and anyone else who would make war on innocents.”
“The Irish rebels are all the same, Tara. They’ll destroy this country, drag it back down into the swamps of its own history. We’ve seen it all over the empire.” He paused to take a swallow of wine. “God, but I’m famished. Have you eaten?”
She realised she was starving. “No, not much. But I’ll cook when I’m home.”
“Well, if you’re interested, they do a delightful minestrone here, and their steak is probably the best in Dublin.”
The sound of it made the juices run in her mouth. She smiled. “Dear me, Detective, I think my rumbling tummy has just answered for itself.”
“Excellent.” He patted her hand in appreciation. “I’ll put the orders in, and then we can talk some more. And, Tara, I really do need to learn a little more about you and Mulligan. As I said, I want to help.”
Tara was relieved to find that her earlier disquiet was easing. “There is something, actually.”
“Yes?”
She hesitated. “Something I overheard when I was waiting for him outside the pub. They’re planning a raid. You should probably hear all about it.”
The packet ship steamed into Kingstown on a gentle tide. Ahead, Adam could see a seaside promenade and granite piers and a church steeple. The wind tousled his hair and he breathed in deeply. His first sight of Ireland in what seemed like a lifetime.
Union Jacks fluttered on strings of bunting arranged on the dock, for he wasn’t the only soldier returning home. Anxious parents and wives and excited children gathered quayside. Adam cared little.
Months of recovery in the hospital at Brighton had blighted his mind almost as badly as the war had done. The wards were forever stuffed to the brim with half-mad men, groaning in throes of physical and mental agony, the air rank with their sweat and soiled bedsheets, and no end to their cursing, fighting, and wailing. At night, just as he finally fell asleep, there would be a roar and he’d awake to see a figure charging down the ward, attacking an imaginary enemy as three or four nurses tried to pin him down. The youngster next to him would periodically jerk back and forth in his bed, arms working furiously, trying to pull loose a bayonet that he had jabbed in the chest of a German. His face white with panic, he used to plead with Adam, “Help me, please. I can’t get it out!” Adam would roll on his other side and shut his eyes, desperate for the release of oblivion.
They kept him for several months while his limbs mended and his sight returned to normal, and but for a few
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