that hasn’t happened.’
‘You should count your blessings,’ said the American. It was an abrupt change of tone. Where his words had shown sympathy, consideration, shared understanding, there was a surprising edge now, something almost bitter. He looked away, staring at the window. It was dark outside now; all he was staring at was the black hole that was the night sky. ‘You should be careful. It was the biggest mistake of my life. If you want sex, you can buy it. You can buy as much as you want. But if you think you can replace the one love you ever had, if you think you can even come close, forget it.’
Stefan didn’t reply. The new tone of voice had unsettled him. It contained an appeal to an intimacy he didn’t want and didn’t feel he liked very much. Whatever the man was talking about it was his and his alone.
For a moment the American said nothing either. He seemed to realise that he had taken a direction he shouldn’t have done and had revealed more of himself than he was comfortable with. He looked up and smiled again. ‘That’s the trouble with a journey like this. Nothing to do but drink and they chuck it at you like there’s no tomorrow.’
Stefan nodded. ‘I’ve had enough. I wouldn’t mind some more coffee.’
Carroll called to the galley for two coffees. He turned back to Stefan.
‘You don’t make much sense to me. You mind me saying it?’
‘It depends what you mean,’ laughed Stefan.
‘I’ve got your boy, and why you’re where you are, looking after him, and I’ve got what happened to your wife. I’ve got the farm and your mam and your dad. But I haven’t got you. I haven’t got you at all, you know that? What are you doing sitting on your arse in a country police station, running in drunks and, what was it, raiding the village hall to see if there’s any illegal dancing going on! Jesus!’ He grinned, entertained by the idea. ‘That’s not you, Sergeant Gillespie, not you! I didn’t have to talk long to see that.’
‘Someone’s got to do it,’ shrugged Stefan, and attempted a smile.
The look of suspicion was back in Dominic Carroll’s eyes. It struck Stefan forcibly that although the stranger was smiling at him, he somehow didn’t believe he was who he said he was. They’d talked about all sorts of things. Yet there was a sense now, as he watched the older man watching him, that the American had been probing, trying to find out something when there was nothing to find out. Stefan needed a break from the conversation. He leant across to the newspapers Carroll had been reading and picked one up.
‘Do you mind if I have a look at one of these?’
‘Help yourself. I’m going to turn in. We’ll be landing at Botwood in the early hours. It’s best to get some sleep in. You can’t sleep through it.’
On each side of the compartment the seats had been made up into beds while they were at dinner, with curtains across them to create small bedrooms. Dominic Carroll got up and took an attaché case from a rack above. He pulled out a washbag and walked through the plane to the bathroom. Other people were starting to appear in pyjamas, dressing gowns.
Stefan felt relieved to be alone for a moment; if nothing else it was a rest from talking. He opened the newspaper. The first thing he saw was a report about an IRA bomb that had gone off in London the day before.
There had been dozens of bombs across Britain since the beginning of the year. On 12 January the IRA Army Council had sent a letter to the British government, declaring war and claiming it was now the sole representative of the people of Ireland, since the treacherous and toadying government the people of Ireland had voted for several times since 1922 did not have the legitimacy the IRA had inherited, by a process similar to Apostolic succession, from the seven signatories of the Declaration of Independence in 1916.
The quantity of bombs that had followed this declaration of war had been impressive, even if the results had been indifferent. The damage had been minimal; reaction in Britain, despite indignant speeches in Parliament, seemed more like puzzlement than either anger or fear. The targets were sometimes railway or underground stations, mainly in London, and bridges over canals elsewhere; sometimes electricity pylons and gas mains were attacked; sometimes incendiaries were planted, more randomly, in stores like Marks and Spencer, Burton’s, Woolworths; one bomb had gone off at the offices of the News Chronicle in Fleet Street.
Remarkably, no one had yet been killed, in line with the declared intention of the IRA’s chief of staff, Seán Russell. In this most recent attack two bombs had exploded by the Thames, on Hammersmith Bridge. Stefan had heard about it in Dublin.
Two explosions which occurred at Hammersmith Bridge, just after 1 a.m. yesterday morning, are being investigated by Scotland Yard officers. The force of the explosion dislodged two girders in the suspension work of the bridge, and one was thrown across the roadway. Lamp standards were demolished and the middle of the bridge was left in darkness. While investigations at the bridge were in progress, Divisional Detective Inspector Clarke left to interview two men at Putney police station. It was later decided to arrest the two men. They were Edward John Connell, 22, a salesman, of Elibank Gardens, Barnes, and William Brown, 22, of Grafton Place, Euston.
He looked up to see Dominic Carroll opening the curtains into his sleeping compartment, and looking down at him with a wry smile as he did so.
‘Another bomb.’
‘Another bomb,’ replied Stefan; it was familiar news after all.
‘They don’t seem to be able to do much to stop it.’
‘Well, they will if they keep arresting people at the rate they have been. I don’t know what it is now, fifteen, sixteen, and two more yesterday.’
‘You’re assuming the IRA’s short of volunteers then?’
‘There are only so many people who’d know how to plant a bomb.’
‘Well,’ shrugged Carroll, ‘the British must be shaken up by it now.’
‘I would be,’ Stefan nodded. ‘I’d be pretty pissed off if I lived in Barnes and I had to go all the way down to Putney to find a bridge. I wouldn’t put it much stronger than that. Unless London County Council’s very short on lamp standards, I wouldn’t say it’ll keep anybody awake.’
As this conversation had started there had been a look of amused satisfaction on the American’s face. Stefan believed he could read it easily enough. He had sat in pubs with enough American-Irish singers of Republican songs to know that though ‘Up the IRA’ was a cry that was hardly on many lips in Ireland, the enthusiasm in New York and Boston and Chicago was unaffected by the fact that the IRA wasn’t only at war with Britain, it was still ideologically at war with the government of Ireland itself. It wasn’t an argument he intended to start. Carroll could have his opinions.
‘You’re one of Ned Broy’s men all right, Mr Gillespie. Goodnight.’
The words were said with something like a grin, almost with a wink, but there was something colder in the words than anything that had gone before. They were words that no guard could fail to understand, and they came from somewhere that was about more than singing rebel songs.
To be one of Ned Broy’s men was to be more than just a lackey of the illegitimate entity that Republicans still referred to contemptuously as the Free State; it was to be an informer, a traitor, a killer. Wasn’t the Commissioner a turncoat, like de Valera and all his crew, an IRA man himself who had brought ex-IRA men into the Gardaí to hunt down their old comrades, to imprison them, to torture them, sometimes to kill them? And it was true enough. The men Ned Broy had brought into the Garda Special Branch had done all that. Their reasons didn’t make the bare facts any more palatable.
That none of this had anything to do with Stefan Gillespie didn’t mean he couldn’t feel the contempt behind Dominic Carroll’s parting wink, or that he didn’t sense now that the man was no idle wearing-of-the-green, up-the-rebels American-Irish tourist. He was a political Republican, and as a wealthy and influential