3.

January 16, 1922


The front door bells barely had time to jingle before there was a loud bark, and Bill found himself struggling against not only an armful of packages but an enthusiastic stumbling block running circles between his legs. The dog yelped out his greeting, tail thumping madly until Bill surrendered and set his load on the nearest table, squatting to return the welcome with two ruffling hands. From the kitchen he heard Bernard's voice and looked up just as he entered with a crate of glasses, scowling.

"Oi, Styb, shut your gob, we—oh it's you, Bill. I'm sorry for that cursed creature pawing at you."

"He's just doing his job, isn't that right Styb? Who's a good watchdog then?" Bill scritched the dog's ears and smiled as the tail-thumping increased.

"Did you find what you needed at the market?"

Bill patted Styb's belly and recalled his afternoon: mapping out the neighborhood in his mind, noting the relevant buildings and marking the police station and post boxes; eating an apple under an awning and scanning the passing crowds at the market; standing at the notice boards and bending an ear to every raised voice or gossipy whisper.

"Aye," he said, "I've got all I need here, I think."

He stood and collected his shopping. "Thank you again for the day's wages, Bernard. I took a look at the boards today and I'm sure I'll find something soon. I'll be out of your hair before you know it."

Bernard looked down at his hands. "I've been meaning to talk to you about that, lad."

"Oh?"

"Have you spoken to anyone about a job or lodgings yet?"

"Well, no, not in person. Not yet."

Bernard nodded. "I don't mean to be insulting you, Bill, but it's—you must know that it might be a hard time for you to...well, to find someone who..."

"Who would hire a Scot?" Bill smiled.

"Aye. You may not have picked the best time or place to start over, lad."

Bill nodded. He looked out the window at the people passing by on the pavement outside. So many people, so many faces, and not one of them familiar. Not one of them knowing why he was here, what it was he was trying to do. Or whom he was doing it for.

"I'm right where I want to be," he lied.

Bernard chuckled. "You're a scrappy young knacker, I'll give you that." He set his crate on the counter. "And I won't be lying, I've got a bit of a soft spot for scrappy young knackers." He waited for Bill's grin, and then crossed his arms and continued.

"See, it's like this. You've done such a wondrous job of cleaning up the place, and—well, if you can't find anything better...that is to say...I've got the spare room upstairs. It's not the grandest sight on earth but it's no tenement hole, that's for sure. I can't pay you enough to get your fancy flat but you're welcome to the room as part of your wages."

Bill froze, stunned. It couldn't possibly be this easy. He walked over to the bar and dropped his packages on a stool.

"You're offering me a place to stay? You've known me three days!"

Bernard's cheeks were even redder, if it were possible, and he dismissed Bill's words with a gruff noise. "Bollocks, what difference does that make? You need a room, I've got one wanting, it's simple as that. All I ask is that you help with the chores, and also that you not murder myself and my daughter in our beds." He looked down at the loud thumping coming from Bill's feet. "Besides, my dog fancies you, and Styb's the best judge of character I know, so he is."

They both laughed, and then the room grew quiet. Bill was standing with his head tilted to the left; he could see Bernard trying not to stare. Lord McKellen's assessment was proving to be more and more accurate, it would seem. Bill realized he did not like that idea very much. His grin faded.

"I don't know what to say."

Bernard clapped him on the back, all spirits again. "Say you'll start tomorrow night."

Bill smiled broadly, and hoisted his armful again.

~~~~~~~~


The quilt on the bed was red gingham, something Bill hadn't seen in a very long time. The sheets beneath were plain strong homespun, warm and familiar and smelling of the rosehip sachet that had met his fingers when he'd checked beneath the mattress. He sat cross-legged with his back against the wrought-iron frame, chewing his pencil and wiggling his toes inside his socks. His shoes peeked from beneath the bed, side by side and pointing out, the only remaining habit from his dormitory days. That, and the ability to spot a loose floorboard and know exactly how much would fit into the space beneath it.

The board in question now stood propped beside the nightstand. His small briefcase lay open on the floor in front of it. His initials were embossed into the leather: WB, a gift from his sister when he graduated Cambridge. She would be wanting a telegram soon, to know he'd arrived safely. He'd send her one with the next wire of money.

The papers strewn across the bed were covered equally in stark black type and his own scrawled handwriting. He'd thrown away the photographs before he ever left the Director's Office. There had only been two: a newspaper advert of Bernard at the door of the pub, and a grainy mugshot of a former triggerman, someone called Urban. Hill was the in and Urban was the checkmark, but neither were of real importance. Bill scanned down the list of names and information. Looked like the same drill as all the rest: mostly common workers, everyday men trading information and keeping the real conspirators from getting caught. Just doing their part. The more these men got comfortable with him, the better chance he had at getting close to his real targets—the leaders, or those who knew who the leaders were.

Bill read the blurry type, scowling in concentration. Now here was a young one. Father's whereabouts unknown, mother dead for some years. Older brother a munitions smuggler presumed dead after the Rising in '16. Worked on the docks, no criminal record. Seen with known faction members, including some suspected of smuggling cash from America. Bill nodded. A well-liked lad with a tragic past—definitely the sort needed for the heart, if not the brains, of a rebellion.

And what does that make me? he thought, and chuckled to himself.

The evidence was pretty circumstantial, but given the culture of the IRA it seemed a fair bet that this kid was involved more heavily than appearances let on. But more importantly than that, Bill's instincts prickled on the back of his neck the moment his eye caught on the name. This boy was one to watch, he knew it without question. He circled the name with broad gray strokes of his pencil. Monaghan.

A knock at the door and he nearly leapt off the bed. The papers were gone and the case snapped shut before he even heard the soft voice on the other side of the door. "Mr. Boyd?"

The floorboard clicked into place and he said, "Come in."

Miranda's gold hair caught the lamplight as she peeked around the door. Bill looked up at her from the bed, reading glasses on his nose and well-worn novel in his hands. She smiled.

"I brought you some water and another pillow, if you like. Sorry to be disturbing you."

"No Miss Hill, you're not disturbing me at all. Thank you for thinking of me."

She entered, tray in her hands and feather pillow tucked beneath one arm. She set the water on the nightstand and plumped the pillow a little before setting it at the end of the bed. Bill managed not to smile as he watched her take in the room with a sweep of her eyes: the suitcase sitting open on the chair; the wallet and watch on the nightstand; the shoes beneath the bed; the novel in his hands. Remembering herself, she looked back at him and clasped her hands together.

"Well, so, then, will you be needing anything else?"

"No, thanks very much, Miss Hill."

She grinned. "I've told you to call me Miranda."

He looked at her over the rim of his glasses and smiled. "Only if you'll call me Bill."

"It's a deal, then." She turned as if to go, and then paused. "Oh, yes, if you'd like, I could show you around a bit tomorrow, where the markets are and such. And the post, in case you were wanting to send word to your family."

He admired her tenacity, that was for certain. He decided it was time to give her something in return. "Actually I did want to telegram my sister, so that would be lovely, thanks."

"Oh, your sister? Does she stay back in Glasgow with your parents, then?"

"My parents are dead."

She gave a little "oh!" and covered her mouth with one hand. With the other she crossed herself quickly. "I am sorry for prying, Bill. I've no right to run on so."

He gave her a small smile. "Don't worry about it, lass. It happened a long time ago."

He leaned over and reached for the glass of water. He could feel her eyes on his throat as he moved. In the glow of lamplight the shadows would be deeper, the lines more vivid. He wondered what she would think if she could see the rest of him. Trying not to grin, he rubbed at his neck until she averted her eyes. When she looked back at him, her face had changed. Bill saw understanding there, and something else as well—empathy. Kinship. The impulse to grin disappeared. He swallowed the rest of the water, his throat gone suddenly dry.

"I'll just leave you then," she said, and moved towards the door.

"Miranda?"

She turned in the doorway. "Yes?"

"Thank you for showing me kindness."

"We must all do our part," she replied, and the door clicked softly behind her.