Dílse (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} _dilse) wrote,@ 2005-10-13 11:20:00 |
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22.
April 22nd, 1922
Bill was on his feet before the second knock sounded, before he was fully awake or even really aware of the sound itself. He blinked once in the darkness—the knocking came again and he jumped and reached for his trousers. He nearly tripped over the loose floorboard as he crossed the room; swearing under his breath, he rubbed the grit from his eyes and pulled open the bedroom door.
Miranda stood there. Her hair was unbound, hanging free to where her floral robe tied at her waist. The thin light coming up from the stairwell made her appear ghostly and colorless. She hugged herself against the chill as Bill fumbled with the buttons on his shirt. He took one look at her face and knew exactly what her words would be.
"It's Dom."
Bill only nodded, and grabbed his shoes as he followed her down the hall.
Downstairs it was a little lighter. The first shades of pink were streaking the sky as dawn approached, and nearly every window along Wicklow Street was lit from within. Outside Bill could hear the sound of footsteps, and dogs barking; from far away came an occasional faint crackling sound, like corn popping in the next room. It was a sound Bill had heard before.
Inside the pub minor chaos had erupted. Bernard burst up from the cellar just as Bill entered, carrying a box in his arms. The door to the kitchen was propped open; Orlando and another young man ran in from the back and met Bernard at the door. Orlando took the box from Bernard and hurried back outside; the other lad quickly descended the steps to the basement. Bernard turned to follow him and almost collided with Bill and Miranda as they came around the staircase.
"They've taken the Four Courts," he said.
"Who? English?"
Bernard shook his head. He had not stopped moving, and Bill had to follow him through the kitchen to hear what he said.
"De Valera's men, about fifty of them." The back door was open to the alley, brightening as the sun climbed higher. Birds were chirping in the morning air, but hovering beyond their chatter were heavier, more threatening sounds. There was a lorry parked close to the door with its tarp rolled up; the back was half-filled with boxes. Orlando and the other boy appeared from the cellar with a fresh load. Orlando passed his box to Bernard; his friend handed his cargo to Miranda. Bernard turned back to the lorry without pausing.
"They've taken the entire block—cut off the Four Courts and hold all the buildings. They say they'll blow the place to hell if the Brits don't clear out for good. It'll be war now for certain."
Bill rubbed his face with both hands. "God." It was worse than he had feared. Worse than he could have imagined. He leaned against the open door, using the cold air to sharpen his senses.
"The British Army will be pouring through this city any minute," said Bernard. "I have to get everything out of here now. It's lucky I am I've got no—Lord God, girl, I told you to get back in the house!"
Bill took the box Miranda handed him and put it onto the truck with the others. His fingers were tingling, but not from the cold.
"Where's Dom," he said.
"He's with them. He knows one of them and they've all gone out to help." Her face went sharp with anger. "They're all out there, running to their deaths, every damn one of them."
"Hold your tongue, Miranda!" said Bernard.
This is it, Bill thought. It had begun. The day for which he'd spent months preparing had finally come, and he had been sound asleep. The Army was on its way, and all of his friends were going to die.
He shoved the last box into the truck and turned away toward the door.
"Where are you going?"
"I'm going to find them."
"No." Bernard yanked down the tarp and beat his palm on the back of the lorry; its engine revved and the truck sped away. "No, lad. You ought to get in the house and stay there until this is all over. Don't get yourself involved, Glasgow. There's naught you can do to help."
"Yes there is." Bill reached through the back door and grabbed his jacket from the coat rack. "I have to go, Bernard. I can stop them."
Bernard took hold of Bill's arm. "You don't have to do this, son."
Bill looked at Miranda. Her face was grim, but her eyes were large and pleading.
"Yes I do."
Bernard nodded. His apron was knotted behind his back—he reached into the fastenings and pulled out a small pistol. Bill took the gun from his hand and checked the bullets before tucking it into his belt, safe beneath his jacket at the small of his back.
"I'll bring them back," he said, and ran out of the narrow alley.
Bill raced down Wicklow Street as fast as his feet would carry him, heading toward the column of black smoke rising against the morning sky. He ran through the neighborhoods he'd called home for the past four months, the street corners and store fronts now crowded with onlookers, familiar faces blurring as he passed. They huddled together on the pavements and in the streets, men and boys with fire in their eyes and women with their hands over their mouths. The sound of clanging bells and shrieking whistles grew louder with each passing block. He turned a corner and The Four Courts spread out before him. He stopped where he stood, his mouth falling open.
The sun had risen over the quay, piercing through the layer of smoke and glinting off the shards of broken windows. The buildings of the Four Courts were scorched and battered, four black blocks against the morning sky. The manicured garden in the square was gone, trodden flat under the dirty tracks of countless tires and feet. The benches where ladies had once sat were overturned and piled together into spiked barriers around the plaza. The buildings themselves appeared empty, but the upper windows bristled with the points of a dozen rifles. No sounds could be heard from within.
There were barricades across Church and Chancery—giant, jagged stretches of rubbish and brick and broken furniture. Smoke hung in the misty air, but not the thick clouds of a fire; this smoke was thin, hazy, hovering just at the broken windows of the records office and municipal building—the acrid, lingering smoke of gunfire.
The police had already sealed off the square; they ringed the barricades with lines of men on horseback, shouting at the crowd to stay back. A mass of men and boys surged against them, some trying to get a closer look at the action, some jeering and waving sticks and bottles. Children pointed up at the broken windows; women stood in doorways and some of them wept. The air was electric with seething tension; from the crowd, from the police, from the black squares of the taken-over buildings. Bill heard taunts and curses carried back on the breeze—sounds he recognized with clear, stinging familiarity. He shaded his eyes against the sunlight. The awnings fluttered in the wind.
I know that something larger is coming.
"No," Bill said.
He ran forward into the street. He had spent most of his childhood evading the police; it was second nature for him to slip through the crowd without attracting attention. His ears picked up snatches of conversation—
"—how many inside?"
"—said they'd blow the place up first—"
"—police'll call the Brits—"
—while his keen eyes searched every face he passed. Bill recognized scores of them, faces young and old and all familiar, but among them he found none of the particular group of reckless fools he sought. At last he came around a back alley, behind a small group of policemen on horseback, and leaned against the wall to catch his breath and search the sea of faces again. He saw nothing—but a heartbeat later he heard an unmistakable voice.
"Let go of me, you bastards!"
They were at the other end of the alley, crouched down behind a pile of crates at the corner of the eastern barricade. The crowd was sparse on this side of the street, as most of the action was focused at the front of the Courts and on the policemen attempting to keep order there. Karl peered over the edge of the wall, poised like an animal stalking a long-hunted prey. Beside him Sean and David were reaching up, trying to pull Dom down from where he was attempting to climb over the pile of wood.
"Stop it, boy, you're not getting yourself killed."
"Let go of me, Dave, I swear on my mother I'll—"
Bill heard nothing else beyond the sound of his feet on the cobblestones as he ran.
Dom saw him first; in his surprise he lost his hold and fell back to the alley floor, almost knocking Sean and David over in the process. Sean turned just as Bill dropped to his knees beside them.
"Glasgow, what are you doing here?"
Bill shook his head. No time. He could feel it in his lungs, memory and intuition mixing into panic, ratcheting his pulse with every heartbeat.
"You have to get out of here," he said. "Now. You can't be here, you've got to—"
"Who the fuck are you to tell us what we can and can't do?" Karl's face was mottled with bloodlust. "Why don't you fuck off back to Scotland and mind your own—"
David grabbed his arm. "Knock it off, Urban. He's here to help, like we all are."
"No." Bill spoke as quickly as possible. "You've got to listen to me. We have to get away from here right now. I don't have time to explain, just please—"
Sean swore beside them; Dom had bolted again, leaping forward to scramble up the pile of crates. Sean seized him round the waist and dragged him down bodily—"Do that again and I'll lay you flat, love"—and then turned to Bill.
"Dom's got a mate in there," he said. "We've been holding him back all morning. Sure we all want to fight, Glasgow, but we'd prefer not to be fish in a barrel."
Dom was looking up at a window high in the records building, where a dark shape could be seen hovering just out of sight of the police rifles.
"We were at school together," he murmured. "I didn't even know he was with..."
"Listen to me, Dom," said Bill. He saw all their faces turn towards him, but he could no longer afford appearance or pretense. The tone in his voice was one none of them had ever heard, and he put everything he could muster into it. "Listen. You can't help him. We don't have time for this, we have to get out of here right now. They're coming. I can feel it."
From high above came a sudden call: "Dom!" They looked up to see a face emerge from the records office window—a black-haired boy, white face smudged with soot and blood, pale blue eyes huge and bright with fear.
"Boone!"
"Monaghan, get out of there, they're bringing in the—"
The last of the sentence was drowned out by a deafening burst of gunfire. Women screamed and the crowd began to flee as a dull roaring grew louder in the streets behind them. Three tanks emerged at the edge of the Courts and soldiers began pouring in from all sides. The crowd parted before them, some running for cover, some stopping to throw rocks and bottles. The men nearest the front pulled out their pistols as immediate, rapid rifle-fire erupted from the windows of the four buildings.
They ran, dragging Dom behind them, who turned with a final cry of "Boone!" before a shell hit the bricks and sent them all diving for cover. Bill pulled them together and led them down a small side street, then a back alley, his eyes sharp for the quickest exit, his panic dissipated by the impulse to protect. The sounds of the battle began to lessen as they turned around the next corner.
"Stop!"
There were at least ten of them, crisp green uniforms of the British Army, guns at the ready and blocking the only exit.
"Stay right there," called the officer. "Hands up—slowly now."
Bill stepped forward by instinct. He moved in front of the others with his arms spread, palms up. From the corner of his eye he saw Karl flip his jacket open an instant before ten rifles raised and cocked as one. He leapt forward before he could think. "No!"
"Boyd? William Boyd, is that you?"
Bill squinted in the shadows. The captain was backlit, his features obscured by the glare; he stepped forward and came into focus, and Bill's throat went dry as he recognized the face beneath the officer's cap.
"Aye, it's me."
The officer lowered his gun and his face broke into an incredulous grin. "Good God, Boyd! What the devil are you doing here? You nearly got your fool self killed!" He spoke absently to his squad, a sharp Yorkshire accent. "Stand down, men." The riflemen lowered their weapons, but the faces on both sides of the alley remained deathly tense.
"I haven't seen you in—Christ, must be eight years now. Not since we left training in London."
Bill felt the air grow cold behind him. Please, he thought, just let us go. Just let us go.
"What the bloody hell are you doing here? Are you on assignment?"
There could be no other answer now, if he wanted to save their lives.
"Aye."
A group of policemen on horseback galloped past the alley. Fires could be heard crackling in a building behind them; shots rang out somewhere on the other side of the square.
"Look, you'd better get your men out of here now, Boyd. Our orders are to shoot first and ask for identification later. You're damned lucky it was me that saw you or McKellen'd be shipping you back to Glasgow in a box next week."
"Is there a way out of here?"
"Go back east. The army's cleaning everything up by the river and the Courts. They oughtn't to stop you going the other way. Just get out of here, man, now." The squad stepped reluctantly back at his gesture and opened a path to the street.
They turned and hurried out through the exit, one man at a time. Bill paused at the end and put a hand on his old classmate's shoulder.
"Thank you, Sean," he said.
"Take care of them, Boyd," the captain replied, and stood aside to let Bill pass.
The sounds of the battle grew fainter behind them, muted now as the five men rushed back toward the pub. They rounded a corner into a tiny side street; no one could be seen in either direction. Bill looked behind to see if anyone had followed them—there was no one, and his breath came a little easier. He turned back just in time to meet the full arc of Karl's swinging fist.
Lights exploded behind his eyes; he barely had time to hit the pavement before Karl hauled him up and slammed him to his back against the wall. His forearm crushed against Bill's windpipe, choking off his air—a second later the barrel of a pistol was cutting into the soft skin below Bill's chin.
"You fucking English bastard. Fucking knew it, blow your goddamned brains across this gutter you lying piece of shite."
Bill braced himself against the wall, gaining a foothold against Karl's unstable balance. He took inventory of weight, leverage and distance, even as black spots began to dance around the edges of his vision. One hand clutched at Karl's arm against his throat; the other began to inch toward the pistol in his belt.
"Karl, stop it!" yelled David. "Let's get out of here before they come this way!"
"Fooled them all, didn't you?" Karl's spit hit Bill's face in tiny drops. "Yeah? You never fooled me, did you, Prod? No, you never did. Been waiting for this, I have."
Bill's knees began to buckle; he used the shifting angle to brace himself for the sudden push. His heartbeat roared in his ears, growing louder and louder as it began to slow. His fingers curled around the grip of his gun and tightened.
"Stop."
Karl didn't blink. "Piss off, Monaghan, he's not your little chum anymore."
Dom appeared at Karl's elbow. He spoke again, in a strange, calm voice. "Stop."
"He's a fucking spy, man! He's with them, didn't you hear it?"
The expression on Dom's face did not change. He did not move; his features had turned to smooth stone. He did not step forward or look at Bill, but kept his gaze fixed on Karl as he spoke a single, quiet sentence.
"I will deal with this."
Karl hesitated, scowling, then stepped back and withdrew his pistol. Bill coughed and spat a thick glob of blood onto the pavement; he looked up at Dom and opened his mouth to speak. When he saw the boy's face, he closed it again.
Dom looked into Bill's eyes for the space of one heartbeat. His face was a blank mask, devoid of any emotion. His eyes were flat and gray—but beneath them kindled a cold light that made Bill's swelling jaw clench. Dom gave no further response, to him or to anyone, before he turned around and walked out of the alley.
