26.

May 25, 1922


Summer was blooming on the streets of Dublin. The sky above the rows of chimneys was cloudless blue; the brick and cobblestone caught the sun's warmth and nurtured it to a welcoming heat. It had rained the day before—the everyday smells of mud and rubbish were briefly washed away, and the city was left clean with the scent of wood fires and salt air brought in by the wind. On a day like this the crowds should have been out in full, shopping and socializing in the Saturday markets—men in their shirt sleeves and women in linen blouses, picking through the cherry harvest and wandering through booths filled with fresh flowers and new dresses. Children would be playing ball on the pavement; old women would be gossiping on the steps of the tenements while boys called to each other from the windows above. But on this Saturday morning the streets were nearly empty despite the beautiful weather. Instead of lively chatter there was only a tense and muted murmuring, broken by the occasional crying child or barking dog, and in the distance was the faint hum of lorry engines.

Bill could feel eyes on his back as he walked down Wicklow street. He kept his gaze straight ahead and his pace even, neither fast nor slow but something just in between. The stares grew bolder, whispers rustling like leaves in his wake. Three times he heard his name spat out in the snatches that reached his ears. He kept walking. In front of the cloth shop two women turned their backs as he passed beneath the awning; another pulled her child behind her as if to remove him from the reach of Bill's poisonous shadow. The toddler peeked out from behind her skirt. Bill kept walking.

The sign was brighter than he had ever seen it, green and gold in the summer sun; it swung a little above his head as he reached the front step. He paused with his hand on the doorknob. The brass was still dented from the night Sean had whacked it with a shovel while they were cleaning the snow off the step; the divot felt cool beneath his thumb. In the panes of glass, his reflection squared its shoulders. The doorbells jingled loudly as he entered.

The bar had been restocked with spring shipments, new wine and old whisky and the glasses all gleaming on their shelves. The chairs were turned up on their tables and the broom stood propped against the bar. His apron no longer hung on its peg. At first he thought the room was empty, but as his eyes adjusted to the light Bill saw a figure bent before the fireplace, scraping the last of the winter ashes from the hearth. He didn't move as the door closed but the friendly greeting came at once: "A good morning to you, friend, can I help?" When there was no reply, Bernard straightened from his work and turned around.

Bill had built his life on the speed of his wit, but as he stood there not a single word came to mind. He wondered how he must look, standing there on the welcome mat—unshaven, sleep-deprived, hollowed-out and drifting at the end of an unraveling rope. Could the past month be seen on his face, in the yellowed bruises there? Did he look as battered as he felt? If so, Bernard gave no sign. He stared at Bill in silence, his face going carefully stiff. It made him look tired, and very old.

"Bill!"

There was a rush of footsteps as Miranda came flying down the stairs. She ran into Bill's arms and embraced him fiercely—he put a hand on her hair but his eyes remained on her father. Close behind her was the dog, Styb, barking out his joy and thumping his tail madly as his claws scrabbled on the floor at Bill's feet.

Miranda drew back, her face drawn with worry. "Bill, how did you—what are you doing here?"

At last, Bill found his voice. "I came to warn you." And then to Bernard: "I need to see Dom."
Miranda turned toward her father. Bernard straightened from where he'd been bent over the fireplace.
He dropped his trowel into the hearth and wiped his hands across the front of his apron. "I don't know where Dom is," he said. "And I wouldn't tell you if I did."

"Da!"

Bernard did not look at her. "Go upstairs now, Miranda."

"But Da, I—"

"Do as I say, girl!" Bernard's eyes flashed with dangerous anger; for an instant Bill could see what he must have looked like as a young man. It was a formidable sight.

Miranda touched Bill's arm; her mouth opened around a hesitant word. The word never came, and her eyes filled with tears. All at once she turned away and fled back up the staircase. Bill's eyes followed her; when she was gone, they turned once more to Bernard. He expected to see fury in Bernard's face, rage, abhorrence, disgust—instead he saw a drawn and defeated old man. He waited for curses, shouts of rebuke—instead he heard only a single weary sentence.

"Haven't you done enough, lad?"

"Bernard, I—look, I don't expect you to—" Bill sighed. "I'm not asking for anything. Just tell me where Dom is and you'll never see me again. Please, Bernard. I've got to find him."

"Find someplace else to ease your conscience, boy. You'll get no absolution here." Bernard untied his apron and pulled it over his head; he wiped his hands with it, then used it to mop the sweat from his brow. The fabric bunched between his knuckles as his hands balled into fists.

"I gave you my trust, boy. I brought you into my home, into my very family, my—" His shoulders slumped. "They told me I was a fool to do it. A daft and soft old man."

"No one has ever shown me kindness as you have," said Bill. "I never meant you to get caught up in all this. I was only trying to—all I wanted was—" His voice sounded pathetic in his ears and he stopped talking.

Bernard would not look into his eyes. He shook his head, his anger easing out into disappointment.

"You're not the man I thought you were."

And there was nothing Bill could say to that.

Styb, cowed into silence by Bernard's hard voice, began to cautiously nudge at Bill's ankles. The gentle thumping of his tail and his whines for attention were the only sounds in the empty pub. Bernard rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Finally he looked up, and crossed his arms into a line across his chest.

"Go home, Bill. Go back from where you came."

"I can't. I quit."

Bernard's eyes widened—the reaction loosened Bill's chest and brought the urgency back to his voice.
"They're coming, Bernard. It's not going to be good. My—the—the orders are show no mercy. I know Dom's going. I know what's in his mind. He's got nothing to lose, I know he wants to—" the word froze on his tongue and he chose another. "To help. He'll go down there any way he can. And if he does, he's going to die." He could hear the panicky note in his voice. "You've got to believe me, Bernard. I know you can't trust me, but you must believe me."

The sun was growing hot on the back of his neck. He could feel sweat beginning to prickle behind the collar of his shirt. Bernard's face, always so robust and blustery pink, looked now a shade of queasy gray. He listened to Bill's words with dim, empty eyes; his mouth pressed together until Bill could no longer read his expression. Then he picked up his apron, tied it around himself, and bent to retrieve the trowel from the pile of ashes.

"I don't take the words of strangers."

Bill's eyes rose to the landing, where Miranda peeked down from the top of the stair. Her face was very still, but her knuckles were white on the banister and her cheeks shone with the tracks of her tears. Bill's heart ached.

"You told me once that we all must do our part. I never knew what my part was until I came here. I will always be grateful to you for that."

Bernard had already stooped back to his work, his hands holding him steady on the bricks as he went back to cleaning his pub. His hair was the same color as the ashes he scraped. Bill reached down and gave Styb a gentle scritch behind the ear. He could not look up again, but he heard the trowel pause in its scraping when he opened the front door.

"Goodbye, Bernard," Bill said.