Barefoot King

By Sean Edge

embittered, shell-shocked veteran of First World War trench horror embarks on a titanic quest to address social and economic evils of post-war Liverpool dockland, wages a bitter and violent struggle against unions and shipowners

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Jan 31, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465310385

Sean Edge

Born and educated in Liverpool, Anglo-American, Mr Edge is an ex-Royal Marine; has travelled extensively throughout the United States, South America and Caribbean; now a journalist he worked for a special department of the Rhodesian Army against Robert Mugabe and Joshua Nkomos Russian/Chinese- backed terrorist organisations ZIPRA and ZANLA. His work has been featured on BBC, Rhodesian and Irish radio, SABC television in South Africa and England. He lives in Ireland with his wife and a multitude of animals. To date, his work is produced in electronic books; most are historical sagas. Mr Edge is also a poet and playwright.

Book preview

Copyright © 2011 by Sean Edge.

Cover design by Sean Edge

ISBN:           Ebook           978-1-4653-1038-5

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was created in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

0-800-644-6988

www.xlibrispublishing.co.uk

[e-mail]

303194

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Epilogue

Born and educated in Liverpool, Anglo-American, Mr Edge is an ex-Royal Marine; has travelled extensively throughout the United States, South America and Caribbean; now a journalist he worked for a special department of the Rhodesian Army against Robert Mugabe and Joshua Nkomo’s Russian/Chinese—backed terrorist organisations ZIPRA and ZANLA.

His work has been featured on BBC, Rhodesian and Irish radio, SABC television in South Africa and England.

He lives in Ireland with his wife and a multitude of animals.

To date, his work is produced in electronic books; most are historical sagas.

Mr Edge is also a poet and playwright.

Image29253.EPS

IN the beginning there was a Pool and the dream had just begun,

Of an emerging people and city

From obscurity they had come.

And the Pool it became a river as its people clung to the shore,

Marching together through history

They obeyed God’s holy law.

Now the river it became Mersey and the people known as Scouse,

And this greatest of maritime cities

Looked after old England’s house.

Tested in civil upheaval to Charles they affirmed their love,

And after the terrible fray was done

Like Cromwell, they thanked Him above.

When Hunger came to Hibernia then sailed to the Landing Stage

The language of the Pool was changed

As history turned the page.

Now clearing house for New World, refuge to ease much sorrow,

Together city, migrants and river

Rolled forward into tomorrow.

Closing ranks as the world fell out, many perished for others to see

Of all the beauty living there

And a people born to be free.

To be truly great is to suffer, know the very depths of hell,

But to bear the weight of courage does credit to those who fell.

And it speaks well of a tribe anchored in battle mist,

Not only the dwellers of marble halls

But barefoots and beggars where rats coexist.

And when God calls a halt for the Pool and the dream to end,

He’ll blow the ships past the Mersey Bar

And kiss the river, the city’s friend.

High upon their noble tower, who’d protected from the foe so cruel,

The Liver Birds will take to wing

And call to heaven: Liverpool! Liverpool! Liverpool!

author

for Uncle John… you persevered with me

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Prologue

Prince’s Dock, Liverpool; Christmas Eve, 1918

LIAM Mullarky knew he was going to die in the rain: in Liverpool, crossing the picket was worse than killing God. Grimacing in the downpour, at 26 with everything to live for, in minutes, maybe seconds, he’d be mutilated in the street or floating in Prince’s Dock with other scabs instead of larking with his mam and dad, brother Eoin and sisters Agnes and Aoife as they put their presents under the tree for tomorrow. A poor man, leaving behind less in this world than taking into the next, Liam had reached the point of no return. But, as death summoned and everything that had gone before flashed by sharper than a farm pond, his sacrifice seemed empty, not at all as envisaged in the purity of embryo, far beyond comprehension and downright bloody stupid. Is any country, cause or ideal worthy of a single life? he thought, imagining the ranks of incensed dockers marching towards him as he entered Bath Street. Especially after the war in France! It’s not fair. But then, what was in life for a low-paid Liverpool-Irish dock labourer?

‘Are you there God?’ growled Liam wringing his wet cap, knuckling rain from his eyes. ‘They kill scabs in this town. And I’m a Paddy!’

Peering at the depressing sight through icy rain slanting from the Mersey, he cursed as liquid rods exploded on the cobbles; frowning at huddles of soot-scarred, dilapidated houses, hell-fashioned courts and carters’ yards facing Bath Street like an avenging army, his heart stopped as the great rain-sodden rag-tag materialised through the gloom chanting his name.

Linking arms in solidarity, led by senior officials of the National Union of Dock Labourers (NUDL), 50,000 betrayed, frustrated, hurt and vengeful people called for his blood in the late afternoon. Striking for better wages and working conditions, never since the heady, violent days of 1911 when the seaport tottered on the brink of revolution during the General Transport Strike had so many despised so few. Banners and flags displaying union chapels, slogans of hatred flew in the deluge; others reminded employers God Walks With The Downtrodden or condemned them to Hell In A Profit Margin as barefoot and clogged sympathisers supported the dockers because the Mersey River and Harbour Company (MR & HC) refused to talk. Alongside their striking men in violation of the Riot Act read the previous night, women and children moved like a vision of impending doom.

Liam jumped as thunder boomed and lightning painted the scene with surreal macabre. Saying a short prayer he stepped out to confront his accusers, mouth became drier than an August flagstone as they chanted: ‘Kill the fucking blackleg! Kill the fucking blackleg! Kill the fucking blackleg!’

Resolve almost gone he braced himself as several broke rank and ran towards him. Recognising a neighbour from Temple Street he gasped: ‘War war stole our Cassie and Sean’s pay. Hard enough being Irish without denying us the right to work! We’re hungry!’ He groaned as a giant figure detached itself from the throng.

An influential delegate revered by dockers, Tom Smith was equally respected on the Clyde and Humber, London and Southampton yards. Craggy-faced, carved by the times, personal tragedy and ingrained socialist beliefs, Smithy, as he was known, hailed from a sixth generation docker family. Militant though just, ruthless with scabs as dispassionate employers, his fight for humane pay and working conditions was legend. A dangerous occupation, working ships was also riddled with blacklisting. If a man crossed Smithy or the picket, not even God could intercede. It was said the Almighty was scared of the union Goliath. Renowned as he was, his background verged on enigma; fierce as his fight for human rights he protected his privacy. After poverty-related disease killed his wife, young son Danny was crushed by a cotton bale, all he had was his ageing mother. ‘We’re all hungry Liam!’ he spat. ‘Cross the line and you’re dead!’

Held by his sheer presence, Liam didn’t hear the crash of boots as riot police and reinforcements from Leeds, Birmingham and Belfast marched into adjoining streets. He shuddered however, as the sound of horses echoed ominously off the buildings. Dragoons’ cruelty transcended police brutality. Gasping as a great hush descended for a second reading of the Riot Act, he wondered how many would see Christmas Day.

‘Immigrant papist scab!’ a voice yelled. ‘Hang the cunt!’ He grinned viciously as his words were greeted with approval.

‘Why chuck your life away lad?’ said Smith.

‘You’re not the only one with beliefs!

‘Times like this we close ranks here! You know that. Isn’t your church against throwing life away?’

Liam shuddered at a terrifying roar, winced as protestors heckled the security force. ‘So much for peace and goodwill!’ Then, for some unknown reason often given to men at times of personal danger, he became absorbed in the mammoth umbilical cord of cranes stretching away through the mire, their massive jibs stabbing earthwards as if in solidarity—handpicked men had prevented the company repositioning them—with the strikers. Tragically, with death preferable to the pain and ignominy of poverty, several disillusioned men had hung themselves from the steel towers. Is this what it’s about? Liam thought bitterly as a child stumbled on the cobbles. Might is all! A pneumatic hammer drilling human rivets into submission. Barefoot, cloth caps and hand-me-downs were no contest! This growing madness was no different in Dublin. Or anywhere else! But although snowflakes in a blizzard, there were humane businessmen despite growing uneasiness about a southern aristocratic elitism creeping in. Spawned by a new breed of trade baron they were resolute for political and financial power.

‘These poor buggers’ve no chance Tom! Would you have ’em die for another ha’penny an hour? Nowt’ll happen till someone dis-invents greed!’

‘Sound like your Cassie!’ said Smith as the crowd again chanted for Liam’s blood while blue and khaki moved into battle ranks. ‘Can’t hold ’em forever!’

‘Damn you all to hell!’ shouted Liam. ‘Mullarkys’ll not starve for a principle!’

‘You won’t live long enough to do that blackleg!’ yelled a second voice. Hell’d freeze before your Cass, Sean or Eoin crossed the line!

‘This isn’t my brothers’ fight you cobblestone heroes!’

‘Feel sorry for Big Jim!’

‘Leave da out of it Tom!’

‘You’re not Christ! People don’t worship scabs! Family’ll suffer!’ Touching his arm: ‘You’ll never make the barricade lad! See sense!’

When Smith left, Liam considered the danger to his family resulting from his actions. But like the raging rag-tags before him—if they stopped to listen—they’d come round. Even Cassie—wild, angry Cassie who’d probably killed half the Kaiser’s army—would agree they had to eat. As always, Sean would follow and ‘Holy Joe’ Eoin would say alleluia and go back to finding God at the bottom of a glass. But Big Jim would take it personally. What father wouldn’t when his son makes a statement? But even his wrath would ease with time! Anyway, there were other jobs than the docks! The thought of life beyond the fetid holds of ships gave him hope. Maybe he wouldn’t die! All this talk of sacrifice—with just a hinted of suicide—was Smithy’s idea of rattling him. Aware of the Catholic Church’s views on self-destruction, he saw Rome as company headquarters with the pope and cardinals lording while dispensing spiritual gratuities to a starving flock. Not radical like Cassie, he was, however, astonished of late how easy it’d become to question everything he’d been told never to challenge.

As constabulary and strikers faced each other, the dragoons’ horses became skittish. Their hatred spilling over, protestors forgot Liam and cheered comrades manning a dock gate barricade. Waving defiantly behind a jumble of furniture as the storm intensified, the men made lewd signs at the police. As truncheons and swords were drawn someone shouted God save the King! In a moving demonstration of loyalty 50,000 people affirmed neither poverty nor suppression had weakened their love for George V.

Coming out the previous week when the MR & HC refused to meet union officials, battle lines were drawn: street gatherings, pub meetings and impromptu marches erupted throughout the city. As women stood fiercely by their men, headlines predicted a long, hard crusade. Picket lines stretching from Seaforth to Brunswick Dock, children brought billycans of tea and street entertainers raised spirits with stories of their fathers who stood in the same place fighting for the same cause against the same heartless enemy. But in the background, quieter than the death poverty summoned many before their time and bleaker than the shadows of the ghetto, with not a few questions about principle and mannish pride, women steeled themselves to the pathetic sound of children crying for food. But because poverty, like affluence, cannot afford hunger to survive, and because all men are not alike in all situations regardless of patriotism, love or duty, those like Liam Mullarky crossed the line and met with the direst consequences. Similarly split over union demands, families and friends faced the grim reality of strike action. Openly hostile as authorities stamped on public disturbance, they argued over union loyalty superseding the family unit. Procurement of food paramount, tick was denied to strikers’ families: expensive, rationed after France, theft and looting was commonplace as survival became an hourly struggle; clothing and basic essentials to endure unlit, unheated, unsafe, insanitary, damp basement hovels, tenements and dingy rooming houses were priceless. Ensconced in privation, the most trivial fought over, life degenerated into the vilest miasma of desperation, bitterness and abject hopelessness. Few escaping strike-related conflict, allied businesses buckled under this newfound wealth of advanced penury, frustration rather than revenge determined the violent deaths of two dockers. The first, a staunch union man disenchanted with the modus operandi, had his neck broken; the other, a Negroid asthmatic alcoholic named Moses Johnson, died in the river rather than fall victim to mob justice.

Anthem over, many prayed while others screamed abuse as the police received orders. Stoicism turned to fear as a haughty Prussian-looking officer unsheathed his sabre and led the dragoons into Bath Street. During the Transport Strike seven years previous, the 18th Hussars and Scots Greys had protected union-blacked supply vehicles throughout the city. Now the present intimidating contingent faced massed unarmed ranks of people. Anathema, incongruous in starched uniforms and polished riding boots, devoid of feeling with orders to remove all obstacles, three ranks of troopers deliberately guided their mounts into the crowd. Panic erupted as hooves rang on the cobbles; shrieks and screams rent the air as swords were drawn. At a pre-arranged signal, flanked by horsemen an official rode out to re-read the Riot Act. Like the warning, the storm worsened. Using a megaphone as thunder growled like an old mongrel too tired to sleep, upon seeing no one cared for the slanted, weighty construction of legal jargon, he quickly concluded and returned to his position by the Chief Constable. Grief-stricken after losing his wife and child to tuberculosis, a gnarled husk close to his own departure shook a fist, scaring the Chief Constable’s horse. Then to everyone’s horror the dragoon officer severed the disrespectful limb. Hatred rising still for the security force, two constables hurried the poor man to a Paddy Wagon.

‘Look at all that blood!’ gasped First Voice. ‘Poor bugger! Gassed ’e was in France!’

Family ate charity, cats and dogs,’ Said Second Voice, ’till his wife and young’uns died of pneumonia!’

‘Saw ’em drop dead before ’is own eyes ’e did!’ scowled the other man, as the mood grew ugly. ‘No wonder ’e’s ’alf mad!’

Enraged by the senseless brutality, several men unseated the dragoon officer and beat him to a bloody pulp. Catalyst for attack, hussars cut a swathe through the human sea: slashing, stabbing, crushing, they triggered a domino effect as the street became littered with dead and injured. As hand-to-hand confrontation ensued, men cursed, kicked and punched; pandemonium rampant, pistols were discharged, swords slashed and rider less horses careered through fleeing people reducing the demonstration to a grisly charnel house of blood, tears and mangled limbs. Unprepared for such barbarity, while most escaped into nearby streets and alleys many were savagely beaten and dragged off to the cells. But those of stronger conviction like Smith fought with unrelenting ferocity.

Regrouped, the cavalry were about to charge again when one of Smith’s bodyguards, an untidy haystack with an eye patch, pointed to a crane. Unnoticed in the mêlée, three men grabbed Liam and raised the jib. ‘They’re going to hang him over the dock!’ yelled Eye Patch.

As if by some hidden force, fighting stopped as word spread like wildfire. Everyone stared at the figures on the crane. Thousands who had fled returned to watch the spectacle.

As they got Liam onto the jib, Smith’s other bodyguard, an eel-faced twig of a man, banged a dustbin lid with a stick and shouted: ‘Hang the scab, hang the blackleg!’

To the accompaniment of improvised drums the frightening chant was taken up: ‘Hang the SCAB, hang the BLACKLEG! Hang the SCAB, hang the BLACKLEG! Hang the SCAB, hang the BLACKLEG!’

As the crowd worked itself into frenzy, a police sergeant strode up to Smith. ‘Get ’em down Tommy lad! It’ll be murder!’

Indicating the carnage Smith spat: ‘What d’you call this Michael O’Donnell? This was a peaceful demonstration! You’ve served your masters well today!’

Another big man, O’Donnell punched his palm. ‘Killing Liam’ll serve nowt ’cept get Cassie mad when he’s demobbed.’

‘So what! How come an Ulster Unionist like you wants to save a Nationalist arse?’

‘This isn’t Belfast Tom!’

‘Could’ve fooled me! Suppression in the name of profit and law.’

‘Law’s law! You broke it. You’ll be held responsible.’

‘Fuck you!’

‘Tell ’em to get him down! There’ll be a bloodbath? What’s it mean?’

‘To show there’s no going back! Its about people Michael. Your people! Trying to exorcise poverty.’

‘My lads’ve relatives on the line too! You’re splitting families!’

‘’Cause his brothers’ve been emptying Germany of troops instead of ships, is no reason to scab.’

‘You want bloody certifying!’

‘Tell the employers to talk, stop locking us out to protect profit and scabs.’

‘Not my department!’ Calling for the megaphone O’Donnell addressed the crowd: ‘It’s the same for everyone. But they don’t resort to violence!’

‘They don’t get slave pay!’ shouted First Voice. ‘Or jobs taken by out of town scabs!’

‘Aye!’ said a middle-aged woman with a baby. Hair matted with rain and blood, her clothes were old and torn. ‘But women only get what’s left when the tide goes out!’

‘Militancy isn’t the way girl!’ said O’Donnell hiding his feelings. ‘Go home! Things’ll be different in New Year.’

‘That they will!’ returned Smith stopping First Voice from throwing a cobble. ‘After starvation, suicide and disease’s through with ’em.’

‘You’re turning it into a propaganda war Tom!’

‘It’s their strongest weapon! Existing on dreams and pain, they don’t wish to own the world to prove they’re also human. All they want is respect.’

‘Keep this up, they’ll get more pain than the trenches!’ Pausing as insults rained on his men: ‘I can’t hold it much longer!’

Before Smith could answer a triumphant roar reverberated off the dock wall as everyone surged forward for a better view of the hanging.

‘Sweet Jesus! If they do it—!

Playing to the crowd, one man tied Liam’s hands while another put a noose round his neck. Encouraged by more chants of hang the blackleg, a third pushed Liam off the jib. There was a great gasp as he dropped fifty feet towards the dock; loud cheers erupted as his neck snapped, body turned in circles like a puppet above the water.

‘Murdering bastards!’ shouted a constable called Haskins.

‘All right lad!’ exclaimed O’Donnell without turning.

‘Why us Sarge?’

‘Because we’re here!’ To Smith: ‘I told you! You’ll split families!’

Eel Face snapped: ‘What’ll you do? Bring in the friggin’ RUC again!’

In August 1911 the mayor requested 200 Royal Irish Constabulary from Belfast to disperse striking railway workers. Special detachments from Leeds and Birmingham joined the 18th Hussars and Scots Greys that saw 12 policemen and over 100 strikers injured.

‘And HMS Antrim polluting the Mersey!’ growled Eye Patch.

Ignoring, O’Donnell said: ‘Jimmy Larkin wouldn’t resort to this! NUDL didn’t send him to Ireland ’cause he killed members! He didn’t found the Irish Transport and General Workers on blood and crushed bone.’

Four years before the Transport Strike the NUDL sent Liverpool-born Larkin to help Dublin and Belfast dockers attain better pay and conditions. To the chagrin of Irish employers he stayed and formed his own union.

‘Times’re different!’ said Smith a scuffle broke out by the dock wall. ‘Stop it!’ he barked. Taking the megaphone from O’Donnell. ‘You’re an easy target!’ He turned as a rifle shot cracked across Bath Street.

‘They’ve got the boss!’ exclaimed Haskins as the Chief Constable fell from his horse. ‘Bastards’ve got a sniper!’

Once more pandemonium reigned. Fighting his way to the wall with his bodyguards, imperative he was not captured Smith hoped to escape among the forest of ships bobbing along the jetty.

There is something pathetic, yet perversely spiritual about a corpse in the rain, but the sight of Liam twisting above the water took on a macabre tinge as steel rang out on the cobbles when 200 mounted reinforcements charged the crowd. Again, sabres and batons scythed the air with mortal precision; pistols were discharged as protestors scrambled over fences, inside buildings and anywhere offering cover from the onslaught. Trampled by hussars irate over their officer’s death, they fell in droves; easy victims for police who, enraged by their own leader’s demise, performed their duty with equal efficiency. Like the storm relentless and invincible, the military juggernaut soon crushed all opposition till a vast sodden entanglement of bodies and flags, cloth caps and helmets lay strewn across the cobbles.

‘They’ll kill us all!’ groaned Second Voice holding injured First Voice.

‘Get a grip!’ snarled Smith. ‘Panic, the women and children’ll suffer! Hold your ground lads! Blackjack police, hook horses! United lads. United!’

As he spoke the cavalry regrouped revealing special reinforcements marching from a sidestreet in three columns. With orders to cut off hardcore strikers, boots crashed a grisly tattoo inducing further panic. Ill-disciplined, people scattered like leaves in a gale. This time there was nowhere to go. Blocking every avenue of escape, police offered no mercy reducing the place to an abattoir: skulls cracked like eggshells, people and animals lay mangled together; many were thrown screaming into waiting Paddy wagons. What remained waited to be claimed by relatives.

Arriving at the wall Smith rescued a boy from a mounted constable. Ducking as a sabre narrowly missed his head, he bundled him through a hole in the dock gate while his bodyguards dispatched the rider. Hurrying down a series of avenues between the sheds, he came to a rebate in the jetty. Moored to a rusty ring in the wall, a small rowing boat heaved in the swells.

‘Down you go son!’ he said as sounds of bedlam receded in the street. ‘Say, aren’t you Bob Arkwright’s lad? In the Boer War wasn’t he?’

Frightened, the boy nodded. ‘Lost him in the crush!’

‘He’ll be okay! Your dad can handle himself. Right Mogsie?’

‘Right!’ said Eel Face. ‘Mopping up already!’

The battle lowered to sporadic shouts as Eye Patch untied the mooring line. Keeping watch as Smith and the boy climbed down moss-covered steps to the boat, he followed suit and picked up the oars.

‘Keep to the wall Archie! Make for Canning Half Tide. Go through Albert Dock. Lose us between Salthouse and Wapping Basin. If we’re seen, separate and meet at the usual place.’ And a happy Christmas to one and all! he thought as adrenaline rushed from his body like a departing demon.

Reaching their destination, they hid the boat and hurried to a disused packing shed.

‘They’ll pay for this!’ wept the boy as the bodyguards left to check the ground. ‘Th-that was murder Mister Smith! My best mate Jeff Wiggins—! They bashed his skull in. Didn’t have a chance! Never seen so much blood. Will it always be like this?’

Smith placed a hand on his should. ‘No! But it’ll happen again because there’re people who’d have it that way. Understand what I’m saying?’

‘You’re talking about greed!’

Smiling, Smith ruffled the boy’s hair. ‘Got nouse! Heard of Alexander the Great?’

‘Who?’

‘Greek warrior and ruler back a bit,’ said Smith rolling a cigarette. ‘Cut the Gordian knot—saw solutions, not problems like you see Liverpool’s worst disease. Avarice! Posh name for greed. Got a name?’

‘Ade! Dad says employers’re crueller than the Irish Sea.’

‘And deeper! But not all! Good and bad in everyone—even employers! Liking the boy’s cut he said: ‘Call me Tom or Smithy.’ Listening for signs of danger: ‘You’ve spunk! Remind me of me when I was your age. I think you’ll put today behind you Ade. Think of it as a bad dream, but never forget what they did! We ran today and we’ll run tomorrow and the next day, but not as fast or far till we reach the last tomorrow.’

‘But what happens then—the last tomorrow?’

‘That’s when we attack. Called organisation! Fancy it?’

‘I’m your man Tom!’ said Ade smiling through his sadness.

‘Good! How old’re you? Truth now!’

‘Fourteen—closer to fifteen! Been down the hold eight years.’

Smith nodded gravely. So like my Danny he thought. ‘My son was seven when he was crushed by a cotton bale.’

‘Faulty sling?’

‘Aye! I complained beforehand, but time was valued more than his life. Slings cost money too. Lives don’t! No compensation. That’s what we’re up against. They’ll do anything to protect wealth and power!’

‘Dad says the same!’

‘You’ll always look over your shoulder for coppers and informers, and there’ll be times you go against yourself for the union—even your dad! It’s bigger than everyone. If you haven’t the stomach for it, go now!’ Pausing, he said firmly: ‘And be prepared to sacrifice your youth! Even love!’

‘For Jeff and all those who were killed today!’ said Ade angrily.

‘Lose your temper, dig your grave! This’s the NUDL not your personal crusade.’ As the boy nodded: ‘Obey orders without question or malice. Do whatever you’re told with good spirit. Will you follow me Ade Arkwright?’

‘All the way Tom!’

Smith shook his hand. ‘In case you’re wondering why we ran! If I were caught the organisation’d be weakened. If you want someone to blame, hit the Shipbuilders’ Federation for refusing to negotiate. We didn’t want this!’

‘Why wouldn’t they talk?’

‘’Cause they’re piss-pants afraid!’

‘Of what?’

Smith’s face clouded and he suddenly looked far older than his forty-five years. ‘They think by meeting our demands we’d amount to something and they’d have to train new monkeys for their dirty work. You’ll eat worse shit on the street than join us before your stretch’s through. Just never forget your enemy or why Jeff Wiggins died and you’ll walk through this thing.’

‘Tom?’

‘Hmn!’ replied Smith growing concerned for his bodyguards.

‘D’you remember how it was? Growing up! It’s hard being young!’

Smith grinned and puffed on the cigarette. ‘Harder than dying ’cause grown-ups forget it and miss the young like ships in the night. But it’ll slip by faster than a barrow girl’s tongue!’

‘You think I’m a kid,’ said Ade shuffling his feet.

‘I think you’re the future! And never apologise. Sign of weakness!’ Pausing as the men returned: ‘Don’t go straight home. Wander in case you’re followed! But don’t take too long. There’ll be a curfew and we don’t want you caught. Tell your dad I’ll be in the other place tonight. Not the usual one!’

‘All clear!’ said Eye Patch winking at Ade and tossing an apple.

‘Okay son!’ said Smith. ‘On your way. I’ll be in touch.’

‘Got balls!’ said Eel Face when he’d gone. ‘If we go on like this, we’ll have more men than the friggin’ army!’

‘Thought you knew!’ chuckled Smith as they left the shed. ‘They join us after square bashing.’

‘Dirty Dan’s?’ said Eye Patch falling in step.

‘Where else!’

Eel Face grimaced. ‘Cold place, warm beer!’

‘But safe!’ said Smith. ‘Don’t you like Wapping Basin Mogsie?’

‘Like asking if I like the Devil! Too many fucking shadows, nooks and things. I get lost—if you see what I mean!’

‘Lost!’ smiled Eye Patch. ‘That’s rich coming from the owner of the only nerveless body in Liverpool!’

Frequented by union delegates who met in a closely guarded back room, the pub was owned by a retired docker and squatted like an ageing vulture in a dark cul-de-sac near Wapping Basin.

Plagued by the harrowing events in Bath Street, Smith walked through a series of dingy courts and alleys. Top of O’Donnell’s wanted list apart from the Chief Constable’s killer, he changed direction frequently. He doubted the curfew would be eased, even on Christmas Eve! Be different with Cassie he thought, recalling O’Donnell’s remark about Liam’s youngest brother. He’ll come out with guns blazing! Just be a case of choosing the ground.

Night had drawn in when he stopped outside a seaman’s pub loud with merriment. In certain areas the curfew had been eased. Oblivious of revellers, smoking in the shadows by a lamp he prayed for it all to wash over him like unwanted memories. But try as he may to blot out the carnage, he couldn’t erase the pictures of people ridden down, shot and hacked with swords. Like a revelation from the Dark Ages he relived everything: people fought and ran, begged for mercy and lost their lives outside the lamp glow; hussars charged and slashed as police gave no quarter before carting his comrades off to the cells. With Archie and Mogsie alongside he saved young Ade, winced at his sadness for his pal Jeff Wiggins. Without respite, horror and tragedy crushed him till the pictures suddenly disappeared leaving him exhausted. But cruelly they returned. More savage, heinous, he gagged as barefoot were trampled by the lords of might and discipline; he wept as discordant sounds of massacre mixed with the storm as the body count rose to scar the face of Liverpool.

‘All right lad?’ asked a passer-by. ‘Look all in!’

‘Bit too much!’ said Smith feigning drunkenness.

‘Everything in moderation! Happy Christmas then!’

Smith turned as carollers sang Away In A Manger under a lamp by a corner shop. No time for sentiment union man with a wife and son dead and slaughter on the street! Too many sweet heads were laid down today, and there were no stars or bright sky to comfort them. Or poor Liam twisting on his rope!’

Engulfed by great sadness he entered an alley behind Dirty Dan’s and broke down. Weeping into his hands, when it was over he said firmly: ‘Steady the ship Tom! Steady as she goes!’

Chapter 1

AS with every city across the globe, buoyancy and expectation of Christmas 1918 impregnated Liverpool with hope. Spawned from world war, while cautiously optimistic confidence and resilience abounded. Indeed, if witnesses of the first Christmastide had returned they’d have been forgiven for thinking the festive season now assumed a vaster significance to Bethlehem, so powerful was the sense of emotion and release after the bloodletting. But as troops still returned in dribs and drabs—or so it seemed—the price for peace was exorbitant: of the 37 million lives squandered or ruined in France, over three million belonged to the British Empire, of whom, some 13,500 hailed from Liverpool.

Like most, while ‘Big’ Jim Mullarky was blissfully ignorant of many woeful statistics, he was staunch in his support of armed conflict. Hadn’t he provided two sons of his own to fight for their adopted country! However, this grim aspect of Man’s achievement was exiled to the nether regions of his mind as unbounded joy exploded in his heart. Whistling a carol as he strode to his basement home in Temple Street, even the dock strike wilted before his jubilation: Cassie and Sean were due on Boxing Day. They had survived. Word had not reached him of Liam’s death.

Greeting a vendor pushing a handcart, he stopped at the scrubbed-worn steps leading down to the single room and for no apparent reason pondered an insignificant point that had tugged at his mind since trading several ounces of tobacco with a Bootle tar layer for a Christmas tree. After leaving the north end—the reason he hadn’t heard about his eldest son’s murder—he thought it amusing that because Christmas Eve fell on a Tuesday the holiday would be over before the weekend. Not that there was anything wrong with Tuesdays. His own ma, bless her soul, and Cassie, were Tuesday children. But it didn’t have the same ring as Friday or Saturday. Even Sunday! Weekends were let-your-hair down time, not beginning-cum-early-midweek Tuesdays! Of course there was little to celebrate with, but having the boys back put everything into perspective. But he had a surprise or two up his sleeve. Through another no-questions-asked deal with the tar layer’s brother, Boots to a bigwig on the Cunard Line, there was concealed in a specially constructed overcoat, ham, sugar, tea, coffee and rum. To Big Jim, rum was Christmassy. There was also honey, spice and jam, and for a bolt of calico liberated from a Bostoner, he received a silver bracelet for his wife Marie, imitation pearl necklaces for his daughters Agnes and Aoife. As with the pride dependent on the lioness’s kill, Mullarkys survived on bounty disgorged from floating carcasses. Abandoning his thoughts on the denigration of Tuesdays, he frowned at something that had eluded him all day: though perverse, it took separation to rekindle love. How true it had proved since the boys donned khaki four years ago! And how he’d suffered for not saying beforehand the things all fathers find it hard to say. Yet he’d tried! But it all came out in a confused rush and was greeted by hurried handshakes and quizzical expressions as Cassie and Sean boarded the troop train. How he’d missed them—at first! Cruelly, time had cushioned the pain as he slipped back into the old routine.

‘Took ’em for granted!’ he muttered searching for the key.

Mind you, Big Jim and Marie were seldom guilty of complacency where the children were concerned. Suffering too much, too long in Ireland, they knew the value of family and importance of the individual. Yet the boys’ wages were missing since trading dock hooks for bayonets, because a farthing was the difference between eating and dreaming. On the whole, they viewed things positively: the boys were alive. Eating or dreaming, there was no substitute for their sons.

Grinning, he waved as the next-door neighbour Ichabod Owolowo tramped along in his agile, gangly gait. Close family friend, ‘Itchy Allo’ was a Liverpool born caring, happy-go-lucky, middle-aged black African. Adopting the Mullarkys, with a soft spot for Cassie, when he first met the volatile son he remarked: ‘He’s a cheeky bugger Jimbo! But he’d make a better bloody nigger than me!’ As he drew near Big Jim wondered why he didn’t return his wave.

James Fingal Thomas Mullarky was in the fifth year of his forties. A mountain carved by Irish tragedy and failure, he never dwelt on matters. A gentle man indisposed to violence—unless fate declared otherwise—since crossing the water twenty-five years ago his enemies were few in the gritty, ruthless world of the docks. Forced to prove himself in the early days, few tangled with the big man. Hard days he thought. Harder nights, when men were found dead in alleyways. But no one talked. No one broke the code of silence. As Itchy Allo approached, again for some unfathomable reason his mind slipped away, this time to his birthplace in Athenry: farther still to the Great Hunger when the Irish Diaspora spewed starving, destitute Irishers to the Mersey; yet farther through the turbulent mist of Hibernian history as it became irrevocably entwined with Britannia, King John and the all-reaching tendrils of trade.

Along with a glut of nationalities running from themselves and the evils of home, like locust early and mid-19th Century Irish descended on the northwest seaport. A strange people of maligned dreamers, storytellers and priests, poets and gunmen, they fled from poverty, landlordism and religious intolerance, British gunboat diplomacy, degradation and despair. To many, God and the Roman Church had deserted them as they saturated Liverpool with their penury and superstition, unpronounceable language and unwelcome alien faith. But this skeletal remains of a proud Celtic race not only grew British roots, but left in coffin ships for America, Canada and Australia.

Big countries for fulfilling big dreams the Irishers traded the failure, disease and oppression of home for the failure, disease and oppression of the New World. Still shackled to poverty, many found Liverpool a lonelier hell than the cesspit of Ireland. Like South Africa beforehand, also ruled by divide under British imperialism, they had no Moses. Far from parting troubled waters, the Catholic Church remained impassive to their suffering. With no pragmatist or saviour to free them from privation, racism and bigotry, they were delivered to a 19th Century Pharaoh called Greed while those who escaped ship fever, abominable sailing conditions or being thrown overboard to prevent contaminating the New World or weren’t rejected as vermin, these lucky ones still found themselves destitute, friendless and loathed on foreign soil as the dream began to fade. Many disgorged at Prince’s Landing Stage were greeted with paupers’ graves after enduring misery, disease and brutality where squalor and insufferable rat-infested ghettos crushed all but the strong. The Stage was the Irishers’ genesis where generations dreamt the great dream before falling prey to confidence tricksters, ruffians like the Forty Thieves and bogus shipping agents selling fake passages for a life’s savings: vile predators exchanged legal tender for counterfeit and offered exorbitant, sub-human accommodation till savings ran out; often luggage disappeared until hefty fees secured its return and some victims were murdered, beaten or blackmailed into a life of crime. Some doors were opened, but again the dream was expensive. Despite caring sections of the community and charitable institutions, unprincipled legal crooks hid behind the veneer of politics, banking and commercial enterprise and ruined many families, forced them into traps made by heartless employers. Financially exploited, victims of unspeakable cruelty and inhumanly long working hours, they were literally worked to death. Cheaper, more easily manipulated, children slaved 18 hours a day six days a week, in unsafe, insanitary, foul-smelling factories, often dying where they dropped. Grossly abused, along with poor Liverpolitans the Irish laboured on building sites, dug ditches, drains and graves or sold sin on the street and in disreputable households for the privilege of living. And if all that didn’t finish them off or send them screaming into crowded asylums as religious and racist bigotry assisted the grisly job begun in Ireland, many drank themselves into oblivion till death mercifully killed the dream and they were dumped outside the city away from the public conscience. Suicide was forever an option.

Like many cities—Britain’s first seaport, second to London in trade and commerce—Liverpool swept her ethnic differences under the carpet.

In some ways the Liverpool-Irish fared worse than fettered blacks that clanked their chains of misery onto the white man’s soil. Indeed, the Chinese who chose to build future dynasties on the Mersey, enjoyed better social standing in their south end headquarters around Pitt Street than the sprawling concentrations of impecunious Hibernians crammed in the north end and Scotland Road district. As the Welsh descended on the flower streets and Jews of Allerton chose Islington to launch business, hostility flared between job-depressed locals and Papist Micks. Rife with bloody street battles, murder and terror, like its racial counterpart religious sectarianism thrived as native Anglican fought immigrant Catholic. Said one lout as Big Jim drank on arrival: ‘Vicky’s our head, not some faceless dago in Rome.’ However, this volatile situation didn’t reflect previous cordial relations. After Strongbow’s ill-fated 1170 alliance with Leinster’s King Dermot Macmurrough against Henry 11’s wishes to fight the Irishman’s High King—catalyst for future Anglo-Irish confrontation—and despite Liverpool’s integral part in victualling Henry’s armies en-route to subjugate unruly Irish, trade began with the importation of Irish linen in 1426 and down the centuries Liverpool, Dublin and Belfast merchants prospered. But while business flowed between Mersey, Lagan and Liffey, politicians and church ambassadors continued their inane aggression. Lured by tales of fortunes amassed during the rapid expansion of trade and industry in the late 18th Century—in no small part due to the odious practice of slavery—the Irish exodus smothered Liverpool. After the Hunger claimed nearly a million lives, in the 1850s along with disillusioned Paddies, Poles, Hungarians and Germans, Scandinavians, Czechs and Romanians, Austrians, Italians and Greeks were reluctantly accepted by Liverpolitans as the dream became nightmare. In a city bursting at the seams, crimsoning from claims by Charles Dickens about human abuse in England, hardy survivors remembered lessons in the slums of Dublin and ditches of Skibbereen.

So, after the shamrock was re-planted in John Bull’s backyard and finally accepted by Scousers as the locals became known, Athenry Mullarkys came to the Stage. Bound for New York, somehow they never left. Living in atrocity after atrocity, they settled in Temple Street. ‘As God’s my witness,’ Big Jim said, ‘this’s right for us!’ As far back as anyone could remember there were Mullarkys in Athenry. Their ancestors served Macmurrough prior to the Norman, Meiler de Bermingham, in the second half of the 13th Century; helping to build the Dominican priory founded by de Bermingham, they worked on the burial place of the Ulster Earls before its destruction by Cromwellian soldiers. Seldom nomadic, a branch of the family came to Liverpool in 1775 but returned after an earthquake. A century later, a mercenary-minded bunch sired by a man outlawed for piking a landlord, grabbed their fortune as Virginia cotton growers before the Civil War took hold and temporarily dropped anchor in the Mersey to count their loot before setting course for New South Wales. Great-grandfather Billy Pikehead Mullarky, patriarch of the present clutch crammed into the tiny Temple Street basement, was a die-hard revolutionary. A blacksmith steeped in the beliefs of Tone and Emmet, Pikehead forged his armoury by day and thrust them into landlords by night. Before his demise—one of six Nationalists executed outside the ruins of the town built by his predecessors—Pikehead fathered 14 sons and seven daughters. Cathal his eldest—Big Jim’s grandfather who also retired prematurely from life for political convictions—sired 11 boys and five girls, the youngest being Eoin, Big Jim’s father. Unlike his amply progenitive forebears, Seamus—changed to Big Jim since starting on the docks—saw little in a so-called united island of Ireland. ‘Politics,’ he’d say with a shrug of his giant shoulders, ‘are a rich man’s church and poor man’s curse.’ He was twenty when he brought his family over. A year younger, Marie had Liam and Sean in Athenry; Eoin, Cassie and the girls Aoife and Agnes followed in quick succession. Meeting at Big Jim’s Uncle Pat’s wake, a liquid affair punctuated with political squabbles, homespun philosophy and impromptu Biblical readings, Big Jim and Marie found love across the coffin. Strict observance to custom, bans were read a year later coinciding with Big Jim’s inheritance of five acres of prime growing land. But when Marie was pregnant with Sean, he entered a lengthy argument with a wealthy landowner over title deeds. Armed with an obscure piece of 16th Century law protecting those who stole land and entitled descendants to reclaim it if lost or misappropriated, with influential friends the man forced Big Jim off his inheritance for a fraction of its value. Without redress, working all hours for unscrupulous employers for passage money to America, he sweated through a procession of filthy jobs till one stormy night as a cattleboat bucked sickeningly eastwards past Lambay Island he glared through the gloom swallowing Kingstown and swore he’d never lose to a rich man again. Then after a chance meeting with a Bootle docker the Mullarky fortunes changed. Starting as a labourer in Canning Dock, he forgot America. Winning his spurs on the waterfront, for the first time since landing hope shone down the steps to the basement. And when the Owolowos arrived, a piece of heaven dropped into the dark abyss.

As with Pikehead and Cathal’s political affiliations, Big Jim and his father were against large families. Relieved, despite Rome’s blinkered view on birth control, Marie who’d seen her mother die producing the seventeenth Athenry O’Malley in an agonised confusion of blood and limbs, never questioned this immutable stance but once remarked by the factory gate: ‘Sure Himself never meant women to produce like beasts of the field. It has to be something more!’ Producing six of her own, a seventh named Eamon after her father, died of consumption at six months. Though devout, at times she merely tolerated the church because she felt incomplete without religion; couldn’t imagine life without mass or dropping in for a chat with God. Sometimes, she just called in for the serenity or to ponder the grand tragedy of the Stations and Virgin’s mysterious smile; other times it was to enjoy the churchly trappings of Saint Anthony’s. Like most uneducated people she went in awe and was not a little suspicious of every cassocked collegiate threatening eternal damnation. Except Father Frank! A beautiful man. But as war came to an end, she came more often to thank God for saving Cassie and Sean and pray for an end to Cassie’s wild ways and hare-brained schemes. As with her other sons and daughters, she often said she’d been kissed by Christ. Liam, Sean, Eoin—after Big Jim’s father—and Casey, which became Cassie, worked with their father in Canning Dock. At twenty-six, Irish-born Liam was the eldest; there was a two year gap between Cassie and the girls Aoife and Agnes. If in trouble the Mullarkys were closer than molecules.

I’m blessed! thought Big Jim as Itchy Allo came abreast. Recalling his aloofness he frowned as the black man hurried by. ‘Must be Billy’s asthma again!’ he muttered following down the steps.

A towering mulatto Itchy Allo was an enigma to white people. In 1771 his great-great grandfather Laz’rus Owolowo of The Hill and numerous relations were taken from Old Calabar on a blackbirder bearing the unlikely name Integrity. Amazingly, though never a slave himself, Itchy Allo saw it as the black man’s salvation. ‘Where in the bloody jungle,’ he’d say in his northern twang: ‘would a big buck nigger find the Lord? Only head-eaters and women with arses like a tar layer’s bucket live there. Never’ve known about Moses and Jesus catchin’ fish on the hill if Cap’n Grace hadn’t stopped by Ol’ Calabar for Laz’rus. And Liverpool ain’t got no mosquitoes like those that bit great-great grandma’s tits! But for the slaver I’d never’ve met Nance!’ When people had difficulty with his name, he’d say pulling from a small bottle round his neck: ‘More treacherous than a rat’s arse on payday! Name’s made for a jigaboo who don’t know cuss from chaos or the sense to spit in the eye of ol’ Bollock Bob from Hides.’ Like many words, Beelzebub and Hades suffered atrociously. Caring nothing for his colour, Nancy Littlefoot as she was then and only daughter of a tanner’s assistant, loved him to distraction. Meeting while he entertained a soup queue at the Pier Head with an improvised African war dance, she married Itchy Allo in a cluttered storeroom of Muskrat’s Ship’s Chandlers by Albert Dock. All they could get—Liverpool still had to accept mixed marriages—the proprietor’s brother was senior minister—and only one—of The First Church of Christ on the Mersey, a so-claimed branch of the New York 127th Street Salvationist Christian Brethren. Non-racist, non-denominational, the minister, however, was expensive.

Tolerant, if Catholic married Protestant however, to the Mullarkys it was a different kettle of fish.

‘Hey!’ said Big Jim as Itchy Allo opened his door. ‘What happened to the thousand words you’re always full of?’

Before Nancy could speak, her husband pushed her inside.

‘Bloody hell!’ exclaimed Big Jim turning the key. Going inside he saw the clogs missing. Marie and the girls were on their outings. At home they wore bare feet. Putting the tree by the window to catch what light escaped from street level, he wrapped the presents and forgot about his friend’s odd behaviour. He sighed at the drab, medium-sized sparse room: curtains divided it into four: straw palliasses lay neatly for parents, brothers and sisters in three sections; the remainder was for living and cooking arrangements. Placed for maximum light, candles sprouted from ale bottles: fruit box table and chairs stood on bare boards surrounded by bloated, peeling walls; bloodier battle of atrophy, the ceiling glared uncompromisingly at a faded Virgin and Child, fireplace and wash bucket. Even a Sacred Heart above the door looked trapped in its owners’ penury. Mercifully, a woman’s touch saved the place from complete ruin.

At least eviction doesn’t call he thought, putting the presents under the tree. Suddenly he felt proud Sean and Cassie. Refusing to risk all four sons against Kaiser Bill, Eoin and Liam picked the long straws. ‘Cassie a sergeant!’ he grinned rolling a cigarette. Hope they’ve got some back pay!

Eaten by strikes and inflation, the few coppers Marie kept in a jar on the mantelpiece were almost gone.

Eyes moistening, he pictured his fighting sons. Especially Cassie! If he’d been a Republican he’d’ve beaten England single-handed, he thought. It seemed like only yesterday he bounced them on his knees telling his father’s stories about Pikehead and Cathal’s glorious adventures. ‘Thank you!’ he said to the Sacred Heart. ‘For bringing them home.’ Then he saw a note written in a spidery hand on the table. Reading slowly—apart from Cassie, Sean and Eoin they were all still learning to read and write—he gasped: ‘Cheap turkeys behind Rambling Dick’s. Back soon. Love! The Girls.’ He pictured the bleak taproom: unpopular with many, women were unwelcome in Rambling Dick Hennessey’s. Lost in a polluted fold off Paradise Street, sole access was via a grim, flagged alley; gaslight threw tendrils of dirty yellow across the yard onto the snug window. To deter officials and thieves—few ventured into these hostile waters—the outside wall wore a tiara of glass and barbed wire; ex-pugilists manned a wicket gate at all hours. The pub was mostly frequented by seedy types and hand-picked, sad-eyed, grog-addled ancients drumming trade with yarns for salty beef and watered beer: immovable, they were more faded than oil-painted whalers braving Newfoundland storms cluttering every wall, less lifelike than three-masted sloops, square-rigged brigantines hanging in ubiquitous abandon from low-hung beams; elsewhere, gimbals, navigation lights and a motley assortment of nautical impedimenta stared at drinkers like the stare-frozen eyes of drowned sailors. But for all its outward moroseness, what Rambling Dick’s never sold in daylight above the counter it disposed of them in darkness beneath it. Clearing house for excess cargo, money changed hands between between nods and winks, drunken tales and rummier captains.

Big Jim turned as Nancy’s voice permeated the thin wall like an attack of mildew. Frowning as Itchy Allo told her to lower her voice, he listened as the man described events in Bath Street. Shocked as he heard Liam’s name, he put his ear to the wall. ‘So it wasn’t Billy’s asthma!’ In the ensuing whispers and frightful pauses, terror struck as Itchy Allo explained about the Chief Constable. He slumped against the wall as Nancy exclaimed: ‘Hung someone from a crane!’ Grimacing, he gasped out loud: ‘Who? What’s my boy to do with this?’ Rushing out he banged on his friend’s door. ‘Itchy!’

‘You must tell him!’ Nancy said as her husband opened the door. ‘Don’t let him hear it from strangers in the street.’

‘Hear what?’ rasped Big Jim. ‘Has something happened to Liam?’

‘Jesus, I-I’m sorry Jimbo!’

‘Tell me, damn it? Tell me about my son?’

‘I was going to when I saw you. But you looked—so complete!’

‘What the fuck happened? Tell me my boy’s all right!’

Itchy Allo dropped his sad, brown soup plate eyes as Big Jim grabbed his arms. ‘Come in lad! Close the door Nance!’

‘Eyes boring into his friend, Big Jim growled: ‘What is it Itchy? Tell me it’s not—bad!’

‘The worst! They killed him Jimbo! They hung him!’

Stunned, Big Jim allowed himself to be led to chair. Dazed as Itchy Allo described the final, lurid moments of Liam’s life, eventually he shot to his feet and slammed a fist into his palm. ‘Hung my Liam, my first-born like a fucking criminal. From a crane! Why?’ Sitting back down he sobbed into his hands: ‘In God’s name why?’

Kneeling, Itchy Allo gave him his little bottle. ‘Broke the picket! Said you was all hungry without Cass and Sean’s wages.’

‘Crossed the line!’ bellowed Big Jim disbelieving what he heard.

‘Take a pull lad!’

Drinking Big Jim gasped: ‘Mullarkys don’t know how to be blacklegs!’

‘I know, but that’s what they’re saying!’

‘Who?’

‘Everyone! Heard coming from my Auntie Nelly’s.’

Crossing the floor Big Jim punched the wall, his powerful shoulders moving rhythmically till he fell to his knees. After they got him back in the chair he sobbed: ‘Why would they do that? Why Itchy?’

‘S’ppose it ain’t just soldiers who feel war!’ Looking at Nancy: ‘His hands girl!’

Bringing a bowl she bathed his cuts. ‘Look after him Ichabod while I find Marie and the girls.’

‘Just now I had four sons!’ muttered Big Jim. ‘Sean and Cassie’re God-knows where, won’t see Eoin till the pubs chuck out, and Liam’s—!’

So sad thought Nancy. Cruel! Can’t even draw on the strength fathers draw from sons in times like these. Stroking his head, she stopped as he said something under his breath. ‘What was that pet?’

‘Where’s Eoin?’ he repeated angrily. ‘You’d think a brother’d know about another’s trouble!’ Emptying the bottle: ‘How were they allowed to do it? What kind of people stood by? Where was Smithy?’

‘I know, I know!’ said Itchy Allo refilling the bottle.

‘No you don’t!’ said Big Jim coming unsteadily to his feet. ‘It wasn’t your Billy!’ Taking the bottle, after a long pull: ‘Did they cheer as my first-born was hung for a principle. His killers’ll wish they’d never been born!’

As he lurched for the door Nancy said: ‘Stay with him! I just hope I find Marie and the girls before the street does.’

‘What about Billy and Sarah? They’re due back from Auntie Nellie’s!’

‘I’ll get someone. Just make sure he doesn’t get locked up!’

Watching the two men from the doorway, Nancy threw on a headscarf. There was a time she’d have prayed to a saint, but not now! Lapsed over the Catholic Church’s feckless attitude towards the poor, last Good Friday she shouted from the back of Saint Anthony’s: ‘You’ll not get a farthing more off me Father. Like Satan you’re all take!’ She’d meant to take the pictures down, but Itchy Allo said it was lucky to