The Spy-Catcher’s Wife

By James McKeon

Molly Kennedy was a shy Irish girl. She worried about everything. Along came a handsome British army officer and swept her off her feet. His job was to catch spies. It was a dangerous job. At last she found true love. She couldn’t be happier. Little did she know what lay ahead.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Dec 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9781984592460

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THE SPY-CATCHER’S WIFE

James McKeon

Copyright © 2019 by James McKeon.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2019917667

ISBN:       Hardcover       978-1-9845-9248-4

                 Softcover         978-1-9845-9247-7

                 eBook              978-1-9845-9246-0

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.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 11/06/2019

Xlibris

800-056-3182

www.Xlibrispublishing.co.uk

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CONTENTS

Acknowledgement

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

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

Every effort has been made to contact and thank everyone who has helped me in the writing of this book. If I have failed to acknowledge any individual, I humbly apologise. I would like to thank the following: Mark Cronin and Tom Foley of the Blackpool Historical Society, my son, Colin, who was always there for me, Dr. John Borgonova and Dr. Donal O’Driscoll of the UCC History Department, Tom McCarthy for his constant encouragement, Liam Ronayne and his dedicated staff of Cork Library and, especially, Gerry White, military historian at Collin’s Barracks, for his advice and patience.

James McKeon has written many plays and books. His best-known work is ‘Frank O’Connor- A Life.’ He lives in Cork with his wife

Although inspired in part by some historical events this is a work of fiction. All characters and descriptions of events are the products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons is entirely coincidental.

CHAPTER 1

At times, Molly Kennedy wondered if there really was a God. She was angry. What did she do to deserve this? She wasn’t the same girl since her mother died. It was so unfair. She lived with her father, Eric, and her sister, Róisín, in Sunday’s Well, high on the hills of the north side of the city.

Eric sipped a large whiskey as he watched his two daughters embroiled in a passionate tennis match. They were the jewels in his life. Róisín was an athletic 22-year-old, tall and attractive, with piercing blue eyes and long blonde hair. She loved life, worried about nothing, and took everything in her stride. Molly Kennedy was three years younger with a mop of red curls and a face full of freckles. She hated those freckles. She worried about everything: her looks, her weight, and her lack of success with the boys. She was secretly jealous of Róisín. Her father could hear her shrieking with joy. At last, for the first time, she beat her big sister. Eric enjoyed the rivalry between his two daughters. Molly, still out of breath, hugged her father.

‘Well, Dad, what do you think? I whooped her ass,’ she said.

He had to laugh at the language the young people used nowadays.

‘It’s about time, young lady.’ He smiled.

Róisín scoffed at her young sister and hurried by.

‘I only let her win, or she’d never get over it,’ she said.

Molly pulled up a chair and sat next to her father. They just sat there looking out across the city. Eric could see that something was troubling her. He drank his whiskey in silence

‘Dad, can I ask you something, something personal?’ she asked.

‘Of course you can. I’m always here for you,’ he said.

‘We’re going to the dance in the barracks tonight. I often feel it’s a waste of time. All the men flock around Róisín like moths around a candle. She’s out for every dance. I’m lucky if I get two dances for the whole night. That’s usually when all the other girls are out on the floor and I’m the only one left,’ she said.

Eric could see the hurt in her eyes. He put his arm around her shoulder.

‘It’s they’re the fools,’ he said. ‘They’re so blind that they can’t recognise real beauty when they see it. Róisín is a pretty girl. She’s like a butterfly swaying in the wind, fluttering from flower to flower. You’re like a red rose not yet in full bloom. Very soon, you’ll blossom forth. Men will be tripping over themselves just to hold your hand.’

Molly had to smile. She was surprised by her father’s poetic outburst. He paused and turned to his daughter.

‘You have your mother’s eyes,’ he said.

‘Dad, I think the whiskey has gone to your head. I better be off and put on my dancing shoes.’ She laughed.

Eric refilled his glass. He picked up the Cork Examiner and glanced through the pages. Slowly but surely the local Volunteer movement was growing and openly parading. They were determined to achieve their goal: a free Ireland. Eric shook his head. He never could have seen this happen. He was worried more about the tension which was spreading across Europe. Germany was flexing its muscles and quietly building up its navy. He had seen it all before. He sipped his whiskey. His mind dwelt on that August day. That was the day the trouble really began.

The 1st of August 1903 was a warm, sunny Saturday. The city was buzzing with excitement. King Edward VII and his wife, Queen Alexandra, were visiting Cork to open the Great Exhibition at the Mardyke. It had been over fifty years since the last royal visit. They arrived by yacht at Queenstown on the south coast of Ireland, and they were escorted to the city with much pomp and ceremony. Their route was suitably festooned with bunting, flags twisting in the soft breeze. Their horse-drawn carriage was accompanied by a plethora of strutting brass bands. Etiquette required that the lord mayor, Edward Fitzgerald, walked alongside the carriage. The noise was deafening. There was a festival atmosphere.

Eric and Mary Kennedy struggled to the front of the large crowd on the Grand Parade. They were accompanied by their two children. Molly squealed with excitement. She was perched on her father’s shoulders, waving a coloured flag and clinging on to her mother’s hand. Windows high up in the tall buildings were overflowing with cheering onlookers. At last, they caught a glimpse of the carriage, drawn by four majestic horses, as it turned on to Great George’s Street. It clip-clopped out of sight. The Royal Irish Constabulary found it difficult to restrain the growing crowd. The last brass band finally marched out of sight.

Suddenly there was a flash. A shot rang out from the roof of a building on the corner of Hanover Street. Most people didn’t hear it over the noise of the bands. They were shocked when the king slumped sideways into the arms of the queen. They could see the blood spattered across his chest. Disbelief, panic, screams pierced the air. The frightened horses bolted. The lord mayor jumped on to the carriage and helped to control the horses. He guided them off the main street around the corner and managed to stop them outside the nearby Mercy Hospital. With the help of the queen, he half carried the king up the short steps to the hospital. By now, the police, with guns drawn, were lined up across the entrance. Onlookers were shocked. Two doctors arrived quickly. With all the blood, it looked worse than it was. It turned out to be only a flesh wound. The doctors patched it up. The king surprised everyone when he insisted on doing what he came to Ireland to do. It would take more than a terrorist bullet to stop him from doing his royal duty. The lord mayor gave him his overcoat to cover the bloodstains. By now, a huge crowd had gathered outside. They cheered when the royal couple waved at them and climbed back on the carriage. With the lord mayor walking alongside them, they made their way up the Mardyke. The king and queen declared the exhibition officially open and honoured the lord mayor with a baronetcy. The large exhibition gardens were later named Fitzgerald Park.

That unexpected attack on the royal couple received worldwide condemnation and a frenzy of media criticism. The Church called it an act of evil. Yet many Republicans felt a tinge of smug satisfaction, a gentle reminder of who they were and what they intended to achieve. That incident triggered a simmering resentment by many Cork Republicans of all things British. To them, this visit by an English monarch was the last straw, rubbing salt in their wounds, a display of vulgar wealth. In many areas of the city, survival was a daily struggle. There was little work for the men. Many women scraped by as part-time charwomen or by washing clothes for the soldiers in Victoria Barracks. A burning desire for a free Ireland was growing. No more would they be treated like second-class citizens. They were not allowed to speak their native language. It was against the Englishman’s law. For the next ten years, this slumbering displeasure was turning in to open animosity. Groups of young men were flouting the law, attending public meetings, inspired by inflammatory speeches. These gathering were broken up by baton-wielding constabulary.

The weekly dance at Victoria Barracks was a popular night for the Kennedy sisters. The barracks was a fortress high over the city, looking down on the busy harbour. It was named after Queen Victoria in 1849 to commemorate her visit to the city. The girls rarely missed a dance. It took place in the Officers’ Mess. It was frequented by numerous eligible young men. There was nothing grandiose about it: an intimate room, a lively trio providing the music, a small bar where everyone mixed in a friendly atmosphere.

Róisín had one last look in the large mirror. She liked her hair brushed back over her shoulders. She gave a playful twirl in her red three-quarter-length dress. Because of her height, she wore flat black shoes. Molly was sitting by the dressing table, applying the final touches of her make-up. Her short auburn hair set off her blue full-length dress. She wore brown shoes with a silver buckle and four-inch Cuban heels. At last, she was ready. Róisín struck an exaggerated pose.

‘Well, what do you think?’ She smiled at her sister.

‘Gorgeous as usual, and stop fishing for compliments,’ Molly said.

Where they lived was very convenient. They got the nearby tram down into the city and all the way up to St Luke’s Cross. The barracks was a ten-minute walk away. The soldier on guard saluted them as they filed through the arched entrance and made their way past the little church on the right and the huge square on their left. They stopped for a while to watch a squad of soldiers drilling in the far-off corner. The girls were so familiar with the barracks. When they were young, they lived here for a while, especially when their father was away fighting in some war. That was where they first played tennis on the old Camp Field courts. There were many happy memories with their mother: long walks in the summer evenings, down into Blackpool and up to the scenic Glen Valley high over the winding brook. They might have a picnic, and some Sunday afternoons, they would venture in for a swim. They loved the marching bands. They could tell where they came from by the songs they belted out: ‘Bonny Prince Charlie’ by the Scots and ‘Men of Harlech’ by the Welsh. More people appeared and the girls hurried by the big old cannon outside the Officers’ Mess. They could hear the music wafting from inside: ‘Ragtime Cowboy Joe.’ They quickened their step. They saw many of the same old faces, happy faces, enjoying themselves. Róisín grabbed a small table for two in the corner, away from the music. She bought two minerals. She barely had time to sit down when she was asked to dance. It gave Molly a chance to look around. At times, she was sorry she didn’t stay at home with a good book. She was familiar with most of the girls, and there was a mixture of army personnel and civilians. She felt self-conscious as she sat there alone, watching and waiting for Róisín to return. When she did return, she hardly had time to say a word. The men were almost queuing up for a dance with her. It was hot and noisy and exciting. Molly decided to take a brief stroll outside for a little fresh air. It was a cool night. The stars seemed to hang in the sky and mock her. Some girls were talking by the old cannon. A young couple were sitting on a nearby bench laughing, holding hands. Molly was conscious of the time. They had to catch the last tram home. She heard a polite cough behind her. She turned to see an army man with a big smile on his face. She knew he was a captain by the pips on his shoulder.

‘A penny for your thoughts,’ he said, ‘you’re miles away.’

Molly was stuck for words for a moment. She quickly regained her composure and smiled back at the handsome stranger.

‘Sorry,’ she said nervously.

‘I have a confession to make,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ve been watching you all night, trying to build up the courage to ask you out for a dance. I’m afraid I have two left feet.’

She liked his green eyes and short brown hair. The young lovebirds left the bench and walked off into the darkness. He asked her if she’d like to sit down for a moment. He told her his name was Paul Wright and his regiment only arrived in Cork on Friday.

‘I was told this was the hotspot, where all the action took the place, all the pretty girls,’ he said.

She told him all about Róisín and about her father being an ex-army man and about how she missed her mother and all about Sunday’s Well. She seemed to go on forever without taking a breath. She stopped when she realised she’d been talking too much. He hardly got a word in. She was worried that Róisín would be looking for her. The music stopped inside.

‘I better go in. It was nice talking to you,’ she said.

He walked to the door with her.

‘Would you like a dance, just one dance?’ he asked. ‘A sort of welcome-to-Cork dance.’

‘I’d like that.’ She smiled.

The trio on stage played a slow version of ‘When Irish eyes are smiling’. By now, the mess was packed. Molly enjoyed the strength of his arm around her. She felt comfortable as they shuffled slowly around the floor. They never spoke. She realised he was genuinely shy. She liked that. The dance seemed to be over in no time. The music came to a halt, and she was just going to start looking for Róisín. He put his hand on her shoulder.

‘Would you like to show me Cork some day? I’m a bit of a stranger,’ he said.

‘Yes, that would be fun,’ she said.

‘How about five o’clock on Wednesday, a pot of tea and scones?’ he said.

‘The Imperial Hotel on the Mall, tea and scones it is,’ she said.

Her mind was racing, thinking about what her father had told her earlier about when he’d first met her mother. Tea and scones—was this an omen? Paul took her hand. They realised they were the only couple on the floor. She felt everyone was watching them. The dance was over. Some people were sitting down, lost in conversation. Others were heading for home. He turned and left, giving a brief wave at the exit door. Molly found her sister sitting at their table with a mock frown on her face.

‘Well, well, the quiet ones are always the worst. Where were you all night? Who is that gorgeous man you were with? Why didn’t you introduce me?’ she asked.

‘He asked me out for a dance. Paul Wright is his name. He just arrived here a few days ago with the Lancashire Fusiliers. He’s nice, isn’t he?’ Molly said.

‘Will he be here next week?’ Róisín asked.

‘I’ll find out. We’re having tea and scones on Wednesday,’ Molly said.

‘Tea and scones—that is serious. By God, aren’t you the dark horse,’ Róisín said. ‘Come on, we’ll miss the tram. You can tell me more on the way home.’

Róisín never let up on the journey back to Sunday’s Well. She was told all about them sitting on the bench for a little while. No, they didn’t hold hands. It was a non-stop barrage of questions: ‘Did he kiss you? How long is he here? Where is he from? Has he a brother?’

Molly didn’t sleep a wink that night. She thought Wednesday would never come. She didn’t know what to wear. She settled on exactly what she wore at the dance, the trusty blue dress. She was nervous. She was in the city centre at 4.30 p.m. Cork had a population of 80,000 people. Molly felt they were all in St. Patrick’s Street right at this moment. It was busy, bustling, and noisy. Overcrowded trams trundled by at a snail’s pace. Countless horse and carts loaded down with everything struggled in disorder. Impatient hackney drivers waited in a queue outside Roches Stores. Molly took her time sauntering along Princes Street, stopping at an occasional shop, looking in the window, before turning on to the South Mall. She reached the Imperial Hotel. It was 4.55 p.m. There was a strong breeze. She decided to go in to the restaurant and wait. Paul was already there, sitting by a big window looking out at the busy mall. At first, she hardly knew him. He looked so different in his civilian clothes: a dark, double-breasted suit, white shirt, and brown tie. When he saw her, he smiled and gave her a gentle hug.

‘You look lovely. I already ordered,’ he said.

‘You don’t look too bad yourself, so different in civvies.’ She smiled.

The waitress came and they drank their tea in silence for a while. Róisín had given her a long list of questions to ask. Molly was silently reminding herself to relax.

‘Tell me about yourself. I’m all ears and we have all night,’ she said.

‘Now, where do I start? I don’t want to bore you to death. I’ve led a very ordinary life, well, that is up to now,’ he smiled. ‘I was born in Bury in Greater Manchester twenty-five years ago, an only child. My father is still living there in the family home. My mother died a young woman almost ten years ago. My father, a physician, spoiled me silly. He had big plans for his darling little boy, a chip off the old block. He wanted me to become a doctor, but all I ever longed to be was a soldier. From my schooldays, I was fascinated with the army brass bands passing my house at different times of the day. I used to march along behind them all the way to Wellington Barracks. When I left school, I joined the Royal Lancashire Fusiliers, and here I am,’ he said.

‘But what are you doing in Ireland?’ she asked.

He paused for a while, uncertain, and drank some tea.

‘A section of the regiment was sent here to do some special training. It’s common knowledge there is trouble brewing. This is all hush-hush army stuff not worth talking about. By the way, I love poetry, but keep that to yourself. I’m sure you are much more interesting,’ he said.

She told him there was really nothing to tell. She had no job. Róisín worked in an office in the city centre. He already knew about life with her father in the army and her mother’s early death. The time flew by. He looked at his watch.

‘I better walk you home. I’m afraid we’ll have to cancel my guided tour, maybe some other day,’ he said.

‘I’ll hold you to that,’ she said.

The mall was almost deserted now as they strolled slowly on to the Grand Parade and along the Mardyke Walk. They stopped for a moment on Wellington Bridge near her home and watched the swans gracefully drift by. A group of noisy boys were fishing under the bridge. She wished the night would go on forever. It was time to go. Paul bent and kissed her gently on the lips.

‘Thanks for a lovely day,’ he said. ‘Will you be at the dance next week?’

‘Yes. Will I see you there?’ she asked.

‘I’d like that,’ he said.

She turned and walked away. He called after her.

‘Molly, I might have some good news for you.’

As she opened her door, she wondered what he meant. She looked back. He was gone. Róisín was eagerly waiting in the kitchen with a bagful of questions. First, she sat Molly down. She produced a tray of warm milk and biscuits and sat next to her.

‘Well, did he kiss you?’

CHAPTER 2

Paul Wright received an urgent message. He made his way quickly across the windswept square, wondering why Lieutenant Colonel Corliss wanted him so early in the morning. He hurried along the corridor, knocked on his door, and stepped inside. His commanding officer sat writing behind an oak desk. He was a heavy man in his fifties. He had a rugged appearance, a thick neck, and a flat nose. In his day, he had been British Army lightweight champion three years running. It showed in his face. They saluted.

‘Sir, you wanted to see me,’ Paul said.

‘At ease, captain. Take a seat,’ he said, picking up a bunch of papers and studying them.

‘As you know, we are here to do a job. Our undercover people tell us there is a storm brewing and it could be potential trouble. Our job is to nip it in the bud before it gathers momentum. To put it bluntly, the natives are getting restless. In the last week, there have been two attacks on rural RIC barracks. Three RIC officers were injured, and half a dozen rifles plus a box of ammo have been stolen. They could be lethal in the wrong hands. I’ve put together a special task force to stop them in their tracks. I want the perpetrators dealt with, exterminated. I want to send out a message to these rebels: don’t trifle with the British Army. You are in charge of a team of good men specially picked from the Lancashires, twenty proven men. No local fusiliers are involved. There might be a danger of loose talk. You will meet them in the gym in one hour. Get back to me later and let me know how things went. Good luck,’ he said, handing him a sheet of paper and saluting.

Paul stood in the corridor for a moment and glanced at the list. The lieutenant colonel was right. He had soldiered with most of them. They were good men. At 10 a.m. sharp, Paul walked into the gym. The men were scattered in small groups. Some just stood there talking. Some were sitting at a table while others were smoking. They all stood to attention and saluted. Paul smiled. He was familiar with most of them. There was a hint of tension in the air. He studied the list.

‘All right, you lot, sit down and take it easy. When I first got this list, I said, Now there’s a fine bunch of alcohol. Sorry, soldiers,’ Paul said.

They all laughed. It broke the ice. He continued.

‘I don’t know how much you know, but I just want to stress that we are all a team: all for one, no heroes. By the way, our operation is called Operation Shamrock.’

There was a muffled giggle from his audience. Paul told them that this was a hush-hush exercise. It was strictly a Lancashire job. He wanted them to stay out of uniform as much as possible and blend in with the crowd. Their Munster Fusilier colleagues in the barracks knew nothing about it. He wanted to keep it that way. First, he advised them to get to know each other and, more important, to carefully memorise each other’s new identities. He encouraged them to speak freely on how they should operate. He was delighted with the response. Some wanted to go in pairs. Others would prefer to work alone in different areas of the city, mingle, and befriend locals, especially ones with loose talk. They would each be allotted small flats. Paul reminded them about the element of danger. They were unarmed and vulnerable and could very well be executed. They were to meet in a few days, and they would each be given their new in-depth identity. He suggested that they all retire to the bar for a drink. There was a loud cheer.

At 2 p.m., Paul called to see Lieutenant Colonel Corliss for a briefing. The lieutenant colonel stressed that the operation was his baby, and he could use any means at his disposal, any necessary violence, just get the job done. As Paul was leaving, he paused.

‘Sir, I may have one small problem. I’m being bogged down with paperwork. Could I possibly get a secretary to help so I can get on with the job?’ he asked.

‘By all means, captain. There’s no need for you to be running to me with every little problem. Look after it yourself.’

Paul smiled as he closed the door.

It was six o’clock. The sound of Shandon bells rang out the Angelus across the city. People blessed themselves as they passed. Donal Cogan walked up the Coal Quay, turned in to Cornmarket Street, and crossed the road. Several shawled women were closing down their stalls. Business was over for the day. It was time to go home. Cockpit Lane was a narrow cobblestoned alley that ran from the market stalls on to the North Main Street. A young man stood at the corner, a watchdog, smoking a cigarette. He nodded as Donal passed him. It was dark in the ally. Donal knocked on the side door of a vegetable shop. After a few seconds, he slipped inside and hurried up the rickety stairs to a small room lit by a lone bulb hanging from the ceiling. Eerie shadows danced across the wall. There were eleven other young men present, all in their early twenties. It was almost a month now since they formed the Cork Volunteers, a splinter group under the umbrella of the Irish Volunteers. They had already carried out two successful raids on RIC barracks. They were about to strike again. Donal spoke passionately for a few minutes. He was tall and thin, even gaunt, with brown eyes and black untidy hair.

‘I have good news. Tomorrow night we move again. The homework is done. We hit Blarney RIC Barracks, in, out, disappear. Information tells us they have six revolvers and two rifles,’ he said.

There was a sense of excitement in the small room. Donal picked out two young men, his best friends, both 21, both as eager as himself. Tim was almost six feet tall with dark eyes and short brown hair. Pat was slightly shorter and well built with green eyes and fair hair.

‘Pat and Tim, you are familiar with the area. The job is yours. You know the drill, where to pick up the bikes and the guns. Cycle out separately. Meet at the gate of the castle. Keep a low profile. Make your move at ten to eight. The two officers finish their shift at eight. One always leaves early and lets the other wait for the two replacements due at eight. You know what to do. Get the guns, tie them up, and gag them. Pat, you go back the Killeens Road. Tim, you come in the Clogheen Road. You know where. Lie low until I contact you. Good luck. Any questions?’

There was a babble of conversation. Kevin Dillon stood at the back. He was a shy 18-year-old. He put up his hand.

‘Donal, there are a few whispers around the place that a special troop of soldiers arrived in town to put us in our place. My father is in the Munsters, and I overheard him telling my mother,’ he said.

‘Yes, I heard that but I didn’t want to bring it up until I had definite news. We’ll deal with them when it comes to it. Still, everyone be very careful. Mind who you’re talking to. The walls have ears,’ Donal said.

Everyone filed out quietly. Tim and Pat stayed on with Donal, and they went over every detail of the planned raid on Blarney Barracks.

Molly had one last look in the mirror. She would have loved Róisín’s advice on what to wear, but she was missing again. That was two nights in a row. Where was she? She was supposed to be going to the dance with her. Molly felt she couldn’t wear the blue dress again. Paul might think she had no clothes. She was worried. She finally settled on a brown skirt and white blouse. She would have liked her father’s opinion, but he was in his own world, snoring in the front room. She could hear him from her bedroom. She was self-conscious on her own on the twenty-minute tram ride to St. Luke’s Cross. When she met Paul at the barrack gate, he put her at ease at once. He kissed her on the cheek and stood back to admire her.

‘You look absolutely beautiful. I love your outfit,’ he said.

She blushed, but secretly, she was delighted. They found a table. She thought Peter looked handsome in a light brown suit, waistcoat, and grey shirt. A tiepin glistened on his green tie. He wondered where Róisín was, but he was glad she was on her own. Now he would have her all to himself. They talked for a while. Again, Molly did most of the talking, and he seemed happy just to listen. They went out for several dances. She teased him at how awkward he felt on the floor, but she loved to dance with him. His closeness excited her, and she was a little disappointed when he suggested they go outside for a break. It was a dark night with a full moon as they sat on the nearby bench. She was surprised when he started to tell her about his childhood in Bury, his school days, how he was bullied, his parents, and the odd trip in to the city of Manchester. She wanted to know everything about him but it was time to go or she’d miss her tram. He offered to walk her home but she insisted. It was a long way. He took her hand.

‘Thanks again for a lovely night. You know I’m very fond of you,’ he said softly.

She felt a strange warmth in her body. At first, she didn’t know what to say.

‘I like you very much too,’ she whispered.

He kissed her; their lips lingered, barely touching, conscious of each other’s breath, but then gradually, longer with more passion. She didn’t want it to end. Her heart was pounding. She glanced at her watch.

‘If I don’t run, I’ll miss my tram,’ she said, laughing.

‘Oh, I nearly forgot. Do you want a good steady job?’ he asked.

‘Yes. What? When? Where?’ she asked.

He pointed across the square.

‘Right there, third door on the left. I’m looking for an office helper, someone to look after me, someone I can trust. Can you start on Monday, 9 a.m.?’ he said.

Tim Cotter was sitting on the wall near the gate of Blarney Castle. He had his head down, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. He wore black clothes and a cap. It was a quiet time of the night. Very few people were around. He looked at his watch yet again. The stars danced in the sky. It was getting dark. At last, Pat Twomey appeared fifty yards away to his right. He parked his bicycle next to Tim’s a few feet from the barracks. It was almost ten to eight. They could see an RIC man come out the barrack door and disappear down a nearby lane. Tim and Pat moved quickly. They pulled handkerchiefs over their faces, grabbed the guns that were taped to their ankles, and slowly opened the door. A lone officer, bald, in his forties, was sitting at a table, drinking a mug of tea. Pat moved in close, pointing his gun at him. He spoke with a calm menace.

‘One sound and you’re dead. We want guns, and you won’t be harmed,’ he whispered coldly.

The RIC man stood up, pleading.

‘I don’t know. They’re locked away,’ he protested

Pat struck him in the face, put his gun close against the officer’s head, and squeezed the trigger. There was a noticeable click.

‘Sweet Jesus, all right, all right,’ he begged.

Blood was pouring from a deep gash on the side of his face. He took a key from his pocket and pointed at a wall cabinet. Tim grabbed it and opened the cabinet. There were four Webley pistols, a .22 rifle, and a wooden box of ammunition. He