Blind Arrows Read online

  Collins stroked his hair across his forehead as if soothing a fever. He seemed to be running out of patience.

  ‘Prove to me once and for all that you’re not a spy,’ he growled. ‘And use the gun as I ordered.’

  Kant pointed the revolver at Collins. His fingers tightened on the weapon. It was the only way he was going to leave the room alive.

  ‘My enemy is not the policeman but violence,’ he said. ‘Violence that has become an end to itself. Especially violence against women.’

  Collins appeared not to notice that Kant was taking aim. His eyes were still hard, but they were no longer staring at the reporter. He was gazing beyond the reporter at some private domain. To Kant’s surprise, Collins’ jaw trembled and water welled up in his eyes. He lowered the weapon and waited. Several moments passed in silence, and then the IRA leader stood bolt upright, his eyes bold and clear again.

  ‘What’s that noise?’ he whispered. A lorry rumbled in the street and screeched to a halt.

  Before Kant could answer, Collins had grabbed the gun from him and flung open the door. The waiting room was empty, the policeman gone. Rough voices rose from the street below, soldiers’ voices shouting out orders.

  ‘We’re being raided,’ said Collins, his eyes shining with excitement. ‘Do you think they’re searching for you?’

  ‘Most likely they’re after you,’ suggested Kant.

  ‘Not necessarily. Your list of missing women will have made you a marked man.’

  They could hear the sound of soldiers hammering on the doors of the life assurance building.

  ‘Come with me,’ said Collins. ‘We’ll slip out the back exit.’

  ‘If they’re after you, they’ll have the back covered.’

  ‘That’s a risk we’ll have to take.’

  They ran down a passageway and climbed through a window onto a low roof. Collins pushed Kant first towards the edge, but the reporter baulked.

  ‘What’s wrong? Do you want to hang, man?’

  Kant took a deep breath and leapt to the alleyway below.

  Dim figures joined them in the darkness, Mick’s bodyguards, or the Squad, to give them their popular title. Young men wearing hats and sharp suits, more like jockeys, than gunmen. They took off in a group and ran parallel to Leeson Street. They came out into a throng of shoppers heading home, women hurrying with heads down, shoulders hunched, carrying brown paper parcels. Mick grabbed a young woman’s elbow and handed her his gun and Kant’s report.

  ‘Take these to O’Neill’s bar on Grafton Street. Tell them Mick Collins sent you.’

  Without a moment’s hesitation, the young woman hid them under her coat.

  Collins guided Kant onto a passing tram. Riding on the footplate of the tram were two of Mick’s bodyguards, he could see them up-close through the glass, their thin, seamed faces, floating behind them like malevolent angels. He wondered where they were taking him to, but such was Collins’ smiling good humour that he did not feel alarmed. The tram rattled along the cobbled streets until a view of Dublin port swung into view.

  Kant looked into Collins’ eyes, but could see nothing but plain good humour.

  ‘You’re a foreigner, Mr Kant. We mean you no bitterness but there is no profit in you remaining here. Go back to London and if you are sympathetic to our cause send us money and guns.’

  It almost felt like a convivial farewell, until Collins leaned into him and hissed in his ear. ‘Stop smiling. I mean to have you shot if I ever see you again.’

  At the docks, they ushered him down the gangway and onto the mail boat. The final image he had was of Collins watching him from the dockside, smiling like a cherub, as the boat pulled off into the Irish Sea.

  NINE

  Prison had made her lovelier, exaggerated the darkness of her eyes, the vulnerability of her mouth. Isham had been secretly watching her in the cell for weeks, and had grown obsessed with this pretty brunette, who had flouted all the rules of her middle-class upbringing and renounced so much in joining the female brigade of the IRA. Perhaps she had grown a bit too thin in prison for Isham’s liking, but that could not be helped. She was determined to sacrifice everything for the Republican cause and Mick Collins, even her health, and had barely eaten in the past few days.

  Through the peephole, he admired her trim figure and the paleness of her skin. When she sat by the barred window in the afternoon, her hair seemed to grow candescent in the sunlight. She was young and enraptured and that made her irresistible to him. Amid the brutal, clanging cells, she was as strange and conspicuous as a white mouse among rats, and just as doomed.

  He doubted that she would survive much longer in such a harsh environment, which was why he decided to spring into action that morning. Into her cell, he slipped a note telling her that Mick Collins had arranged for a sympathetic guard to leave her cell door unlocked during the 6 o’clock Angelus, and that she was to make her escape to the outer wall of Dublin Castle, where Mick and his men would be waiting for her.

  Unfortunately, the guard on duty was new and had expressed his misgivings about Isham’s plans.

  ‘How can it be lawful to release a convicted gun-runner back onto the streets?’

  ‘Who is going to release her?’ asked Isham. ‘No one. She will leave by herself. All you have to do is look the other way while the bells ring out this evening.’ He tightened his lips into what was intended as a smile.

  ‘But I am responsible for her custody, for the safety of the Dublin public.’

  ‘Don’t you understand? She will lead me to someone who is a far greater danger to public safety.’

  ‘Mick Collins?’

  ‘Correct. Of course, there will be a share in the reward money if my plan works out.’

  The guard’s hesitation had irritated him. But fortunately, everything had gone according to plan, and he was waiting for her when she stepped towards the side gates of the Castle.

  She looked up at him in expectation and seemed disappointed when she saw his face.

  ‘Were you expecting Mick?’ he asked.

  She raised her chin in an expression of defiance. ‘Yes. Who are you?’

  ‘A friend. Mick sent me to help you escape.’

  She faltered a little, and took several steps back.

  ‘What friend of Mick’s speaks with an English accent?’

  He stared at her pretty face, her blue eyes. He could sense her disappointment and fear. She must have been looking forward to meeting Mick. She had already given up so much in his name. Like the other members of the female brigade, she had probably staved off relationships with men, postponed her education, turned down job offers, clinging to her oath of allegiance to the IRA, while her peers excitedly discussed make-up, the latest dresses and dance invitations. She had already proved her worth to the cause. The gun-running charge she had been convicted of was as dangerous and brave as anything the male prisoners in the castle cells had committed.

  ‘Don’t be afraid. Mick apologises for not being able to come.’

  Warily, she looked him up and down.

  ‘Mick says it’s too risky for you to return to the safe house,’ he explained. ‘They’re expecting a police raid.’ He hailed a hansom cab.

  ‘Why should I trust you?’ she said. ‘You could be a double-crosser, an agent sent to gain my confidence.’

  ‘I told you I’m an ally of Mick’s.’ The cab swung up beside them. ‘Jump in and I’ll take you straight to him.’

  ‘Then prove it. Where does he keep his offices?’

  ‘Next door to the Life Assurance building on Leeson Street.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She looked relieved. However, she was still reluctant to climb in. ‘Where did you say Mick was?’

  ‘I didn’t.’ He took out a pack of cigarettes. ‘Would you like one?’

  ‘Oh God, yes.’ She took one an
d glanced up at his eyes.

  ‘You can relax now.’ He lit her cigarette. ‘You’re safe. Have you met Mick before?’

  ‘Once.’ She exhaled and gave him a grateful smile. ‘But it was at a meeting. There were too many there for me to even shake his hand.’

  He was touched by the desire in her face. But when she stared up at him with those burning eyes, it was not him she saw.

  ‘Have you eaten recently? You look famished with hunger.’

  ‘I’ve been living on prison rations for the past month.’

  ‘Mick suggested we should get something to eat first. There’s a tea-shop not far from here.’

  She took another drag and nodded. He opened the door and they climbed in. Ten minutes later, they alighted onto a well-lit street, and entered a tea-shop, taking seats by the door. He ordered her some soup and bread.

  ‘Eat up, you’re far too thin.’

  She coughed.

  ‘We don’t want you getting sick.’

  She took several sips of the soup. ‘You still haven’t told me where Mick is.’

  ‘He’s having one of his naps. He was up all night writing letters and notes in those little black books of his.’

  She smiled. ‘What’s he writing?’

  ‘Some kind of diary. A defence of himself. An explanation of his movements. He also writes secret letters to women up and down the country. Women, like you, crying out to be rescued.’

  ‘Has he written one for me?’

  ‘He didn’t give me anything so he mustn’t have.’ He saw the disappointment in her eyes. ‘Perhaps he forgot.’

  She returned to sipping from the bowl.

  ‘Would you die for him?’

  There was no hesitation in her answer.

  ‘For him and Ireland.’

  ‘But you know that Mick loves no one but himself. He takes all the love from the women he courts and gives nothing back in return.’

  He moved his hand closer to hers.

  ‘A man like me could love you in return.’

  She flinched.

  ‘Am I troubling you?’

  ‘No. Not at all.’

  ‘But I am right in saying that you are upset.’

  She stared at him. He felt provoked by the look of coldness in her eyes. It was like a key turning in a lock. He had been enjoying their little conversation, her nervous gaze, and the happy feeling that she was within his control, but now that pleasant sense of power had been banished. She saw him as little more than an intermediary, a helpful figure, who might bring her closer to the true object of her desire. He brooded over his sense of loss. It had been foolish of him to take her to this tea-shop, to try to seduce her in such a public place. He glanced at his pocket watch and patted it with his hand. He gave her a reassuring glance.

  ‘Well it’s time we were off.’

  She rose and followed him into the street. What trusting ignorance, he thought. What mindless vanity to believe that Collins had made these special arrangements for her. What lovesick blindness could lead her to think she was no longer in mortal danger? In spite of his scornful feelings, her aura of innocence was a more powerful allure than any physical attraction. Hurriedly, he beckoned a cab and gave the driver directions to a nearby estate.

  In the darkness of the cab, she made no sort of sound or movement, and he deduced that she had fallen asleep. However, when he leaned closer, her body felt rigid, unyielding. So far, he had shown great control and composure, but now his body tensed. He sat and stared at her dim silhouette, like a creature about to pounce forward. Patience, he told himself, soon their night expedition would begin.

  The cab drew quietly to a halt at a snow-covered gate. He nudged her and they stepped out. She was subdued. Every living thing is born with a potential store of fear, and he could sense hers now. All through her life, she had been holding onto this reservoir of fear, waiting for the right moment to expend it.

  He opened the gate and waited for her. She moved away from him, a shiver running through her shoulders. He grew alert.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked. ‘You want to go back to your old life, I suppose. You’d rather not meet Mick tonight. Perhaps you’ve grown afraid of the sacrifices ahead.’

  ‘I am not afraid. There is no going back to my old life.’

  The way ahead was empty, not a soul in sight.

  ‘Let us take the path through the trees. It will be safer that way.’

  He walked on briskly, and after a moment’s hesitation, she caught up.

  ‘I must thank you for taking me to Mick,’ she said, a little breathlessly.

  He nodded. This carelessness, her disregard for her safety, only served to increase his desire. For a moment, the audacity of what he was planning almost made him feel dizzy. She barely lifted her eyes, just followed his steps.

  For the past six months, he had taken to postponing these expeditions as much as possible, stalking only the most perfect quarry. He no longer hunted as recklessly as he had done during the dark nights of the Great War, when he was able to move freely amid the brothels that sprang up in the towns bordering the French battlefields, his victims of any size or age, the fly-covered remnants of their bodies littering the forests along no-man’s-land. It almost nauseated him now to think of the aimless direction of his lust, the boredom that had been induced by his gluttony, the senseless repetition of the killing, his head always throbbing with desire for his next victim. Nowadays, he liked to prolong the intervals between his hunts for as long as he could. He suppressed his desires for weeks on end, surviving only on glances and furtive kisses. He suffered an inner torment, but felt almost purified by his self-denial, like a carnivore forced to survive on roots and leaves.

  However, true abstinence always proved unattainable, and his craving soon grew unbearable. Fortunately, the Irish constabulary were easy to elude, and his military commanders could not keep track of his every move. Dublin was full of spies and rebels, anarchists and criminals, and the dangers for adventurous-minded women were innumerable.

  He smiled at his new victim, taking in the anxious stare of her blue eyes, the silvery gleam of her skin in the moonlight, feeling almost elated by the days of withheld pleasure, all those unformed possibilities. She had no idea of the turmoil he had undergone, waiting for this opportunity to be alone with her, no idea that she was the prize, the reward.

  She began asking him more questions about Mick but he raised his hand.

  They had stopped in the middle of a dell, the ring of trees crowding out the moon, and the only light cast by the snow, the night shadows creeping all around them.

  ‘I come here often,’ he told her. ‘I feel a calm I don’t get anywhere else. I like to stare at the hollows and dips in the snow. The way the wind makes patterns, like waves in the sea.’

  She grew silent, staring all around her.

  ‘You know that the wind cares for no one,’ he said. ‘It does whatever it wants. Some of these hollows contain my secrets.’

  ‘What sort of secrets?’

  ‘They were the final resting places of your colleagues. I like to come here and stare at the contours in the way the moon stares at the waves in the sea.’ He took out a riding whip and a hunting horn, a cold light glittering in his eyes. With the whip he pointed to a path through the trees. ‘That was where my hounds chased Susan O’Brien. And over there in the thorn thicket is where poor Agatha Hughes ended up. They all belong to my little collection of conquests.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’ She backed away, watching him with fear expanding in her eyes.

  ‘I know I won’t regret sharing my secrets with you. None of the others have broken their silence yet. They were just like you, girls who had lost their footing in life.’

  She veered to the left, making for the closest tree-cover. He raised the horn to his lips and blew a serie
s of long notes. She turned to look at him one last time, her silent, ghostly face. Only the eyes seemed to cry out at him from their depths, and then she ran into the trees. Unfortunately for her, it was the same direction from which his groom had been instructed to release the hounds.

  He caught up with the dogs just as they were launching themselves at her, propelling her body deeper into the snow, her clothes in disarray. He listened to the medley of snarls and yelps, the ripping of teeth through clothes and flesh. The moon disappeared and the shadows wrapped their cloak around the dogs’ frenzied feeding.

  TEN

  The rows of reporters, copy-boys and secretaries pivoted their heads and followed Kant as he made his way to the editor’s room in the Daily Mirror’s London offices. Returning their gazes, he saw the brazen curiosity in the faces of the up-and-coming reporters, and the cynical boredom in the long-serving hacks, the silent and lazy, whose greatest daily adventure consisted of finding the route home from their favourite watering-holes. What did they see in him, he wondered, the famous war reporter returned from a dangerous stint in Dublin? A Lazarus brought back from the dead, marching into the lion’s den.

  Kant had headed straight for the offices as soon as he disembarked from the train, anxious to write up his report as soon as possible. Normally, when he submitted his copy, the editor kept him stewing for an interminably long time, but on this occasion he was summoned almost immediately. McArthurs, the editor, was a large-headed Scot with an angry, bull-like face, his neck straining in his collar. When Kant entered his office, he lifted up the report and bellowed, ‘What sort of Fenian pigshit is this?’

  ‘That is the preliminary report of a much larger story,’ replied Kant. ‘It concerns the disappearance and grisly murder of a group of women, who went missing from Dublin Castle.’

  McArthurs crumpled up the report and threw it in a metal bin. He stared at the reporter as though he wanted to do the same to him. There was a silence as Kant returned McArthurs’ gaze. The editor was breathing heavily.

  ‘I am appalled by your naivety,’ he told Kant. A muscle fluttered in his cheek as he fought to control his annoyance.