The Lambs Read online

  ‘I’ve kept you a place!’ shouted Carolan, beckoning them over with one of his shovel hands. He was grinning, like the rest, and as they drew nearer Flynn recognized the other members of Gallagher’s Gaelic football team. They really were all joining up together. ‘You coming too, Kev?’

  ‘Couldn’t keep him away!’ joked Terry, slapping Flynn hard enough on the back to nudge him into the milling crowd. Riley slipstreamed in behind him.

  ‘What the hell! It’ll all be over by Christmas anyway,’ said Flynn. The players cheered as myriad hands slapped him on the back. Gallagher smiled and Flynn nodded, their friendship somehow made stronger by that one simple act. For the first time Flynn felt part of something, something bigger than himself. Gallagher noticed a stocky Royal Dublin Fusiliers lance corporal ushering the recruits in through the door as they reached the top of the steps.

  ‘Uncle John?’ he gasped.

  ‘Recalled me, didn’t they? Your Auntie Joy is furious. She says I’m too old for these shenanigans,’ replied the soldier who bore more than a passing resemblance to Gallagher. ‘I’m to be with the new 8th Battalion,’ he added, puffing up his chest proudly. ‘Do your parents know you are here?’ Gallagher shifted awkwardly, avoiding his uncle’s gaze. The soldier nodded. A dark-haired sergeant with an abrasive Derry accent and clipped moustache shouted to keep them moving. ‘Aye, Sar’nt,’ replied Uncle John before glancing back at his nephew. ‘Whatever happens don’t you go telling your dad you saw me. He’d kill me for not stopping you,’ he added, letting Terry and his friends past with a wink. ‘Oh, and don’t go letting them put you in anything but the 8 Dubs, d’you hear? That way I can keep an eye on you.’

  ‘Is there anyone in your family who isn’t in the blasted army?’ Flynn asked as they shuffled into the atrium.

  ‘Well, it’s a bit of a family thing. My dad’s the only one who didn’t join up. Uncle John was in South Africa with the Dubs, fought at Colenso with that old woman Byrne’s brother. I think that’s why Byrne gave me the job in the first place, cos Uncle John was with his brother when he was shot.’ Flynn gave Gallagher a puzzled look. ‘Did you not know Mr Byrne’s younger brother was killed in South Africa?’

  ‘I guess that’d explain why he’s not keen on the bands, then,’ Flynn replied.

  ‘Hold it right there!’ barked the Derry sergeant, barring the way with a glossy cane. He was looking at Riley. ‘How old are ye, sonny?’

  Riley hesitated.

  ‘I’m nineteen, sir,’ he declared, puffing up his sallow chest as best he could.

  ‘Are ye now, son?’ replied the sergeant. ‘When were ye born?’

  ‘July thirteenth,’ replied Riley.

  The sergeant stepped back, dropping his cane. He beckoned Riley forward with a curt flick of his head. Riley stepped forward. ‘Oh, just one more thing.’ Riley paused. ‘What year?’

  ‘Er … nineteen … er … no, eighteen ninety … er … six!’ he gabbled, flustered.

  ‘That’s what I was thinking. I’m sorry, sonny. I’d be coming back when ye’re older, eh?’ he said gently, ignoring Riley’s protests.

  ‘Is there a problem there, Sergeant Devlin?’ asked a flat Staffordshire accent. Devlin swung round to confront the moustachioed Englishman at the foot of the main stairs. His uniform was immaculate, the man composed, quintessentially professional from his obsidian boots to the slashed peak of his Service Dress cap.

  ‘Who’s he?’ Terry asked his uncle.

  ‘Him? Sar’nt Major Clee. He’s some old donkey walloper.’ Terry looked puzzled. ‘A cavalryman, 12th Lancers – till last week, that is. Now he’s slumming it in the poor bloody infantry.’ Sergeant Devlin shot Uncle John a sharp, narrow-eyed look.

  ‘And what age are ye, then?’ Flynn heard the Derryman growl. He paused then he realized the sergeant was talking to the man next to him – a willowy, soft-featured lad dressed in a well-made pinstripe suit.

  The boy looked at Devlin with large, crystal-blue eyes, like a hare caught in the beam of a poacher’s lamp. ‘Er … I’m nineteen … er … Sergeant.’ Devlin looked sceptical. ‘I’ve my birth certificate and a letter from my parish priest,’ said the boy in a reedy voice. He thrust a wad of folded papers at Devlin, who unfolded the sheets, reading to himself, his lips childishly tracing the words.

  ‘So it would seem … er … Mister Patrick Cronin. Best ye get a move on and stop blocking the door, then.’ Cronin stuffed the papers back into his pocket, following Flynn towards a bank of tables manned by overworked clerks.

  ‘Sign here,’ drawled one of them wearily.

  ‘It says here three years or the duration,’ Flynn said, his pen hovering above the freshly filled-in enlistment form.

  ‘And your point is? Look, either sign or piss off,’ the clerk snapped. Someone muttered impatiently behind him. He signed. It was done. ‘Over there. Next!’

  ‘Coats off; roll up your sleeves and answer the doctor’s questions when he asks you,’ barked a medical orderly. He snatched Flynn’s paperwork. Up ahead, Gallagher, Rory and Carolan were chatting as they shuffled towards a thin white line of doctors. Cronin stood quietly behind him. The man in front turned slightly, flashing Flynn a toothy, bright white smile and thrust out his hand. He was about Flynn’s height and fashionably dressed, dapper even, with his boater cocked at a jaunty angle and a large carnation ostentatiously thrust through the buttonhole of his lapel.

  ‘Hi, I’m Séamus, Séamus Fitzpatrick,’ the man said in a distinctly un-Irish accent. Flynn looked puzzled. ‘I’m from Boston, Boston Massachusetts in the US of A! I’m an American!’

  ‘American? I didn’t think America was in this war,’ Flynn said.

  ‘It sure ain’t,’ Fitzpatrick replied. ‘Hell, if it was this thing’d be over by now! Why, Uncle Sam ain’t lost a war yet!’

  ‘Really?’ Flynn replied, unsure what the man’s Uncle Sam had to do with it, before hesitantly taking Fitzpatrick’s hand and introducing himself.

  ‘Well, I’m sure pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Flynn. Say, you got any folks in the States?’ asked Fitzpatrick. Flynn shook his head. ‘Heck, I thought everyone here had folks in the States.’

  ‘Not me. I’ve people in Tasmania, though.’ Fitzpatrick didn’t look too impressed. ‘So what brings you here?’ Flynn asked.

  ‘Well, you see, I’m Irish too,’ Fitzpatrick began, obviously enjoying retelling his tale. Hooking his thumbs under his lapels, he puffed out his chest. Flynn felt his heart sink; another American fixated with his Irish heritage. ‘I was over, seeing the old country. You see, my people are from Kildare; Milltown, as it happens. Evicted by the English during the Famine, they were, went west to America. Fine country; a man can be free there. Anyway, when I heard the National Volunteers were forming I thought I’d join up; see if I could help throw off the Saxon yoke like we did back home in 1776. Then old Redmond told us Volunteers to join the British Army so here I am … here we are.’ He pointed at several others. ‘I guess the old fella knows what he’s doing but, gee, will my old man be pissed when he hears I’ve become a redcoat!’

  ‘Does your old man like the drink, then?’ Flynn asked.

  ‘Er … never touches the stuff,’ replied Fitzpatrick, leaving Flynn wondering how a teetotaller could get drunk. They lapsed into silence and it was almost a relief when Flynn found himself in front of the doctor. He began unbuttoning his shirt. Cronin looked worried.

  ‘No need for that,’ mumbled an aged doctor, clenching a pipe in his teeth. ‘Any coughs or colds? No, good … open wide,’ he said, forcing a wooden depressor into Flynn’s mouth, counting his teeth. ‘Let’s have a listen to your heart, then.’ He placed a stethoscope over Flynn’s heart, the sound muffled by the double layer of shirt and vest. ‘Good, good, now touch your toes. Excellent, you’ll do. Grade one,’ the doctor said, scrawling his signature on Flynn’s paperwork.

  ‘Is that it?’ Flynn asked but the doctor was already examining young Cronin as an orderly shoved him towards
the exit. An ageing reservist slapped a Bible in his hand and before he knew it he’d sworn allegiance to King George, his heirs and successor in front of a rather fusty-looking old officer with red tabs on his tunic collar and a red band around his cap. The officer pressed a silver shilling into his hand before the NCO ushered him out of the side entrance with instructions to report to St Stephen’s Green at nine o’clock the next morning. In a strange way it seemed like a bit of a let-down, an anticlimax almost, as he stood unnoticed on the corner of Castle Street watching other freshly sworn-in recruits tumble into the street. Gallagher and the others appeared, looking troubled.

  ‘Rory failed the fecking medical! They said he had a dickie heart of all things, said he was unfit for service,’ said Gallagher. ‘Now he’s taken off in a sulk.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we look for him?’ Flynn asked.

  ‘No, he’ll show up,’ replied Gallagher, somewhat deflated by the turn of events. He stuffed his hands deep into his pockets, biting back the disappointment.

  ‘Mr Byrne wanted us back by three,’ said Flynn.

  Gallagher looked at him and nodded. ‘Aye, I suppose we had, but before we do, Kev, I could murder a drink. How about it, lads? There’s a pub round the corner and this king’s shilling’s burning a hole in my pocket. Byrne can wait.’

  Predictably, one drink became two and two became three, and by the time they finally managed to stagger back to work it was well past three o’clock. To their surprise, Mary Gallagher was sitting in the office, her eyes raw with tears and her usually neat long blonde hair a dishevelled froth. ‘Wha’ yous doin’ here, Mary?’ Gallagher slurred. Flynn fought back the urge to puke, regretting all the whiskey Gallagher had been pouring down his throat all afternoon.

  ‘It … it’s our Mickey, Tel, he’s been killed,’ she sobbed.

  Suddenly Flynn was sober; very, very sober.

  CHAPTER 2

  September 1914, Dublin, Ireland

  ‘Damned fool!’ was all Flynn’s father could bring himself to say to him during breakfast. It had been a sullen affair, all painful silences and clattering teacups. His mother blamed Gallagher. They always blamed Gallagher when he did anything wrong; said he was a bad influence, that they always knew he would lead him astray. They didn’t approve of their friendship. The Gallaghers were from the wrong part of town. They certainly wouldn’t approve of Mary. That was why he never mentioned her. They would find out soon enough, if anything came of it. They didn’t say anything when he left but he could feel their eyes on him as he scuffed his way down the street.

  Bridgefoot Street was quiet. Mr Kinsella the postman was returning from his round and Flynn tried not to throw up as he said hello. The postman gave him a knowing, sympathetic look. It was a soft day; grey and overcast like Flynn’s mood by the time he reached Gallagher’s house. He was glad he’d worn his overcoat. His mouth still felt foul with stale whiskey despite toothpaste and a good breakfast and his head ached. He rapped on the door, nestling into his coat. There was silence. He thought of knocking again, then he heard fumbling. The door eased open a crack, revealing a clear blue eye, puffy from lack of sleep. It was Mary. Flynn felt something warm inside. He smiled. Her skin was smooth, pale against the pallor of the morning, and despite being Gallagher’s twin sister he couldn’t help thinking she was beautiful, even in grief.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said, opening the door.

  ‘H-hello there, Mary, I’ve come for Terry,’ he stuttered awkwardly. Utterly inappropriate thoughts barged to the front of his mind as he looked at her. He blushed. Usually she laughed at Flynn’s awkwardness around her but today wasn’t a laughing day.

  ‘May well you look shamefaced.’ For an awful moment he thought she had read his mind. ‘I thought you had more sense. You’re a pair of eejits,’ she rebuked half-heartedly, mercifully oblivious of the real reason for his blushes. So much for a kiss, thought Flynn as he stepped into the musty hallway, following Mary’s backside to the kitchen. The smell of tea, fried bacon and tobacco embraced him as he entered the small cluttered room where Mr Gallagher slumped in a chair staring at the slowly congealing fry-up turning to grease in front of him. Gallagher was finishing his breakfast. Mrs Gallagher fussed pointlessly amid her pots and pans. Flynn loitered in the doorway, abandoned by Mary, feeling guilty about his inappropriate thoughts amid the Gallaghers’ grief.

  ‘I’m here for Terry, Mr Gallagher,’ Flynn said. Mr Gallagher seemed smaller. He didn’t look up, instead staring intently at the neat, looping letters on the lilac paper in his hands as if he couldn’t quite make out what it was. Flynn guessed it was the letter from Mickey Gallagher’s wife.

  ‘There was a big battle on the Marne,’ mumbled Mr Gallagher. Flynn had read about it in the papers. ‘Maybe they got it wrong. A battle’s a confusing thing. Maybe our Mickey’ll show up somewhere.’

  ‘Here’s hoping,’ Flynn said rather lamely.

  ‘Will you listen to you? What would you know about a battle?’ snapped Mrs Gallagher, slamming down a pan. ‘The army couldn’t even tell me, his mother! We had to rely on Janet writing!’

  ‘Well, she is his wife, Brigit, darling,’ offered Mr Gallagher, taking Mrs Gallagher’s hand.

  ‘He’d never have joined if it wasn’t for your blasted brother with all his stupid war stories and now they’ve taken my Terry too!’ she moaned. ‘Well, at least they’ll not be getting my Rory, thank God!’

  ‘Thanks for reminding me, Mammy,’ snapped Rory as he stomped into the room. ‘I’ll be getting white feathers from all the girls in Dublin now!’

  ‘Better that than six foot of Belgian dirt!’ sobbed Mrs Gallagher. Rory slammed the door like a clap of thunder.

  ‘He’ll get over it,’ said Gallagher before glancing at the clock over the kitchen fireplace. ‘We’ll be late!’ Rain rattled off the window heralding an almighty downpour. The Irish ‘monsoon’ season was in full swing. Gallagher snatched his cap from its peg and kissed his mother goodbye. She looked at the floor. ‘Let’s go. Joe will be wondering where we are.’

  ‘Away with you now,’ said Mrs Gallagher. She was crying.

  ‘Do you think they might have got it wrong about Mickey?’ asked Flynn as they left the house.

  Gallagher shook his head.

  ‘Janet said they found a load of her letters on the body,’ replied Gallagher. He sniffed. ‘So how’d your folks take it?’

  ‘Let’s just say you’re off their Christmas card list,’ said Flynn.

  ‘And there was me thinking I was on it!’ Gallagher grinned. They knocked on Carolan’s door. He looked sheepish, subdued even: another one whose news had not gone down well.

  ‘My girl Lizzie’s furious,’ Carolan said as he slipped out the door, turning up his collar. ‘I thought she’d be happy with me bringing in some extra money but she said I’d get myself killed before we had a chance to wed. She said I was as bad as them Jocks who shot up Bachelor’s Walk last summer. Ma and Da weren’t impressed either. Me ma went all Fenian on me, ranting about how the redcoats pitchcapped me great-granddad back in ’98 before they strung him up with his own belt.’ Carolan thrust his hands deep in his pockets. Despite the deluge, the air stank of the nearby Guinness brewery but at least the rain had eased by the time they reached City Hall. Flynn’s shoes were sodden as they trudged through College Green and the sun was shining as they ambled past Trinity College.

  Grafton Street was busy as usual, Union flags fluttering from its tall buildings. Posters of Lord Kitchener pointed at them as they mingled with the knots of young men making their way towards St Stephen’s Green where they’d been ordered to report. Gallagher beamed shamelessly at every shop girl who caught his eye. They didn’t seem to mind. Some even smiled back. Flynn really didn’t understand how Gallagher did it. He was more than a little envious. As they reached Fusilier Arch, Flynn noticed a sharp-featured lad about his own age leaning against the park railings pretending to read a paper as he watched the assembling throng with angry eyes. A ban
d played in the park.

  ‘Do you think he’s a G-Man?’ Flynn asked Gallagher, referring to the Dublin Metropolitan Police’s detective branch. Carolan shook his head. ‘What?’ Flynn was confused.

  ‘He’s too young and, besides, do you really think a G-Man would be seen dead all scruffy like that and reading anything but the Irish Times? No, a tanner says yon corner-boy’s a Shinner,’ Carolan replied as they strolled past the man, who wrinkled his nose in disgust.

  Gallagher spun around. ‘What you looking at?’ he snapped, pale as death.

  ‘I’m looking at a traitor to his country. That’s what I’m looking at,’ sneered the man, folding his paper and sticking it in his pocket. He was smiling. ‘Fitting, is it not, that they get you all to pass through Traitor’s Gate to join up?’ he added, referring to the Fusilier Arch by one of its local nicknames. Flynn could feel the violence brewing as Gallagher’s short fuse began to smoulder.

  ‘You what, you slasher gobshite?’ growled Gallagher, picking up on the man’s County Longford accent.

  ‘Jackeen shite! At least Judas took thirty pieces of silver, not a measly shilling, to become a traitor,’ retorted the stranger. Heads were beginning to turn. Gallagher’s fists balled. The stranger drew himself up, a head taller than Flynn’s friend, his eyes burning like coals.

  ‘Is there a problem here, lads?’ It was a policeman, thickset, truncheon in hand, his face weather-beaten, hard, his smile utterly devoid of warmth. He seemed deceptively relaxed. The stranger licked his lips, a flicker of recognition in his eyes, and for a fleeting moment Flynn thought that maybe the stranger was a G-Man after all. ‘Move along there, McNamara, before I take you down the station,’ said the peeler, firmly. It wasn’t a suggestion. Another policeman, slab-featured and raw-boned, sidled up beside the first, his thumbs hooked into his belt.

  ‘Is there a problem, Constable Dolan?’ the new arrival asked.