The Lambs Read online

  They darted inside. The stable was gloomy and the stench slapped Flynn in the face. Nearby, a huge horse snorted, stomping its hoofs, sparking off a flurry of activity from the other horses occupying the stalls along the wall.

  ‘Easy there,’ cooed Carolan, soothing a horse’s nose with his large hands. He had a way with animals. They seemed to trust him.

  ‘Jesus, they’re big bastards,’ Flynn muttered.

  ‘Irish Blacks, the best cavalry horses in the world,’ said Carolan.

  ‘I’ll take your word for it,’ Flynn replied.

  ‘Shut it, Flynn, and get to work,’ snarled Fallon as he shoved the door shut, leaving dust-laden shafts of light to lance across the cavernous space.

  ‘Christ, I stink,’ Flynn moaned as his boots squelched past a steaming, sweating mountain of horseflesh. ‘And there was me thinking I’d joined the infantry, not the flaming cavalry!’ They laughed.

  ‘Even the infantry need horses,’ Carolan replied, patting his horse admiringly. ‘How can you not say he’s beautiful?’ The horse’s large brown eyes shone in the gloom as it nuzzled Carolan’s hand.

  ‘Easy. Can’t stand the bloody things,’ Flynn snorted.

  ‘Hey, I thought the Irish loved horses?’ Fitzpatrick chipped in. There was more laughter. Gallagher leant on his spade and stared at the chirpy American.

  ‘Look, Séamus, you may be a cowboy but I’m a Dub. What would I know about horses ’ceptin’ they deliver the milk?’ There was more laughter. Fitzgerald gave Gallagher an indulgent, long-suffering look, not bothering to explain that he came from Boston not Arizona.

  ‘Them Frenchies eat them,’ the Duke interjected.

  ‘Away with you, that’s … that’s …’ Carolan gawped in horror.

  ‘That’s what they do,’ chipped in Cronin just as the stable door flew inwards, flooding the space with light. It was then Flynn noticed Cronin’s delicate face was marred by a livid, blue-black welt. The boy flinched.

  ‘Shut it and get about yer work. The officers’ horses won’t muck themselves out!’ Fallon barked angrily before slamming the stable door shut once more.

  ‘Pat, how’d you get that?’ Flynn asked Cronin. He wasn’t the fighting type. In fact Flynn wasn’t sure exactly what type he was. He kept himself to himself, rising before the others, never complaining. None of them could place his accent; it was neither here nor there, although since September it had finally come to rest in Dublin. Flynn repeated the question but the boy merely looked away, suddenly intent upon his work.

  ‘Just tell us who done it and we’ll leather the bastard,’ Gallagher growled.

  ‘Reckon ye’ll be on a fizzer if you try,’ said the Duke. For a moment Gallagher looked puzzled, then his face dropped in epiphany.

  ‘Away with you, don’t tell me that Fallon done this?’

  Cronin shifted awkwardly, avoiding their gaze.

  ‘That’s a serious accusation, Duke,’ said Flynn. ‘It’s against King’s Regs!’

  ‘And your point is?’ asked Carolan.

  ‘It just isn’t right; there’s gotta be something we can do about it,’ replied Flynn.

  ‘Like what?’ Gallagher asked.

  ‘Maybe we could report him to Devlin?’ suggested Flynn.

  ‘Oh, aye, and he’ll be taking our word over a full-screw? Wake up! Regulars like Devlin and Fallon stick together like flies around a steaming great turd. No, if you go grassing him up to Devlin you’ll just be making it worse, especially for young Pat here,’ observed Carolan. Of course, he was right.

  ‘And to think we volunteered for this and all we get is treated like shit. Well, I hope the great Irish public are bloody grateful when this blasted war is over!’ Flynn muttered angrily.

  ‘Let’s face it, the Ruperts couldn’t care less what the NCOs do to us as long as we do what we’re told,’ Gallagher grumbled.

  ‘Isn’t your uncle a corporal?’ Fitzpatrick asked.

  ‘That’s different,’ snapped Gallagher.

  ‘So what makes you think Devlin isn’t different too?’ asked Flynn.

  ‘Because … er … because …’ Gallagher started then the door banged open once more, making him jump. It was Devlin, framing the doorway, legs braced, hands on hips. They pretended to work in a flurry of activity as the sergeant scanned the stable, looking for something. His face was impassive, masking the thoughts behind his hard eyes.

  ‘Where’s Corporal Fallon?’ There was a dangerous edge to the sergeant’s voice, like a keen blade.

  ‘Is he not outside, Sergeant?’ Gallagher replied politely, his heels together in a vague semblance of attention. Devlin came at him in a haze of starch and boot polish until his face hovered inches from Gallagher’s, then he sniffed, his face pale as death in the gloom.

  ‘Now, would I be in here with you lot looking for him if he was?’ Gallagher stepped back, as if pushed by some invisible hand. Flynn shivered. Time stood still. A horse snorted. Devlin’s gaze fell on Cronin, who stared woodenly into the middle distance. The sergeant’s eyes narrowed. Then he was gone, the stable door rattling angrily on its hinges like a badly oiled machine gun behind him.

  ‘Well, someone’s not happy. Do you suppose he heard us?’ Gallagher asked nervously. Flynn shrugged. They went back to work. Half an hour later the door burst open. It was Fallon, his face flushed purple. He’d been running.

  ‘All right, you lot, get back to the block at the double!’ he rasped.

  ‘What’s happening, Corporal?’ Flynn asked.

  ‘OC wants to speak to the platoon – now MOVE!’ Fallon barked.

  ‘I bet this is it!’ Gallagher said, breaking into a broad, boyish grin.

  CHAPTER 4

  November 1914, Royal Barracks, Dublin

  They were off to Buttevant in the morning to join the battalion. They’d been granted leave, on the proviso they got past the discerning eye of the orderly sergeant. Flynn resigned himself to staying in, bitter that Fallon had ruined both his tunic and his last night in Dublin, but then Gallagher saved the day with one he’d scrounged from old Hackett in stores. It had cost him.

  ‘I owe you,’ Flynn had said as he squeezed into the jacket. It was slightly too small. He didn’t care. It would do beneath his greatcoat.

  ‘Aw, it was nothing. We’re a team, we stick together; we don’t leave anyone behind, do we, fellas?’ replied Gallagher dismissively. The others agreed and it wasn’t long before they’d got past the orderly sergeant, an immaculate Connaught Ranger sporting a luxuriant moustache and boots like glass. He eyed them disdainfully, resenting being prised from his warm guardroom.

  ‘You’ll do for a bunch of bloody fusiliers,’ he’d grumbled. ‘Now piss off, and try and not get arrested.’ They didn’t wait to be told twice, marching briskly towards the main gate past the postbox and the guardroom cells. Behind them the barrack lights flickered in the thickening gloom whilst ahead the lights of Kingsbridge Station blazed from across the Liffey. Flynn turned up his greatcoat collar against the chill rolling up the river from Dublin Bay. When they reached the station they stopped, basking in the warm blast emanating from within. Gallagher leant against the wall, lighting up as if on watch.

  ‘I could murder a drink,’ declared the Duke, stamping his feet against the cold. Gallagher beamed, his teeth shining in the lume of the streetlamp.

  ‘I got to see my Lizzie first,’ said Carolan.

  ‘Say, what time you got?’ asked Fitzpatrick. The station clock said it was just past five. ‘Ain’t it a bit early for a drink?’ They gave him a queer look. ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘And you call yourself a Dublin Fusilier?’ gasped Gallagher, summoning a volley of laughter from the others.

  ‘I was just thinking we should get some scoff, that’s all,’ said Fitzpatrick.

  ‘Yer man’s got a point. Drinking on an empty stomach’s just tempting fate,’ opined Doyle. They agreed.

  ‘Tell you what. Me folks live nearby. I’m sure my mammy won’t mind rustling
up a few sandwiches and some tea,’ said Gallagher, doing his best to ignore the icy offshore wind.

  ‘I’d better drop by my parents first. It is our last night,’ said Flynn.

  ‘So you’ll not be seeing our Mary?’ asked Gallagher. Flynn shuffled awkwardly. Gallagher was grinning like a buffoon.

  ‘That’s not what I said,’ replied Flynn. ‘I’ll only be a few hours. Where shall I meet you?’ he asked. Someone suggested the Brazen Head, sparking a brisk argument about the merits of the city centre’s various drinking dens. Gallagher insisted he’d wait at the house; that way he could make sure Flynn found the right bar as well as seeing Mary before they left in the morning.

  As Flynn strolled to the tram stop, it started to rain. It was still raining when he reached his parents’ house, a smart detached building on the North Circular Road.

  ‘If you must go playing soldiers, couldn’t you apply to be an officer? We can always help you with your mess fees,’ said his father.

  ‘You’d be amongst decent folk, not all those common soldiers,’ interrupted his mother. Flynn rolled his eyes.

  ‘Your mother’s got a point, Kevin. At least you wouldn’t be a common soldier.’

  ‘I like being a common soldier. I’m with my mates,’ Flynn snapped, suddenly realizing how true that was.

  ‘I told you no good would come of getting him that blasted job,’ his mother spluttered. ‘He should have gone to university, made something of himself.’

  ‘It’s a good job,’ protested his father.

  ‘That may as well be but if he didn’t work there he’d never have let that Gallagher boy stuff his head with all this army nonsense,’ she added, bitterly. Flynn bit his tongue, nursing a cup of tea in his hands. ‘Will you look how the lad can’t hold a cup of tea decently anymore?’

  He’d had enough. ‘I’ve got to get back,’ he lied, making a show of looking at the clock on the mantelpiece. His mother stared at him, red-eyed, at a loss for words. He felt awful. ‘Look, we’re only off somewhere down south.’ She didn’t say anything. ‘They say it’ll be all over by Christmas.’ He knew he sounded foolish.

  ‘Take care,’ said his father. ‘Keep your head down and don’t do anything stupid.’ He pressed something into Flynn’s hand. It was a crisp white £5 note. Flynn noticed his father looked tired, worn out, and even their clasped hands weren’t enough to bridge the invisible chasm that had opened up between them. He closed the front door, his mother’s sobs haunting his thoughts as he made his way back to the tram stop. It was raining but by the time he reached the city centre it had stopped. It was late and as he strolled towards Gallagher’s house the strains of melancholy rebel songs ghosted from shabby bars. A shaft of light stabbed the gloom as a figure tumbled into the street followed by another. Flynn didn’t know why but he suddenly felt the urge to hide. He slipped into the shadow of a shop doorway, the rush of blood pounding in his temples. A match flared; lighting a cigarette. It was Fallon.

  ‘Fecking gobshite, I told you I’d get the information for you,’ slurred Fallon.

  ‘Make sure you do,’ replied his companion menacingly. He sounded familiar but Flynn couldn’t place the voice. Then the door flew open once more disgorging drunks, bathing the men in light.

  ‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ Flynn mumbled softly to himself. It was the man from the park, the one the policemen had called McNamara.

  ‘Did you not understand your orders, you old sot?’ snapped McNamara, drawing close to Fallon. Flynn thought he would hit him. ‘What good are you to the Movement if you can’t even gather a bit of information about what your battalion’s up to?’ Fallon cringed and Flynn strained to hear his reply as McNamara shoved the dishevelled corporal against the wall. Even from across the street, Flynn could see the hatred in the old soldier’s eyes as he glowered at McNamara, but he did nothing, remaining unnaturally silent. McNamara spat noisily in the gutter before flipping up the collar of his jacket and stomping off down the street. Fallon vanished into the pub. McNamara paused, thrusting his hands deeper into his pockets. He looked like he was listening. He stepped into the gutter. Flynn pressed deeper into the shadow, his heart pounding. Something touched his leg. McNamara was staring in his direction. A cat meowed, brushing his leg. Ever so gently he shoved it away. It wouldn’t go. McNamara took a step closer. Fallon shoved the cat again. It shrieked, scuttling into the light. McNamara hesitated, watching the cat’s approach, then he pulled his cap low, shading his face before walking away.

  McNamara’s footsteps faded into the night, leaving Flynn alone with the sound of his own breath. He paused, trying to make sense of what he’d seen; trying to work out what Fallon was up to. He stepped into the street, sparing a cursory glance up and down it before loping off to meet Gallagher at his house. He moved quickly, not noticing McNamara slip from the shadows, closing the gap as deftly as he could; unnaturally silent. Flynn paused at the end of Bridgefoot Street. It was better lit. Something made him look round. He thought he saw a shape in the darkness. The moon drifted behind a cloud, deepening the guttering shadows. He clenched his fists, half tensed, sensing something was amiss. A boot crunched on the cobble.

  ‘You took your bloody time!’ declared Gallagher cheerfully.

  ‘Jesus!’ gasped Flynn, spinning around, his fists raised.

  ‘Easy there, big fella!’ Gallagher replied, raising his hands.

  ‘What are you doing creeping around like that?’ asked Flynn.

  ‘The others got sick of waiting … left me as the rearguard … they’ll be calling time soon if we don’t hurry,’ Gallagher burbled. He’d already been drinking. Flynn glanced up the street to Gallagher’s house. ‘You’re too late, me old mucker, Mary got sick of waiting and went to bed.’ Flynn’s heart sank; he’d wanted to see her. ‘I know, I know, so much Guinness and so little time,’ effused Gallagher, misreading his friend’s disappointment.

  McNamara followed them to the bar but didn’t enter. It was too full of soldiers for his liking, despite the free-flowing stout. Besides, he wasn’t much of a drinker anyway; not when there was work to be done. He would speak to Fallon.

  The next morning Flynn felt like something had crawled into his mouth and died. Breakfast was a chore; he forced down a greasy fry-up between mouthfuls of strong orange tea. Something made him look up from his plate past Gallagher, who was shovelling down food with gusto. Fallon was watching him, exposing his crooked, stained teeth in a humourless rictus grin.

  ‘I meant to tell you I saw Fallon last night,’ said Flynn. Gallagher grunted, barely looked up from his food. The door slammed open. Devlin stood in the doorway, sharp and shiny, his cane tucked under his arm like an idle shotgun.

  ‘All right, you useless lot, outside! Mr Murphy wants you formed up and ready to move in ten!’ he bellowed, his words ricocheting off the walls like shrapnel. It was cold outside, still dark, and the chill struck Flynn’s face like the back of a hand, stinging life back into him whilst they formed up in full kit waiting to go. Devlin barked. They stamped to attention, a crescendo of heels.

  ‘At ease, lads,’ said their platoon commander, Will Murphy, as he returned Devlin’s salute with a casual tap of his peak. He tugged his moustache, ruminating over his words. He had a lived-in face, rather too old for a subaltern. It didn’t matter: Kitchener’s Army didn’t play by the Regulars’ rules. He’d hoped for the Leinsters – he was a Carlow man – but the Dubs were short-handed so here he was. He didn’t mind. They were a good bunch of lads. He began to speak. Flynn wasn’t listening. Then it was over; another casual salute and a volley of orders from the Ulsterman. They turned right, like a well-oiled machine, swinging their way across the gravelled yard and down to the main gate.

  ‘Get your bloody heads up and swing your arms!’ shouted Devlin. ‘You’re supposed to be the Royal bloody Dublin Fusiliers! Give it some bloody swagger!’ So they did, all the way to Kingsbridge Station. The policeman on the station steps didn’t even look; he’d seen it all before. Dublin
was full of soldiers these days. Even the shop girls, walking to work, were less enthusiastic than Gallagher had hoped. No one kissed him. Flynn noticed Murphy was already there, leaning on his blackthorn. It puzzled him how he’d got there before them. They were herded onto the crowded platform, their blue uniforms standing out amid the khaki. Murphy chatted to a captain with a cut-glass English accent. It was warm inside, bathed in engine smoke, the air buzzing with excitement. Men chatted, men slept, some just stared into space: killing time.

  ‘That’ll be us soon,’ Gallagher enviously observed, looking at the khaki-clad soldiers arriving to be shipped over the water to the war. A young woman carrying a small boy draped herself around a self-conscious sergeant’s neck. They kissed. Flynn felt a pang of jealousy; missing Mary already.

  ‘You look like you could do with one of these,’ said a beaming young nun, handing Flynn a steaming mug of tea. The tin mug scalded his lips. Nearby the Duke was wedging a chunk of fruit-cake into his mouth.

  ‘Fecking eejit,’ grumbled Fallon as he barged past Flynn, slopping his tea down Cronin’s tunic. ‘I’ve an eye on you, sonny,’ he added, a menacing glint in his glassy eyes before shambling off, keeping a wide berth of the two well-dressed civilians at the edge of the platform surveilling the throng. Obviously G-Men. Cronin scooped a mug from the nun’s tray. ‘It’s all right, Kevin,’ he said. ‘It’ll dry. We’ll be here a while yet anyway. Haven’t you learnt the army’s all hurry up and wait?’ For a moment Flynn wondered how Cronin seemed to know so much about the army. He was about to ask when his heart skipped a beat: it was Mary.

  ‘And did you think to be slipping away to play soldiers without saying goodbye, Kevin Flynn?’ she teased, wrinkling her nose and smiling. His cheeks flushed as he fumbled for words. She looked sad, despite the smile. She took his hands. They were cold but their softness sent his skin tingling. She stepped closer. She smelt of soap. ‘So what have you got to say for yourself?’ she added, looking up, her head cocked to one side.