Mermaid in a Bowl of Tears (Exit Unicorns Series) (46 page)

Outside it was full dark, the one functioning streetlight having given up the ghost the previous night. She and Casey were reflected in the window, the outline of the two of them slightly misty with condensation. It was like looking down a long hallway where time ran in both directions, a place where they were eternally young or caught in the clasp of old age. In such moments it struck her that she could not remember a time that she had not loved this man. Nor a time when she was not loved by him. The awareness of this both soothed and frightened her.

Casey turned his head and the reflection wavered. He kissed the palm of her hand. “Either way we’re lucky,” he said.

“Yes,” she replied softly, not needing to ask what he meant, “we are.”

ROBIN HAD DEVELOPED THE HABIT of coming by of an evening and helping Casey with whatever task occupied him on the house. They’d slipped rather naturally back into their old friendship, though there was a reserve built up through years apart and secrets that they both kept. Casey was still wary, but relaxed a certain amount into the comfort of a shared past.

Tonight he was framing the upstairs hallway, which he’d opened up from its original state, as well as enlarging the landing at the top of the stairs. Robin, at present, was sitting on said landing, having a smoke and continuing his rundown of all the Republican news.

“Second battalion’s OC just got five years in Long Kesh. They could use a good man to take his place, that’d leave ye responsible for the majority of the Catholic housin’ estates. It’d dovetail well with what yer brother is tryin’ to do.”

This theme was not a new one, Robin had it down chorus and verse and was apt to sing it at least once every visit.

“An’ so I’ll give ye the answer I’ve given ye the last six times ye’ve mentioned it—no, I’m not interested. Besides Pat would never speak to me, much less work with me, if he thought I was within a mile of that battalion.”

His protests had the usual effect—absolutely none whatsoever.

“There’s a lot of talk within the battalions. The lads aren’t entirely satisfied with the present leadership.”

“Mayhap not, but they’re all scared of him, an’ that’s all he needs to keep control. Pass me that square, would ye?”

“Fear is not the right way to control, yer da’ taught us both that. D’ye remember the time he raked us over for usin’ our size to intimidate Gus Bradley?”

“Aye. If I remember correctly he used his own size to put us neatly in our places, though.”

Robin laughed, stubbing his cigarette out in the empty tin can that was kept about for that exact purpose. “He said a physical demonstration, with a dose of our own medicine, was the best preventative he knew.”

Casey eyed the ceiling line owlishly. The damn thing would not come out perfectly level, try as he might. Apparently trying to square the roof wasn’t going to square with trying to maintain the original integrity of the outside walls.

“So what is it ye think Joe cannot provide?”

“Well for starters he’s not got a great deal of organizational skill,” Robin said. “And he’s no sense of history—an’ that’s not something anyone could ever accuse you of man. There’s no sense of what we’re to be about. It’s chaos from top to bottom.”

“Bobbie,” he sighed in frustration, both at Robin and at the roof. “Let it be man.”

Robin however, was not one to be gainsaid. “If I didn’t know better man I’d say yer afraid. Ye never had fear when we were lads.”

“I’m not that boy anymore, Robin.”

“Then who the hell is it that ye think ye are?”

Casey sat and poured two cups of tea out of the flask he’d brought along. “Give me a cigarette.”

Robin pulled one from his pack and gave it to him. He held out a lit match, and Casey took a sweet, lung-filling drag that made his head swim with pleasure.

“Only the second one I’ve had today, I’m tryin’ to cut back.”

Robin merely quirked a dubious brow at him and continued doggedly on his previous track. “I asked ye a question man, who is it that ye think ye are these days?”

Casey gave him a black look, then relented on a long exhalation of smoke.

“I don’t always know, Robin, but I’m tryin’ to remember who it was my father taught me to be, an’ that wasn’t a man of hate, nor violence, but a man who worked hard an’ looked after those around him. That’s who I want to be, Bobbie, that man my father wanted me to be. The one he believed I could be.”

Robin sighed theatrically. “When ye start talkin’ about yer da’ in such a manner, I know I’m defeated. But perhaps we could use ye in an advisory manner, that way ye could salve yer conscience about bein’ counted as one of us, but still use yer brain in the manner for which it was designed.”

Casey took a deep breath through his nose and turned over a sheet of paper on which he’d been making rough plans for a pantry. He fished a pencil from his pocket and drew three broad strokes on the page.

“Look, it’s simple really. The movement has always run on the holy trinity of the army, the party an’ the paper. Never forget how important ink is to the revolution.” Below his hand, he’d drawn a rough triangle of the three eternal supports of the Irish revolutionary movement. “Ye need a paper to support your ideas an’ to unify all those that are on the fringes an’ maybe feelin’ a bit disenfranchised by the movement. Ye ought to publish both an English version an’ a Gaelic one. Talk to Rory Callahan, he’s a fourth generation printer. He’ll know the costs an’ difficulties of startin’ up a paper.” He stroked a line out to the side.

“Ye’ll need to put a support system in place as well, for the families of the men who will inevitably find themselves in prison or on the run at some point. Ye talk to the women about that, they know who’s in need of tea an’ comfort an’ has no groceries in the cupboard. Supply them with a stable fund of petty cash, they can come to ye direct for larger sums when there’s need an’ they’ll put the supports in place.”

Robin nodded, the beginnings of a smile playing about his mouth. Casey merely rolled his eyes and continued.

“Now the party is a bit of a different matter. Ye need to organize from the bottom up, youth clubs are yer first level of indoctrination as ye know. They’re also handy for recruitment purposes, ye can skim the wheat from the chaff in that manner. Now about the women, the Officials I think are a bit out of date with the Cumann na mBan. The world is movin’ forward an’ ye’ll have to accept that women are part of that movement. They’ll want an active role, some will likely want to be on active service an’ if ye know how to use what they offer, it’s a good thing.

“As for Sinn Fein, open contact is out of the question. Publicly ye divorce the army an’ the party—it’s not good for the ballot box if ye take my meanin’. Ye let the local constituency offices deal with the neighborhood issues, they’ve got their own boys who can keep order on the streets. No hard men in the party, no one wants to take their complaints to a man who looks like he’d have little compunction about shootin’ them at close range. Ye need the talkers, a man who can speak well is the best asset, an’ someone who’s dog stubborn to push bills through an’ stay the course, despite the discouragement they’re goin’ to come against. The further apart the party an’ the army can be seen to be, the better. In fact if ye can get the politicos to publicly castigate the army an’ its policy of armed force all the better. Even a man with the devil’s own tongue in his head can’t make much progress if the voters see him as supportin’ a force that uses violence to make their point.”

He stopped to take a swig of his tepid tea. “Now the army—what I see as yer biggest problem here is what has always been the stickin’ point. Arms. Where do ye get the money an’ where do ye get the weapons once ye have the money? Seems simple enough to say it, but ye know it’s never been easy. There’s never any bloody money, an’ British intelligence is keepin’ their eyes peeled for guns or ammo of any sort. Ye need money from outside, not just the annual contribution from skint farmers up north.” He rubbed his forehead, leaving a smudge of lead in the wake of his fingers.

“Ye need to get somethin’ organized over the pond. I know of a few men who could handle it. Ye need to beat the drum a bit—play on Irish American sympathies, the Mother country an’ all that. With luck ye’ll be able to count on a steady if small flow of cash, it’ll be enough to keep things goin’ once everything is established but it won’t be enough for a large haul of arms, which ye’ll need. Don’t look to America for the arms either, it’s too traceable, an’ the Brits are keepin’ a tight eye on those channels right now. If ye have the money, look to the Middle East. They’ve got access to Russian weaponry, which isn’t the best quality but it’s a sight better than a few rusty old Lee-Enfields an’ pistols that have been buried in some farmer’s field since the Civil War. I know a man in Germany who has contacts. I’ll leave his numbers with ye. Get yer boys in London to set up the deal, it’s likely yer bein’ watched with a gimlet eye right now an’ any call ye make, especially at the public phones, is goin’ to be highly suspect.”

“Ye need a good, solid man in the offices, someone with patience for all that are goin’ to wander through. The journalists, the radical students, the man whose granddaddy fought the Tans fifty years ago an’ the dreamers; for some reason, which I can’t always fathom, we always attract the bloody dreamers.”

Robin leaned back against the staircase railing, folding his arms in a relaxed manner across his chest. “As I remember it, ye were a bit of a dreamer yerself, man. ‘Twas you that taught me what the struggle was really about.”

“Aye well, I was a boy an’ now I’m a man, an’ the direction of my dreams has changed a bit.”

“Love her that much, do ye?”

“I do,” Casey replied soberly, “I made a choice some time back, an’ I’ll stick to the course I’ve chosen.”

“Despite all the bumps in the road?”

“’Tis the bumps that make a man appreciate the ride,” Casey replied, but there was no levity in his face or tone and Robin took the hint that this particular subject was closed to him.

Robin took his tea from the floor, swirled the lukewarm depths and then peered into the cup as though searching for an answer in the scummy liquid. “Ye should be runnin’ things,” he said, tone light, eyes still fixed to his cup. “Joe’ll never be the sort of leader you were an’ could be again for us.”

Casey shook his head resolutely. “Bobbie, I’m not interested. I’ve a good job, a nice home an’ a marriage that I’ll not risk for anything.”

Robin shrugged. “It’s only a wee bit sad, ye know. It’s as if ye’ve completely avoided yer destiny.”

Casey made a derisive noise. “What destiny? An early grave or several decades spent behind bars? A grand fate, surely, but one I can live without. Besides there’d be a bloodbath the likes of which I’ve no wish to ever see.”

“Still,” Robin continued stubbornly, “I think ye’d be the best man for it.”

“Why?” Casey asked, tone exasperated.

“For all the obvious reasons, the Riordan name is legendary, ye’ve experience of leadin’ men. Ye’ve done yer prison stint, an’ that always commands respect. An’ then there’s some more subtle reasons that yer maybe not thinkin’ about.”

“Such as?” Casey asked, brow cocked quizzically.

“Because yer such a fine upstandin’ citizen,” Robin said, with a flash of impudent teeth.

“Don’t take the mickey on me,” Casey growled.

“Seriously, ye daft bastard, think about it—yer gamely employed, yer respectably married, ye don’t drink on Sundays, yer well-spoken an’ still know all the prayers on yer rosary beads. An’ when the mood is on ye, yer about as readable as a big stone wall. Those are all good qualities in a commander. Ye add those to yer name an’ yer natural ability to lead, an’ it’s so obvious ye could trip over it in the street.”

“Aye well it’s of no matter man, for I’m not takin’ the job, even were it offered an’ I think we both know it won’t be. I’m not Joe Doherty’s favorite man.”

“Ye were always the leader in everything when we were lads, the role came natural to ye.”

“I think ye’ve a rose-colored version of who I was, an’ the truth of it is, we were only boys an’ everything seemed a grand lark then.”

“I remember fine who ye were. I’d have followed ye to the ends of the earth man, still would, come to that,” Robin replied.

“Well follow me to puttin’ up this damn frame then,” Casey said brusquely. Robin merely cocked an eyebrow at him and helped him knock the frame into place.

Later when Robin left, Casey found himself restless. There were a thousand things to do but he couldn’t still his mind enough to start on any of them. The talk had stirred something in him he managed to keep firmly tamped most days.

There were things, he knew, that were instinctual to his neighborhood, to his race. Things he could not expect Pamela to understand. A geography that was mapped in genetic code, in the sights and smells that you’d known from birth, and before, in all the things that your ancestors had known and done and been. A bit from here and a piece from there, melded together to make a whole. A way of viewing the universe and your own corner in it—a way of loving, of hating, of fighting. Things you weren’t even aware of knowing until you needed them, and then suddenly the ability was there.

The Irish, through necessity, had perfected the art of guerilla warfare. From fog and bog went the old saying. Materializing from mist and ground to strike and then disappearing back into the elements just as swiftly as they’d emerged.

He remembered a story about his granddad, hiding from the British, going ‘underground’ as it were, literally in this case. Brendan had spent a full week hiding in a claustrophobically small hole in the ground that he’d dug with his bare hands, carefully arranging peat sods over his head so the ground appeared undisturbed. Seven days in a hellish hole, with the feet of the Black and Tans that hunted him passing overhead more than once.

Casey’s father had told this particular story with pride, illustrating as it did the strength and perseverance his own father had exercised in most areas of his life. Casey had always identified strongly with the grandfather who’d been known to him only through pictures and stories. His grandfather had understood the Irish marriage of the ballot box and the gun. Casey did as well, though he was less certain these days of what the boys thought they were going to achieve by killing Irish civilians in Irish streets. Belief in a cause or creed was easy until you saw what the cost of a life was. Then belief cost a man something, and Casey was no longer certain he could afford the price. And yet...