No Enemy but Time (36 page)

One of the first calls to come for him was from Sean Filey. It was brief.

‘We've got more trouble with your nephew,' he said. ‘Have you seen him yet?'

‘I've only been here two days,' Kevin snapped. He didn't like Filey. He didn't feel comfortable with intellectuals. He suspected that all psychiatrists analysed everyone they met, as a matter of course. He didn't like beards, either, because he felt they were grown to hide something. He'd read that somewhere and he was sure it was true. ‘What the hell do you mean by trouble?'

‘He's thrown Marie out of the house and the bank. He's in a dangerous frame of mind. And right now we need him badly. You're the one to steady him. Just for a while longer.'

Kevin hesitated. It sounded bad. Bad for his nephew too. He was fond of Frank.

‘I'll call him now,' he said. ‘Leave him to me.' He repeated his boast. ‘I'm like a father to him.'

‘It's just wonderful to see you, Frank.' Mary Rose gazed up at him. He thought she had aged since his last visit. Her hair was greyer and there were little networks of lines. He was glad to see them. They were his family. He could always trust them.

Kevin had sounded warmer than usual when they spoke. ‘We've missed you, Frankie. Come on over.'

Kevin didn't rush his fences. They had a long lunch, and he eased Frank into a confidential mood with wine and gentle banter among the four of them. Then he signalled to Mary Rose and his son that he wanted to be alone with his nephew. Man's talk, as Mary Rose called it. She slipped away, taking Patrick with her.

‘Things have been bad in the North, I hear,' Kevin began. His sharp eyes saw a change of expression.

‘They've been bad down here too,' Frank said. Suddenly he spoke his mind. ‘Why did they do it? Why did they blow up that boat and kill those poor devils?'

Kevin held his tongue. Frank went on, frowning, obviously troubled.

‘Don't they know that's no way to win public support? And to be honest, I find this business of shooting down RUC men in front of their wives and children bloody terrible too.' He looked at his uncle. ‘The direction is changing,' he said. ‘What was a war in the North for freedom and justice is becoming more and more of a terrorist campaign.'

Kevin said reasonably, ‘I know how you feel, Frank. But let's look at the record. The struggle in the North has been going on for years. People in Britain and America are taking it for granted. It doesn't make the headlines any more. Some poor bastard of a Catholic gets dragged out of his bed and murdered by the Orangemen and it gets a couple of inches down the inside page. It's not nice killing men in front of their families, but it's been happening to our people for years. Now they're giving the sons of bitches a dose of their own medicine. As for the killing of that fella Mountbatten and the others – well …!' He spread his hands as if to say, it was something that had to be done. Albeit regrettable. ‘We don't want his kind in Ireland. And it served its purpose. It showed them we can strike anyone, any time, no matter who they are.' He leaned across and put his hand on Frank's arm. ‘It's a dirty business, because they've made it so. Right from the start, when they set about a peaceful crowd demonstrating for their basic human rights, and laid into them with clubs, up a street where they'd barricaded them in. Remember that? Remember Bloody Sunday, Frank? Troops firing on unarmed men and women. Thirteen dead. We have to fight, and fight on their terms, if we're ever going to have a chance of winning.'

‘After all the killing and the sacrifices,' Frank said slowly, ‘it doesn't seem to me we're that much further forward.'

‘I think we are,' his uncle said. ‘And we can't give in, just because of all the blood spilt and the suffering of our people. We've got to win, don't you see that?'

‘Yes,' he answered. ‘I do see it. And I want it as much as anyone. It's the methods I don't like. I've helped our Cause and I'll go on helping. There's a big payment coming in soon. I'm going to deal with it. Nothing alters my commitment. But I'll speak my mind when I see something creeping into us that's rotten.'

‘Speaking your mind to me is one thing, Frank,' his uncle said. ‘But I'd be careful not to shoot your mouth off anywhere else. Things are hard for us at the moment and it won't do you any good to go round criticizing.'

Frank said, ‘Is that some kind of warning? If it is, I won't take it.'

‘Ah, don't be a bloody fool.' Kevin changed his tone. ‘I'm just giving you advice, that's all. How's Marie? I meant to say bring her, but I thought we'd have some time to ourselves.'

‘We've split up,' Frank said. ‘And she's left the bank.'

‘That's a pity. I thought she was a fine girl. We all thought you might make an honest woman of her one day. Isn't her leaving the bank a bit awkward for you?'

‘No. It would have been more awkward having her there. I can handle the next lot without any help from anyone.'

‘Was it a fight you had?' Kevin asked him, testing out Sean Filey's hinted explanation. ‘It must have been a helluva fight to break the two of you up after all this time.'

Frank didn't want to discuss it. He didn't want to think about Marie.

‘I settled money on her,' he said. ‘She's all right, don't worry.'

Kevin felt a tinge of resentment. He recognized that way of closing the subject. For a moment Philip Arbuthnot spoke through his son.

‘What's the next big payment, Frankie?' Kevin asked, cocking his head on one side as if he too had lost interest in Marie Dempster.

‘Sean says it's a hundred grand,' he answered. ‘It's due in at the end of next week.'

Ryan asked the question Frank had asked Sean Filey. ‘That's a lot of money. Where's it coming from?' He got the answer Frank had been given.

‘I think it's better not to know,' his nephew said. ‘I don't ask for details; the less one person knows, the safer it is for the others. But I'm getting the cash, and I'll put it into a new account at the bank where it can be transferred, as soon as I know where to send it.'

‘Won't you have trouble with Exchange Control?' Ryan queried.

‘It'll be the first time,' Frank said. ‘Most of our business is for overseas clients. There's never been any problem. There won't be this time.'

Ryan got up. The private talk was over. He thought he had defused the situation. He hoped so; he was fond of his nephew. He wished he could have made the warning stronger, but he didn't dare. In his present mood, Frank might have courted real disaster by refusing to handle this shipment of money. The idea filled Kevin Ryan with alarm. He patted his nephew on the shoulder.

‘If my sister Eileen can look down on you,' he said, ‘she'll be a proud woman. Come and walk out with me for a while; there's a grand bit of sunshine and I've done a few things round the place I'd like to show you.'

When Frank left he sank into a chair and switched on the television. Mary Rose thought he looked glum and irritable. As soon as Frank's car set off down the drive his bonhomie had dropped like a mask. She knew he hated watching the particular quiz programme which was babbling in the background. She thought, Maybe he'll talk about it.

‘I thought Frank looked tired,' she remarked. ‘Is he working too hard? Why don't we invite him over to Florida for Christmas?'

‘We could do,' Kevin grunted. He looked up. ‘Marie's left him. Yeah, sure, we'll invite him over. Good idea.' He settled low in the chair, glaring at the screen. ‘Listen to that fuckin' idiot of a woman! Jesus, a two-year-old'd know the answer.'

Mary Rose ignored the language. She said gently, ‘I'm glad she's gone. She wasn't the right girl for Frank. I just couldn't take to her, honey. I did try, but I just couldn't …'

‘He won't do much better,' Kevin said.

The money would be in by the end of the week. It might be a good idea to invite his nephew over to the States much sooner than Christmas. As soon as possible, till he'd calmed down. There were plenty of nice girls back home. He needed his mind taken off politics. And the frightening overtone of distrust stemming from Sean Filey and the others needed time to sink below the surface. Kevin knew that it had always been there, the sleeping crocodile sunk in the mud. Now it was stirring. And Frank himself was threshing round in the water.

He said to Mary Rose, ‘I can't watch this shit. There's one thing I miss about back home, and that's cable TV.' He got up to get himself a whiskey. It might stop him worrying.

On the morning of the robbery, Sean Filey was at St Patrick's nursing home, treating three private patients. Jim Quinlan was on duty at Heuston station. He had arranged the roster so he would be there for the Dublin to Cork train. Marie Dempster was at the house at Sanky. She was driving out to Sallins at the time arranged. She'd rented a flat near Howth Bay. It was quiet and had fine views over the sea. That morning she sat by the radio, smoking and drinking cups of strong coffee. She wasn't made-up in her usual careful way, or smartly dressed. Jeans, a shirt, a scarf tied over her hair. The sleek BMW was left behind at Howth. There was a hired Ford Escort parked outside.

Frank was in his office, talking to a client who wanted the bank's support in a share flotation for a ceramics company in Wicklow. It sounded a promising issue, and likely to attract strong support in the market. He heard the wailing sirens in the background and paid no attention.

In the foyer of the Kildare Street branch of the Bank of Ireland the manager lay shot dead. A girl was crying hysterically, police were cordoning off the area and gathering the bank staff into the back rooms. The acrid cordite smell of gunfire lingered in the air. A stolen Renault 5 was lost in the traffic headed towards Heuston station. There were three men, apart from the driver, the hoods pulled off their heads, the shotgun on the floor between their feet. The suitcase with the money crammed into it was stowed in the boot. They heard the sirens wailing, and one glanced through the rear window. None of them spoke. The manager had played the hero, lunging for an alarm button instead of doing what he was told. He'd been shot dead before he had time to reach it.

The Renault pulled into the station forecourt. One man checked his watch. They got out, nobody hurrying. One heaved the suitcase out of the back. A porter lounged nearby.

‘'Bye now, thanks for the lift,' one called out for his benefit, as the driver set off. They walked through to the ticket office. One bought three tickets to Cork, while the other two waited, guarding the suitcase. They looked relaxed and very ordinary. One bought a newspaper and opened it at the sports page. A number of people were catching the train. The three walked through the barrier, each with a ticket and apparently quite unconnected. They boarded the train as soon as it came in and made their way to the rear.

Quinlan met them. ‘Follow me,' he said. He unlocked the guard's van. The man with the suitcase looked round.

‘We had trouble. Feckin' manager. Declan shot him.'

Quinlan didn't react. ‘I'll lock you in; five minutes before Sallins I'll open it. You know what to do then. Good luck.'

He went out. The man called Declan fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette. His hand was shaking badly.

‘None o' that!' he was told sharply. No butts or spent matches must be left behind. Like a fool he had taken off his glove. He drew it back on and settled down on a box to pass the time. Shooting the manager had shaken his nerves. It wasn't the first time he'd killed a man, and once they'd dropped the money and were clear, he wouldn't give it a thought. There were mailbags in the van. The older man, a long-term criminal who'd been on the Provos' payroll for some years, pondered them for a moment and then decided not to push their luck. They had the money safe, and they'd be well paid. Besides, they were convinced supporters of the Republican cause. They checked their watches again. The suitcase was taken up. They stood, swaying slightly with the movement of the train, and at the exact time, Quinlan opened the door and glanced in briefly.

‘Be ready,' he said. Then he was gone. They came out into the corridor. The countryside hummed past them. Sallins was up ahead. Quinlan timed it perfectly. The first carriage had passed under the bridge when he pulled the emergency cord. As the brakes went on and the train began screaming and juddering under their impact, he raced up towards the driver's cabin. It had almost stopped by the time he reached it.

‘Bloody yobs,' he shouted. ‘I saw 'em pull the cord …'

Donny heard it coming. He couldn't believe it at first, and he craned forward over the edge of the bridge, cupping a hand to his ear. His mouth stretched into a huge, delighted grin. He jumped up and down, gripping the parapet with both hands, and gave little cries of excitement.

‘The train,' he babbled, ‘The train's comin' …'

It was one o'clock and the rest of Sallins was eating dinner or sitting over a drink in Cargill's lounge. The shops were shut. It was the hour of the Irish siesta, without the sun. Donny saw the big, beautiful miracle of the train as it approached, and to his astonishment and joy it started to slow down. The Dublin-Cork train didn't stop at that tiny station, it sped through, giving him a brief glimpse of its glory. Now it was actually stopping. Nearly stopping, coming to a slow, slow crawl, so that he could see its shiny roof and lovely carriages sliding away under the bridge. It was the most exciting moment of his life, and he wet himself a little without knowing it. For a brief moment he thought it stopped, but by then there was only the tail end of it on his side. Then it started to move again, gathering speed. He turned to watch it, giggling with happiness, and as it vanished down the track he turned again and saw the three men coming up the steps from the platform.