The Winter Guest - Chapter Two

Click here to read Analyzing My Opening Chapters by W.C. Ryan. A link to chapter three can be found at the bottom of this page.

When Tom Harkin leaves the pub, it is nearly midnight – and it is too late. Much too late. He can’t remember a thicker fog. He can taste it on his tongue like wet charcoal. On top of which the Corporation, in protest at the British curfew, turns off the electricity at half past eleven these days. He looks down at the yellow semicircle of light from the doorway in which his polished black boots stand, tendrils of mist from the river swirling slowly around them, and he thinks about the warmth he is leaving and the darkness of the journey ahead. He pulls up the collar of his coat and tightens his belt, but already the cold has crept inside to his skin.

‘Good luck,’ Malone says, blurred, even though only a few feet separate them.

Then the door is shut and the light gone, and Harkin sighs because, on top of everything else, he is wearing the wrong boots. He takes three steps. Click, clack, click. He will have to walk on his toes. Like a ballerina. And it is four miles to Ballsbridge, in the fog, to where his other pair, the brown ones with the rubber heels, await him. If he gets there.

As soon as he steps off the pavement, he can see nothing – he must feel his way along the street, towards the river, listening for other footsteps and half-wishing he’d taken the revolver Malone had offered him, before he remembers the weight of a gun in his hand and he shivers.

This war against British rule is on a different scale from the war he fought in France. The battles now are between handfuls of men, but the killing is still the same. He knows there are sentries and patrols and checkpoints between him and his home, and every policeman and soldier will have their finger on the trigger of a gun. He has a pass that allows him to be out during the curfew hours, thanks to a highly placed official in the government admin- istration based at Dublin Castle. If he is able to show his pass, he’ll be fine. But will they even ask, what with the fog and not knowing if the footsteps in the dark might not belong to a man with another gun? He isn’t sure, if he were in their shoes, if he would be able to stand there, waiting, and not fire – just to make whoever it is go back the way they came. He thinks about that fellow they shot off his bicycle the other night, on his way back home from a late shift at the Guinness brewery.

That fellow’s pass was good too.

The mist clings to his face and clothes in a cold, damp sheen, and the cobblestones are slippery underfoot. The temptation is to walk quickly, to warm himself up, but if he takes his time, he can listen and make less noise. The city is quiet, but not silent. The sound of a foghorn, muffled and lonely, comes along the river from the port and he can hear conversations in the houses he passes, and once a gramophone.

He considers his options – Sackville Street is to be avoided. There are sentries outside the GPO and O’Connell Bridge is always guarded. Capel Street is a possibility, but then he hears the dis- tinctive rattle and wheeze of a Crossley Tender from that direction and adjusts his course to avoid it, making his way down a narrower street that runs parallel. The Crossley comes to a halt somewhere and he can hear shouting – English voices – but it isn’t for him. He steps into a doorway all the same, finding the breath in his chest hard to come by, and waits until the Crossley moves off. He follows the noise of it as it goes towards the river. He thinks they must have been Auxies; their accents were those of the officer class rather than the other ranks that make up the Black and Tans, the other temporary RIC recruited from Britain. Then he can’t hear the tender anymore and he is unsure if it has travelled out of earshot or perhaps come to another halt. He knows how fog can alter sound, and he wants to be certain it is safe before he goes forwards.

He curses Malone. Three hours late for the meeting, and there had been nothing he could do except wait for him. The list that he brought with him, now in the breast pocket of Harkin’s jacket, is as good as a death sentence if an Auxie patrol searches him. The thought of it makes the adrenaline course through his body. Somewhere above him a baby begins to cry and he listens as the mother soothes the child back to sleep. He hears the bells from Christ Church ring for midnight. When they finish, and he has heard nothing more of the Auxies, he forces himself out of the doorway, keeping to the same slow, steady pace, preparing himself to answer the challenge if it comes, listening for anything that might signal danger.

He needs to get across the river. O’Connell Bridge, to his left, will be too dangerous, and the possible presence of the Crossley rules out trying Grattan Bridge, which spans the river to his right.

He feels boxed in, with only the Ha’penny Bridge, the narrow pedestrian arch between the alternative crossings, as a possibility. It’s not the worst option, however. There is a better chance it will be unguarded than the others. He reaches the end of the street, and he knows from the dank, fetid smell that the river is just ahead of him. He listens for a moment, uncertain where the bridge is from where he is standing. He knows the city well, but he has lost his bearings somewhere along the way and he stands there, panic building, unable to decide whether to go forward until he finds the embankment wall or stay where he is until he is sure it is safe. He is still frozen in indecision when he hears a low voice, to his left. An English voice. He can’t make out the words, but he can hear someone responding and then the scrape of a match. He holds his breath and listens to the metallic sound of a car door opening and then closing. The Auxies. He wants to go back the way he came, but his feet seem to be stuck to the pavement. He knows this kind of fear from France and he knows he will get past it in a few moments. Not entirely, of course – fear doesn’t just switch itself off – but enough to be able to move and think. He forces his lungs to take in some air and then slowly exhales, listening to the Auxies murmuring to each other.

Then he hears the sound of a rifle bolt being pulled back.

He is still standing there, locked into the box of his own terror, when he feels, to his surprise, a soft hand take his elbow. It pushes him gently forwards and he does not resist. He knows, somehow, that he is being helped. When he hears the Crossley’s engine start up, seemingly only a few yards away, he allows himself to be directed, more quickly now, until he can make out the shape of the narrow entrance to the cast-iron bridge only a few steps ahead of him. There is no guard on it that he can see. To his left, the headlamps of the Crossley are turned on. He walks forwards, hearing the hollow noise of his feet on the bridge, hoping the sound will be inaudible to the Auxies over the engine. He looks back to see the twin beams of light on Ormond Quay, blurred by the fog but not more than fifty yards from the bridge’s entrance. His helper pushes him forwards once again and he takes the hint, encouraged by a shout from the direction of the Crossley, and walks across the bridge as quickly and quietly as  he can.

When he turns to thank his saviour, there is no one there, only the faintest scent of a woman’s perfume.

He remembers the perfume. Even though he has not smelled it for several years.

W. C. RYAN is also known as William Ryan, author of The Constant Soldier and the Korolev series of historical crime novels. His books have been shortlisted for numerous awards, including the CWA's Steel, Historical and New Blood Daggers, the Irish Fiction Award and the Theakston's Crime Novel of the Year. He has been published in 18 countries. Visit his website and follow him on Twitter.