James Benn - Evil for evil

I was alone on the street. Mr. McCabe had gone in to close up shop. The two boys who had been playing down by the water were running along the sidewalk, laughing as they raced each other along the seawall, their voices high and shrill, echoing against the stone. I closed my eyes and felt a remnant of childhood still within me, the thrill of play with dusk closing in, the rush to a warm house where supper was being put on the table as hunger drove me home, the daily routine that seemed it would always be, my child's view of time stretching no farther than the next holiday, or perhaps summer, if not too far off. I wished I had someplace to go where I'd find a friendly face, home-cooked food, and no dead bodies. I started the jeep, feeling adrift in a world of divided loyalties.

I left Warrenpoint behind, taking the coast road to Annalong, almost full circle to Newcastle, where I'd started the day with news of Pete Brennan's death. The wind came in hard from the Irish Sea, and rain soon began to lash the jeep, drumming on the canvas top like Max Roach.

I parked in front of the Harbor Bar, the pub where Major Thornton had told me he'd seen Eddie Mahoney quietly arguing with another man. I was hungry so it seemed like a good place to do some investigating. The rain came at me sideways as I ran to the door, holding my cap down with one hand. Fishing boats rocked at their moorings to one side, and on the other the gray granite buildings seemed to disappear in the foggy darkness. I pulled the door shut behind me and shook water off like a stray dog in a thunderstorm. I hung up my trench coat next to a line of fishermen's foul-weather gear and stood by a peat fire that glowed in the wide fireplace, rubbing my hands. I heard the murmur of conversation rise after the quiet as the locals eyed me for a long moment before returning to their pints and talk. There were booths along each wall, with the bar between them. Chairs and a bench surrounded the fireplace, but they were all empty. Eight or nine men, mostly fishermen, to judge by their clothes, were scattered about, smoking and drinking.

"A pint," I said to the barman as I took a seat. He nodded and began the slow pour. A chalkboard on the wall announced the food choices were fish and chips, Irish stew, and boxty.

"What's boxty?" I asked.

"That's a pancake made from potatoes. My wife fries 'em up nice and crisp, she does. You can have 'em alone or with sausages. Or with the stew, it's all good."

"With sausages," I said, the smells from the small kitchen behind the bar whipping up my hunger. A few minutes later I was sipping my Guinness while listening to the sizzle of a fry pan coming from the next room, and it almost did feel like home.

"Not many Americans stop by here," the barman said as he busied himself with pulling another pint. It was good bartender talk; if I wanted to chat, I could expand on the subject. If not, the answer could be short and sweet without being rude.

"Too bad," I said. "It looks like a nice spot, from what I could see of it."

"It is indeed. Rough weather today, though; brought most of the boys back in."

"Tough to fish when it's raining this hard?"

"Raining? It wasn't raining," a voice boomed out behind me. "It was lashing and pissing, spitting, pelting, pouring, bucketing, and we came in stinking, dirty, soaked, drenched, saturated with seawater, cloud water, and fish guts. But it wasn't raining. Rain is that nice stuff what comes down straight and keeps your vegetables growing. This blow is more than raindrops from Saint Peter. Another pint, Colin."

"Sure you're not too wet already, Emmet?"

"Oh, now he's a funny one, he is! Right, Yank?"

"I make it a rule never to take sides against the man working the bar," I said, pointing to Colin.

"A fine answer, that, Yank. Emmet Kennedy's my name."

"Billy Boyle," I said as we shook.

"Colin there took the wise course a few years back. He sold his boat and bought this place. Stays dry most nights, and keeps us in the black stuff. The Guinness, if you don't get my meaning."

"I got it. Sounds like you don't see many Americans down this way."

"Every now and then," Colin said. "But not enough to help pay the bills. I hear up in Belfast they run out of ale some nights, there's so many coming through."

"I'm based up in Newcastle, and there are GIs all over the place. Why don't they come down this way?"

"Well, I've seen them on maneuvers, running around the Mournes, and some along the coast," Emmet said. "But I'd guess once they have a chance to get out, they go into Downpatrick or Newry. They're cities, this is a sleepy coastal village. This here is the evening's entertainment, as good as it gets!"

"True enough," Colin said, as he worked on Emmet's pint.

"I came on the recommendation of a Major Thornton. Know him?"

"No, but I'm glad he spoke well of the place."

"He said he saw this guy in here," I said, laying a picture of Eddie Mahoney on the bar. Colin and Emmet leaned in to study it.

"What's this fellow mean to you?" Emmet said, his manner not quite so jovial as before.

"Nothing much anymore. He's dead. Name was Eddie Mahoney."

"Christ," Colin said, looking at Emmet.

"You know him?" I asked both of them.

"How sure are you he's dead?" Colin asked.

"As sure as two bullets to the back of the head."

They looked at each other a while. "You a copper?" Colin asked.

"Not exactly. But I have been asked to look into it. By the U.S. Army, not the RUC. I mean, if there were any local laws broken here or there, it wouldn't matter to me." They seemed afraid, and I wanted them to know I wasn't after them.

"That's not the problem," Colin said, tapping his finger on the photograph. "He's the problem. Bastard stayed here a week; we've two rooms upstairs. Started having visitors, and one night he has an argument with one, right there." He pointed to a corner booth.

"Was there a fight?"

"Aye, I saw it," Emmet said. "That one, the redheaded fellow, he and the other man came to blows but they stopped as soon as one of them dropped his pistol. Everyone saw it. Around here, that only means one thing. Or two, actually. IRA or Red Hand. But seeing as this is mainly a Catholic pub, it wasn't hard to figure."

"We haven't had much trouble here," Colin said. "Most folks are friendly enough but keep to their own. On the main street, we have Protestant shops on one side, Catholic on the other. The Protestants have their pub up the road. So nobody wants the Irish Republican Army stirring things up."

"What happened?" I asked.

"The other fellow left straightaway. This fellow-he called himself Davies, though I doubt it was his real name-he comes up to Emmet and me, standing here as we are now, and says he'll have us killed if ever anything is said. A hard look he had in his eyes too, and I believed him."

"You can thank the one who shot him for me," Emmet said, taking a long swallow from his fresh pint.

"I'd like to meet up with him and do just that. What did the other fellow look like?"

"He wasn't here long; I don't really remember. On the tall side. Losing his hair but letting what he had go long."

"Aye," Colin said. "Dark brown it was."

"That was Red Jack Taggart," I said. "Ever hear of him?"

"Christ Almighty," Colin said. "Who hasn't? Himself?"

"In the flesh," I said. "You're not ignorant of the IRA then?"

"There's them who did what needed doing in the war against the British and came to know such names," Emmet said. "And some thought it best, finding themselves north of the border, to quietly return to the life they led before. I say this, hearing your name is Boyle, since I think you'll know what I mean."

"I do, and I understand. I'd appreciate anything you can tell me, and it won't go any further."