Jack Higgins: Cry of the Hunter

O’Hara raised his eyes piously to the ceiling and Doolan said, ‘But why now? You were the greatest of them all. You were worshipped throughout the length and breadth of Ireland.’

Fallon nodded and said lightly, ‘If only I’d got myself killed. It would have been even better. Another martyr to the cause.’ Doolan made a sudden exclamation of disgust and turned away and Fallon said seriously, ‘How old are you, lad? How many times have you been over the border? I’ve spent more than a lifetime over there. I’ve spent eternity many times over. I’ve been chased throughout the length and breadth of Ulster, and England, too. Five years ago I escaped from Dartmoor Prison. For three weeks I was hunted like an animal before I reached this country again. Oh, I was the great hero until I told them at Headquarters that I was through. O’Hara was there. He knows what happened.’

‘You were a sick man, Martin,’ O’Hara said smoothly. ‘You weren’t in your right mind.’

Fallon laughed grimly. ‘I was right in my mind for the first time in my life,’ he said. ‘I’d had plenty of time to think it over.’

‘But you can’t leave the Organization,’ Doolan said. ‘Once you’re a member, it’s for life. There’s only one way out.’

‘I know,’ Fallon said. ‘Feet first, but that’s where I had them, you see. You can’t court-martial and shoot the greatest living hero you’ve got. That wouldn’t do at all because the rot might set in. People might begin to think there was something wrong. No, you just put up with him and heave a sigh of relief when he buries himself in the wilds. And who knows – if you’re really lucky he might even drink himself into the grave.’

Doolan stared helplessly at him and O’Hara said, calmly, ‘What a one for the words you always were, Martin. What a one. But we still haven’t got down to business.’

Fallon shook his head and, despite himself, a reluctant smile came to his lips. ‘You’re wasting your time, O’Hara,’ he said. ‘I’m safe here. Four strong walls and a roof to keep out the rain, my typewriter to pay the bills and plenty of booze.’

‘Just so,’ the old man replied. ‘The whisky to try and fill the emptiness in you.’ He cackled suddenly. ‘Why man, the Irish Sea itself couldn’t fill that hole inside you.’

For a brief moment Fallon’s face slipped and a terrible expression came into his eyes and then he regained control and smiled lightly.

‘It’s you that should be writing the books and not me,’ he said.

O’Hara leaned back, a satisfied smile on his face. ‘Are you ready to hear why we’ve come, then?’

For a moment Fallon hesitated and then curiosity got the better of him. He shrugged. ‘All right. I’m listening. It can’t do any harm.’

O’Hara nodded and Doolan leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘Have you heard of Patrick Rogan, Mr Fallon?’

Fallon frowned. ‘I knew him well. A mad, hair-brained fanatic. He was shot dead in a running fight with the police on the Belfast Docks.’

‘He had a son,’ O’Hara said, quietly.

‘Yes, he had a son,’ Fallon said. ‘Shamus they called him. He was killed in nineteen-forty-five in a raid on a police barracks in County Down. I’ve forgotten the name of the place.’

‘There was another son,’ Doolan said. ‘Did you know that? Only a nipper when his father was killed. Don’t you read the papers here, Mr Fallon?’

‘I’m careful not to,’ Fallon said.

Doolan smiled briefly and went on. ‘Two years ago there was a clean sweep made in Belfast and the polis lifted most of the leaders. Patrick Rogan was only twenty and he hadn’t been over there long but he rose to the occasion and proved himself his father’s son. He took over leadership of the Organization and was so successful we left him in charge.’

Fallon raised his eyebrows. ‘He must be quite a boy.’

‘He is indeed, Mr Fallon,’ Doolan said, ‘and one we can’t do without. He’s walked the path of danger these two years, a hero and a legend to his people.’ He paused and the only sound in the room was the crackling of the logs in the fire and the drumming of the rain against the window. O’Hara coughed asthmatically and Doolan said, heavily, ‘He was taken the day before yesterday.’

There was another short silence and then Fallon said, ‘Well, it comes to us all in the end. He lost, that’s all.’

‘We must have him out,’ O’Hara said suddenly. ‘He must never stand trial.’

Fallon’s eyes narrowed and he looked first at Doolan, who dropped his gaze, and then at O’Hara. He laughed briefly. ‘What kind of a line are you trying to give me? Why shouldn’t he stand trial? I stood trial. What makes Rogan so different?’

Doolan sighed and said to O’Hara, ‘We’ll have to tell him the truth. It’s no good.’

O’Hara nodded. ‘I knew we would. I didn’t think he’d be fooled for a minute.’

Doolan turned to Fallon. He seemed to search for words and then he said, ‘You see, Mr Fallon, Rogan is everything I said he was. He’s served his country well. He’s done good work in Ulster, but…’

‘He’s not to be trusted,’ O’Hara said. ‘It could be the end of the Organization in Ulster if he ever stands trial.’

Fallon poured himself another drink and said coolly, ‘The work of years going up in smoke, eh? That wouldn’t be so good. How can he do it?’

Doolan sighed wearily and leaned back in his chair. ‘The polis are holding him at Castlemore. He managed to get a message smuggled out to us yesterday. He says we must get him out before they move him to Belfast. If we leave him to stand trial he swears he’ll make a deal with the polis. He’ll tell them everything they want to know about the Organization in Ulster if they promise to go easy on him.’

Fallon frowned. ‘He must be mad. He knows the first thing he’d get from the Organization, even if he was freed, would be a bullet. He’d do better to take his sentence and bide his time.’

O’Hara shook his head. ‘There’ll be no biding his time, Martin, if he is sentenced. He shot a peeler dead and crippled another. They’ll hang him so high the crows won’t be able to get at him.’

Fallon whistled softly. ‘God help him then. They’re hard men to deal with at the best of times. Devils, when one of their own has been killed.’

‘You can see why we came to you, Mr Fallon,’ Doolan said. ‘There’s nobody else left up there. Nobody that’s good enough to handle a job like this.’

Fallon laughed coldly. ‘And you think I’m going to stick my head into that hornets’ nest? You must be mad.’

‘You mean you refuse to help us?’ Doolan said.

‘I wouldn’t raise a finger,’ Fallon told him. ‘Rogan shot a peeler. He knew what he was doing. Now he can take the consequences.’ There was a hard finality in his tone.

Doolan turned to O’Hara, but the old man didn’t seem to be attending. He sat erect, his head slightly on one side as if he was listening for something. Suddenly he pulled himself to his feet and went across to the window. He peered out and when he turned there was a slight smile on his face. ‘Don’t worry, Jimmy,’ he said. ‘It’s going to be all right. The trouble with you is you don’t understand the Irish temperament.’ He chuckled to himself and shuffled back to his chair by the fire.

At that moment Fallon became aware of the sound of a car engine muffled by the rain. He turned and said, ‘What dirty trick have you got up your sleeve now, O’Hara?’

The old man smiled genially and took out his pipe. ‘No tricks, Martin. Psychology. It’s a grand thing, and after all – we must move with the times.’

As the car stopped outside Fallon filled his glass with a steady hand and poured the whisky down his throat in one easy swallow. He said, ‘You’re wasting your time, old spider.’