In the last week of August two Americans arrived in Ballinakelly, a father and son returning to find their roots. The father was in his early fifties, handsome with a low brow, thick gray hair and a moustache. His eyes were deep-set and as blue as a lagoon. His son looked nothing like him. He was dark-haired and skinny with a long weaselly face, swarthy skin and small hazel eyes. They wandered into O’Donovan’s and ordered stout, and the room was silenced. Mrs. O’Donovan was not one to hold her tongue. “So, where are you gentlemen from in America?” she asked, putting two glasses of Guinness on the counter.
“Boston,” said the older man. “My grandfather was from around here,” he added by way of an explanation.
“Really? From where?”
“From here,” he replied. “Ballinakelly.”
“What’s your name then?” she asked.
“Callaghan,” he said. “Jim Callaghan.”
“Well, there are many with that name here.” She raised her eyes and beckoned over an old man in a brown cap and jacket. His white hair curled about his large ears and in bushy sideburns on his cheeks. “This here is Fergus O’Callaghan,” she said.
The old man approached the bar stiffly. “Jim Callaghan,” said the American, extending his hand. “This is my son, Paul.”
Fergus O’Callaghan wiped his hand on his jacket and then shook theirs. He grinned, revealing shiny gums and a few remaining yellow teeth. “Well, seeing as we’re related, you can buy me a drink!” he said, staring at the American boldly and a little unsteadily. Mrs. O’Donovan cackled, and a roar of laughter erupted from the locals behind them.
“Seeing as we are, I will,” said Jim with a grin that charmed Mrs. O’Donovan and disarmed Fergus O’Callaghan. “One for my cousin,” he said.
Mrs. O’Donovan shook her head. “Isn’t that grand,” she said, reaching for a glass. “There’s nothing like the generosity of family!”
“I suppose ye’ll be looking for a pair of colleens to carry back to Amerikay,” said Fergus, watching Mrs. O’Donovan fill his glass.
“Aye, you could travel farther and fare worse, lads,” Mrs. O’Donovan added. The older American laughed, but the younger one just scowled and wet his lips with Guinness.
Fergus O’Callaghan took his stout and shuffled back to the round table by the window where his friends were waiting for him. The chatter resumed, and father and son settled onto their bar stools with their Guinness.
“So where are you staying?” Mrs. O’Donovan inquired, because after they’d gone she didn’t want everyone asking her questions she couldn’t answer.
“At Vickery’s Inn,” the older man replied, which was a few minutes’ walk from the pub.
“And how long will you be staying?”
“Only a week.”
“That’s grand,” she said. “You didn’t come all the way from America just to find your roots, did you?”
“No, I had other business to see to in Dublin, so we thought we’d do a detour.”
“That’s grand,” she repeated. Then she looked at the young man. “Does your lad talk?”
“I do,” said Paul, glancing shiftily at the door.
“So he does,” said Mrs. O’Donovan. “Must be the stout.”
“I was told that this is the heart of the town,” said Paul, and Mrs. O’Donovan thought he was only making conversation to prove that he did indeed have a tongue.
“Aye, it is,” she said. “Everyone comes here.” She glanced at the young man’s father and smiled. “You might meet some more relations.”
He smiled back. “Then I’ll depart a poor man!”
“Do you know where your kin used to live?”
“It was a farmhouse on the hill, but it’s not there anymore,” he replied vaguely.
“Farmers, were they?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Your grandfather, you said?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
“Thank you, Mrs. . . .”
“O’Donovan. This is my husband’s pub.”
“And a very charming pub it is too.”
She smiled. “Thank you.”
A COUPLE OF nights later Jack went to O’Donovan’s for a game of cards. Paddy O’Scannell and Badger Hanratty, who was now so old he needed a magnifying glass to see the numbers on the cards, were already at the table. They had substituted the Count with a young lad called Tim Nesbit, who had the best poker face in town and a keen eye for the ladies, but he didn’t buy the locals rounds of stout like the Count had, and the flamboyant Italian was sorely missed.
Everyone in Ballinakelly knew that Michael Doyle was behind the murder of Cesare di Marcantonio, everyone, it seemed, except Bridie, who, although aware of Michael’s sinister past, would never have believed her brother to brutally murder the man she loved. Those old enough to remember the War of Independence and the Civil War that followed knew exactly what Michael Doyle was capable of. The fact that he had reinvented himself as a pious man of the Church fooled no one. The high positions he held in the community simply disguised his ruthlessness, and everyone was as frightened of him now as they had been then. Niamh had disappeared the night the Count was murdered, and the O’Donovans’ explanation of having sent their daughter away to stay with relatives in county Wicklow did not convince anyone that the two events were not connected. The story got out and gossip boiled and bubbled and the Garda came around asking questions, but no one was going to rat on Michael Doyle; no one dared.
Emer had been a great comfort to Bridie, who was inconsolable. If Bridie knew the truth she didn’t have to face it because Michael weaved a likely tale of Cesare’s gambling and falling into debt and she was ready to believe that her husband had lost his life because of his refusal to pay the reprobates to whom he owed money. She turned a blind eye to the fact that Cesare had never had any qualms about squandering her fortune or, indeed, running off with it. Michael promised he would track down the criminals who murdered him and kill them himself, and Bridie believed him. She vowed to wear black for the rest of her life and found solace in church, much to Father Quinn’s delight, for with the Countess’s gratitude came large and frequent donations.
That night Jack found O’Donovan’s abuzz with talk of the two Americans who had bought a drink for Fergus a couple of evenings before. “Just say you’re called O’Callaghan,” Paddy told Jack as he dealt the cards. “And you’ll get a free pint!”
“What are they doing here?” Jack asked Paddy, who had heard it all from Mrs. O’Donovan.
“Looking for relatives, it seems,” said Paddy. “They’re from Boston.”
Jack frowned and rubbed his chin. There was nothing unusual about Americans coming to county Cork in search of their roots, but Jack’s suspicions were raised all the same. He put a cigarette between his lips and lit it pensively. It was years since he’d left New York in fear of his life after the plot to kill “Lucky” Luciano had failed. He didn’t imagine anyone was after him now, but “Bugsy” Siegel had put a high price on his head, so there was always a chance of some dogged bounty hunter tracking him down. He studied his hand of cards and dismissed his suspicions as paranoia. It was crazy to suspect the worst of every stranger who came to Ballinakelly.
Behind the partition, in the snug, the six women of the Legion of Mary, known as the Weeping Women of Jerusalem, sat in a row on the bench, drinking glasses of Bulmers Cidona and nibbling on Mikado biscuits like dainty mice. They were more excited about the arrival of the Americans than anyone else, for it gave them something new to gossip about. “The lad who looks like Clark Gable is a daily communicant,” said Nellie Clifford. “They keep the faith,” she added approvingly.
“They go to Mass every morning,” said Joan Murphy.
“Indeed, they’re already great pals with Father Quinn,” said Mag Keohane, whose elderly mongrel, Didleen, lay sleeping at her feet. “They’ve promised to put electric lights in the church and electrify the organ. It will be America at home. And to top it all they are keeping him supplied in whiskey, God save us!”
Maureen Hurley shook her gray curls. “Ain’t it amazing, Mag, the call of St. Patrick brings them all back to the land of the shamrock.”
But that night when Jack went to bed he couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t stop thinking about the American tourists, and he couldn’t ignore the uneasy feeling that tugged at his gut. He didn’t want to frighten Emer with his own fears, so he kept his suspicions to himself, but he took her hand and held it until dawn.
The following morning Jack was summoned to see three lame horses, two bloated ponies and a goat that had eaten an azalea bush. Everywhere he went people were talking about Jim and Paul Callaghan. The women’s cheeks blushed as they repeated the compliments the older man had given them, and even the most hardened farmers were touched by their interest in their way of life. ’Tis true what they say, you can take the boy out of the bogs but you can’t take the bogs out of the boy, they said. There isn’t an ounce of grandeur in the two Yanks and they must have a fortune to be able to stay in Vickery’s Inn . . . I knew a Mossie O’Callaghan from Killarney when I was a young girl, and the older one is the dead stamp of him. They nodded admiringly, and Jack’s suspicions were aroused even further, for these two men seemed to be making an effort to talk to everyone in Ballinakelly.
It was true that there had been no tourism during the war and it was exciting to see new people visiting the area once again, especially from as far away as America. On top of that the Irish had a rose-tinted view of America because so many of them had emigrated there and sent money back to their poor relatives along with descriptions of the material comforts and marvelous opportunities they had found. But Jim and Paul Callaghan were, in Jack’s opinion, asking too many questions.
When Jack arrived home Emer was waiting up in the kitchen, darning.
“We need to talk,” she said, putting down her work, and by the expression on her face he could see that she was upset.
“What about?” he asked, hanging up his jacket and cap.
“It was something your mother said to me today about a comment she had heard Nora O’Scannell make.” Nora O’Scannell was Paddy’s wife, and she worked the telephone switchboard.
“What did she say?” Jack hoped she wasn’t gossiping about him and Kitty.
“You know those two Americans everyone is talking about?” she said.
Jack’s blood went cold. “Aye.”
“Well, your mother told me that Nora, who we all know likes earwigging down the line, was listening in on that Jim Callaghan making a call to America. I bet she wanted to find out whether he’s married or not. She’s sweet on him, you know. Says he looks like a film star. Anyway, she heard him say that he was going to give Jack O’Leary his present by the end of the week.” Emer looked at him anxiously. “Nora went up and told Julia with great excitement, wanting to know why the Yank is going to give you a present and what it might be. But I know what it is. It’s time, isn’t it, Jack?”
The ground seemed to spin away from him. He pulled out the chair and sat down at the table. “I thought as much,” he said, putting his head in his hands.
“They’ve come looking for you, haven’t they?” She turned to gaze out the window, into the black night, so he couldn’t see the fear in her eyes. “I thought we were safe here in Ballinakelly, but we’re never going to be safe. We’re always going to be looking over our shoulders, until you’re dead.”
Jack gazed at her steadily. “Then I have to get them first,” he said.
NEITHER EMER NOR Jack slept well that night. While Jack tried to think of a way to outwit the Americans, Emer prayed that they wouldn’t have to run away again. She liked Ballinakelly. She didn’t want to go and start a new life somewhere else. But in the dark she reached for Jack’s hand, and he took it.
For the first time in years Jack felt fear. It was cold and hard, like a wall closing in around him, and he squeezed Emer’s fingers hard. “I love you, Jack,” she whispered.
Jack felt sick in his stomach for having betrayed her with Kitty. His life shifted into sharp focus at the terrifying thought of losing it, and all he saw was Alana, Liam, Aileen and Emer. Emer, his lovely Emer, who had followed him unquestioningly from one country to the next. “And I love you, Emer,” he croaked. “God help me. I’ve done some stupid things. Made some foolish decisions and yet you’ve never left my side. You’ve been my better half, Emer, and I don’t deserve you.”
“Now you’re being silly,” she whispered, snuggling up to him. “Any woman worth her salt would do the same.”
But Jack knew that wasn’t true. “No, Emer, they wouldn’t. You’re not like other women. You’re better.” He pressed his lips to her forehead. “You’re better,” he repeated. And I’ve been an idiot not to notice.
In the morning Jack kissed Emer good-bye and took his car straight to Michael Doyle’s farmhouse. He and Michael had fought side by side in the War of Independence and yet those years that should have bonded them had set them at each other’s throats on account of Kitty Deverill, who they both loved. After all that had happened in the past Jack and Michael could never be friends, but they had at least come to a mutual understanding. Jack knew that Michael was the only person who could help him, and, because of the dark things they had shared in their past, he would be ready to do so. However, when Jack entered the cottage he found Mrs. Doyle on her rocking chair, smoking a clay pipe and reading a tatty old Bible in the dim light through a pair of thick spectacles. “Michael’s gone to see Badger,” she informed him when he inquired after her son. “He’s good like that, is Michael. Poor Badger has no kin. Michael is everything to him now. But he’ll be back soon. He visits Badger every morning just to check he wakes up,” she added with a toothless grin. “You’re welcome to wait. I can wet the tea.”
Jack took a chair at the table and accepted the mug of tea. He remembered the many times he had sat at that very table, with Michael; his brother, Sean; Father Quinn and a few others, to plan strategies during the War of Independence. The place still smelled the same, of woodsmoke, cows from the farm next door and cooking. Bridie had sat by the fire with her mother and grandmother while they had conspired against the British, and Jack wondered whether she had listened to every detail so she could go back and tell her lover, then Mr. Deverill, all about it. Nothing was ever simple, and few could be trusted.
The sound of Michael’s car drawing up outside dragged him away from the past. A moment later Michael’s presence darkened the door. He saw Jack and nodded. “Hello, Jack,” he said, taking off his cap. Michael looked at his mother. “Badger’s gone,” he added.
Mrs. Doyle’s mouth opened in surprise. “Gone? Badger?”
“I’m afraid so, Mam. He must have died in the night for he’s as cold as ice this morning.” Michael shook his head sadly. “He was an honest man, was Badger, and there are precious few of those.”
Mrs. Doyle crossed herself vigorously. “I will light a candle for his soul,” she said. “May he rest in peace.”
“I’ll go and tell Father Quinn,” said Michael.
“I’ll come back later,” said Jack, getting up.
Michael sighed. “No, you can talk to me now, Jack. Badger’s not likely to go anywhere, after all.” Michael took a chair opposite Jack. “What can I do for you?”
Mrs. Doyle started to read her Bible again, and Jack leaned across the table and lowered his voice. “I need your help,” he said.
Michael grinned grimly. “Go on.”
“Those Yanks are after me,” Jack said.
“Are they now?” said Michael. “And why would they be after you?”
“They’re working for the Mafia. When I was in New York I got into trouble and had to flee for my life. I took Emer down to Argentina. I only came back because I thought it was safe to do so.”
“But they’ve found you, have they?”
“Nora O’Scannell eavesdropped on a conversation one of them had to America. They’re going to do me in, Michael. So, I need to do them in first,” he said, and his jaw stiffened with resolve.
Michael pulled a cigarette packet out of his breast pocket and tapped it with his finger. He popped a cigarette between his lips and dipped the end into the little flame of his lighter and puffed. All the while he looked at Jack through narrowed eyes. Michael wasn’t clever in an educated way, but he was cunning in a feral way. More cunning even than the most highly educated. He now smoked languidly, and Jack could almost hear his mind whirring with ideas. After a long while, during which time Jack drained his mug of tea, Michael smiled crookedly. “Do you want to get rid of them well and good?” he asked.
“Well and good,” Jack repeated.
“Then listen to me and I’ll tell you exactly how we’re going to do it.” He turned to his mother. “Forget what I told you about Badger, Mam.” Mrs. Doyle, who was used to her son’s intriguing, nodded her head solemnly before turning back to her Bible. “For it to work, Jack, you have to do exactly what I say.”
EMER WAS AT the castle having tea with Bridie when the butler announced that the Garda were at the door asking after Mrs. O’Leary. Bridie looked at Emer and frowned anxiously. It was obviously urgent if they had tracked her down to the castle. “Please show them in,” she said.
Emer had gone pale. “Sweet Jesus, Bridie. It’s Jack.” She stood up and hurried to the door, her breath burning her lungs with panic. She grabbed her neck with a white hand as the two men walked in with their hats in their hands.
“Mrs. O’Leary?” said the first one gravely. Emer nodded. “My name is Inspector Cremin. I think you might like to sit down.”
Bridie now stood beside her. “What’s happened?” she demanded. “Speak up, for the love of Jesus.”
“I’m afraid there’s been an accident,” he said. “Your husband’s car came off the road at Malin Point and fell onto the rocks below. I’m sorry to tell you, but your husband is dead.”
Emer swooned, and the two men and Bridie helped her into an armchair. “How is that possible?” Bridie asked.
“I don’t know, Countess, but the car caught flames and the poor lad didn’t have a chance.”
Emer started to howl. “I know who did this!” she cried. She grabbed Bridie’s skirt. “I know who killed him!”
“I’m afraid it looks like an accident, Mrs. O’Leary,” said the other inspector.
“Of course it looks like an accident,” she snapped, eyes blazing. “They want it to look like an accident!”
“Who wants it to look like an accident?” asked Inspector Cremin gently, taking out his notebook.
“Those Yanks. They wanted him dead.” She began to sob uncontrollably. Bridie stroked Emer’s arm as her grief overwhelmed her. When at last she had calmed down enough to speak, she added, “They said they’d deliver the present to Jack O’Leary by the end of the week. Ask Nora O’Scannell. She’ll tell you.” The two Gardai looked at each other in bewilderment, then Inspector Cremin put away his pad.
“We’ll come back when you’ve had time to grieve, Mrs. O’Leary,” he said and his tone was deeply sympathetic, as if he was talking to a distraught child.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” said the other, and they departed.
Bridie asked a maid for two large glasses of brandy and crouched by Emer’s chair. “Why would those Yanks want Jack dead?” she asked, her eyes glittering with tears.
“Because Jack was running from them. That’s why we fled New York and went to live in Argentina. We’ve been running for years. I thought we didn’t have to run anymore, but I was wrong. They got him.”
“Who are they?”
“The Mafia,” said Emer, and the way she looked at Bridie made her wonder whether, in her anguish, she had gone a little mad.
Bridie put her arm around Emer, who cried softly onto her shoulder. “What are you going to tell the children?” she asked.
But Emer didn’t hear her. “I’m going to get them,” she said. “I’m going to find those two bastards and kill them with my bare hands.”