Garavogue on Hyde Bridge—a bridge I’d walked across less than two weeks before—and I gaped in wonder. The countryside had not changed, but the times certainly had. The streets, unpaved and free of the traffic and congestion of 2001, seemed much larger and the buildings much newer. The Yeats Memorial Museum sat on the corner, but it wasn’t a museum any longer. The words Royal Bank were written in bold across the side. A few cars and a delivery van rumbled along the street, most of them black, all of them antique, but horse-pulled carts were just as common. The bulk of the traffic was pedestrian, the clothing smart, the steps brisk. Something about the apparel—the formality of suits and ties, vests and pocket watches, dresses and heels, and hats and long coats—gave everything a decorum that contributed to my sense of the surreal. It was a movie set, and we were actors on a stage.
“Anne?” Thomas prodded gently. I tore my eyes away from the storefronts, from the wide footpaths and lampposts, from the old cars and the wagons, from the people who were all . . . long . . . dead.
We were parked in front of a small establishment just two doors down from the stately Royal Bank. Three golden balls were suspended from an ornate wrought-iron pole, and “Kelly & Co.” was written across the glass in a baroque font no one used anymore. Eoin squirmed impatiently beside me, anxious to get out of the car. I reached for the door handle, my palms damp, my breath shallow.
“You said he’d be fair. But I have no idea what that might be, Thomas,” I blurted, stalling.
“Don’t take less than a hundred pounds, Anne. I don’t know where you got diamonds, but those earbobs are worth a lot more than that. Don’t sell your ring. As for the department store, I have an account at Lyons. Use it. They know Eoin is mine.” Thomas immediately amended his statement. “They know Eoin lives with me, and they won’t ask any questions. Put your purchases on my account, Anne,” he repeated firmly. “Buy the boy an ice cream cone, and save the rest of your money.”
30 November 1919
Several months ago, on a quick trip to Dublin, I spent a harrowing night on Great Brunswick Street, locked in detective headquarters and going through the files that laid out the Castle’s secret intelligence operation and named their informants—known as G-Men—in Ireland. One of Mick’s inside men, a detective who worked at the Castle but fed information to Sinn Féin, got Mick inside the records division, and Mick brought me along, “just for the craic.” He didn’t need me for courage, but he seemed to want company. Between the two of us, in a matter of hours, we were able to get a fairly clear picture of how the information flowed in the G Division and who it flowed through.
Mick found the file compiled about him and had a good laugh at the grainy photo and the halfhearted compliments made to his acumen.
“But there’s no file here for you, Tommy,” he’d said. “Clean as a whistle, boyo. But not if they catch us here.”
We got a good scare when a window of the room we were locked in was broken, causing us to hide behind the shelves, praying no one would come to investigate. We could hear the drunken song of the vandal outside and a policeman shooing him away. After a moment, when it seemed we were in the clear, Mick began to whisper, not about what we’d learned or the contents of the files, but about life and love and women. I knew then he was trying to distract me, and I let him, trying to return the favour.
“Why haven’t you settled down, Doc? Married a pretty girl from County Leitrim and made a few blue-eyed babies?” he said.
“Why haven’t you, Mick? We’re roughly the same age. The ladies love you. You love them,” I responded.
“And you don’t?” he scoffed.
“Yes. I love you too.”
He laughed, a great happy sound, and I flinched at his boisterous disregard for our situation.
“Quiet, ya big oaf!” I shushed him.
“Yer a good friend, Tommy.” His broad Cork accent was more pronounced in a whisper. “We make time for what’s important. There’s got to be someone you can’t stop thinkin’ about.”
I thought of Anne then. I thought of her more than I should. In truth, I thought of her constantly and was quick to deny it. “I