‘And why not?’
She pinned the poppy to his raincoat. Kelly gazed down into the strained little face for a moment, eyes dark, then swore softly under his breath. He took a leather wallet from his inside pocket, opened it, extracted two pound notes. She gazed at them, astonished, and he rolled them up and poked them into her collecting tin. Then he gently took the tray of poppies from her hands.
‘Go home,’ he said softly. ‘Stay warm. You’ll find the world cold enough soon enough, little one.’
There was puzzlement in her eyes. She didn’t understand and, turning, ran away.
The old priest said, ‘I was on the Somme myself, but that lot over here,’ he nodded to the crowd at the Cenotaph, ‘would rather forget about that.’ He shook his head as they carried on along the pavement. ‘So many dead. I never had the time to ask whether a man was Catholic or Protestant.’
He paused and glanced across the road. A faded sign saidMurphy’s Select Bar. ‘Here we are, then. What are you going to do with those?’
Kelly glanced down at the tray of poppies. ‘God knows.’
‘I usually find that He does.’ The old man took a silver case from his pocket and selected a cigarette without offering one to Kelly. He puffed out smoke, coughing, ‘When I was a young priest I visited an old Catholic church in Norfolk at Studley Constable. There was a remarkable medieval fresco there by some unknown genius or other. Death in a black hood and cloak, come to claim his harvest. I saw him again today in my own church. The only difference was that he was wearing a felt hat and an old raincoat.’ He shivered suddenly.
‘Go home, Father,’ Kelly said, gently. ‘Too cold for you out here.’
‘Yes,’ the old man said. ‘Far too cold.’
He hurried away as the band struck up another hymn and Kelly turned, went up the steps of the pub and pushed open
ii
the door. He found himself in a long, narrow room, a coal
fire burning at one end. There were several cast-iron tables
and chairs, a bench along the wall. The bar itself was dark
mahogany and marble-topped, a brass rail at foot level. There
was the usual array of bottles ranged against a large mirror,
%old leaf flaking to reveal cheap plaster. There were no
customers, only the barman leaning against the beer pumps,
a heavily built man, almost bald, his face seamed with fat,
his collarless shirt soiled at the neck.
He glanced up at Kelly and took in the tray of poppies. ‘I’ve got one.’
‘Haven’t we all?’ Kelly put the tray on the table and leant on the bar. ‘Where is everyone?’
‘In the square at the ceremony. This is a Prod town, son.’
‘How do you know I’m not one?’
‘And me a publican for twenty-five years? Come off it. What’s your fancy?’
‘Bushmills.’
The fat mannodded approvingly and reached for a bottle. ‘A man of taste.’
‘Are you Murphy?’
‘So they tell me.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘You’re not from these parts.’
‘No, I was supposed to meet a friend here. Perhaps you know him?’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Cuchulain.’
The smile wiped clean from Murphy’s face. ‘Cuchulain,’ he whispered.
‘Last of the dark heroes.’
Murphy said, ‘Christ, but you like your melodrama, you boys. Like a bad play on television on a Saturday night. You were told not to carry a weapon.’
‘So?’ Kelly said.
‘There’s been a lot of police activity. Body searches. They’d lift you for sure.’
‘I’m not carrying.’
iz
‘Good.’ Murphy took a large brown carrier bag from under the bar. ‘Straight across the square is the police barracks. Local provision firm’s truck is allowed through the gates at exactly twelve o’clock each day. Sling that in the back. Enough there to take out half the barracks.’ He reached inside the bag. There was an audible click. ‘There, you’ve got five minutes.’
Kelly picked up the bag and started for the door. As he reached it, Murphy called, ‘Hey, Cuchulain, dark hero?’ Kelly turned and the fat man raised a glass toasting him. ‘You know what they say. May you die in Ireland.’