are three thousand peelers over there who want one thing very badly at the moment. They want to see Patrick Rogan hang and they’ll make damned sure nobody interferes.’
O’Hara nodded and said calmly, ‘I know that. I told you it was a desperate business, but if anyone can do it, you can.’ Fallon gave an exclamation of disgust and the old man went on. ‘No, Martin, I mean it. The trouble with most of the boys when they get over the border is that they begin to crack right way. They take the whole business too damned seriously. Now, you never did.’
‘Are you mad?’ Doolan said indignantly. ‘I’ve never heard such nonsense in my life.’
Fallon threw back his head and laughed. ‘He’s right though,’ he said. ‘I never did.’ He glanced at Doolan’s outraged face and sobered up. ‘The only way to survive over there is to treat the whole thing like a game,’ he said. ‘It’s like war – it is war. But it isn’t like the books or the ballads at all. It’s dirty and dangerous and incredibly stupid.’
‘And that’s the only philosophy that can ever achieve the impossible,’ O’Hara said.
Fallon leaned forward. ‘You’d better give me what information you’ve got,’ he said. ‘Where are they holding him?’
Doolan nodded and smiled. ‘That’s about the only bright spot,’ he said. ‘We do have some secret information. They’re still holding him in Castlemore, but a friend on the inside gave us a tip this morning. They’re going to move him to Belfast tomorrow night on the nine o’clock mail train. The whole thing’s being done very quietly.’
Fallon nodded. ‘Because they expect the glory boys to try something foolish.’
‘You’ll want the address of our local headquarters in Castlemore,’ Doolan said.
Fallon shook his head. ‘No thanks,’ he said. ‘In the first place, I wouldn’t feel safe working with a local group. There’s still a reward of two thousand quid on my head. No – I’ve got to do it on my own. It’s the only way.’
O’Hara nodded in approval. ‘You’re right, Martin. It’s the only way, but you’ll be needing a hidey hole of some sort.’
Fallon smiled. ‘I’ve one or two of my own. Reliable ones from the old days.’ He stood up and moved across to the window and looked out into the night.
‘When will you go?’ O’Hara asked.
Fallon lit another cigarette. ‘In an hour or so. I’ll cross the border before morning. I can catch the milk train for Castlemore at Carlington.’ He moved back to the fire and said, ‘I’ll give myself three days at the outside. If we get away with it I’ll bring him straight here. No sense in getting him arrested on this side and put in that fine new detention camp they’ve got.’ O’Hara nodded and Fallon sighed and said, ‘I’ve been happy here, O’Hara. Happy for the first time in my life. If I ever get the chance I’ll pay you back for doing this to me.’
O’Hara half-smiled and shook his head. ‘No you won’t,’ he said. ‘You’re not the sort. Besides, you’ve never been happy here.’ His eyes challenged Fallon calmly, surely, and Fallon suddenly knew that what the old man said was true.
He threw his cigarette into the fire and left the room. He quietly opened the bedroom door and went in. Mrs Rogan slept peacefully, her face calm and tranquil in the lamplight. Fallon opened a wardrobe and taking out a tweed suit, changed quickly. When he was ready, he took a battered rain hat and an old trench coat from a hook behind the door. For a moment he stood at the bedside looking down at the sleeping woman and then he turned down the lamp and moved to the window.
A bare half-mile away through the darkness was the border. Within a few hours be would be in great danger. The rain hammered endlessly on the glass and the wind called to him as it moaned through the trees. A sudden spark of excitement moved within him. He smiled softly in the darkness and turned and quietly left the room.
2
When the milk train pulled into Castlemore, Fallon was sleeping in a corner, his hat tilted over his eyes. An old farmer who had shared the compartment with him from Carlington, gave him a nudge and he came awake quickly and murmured his thanks.
The station was almost deserted and few passengers alighted. As he walked towards the barrier porters unloaded the milk churns noisily at the far end of the platform. A young policeman in the uniform of the Ulster Constabulary, revolver strapped high on his right side in black leather holster, chatted idly with the ticket-collector. His eyes flickered in a disinterested fashion over the passengers as they passed through, and he yawned hugely and lifted a hand to his mouth.
Fallon paused in the station entrance and looked across the square into a drift of fine rain. It had been easy. Almost too easy. He had crossed the border under cover of the darkness and rain, with no trouble at all. A brisk walk of half a mile had taken him into Carlington. Now here he was, back in enemy territory with almost every hand against him, and yet it was different somehow. There was not the old feeling of excitement, of tension. There was a flatness to this thing and an unreal quality as if it were a dream that he would soon wake from. He pulled his collar closely about his neck and struck out across the square into the rain.
He had not gone very far before he realized that he was being followed. It was still too early for many people to be about and he walked at an easy pace through the main shopping centre. He paused once to light a cigarette. As he cupped his hands around the match, he glanced casually back along the street and saw a man in a flat cap and brown leather motoring coat, halt abruptly and look into a shop window.
Fallon continued at the same easy pace. He took the next turning off the main street and began to walk faster. He crossed the road and turned into a narrow alley. Halfway along the alley he paused and looked back. The man in the brown leather coat was standing at the end watching him. Fallon began to walk briskly now. He felt almost lighthearted. At least he wasn’t being followed by a policeman but by the rankest kind of amateur. He came out into a quiet street and flattened himself against the wall. His pursuer was running now, his footsteps echoing hollowly from the brick walls of the alley. When the steps were almost upon him, Fallon crossed the street and moved along the pavement.
There was no one about and the rain suddenly increased in volume until it bounced from the pavement in long lances and soaked heavily into the shoulders of his trench coat. A little way down the street he came to the entrance of a timber yard. He hesitated and glanced back in time to see the man in the leather coat dodge back out of sight into the alley. The timber yard was deserted and wood was piled everywhere. The place was a jungle with narrow passages giving access to the heart of it. Fallon moved a few paces inside and took up position behind a convenient pyramid of oak planks.
Within a few moments his pursuer arrived. He paused in the entrance, glancing about him cautiously, and then moved forward. Fallon waited until he had passed his hiding place and then he stepped out and said, ‘A dirty morning.’ The man turned quickly and Fallon hit him hard under the breastbone.
The man sagged against a wall of planks, the breath whistling out of his body. His head jerked back in agony as he fought for air and his cap fell to the ground. He was only a boy, perhaps seventeen or eighteen, with red hair close-cropped to his skull. Fallon placed a hand on the boy’s neck and pushed his head down relentlessly. He repeated the action several times and then stood back and waited. After a moment the boy lifted a face that had turned bone-white and said with difficulty, ‘You might give a fella a chance to explain himself.’
Fallon shrugged.
