Published March 2022
A story of emigration and return in three narratives that span recent history in Ireland and the UK. In 1974 a small-time criminal returns to Wicklow to lie low after a killing in Liverpool. DI Barlow of Special Branch wants to use him to disrupt an IRA gun route. Facing danger on every side he struggles to fit in. A devastating experience in Dublin forces him to reevaluate his life
In 2010 Vinny and his partner Anne a local reporter visit Ireland to find out how his father died. The country they find is anchored to the struggles of the past. History haunts the present, in a world of intelligence dirty tricks and financial corruption.
Here is a sneak preview;
Chapter 1 Vinny
Ireland was coming toward them, a spectre emerging from the mist and rain.
“This is it.” Vinny stood in front of the rain-spattered window of the passenger lounge. “Time to find out what happened to my dad.” He shifted his weight as the floor beneath him moved. The ship rolled with the waves.
“You make it sound like you’re going to jail or off to fight in a war,” said Anne.
“How do you know we’re not?” asked Vinny.
The public address system played a recorded message asking passengers to return to their vehicles. All around them people were spurred into action.
“Shall we go down to the car?” Anne asked.
“Can we go onto the deck first?” This was Vinny’s first trip to the land of his father. The land of Guinness and Gaelic, songs and stories, war and revolution. Vinny wondered which one he would find.
She smiled. “Sure, I guess it’s all part of the experience.” It was mid-May, but no one had told the Irish weather system. The sea whipped and smacked the ferry sides while a slanting rain came in from the land. The wind swirled and buffeted them as Vinny opened the lounge door. He led the way to the front, holding on to the cold wet handrail. He pulled his grey North Face jacket together, the zipper slowing over his slightly protruding stomach. He left the hood down, and his short brown hair was pulled in several directions at once.
“Welcome to Ireland,” Anne shouted. Younger and slimmer than Vinny, she would have liked her father’s afro. Instead, her looser curls gave her a Latin look.
Vinny laughed. “I don’t think it wants me here.”
Anne linked her arm through his while leaning closer. He moved his arm around her shoulders to pull her in. Without Anne, he would never have found out that his dad didn’t just abandon him, but went on the run. Vinny watched the grey shore get closer. It looked like any other piece of land the world over, but he knew it held a personal truth he had been denied. But was it a truth he wanted?
“Come on, let’s go.” Anne turned and led Vinny back inside. “Excited?” she asked.
“Yeah, just to get off this thing,” he said.
They sat on the darkened car deck with the engine off as the ferry made its final manoeuvres into position at the dock. Amid the shouts and hand signals of the seamen, the great door began to open and grey daylight swept in.
Anne’s phone vibrated. She reached into her bag. “Telefon Eireann.”
The car swayed as the ferry door clanked and banged into place. Vinny’s phone beeped. He checked his message. “Same.” He swiped to get onto the satnav when it beeped again.
“What time are you in?”
Vinny’s eyes narrowed.
“What is it?” Anne asked.
“A message from my Uncle Martin.”
“That’s quick. What does he want?”
“Asking if we’ve arrived.”
Anne turned the ignition and the car stirred into life. She followed the line of traffic off the ferry. “We have now,” she said as the car bounced off the bottom of the ramp. “When are we seeing him?”
“I thought maybe tomorrow, or the day after?” Anne was negotiating the car out of the ferry port, accelerating away from the boat and toward the exit. “Give him a ring.”
Vinny tapped the phone, he held the phone flat out in front of him on speaker. It rang once, twice.
“Hello, hello,” a surprised voice rang out.
“Martin, it’s Vincent, Vinny. “
“Hello, Vincent. We’re here in Wicklow waiting for yeh.”
Vinny looked at Anne who managed to shrug while turning onto a main road.
“Oh right I thought we were seeing you later in the week in Tipperary.”
“Well, something has come up like.”
“Ok, Can you tell me what it is?”
“Well”—there was a pause—“Maybe it’s better if we show you. We’re at your hotel.”
“Give us an hour and we’ll be there.”
“Right you are, see you in an hour then.”
“Ok, bye.” Vinny swiped to bring back up the satnav.
“What was that about?” Anne asked as she looked for the slip road to the N11.
“What could he mean, ‘something’s come up?’” Vinny was thinking aloud. “And why drive all the way from Tipp? Okay, go straight on, a bit, then I think we can get onto the motorway.”
Vinny swiped the screen, enlarging and reducing the image on his phone. Anne concentrated on the traffic. Vinny reached across for Anne’s hand. She was changing gear and moved her hand back to the wheel. She managed to give his hand an awkward squeeze between movements.
“Here, take this turn.” Vinny pointed.
Anne swerved and managed to join the flow of traffic. Her lips were pursed. She was deep in thought.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Fail to prepare means prepare to fail.”
“The hotel is booked,” said Vinny.
“Not just the room. The investigation.”
“More advice from the great Anthony?” Vinny’s eyes widened.
“Yes, as it happens. It might be a cliché, but it’s true, and there’s no need to sneer. Anthony’s been a good editor for me, a mentor.” Anne paused to let the recrimination sink in. “This is serious.” She paused. “So what do you know? About your dad’s death, time? Place?”
“All I know is what my mam told me. It was a motorbike accident not long after he arrived back in Ireland.”
“1974 April, right?.”
“Yeah, the last time he was seen in Liverpool was late April.” Anne laid out the facts. “He came back to Ireland, to Wicklow, but he was from Tipperary?” Anne turned toward Vinny.
“He was on the run from Liverpool, so my guess is that Jack Power, the boss under the bridge, set him up with his contacts in Wicklow after they killed Mark Riley; they wanted him out of the way quickly.”
Vinny knew his dad was a murderer, and he hated the whole gangster thing, turning thugs into icons. If it took a village to raise a child, it took a culture to create a killer.
“Okay. Well we’ll see what your uncle has for us when we arrive,” said Anne.
“Local papers may be on their last legs, but I’m glad I’ve got the best journalist in Liverpool on the case with me.” Vinny smiled.
“We’ll see,” said Anne. “And as a journalist, I might have to move to do my job.” The two lane highway was busy but the traffic was flowing.
“Is this the Novo-media thing again?”
“Partly yeah. The North has been ignored, everything is dominated by London.”
“It’s not completely true. You’ve got Granada, the BBC in Salford.”
“All the decisions and the jobs are in London,” Anne countered.
“Then go to London if you want to be near ‘power.’”
“It’s not that, I just want a career near to where I live. Is that so bad?” She made eye contact, then looked back at the road.
Vinny looked sideways at her. “Doing videos on Youtube?”
“You’ve got to start somewhere.”
“I don’t want to argue,” said Vinny.
Anne turned to face him again. “Who’s arguing? If I get offered the job, I’ll take it.”
“Fine. Watch the road.” He pointed ahead.
The road curved round to the left and began a climb. Within minutes they’d reached the top of the hill.
“Look, there’s the sea.” To the left, the green field and hedgerows fell away to reveal the open expanse of the Irish Sea. A mass of glittering blues and greens with the white caps of waves breaking throughout. “Great isn’t it?” said Vinny.
“You weren’t saying that when you were on it,” said Anne.
“Yeah, well. I can appreciate it more from here.” He smiled.
“Isn’t that always the case? Everything looks better until you are in it,” said Anne.
“Are we still talking about the sea?” asked Vinny.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“This thing with my dad has always felt like unfinished business. We know he did a runner, but what happened when he came back? It was probably just an accident like they said, but I need to know.”
“I hope that is the only piece of unfinished business. Somehow I don’t think your dad spent his last days in a cottage, walking a dog on the beach. We turn up in Ireland asking about a death. God knows what we’re getting ourselves into.”
“Well, we are about to find out. The next exit takes us to Wicklow.”
***
Five minutes after leaving the N11 they drove into the town, took a left and turned down toward the sea. The hungry cries of gulls welcomed Vinny to Wicklow. “Looks okay.”
A brick built timber beamed pub with whitewashed walls next to the shallow but fast-flowing River Vartry. The arches of the stone bridge spanned the water, which came down from the mountains and out into Wicklow Bay.
“No, it’s lovely,” Anne corrected.
***
Vinny got his bag out of the car, and Anne trundled her roll-along case behind him. Two men got out of a brown pick-up close by.
“Vinny?” An older man with a healthy shock of grey hair approached him, hand outstretched. He was followed closely by a heavy set young man with curly brown hair and a stocky, solid build. “This is your cousin Sean.”
Vinny shook hands with Marty and then the younger man.
“This is Anne.”
They both nodded hellos at Anne.
“Are you coming in?” Vinny asked.
“I think your man in there would rather we waited out here, didn’t like the cut of our jib,” Martin said.
“Ok, look, give us a minute, we’ll get rid of the bags and be back out.”
The swing doors opened onto a reception area. Through a side door they saw the bar, a long room full of tables and chairs, filled with the dark brown glossy wood of country pubs. There was a hatch counter in front of them and the stairs off to the left. As soon as they entered the area, a figure appeared behind the counter.
“Good Morning. I’m Mr McDonagh, General Manager. My assistant Sheila is off today, so I’ll book you in.”
“Great. Vincent Connolly.”
“Ah yes, Mr Connolly, you’ve had some visitors already.
“So I believe,” said Vinny.
“I asked the gentlemen to wait outside. Passports please.” McDonagh’s tone was of disturbed efficiency.
“Yeah, I heard.” Vinny handed over his and Anne’s passports; he wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t sure why the manager had slighted his visitors. The manager ignored him and tapped away at a keyboard, eyes fixed on the screen. “Yes, I have you here, double room. If you could just sign the register for me.”
Anne and Vinny completed their paperwork, left their bags in reception much to the manager’s disapproval, and went back outside to the car park. The sun was fighting its way through the clouds, the air was fresh and cool.
Martin was waiting by the entrance. He paced back and forward in short bursts. Vinny knew something was wrong. “I know it’s no way to say hello, but you’d better have a look.” He led them over to the back of the pick-up. Sean reached in and pulled out a tyre.
“From my dad’s motorbike?” asked Vinny
“You said Sean here could try and fix it up. Well, he got started on it straight away, had his eye on it for years he has.”
Sean held up the tyre and poked his finger through a hole. “The front tyre,” he said.
“Puncture?” asked Vinny.
“Not a hole clean through like that,” said Marty.
Sean handed the tyre to Marty and dug in his pocket. He pulled out a small tin and broke open the lid. He held a piece of metal between his fingers, about 2cm long, one end was rounded like it had melted. “This was still inside the tyre. It must have hit the rim.”
“A bullet?”
“Yeah, that’s what it looks like.”
“Jesus, did no one say anything at the time?” asked Anne.
“No one looked. It was a motorbike accident, no reason to think anything else,” said Martin.
“Have you told anyone about this?“ asked Anne.
“Yeah I called the Gardia,” said Sean.
“He had to,” said Martin.
Vinny took the bullet and weighed it in his palm. “This was no accident. My dad was murdered.”
Jack Byrne 