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“Yeah,” she whispered. “But it in’t easy, Finn. It ’urts like yer tearin’ yerself apart, sometimes.”

“Be strong.” He smiled and held out his hand.

She did not take it. She hesitated even more. She had the two pieces of newspaper clenched in her pocket. She closed her eyes. It was easier to say it not looking at him, but she did not turn her face away.

“You said Neassa Doyle were raped and murdered on the night of the eighth o’ June.”

“Yes. It’s a date none of us will ever forget. Why?”

“By Alexander Chinnery, an Englishman wot were the best friend o’ Drystan O’Day, or pretended to be?”

“Yes. You know that!”

“Yeh. It says so in the newspaper wot Mrs. Pitt got up in London.”

“So what is it you’re saying? It’s true! We all know it’s true!”

“I got another piece.” Now she opened her eyes. She did not mean to, it just happened. “A Liverpool newspaper o’ sixth o’ June, two days before.”

He looked a trifle puzzled.

“Saying what?”

“Sayin’ as ’ow Lieutenant Alexander Chinnery jumped into the ’arbor o’ Liverpool ter try ter save a young lad wot was drownin’—”

“So he was brave when it suited him,” Finn said quickly. “I never said he was a coward. Only a betrayer and a murderer and a rapist.”

“An’ a bleedin’ miracle.” She nearly choked on the words. “ ’E were dead, Finn! ’E din’t save the boy, nor ’isself! They was both drowned. They got the bodies out, but it were too late. When Neassa Doyle were killed, Finn, Chinnery were two days dead. An’ there were dozens o’ people wot saw ’im. Dozens of ’em were tryin’ ter get ’em out an’ save ’em.”

“That’s not true!” His face was blank with shock. “It isn’t! It’s a lie to try to protect him.”

“From wot?” she demanded. “ ’E’adn’t done nothin’!”

“That’s what you say!” He stepped back, his cheeks flushed now, his eyes brilliant and angry. “The English would say that. They’re hardly going to admit it was one of their own.”

“One o’ their own done wot?” Her voice was rising higher, and she had to try hard not to shout. “That were two days before Neassa got killed. There weren’t nuffink to protect ’im from. You sayin’ they drowned ’im in Liverpool ’arbour ter save ’im from bein’ blamed fer summink wot ’adn’t ’appened yet?”

“No! Of course I’m not. But it can’t be the truth. It’s a lie somewhere. It’s a very clever one—”

“It in’t a lie, Finn! The only ones wot’s lyin’ is Neassa Doyle’s brothers, wot really killed ’er an’ shaved ’er ’ead fer bein’ an ’ore an’ goin’ after a Protestant. They blamed Chinnery ’cos they din’t ’ave the stomach ter stand up an’ be counted for wot they believed in.”

“No! No, they didn’t—”

“Then ’oo did? ’cos it weren’t Chinnery, lessn’n ’e come back from the grave an’ scared ’er ter death.”

“Don’t speak about it like that!” he shouted, raising his hand as if to strike her. “It isn’t funny, God damn you!” His voice was thick with emotion. Anger and confusion were all but choking him. “Haven’t you even a decent respect for the dead?”

“What dead? Only Irish dead?” she shouted back, refusing to retreat. “Course I ’ave! Enough ter want the truth fer ’em. But I got respect fer English dead too—if Chinnery didn’t do it then I won’t stand ’ere an’ ’ave anyone say as ’e did! It in’t honest.” She drew in her breath in a gasp. There were tears running down her cheeks, but she could not stop. “You told me ter face the truth, no matter ’ow much it ’urt. You said it were like a little bit of us dyin’ if we ’ad to admit our own ’as done sum-mink terrible.” She waved her arm in the air, pointing at him. “Well, you gotta do it! Them Doyles killed ’er an’ let Chinnery take the blame ’cos they ’adn’t the guts ter say as they done it to ’er theirselves ’cos she let ’em down by fallin’ in love wi’ O’Day. Well, they did, an’ you denyin’ it in’t going ter make it different.”

“It’s a lie,” he repeated, but there was no belief left in his voice, only anger and hurt and confusion. “It can’t be true.” She fished in her pocket and brought out the newspaper clippings. She pushed them at him without letting go of them. “Look fer yerself. Can yer read?”

“Of course I can read.” He stared at them without touching them. “We’ve known all about it for years! Everybody knows!”

“Everybody knowin’ don’t make it true,” she argued. “They only know it ’cos someone said so. They weren’t there, were they?”

“No, don’t be stupid!” he said with scalding disgust. “That’s an idiotic thing to say—”

“Then ’ow could they know?” Her reasoning was impeccable. “They know ’cos them Doyle brothers said so. Drystan O’Day must a’ thought it were them, or ’e wouldn’t a’ gorn an’ attacked them, would ’e?”

“He was a Protestant,” he said with vicious logic. “Of course he would.”

“No, ’e wouldn’t! Not if ’e thought it were Chinnery. ’E’d a’ gorn after Chinnery. Be honest! Wouldn’t you?”

“I’m not a Protestant!” His chin jerked up and his eyes blazed generations of loathing.

“Yer just the same!” she retorted with agonized conviction. “There in’t no difference, lyin’ and ’atin’ and killin’ each other—”

His reaction was instant.

“There’s all the difference in the world, you stupid girl!” he shouted thickly. “Don’t you listen to anything? You’re so … English! You can’t see Ireland at all.” He took a step forward, jabbing his finger at her. “You’re just typical, arrogant English, thinking all Ireland is the same, there for you to rob and plunder and then rum your back on and ignore when the people starve and die and the hate goes on from generation to generation and century to century! You make me sick! No wonder we hate you!”

Suddenly she saw the tragic stupidity of it, and the rage disappeared out of her, leaving her choked with grief.

“I in’t sayin’ we’re right,” she answered him with a quiet level voice, completely in control. “I’m sayin’ Alexander Chinnery din’t kill Neassa Doyle an’ you bin lyin’ ter yerselves all them years because the lie served you better than the truth, ’cos yer want ter blame somebody else, an’ best be it’s the English.” She shook her head. “Yer’d sooner live in a dream. An’ yer in’t never goin’ ter get peace wif each other long as yer’d sooner feed yer old ’atreds ’cos yer think yer some kind o’ romantic victims o’ somebody else.”

He made as if to fight back, but she drew in her breath and shouted over him. “I don’t know why yer want ter be somebody else’s victim! If it in’t yer own fault, yer can’t even fight it! Can yer? I don’t want all me troubles ter be someone else’s fault. Wot do that make me but an ’elpless little article pushed all over the place? I in’t ’elpless. I makes me own mistakes an’ I takes the truth an’ I puts ’em right or I lives wif ’em.” And she turned on her heel and ran out, gasping for breath, throat aching, hardly seeing where she was going for the tears, the cuttings still clutched in her hand.

She was running down the corridor towards the women’s stairs when she pitched full tilt into Tellman. He caught hold of her to prevent her from falling.

“What’s the matter?” he said immediately.

“Nuffink!” she shouted back, but her voice caught in a sob. Tellman was the last person she wanted to see just then. “In’t nuffink wrong! Let go o’ me!”