Tomorrow morning, she would get clothes.
Tomorrow, she would leave London. If no place was safe for her, then she could go anyplace. Was she so important they would look for her forever? She only needed time.
She hurried back through the rain to the little hotel.
The thought of sleep, of finding safety, lightened her step. She did not even notice the man across the street, watching her enter the hotel.
21
Faolin found the flat off Lightbody Street, near the Nelson dock, with some trouble. He had never been there before because Parnell had never let any of them see his living quarters.
It was nine A.M. on Monday, forty-nine hours until the launch of the Brianna.
With the exception of Donovan, who was working at the hovercraft apron on the waterfront some three miles down the river Mersey from there, the group was supposed to converge at 9:15 A.M. in Parnell’s flat.
As usual, Faolin would be late, a lateness bred by his own impatience in waiting for others and by inherent caution. A caution he had betrayed once before, on Saturday, at the funeral of Deirdre Monahan.
Faolin was on edge as he walked slowly around the block containing Parnell’s flat. He looked everywhere with little darting glances, but there was nothing to see: merely Liverpool on a Monday morning, coming to a new week and a new day with the usual displays of life.
He shouldn’t have gone to Innisbally.
He was certain the policeman there spotted him as a stranger.
Madness.
He bumped into a child rushing out from between two buildings from a narrow mews.
“Hey, me lad,” he said.
“Argh,” the child cried, pushing away, “fug off.” And he ran down the street.
Not madness, really. Perhaps he understood that he would be observed at the funeral and that there would be no turning back from his purpose then, that there would never be sanctuary for him again in Ireland after they seized the Brianna.
Which was another reason to destroy it and to destroy them all. An act of martyrdom, of incredible bravery. The policeman who’d been in the crowded church would remember Faolin after it was over; he would say he had seen Faolin, been this close to him, watched him as Faolin watched Lord Slough. At a funeral Mass.
Around a final street corner, back to Parnell’s flat. It all looked safe enough.
Would the copper say anything? Would he be too embarrassed to speak? That he could have prevented the coming carnage if he had seized Faolin in that simple country church?
Faolin chuckled. A piece of newspaper blew up the street and wrapped itself around his leg. He kicked it away.
Perhaps he should send a letter to the London Times. Or the Irish Times. Or both. Post it tomorrow, Tuesday, when it would be too late; explain the act, explain the suffering of the Irish people at the hands of English lords and English politicians and Irish who worked hand in glove with their English masters.
None of them had contacted Parnell since the last meeting the week before. Parnell was a Liverpool policeman, big and quiet and slow-moving.
He had been part of the movement for six years.
Since the night British soldiers in Belfast mistook his young brother for an IRA gunman who had opened fire on them while they patrolled the Shankhill road.
They had killed him. Nineteen bullets were in his body when they ceased shooting.
Of course, it had been an error; there were apologies to Police Constable Parnell of the Liverpool police and there were reprimands for the frightened young soldiers, who swore they had seen a flash of gunfire and heard the whine of bullets in the air.
But his brother was dead and that was what had mattered to him. The movement was more than revenge; though Parnell was Irish, an Ulsterman, Catholic, and he nursed a grudge against the English handed down, father to son, for generations.
For the past six years, he merely passed along information that fell to him as a policeman. Of course, there was money, too; he had made it clear that money was not the cause of his betrayal but it was part of the price of the risk he took for the IRA.
Now this was the first job he had taken part in; the risk, they told him, was nil.
That was a lie, of course, and Parnell understood it; but Faolin had needed him as surely as he had needed Captain Donovan to take over the craft after they hijacked it.
Faolin nodded to Parnell as he entered the bare little flat. Tatty was already there, sitting on the sofa.
Parnell, who had worked the night shift Sunday, was still in uniform with his blouse unbuttoned. He held a bottle of Guinness in his hand.
“Yer late, Faolin,” said Tatty at last when the door was closed.
“I am,” said Faolin. He went to the remaining empty chair in the sitting room and took it.
“It’s a beauty,” Tatty said.
“Then you’ve seen it?” Faolin asked.
“It ought to be a beauty. It’s a real uniform.” Parnell punctuated his statement with a belch.
Faolin got up and went to the package on the floor beside the low couch where Tatty sat. The blue uniform was neatly packed.
“Everything’ll fit then?” said Faolin.
“You’ll make a smashin’ copper, Faolin,” answered Parnell.
“Oh, aye. You’ve the stern look of the law about ye,” said Tatty, smiling.
“Aye,” said Faolin and he returned to his chair again. He sat down and lit a cigarette and then got up and went to the window. He looked down on the empty street. In the distance, he could see the Lever towers on the docks of the river.
“Let’s go over it again, then,” he said at last and turned from the window.
Parnell, as a member of the special color guard, was assigned to attend the launch of the Brianna on Wednesday morning from the dock in the Aigburth Vale section, downriver from were they now sat.
The ship would sit on the concrete apron about seventy-five feet from the river.
The first-class passengers — there were a hundred and thirteen tickets issued for the initial voyage — would be seated in a special section to the right of the vessel. A wooden stand for the politicians and dignitaries was to be erected at the prow. Workmen were building it now. Joining Lord Slough and his daughter on the platform would be the Prime Minister of Great Britain, the Prime Minister of the Irish Republic, the Secretary for Northern Ireland, the Duke of Kensington (cousin of the Queen and first cousin to Lord Slough), and Mr. Peter Tomkins, secretary of the Trades Union Council.
The ceremonial guard, including Parnell, would be around the platform and would form a line leading to the hovercraft.
At precisely ten A.M., Parnell explained, the Liverpool police band would commence with the national songs of Great Britain and the Irish Republic.
At 10:08 A.M., Lord Slough was expected to introduce the Prime Minister of Great Britain, who would speak for approximately five minutes. Then Slough would introduce the Prime Minister of the Irish Republic, who would speak for approximately the same time.
Finally, Lord Slough would speak briefly and then introduce his daughter, Brianna Devon.
She would be handed a magnum of champagne with which she would christen the ship.
Immediately thereafter, while the police band played various martial tunes, the first-class passengers would quietly board the ship.
At 10:45 A.M., Lord Slough and the Prime Ministers and the Duke of Kensington would also enter the vessel.