But no one behind the counter.
Ryan stood for a moment, held still by the quiet, before he called, “Hello?”
He listened.
Nothing. He moved deeper into the shop, its warm light turning to gloom. The cooler thumped and hummed as its thermostat kicked in. Ryan started at the noise. The milk bottles rattled against one another. He lifted one, burst the foil cap with his thumb, took a long swallow, felt the chill run down his throat to his stomach.
“Hello? Da? Ma?”
A feeling of childishness came over him as he called, as if he had just got off the bus from the school he’d attended in Monaghan town. Once when he was twelve or thirteen he had come home from Monaghan Collegiate and found the shop empty like this. He had walked around the counter and pulled aside the curtain that cloaked the doorway to the back room. He had found his parents in there, knotted together. His mother had squealed and pushed his father away with one hand while she fumbled at the buttons of her blouse with the other. His father had clipped him round the ear, hard enough for it to sting for half an hour. Since then, he had always made a point of calling out for them if he found the shop empty.
Ryan called once more. When still no answer came, a crackle of worry mixed with the childishness. He set the milk bottle on the counter and went around. He reached for the curtain, pushed it aside, and stepped through.
The back room stood empty save for the sparse furnishings and the stacked boxes of tinned and packet goods. A small table and two chairs took up the centre of the floor. A long white enamel sink and drainer clung to the far wall, the cold tap hissing and dripping as it had done for as long as Ryan could remember.
“Anyone here?”
Ryan’s worry might have turned to fear, might have set him running up the stairs shouting for his parents, had he not heard the clattering flush of the privy out in the yard. He exhaled and cursed.
The back door opened and the young boy who worked for Ryan’s father after school and on Saturdays entered. Barry something, Ryan thought. A good wee grafter, his father had said. He was fond of the lad and paid him more than he should.
The boy stopped in the doorway, stared at Ryan.
“Where’s my father?” Ryan asked.
The boy kept staring, his lip trembling.
“Where is he?”
The boy shook his head, his eyes watering. He asked, “Haven’t you heard?”
Ryan followed the sound of his mother’s weeping through the hospital’s corridors and wards until he found her at his father’s bedside beneath a tall window. He stopped when he saw the purple skin, the puffy swollen fingers protruding from the casts on each arm, the bloodied gauze taped above the eyebrow.
His mother looked up, her eyes red and wet.
“Albert. I’ve been trying to get you since last night. I rang the camp. They didn’t know where you were. I’ve been ringing everywhere I can—”
“What happened?” Ryan asked. He dared not step closer.
“Men came. IRA, I think. They had hurling sticks and a metal bar. They said it was a message for you. From a friend of yours.”
A deep chill spread from Ryan’s belly up through his chest and into his throat, the milk he’d drunk threatening to expel itself from his stomach. His hands hung useless by his sides.
“Dear God, Albert, what have you been involved in? Who did this to my husband?”
She stood, her shoulders quivering. Ryan wanted to flee, but he kept still and silent. She crossed to him, her gaze flitting over his face, registering the injuries there. Then she opened her right hand and slapped him across the cheek.
Ryan’s head rocked, the heat and the sting flaring on his skin.
“What have you got us mixed up in?”
He had no answer. She slapped him again, harder this time.
“Who did this to your father?”
Ryan took her in his arms, wrapped them tight around her. She fought him, tried to pull free, but he would not release her. Her body softened against his and he felt the damp heat of her cheek against his neck, her eyelashes fluttering against his skin.
Her hand moved across his chest, found the hard butt of the Walther beneath the fabric of his jacket.
“My God,” she said, her voice muffled by his embrace.
“I know who did this,” he said. “They won’t touch you again. I promise.”
CHAPTER FIFTY NINE
When Ryan pulled up at the gate of Skorzeny’s property almost three hours later, the package no longer lay on the passenger seat. He had stopped at a telephone box on the journey south and called Celia’s home near Drogheda. Her father had answered, his response curt when Ryan asked to speak with his daughter. She told him she had done as they discussed, and the package and its instructions had been delivered.
He did not tell her about his own father, or that he was headed for Skorzeny’s farm.
A heavyset young man stopped Ryan at the gateway. Another lurked in the trees, watching.
“No one’s coming in,” the young man said. “If you’ve got a delivery, you can leave it here.”
A local accent. Ryan guessed him to be IRA, a replacement for the guards who had perished a few nights before.
“My name is Lieutenant Albert Ryan. Tell Colonel Skorzeny I’m here.”
The young man leaned on the roof of the car, his round boulder of a head close enough to Ryan’s to smell his breath.
“I told you, no one’s coming in. Doesn’t matter a shite who you are.”
Ryan reached up, slipped his right arm around the young man’s neck, and pulled him down towards the Walther which he held in his left hand. The muzzle made a dimple in the young man’s fleshy cheek.
The man in the tree line came forward, concern on his face as he tried to see what was happening at the car. Ryan saw the shotgun in his arms.
“Tell your friend to stay back.”
The young man waved a hand at his colleague. The other man stopped.
“Now, please let Colonel Skorzeny know that Lieutenant Ryan is here. Trust me, he’ll want to see me.”
Skorzeny stood waiting in his study.
“Good afternoon, Lieutenant Ryan. My gatekeeper informed me that you are armed. He lacked the intelligence to relieve you of your—”
Ryan’s open palm caught him hard across the mouth. He took one step backward.
“Don’t touch my family again,” Ryan said, “or I will kill you myself.”
Skorzeny raised a hand to his lip, checked his fingertips for blood. “It was a warning, nothing more.”
Ryan drew the Walther from its holster, raised it to aim at Skorzeny’s forehead.
The Austrian smiled. “As I was saying, my gatekeeper had not the intelligence to take your weapon from you. Good men are hard to find.”
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t blow your brains out right now.”
“If you had the will to kill me, you would have done it by now.” Skorzeny walked around his desk, fishing a handkerchief from his pocket. He dabbed at his lip and sat down. “But I do have a reason.”
Ryan kept his aim steady. “Let’s have it, then.”
“In a moment. Please lower your pistol and sit down, Lieutenant Ryan. I really see no need for such dramatics.”
Ryan held firm for a moment, anger battling reason. He lowered the Walther, but kept his finger on the trigger guard.
“Sit, please,” Skorzeny said.
Ryan stayed on his feet.
“Would you care for a drink?” Skorzeny asked. “You seem stressed. A brandy, perhaps? Or whiskey?”
“Nothing,” Ryan said.
“Very well. Now, regarding the injuries to your father. I must apologise. I had asked my contact in the IRA to have some men visit your parents. I wanted only that they should be frightened. It seems matters got out of hand. But the message was necessary.”