'But it has to be some kind of hoax,’ protested Kathleen.
O'Neill thought before replying. 'Maybe not,’ he said. 'It's just possible that the British have managed to keep the whole thing quiet to give themselves time.’
'But if O'Donnell turned the offer down?'
'Maybe he didn't,’ replied O'Neill. 'Maybe he was stalling for time. Maybe he told them he was trying to raise the money. Maybe he was trying to raise the money. We don't know anything for sure.’
'Either way, won't they get in contact with Kell?' asked Kathleen.
The thought chilled O'Neill. 'You're right,’ he said. 'We have to get this information to the British.’
‘I’ll drive into the city in the morning,’ said Kathleen. 'It's late; get some sleep.’
O'Neill nodded but said that he was going to finish his whiskey before going upstairs. Kathleen said good-night and took the letter up with her.
O'Neill finished his whiskey and poured another. It was the one thing that seemed to deal effectively with the constant nagging pain from the stump of his arm and he needed to be able to think clearly and without distraction.
It was two a.m. when he thought that he heard a sound on the gravel outside. Alarmed, he got up from the chair and walked to the window to be reminded yet again of the need for two hands as he tried to see out against the reflections from inside the room. He switched out the light and returned to the window. There was nothing to be seen but, once more, he thought he heard the sound of something moving outside on the gravel. This time he was sure.
O'Neill turned to go to the kitchen where he kept his pistol in a drawer but almost immediately he realised that it was too late. He was furious with himself for being such a fool. The sounds from the gravel at the front had been made deliberately as a distraction. Someone was coming in the back!
The door leading to the kitchen burst open and O'Neill saw a man standing there framed in the moonlight. He was holding an automatic weapon and it was pointed at his stomach. Another man squeezed past and switched on the room light.
'What the hell is this?' exclaimed O'Neill as he recognised one of them as the one who had come into Kell's room while he had been searching for the key to the Council Room.
The man did not reply but motioned with the muzzle of the gun that O'Neill should move towards the fireplace. The other man, whom O'Neill did not recognise, opened the front door and stood there as if waiting for something. The sound of squeaking wheels told O'Neill exactly what everyone was waiting for. He watched helplessly as Nelligan manoeuvred Kell into the room and closed the door.
'What in the name of God is going on, Finbarr?' O'Neill asked bravely.
Kell stared at him as if he were a stain on the carpet. 'Show him, Reagan!' he hissed.
The man who held the gun used it to knock the lampshade off the standard lamp and reveal a microphone that was taped to the stem.
'Every word,’ said Kell like a death sentence. There was a smug look on Kell's face that heralded an orgy of gloating. He turned to Nelligan and said softly, 'What did I always say? Never trust an intellectual.'
'Treacherous bastard!' snarled Nelligan.
'I'm no traitor, Kell. I've always done what's best for the cause.'
Kell let out a humourless laugh and looked to the others for support. They obliged. 'You plot to give information to the enemy and you're no traitor?' he sneered.
'Kevin O'Donnell was my commander. I was obeying his orders.'
'O'Donnell!' snorted Kell. That weak-kneed jelly! He spent so much time on the phone warning the British it's a wonder they didn't include him in their Honours List!'
When Nelligan's dutiful laughter had died down the smile faded from Kell's face and it became a mask of venom. 'Where is the letter?' he spat.
‘I’ll get it,' said O'Neill, making a move towards the stairs.
Kell nodded to Reagan who swung the butt of his carbine into O'Neill's stomach with full force. O'Neill collapsed on to the floor, his face twisted in pain.
'Will you never learn to stop taking me for a fool?' asked Kell in a deathly whisper. He looked up at Reagan and snapped, 'Get upstairs and bring down that schoolteacher bitch!'
Reagan was back within seconds. 'She's gone, Mr Kell!'
'What do you mean "gone"?' rasped Kell.
'Her window's open. She must have climbed down on to the roof of the shed and got away.'
'Jesus! Am I completely surrounded by idiots? She can't have gone far. Find her! Bring her back!' Kell looked down at O'Neill who was still lying on the floor. 'Meanwhile our friend here can tell us what was in the letter,’ he whispered. 'Can't he, Nelligan?'
The big man moved out from behind Kell to stand over O'Neill. From where O'Neill lay he looked twelve feet tall.
Knowing that she would not get far on foot and in her night-dress Kathleen had not tried to escape but had hidden herself in the hut at the foot of the garden among various garden tools and sacks of peat and fertiliser. It was her one hope that Kell's men might overlook that possibility and leave the house without discovering her. Beyond that she had no plans at all. She had already almost given the game away when moonlight through a dirty window-pane had silhouetted a rat moving along the handle of the lawnmower. But revulsion had paralysed her throat and prevented her breath from leaving her in anything more than spasmodic gasps. In her hand she clutched the letter from the Long House. She held it tightly as she tried to bury herself deeper into a pile of hessian sacks in the corner.
'I'm waiting,’ said Kell, his voice filled with soft menace.
O'Neill had recovered from the blow to his stomach but now fear was making him feel sick. 'All right, I'll tell you,’ he said, acknowledging that resistance was pointless.
When he had finished O'Neill saw Kell's face darken with anger. His eyes seemed huge behind his spectacles. Nelligan kept looking towards him to see what his reaction should be.
'You seem to think that I'm a complete imbecile, O'Neill,’ said Kell in tones that cut into O'Neill like a razor-blade. 'Did you really think that I would swallow this preposterous crap?'
O'Neill was taken aback for he had not considered for a moment that Kell would not believe him when he spoke the truth.
Kell looked at Nelligan and rasped, 'Show him the error of his ways!'
Nelligan lashed the back of his ham-like fist across O'Neill's face and sent him sprawling again. This time O'Neill landed heavily on the tender stump of his left arm and let out a cry of pain. Kell homed in on it like a shark and said with mock concern, 'Mr O'Neill's wound seems to be troubling him
Nelligan took his cue and kicked O'Neill viciously in the stomach before pinning him to the ground with his knee and punching the stump of his severed arm repeatedly. He seemed oblivious to O'Neill's screams and looked only to Kell to find renewed vigour in his master's approval.
O'Neill's agony ended mercifully in unconsciousness. He was no longer in Cladeen. He was sixteen years old and leaning on a fence at the farm in Valeena where he and the family had spent their last summer holiday together. The sun was shining and the grass was green. He could feel the warmth of it on his back as he waited for Maureen, the girl from the village, to come across the field. He could see her; she was wearing the white dress that he liked so much and her hair was bouncing on her shoulders as she moved. She was smiling and her eyes were filled with the frankness of young love. God, it was so good to be young and in love. Life was so good, so full of… icy-cold wetness and pain… excruciating pain.