A Winter of Spies by Gerard Whelan

‘I’m going to Ringsend to look for Simon Hughes,’ he said. ‘The sooner he hears this the better. If Mick comes, tell him to wait for me. I’ll be back before curfew.’
    After the front door closed behind him nobody said anything for a while. No-one even moved. Then Ma brought her hand crashing down on the table.
    â€˜Damn men,’ she said. ‘And damn honour. I’m sick of it.’

9
  W ATCHERS  
    â€˜ THAT’S THE YOUNGER ONE ,’ Sarah said. ‘His name is Fowles.’
    â€˜Maybe it is,’ Simon Hughes said mildly.
    It was Sunday morning, and Simon was crouching by the window of Josie and Sarah’s bedroom, overlooking Northumberland Road. The lace curtain hid him from the street. He’d been there for two hours, and this was his first sighting of either of the new neighbours.
    Fowles walked jauntily down Ryans’ path. He carried his cane, and was dressed in a well-cut suit. His wide-brimmed hat was perched at a jaunty angle on his sleek hair.
    â€˜Quite the little dandy,’ Simon Hughes muttered under his breath.
    It was odd to have a man in your room. Jimmy came in there, of course, and even Da, but that was different. Josie , flustered, had raced upstairs when she heard that Simon wanted to use their room. She’d frantically tidied up the nightdresses and stuff that usually lay around the place. When Ma had brought Simon up the stairs, andseen how neat and tidy the room was, she’d looked like she was going to say something. But instead she’d just given Josie a wicked smile. Josie had blushed scarlet.
    â€˜There’s no need for you to stay with me, you know,’ Simon said to Sarah after Ma and Josie left.
    â€˜I want to,’ Sarah said. She was feeling guilty for last night’s nasty thoughts about him. Really, his moustache was quite dashing. It must feel funny to have a thing like that growing on your face, though. Sarah tried to imagine it, but couldn’t.
    Fowles turned out the gate and walked towards Ballsbridge .
    â€˜The other one’s older, you say,’ Simon said.
    â€˜Older, and English.’
    Really, you could tell nothing from the way people spoke. The Irishman next door might be a British agent, and here was Simon, the gunman, who spoke with a Cockney accent. He’d grown up in London – his father, who was Irish, ran a pub there.
    â€˜Simon?’
    â€˜Mmm?’ Simon said. He was still looking after Fowles.
    â€˜Do you actually know Michael Collins? To talk to, I mean.’
    â€˜I do.’
    â€˜What do you call him?’
    Simon looked at her. ‘What?’ he said.
    â€˜Do you call him Minister, or General, or what? Or just Mr Collins?’
    Simon laughed. ‘Mostly,’ he said, ‘we call him Mick. Or when we’re talking about him we call him the Big Fellow .’
    â€˜Is he nice?’
    â€˜He can be. He’s a laugh sometimes. And sometimes he’s not funny at all. But why ask me? Your dad knows him as well as I do. Better, maybe.’
    â€˜Da? Da knows Michael Collins?’
    â€˜Yes. And now stop asking me questions. In fact you can go down and ask your mother to make me a cup of tea.’
    â€˜But what if Mr Moore comes out? How will you know him?’
    Simon smiled at her. ‘Sal,’ he said gently, ‘you tell me the Ryans are two old ladies. They have two ex-military men living with them now. One is gone out. If your Mr Moore comes out, I think I’ll be able to recognise him. Unless, of course, he’s dressed up as an old lady.’
    The Ryan sisters had been absolutely mortified when the Conways – ‘low slum people,’ as Sarah had overheard one of them say – had moved in. In fact, they’d never liked living next door to a house that was partly let out; they felt it lowered the tone of the neighbourhood. Then the Ryans’ own fortunes had taken a turn for the worse,and a