something better to do,â Mrs. Haney would always say, though the thought didnât bring a smile to Mary. Halfway between the house and the village, an old road took off into the woods and hills to Newtonhamilton some ten or twelve miles to the southwest, if one was foolish enough to attempt such a thing. Once over the first of the hills, this road began to peter out among the whin before passing through crowding blackberry canes, elderberry, stunted hawthorn and apple trees that had gone to ruin. At the Loughie there was a small wooden bridge now half rotted through and so overgrown one couldnât see the rot at first.
Stopping on this bridge, she got off her bike. Instinct warned that she wasnât aloneâinstinct and that emptiness the land could bring, the silence through which the trickle of the Loughie came as it made its way between the green grass of the banks.
Yes, she wasnât alone. Her heart began to race, she to regret ever having suggested that if it were best, she might be contacted here on the first of the weekâs market days, held each Tuesday. Another lie to everyone elseâHamish included but Mrs. Haney in particular. She would have to say sheâd had a punctureâan excuse for not having gone into the village.
The rotten, sometimes fallen-in timbers at her feet came into view, she not budging. Around a half-sunken log, the water, always dark, gurgled, the smell of peat and rotting vegetation joining that of forgotten apples, but then there was the warm scent of blackberry leaves.
Nearly two weeks had passed since sheâd come back from the South. There had been no chance whatsoever of getting into the castle. Determined to find the man or men responsible for the hanging of the Leutnant zur See Bachmann, Jimmy Allanby, Major Trant and Colonel Bannerman were equally determined, as were the High Command in Belfast and Derry, to find and kill or bring to justice one Liam Nolan, now dubbed by the press as âThe Mad Bomber of London.â
The British Army would turn the whole of Northern Ireland upside down if necessary. Nolanâs photographs hadnât been complimentary. Jimmy had thrown them down on the coffee table in the main living room at the house and had demanded, âWell?â
âWell, what ?â she had asked, sitting on one of the sofas with her knees clasped.
âIs that the man you gave a lift to?â
âCertainly not. Iâve never seen him before.â But why had he suspected her? Why?
As if in answer, Nolan stepped onto the road at the other end of the bridge. The grey tweed cap, open-collared blue work shirt and blue-black jacket of heavy serge, the boldness of stovepipe trousers and black boots were like those of a dockworker. The arms hung loosely at his sides, the hands thin and long-fingered, the wildness of a grin lighting up swift blue eyes that taunted, took her in, stripped her naked, no doubt, and laughed at her predicament while coldly assessing her.
The face was narrow and thin, the features sharp, the hair that washed-out shade flax has after itâs been beaten and the sun has yet to come out.
âMrs. Fraser, it is. Mary, I believe.â
The shock was not that the photographs had told her so little, but that the voice hadnât been what one would have expected. The accent was soft and that of a man with an education and a very good one. But a man of what? she wondered, not moving a muscle.
Thirty-twoâwas he that old? Six feet, two inches or so in height and weighing perhaps 160 pounds, but all arms and legs, he not moving a muscle either, the cheeks pinched, the nose thin and long, the end of it tilted up and to his left, the imp, the eyes beneath and well back of the brows as if looking out from a cave.
One would never know what to expect from him, and at once this was the thought that frightened most and would, she knew, linger with her. Nolan ⦠Liam Nolan.
Unseen, except out of the
Stopping on this bridge, she got off her bike. Instinct warned that she wasnât aloneâinstinct and that emptiness the land could bring, the silence through which the trickle of the Loughie came as it made its way between the green grass of the banks.
Yes, she wasnât alone. Her heart began to race, she to regret ever having suggested that if it were best, she might be contacted here on the first of the weekâs market days, held each Tuesday. Another lie to everyone elseâHamish included but Mrs. Haney in particular. She would have to say sheâd had a punctureâan excuse for not having gone into the village.
The rotten, sometimes fallen-in timbers at her feet came into view, she not budging. Around a half-sunken log, the water, always dark, gurgled, the smell of peat and rotting vegetation joining that of forgotten apples, but then there was the warm scent of blackberry leaves.
Nearly two weeks had passed since sheâd come back from the South. There had been no chance whatsoever of getting into the castle. Determined to find the man or men responsible for the hanging of the Leutnant zur See Bachmann, Jimmy Allanby, Major Trant and Colonel Bannerman were equally determined, as were the High Command in Belfast and Derry, to find and kill or bring to justice one Liam Nolan, now dubbed by the press as âThe Mad Bomber of London.â
The British Army would turn the whole of Northern Ireland upside down if necessary. Nolanâs photographs hadnât been complimentary. Jimmy had thrown them down on the coffee table in the main living room at the house and had demanded, âWell?â
âWell, what ?â she had asked, sitting on one of the sofas with her knees clasped.
âIs that the man you gave a lift to?â
âCertainly not. Iâve never seen him before.â But why had he suspected her? Why?
As if in answer, Nolan stepped onto the road at the other end of the bridge. The grey tweed cap, open-collared blue work shirt and blue-black jacket of heavy serge, the boldness of stovepipe trousers and black boots were like those of a dockworker. The arms hung loosely at his sides, the hands thin and long-fingered, the wildness of a grin lighting up swift blue eyes that taunted, took her in, stripped her naked, no doubt, and laughed at her predicament while coldly assessing her.
The face was narrow and thin, the features sharp, the hair that washed-out shade flax has after itâs been beaten and the sun has yet to come out.
âMrs. Fraser, it is. Mary, I believe.â
The shock was not that the photographs had told her so little, but that the voice hadnât been what one would have expected. The accent was soft and that of a man with an education and a very good one. But a man of what? she wondered, not moving a muscle.
Thirty-twoâwas he that old? Six feet, two inches or so in height and weighing perhaps 160 pounds, but all arms and legs, he not moving a muscle either, the cheeks pinched, the nose thin and long, the end of it tilted up and to his left, the imp, the eyes beneath and well back of the brows as if looking out from a cave.
One would never know what to expect from him, and at once this was the thought that frightened most and would, she knew, linger with her. Nolan ⦠Liam Nolan.
Unseen, except out of the
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