the Castle.’ Twoomy was an alcoholic ex-soldier from Ballycarleton who had been shot and labelled for informing. The case was still open, but nobody in the RIC had any illusions about it ever being closed.
O’Keefe stood up and crossed the hallway to Head Constable Murray’s office. Murray had been gone from the barracks for more than a fortnight – though he had only taken a week’s leave to attend his father’s funeral – and O’Keefe wondered briefly whether Murray would mind him rooting through his files for the information he needed. He didn’t imagine the man would, but resolved to brief him when he returned to duty. If he returned to duty. It was becoming common for RIC men to head home for leave and never return. Some felt they had to be at home to protect their families, though O’Keefe reckoned that their families were probably safer without an ex-Peeler in the house. Some had been given assurances by the IRA that they would be safe if they resigned from the constabulary. Still others never made it home and were never found.
O’Keefe located the file he was looking for in the second cabinet drawer. The egg-woman was named Katherine Sheehan. The IRA had warned her several times to stop selling eggs to Bandon RIC barracks and the British army post in the town. When she refused, two men had gone to her house and assaulted her. They had inserted a pig ring in one of her buttocks as punishment for aiding the Crown and Murray’s notes showed that he assumed, based on a doctor’s report which he had included in the file, that the woman had also been raped.
Flicking through Murray’s notes at the back of the file, he read that the woman had refused to identify the men who had assaulted her, claiming she did not know them. He made a mental note to contact Bandon barracks in case they had received any intelligence on possible suspects for the crime but doubted that they would have. He closed the file, disgust welling inside him, competing with the shame he felt for how he and his constabulary had retreated behind the steel shutters and barbed wire of the barracks and allowed terror to reign in the county. A woman – one who did business with the RIC in a time when few would – attacked and violated for the crime of trying to put bread on her table and all there was in response was a file gathering dust in the back of an absent copper’s cabinet.
He returned to his shared office and began to strip off his uniform. There was a small side room that served as a place to store files and in it O’Keefe and Daly had installed an army cot and dresser, each taking turns to sleep downstairs in one of the day rooms that served as billet for the men, while the other had the storage room cot.
O’Keefe dressed in his civilian clothes – a grey woollen suit and white shirt with a dark blue tie. Inspecting the two collars he owned, O’Keefe found them frayed and yellowing. He couldn’t remember when he’d last bought a new one; before the war probably. He found one of Daly’s ironed white collars in a dresser drawer and put it on.
‘That’s right, don’t bother asking. Poor Muireann hasn’t enough to do with five whelps under her feet but to wash and iron collars for you to wear at your leisure. Go right ahead, son.’
O’Keefe smiled. Daly’s wife was a Kerry woman he’d met when he was based in Tuckey Street barracks in Cork city. She had been caring for an invalid aunt, who had encouraged their courtship, telling Muireann she could do worse than hook a Peeler, what with the job for life, salary, pension and respectability the constabulary provided. That was in the years before the shooting started. O’Keefe wondered whether the aunt would still recommend a police constable as a husband to her niece. Given the times, a job for life in the constabulary might be a short one.
Even so, O’Keefe imagined Muireann still would have married Jim. They were made for each other. She could be as scandalous in
O’Keefe stood up and crossed the hallway to Head Constable Murray’s office. Murray had been gone from the barracks for more than a fortnight – though he had only taken a week’s leave to attend his father’s funeral – and O’Keefe wondered briefly whether Murray would mind him rooting through his files for the information he needed. He didn’t imagine the man would, but resolved to brief him when he returned to duty. If he returned to duty. It was becoming common for RIC men to head home for leave and never return. Some felt they had to be at home to protect their families, though O’Keefe reckoned that their families were probably safer without an ex-Peeler in the house. Some had been given assurances by the IRA that they would be safe if they resigned from the constabulary. Still others never made it home and were never found.
O’Keefe located the file he was looking for in the second cabinet drawer. The egg-woman was named Katherine Sheehan. The IRA had warned her several times to stop selling eggs to Bandon RIC barracks and the British army post in the town. When she refused, two men had gone to her house and assaulted her. They had inserted a pig ring in one of her buttocks as punishment for aiding the Crown and Murray’s notes showed that he assumed, based on a doctor’s report which he had included in the file, that the woman had also been raped.
Flicking through Murray’s notes at the back of the file, he read that the woman had refused to identify the men who had assaulted her, claiming she did not know them. He made a mental note to contact Bandon barracks in case they had received any intelligence on possible suspects for the crime but doubted that they would have. He closed the file, disgust welling inside him, competing with the shame he felt for how he and his constabulary had retreated behind the steel shutters and barbed wire of the barracks and allowed terror to reign in the county. A woman – one who did business with the RIC in a time when few would – attacked and violated for the crime of trying to put bread on her table and all there was in response was a file gathering dust in the back of an absent copper’s cabinet.
He returned to his shared office and began to strip off his uniform. There was a small side room that served as a place to store files and in it O’Keefe and Daly had installed an army cot and dresser, each taking turns to sleep downstairs in one of the day rooms that served as billet for the men, while the other had the storage room cot.
O’Keefe dressed in his civilian clothes – a grey woollen suit and white shirt with a dark blue tie. Inspecting the two collars he owned, O’Keefe found them frayed and yellowing. He couldn’t remember when he’d last bought a new one; before the war probably. He found one of Daly’s ironed white collars in a dresser drawer and put it on.
‘That’s right, don’t bother asking. Poor Muireann hasn’t enough to do with five whelps under her feet but to wash and iron collars for you to wear at your leisure. Go right ahead, son.’
O’Keefe smiled. Daly’s wife was a Kerry woman he’d met when he was based in Tuckey Street barracks in Cork city. She had been caring for an invalid aunt, who had encouraged their courtship, telling Muireann she could do worse than hook a Peeler, what with the job for life, salary, pension and respectability the constabulary provided. That was in the years before the shooting started. O’Keefe wondered whether the aunt would still recommend a police constable as a husband to her niece. Given the times, a job for life in the constabulary might be a short one.
Even so, O’Keefe imagined Muireann still would have married Jim. They were made for each other. She could be as scandalous in
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