her own comments as he could and yet was as kind and patient as any wife of Jim Daly would need to be. When O’Keefe was recovering from his wounds and the almost inevitable blood poisoning that accompanied them, it was she who had visited him every day in the Army Hospital in Cork, a child or two in tow, another in her belly. It was she who kept him from falling back into the black pit of numbness, of terrors relived. He would never be able to repay her for the kindness she had shown him and she would never want him to.
O’Keefe took his goggles from the press and hung them around his neck.
‘Bit dark for a spin,’ Daly said.
‘Just dark enough for one, you mean.’
Daly smiled around his pipe stem. ‘You still look a right Peeler even in mufti, Seán. You could kit up in one of Muireann’s frocks and you’d fool no one at all.’
O’Keefe put his arms through the leather straps of his shoulder holster, took his Webley from its belt holster and slipped it under his arm. Memory washed in. He had just joined up, the Royal Dublin Fusiliers, better known to soldiers as the Bluecaps. Late winter 1915, a pal of his – a Dublin lad from the tenements of the Liberties – had said the same to him. All copper, you are. Spot it a mile off. Feel like I’m up for something just lookin’ at you. A young man who’d known his share of coppers, O’Keefe would have trusted him with his life if he’d ever got the chance. The Liberties lad was shot as he stepped off the pontoon bridge after the River Clyde had grounded at V Beach, his reed-thin body sinking like a stone under sixty pounds of kit and rifle. He had never fired a shot in anger and his war was over before it had even started. Just like O’Keefe’s own brother, Peter .
What was the lad’s name? Suddenly, it seemed crucial that he recall it. What in the name of Jesus was that fella’s name? Unable to remember, he tried to force the other memories back down. Rising memories filled with the bodies of dead men, stray rounds, shattered bone, mangled viscera. What was the fella’s name? Memories now leaking forth, diffuse and murder-red, like the blood in the water off V Beach, staining the hour, washing up with tides of random thought.
Daly sensed the change in him. ‘Keep the head down, so.’
O’Keefe shrugged on his trenchcoat and leather helmet. He nodded, not wanting to catch Daly’s eye, human contact somehow anathema to him when the darkness flooded in.
Night pressed down as O’Keefe rode away from the barracks, wind battering his goggles, tugging at his scarf. His Triumph’s headlamp carved a clear path of light on the road ahead. He had bought the bike after the war with money an aunt – his father’s sister – had left him. O’Keefe had intended to use the small legacy one day as down payment for a house where he would live with a wife and children. But then the war had come and he had been foolish enough to volunteer. And so had Peter.
When he got out of the Army Hospital in Cork, all he’d wanted to do was move. The faster the better. The Triumph Type H ‘Trusty’ motorcycle had seemed the best way there was. He’d bought it from a Milltown lad who’d got his leg blown off at the Somme.
Already, the speed of the machine – the sound of the two stroke, pistons hammering, wheels spitting crushed gravel beneath him – had lifted his spirits. O’Keefe could sense more than see the sheep behind the hedges and bare stone walls. The wiry outlines of trees, shorn of leaves, bent near prostrate by westerly Atlantic winds in the glare of the half moon, now covered by cloud, now exposed. It was crisp, cold and dry. Perfect for an ambush. Too early in the evening yet, he hoped.
Suddenly, on a slow bend, the glare of headlamps. A Crossley-load of Auxiliaries, roaring towards Ballycarleton or Macroom. O’Keefe let go of the breath he’d held as he passed them. They didn’t stop. Or shoot.
All experienced combat veterans and all officers,
O’Keefe took his goggles from the press and hung them around his neck.
‘Bit dark for a spin,’ Daly said.
‘Just dark enough for one, you mean.’
Daly smiled around his pipe stem. ‘You still look a right Peeler even in mufti, Seán. You could kit up in one of Muireann’s frocks and you’d fool no one at all.’
O’Keefe put his arms through the leather straps of his shoulder holster, took his Webley from its belt holster and slipped it under his arm. Memory washed in. He had just joined up, the Royal Dublin Fusiliers, better known to soldiers as the Bluecaps. Late winter 1915, a pal of his – a Dublin lad from the tenements of the Liberties – had said the same to him. All copper, you are. Spot it a mile off. Feel like I’m up for something just lookin’ at you. A young man who’d known his share of coppers, O’Keefe would have trusted him with his life if he’d ever got the chance. The Liberties lad was shot as he stepped off the pontoon bridge after the River Clyde had grounded at V Beach, his reed-thin body sinking like a stone under sixty pounds of kit and rifle. He had never fired a shot in anger and his war was over before it had even started. Just like O’Keefe’s own brother, Peter .
What was the lad’s name? Suddenly, it seemed crucial that he recall it. What in the name of Jesus was that fella’s name? Unable to remember, he tried to force the other memories back down. Rising memories filled with the bodies of dead men, stray rounds, shattered bone, mangled viscera. What was the fella’s name? Memories now leaking forth, diffuse and murder-red, like the blood in the water off V Beach, staining the hour, washing up with tides of random thought.
Daly sensed the change in him. ‘Keep the head down, so.’
O’Keefe shrugged on his trenchcoat and leather helmet. He nodded, not wanting to catch Daly’s eye, human contact somehow anathema to him when the darkness flooded in.
Night pressed down as O’Keefe rode away from the barracks, wind battering his goggles, tugging at his scarf. His Triumph’s headlamp carved a clear path of light on the road ahead. He had bought the bike after the war with money an aunt – his father’s sister – had left him. O’Keefe had intended to use the small legacy one day as down payment for a house where he would live with a wife and children. But then the war had come and he had been foolish enough to volunteer. And so had Peter.
When he got out of the Army Hospital in Cork, all he’d wanted to do was move. The faster the better. The Triumph Type H ‘Trusty’ motorcycle had seemed the best way there was. He’d bought it from a Milltown lad who’d got his leg blown off at the Somme.
Already, the speed of the machine – the sound of the two stroke, pistons hammering, wheels spitting crushed gravel beneath him – had lifted his spirits. O’Keefe could sense more than see the sheep behind the hedges and bare stone walls. The wiry outlines of trees, shorn of leaves, bent near prostrate by westerly Atlantic winds in the glare of the half moon, now covered by cloud, now exposed. It was crisp, cold and dry. Perfect for an ambush. Too early in the evening yet, he hoped.
Suddenly, on a slow bend, the glare of headlamps. A Crossley-load of Auxiliaries, roaring towards Ballycarleton or Macroom. O’Keefe let go of the breath he’d held as he passed them. They didn’t stop. Or shoot.
All experienced combat veterans and all officers,
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