Tan: A Story of Exile, Betrayal and Revenge

Tan by David Lawlor

for Mam and Dad

Copyright 2012 David Lawlor All Rights Reserved

Cover Design by John Regan Smashwords Edition August 2012

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, trademarked products, events, and locations are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events or persons, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.

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Chapter 1

Balbriggan, Ireland, 1914

Peelers have a knack for hitting you where it hurts; broken nose, bruised ribs, a few loosened teeth...no more than a rapist deserved, Sergeant Coveney and District Inspector Webber had said. Proper order, too - except the lad was no rapist and Webber knew it.

******

Young Liam Mannion had gone out for some air during the Hanrahan do. He and Francie Cleary had got hold of a few bottles from one of the crates Ryan, the publican, had brought along. Then they’d spent the next hour tearing up the dance floor with The Siege of Ennis and The Walls of Limerick and anything else the band chose to play. It was a grand night, though he didn’t quite know what to make of Katie Hanrahan – she must have been only fifteen – smiling over at him and somehow always being there whenever he turned around; it was embarrassing. Francie gave him an awful time over it. She was pretty, though; light wavy hair and the deepest of brown eyes. You could lose yourself in those eyes, he realised. But she was only a child and he was eighteen, and between the heat from the dancing and the bellyful of drink and Katie Hanrahan’s searching, limpid eyes he decided to go outside to catch his breath and cool down. He found his father and brother sitting on the window sill chatting with Katie’s father, Ben, whose other daughter the engagement party was for. The clink of glasses blended with the laughter of the revellers and floated out onto the balmy night air. Two of them were smoking cigarettes, while his father was busy packing his pipe with some Walnut Plug.

‘You look like you’ve been enjoyin’ yerself, Liam.’

‘Sure himself and Francie Cleary are jigging about like two bullocks with itches they can’t scratch, Mr Hanrahan.’

That was from Eoin, his bank clerk of a brother, sucking up to the wealthy businessman; that type of carry on wouldn’t go down well with his pals at the Mercantile.

‘Didn’t spot you out there, Eoin; afraid you’d mess up that fine starched collar and tie,’ Liam said, reaching to tug at the offending items but missing. ‘It’s half-past eleven man, and you still haven’t a hair out of place.’ Their host chuckled and clapped Eoin heavily on the back. ‘Saving yerself are ye?’

‘When you work in the business I do, a measure of decorum is needed. You might try it sometime, Liam,’ replied the older brother, winking conspiratorially at Hanrahan.

Liam was about to retort but another voice got there before him.

‘A man’s natural exuberance should be applauded. I think it’s a healthy sign, so long as it’s not overindulged.’ The tone was soft but had authority stamped all over it; his father. Liam looked at the small bald man with the pot belly and smiled; the father sent another plume of Walnut Plug into the air and smiled back, a twinkle in his bright blue eyes. Eoin’s mouth twitched with irritation as he looked on.

‘Tide’s out,’ said Hanrahan, as he licked his lips and waved the empty glass in his hand. His necktie was loose and his waistcoat hung low, held closed by just one button.

‘Let me get you one,’ offered Liam.

The big man beamed him a smile, his bulbous nose glowing like a beacon in the night. ‘Good man, yerself,’ he said. ‘There’s a crate under the table in the kitchen.’

‘Da, you alright?’

Dan Mannion studied his own glass before answering. ‘I’ll have one more. You best take it easy now, Liam; early start tomorrow.’

‘Don’t mind me, da, I’m grand.’

‘Ah, sure leave the boy alone Dan, his mother wouldn’t mind, God rest her. I’d like us to toast my darlin’ daughter, May, once more before the night’s through,’ said Hanrahan, throwing his arm around the shoulder of the smaller man. Liam noticed his father sag slightly at the mention of his dead mother. It had been four years since tuberculosis had taken her but the grief was still there.

‘What about you, Eoin? Lemonade?’

His brother made a face but didn’t bother replying.

‘Mind yourself, Liam.’ His father spoke quietly but the eyes were watchful. Liam nodded and headed back inside.

Francie was still on the floor, the sweat dripping from him as he linked arms with Coveney, the lanky RIC Sergeant, and the engaged man, Con Ryan; dancing opposite them were young Katie Hanrahan and two girls who worked as seamstresses in the town. The floor shook as the dancers and those watching pounded out the beat and clapped to the music. The fiddler worked his elbow and the bodhran player ta-rumped, beating faster and faster as the stamping grew louder and the whoops of encouragement broke through the hot, smoky air. Liam squeezed past the guests and ducked under the table. He rummaged in the crate but only managed to find empties.

‘There’s another one in the shed. I put it there earlier; reinforcements for the likes of you.’

Liam looked up to see Paddy Ryan’s sweat-soaked face smiling down on him. ‘Tisn’t every day a man’s only son gets engaged ye know.’

‘You’re a good man, Mr Ryan, even if your Con can’t tell one end of a hurley from the other.’

‘And you’re a drunken one young Mannion, now g’wan or I’ll set young Katie Hanrahan on you.’

So, he wasn’t the only one who noticed. They both laughed as Liam left him there and went out to the low, whitewashed shed across the back yard. The faint glow of an oil lamp seeped through the cracks in the door, which stood slightly ajar. A roar of laughter and cheers came from the house as Liam put his hand on the handle to push it open. Suddenly, the muffled shriek of a woman rang out. He paused, surprised, unsure where it was coming from. But, there it was again...

‘Aaaghh!’

There could be no doubting the source this time. Liam threw the door open and quickly scanned the room. Over in the shadowed corner where sacks of oatmeal lay, the broad shape of a man loomed large above a woman whose stockinged legs were spread wide beneath. Had he drank a little less porter Liam’s ears might have perceived the difference between a scream of pain and a gasp of pleasure, and had his eyes been properly focused he might have noticed that the clenching fingers that gripped the man’s shoulders where pulsating to the rhythm of his thrusts, drawing him closer, not fending him off. But he saw none of that as he strode forward, gripped the man by the back of his collar and hauled him off. A moan came from the woman as Liam roughly shoved the man against the wall and then promptly stopped in his tracks because glaring right back at him was the beetroot face of the RIC District Inspector, George Webber, one hand steadying himself against the wall, while the other held his trousers to prevent them pooling around his ankles. Liam stepped back and watched the man hastily rearrange his clothing.

‘What do you think you’re playing at, you damn lunatic!’

The question and its indignant tone threw him a little but he ploughed on undeterred. ‘What are you up to, you mean! Attacking the poor woman like that!’

Webber glowered at him, dumbfounded. ‘You prize fool! Have you not got eyes and a brain in your head to know not to be barging in on people? Are you simple?’ Spittle flecked the Inspector’s black moustache and two burning coals stared out of the puce face as he shook with rage. A gin-soaked titter erupted from the woman in the corner. Liam turned at the sound and his jaw dropped.

‘Mrs Coveney...’

‘Ah, Liam, ’tis yourself.’ She stared boldly at him, making no effort to cover her bare full breasts. Her skirt was still high over her thighs, the cream colour of her flesh peeking out from above the stockings. She was a fine looking woman with a glint in her eye and a shape to her mouth that hinted at long, hot afternoons at the far end of the beach where the rocks are and the walkers seldom stroll. A lot of the lads had sensed it, and he just had it confirmed. Liam never saw the blow coming because he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Margaret Coveney’s body, but it knocked him straight to the floor. The Inspector stood over him.

‘Dress yourself, Margaret. I want this bucko to know when to knock in future.’

Liam was still dazed from the blow and felt himself being dragged to his feet to be lined up for another, but before that could happen he came to his senses. He was big for his age – well set and strong – and he used that strength to block the punch that came swinging towards him. As he did so Liam threw his arms around Webber and shoved him hard against the wall, knocking over the crate of beer and sending broken glass everywhere. The Inspector was short but powerful and they struggled back and forth smashing into buckets and tripping over rolling bottles. Mrs Coveney forgot herself and screamed in alarm as the two struggling men crashed down onto her, pinning her legs on the sacks of oats.

And that’s the way they were found by the men who came dashing out from the party to see what all the fuss was about.

‘What’s goin’ on here?’ The heavily whiskered face of Ned Abbot, the town’s local butcher-cum-blacksmith loomed into view, his massive arms holding the two men apart. A group of five men crowded into the small shed; Mrs Coveney’s husband among them. He spied his wife in the corner.

‘Margaret! Are you alright? What’s happened?’

‘Coveney, thank goodness, you arrived,’ said the Inspector, addressing his subordinate. Abbot had released the RIC officer when he realised who it was he was holding, but his grip was still firm on Liam who was struggling to be free. Webber adjusted his jacket, smoothed back his thinning hair and addressed the butcher.

‘Keep a tight hold of that one, Abbot – he’s a danger.’

‘What are you on about?’ shouted Liam, struggling all the more. ‘Danger! If I hadn’t-’

‘Don’t listen to a word from his filthy mouth. The swine was trying to have his evil way with poor Mrs Coveney when I happened by. Her screams of terror alerted me. If I hadn’t got here when I did, well...I don’t know...it was a close call. Sergeant, go comfort your wife, we can handle this blackguard.’ Coveney, a balding, beanpole of a man, sank to his knees beside his now sober wife and tightened his grip on her shoulder as he listened to her whispered story, his face growing redder by the minute.

Liam couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘It’s lies – all of it. Don’t listen to him. It was him who was on top of her I just-’

‘Enough out of you, ye dirty pup!’ Webber said, slapping him hard in the face; the sound reverberating around the small shed. ‘Mrs Coveney will tell you herself, won’t you madam. But spare your blushes, these men don’t want sordid details – just the facts.’

Margaret Coveney rose gingerly to her feet, resting on her husband’s arm and smoothing down her dress, the top of which was now buttoned.

‘It’s true, dear,’ she said, keeping her eyes focused on the bottle-strewn floor, but darting him a pleading look. ‘I think young Mannion was giddy with the drink; it’s all I can think of for him attempting what he did.’ She whispered the words, the men hanging on every one that fell from her inviting lips. ‘I fear he would have had his pleasure of me had not Inspector Webber happened by.’ As some of those present toyed deliciously with that image, she even managed to squeeze out a sob and a tear before sinking onto her husband’s supporting arm.

Liam was aghast. ‘She’s lying, too. I’m telling yiz. I never touched her,’ his voice cracking with panic. Before he could say another word, the Sergeant stepped forward and punched him hard in the stomach, sending him sinking to the floor. Coveney then went to his wife and helped her past the throng, pausing as he made his way to the door to knee Liam in the side of the head. ‘I’ll teach you to go after defenceless women, you’ll see.’

‘Steady Sergeant,’ said Webber, his confidence fully restored as he placed a restraining hand on his shoulder, ‘remember your duty as a Constable of the Law. Your role is compromised, being the husband of the victim. I shall administer some immediate justice before we put him before the judge. Hold him up Abbott.’ Webber turned to face his audience, now numbering over ten, with more coming by the minute and straining to see what was happening. ‘You’ve all heard what Mrs Coveney has to say and have seen her distress. And you have heard my own evidence as to what this young buck was trying to do. What say you as to his guilt? You Ned, what do you think?’

Abbott frowned deeply and increased the pressure on Liam’s arms, causing him to shout in pain. ‘I reckon so; bad cess to him.’

‘And you?’ Webber asked, turning his attention to a local creamery owner, who shared Webber’s passion for horses and who would accompany him to all the meetings.

‘The boyo needs a lesson in manners alright.’

‘Are the rest of you in agreement? Anyone who isn’t, speak up now.’ Webber’s chest was heaving and his face glistened with sweat in the close confines of the shed. ‘Right so, hold him steady.’ The Inspector took off his coat and hung it on a nail. He cracked his fingers and clenched his fists, a workman preparing his tools. The men gathered silently around to watch the RIC’s Divisional Boxing champion in action. The first punch went to the mid-section, the second in high under the ribs. He repeated the combination and followed it with a right hook to the jaw that sent Liam sprawling and made Abbott stagger backwards. Webber put all of his training to good effect. After just two minutes some of his audience had had enough and started to leave, uneasy with the whole spectacle. Webber concentrated on body shots and would have continued but for a commotion at the back of the crowd.

‘Let me in, dammit! Get out of the road!’ The small, portly frame of Dan Mannion, with Eoin and Ben Hanrahan by his side, pushed his way through. ‘What are ye doin’ with my boy? Leave him be, d’ye hear!’ He shoved Webber backwards, his lips trembling. ‘What are ye, Inspector – judge, jury and executioner? By Christ, you lay another finger on him and you’ll rue the day. I’ve just heard what you’re sayin’ about my lad – pure bunkum! Have you forgotten the law in all of this? These are just accusations ’til a judge hears them. I swear to God, touch him once more and it’ll be me before the beak...on a murder charge!’

Webber had been threatened many times over the years and by more impressive men than this, but there was a look in those eyes that made him realise this was no idle warning. He backed off. A little woman had been watching from the doorway of the shed. She was plain, with a large nose and a suspicious look to her eye – Mrs Webber. Her husband only noticed her now and quickly wound things up.

‘Mr Hanrahan, the boy’s had his lesson,’ he said, ignoring Dan.

‘I should think so, Inspector; He’s not a punch bag, whatever the accusation.’ The bride-to-be’s father cast an admonishing eye on the policeman while Dan and Eoin tended to Liam. ‘I had not bargained on such behaviour on this of all days. I would appreciate if you desist immediately. And on another point, I will say only this. I’ve known the lad’s father for forty years and a more upright citizen I’ve yet to meet. The boy comes from the same stock. I’d be interested to hear what the judge has to say before any further punishment is meted out.’

The RIC man’s face reddened again. ‘Quite. The boy’s to stay here under lock and key ‘til morning when we’ll bring him to the station and put him before Magistrate Allenby for his filthy attack.’

‘That’s fine; you can post a guard on the door. You might use the time to take a more complete statement from Mrs Coveney; it might be good to know what brought her out here in the first place.’ At mention of the name there was a loud sniff from Mrs Webber. Hanrahan looked at her and then at her husband, and frowned. ‘It would serve the judge to have a comprehensive list of the accusations, don’t you think? Now, this unpleasantness has dampened the night enough. Let it end.’ He squatted down and examined Liam’s unconscious body as it lay cradled in his father’s arms. Blood seeped from the boy’s nose and his lip was badly split. Hanrahan gave Dan’s shoulder a comforting squeeze before whispering something in his ear.

‘Eoin, run into the house and get a blanket for your brother.’

‘Yes, Mr Hanrahan,’ he said and trotted out.

‘Alright then…where’s that fiddler when you need him? ’ said Hanrahan, looking around the faces. ‘C’mon! A fast polka if you please!’ The shout was taken up by the other men until the message reached the musician and the fiddle started up. Webber put on his jacket and led his wife from the shed; the others followed. Dan was the last to leave; he laid his son on the sacks of oats and wiped the blood from his face before being edged gently from the shed by another Constable, Prendergast, a guest at the party, who found himself back on duty sooner than he’d expected.

‘Don’t worry, Dan. We’ll sort it out,’ said Hanrahan. Dan looked at the big man with a jaded eye. ‘Maybe if it was Con, betrothed to the daughter of the local big shot, you might be accommodated, but a factory foreman’s word doesn’t carry the same weight, Ben.’

As they left the shed, the burly form of the businessman paused and he leaned in close to the acne-laden face of the young Constable who was now at the door.

‘Donal, I’ve known ye since you were bounced on me knee on Christmas mornings after Mass when your family would come visit. Your mother and father are lovely people, but if anything happens to young Mannion in there on your watch, they’ll be grieving the loss of a son by the end of the day because I’ll see to it that you’re posted to the arse end of nowhere for the rest of your career.’

The Constable gulped. ‘Yes, Mr Hanrahan. I understand. I won’t let anyone in or out. I promise.’

Hanrahan patted his shoulder. ‘Good man. I’m watching you, Donal. I keep the Inspector General posted on the calibre of men under his command. I’ll mention yours next time I have lunch with him. Now, how are ye fixed for long-johns?’

The Constable’s face flushed. ‘Well, eh, I was meaning to get a new set...’

‘You pop in to Noel in Sales down at the factory tomorrow evening and I’ll make sure he fixes you up.’

Prendergast beamed. ‘Thank you, Mr Hanrahan.’

‘Not a bother, Donal; just keep Liam there safe. I’ll send someone out with some tea and sandwiches in a while.’

The businessman, still with his arm resting on his friend’s shoulder, turned back towards the house.

‘Jaysus Ben,’ whispered Dan, ‘what comes out of your mouth is better than any fertiliser. Do you really know the Inspector General?’

‘Not as well as I’d like to – I’m working on it – but young Prendergast doesn’t know that, does he?’

They sat on a tree stump by the side of the house and listened to the fiddler change the tune to a slow waltz. A warm breeze tugged gently at the two childhood pals – Dan, the farmer’s son who had once risked his life to save Ben, the scion of a wealthy textile manufacturer. The boys had been inseparable ever since and had even vied for the same girl. Dan won that contest and had married and loved Peggy Coogan until the day she died.

Ben had built the family business, Hanco, into a huge concern selling hosiery – stockings, socks and underwear, ‘Real Balbriggan’ they called it – which was now worn the world over by everyone, from the Empress of Austria to the Queen of England. Dan was a foreman at the factory, always refusing the promotions his friend pressed on him, saying he’d rather have the banter on the work floor to the rubbish spoken by some of the stuffed shirts on the fourth floor.

‘What am I goin’ to do, Ben? My poor, poor boy...I’ll be lost without him, he’s everything to me...an RIC Inspector and a respectable woman giving their word against his?’

The word ‘respectable’ was laced with contempt as he said it. ‘Did ye see the look Webber’s wife gave him?’

‘I did.’ The amused, conspiratorial look Hanrahan had shown the young Constable disappeared as the businessman stared frankly at his old friend.

‘We need to get Liam out of here, before Webber lays hands on him again. I’ll fix things so young Prendergast over there is dead to the world in no time; then we can get Liam out. I don’t know what’s behind this charge, Dan, but that Inspector’s all fired up. Any Peeler who gets that hot and bothered over something is usually up to his neck in it.’

Eoin Mannion stood in the shadows of a tree and listened to the two men talk, getting angrier the more he heard. His eyes burned as he replayed the words his father had said. ‘I’d be lost without him...he’s everything to me’ They reverberated in his head as he watched the old friends; the blanket that he cradled in his arms slipped forgotten into the damp grass and he turned back towards the house to get himself a real drink.

******

Liam could feel the fingers tentatively trace a path across his swollen face, making slow circular patterns that somehow eased the pain. His head whirled and he kept his eyes closed; he couldn’t open them properly even if he’d tried. It hadn’t been a long beating – at least he didn’t think so, he’d passed out – but Webber knew what to do, practiced as he was in administering punishment. The hand moved up to his hair, smoothing it down. He thought he knew whose it was and he smiled inwardly – although he knew he shouldn’t – grateful for the ministration. She was saying something but he couldn’t quite make out what. She must have come back to apologise for what had happened, for letting things go that far...that was it, he was sure. Mrs Coveney – Margaret, with the bare breasts – coming to seek his forgiveness and promising to explain everything. He reached up and took her hand in his, feeling the softness, kneading it gently. He forced his eyes open but they were bloodshot and blurred, and all he could see was the vague outline of a face close to him. He wanted her to take him, to open the buttons of her dress and rest his battered head on her soft breasts, lulling him to sleep. Then, momentarily, his vision cleared and he numbly watched Katie Hanrahan carefully tend him, her brow beetled with concern as she examined the damage that had been done. And he felt surprise, because he wasn’t bothered that it was the girl and not the woman who was touching him. It was nice, the kindness of it; he felt safe...and loved...as his eyes closed again and his mind got lost in the enveloping darkness.

******

The next time he awoke it was to a less gentle, more hurried touch. Francie was there fiddling with the rope that bound his hands and which was tied to a metal loop on the shed wall. He was cursing quietly as he sawed away at it with the small knife he always carried.

‘Jaysus! I’ve been meanin’ to sharpen this yoke for ages, now I know why – couldn’t cut butter with it.’

He persevered, though, and soon Liam could feel his hands loosen as the knife cut through the final strands. Francie’s mop of dark curly hair bobbed as he worked the blade, his gaze wandering lazily to the front door in case he was disturbed. Even in his drowsiness Liam noted the coolness of his friend; that was Francie – canny and unfazed. Liam would do anything for him because that’s the way it was with best mates.

‘C’mon, up with ye now.’

Liam managed to sit up but that was as far as he could go. Then he heard something.

‘What’s that noise?’

Francie chuckled. ‘That’s that Peeler Prendergast. Mr Hanrahan fed him a load of tea laced with poitin. He was half cut before he started drinking the stuff; he’s dead to the world now. I’ve heard ruttin’ pigs make less noise.’

‘What about the others, won’t we be seen?’

‘Don’t worry, they’ve almost all gone home; they lost their stomach for a party after Webber’s boxing demonstration.’

Liam could feel himself being pulled to his feet, his ribs aching from the well-directed blows.

‘There’s no time for Molly coddlin’, and for God’s sake don’t scream.’ With that Francie hauled his friend over his shoulders. He was only five foot ‘six and he was bent double with the weight but he managed to carry Liam out the door and round the back of the shed where an ass and cart stood waiting. He laid him carefully in some straw,