‘He’s replacing a watchman.’
‘I don’t think Crampton’s ever employed a regular watchman.’
‘I don’t care whether they did or not,’ Pat said truculently, ‘if he isn’t replacing a watchman he’s helping the police by taking a job off their hands.’
‘I’m sure he doesn’t see it that way.’
‘Then it’s time it was made clear to him.’
‘Look,’ Fitz said, ‘I don’t want Hennessy beaten up.’
‘He’s got to be stopped.’
‘All right. But leave it to me,’ Fitz said, ‘I’ll have a talk with him.’
‘Will it do any good?’
‘He’ll stop if I ask him,’ Fitz said.
Pat was reluctant. His comrades had been killed and maimed. Lily, too, had pleaded with him to keep away from trouble and personal danger but he had refused. Force was the only answer. Sentimentality had to be discarded. He said to Fitz:
‘When will you talk to him?’
‘Now—if you like.’
‘Right,’ he said.
They turned back together and entered the house once more.
‘Fetch him down,’ Fitz said, ‘I’ll talk to him in here.’
‘It’s a pleasure,’ Pat assured him.
Fitz went into his own flat to wait while Pat climbed to the next landing. He listened outside the Hennessys’ door. He could hear the voices of children. A woman’s voice was raised above the bedlam, scolding them. When he knocked the voices stopped at once. There was silence for a while, then the woman opened the door.
‘I want Aloysius Hennessy,’ he told her.
‘He’s getting ready to go out,’ she said.
‘Tell him he’s wanted now. Down in Bob Fitzpatrick’s apartment.’
Mrs. Hennessy examined the stony face. It frightened her.
‘What’s he wanted for?’
‘He’ll find that out when he comes down,’ Pat said. He looked beyond her into the room. She had been giving the children their meal. There were jamjars with tea in them and some bread on the table. A sour smell flowed through the half-open door and mingled with the already fouled air on the landing.
‘I’ll tell him,’ she said. ‘He’ll call in on his way down.’
She slammed the door.
There was something wrong. Pat knew the signs. He had knocked several times on doors like this one, calling out husbands who were breaking the lock-out. Sometimes when they refused to show themselves Pat and his butties broke in and dragged them out, while the womenfolk and the terrified children screamed and pleaded for another chance. It was necessary to close the ears to that too. Scabbing was infectious.
He decided to wait inside the hall door in case Hennessy tried to get out without meeting them, but it was unnecessary. In a few moments the thin figure with the oversized bowler descended the stairs and knocked at Fitz’s door.
‘Are you within, Mr. Fitzpatrick?’ Pat heard him ask. He went up and joined Hennessy in the room.
‘It’s a cool class of an evening,’ Hennessy ventured. He looked uneasily from Fitz to Pat.
‘You don’t know how cool it’s going to be,’ Pat said. The remark made Fitz angry.
‘I’ll do the talking,’ he said. Then he turned to Hennessy and said: ‘There’s no need to be upset. It’s just a few questions we’d like to ask you.’
‘Certainly,’ Hennessy said. His face had grown pale and his hands were trembling.
‘You’re working for Crampton’s?’
‘I am,’ Hennessy admitted.
‘For how long?’
‘For the past four weeks.’
‘What kind of work?’
‘As night watchman.’
‘How did you get the job?’
‘There’s a gaffer up there knows me. He gives me small jobs from time to time.’
Fitz was beginning to find his role unbearable. He pitied the thin figure with its stamp of lifelong suffering.
‘What are they paying you?’
‘Ten shillings a week.’
‘A scab rate, too,’ Pat put in.
‘For Christ’s sake shut up,’ Fitz shouted at him. ‘The man is being honest.’
Then he said gently to Hennessy: ‘Did you know that Crampton’s men are locked out?’
‘I did,’ Hennessy said, ‘but I’m not replacing anybody. They never used a night watchman before.’
‘It’s a scab job,’ Pat insisted.
‘There was no picket,’ Hennessy said, turning to him. ‘I didn’t think there was any harm in it. I mean . . . a night watchman.’
‘If there was a picket would you have passed it?’
‘No, gentlemen,’ Hennessy said, ‘I wouldn’t pass a picket.’
‘I’ll save you a journey,’ Pat said, ‘there’ll be a picket on Crampton’s in the morning.’
Hennessy’s features quivered and he had to struggle to speak.
‘Whatever you say, gentlemen,’ he answered.
‘When are you paid?’ Fitz asked him.
‘On Friday nights.’
‘Carry on until Friday and then quit,’ Fitz said. ‘If you promise to do that no one will interfere with you.’
‘I promise,’ Hennessy said.
‘That’s all I wanted to say,’ Fitz concluded. ‘Now go ahead and attend to your work until you draw your week’s money. No one will interfere with you in the meanwhile.’
When Hennessy had gone Fitz warned Pat.
‘There’s to be no rough stuff,’ he said. ‘Is that clear?’
‘You’re too bloody soft,’ Pat said. But his tone conveyed that he would do as he was told. It was not in his nature to go against Fitz.
Hennessy took his usual route by the river, to watch Crampton’s premises from eight at night until eight the following morning. He had nothing with him for supper, not even a cigarette to dull the hunger or give a moment’s illusion of company during the slow hours. At the end of the week he would draw his last ten shillings. He wondered what he would say to his wife. The thought of his numerous children was so unbearable that he pushed it in panic from his mind. Instead he kept his eyes on the path and the gutter, watching diligently for a discarded cigarette end that might be retrieved. But he had little hope of that either. Rain had begun to fall and path and roadway glistened damply.
When Mulhall died some days later it was Mary who went for the priest. First Mrs. Mulhall called over to her and said, in a voice which made Mary anticipate what was coming:
‘Is your husband in?’
‘He’s not,’ Mary said. ‘Can I do anything for you?’
‘It’s Bernie,’ Mrs. Mulhall said. ‘He’s been rambling in his mind and then sleeping. I don’t like the look of him at all.’
‘You want the priest for him?’ Mary said.
‘I’ve been waiting for Willie but he hasn’t come home.’
‘I’ll go immediately,’ Mary said.
‘The children?’
‘They’ll be all right on their own for the while it takes,’ Mary said. ‘I have a guard for the fire.’
She hurried to the church. It was the hour when those who were lucky were finishing work. The streets were full of impatient people, the tramcar trolleys made blue flashes against the night sky and the wheels made a continuous tumble. She went to the vestry and gave her message. The last time she had been inside it was with Fitz just before their marriage. There had been a funeral, she remembered. Almost five years ago.
Father O’Connor was on duty. The clerk found him having his evening meal with Father O’Sullivan.
‘What is it?’ Father O’Connor asked.
‘A sick call,’ the clerk said. ‘A Bernard Mulhall, of Chandlers Court.’
‘Is it urgent?’
‘The woman says he’s dying.’
‘Oh,’ Father O’Connor said. He looked uncertainly at his unfinished meal. Father O’Sullivan had risen.
‘I’ll go, Father,’ he offered.