Night Souls by L. H. Maynard

Author:L. H. Maynard [L. H. Maynard and M. P. N. Sims ]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781428508781
Publisher: Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

Day Two

These, as successive generations bloom,

New powers acquire and larger limbs assume;

Whence countless groups of vegetation spring,

And breathing realms of fin and feet and wing.

—Erasmus Darwin

Chapter Twenty-seven

Breath is Spirit. The act of breathing is Living.

—Author Unknown

Dunkerry, Republic of Ireland

The Republican Arms was on the main road running through the picturesque village of Dunkerry. It was nothing to look at from the outside, a fairly simple brick structure with a tiled roof and an ugly glass conservatory latched on to the side of it.

In fact it was the ugliest building in the entire village, but as he stepped through the door, Simon Crozier’s spirits lifted. Inside was the epitome of an Irish pub.

The walls were lined with autographed photographs. Some of the faces and names he recognized—the Dubliners, Pierce Brosnan, The Corrs—some he didn’t. All the photographs were dedicated to Patrick and Aoife; obviously the licensees. A set of uilean pipes hung above the bar, to the right of them an Irish drum, the bodhran. The brick-built fireplace was huge, and Crozier could imagine great blocks of peat burning there, while the jigs and reels of a céilí filled the smoky air.

Behind the bar hung a Republican flag, the orange, green, and white panels faded and stained, the edges slightly motheaten. What looked suspiciously like bloodstains in the corner. Standing in front of the flag was a large man with black curly hair, a ruddy complexion, and liquid blue eyes. He nodded at them as they entered. “And what’ll you two gentlemen be having?” he asked in a lilting Irish brogue.

A few minutes later they were seated at a table in the far corner of the pub with two pints of Guinness. Crozier checked his watch. “We’re early,” he said.

As he said it, the door opened and Michael Dylan walked in. He stood no more than five foot six, slim but hard muscled with haunted green eyes set in a pale face. He saw them sitting there, swept a curtain of fair hair away from his forehead, nodded a greeting, and went to the bar. Crozier watched him order a drink from the barman and felt the usual wave of apprehension. There was something about Dylan that back-footed him. He was never quite sure how to take the man. He felt Bailey tug his sleeve.

“So that’s Dylan, is it?”

“It is,” Crozier responded.

And then Michael Dylan was walking across to where they sat. He put his orange juice down next to the pints of Guinness and sat.

“This had better be good to rouse me from my bed at this ungodly hour,” he said to Crozier, inclining his head toward Bailey. “Who’s this?”

“Harry Bailey,” Bailey said, stretching out a hand.

Dylan shook the hand and sat back in his seat, giving Bailey a look of appraisal. “I’ve heard of you.”

“And me you,” Bailey said.

Dylan turned to Crozier. “If he’s here, why do you need me?”

“I need you both,” Crozier said. “When I explain what this is all about, you’ll understand why.”

“I’m listening,” Dylan said.

Cozier moved Guinness around his mouth and swallowed it.

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