At Swim, Two Boys - Jamie O'Neill [187]
MacMurrough turned. They were there. The traffic was stopped both directions. Hopefully he threw a rug over the boxes. They looked like three boxes of rifles with a rug on top. The traffic inched them to discovery.
“You must take this.”
“I don’t want it. What is it?” It was her Webley of course. “Aunt Eva, I can’t start shooting people.”
“Whatever happens, they must not get the rifles. I have bartered half my jewels and all of my influence for these rifles. I accepted nothing shoddy or made-in-Birmingham. These are German rifles.” Bloody vintage ones at that, MacMurrough might have told her. “They must go to Ferns. They are nine, which minus the one the Citizen Army will have filched makes eight. We cannot proceed without them.”
“We cannot proceed at all.”
She put her glass away. “Hold tight,” she said. “If I am hit, you may need to take the wheel.”
“Be careful! What are you doing?”
“The back of my hand to caution.”
The engine raced, she loosed the clutch, the car slammed into the motor in front. Reverse now, and she smashed into the lorry behind. MacMurrough put a hand to his face, smirking behind it, more in shame than in fear. Slam into the front again, smash behind, till she made a clearance. The police were running. The Webley slipped to the floor. He bent to retrieve it and heard a singing noise pass where his head had been. Now they were wildly into the middle road where they slithered over the tram-lines. The policemen in front were kneeling to fire. “Shoot!” she called. “Before they shoot us, damn you!” He fired aimlessly, but it scattered the men. They veered crazily between two trams. She flung the car into a dizzy turn while sliding along the seat, virtually into MacMurrough’s lap. They scraped through the opposing traffic. Stalls were overturned, he caught the briefest whiff of oranges. Shots fired after them. They were down some side street, up another, safe.
“Where are we?”
“Temple Bar.”
“Aunt Eva, you are indisputably a wonder.”
“We must thank goodness for the Wide Street Commissioners. Except my poor Prince Henry—”
Some bowler-hatted ass stepped into the road. He looked for all the world to be studying the tops of buildings.
“My God,” she said. She swerved, but to avoid him she must mount the pavement. She rounded the corner and, watching it coming, smashed into the corner lamppost.
She shook herself. But she could not shake herself free. She heard the tramp of boots behind. Her nephew stupidly talking to her.
“Go,” she said. “I can’t without you.”
“I cannot shift my legs.”
“I must fetch an ambulance.”
“I don’t need an ambulance. I need my nephew to go. Go to Ferns. Everything is prepared for you.” In her agitation she was thumping the horn. “Will you go! Please, for my sake.”
He was walking backwards from the car. The pain was in her back. She was passing out but she could not afford to fall yet. Go, you fool. The police were nearly upon her. She pushed on the horn. Go, Anthony, go. He turned on his heels, running, and her eyes in redness closed.
Mr. Mack arrived seconds before the constabulary men. “Officers, officers, I saw everything. I was only looking for the street name—”
“Did you see a man get out?”
“I did, officer. He went off towards Trinity. I can explain all. I was only looking for the street name. I never heard a whisper till—Why, I do believe it’s Madame MacMurrough it is.”
“You know this woman?”
Mr. Mack watched the posse of officers charging entirely the opposite direction for Trinity. “Where are they going?” he asked.
“You said Trinity. Now do you know this lady?”
Mr. Mack’s eyes skewed east and west. “Which way, your honor, would you say Trinity was?”
It took the better part of three hours, but Mr. Mack at last found his way, courtesy of the Dublin Metropolitan Police, to Dublin Castle. While he was being led through the courtyard to the DMP office, there to explain why he had aided a fugitive in escaping the law, from a window above two splendid officers of the crown, in scarlet undress and blue undress, contemplated the scene.