Irish Lady Read Free Page B

end. And so it was with Meghann. Holding on to the wheel, maneuvering the car through the twisting roads, forcing the panic from her pounding head and trembling hands down through her feet and out of her body was the most she could manage.
    Michael Devlin, arrested for the murder of James Killingsworth . The words repeated themselves over and over in her head. Meghann coaxed her multi-taxed mind into the logic for which she earned a staggering salary. Michael was IRA. Michael was Sinn Fein. Michael had killed in defense. No.
    Meghann shook her head, disciplined her mind and started over. Michael was IRA. Michael was Sinn Fein. Michael’s words were censored from every television screen in Britain. Michael believed in killing for an end to British occupation. Michael had killed for his cause. Dear God. Would he kill James Killingsworth? No.
    Again, she forced herself to maintain objectivity. James Killingsworth’s politics were liberal. He had campaigned for the removal of British troops from Irish soil. Just two weeks before, he had spoken in Parliament against the enormous expense of housing and feeding a hostile government presence in the North.
    Whatever Michael Devlin was, stupid he was not. Without James Killingsworth’s influence, Sinn Fein hadn’t a prayer of participating in the peace talks. Meghann would speak with Annie and find out why Michael was being held for questioning. All at once, she felt better. It was possible that Michael wasn’t involved at all, that his detention was merely a formality because of who he was and who he had been.
    Three hours later, after settling into her room at the Culloden, Meghann placed a call to Annie. Her fingers shook as she punched in the numbers that would connect her to Falls Road, to Andersonstown, to Clonard, to her past, a world she had hoped to exorcise forever.

Two
    Belfast, Northern Ireland, 1994
    The beating must be over because Michael no longer felt the blows. He sat tied to a chair, his arms handcuffed behind him. Blood poured from a gash in his forehead. His groin throbbed and his testicles felt swollen bigger than footballs. He could barely see the man standing before him, but he could hear well enough, and what he heard caused the corner of his mouth to turn up in a painful but humorous twitch.
    â€œEnough, Robby.” A voice came out of the corner. “They won’t recognize him tomorrow. He’s not talkin’.”
    â€œBloody Taig,” his interrogator growled. “He’ll talk when I’m through with him.”
    â€œDon’t count on it,” Michael rasped and was rewarded by a blow to the mouth that knocked several teeth loose and filled his mouth with the familiar, metallic taste of fresh blood. He tried to lift his head, but the effort was too much. After a final unsuccessful attempt, his chin sagged against his chest.
    â€œFor Christ sake, Robby,” the voice protested. “Don’t kill the man. He’s got a lawyer comin’ tomorrow. Besides, we’ll get nothin’ from a corpse.”
    Michael recognized the frightened tones of the boy who’d arrested him. He was a child, no more than eighteen, but then that was two years above the age when a youth was conscripted into the Republican cause. Childhood was short in the Six Counties, and no one knew it better than the men and women who watched their children sport the colors, regurgitate the jargon, and lay down their lives before British tanks and loyalist guns.
    His mind faded in and out, depending on the level of pain in his head. It would be too much to hope for a doctor. Men charged with the murder of popular English politicians could hope for nothing more than a cold grave dug in the back of a farmer’s bog. Still, he was Michael Devlin and that name stood for something in the world of Irish nationalists.
    They said he had a lawyer coming tomorrow. At least he would be kept alive until then. What poor sap would