The Devil's Due: An Irish Historical Thriller Read Free

the missus demanded, she put the baby in the pram and took the three children for a walk.
    “Kathleen.” My whisper was urgent. “You know what will happen if you stay.”
    It was only a matter of time before Liam told the boys about Kathleen. He was my friend after all, and Billy would come for him next. I didn’t think Billy would do anything to Kathleen—what could he do, her sister being Mary and all?—but I didn’t tell her that. I couldn’t stay in Limerick, but I didn’t want to leave Kathleen behind.
    There was a thump in the house. She gasped, and I had to clamp her mouth again. A door squeaked, then loud footsteps right outside the room. A second later, the creak of the stairs.
    Kathleen pulled my hand away and leaned close, her lips touching my ear.
    “It’s Eileen,” she whispered, “going to the privy.”
    I stared at the door and listened to the footsteps fade. A moment later, there was the far-off clunk of the privy door shutting outside. I turned back to Kathleen and, in the dim light, I could see her face was clouded with doubt.
    “Come with me,” I said softly.
    “No,” she said, shaking her head. “I can’t.”
    “Why not?” I asked as I searched her eyes. I nodded toward the door. “They mean nothing to you.”
    “I can’t,” she said again. She hesitated, looking away for a moment, before her eyes found mine once more. “I can’t.”
    Before I could say anything more, her eyes narrowed. “And where would we go?” she demanded. “With the IRA after you.” She continued to scowl. “And likely the British too.”
    “I don’t know. Tipperary? Tralee? Dublin? What does it matter?”
    “What does it matter?” she repeated as if I were daft.
    She was about to say more but stopped as the sound of a motor drifted across the darkness. I glanced at the window. The sound grew, the motor whining. Soon it became a roar. My heart quickened as I reached for the drapes. I froze at the squeal of the brakes. Doors banged open and the night was filled with voices. British voices.
    “Go!” Kathleen hissed in my ear.
    I turned back. Her eyes were filled with panic. She gripped my hands.
    “Now! Before they find you.”
    I held her gaze for a moment—her eyes pleading with me—before I nodded. I leaned forward and kissed her gently on the forehead. I turned and rose, then felt her hand on mine once more.
    “Go,” she said softly, nodding toward the door, all the while still holding my hand.
    There were shouts from below the window, then the sounds of running feet. She dropped my hand and nodded toward the door once more.
    “Go.”
    Silently, I made my way to the door.
    It was a foolish thing to do; it was better to get the parting over with. But I couldn’t help myself, and I glanced back once more before I slipped outside.
    Kathleen had pulled her knees up to her chest, the linens draped over. She was biting her lip and staring at something—nothing—on the floor between us. She pulled the medal from her gown again, and I watched as she turned it over and over in her hands.
    She looked up once, shook her head as a tear slid down her cheek. Go , she mouthed.
    I felt a lump in my throat as I quietly stepped outside.
    ___
    I managed to sneak out of the Cavanaghs’ without disturbing the family or the other servants, or worse, drawing the attention of the British patrol. The fog was thick, and I was thankful for that as I made my way down the alley. Still, I hid in the shadows, afraid not only of the Peelers and the IRA but wary of the gypsies and gangs that would surely try to beat and rob me given the chance. As I approached the street, the murmurs of voices and the bang of a hammer caught my attention. Heart thumping in my chest, I slipped back into the alley. After a moment, I peered around the corner and, in the glow of the gas lamp, spied the green uniforms of the Peelers. A constable was standing in front of the telegraph pole, a hammer in his hand. One more stood behind him,