Irish History X, Vol. 6

In times of such great uncertainty, it helps to be able to look into the past and see how those who came before us grappled with the hand that fortune dealt them. In the rich, yet tragic history of this great Celtic land, lie stories, which, when recounted, inspire anew. In this series, The Fair Observations looks back and weaves the past into a simplistic narrative that suits the modern mores, because that’s what people do. 

Michael Collins (Murder Mystery)

In my first attempt at a historical drama, we follow the life and demise of Irish revolutionary leader, Michael Collins. A pivotal player in Ireland's struggle for independence, Collins’s glittering career was fraught with high drama in the dangerous, treacherous days of revolution. He was Minister for Finance and TD for Cork South in the First Dáil of 1919, Director of Intelligence for the IRA, and a member of the Irish delegation during the Anglo-Irish Treaty negotiations. He was also a murderer. 

In a Columbo-styled crime novel, where we readers are in full possession of the details of the crime, we watch the leader of government and keen amateur detective, Eamonn de Valera, solve the mysterious deaths of a series of British soldiers and RIC policemen between 1916 and 1922. (Spoiler alert: They were killed by Collins and the IRA.) Here are some excerpts to whet your appetite.

At least it will be more accurate than this.

P. 23

The squeak of a spring mattress being thumped into submission reverberated off the dungeon-like walls of Collins’s basement room, accompanied by heavy grunts and moans. Mary was learning quickly why her cavalier lover was nicknamed the ‘Big Fellow’. 

“Oh, God, Mick! Yes, horse your langer into me!”

Collins grunted and ploughed on more violently than before, and within a matter of minutes the two lovers were lain satisfied on their backs beside each other. Collins had little patience for cuddling, but Mary was happy to claw him a little and admire what a fine brute he was. He rolled on his side and lit a fag for each of them, before turning back to face her and handing her a smouldering cigarette. They both rested on their elbows and puffed leisurely, contentedly couched in each other’s gaze. The rough love had lightened Collins’s mood a little, but it wasn’t long before the dark fury burned in his eyes again. Mary was captivated by them, as one would be at the uncanny sight of black fire.
  

“London is killing me, Mary.”, he said without prompting. 

“I know. It’s hard being away from home.”

He moved his lips to speak, but found himself at a pause. His eyes gazed blankly into the dark room, and he sighed a little. 

“What I would give to breathe the sea air of Clonakilty or walk amid its green fields,” he pined. “What am I doing here, Mary? Among the English, helping their wealthy take in more than their fill. I should be home, helping to free my land from our oppressors.”
Mary twisted her hips a little, entangling herself further in the warm sheets. “And how exactly would you do that, Mick?”

“I’d have to kill English men.”

“Is that so?”, she inquired, before taking the last of puff of her cigarette and reaching her arm behind her to extinguish the butt on the bedside table.
“I’d put bullets in them. I’d watch them bleed until they went cold.”

“Tell me more.”

“I’d plant bombs in the homes and watch them walk into their graves.”
Mary purred restlessly.
“I’d risk walking among the investigating policemen and bystanders just to breath in their burnt flesh.”

Mary eyed her savage lover with languorous surrender. He pushed her on her back suddenly, and positioned himself between her legs with no regard for civility.

“I’d walk up right behind them and slip a knife into their back”, her informed her, as he slid inside her. She moaned. 

“And when they turned around, I’d savour the terror and agony in their eyes.” Mary’s head tossed back in ecstasy. Collins proceeded to pound her with a slow, hard grind. Fiery lust raged between the sheets of the bed, and Mary could hide her wishes no longer.  

“Jesus, Mick! Would you choke me a bit, for feck’s sake?” 

******************************

P.102

Cannon fire roared around the rebels, and a storm of fiery ash and dust bore down on them. They held their positions like an utterly desperate rowing boat being swept along in a calamitous, raging sea. The pillars of the GPO, which stood so proudly during the Proclamation of the Irish Republic the day before, trembled with each blow, and the ground shook beneath Rising’s leaders. Members of the British Armed Forces scurried about the streets, trying to win advantageous positions, while the besieged rebels held fast as best they could. 

Fortunately, they stood with Michael Collins, whose courage never seemed to diminish. He moved from post to post, keeping the soldiers’ morale up with his enthusiasm. His stomach was aflutter and his heart banged inside his chest, but the passion which stirred inside him was not what they believed it to be. Collins felt alive and aroused by the opportunity to kill. 

“Keep your head up, boy”, he counselled Gearóid, a young soldier who was guarding a window towards the back of the building. “Even if we have to surrender today, the Irish people will inspired by our actions and rise against the tyrant. We’ll…” His words were cut short by an explosion, which blew the massive window and its fortifications out. Collins awoke in pain, his entire world whirring, and a ubiquitous, overwhelming ringing in his ears. As he gathered his bearings, he was relieved to find he was uninjured, bar the shock and some minor cuts. Gearóid was not as fortunate and he lay cold on the floor. Sadness washed over Collins, but as the ringing lessened in his ears, anger regained its place in his heart again. 

Blood ran from a gash on his face, and he quickly swiped it off. He looked around to ensure nobody could see him, before licking some off his fingertips. He froze suddenly. Across the street, a young soldier held a position that didn’t offer him the cover he assumed it did. Collins quivered as he crept cautiously towards the window. He raised his rifle, nervously hoping the opportunity would remain available for just a few seconds more. He trembled at the advent of his deepest, darkest fantasies. The young private, hardly past boyhood, looked around as though he was about to reposition himself, but somehow he continued his fatal error. Collins noted mentally how green the young man was, and his excitement began to overwhelm him. He pulled the trigger and, with a splash of red, rendered the boy ever-green. He threw himself back against the protection of the wall, panting with elation. For a few moments, he left the fray, lost in the glow of his kill. Another shell rocked the building, and he returned. He wiped the drool from his chin, and fought on. 

******************************

P. 327

“This will only escalate the war, Boss.”, Boland reminded DeValera. His voice was too dampened by resignation to give any hint of criticism.

“I know.”, he replied. He went to say more, but held back. The omnipresent drizzle further wet the canvas roof of the turbulent military truck traversing the Cork hills, and the erratic wind helped droplets into the back of the vehicle to further sullen the mood. 

“It’s a grey day.”, Dev muttered. “But there’s an encouraging brightness about it.” He looked towards the clay white clouds and took in a deep breath. 

“The sun will come out again.”, he declared. “Dark clouds are upon us, but we will endure them. And be better off for them.”

Boland looked sheepishly at the rifle in DeValera’s hand, which had slain Collins twenty minutes earlier. 
“I had to do it, Boland. I couldn’t in good conscience ask an other to carry out such an unconscionable action.” He clenched his jaw. “God will be my judge.”

“Christ, how did we end up like this? This bloody war.”, Boland spoke without raising his head.

“It was necessary. Collins was a murderer.”

“I have no doubt about that, but was it worth solving the case? I admire your superlative detective skills, but we have war on our hands.”

“We always have war on our hands; the hour that calls us to arms is ever-present.”, he edified Boland and the others seated in the truck with compelling sagacity. 

“There is a war that is waged in the heart of every man. Sometimes great sacrifices have to be made to insure that good wins.”

Boland relaxed his confused and angered conscience as DeValera furthered his sermon.

“Collins refused to hear the sense of duty that implored him from the heart. He turned cold and monstrous. He took advantage of the war, and used the opportunity to murder hundreds. Fathers, sons, brothers, and friends were all taken away by him and the deranged cult he built around him. Liberty, as we well know, is a costly affair, and fighting evil can certainly leave scars. At least now the world is a little less evil.”

The truck rode onwards, away from the hills and Collins’s mournful officers. The clouds permitted a tentative, narrow break for the sunshine, and a feint cliché of light glistened the road ahead.