“Dermot Murphy and Sinead McGowan,” I answered.
“Murphy and McGowan, wedding party. Gresham Hotel.” She gasped. “You need to get Michael Collins out of here, Thomas. Right now.”
“Anne—”
“Right now!” she demanded. “And then we have to figure out how to get everyone else out as well.”
“Why?”
“Tell him it’s Thorpe. I think that was the name. A fire is set, and the door is barricaded so no one can get out.”
I didn’t ask her how she knew. I simply turned, grabbing her hand, and strode to the corner where Mick was drinking and laughing with hooded eyes.
I leaned over and spoke in his ear, Anne hovering behind me. I told him there was a threat of arson from a man named Thorpe—I had no idea who he was—and the room needed to be cleared immediately.
Michael turned his head and met my gaze with an expression so weary I felt my own bones quake. Then he snapped to attention, and the weariness fell away.
“I need a man at every exit, boys. Right now. We might have some fire starters on the premises.” The table cleared at once; glasses were emptied and slammed down again, and hair was smoothed back as if vigilance demanded a certain appearance. The men scattered, moving towards the doors, but Mick stayed at my side, waiting for a verdict. A moment later, a shout rose up. Gearóid O’Sullivan was kicking at the main entrance door, which appeared to be barricaded. Just like Anne had said.
Mick met my gaze, and then his gaze touched on Anne briefly, his brow furrowed, his eyes troubled.
“This one’s open,” Tom Cullen cried from behind the bar.
The bartender stammered, “You can’t go out that way!”
Cullen just shouted over him. “Everybody needs to file out! Let’s go. Girls first, gents! We’re okay. Just a little precaution to make sure the Gresham isn’t on fire . . . again.” The Gresham, sitting in Dublin’s city centre, has seen more than its fair share of havoc in its hundred years. Mick was already striding towards the exit, hat in his hand; Joe was at his side, loping to keep up.
There was some nervous chuckling, but the wedding party made haste, filing out the door into the damp darkness of the August night. Even the bartender decided staying was foolish. I was the last to go, pushing Anne and O’Sullivan—who had abandoned his efforts to break down the other door—out before I scanned the room once more, making sure we’d left no one behind. Smoke had begun to billow through the vents.
T. S.
15
ERE TIME TRANSFIGURED ME
Although I shelter from the rain
Under a broken tree,
My chair was nearest to the fire
In every company
That talked of love or politics,
Ere Time transfigured me.
—W. B. Yeats
It was the groom’s toast—death in Ireland—that had triggered my memory. I’d read about an attack on a wedding party when I’d researched the Gresham Hotel. I’d planned to stay there when I returned to Dublin after my pilgrimage to Dromahair. I’d chosen the Gresham for its history and for its central location to the Rising of 1916 and the tumultuous years that followed. I’d seen pictures of Michael Collins standing at her entrance, meeting contacts in her restaurant, and drinking in her pub. I’d read about Moya Llewelyn-Davies, one of the women who’d been in love with him, staying at the Gresham after she’d been released from jail.
The Gresham plot—yet another attempt on Michael Collins’s life—was just one of many. But the fact that it had come after the truce and that so many people had been targeted made it notable. The British government had vehemently denied any knowledge or responsibility in the conspiracy. Some believed it was an attempt to undermine the peace process and was ordered by people who profited from conflict. A British double agent known only by the name Thorpe was also suspected. Michael Collins fingered him in his personal accounts. But no one ever knew for sure.
I didn’t know if I’d saved lives or simply incriminated myself. I didn’t know if I’d changed history or just modified it by sounding the alarm. For all I knew, I’d been part of the history all along. Regardless, I’d planted myself firmly in the middle of it. And, however innocent, my foreknowledge of the fire was still impossible to explain.
As I ran beside Thomas, my pulse pounding, lifting my skirts so I could keep up, I knew I’d only made things worse for myself. Michael Collins had leaned down and spoken in my ear as we’d stood waiting for his men to check the doors.
“I don’t want to kill you, Anne Gallagher. But I will. You know that, don’t you?” he’d said.
I had nodded. Oddly, I wasn’t frightened. I’d simply turned my head and met his gaze.
“I am not a good man,” he’d said grimly. “I’ve done terrible things I will have to answer for. But I’ve always done them for good reason.”
“I am no threat to you or to Ireland, Mr. Collins. I give you my word.”
He’d replied, “Only time will tell, Mrs. Gallagher. Only time will tell.”
Michael Collins was right. Only time would tell. Only time could tell. And time would not defend me.
The members of the wedding party moved up the alley toward O’Connell, joining the guests now streaming from the front entrance. The fog and smoke were mating and recreating, distorting the shapes and the shrieks of the guilty and the guileless. And no one knew which was which. Michael Collins and his entourage disappeared into the night, piling into cars that came out of nowhere and screeched away.
Clanging fire trucks and emergency personnel approached from two directions, and Thomas began moving among the people, creating triage across the street from the hotel, checking guests for smoke inhalation, sending those who seemed the worse for wear away in the St. John ambulances that had arrived on the scene, and releasing others to secure new lodgings. As I tried to stay out of the way and keep Thomas in my sights, the rain began to fall, aiding the efforts of the firemen. Curious onlookers and the milling crowd scurried for cover, effectively clearing the area. Our coats were still inside the Gresham and were as good as gone, at least for the time being. My dress was soaked, my hair streaming. Thomas took off his suit coat and slung it over my shoulders, and he found me waiting for him, huddled beneath it, as the last ambulance pulled away from the hotel.
“There’s nothing more I can do here. Let’s go,” he said. His shirt was plastered to his skin, and he swept his hair back from his face, running his hands over his soot-streaked cheeks, removing the water only to have it replaced again.
The water streamed from the eaves, running from the wrath of sodden skies, finding shelter in the cracks and crevices, and covering the streets and buildings in a wet blanket.
He held my hand as we rushed through the streets, steadying me on the red heels that slowed us down and made me slip, but I felt his tension against my palm, radiating from his tight fingers and sculpting the line of his jaw.
We had entered his neighborhood when Thomas stopped suddenly, cursing. He pulled me into an alcove, out of the rain, and began searching his pockets.
“My house key is in my coat,” he said.
I reached into the pocket of his suit jacket I was wearing before realizing he was talking about the overcoat still hanging in the Gresham Hotel’s cloakroom.
“Let’s go back. Maybe someone can get us into the cloakroom or retrieve it for us,” I offered, bouncing in place to keep warm. The alcove shielded us from the worst of the downpour but not from the cold, and we couldn’t stay there all night.
Thomas shook his head slowly, his lips pursed, his face pensive.
“One of the firemen I treated said the fire was started in the coatroom, Anne. All the coats were doused in petrol. The door was locked and the vents opened. It’s right next to the ballroom where the wedding party was gathered. Or didn’t you know that part of the plot?” He looked down at me and then away, water dripping from the lock of hair on his forehead, his expression as dark as the shadows where we stood. His voice was quiet, perfectly level but infused with bleak expectation.
I had no way to defend myself. Nothing I could say would make things any better, so I said nothing. We stood silently under the overhang, staring out at the storm. I stepped closer to him so our bodies were pressed together along my right side. I was cold. Miserable. And I knew his misery exceeded my own. He stiffened, and my eyes shot to his face, catching on the clean line of his jaw. It was clenched, a muscle ticking like a clock, warning me I had seconds to start talking.
I didn’t. I turned my head with a sigh and peered out into the deluge, wondering if the mist could take me home again, like the mist on the lake had brought me here.
“I talked to Daniel earlier this evening,” Thomas continued, his tone brittle. “He said the guns are gone, Anne. Liam thinks you might know something about that too. In fact, he’s convinced you aren’t Anne Gallagher at all.”
“Why?” I gasped, caught completely off guard. “Why would I know anything about Liam’s guns?” I latched on to the accusation that wasn’t true.
“Because you know all kinds of things you have no business knowing,” Thomas shot back. “Jaysus, woman! I don’t know what to think anymore.”
“I didn’t have anything to do with the guns or their disappearance. I didn’t have anything to do with the fire at the Gresham or anything else,” I said, trying to maintain my composure. I stepped out of the alcove and began walking again, moving toward his house in the square. We were almost there, and I didn’t know what else to do.
“Anne!” Thomas shouted, and I could hear his desperate frustration. His distrust was the hardest thing to bear. I understood it, even sympathized with it. But it was corrosive and exhausting, and I was dangerously close to falling apart. I didn’t want to hurt Thomas. I didn’t want to lie to him. And I didn’t know how to tell him the truth. In that moment, I wanted nothing more than to escape, to close the book on this impossible tale.
“I want to go home.”
“Wait until the rain eases,” Thomas said. “I’ll figure something out.”
I hadn’t realized I’d spoken out loud, but I didn’t slow. “I can’t live like this.” Again, I spoke without meaning to.
“Like what?” Thomas scoffed, incredulous, matching his steps to mine.
“Like this,” I mourned, letting the rain disguise the tears that had begun to streak down my cheeks. “Pretending to be someone that I’m not. Being punished for things I can’t explain and blamed for things I know nothing about.”
Thomas grabbed my arm, but I pulled free, stumbling and warding him off. I didn’t want him to touch me. I didn’t want to love him. I didn’t want to need him. I wanted to go home.
“I am not the Anne Gallagher you think I am,” I insisted. “I am not her!”