Free Echoland by Joe Joyce Page B

where voices were too loud, laughter was too hearty, and stories were being repeated and seemed even funnier than the first time round. Two of his earlier drinking companions came over to him.
    ‘Can we get a lift up to Lamb Doyle’s later?’ one of them asked while the other swayed in front of Timmy and Duggan.
    ‘If I’m going,’ Timmy said.
    ‘Why wouldn’t you be going?’ the drunker of the two demanded.
    ‘Later, men, later,’ Timmy shooed them away. He turned his back to the room and took a typed document from his inside pocket, unfolded it slowly, keeping it shielded by his body. ‘Take a quick look at that.’
    The first sentences grabbed Duggan’s attention: ‘England is beaten . Neither time nor gold can save her now.’ His eyes ran down the page, absorbing, rather than reading, the content. Now was not the time, it argued, to do anything to alienate the Germans. Every other remaining neutral was trying to come to terms with them, getting off the fence, getting on the winning side, looking to the post-war world, Germany ruling all of Europe. Joining the Allies now would be disastrous , no matter what they offered on the North; we’d be on the losing side and pay the penalty. We’d be occupied, maybe lumped together with Britain in one colonised unit. At the very least a pro-German neutrality would leave us in an advantageous position in relation to the national question when the post-war situation was being negotiated. There was even a case to be made for joining … Timmy took it from his hand before he could read any more, folded it and put it back in his pocket.
    Duggan gave him a questioning look. There had been no heading on the document, no name at the end of it.
    ‘Top secret.’ Timmy put his finger to his lips. ‘Top. Top. Secret.’
    Duggan wondered if he was drunk. He had seen Timmy down copious glasses of whiskey at family gatherings and never appear as drunk as others who had matched him. His speech sometimes became just a little disjointed, that was all.
    ‘That’s from the top,’ he began again, suddenly fixated with the word top. ‘From the very top. The top. And secret. Very secret.’
    ‘The Taoiseach?’ Duggan dropped his voice.
    Timmy nodded. ‘Men around him. Good men. Good advisers.’He glanced around him. ‘I’ve been a bit worried about the Chief, you know. Told you that the other night. I know he sees things the rest of us can’t see. But I’ve a theory. I’m worried he spent too long negotiating with the Brits about the ports and the annuities. Big mistake to spend too long talking to them. Big mistake to talk to them at all. Look what happened Collins. Just tell them to fuck off and leave us alone. Only way to deal with them. But,’ he tapped his jacket where he had put the document, ‘he’s getting the right advice now. On the right track at last.’ He raised his glass, as if proposing a toast. ‘A nation once again.’
    Duggan raised his glass too and took a drink.
    ‘What does your father think?’ Timmy asked.
    ‘About all this? I don’t know. I haven’t been home in over a month.’ Anyway, his father never talked about politics.
    ‘He’d see through all the old British tricks,’ Timmy said. ‘From the old days.’
    Duggan’s father had been in the IRA during the War of Independence as well as Timmy but had taken no part in the Civil War afterwards. He never spoke to Duggan, or, as far as he knew, to anyone about those days. Timmy was always curious about his father’s political opinions, confirming that his father never spoke to him about them either.
    Timmy signalled to the barman for another round. Duggan protested that he had to get back to the barracks.
    ‘There’s one other thing,’ Timmy said with a heavy breath. He seemed totally sober again. ‘Nuala.’
    ‘I talked to her friend Stella today,’ Duggan said. ‘She said she doesn’t know where she is. She’s been on night duty and out of touch with everyone.’
    Timmy gave