Free Peeler by Kevin McCarthy Page A

shook his head and offered him a cigarette. ‘Not something I went looking for. Wish to God I was going with you fellas. Tear the arse out of the Auxies.’
    O’Shea caught the note of bitterness in his voice. ‘You never know, Liam. They could tear the arse out of us, so they could. You could be lucky sure, not going at all.’
    ‘Do you really think that will happen, Diarmuid? And would you trade places with me?’
    O’Shea ran the cloth cleaning plug through the barrel of his Enfield one last time. Farrell wondered was it one of the guns they had taken from the coastguard station, together with the Kilbrittain lads, the summer before. O’Shea was two years younger than him. Back then, he had looked up to Farrell, followed his lead, as Farrell followed that of the older lads. But O’Shea had proven himself to be a fierce and loyal Volunteer in his own right, able to walk tens of miles of countryside in any weather, fervent, cheerful and alert on odd hours of snatched sleep, while Farrell had been away at college. How soon things changed, Farrell thought.
    ‘No, Liam. I figure we’ll paste the Auxie bastards and then Lloyd George and the King and the whole shaggin’ lot of Peelers, Tans, Tommies, Auxies, spies, traitors, touts, taxmen, magistrates and fuckin’ friends to the Crown will all feck off home, boy, and leave us to run our own affairs. That’s what I believe.’ He pulled on his cigarette. ‘And no, I don’t think I’d want to trade places with you for the world. No disrespect, sir , but you officer lads make me nervous.’ He shot Farrell a mock salute.
    Farrell smiled sadly. ‘I’m no officer, Diarmuid. Just a failed gunman.’
    ‘You wait.’ O’Shea clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You were made for it, boy. Dishing out orders, poring over maps and all.’
    ‘Sure, going by what Tom Barry thinks, I could hardly see what’s on them. What’s more, Diarmuid, no matter how soon the Brits feck off and leave us to the running of Ireland, there’ll always be a taxman.’
    ‘You’re not serious, Liam.’
    ‘If you don’t get yourself shot, sure you can sign up for a tax collector’s job in the new republic.’
    ‘And you can get a lovely new pair of specs on your IRA pension. Quick, Liam! How many fingers?’
    ‘I’ll give you fingers, boy.’
    Diarmuid laughed and began loading .303 rounds into the Enfield’s box magazine. Each man on the ambush would carry thirty-five rounds. Thirty-five rounds Farrell would never fire for the liberation of his people. O’Shea stood, held out his hand and pulled Farrell to his feet. Without letting go, he pumped his friend’s hand. ‘Liam, I wish you were going. You know that, don’t yeh?’
    Farrell’s grasp was hard and firm. ‘Just plug one of the bastards for me, Diarmuid.’
    O’Shea fired off another mock salute as he left the shed, his precious Enfield slung over his shoulder like he’d been carrying it all his life. Farrell watched him leave, his chest tight with longing and envy.
    ‘Farrell.’
    Startled, he turned to the voice. Farrell knew Seamus Connors from his time at University College in Cork. Connors had been studying medicine, though Farrell could hardly have imagined a more unlikely man to succour the ill or help bring new life into the world. He was tall and gaunt, with pale skin drawn over knife-sharp cheekbones and dark, deep-set eyes that seemed to soak up and extinguish light. He had the welt of a recent wound on his forehead.
    Connors had been two years ahead of Farrell in his studies, but he too abandoned them for the cause. He was a younger son from a large farm and, like Farrell, the first of his family to attend college. But all similarity between them stopped there. Connors was a gunman through and through. Most of the medical students who joined the IRA were used as medics. But Connors, it was discovered early, had a gift. And his gift was taking life, not saving it. It was rumoured that he had shot seven, some