1999 Read Online Free Page B

Kingdom. In 1960 the American people elected a Catholic president. In 1972 Catholics in Northern Ireland can’t even get a decent job.” Barry’s voice remained steady. Yet tremors of outrage ran through his body.
    His mother longed to take him in her arms and comfort him. Theirs had never been that sort of relationship, however. His rumpled hair was the same red-gold it had been when he was a boy, but the sleeves of his coat were stained with someone else’s blood.
    He drew a long, deep breath. Exhaled slowly. Drew another. Sought the quiet pool at the centre of himself, which alone could armour a man against the shocks of life.
    When he got to his feet, Ursula tilted her head back to look up into his face. Jutting cheekbones and aquiline nose; a wide, mobile mouth. Sharply etched lines that made him appear older than his thirty-three years.
    In his deep-set grey eyes she glimpsed the flash of swords.
    Barry Halloran looked dangerous.
    â€œWhat are you going to do now?” she wanted to know.
    â€œGo up to Dublin.”
    â€œNot now surely. You must be in shock, you need a hot meal and some sleep.”
    â€œI don’t need either one, Ursula; I need to go to Dublin.”
    Total surrender was not in her nature. “At least take a cup of strong tea first. Wash your face, have a shave…and leave your grandfather’s rifle with me. After yesterday, the Gardai * will be out in full strength. You could be stopped anywhere, and if they took Papa’s rifle from you we’d never get it back.”
    â€œDon’t worry, they won’t stop me. I know every back road between here and Dublin, I’ll be there by teatime.”
    So everything’s already decided , Ursula thought. I should have known it the moment I saw him holding the rifle.
    The rifle was a short magazine Lee-Enfield .303 made during World War One, and fitted with a small brass plate proclaiming its place of manufacture: “Winchester Repeating Arms Co., New Haven, Connecticut.” Ursula Halloran, who knew things, had a bad feeling about that weapon.
    For years she had expected her beloved papa would die with the Lee-Enfield in his hands. Much to everyone’s surprise, Ned Halloran had lived to die in his bed. Before age and his many wounds finally caught up with him he gave the rifle to his daughter and made her promise to pass it on to Barry when the boy reached his fifteenth birthday. When Barry later ran away to follow in his grandfather’s footsteps and join the Irish Republican Army, he took the rifle with him.
    â€œI really would feel better if you left Papa’s rifle here this time, Barry,” Ursula said. “For my protection.”
    He looked down at the small thin woman with her cap of silver hair. And her fierce, blue-grey eyes. “I’d pity anyone who was fool enough to attack you, Ursula. You’re never unarmed. After I took up photography I gave your old Mauser back to you; I suspect it’s under your pillow this very minute. And there’s always the shotgun in the barn. But I’m taking the rifle. After yesterday every Volunteer * in the country will be digging up his weapons. I’m sure Séamus has already retrieved his.”
    I should have known, thought Ursula. Séamus. That’s why he’s in such a hurry to get to Dublin. Who else would he turn to at a time like this?
    Séamus McCoy had been Barry’s training officer in the IRA. Barry had never known his father, who was killed in 1941 when German bombs were dumped on Dublin’s North Strand. Séamus McCoy had never had a son. The experienced soldier had given the raw youngster an unspoken paternal affection. Their relationship answered a deep need in both men.
    In his youth Barry had dreamed of being a warrior in the ancient Celtic mould. He was a natural athlete with more energy than he could use; the IRA had provided an outlet for both. But the first time he saw men killed in