The Devil's Ribbon Read Online Free

squalor, to languish under the heat of a foreign sun, to be exiled from their own land, to be laughed at, spat at, mocked.
    O’Rourke narrowed his eyes. ‘A guinea says Gabriel McCarthy MP will get his comeuppance for his liberal sensibilities. His speeches about perseverance and waiting for liberty make me retch. Waiting for what? Waiting till the English wipe us out completely? It’s hard to believesometimes that you’re brothers. He sits in The Commons, like his father before him, preaching to our people about achieving repeal, not through the blood of martyrs but,’ he cleared his throat and did his best Donegal accent, ‘
tru legil and constitutional means and lickin’ the hairy Inglish arse, yer honour
…’
    ‘To my eternal shame, my brother is his father’s son,’ replied Damien with a smile. ‘Whereas, I …’
    ‘Jesus, Damien, I’ve heard it all before.
The little babby of the McCarthy clan, livin’ in the corner of yer brother’s house but free to have opinions of yer own?
Well, aren’t you the lucky one?’
    ‘Some say it might be the making of me, John. That I’m a free spirit.’
    O’Rourke laughed and sat back in his chair. ‘Oh, and let me guess who’s been putting those romantic notions in your head. She’s married to him, you know. He’d cut your throat if he knew your thoughts, brother or no brother. You know the rules. Till death do they part.’
    Damien dipped his quill in the ink. ‘I’ll not discuss Mrs McCarthy in this low company. Times were such, she had no choice but to marry my brother. Anyway, pay attention. We’ll need the device placed round about here’ – he stabbed the map with his quill and smiled.
    The crooked boy blessed himself again, and John O’Rourke went to clip his ears, but the boy looked back with such contempt that the sometime editor of
An Glor
and regular contributor to the marginally more respectable
The Nation
decided not to antagonise this puppy any further. The Flask had long since been a place for secret meetings of the Irish political variety, but they needed to be mindful. Spies were everywhere. Even here in St Giles, which was an underworld, a law unto itself. Thousands of Irish lived here, the poorest of the poor, inwhat was termed the rookeries. A labyrinth of squalid boardinghouses, a little north of Soho, its pavers heaving with rubbish, screaming children, half-dressed costermongers, and prostitutes, but all proud to be speaking their own language, following their own religion.
    But being poor meant two things in John O’Rourke’s book – easily radicalised but also easily bought. And, thought O’Rourke, there was something about this boy which wasn’t quite there. There was definitely something missing. He wasn’t entirely
reliable
. These were dangerous times to put your trust in a twelve-year-old bookbinder’s son. Still, if the boy turned out to be as useful as Father O’Brian promised he’d be, then O’Rourke was willing to take the risk, for the time being at least.
    The journalist pointed at the map. ‘And this jeweller’s shop? How well do you know it?’
    ‘Well enough,’ answered Damien. ‘Why only last week I accompanied Mrs McCarthy there. Gabriel, as ever, was far too busy for her, but we walked arm in arm quite nicely, and I helped her pick a diamond brooch. Very becoming, it looked, too.’
    O’Rourke laughed, a scoffing sort of laugh, as Damien wrote ‘Burlington Arcade’ on a separate piece of paper and drew an impression of arches.
    O’Rourke lit his pipe. ‘Did O’Brian say when the device might be ready?’
    ‘There are still one or two mechanisms which needed adjusting, and I left him to it. He only went off with it in his pocket after mass this morning!’
    O’Rourke could feel his sense of humour slipping. ‘Well, he needs to hurry himself. The anniversary of Drogheda is July 12th, which is justthree days from now. Anniversaries work best. Sends the message home where it hurts. Just get the