The Devil's Ribbon Read Online Free Page A

package back from his saintly hands, and I’ll deliver it myself. It’s time.’
    ‘Amen to that, Mr O’Rourke. But I’d love to see how far you’d get without me.’
    The men swung around to a low voice that rolled across the darkened tavern like thunder. The priest was standing by the door, his hands covered in dirt.
    ‘Jesus, Father, don’t go sneaking up on us like that,’ said O’Rourke. ‘Why didn’t you announce yourself?’
    The priest threw his head back and laughed. ‘Sure, I only wanted to listen to the washerwomen, for that’s what you sounded like. You need to mind yourselves. As far as I remember, the punishment for sedition in this godless country is death by hanging.’
    The priest pulled up a chair. He was a tall man and found it difficult to get comfortable. He stuck his legs out, making the others pull back, putting a black leather pouch gently on the table, and John O’Rourke instinctively reached out, but the priest was quicker. ‘Jesus. I wouldn’t go touching that, John, unless you want to blow your own head off. It’s a finely tuned device. And I for one think the anniversary of Drogheda is a grand idea.’ His voice grew louder and he seemed afraid of no one, as he stood up in the middle of the tavern and seemed to fill the very air, the very space around him. He’d been a soldier once with his ramrod back, his massive chest, his hands the size of shovels and feet the size of boats. ‘I’ll not stand dissention in the ranks, do you understand me? Does anyone have issues with that?’ He looked directly at the journalist. ‘Well, John?’
    John O’Rourke cast his eyes to the ground. ‘Whatever you say, Father.’
    ‘And what about you, Damien?’
    ‘You know I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth, if it wins our people liberty.’
    ‘And you, lad, what do you say?’
    But the cripple boy’s attention had been taken by a moth that had settled on the table ledge. The moth was perfect, fresh burst from its chrysalis, its armoured body like a wasp. A luminous wasp.
    ‘It’s a death’s head moth, Father,’ said the boy, looking up from the fluttering creature, slightly lost to the world. ‘It makes its home in the rotting trees up in Finchley Fields. It’s a rare beauty to find in the middle of the city, Father.’
    As quick as a flash, the priest grabbed a glass and with a sharp twist, severed the moth’s head from its body. He smashed it underfoot, saying, ‘Forget about the moth and repeat after me –
Clan Shan Van Vocht
… if you are in favour, say aye.’
    The men stood up to join their chief, but the boy stayed sitting on his chair, bereft, till he was grabbed by the collar by the priest who glowered, ‘Pay attention, child. I’m in no mood for any more nonsense. Sure, just look at my hands …’ His palms were thick with dirt. ‘I’ve just been burying a pauper girl who died of the cholera. She was left outside the Sacred Heart, with a note addressed to me, begging for God’s Mercy. Too late for that, I’d say, but I buried her anyway. It’s not mercy she needs now, but sweet fucking vengeance. So, repeat after me, if you are in favour …’
    ‘Aye!’ The men thumped the table, fist on fist.
    ‘The twelfth of July, then,’ said the priest. ‘Motion carried.’

THREE

    BLOOMSBURY
JULY 10TH
    Just as Hatton closed his eyes and fell deeply into a moonlit dream, Mrs Gallant, his landlady, was rapping sharply at his door with that irritating little tap of hers.
    ‘It’s almost nine o’clock, Professor.’
    Damnation, Hatton thought as he leapt out of bed, galvanised by fear of Dr Buchanan’s barking voice, sure to greet him as he entered the hospital director’s dominion, the last and the least.
    ‘No breakfast, Mrs Gallant. Not today,’ Hatton yelled as he heard a clattering of dishes from behind him and momentarily caught the sweet scent of bacon in the air, knowing he would have to make do with a bitter coffee from the grinder’s stall by