This story is set in Ireland during the War of Independence, 1919-1921.

The Players.

An Cailleach, approximately Old Hag in English, is a term found in both Irish and and Scots Gaelic. It carries connotations of divinity or magic.

Volunteers, the name used by Irish national insurrectionists engaged in the War of Independence. After independence, these formed part of the basis for the new National Army which still has the letters IV (Irish Volunteers) on formal uniform buttons.

RIC, Royal Irish Constabulary, an armed police force responsible for crime and internal security. Recruited locally, it was heavily infiltrated by the Volunteers and many members left the organization during the war.

Black & Tans and Auxiliaries. These were paramilitary police recruited in England to support the RIC, notorious for indiscipline, terrorism and extra-judicial killings.

~o~O~o~

The banging on the door was loud, insistent and late. I let my eyes grow accustomed to the dim light of an almost full moon coming in through the small window, threw back the blanket, rolled out of bed and opened the window.

“Who’s there; whatever time it is, it’s too late!”

“Tá siad ag teacht!”

I recognised Diarmuid’s voice telling me that “they” are coming; I didn’t need to ask who “they” were.

“What happened?”

“Someone talked; the Auxies are in the barracks.”

The “Auxies” (Auxiliaries) were one of the two paramilitary forces supporting the police and regular army. Recruited from former Army officers, traumatized and hardened by up to four years of war in the trenches on the Western front, they were the most feared. Technically auxiliaries to the police, they knew no law and were much more effective in extracting information from captured Volunteers than their equally thuggish, but mostly less sophisticated, fellow travellers in the Black & Tans. ‘Tans for short, these latter were drawn mainly from non-commissioned personnel with the same background. The fact that the Auxies were in the local Royal Irish Constabulary (RIC) barracks was ominous.

“Where, when?”

From the urgency in his voice I thought they were coming down the road and was more than mildly panicked.

“Soon; there’s going to be hundreds of Sassenach (English) doing a big sweep. The Commandant wants us out. Make our way to Stridestown and meet there on the first of August.”

I didn’t question the Commandant’s intelligence; we knew that he had sources in the few locals who had remained in the RIC. He had issued orders barring us from attacking them except for specific targets identified by him. It did cut off our source of arms though; both Diarmuid and I had RIC carbines and Webley revolvers liberated from the local police barracks at the start of the War in 1919.

“I need a few minutes.”

I would need to get dressed and pack some food in anticipation of a month on the run.

“Pick me up at my mother’s in half an hour.”

I could hear the clatter of his hobnailed boots on the flat stones that lead to my Aunt's front door.

I fumbled around for a match and lit the small oil lamp that was beside the bed. I could hear my Aunt and cousin clattering around in the kitchen; they had heard the conversation and were getting some food ready. I dressed quickly and threw all my spare socks and one spare shirt into a small backpack. I rolled up my woollen coat; even though it was high summer I would need it at night sleeping out on the mountain. By the time I’d finished and opened the door of the kitchen I could hear the kettle singing on the crook holding it over the fire.

“There’s a loaf of soda bread, some butter, bacon and eggs in this.”

My cousin handed my a small jute bag; I guessed the eggs were wrapped in hay, otherwise they’d be scrambled by the time I got to eat them. I could see anxiety on her face, even in the dim light of the kitchen oil lamp. Just a year younger then me, she had already been scarred by the conflict. Her father had been killed in the first year in an attack by the army; they had lost some of their own in an ambush and any man that crossed their path that day was a target. I had come to my Aunt’s house to help get the hay in and to disappear from my own village where I was likely on the ‘Tans hitlist. The work was mostly done now; they would get help from the neighbours to finish it off.

“It’s a short night; you need to be gone soon.”

My Aunt had just placed a plate of bacon and eggs on the kitchen table. I wasn’t hungry, but it might be a long time before I got to eat again.

“Go through the room when I’m gone: You’ll need to get rid of anything I’ve left behind.”

She knew this already, but a reminder wouldn’t go astray.

Ten minutes later it was the turn of my boots to clatter on the path as I headed off for Diarmuid’s house, a corked beer bottle of warm tea in one jacket pocket and a small packet of buttered soda bread in the other. Diarmuid was waiting at the end of the path, similarly laden and we started off.

“You might need this!”

Old Dan had come out of his house and pressed a naggin of poitin into Diarmuid’s hand. The whole village had heard us; it didn’t matter, no one would talk.

The air was chilly but we could already see the light of dawn appearing in the North East. We headed for the old famine road leading up into the hills before descending to the next valley. Built as part of a famine relief scheme back in 1847, hence its name, it had quickly fallen from use as the area was depopulated by emigration and was now just a track. We turned off into a small ruined hamlet and retrieved our rifles from under a large rock beside it. We didn’t need them now, but would when the column reformed in Stridestown in the following month. We headed off again, we had a long way to go. We didn’t talk much; talking distracted from observation and that could be fatal. We moved on steadily and by mid morning were looking down at our first real obstacle; the road leading from Ballycane to Westford.

And it didn’t look good. We could see, even from a good distance, that the road was already lined with soldiers. A few Crossley tenders were parked alongside and at least one Peerless armoured car was visible.

“Will they move in or just be the anvil?”

I had been pondering the same question.

“Either way, we can’t stay here. If they move, they’ll be on us in no time. If they stand, the hammer will sweep through here from behind us.”

This was the biggest Sassanach operation that we’d seen: The intelligence was correct, but the troops had moved much quicker than we had expected. We headed West, quickening our pace. We had about ten miles to cover before we needed to cross the next road. It was already noon, and hot, when we saw the road in the distance. There were more Crossley tenders, and more ominously, a line of troops , no more than six hundred yards away, moving forward slowly, methodically, searching every potential hiding place as they advanced. The hammer was coming from the West. I was the first to speak:

“We have to go back.”

“You mean to the village? It’s far too late for that.”

“No, I’m going around Ben Dubh (Black Mountain). There’s plenty of hiding in the woods beyond.”

“They’ll surely be there before you. They’ve hardly missed that patch; I hear they’ve even got things called maps now.”

I ignored the apparent sarcasm; it was only meant as banter, something to relieve the tension.

“They’ll maybe want to search the wood from the top down. That’s what I’d do in their place. Sweep this open ground first, then down that side. I won’t know until I get there, but we can’t stay here.”

Staying low, we pulled back. We had no problem outstripping the Hammer moving forward; they were in no hurry, why would they? We eventually paused in a small depression near the top of a ridgeline. Even up this high, there were traces of previous habitation in the crumbling remains of an old pre-famine homestead.

“I’m going back down towards the Anvil.”

Diarmuid wasn’t convinced by my Ben Dubh plan.

“You’re going to try to sneak through?”

“Yeah, they’ll get bored and lazy as the day moves on.”

“OK, we’ll split here so, that way one of us might make it.”

We hid the rifles again, under a large tuft of heather beside a recognisable rock. Hopefully the Sassenach wouldn’t look in a place clearly too small to hide a human. They were of no immediate use and we didn’t want to lose them; they were now hard to come by! We kept our Webleys; they’d be easier to hide later if needed and neither of us wanted to risk being taken alive. We looked at each other, conscious that the odds were against us both getting through.

“Good luck on the road. Don’t get caught; you know the Sassenach will get their tongues in knots trying to pronounce your name.”

Diarmuid waved his Webley:

“Ach, sure I won’t be giving them that trouble; they’ve enough of their own with the Cork lads kicking the shite out of them.”

We had heard that the Cork column had wiped out a patrol of up to eighteen Sassanach the previous week. Diarmuid continued:

“And you too: Give my regards to the Cailleach.”

“That’s An Cailleach, you semi-literate eegit.”

He grinned, picked up his pack and headed off. We hid our foreboding in a maze of banter, not being demonstrative by nature or habit. I headed towards Ben Dubh. It was a rough path, across mainly open, rising, ground at the start before getting into cover again going around its flank. It was now mid-afternoon; there was a lot of light left yet and I wanted to be in cover before the Hammer moved far enough forward to have a view of this ground. I pushed myself, aiming towards a small depression at the foot of the steepest rise containing a small tarn (mountain lake) where I could get some water. I hoped to avoid An Cailleach, a mountain woman of indeterminate age but between sixty and eighty, who had been living alone in this place for as long as anyone could remember. She was reputed not to be the full shilling and might inadvertently give me away. I topped a small rise, looked down into the lake and saw An Cailleach’s cottage… great, no sign of her. I started down…

Crack, whinnnng.

I knew the sound of a Lee Enfield and a ricochet well.

Dash, down, cover, crawl, observe, fire.

Of these immediate reactions on coming under effective enemy fire, only the initial ones were available to me. I ran forward trying to get lower and in among the large boulders around the lake. More shots, pinging around me, I made it into cover, took a moment to collect my thoughts and draw my breath. The Sassenach must have pushed a picket forward to cover off my intended escape route. I reckoned that they were probably half way up Ben Dubh, covering the way around towards the woods. I was now in dead ground to them but trapped. If I tried to go back the way I’d come, I would be exposed to their fire. Likewise if I followed my intended route. If I tried to go around the other side of the mountain I would probably meet the Hammer coming forward slowly. I took the Webley out of my pocket and checked the load; I might need it soon. Better a quick exit in a gunfight than a slow one in the barracks. I sat on a rock for a few minutes to think.

“Anseo, tar anseo, go tapaigh.” (Here, come here, quickly.)

I looked up and around and eventually saw a rather small old woman, about one hundred yards away, waving her walking stick to attract my attention. I looked around for any immediate threat, saw none, and half ran over to her.

“That’d be you they were shooting at?”

“It was for sure; they don’t seem to like me.”

“Maybe it’s on account of you carrying that thing around.”

She was looking at the revolver, still in my hand.

“Either with or without it, they’d still be shooting at me.”

“Come into the house; they’ll not find you there.”

“I can’t do that Ma’am, for they’ll surely search it. And if they find me inside, they’ll surely burn it and maybe shoot you as well as me.”

“We’ll say you’re my sisters child, and you were only coming to visit. But you’ll not be bringing that thing into my house.”

She pointed her stick at my revolver again. Maybe there was a chance. A few minutes ago I had been contemplating my imminent demise and seeing no alternative. If this proposed subterfuge went wrong and I was caught, it would go hard on me, but it might just go right. I hid the revolver and spare bullets among the rocks along with my pack, except for the jute bag with the food. I followed her as she moved with surprising agility along the rough ground leading to her house.

I had to stoop to get through the low doorway and straightened up to find myself in a neat kitchen whose tidiness belied the exterior appearance of the cottage. It was the usual two room affair, the main living room or kitchen had an open fireplace, table, three legged stools and a dresser, or cupboard containing everything you could think of from crockery to replacement wicks for the oil lamp to old letters received long ago. The floor was no more than a series of flat stones pounded into the ground. Even though it was summer, and warm, a small fire burned in the hearth, essential for cooking or boiling water. As usual, an alcove with a curtain contained a bed, normally used by the main couple or individual in the house.

“My sister’s name is Ethel, and she lives in Sligo. You’ve come here to visit.”

“Yes Ma’am, what’s your name?”

“Bridget Mellet has been my name for three score years and more.”

I supposed that this was her way of announcing that she wasn’t married. This was the first time I’d heard her name; hereabouts everyone referred to her as An Cailleach.

“Well, if I’ve come from Sligo, I’ve brought these.”

I took out the bread, butter, eggs and bacon and put them on the table. Bridget looked at the bread, took a spoon and tasted the butter, looked at me.

“Sure I didn’t think Mary Brennan had a boy your age, nor indeed a boy at all.”

I looked at her, she must be a witch! Mary Brennan was the name of my Aunt, the owner of the house I’d fled this very morning. She looked at me and smiled.

“She’s shaped her bread like that since she came to that village, and always used less salt in the butter than most. She is kind enough to see that I’m not left short when the weather is bad. But you’re not hers, and you don’t look like a thief to me.”

“I’m sorry to say Ma’am that I am a thief for I stole these this morning. It’s not the worst sin and I had a great need.”

It was best not to let her know too much in case she was questioned closely. She was showing herself to be shrewd, but maybe her madness or eccentricity were just well hidden at the moment.

She busied herself making tea while I tidied myself up. If I’d really walked all the way from Sligo I might be expected to look a bit travel weary, but best not to look like I’d spent the day walking and lying about on the side of the mountain. I walked out of the cottage and stood near the door while I brushed myself down, emptying heather from the turn-ups in my trousers. I looked around, still quiet. It was now getting well into evening and the sun was low in the sky. I turned my back to it to spare my eyes from its glare and stretched. I wondered how Diarmuid was getting on?

Was that a glint, near the shoulder of the mountain? I stood still, looked, yes, movement. I though that I’d have more time; it looked like the picket had called in some kind of patrolling party. I went back inside.

“They’re nearly here.”

“Yes, I saw them”.

How the f*** could she see them? She is inside and there’s no window that side. Maybe she just uses language in her own way? After all, as the Queen said:

“Words mean exactly what I want them to mean.”

“You’ll be going into this room and staying there until I call you out!”

I wasn’t sure of her plan but it was no time to argue. I could hear loud voices, Received Pronunciation, not the regional accents and slang of the ‘Tans or the Army. The bloody Auxies! I stepped through the doorway into the second room in the house, normally a bedroom.

I must have stepped down as the door appeared higher from this side. I went to step forward and felt loose material against my legs, finer and softer than my usual trousers. I looked down: The strain of today was playing tricks on my mind as I saw a grey dress, going down to about half way between my ankle and my knee, and below that, fine stockings in a lighter shade of grey disappearing into neat brown laced boots with about two inches of heel.

Take a deep breath. Look again; definitely it’s a dress. How did the old crone do that? Everybody said that An Cailleach was a witch, the concept itself a curious mixture of Celtic and Anglo Saxon traditions, but that just the locals having fun. Nobody believed in witchcraft any more but what was happening was definitely not normal. Witchcraft, magic, whatever; she had managed to put me in a dress. I hoped the disguise would hold; I hadn’t time to shave before I left the house this morning and my stubble, albeit a lighter shade of red, would be obvious. I rubbed my hand on my face; peferctly smooth, smoother than ever it had felt, as smooth as the faces of girls I’d kissed after na cèilidh (dances) on Saturday nights. I looked at my hands. The rough, calloused hands, hardened from years at work in the fields had disappeared. I was looking at long, thin, delicate, soft, white, dainty hands. Nails perfectly manicured, varnished in a light pink. No rings. I looked around the room and saw an old mirror hanging on the whitewashed wall. I looked at the face of a pretty, young woman, late teens probably, looking back at me. A small hat, and pearl earrings framed her face. Understated lipstick and eye shadow complemented her delicate features. I felt both relieved and weak and sat on the small bed pushed up against the back wall of the room. I had no idea how she’d done it, but there was no way that the Sassenach would recognise me now.

Voices carried through the bedroom door.

“You, old witch, anyone else in the house with you.”

“Sure you gentlemen are welcome to come in. There’s only me and my sister’s girl, visiting today from Sligo. Would you like a cup of tea? You must be needing one after a long day on the hills.”

The sound of the half door being pushed open, hobnailed boots on the stone floor.

“You said there’s a girl; where’s she?

“She was getting ready for bed when we heard you gentlemen talking so she went to get herself dressed. It wouldn’t be becoming for her to meet you and her wearing just a shift.”

“We’ll be the judge of that.”

The door of the bedroom crashed open and a tall uniformed figure with a floppy beret-style cap appeared in the opening. I stood up from the bed, turned towards him, curtsied:

“I’d thought it better I be dressed before you gentlemen came calling.”

“Get out here bitch so we all get a good look at you!”

I walked towards the door. He was still standing in it, probably hoping I’d try to squeeze past him. I didn’t; I stood just at the door, waiting for him to move. He waited a few seconds, then grabbed my hair around the back of my neck and propelled me into the kitchen. I nearly tripped and fell, but recovered and stumbled to a stop in the middle of the room. An Cailleach caught my arm and steadied me.

“Bí cúramach a cailín, tá siad ar buile.” (Be careful girl, they are mad/angry/spoiling for trouble).

“None of that gibberish here; we’ll talk the Kings English.”

“I’m sorry Sir, we always talk Irish together and my Aunt forgot you gentlemen wouldn’t understand it. I know Mr Lloyd George is said to be able to talk in Welsh.”

“Shut up!”

My attempt at ingratiation having failed miserably, I thought it better to say nothing more. There were now four Auxies in the cottage and at least two outside. They thrashed the place pretending to conduct a search and only found a bottle of poitin. The leader seemed to be already at least partly drunk even before they finished off the bottle between them. An Cailleach and I sat on stools by the table, afraid to speak or move.

“When did you say you came here?”

“Just this morning, Sir. I took the train from Sligo and walked from the station.”

He kicked the stool from under me and I landed on the stone floor.

“You’re lying, bitch. This area was surrounded since last night.”

“I know that, Sir, but the soldiers were very nice and let me through. They even showed me inside one of their cars with two guns.”

I was giving a civilians description of a Peerless armoured car. The story was essentially believable; the ordinary Sassenach army soldiers were often reasonable enough and would have loved to spend some time with a friendly girl. And, of course, they would all be expected to deny letting me through their cordon so my story could not be effectively disproven.

“We’ll see!”

He caught my arm, jerked me to my feet, took some thin rope from his leather belt and tied my hands tightly in front of me; it hurt. He dragged me outside; I pretended to cry. In fact, I didn’t have to pretend; I was close to tears already. And just an hour ago I was almost unmoved facing my demise in an anticipated shootout rather than be taken. The sun had now gone down, leaving a glow in the Western sky, and a bright moon lit up the East. I heard the Auxies talking; too dangerous to move before dawn; could be shot by either the Army or the Fenians (Sassanach slang for Irish rebels); stay put, it’ll be bright again in a few hours. There were six of them; two would do a picket on a crag over the house, the rest would stay in the cottage itself. The leader dragged me back in and pushed me into the room where he had first found me.

“I’ll take care of this bitch and cover this window. Let the old crone into her bed if she’s tired.”

The room was a shambles, the bed had collapsed on the floor. He pulled the thin mattress out of the wreckage and put it on the floor before blocking the door with the frame of the bed.

“We wouldn’t want to be disturbed now, would we?”

He didn’t light the lamp; there was enough moonlight coming through the small window to move around. He left his rifle leaning against the wall beside the window, caught my hair, pulled my ear to his mouth and whispered:

“Now, you’ll not make any noise, or all my friends will want to come in too… and I want you all for myself.”

I had no doubt what he meant. So I was going to be discovered, as soon as he starts to feel his way around. He was bound to find out that I wasn’t a girl! The thought of him finding out was both frightening and revolting in equal measure. Grovelling time.

“Please sir, I’m promised to an RIC man in the barracks in Sligo. We’re engaged to be married when the war is over. You wouldn’t want to harm your own comrades fiancée.”

This story wouldn’t hold up; all it had to do was keep him off me for the night. Some chance of that!

“Oh, I won’t harm you at all; just train you in a bit for your new job as a wife. I’ll be doing him a favour. But just in case you are inclined to make a noise when I’m training you…”

He took another length of rope from his belt, doubled it over, and used it to gag me. The rope felt rough against the corners of my mouth and face. He was now using the loose end of the rope to control my head instead of my hair; I felt like a horse on a bridle. He held the rope in his left hand and started to open the buttons on the back of my dress with his right hand. I tried to push him away with my two hands, still tied in front of me and was rewarded with a fist in the side of my head.

“Easy there, bitch. I’ve saddled stronger than you and them not tied, so don’t think you can fight me off.”

He turned me into the wall so I couldn’t use my hands and finished opening the back of my dress down to the waist. He pushed it off my shoulders and down in front of me, pining my arms down in it. He started to massage my chest… but it wasn’t my chest. He was massaging two mounds that had never been there before through the top of my corset. He pulled the corset off my shoulders and caught two undeniable breasts in his hands, squeezing them and my nipples until they hurt. I whimpered into the gag.

“Shsssss…”

He swiped my legs from under me and dropped me onto the mattress. I tried to kick as he came down on me and pushed my skirt up but he easily grabbed my legs with one arm and reached up to grab my knickers and pull them off. Then he was on top of me….

I heard An Cailleach scream, like a banshee.

~o~O~o~

Dawn came, in through the window, slowly lighting up the wreckage of the room. I was still lying on the mattress. When it was sufficiently light he put his finger to his lips. I nodded and he untied the gag. I was parched and tried to wet my lips with my tongue; he gave me some water from his water bottle.

“Please, can you untie me so I can straighten myself out?”

He thought for a second or two, then untied my wrists. I gasped with the pain of the blood flowing back into my hands. It took me a few minutes before I could use my hands to pull my corset and dress back up on my shoulders. I turned my back towards him and used my knickers to try to clean myself; he had torn them off and they were now unwearable anyway. I hoped my dress wasn’t visibly stained as he had pushed it well up out of his way. I tried to get up, stumbled and he caught my arm and pulled me upright. I tried to button my dress but failed, through a combination of never before having buttoned a dress behind my back and the fact that my hands were still incapable of much feeling. He buttoned me up. When he was finished I found the mirror on the ground and looked at myself intending to fix my hair. The pretty young woman was gone, or at least unrecognizable with rope marks and a large bruise on my face from when he had punched me. No point in trying to look OK; it was fairly obvious that I had been, at least, beaten up. He held out the rope to tie my hands again. I showed him my wrists, deep blue welts turning black.

“Please?”

He looked at my wrists, nodded, then tied the rope to my arm above the elbow, brought it behind my back and tied it likewise to the other arm. He was almost gentle; conscience perhaps? He had already removed the barrier from the door and now guided me through it to the kitchen. I kept my head down; I couldn’t look at anyone in the face, especially An Cailleach. Outside the cottage, in the light, it was obvious to the other five what had happened.

“You bastard; why did you beat her like that?”

“You little f***er; kept her to yourself! If you’d shared her we could all have had a go, and there wouldn’t be a mark on her.”

“We can’t bring her in like that; that RIC Sergeant will report it up the line and you’ll be in the shit!”

The argument went on; the group seemed to operate by consensus as opposed to being under the leader’s command. Eventually another Auxie grabbed me and untied my arms. No one tried to stop him, I backed towards the door as they formed up in loose patrol order and moved off. I went back into the kitchen; An Cailleach was still sitting on the stool where she had been when I was brought into the room last night. I sat on another stool, looked at her. She didn’t look at me.

“Look, I’m still alive, and we’ll get this place tidied up and you can change me back when the coast is clear.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Of course you can. We’ll save what we can and the village will make good for the rest, especially as you saved me and all.”

“I can’t change you back.”

“What?”

It was like getting a blow into the pit of my stomach. It simply couldn’t be true.

“It’s my fault for seeing you as an attractive young woman, so that’s what you became. If I had seen you different the Sassenach might have left you alone.”

“But why would that stop you changing me back to what I was?”

“You see, you’re different now. You’re not the innocent young woman you were last evening. He changed you. I saw him.”

“You screamed, just when…”

I couldn’t finish that particular sentence. She nodded.

“Couldn’t you have stopped him?”

“No; I have no powers with the Sassenach. And few enough with the Gael now, my time here is almost done.”

“Can’t you get one of your friends to sort me out?”

“Even if they wanted, you can’t be changed back now, for you’re not what I changed you into.”

“So what can I do now?”

“Like you said, we’ll fix this place up first. And then we’ll see what help I can give you to start off your new life.”

~o~O~o~

The war was over, at least the one with the Sassenach, and they were mostly gone, clinging only to the North East where the settler population held a tenuous majority. The victory had been spoiled by a Civil War, ironically won by the new National Government using an army comprised of a blend of Volunteers who had fought for independence, and a considerable number of former soldiers who had fought in the trenches for the Entente. Diarmuid had taken no part in the latter war and now looked very uncomfortable sitting in the snug of the Station Hotel bar waiting to meet the woman who had written to him. He kept pulling at the stiff collar of his shirt as he nursed his pint of Guinness.

It was summer again, and I was wearing a light blue dress, stockings and mid heeled court shoes. I was conscious that I would look very sophisticated in this environment, but deliberately hadn’t toned down my appearance except for going lighter on the makeup than my normal practice.

“Good morning, I’m Davina. Thank you for coming.”

He knocked over his stool as he scrambled to his feet to shake my proffered hand.

“And I’m Diarmuid, but you seem to know that already. Can I get you a drink?”

“No thanks, women drinking, even in the hotel bar, is not on the approved list here.”

“True, seems like you know the place?”

“Better than most, I’ll warrant.”

We sat down; Diarmuid perched nervously on the front of his seat.

“So what have we to discuss?”

“You remember the day you and Dathai (David) had to escape the big sweep?”

“I’ll not forget it; we lost Dathai that day. But what of it?”

“I’ve heard the stories, killed by the Auxies and buried on the mountain.”

“I can’t tell you anything more about that; I’ve told the story and that’s enough. If he had come with me he might have lived.”

“You know he met An Cailleach, not “the” Cailleach, after he left you?”

His eyes narrowed.

“What are you talking about?”

“After he corrected your Irish and called you an eegit.”

“I’ve told nobody that; you could only have heard that from the Sassenach.”

“Or from An Cailleach or Dathai.”

“Both gone now; that leaves only the Sassenach.”

“He met An Cailleach, and she helped him get away.”

“She never said, and we asked her.”

“She couldn’t say, ‘cause something unexpected happened. Dathai got away, but couldn’t come back. It was better people thought that he had died in the mountains.”

“So why are you telling me now?”

“So you’ll stop having the nightmares. The ones where you see him getting shot.”

“I’ve told no one about them.”

He realised that he’d admitted something to me that he’d tried to keep secret from everyone.

“And if you mention it I’ll deny it and say you made it up.”

“So how did I know?”

“How would I know? Maybe you’re the Cailleach come back.”

“An Cailleach; Dathai told you that before. You’ve a head like a sieve.”

Diarmuid nodded.

“Have you met him?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“Is he happy?”

“Yes, very happy.”

“Will you see him again?”

“Yes.”

“Will you give him my regards?”

“Yes.”

I got up to go. He walked with me to the hotel door and stood there as I walked towards the station.

“Dathai, fan nóiméad.” (Dathai, wait a minute.)

Instinctively I stopped and turned. We had spoken in English up to this point and his sudden switch to Irish, the language we had normally used between us, caught me out. He looked at me, somewhere between confusion and recognition. I walked back.

“You know you can never tell anyone.”

I didn’t specify what he couldn’t say; we both knew.

“Sure I know that, they’d have me locked up in the madhouse if I said a word.”

I smiled and turned to walk away; he caught my hand and kissed me on the cheek.

“ Slán leat, a chara.” (Goodbye, friend)

“Agus leat freisin, a chara.” (And you also, friend).

We both turned and walked in opposite directions.

~o~O~o~

If you don’t want to be seen, blend in. I was wearing an old black dress, a grey coat that had seen better days, an old hat to hide my hair and face. There was a pub down the road where the now demobbed Auxies were having a drink or ten before heading off to Palestine. There was no work for these men at home, and they were probably incapable of doing normal work by now anyway.

I’d thought about this a lot. Through this man’s direct intervention I was now living a very happy and fulfilled life. Becoming a woman had opened a different life for me, a life so different from what I’d known before, and just so much better than anything I had ever imagined.

On the other hand, if I didn’t act, how many more women would he abuse? I made up my mind when I heard that many of the Auxies were joining the Palestine Police; he would have a new licence to continue his activities with the same sort of impunity as he had enjoyed over the past few years.

I had waited until closing time, relying on the law-abiding Sassenach to close on time, before standing in the shadow close to the boarding house where I knew he lived. The war with the Sassenach might be over, but our intelligence operation was still in place. I hoped he’d be alone, but if not, I was resolved to leave no witnesses.

He was alone, swaying from side to side, plastered. He passed by without seeing me.

“Excuse me, Sir”

He stopped and looked at me, bleary eyed, trying to speak.

“Don’t you remember me?”

He tried to focus, and shook his head.

“Don’t you remember the girl in the cottage in the mountains? The one you tied up and raped? Were there so many that you can’t remember us all?”

Recognition of a sort spread over his face. I took the Webley from my coat and pointed it at him. He raised his hand as if to protect himself. I dropped my aim to his groin, one shot, the second to the top of his head as he crumpled down.

I walked away into the darkness as lights came on in the street. No one would see a harried woman, shuffling along home from a late shift at some hostelry, or a cleaning job.