“How was it in Dublin, then?”

“We killed four hundred of them – the murdering bastards. But they got James Connally. They’ve hung him already, for all I know.”

“God bless Ireland,” said the stranger.

“Where can we sleep?” asked one of the party.

“You can’t stop,” said the stranger again. “It’s the coast for you.”

“We’ll sleep here tonight,” said the leader, suddenly hard. “Where’s the house?”

The stranger jerked his head. “Nearby,” he said, unwillingly. “But it’s likely to be watched.”

“We’ve got guns,” said the leader. “It’d better not be watched too close. We can use them again, if need be.”

They set off up a side track, moving slowly with dragging feet: the heavy weight on the back of each man bore him down nearly to the ground. “Can you not go faster?” asked the stranger presently. “You’ll have to move like hares tomorrow … What’s in the packs?”

“Something for you to take care of,” said the leader.

“What’s that?” asked one of his party, sharply.

“We’ll be leaving it behind for a bit,” said the leader. “It’s making us too slow altogether.”

“How do you mean, ‘leave it behind’?” said another, a rebellious voice.

“Bury it, maybe.” He turned to the figure at his side. “Have you got a cellar?”

“I have that. But–”

“We’ll be leaving something with you,” said the leader. “Something to take care of. We’ll come back for it. Maybe not for a long time. But we’ll come back.” There was extraordinary menace in his voice. “Remember that.”

“We’ve carried it a long way,” said another of the party, whining against the decision. “It’s cost a few lives by now. How do we know we can trust him?”

“I trust him,” said the leader. He turned again. “Don’t I?”

“I’ll hold it safe for you … What is it, then?”

“Something to take care of. Something to be kept dry. Something that’s never to be looked at – not by you, not by your wife, not by the kids. It’s to stay there till we come for it. And we’ll come, too.”

“Be easy,” said the stranger. “It’ll lie hid till doomsday – and beyond, if you like.”

Part One

Chapter One

The four children played in the ruined cottage just outside the village of Cloncraig – the cottage, long deserted, where the man and his wife and the children had all been killed, away back during the Troubles. Its door hung askew, its windows gaped; grass grew between the turf walls and sprouted from the floorboards. The Black-and-Tan place, their parents called it, and cursed the memory when the children were not by; but for the children – Esther Costello and her brother, Michael Fairlie with the limp, and young Denis Finane – for them it was just a fine place to play, and safely out of call of the grown-ups. Perhaps the cottage was haunted, perhaps the queer stains on the old walls were really blood; but it was full of good corners, and hiding places, and secrets – a fine place to play indeed, and none better in Cloncraig.