Chapter 3 #2
When this was also met with silence, he turned to King, annoyance in his hooded eyes. “Why are you in Dublin?”
Once again, I failed to answer, and he heaved a sigh. “We can make you talk, Mrs. Kent.”
Major King audibly cracked his knuckles.
Hardy shook his head. “I don’t think you want us to do that.”
I forced myself to breathe evenly, my face an emotionless mask.
“Now, where do you live?” Hardy repeated.
King waited all of two seconds before striding angrily toward me. “Get up,” he demanded.
I complied, only to fall back into my chair as he slapped me across the face with an open hand. My cheek stung like fire, but I held my silence.
“Who were the terrorists seen with you outside Mountjoy Prison?” Hardy continued to press.
“Get up,” King ordered.
I did so, knowing precisely what to expect as he slapped me again. This time I retained my footing, though my eyes began to water.
“What were you planning with them? We have your documents here.”
Silence.
Slap.
“Word is, you’ve become Collins’s whore. Tell us, is that why they call him the Big Fellow?”
I pressed my tongue more firmly behind my teeth, knowing Hardy was attempting to rile me into speech with such crudities. But I would not dignify that with a response, even anticipating King’s next blow. This time he drew back his elbow, his hand forming into a fist, but Hardy cautioned him.
“Careful, Major. No one cares about the Shinners, but Mrs. Kent is a different matter.”
The Shinners being members of Sinn Féin, pronounced shin fayn, the predominant Irish political party which had declared Ireland a republic and set up the Dáil éireann shadow government for which the IRA fought.
The Crown Forces and British government essentially saw them as interchangeable, even though one could be a member of Sinn Féin and a proponent of Irish independence without supporting or taking part in the IRA, the fighting arm of the rebellion.
By this comment, Hardy had all be confirmed they had been using the third-degree methods against their prisoners that the republicans had accused them of.
He’d also confirmed that King’s utilizing an open hand thus far was on purpose, so as not to leave lasting evidence of their rough treatment.
I thought this meant that he would resort to another slap, but he decided on a different tactic.
I doubled over as his fist connected squarely with my stomach, falling to one knee as I struggled to breathe.
I’d had the wind knocked out of me before.
After all, I had three brothers. But never like this.
Never from a deliberate blow. I saw spots before my eyes as I struggled to draw air into my lungs.
“There’s no need for this unpleasantness,” Hardy cajoled. “You need only answer our questions. You know your silence only makes you look guilty, don’t you? We would be remiss if we didn’t do all we could to induce you to respond.”
Except I knew the law. I had every right to remain silent before any trial as well as during. I was not going to be tricked into speech.
“Stand up,” King commanded, and when I didn’t move quickly enough, he grasped hold of me beneath my armpit and pulled upward.
Unfortunately, it was my left shoulder, where I’d been shot some eleven months before.
I let out a hiss of air from the residual pain of the strain on the ligaments.
King must have caught sight of the beginnings of my scar as my clothing was pulled away from my neck, for he reached for my collar, tugging it down to get a better look.
“Gunshot wound,” he reported to Hardy. “Looks like an old one.” His gaze assessed me anew, the furrows in his forehead drawing together.
“Turn around, Mrs. Kent,” Hardy told me.
Once again, I seemed to be too slow for King’s liking, for he twisted me sharply so that I faced the wall behind me.
“See those photographs?” He paused, waiting for a response I didn’t give and then continued. “Some of the faces you see pictured there refused to talk and they’re now dead.”
I scrutinized them, curious if I would recognize them, feeling that someone should remember them and what they’d been through.
“Will you answer us now?” Hardy said.
I heard the rattle of paper.
“If not for us, then for the sake of your friends.”
I deduced I was supposed to turn back around to face him and saw that he was holding up a letter.
My heart sank as I realized it was the one I’d just finished writing to Wick when the door to our town house came crashing in.
I’d promised that, in exchange for the information he’d provided me, he would be the first reporter to learn the details of our search for the phosgene cylinders and either success or failure to prevent their deployment.
I did not fear the letter’s contents, for I had included nothing about the rebels or my own background.
If anything, it spoke to my defense. But I did fear what they might have done to Wick in order to convince him to tell them what he knew.
Especially since Michael Wickham, known by me as Wick, was a journalist for the Irish Independent, a newspaper that the British government already deemed was too pro-republican.
I knew Wick would not thank me for this worry, that he could take care of himself.
We’d met in a field hospital during the war, after all, both having been injured essentially because we were somewhere we weren’t supposed to be.
But the thought of him being interrogated, possibly even tortured, because of my negligence, filled me with shame.
Hardy glanced over the letter. “It seems like we should speak with this Mr. Wickham, for you were about to pass him highly sensitive information.” His eyes lifted to me, narrowing. “Perhaps you’ve done so before.”
The information was no more than what any newspaperman worth his salt could uncover with a bit of digging, and Wick was among the best, but I bit back the retort in time.
“How long have you known Mr. Wickham?” When I didn’t respond, he added, “Don’t wish to save your friend, I see.” He tsked, shaking his head.
King cracked his knuckles again and this time it took everything within me not to jump at the sound.