The 13th Apostle: A Novel of a Dublin Family, Michael Collins, and the Irish Uprising by Dermot McEvoy Page A

shocking the innocent Vincent Byrne. “Would you like to come along?”
    Eoin was worried that he might have competition, until he spied Byrne’s Pioneer Pin. “Sorry, ma’am, I’m a follower of Father Matthew.”
    “A miser man, God help ya,” said Róisín, but it flew right over Byrne’s head. Róisín obviously had no time for the man she would one day refer to as “Ireland’s patron saint of Prohibition.”
    “I’ll see you, then,” said Vinny, clapping Eoin on the shoulder. “Say hello to the boss man for me.”
    Róisín looked at Eoin and didn’t say a word. “ What ?” he finally said.
    “You really like Vinny, don’t you?”
    “Yes, we were in Jacob’s together and then in Richmond Barracks. He’s the one who got me into this mess.” Eoin allowed himself a small laugh.
    The couple continued down Grafton Street until Eoin stopped at Weir’s Jewelry Shop on the corner of Wicklow Street. “I wish I could buy you something beautiful, Róisín.”
    “Why would you want to do that?”
    “Because you saved my life.” Róisín blushed, and Eoin squeezed her hand tight. Their eyes locked on each other.
    “What the fook is this?” roared a voice as it came out of the Wicklow Hotel, right next door to Weir’s. “Alert the clergy—there’s tomfoolery going on here!” It was Collins at his jeering best, and the young couple wanted to disappear into the ground. Even Róisín was silenced. “Róisín,” he said, “it’s so good to see you.” There were no taunts about “Countess O’Mahonyevicz” this time, and he seemed genuinely pleased to see her. “Eoin tells me you’re working at the Mater.”
    “I am.”
    “Keep your eyes open,” he said. “Can I depend on you up there?” Róisín nodded mutely, shocked at the notion of working for Collins. “I’m off to a meeting now,” he said, before adding, “but don’t you two do anything I wouldn’t do!” His hearty laugh was his goodbye, and he was soon lost in the crowd.
    Eoin took Róisín’s hand and headed down Wicklow Street in silence. “Mick’s a great mate,” he finally said.
    “He’s alright,” conceded Róisín.
    “Alright?” said Eoin, voice rising. “He’s the best!” They were into Exchequer Street now, and Eoin pointed out number ten. “That’s where my office is.” He then walked Róisín down Dame Court until he came to the Stag’s Head. Silent Peadar Doherty, the barman who knew all and said nothing, was behind the stick, and Eoin pointed to the back room. Doherty nodded. Róisín took a seat and lit up a Woodbine, the stinkiest cigarette in Ireland. “You smoke?” a shocked Eoin asked.
    “You don’t?” Róisín replied, as she blew smoke upwards towards Eoin.
    “My Mammy wouldn’t allow it,” said Eoin.
    “Your Mammy’s dead,” said Róisín. Eoin turned white. “Oh, Eoin, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so cruel. You’re an angel and I’m so cruel. Come here.” Eoin moved to sit next to Róisín, and she took his hand in hers.
    “How about your Mammy?” he finally asked.
    “She’s dead, like yours,” replied Róisín, surveying the floor.
    “How?”
    “I was a baby. She died of influenza.”
    “Your Da?
    “My father is a piece of shite!”
    “Sorry,” Eoin mumbled in embarrassment.
    “Don’t be,” replied Róisín, picking her shoulders up. “The lump of shite put me in an orphanage and joined the British army. Haven’t seen or heard from him since. If it wasn’t for my mother’s spinster sisters, I would have rotted in that goddamn place with those bloody nuns. My aunties got me educated, gave me a future.” They looked at each other, and neither said a word for the longest time. “God forgive me,” Róisín finally spoke, “but I hate that gobshite father of mine.”
    Eoin finally smiled. “Do you check out the Tommies to see if the old man is in Dublin?”
    “Every fookin’ day!” replied Róisín.
    “No luck?”
    “Luck! It will be his unlucky