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days.’
    Murphy took out a battered wallet and extracted a railway ticket. ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘A single to Dunveg. That’s three stops up the line.’
    ‘Good lad!’ As he put the ticket away Fallon said, ‘What do you do for a living, Johnny? Today, for instance?’
    The boy laughed and shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m lucky there. My parents are dead. My father left us a grocery shop in one of the back streets. Kathleen - that’s my sister - she runs it. I’m supposed to help her, but I told her I was busy today. Besides, business will be slack. Always is on a wet day.’
    Fallon nodded and stood up. ‘We’ll take a run out to the scene of the crime,’ he said. ‘If you know a good pub on the way where we can get a bite to eat, stop at it. We’ve got all the time in the world.’
    They found a quiet place just off the main road outside Castlemore and they parked the car and had a meal. Afterwards they followed the main road, parallel to the railway track, until they came to the place Fallon had picked out on the map. There was a track into the wood running between two ancient stone gateposts. The gates had long since disappeared and Murphy turned the car in between them and ran a little way along the track before cutting the motor. ‘Couldn’t be better,’ he said. ‘I can park up here tonight away from the main road.’
    ‘Wait for me here,’ Fallon said. He got out of the car and trudged along the narrowing path that led in amongst the trees. Within a couple of minutes he passed through the wood and came out on to the side of the track. For several minutes he stood in the cold rain looking at the track in an abstracted fashion. He felt completely deflated and drained of all emotion. My God, he thought, I’m not even excited. He sighed and a half-smile came to his lips. ‘Must be getting old’ he said softly, and turned and went down through the trees back towards the car.
    It was about four-thirty when they reached the church again. Murphy turned off the engine and Fallon said, ‘Give me the keys to the doors.’ The boy took the two necessary keys off the ring and handed them across and Fallon went on, ‘I want you to park the car somewhere and go home now. I don’t want your sister to start worrying about where you might be.’
    ‘She doesn’t know I’m working for the Organization,’ Murphy told him.
    ‘Then keep it that way,’ Fallon said. ‘Go home, have your tea and read a book or something. Leave the house eight-fifteen. Drive straight to the rendezvous.’
    ‘What about you?’ the boy said. ‘Don’t you want me to pick you up?’
    Fallon shook his head and got out of the car. He closed the door and leaned in at the window. ‘I’m going to hole up here until train time. I’ll go to the station on my own.’
    Murphy reversed the car and Fallon moved towards the door in the wall. As he stopped to insert the key the boy’s clear young voice said softly, ‘Good luck, Mr. Fallon. Up the Republic!’
    Fallon turned and half-raised one hand. ‘Good luck, lad. If that train doesn’t stop, go home and forget you ever heard of me.’
    ‘No fear of that,’ Murphy said with a reckless, confident smile and the car roared away in a shower of mud.
    The vault was cold and dreary. Fallon lay on the truckle bed and stared at the ceiling and smoked a cigarette. The grey October evening drew to a close and the light dimmed as it filtered through the iron grill. Faintly, from somewhere in the depths of the church, came the sound of an organ, and a little later the brittle sweetness of boys’ voices raised in song. He felt no particular dread at the prospect of action to come. He felt curiously detached from the whole thing as if he wasn’t there at all but somewhere outside, looking in on all this.
    He began to think of Anne Murray and of what she had said. She was right, of course, but he found that he wasn’t thinking so much of her words as of the girl herself. He remembered