The Rising by Brian McGilloway Read Free Book Online

Lorcan Hutton’s name.
    ‘I tried calling you several times today,’ he started, clearly believing the best form of defence to be attack.
    ‘I was busy. Harry spoke to you, I take it.’
    His expression softened a little and he nodded his head. ‘Ignorant bastard,’ he murmured. ‘He accused me of letting slip about Lorcan Hutton and Kielty to the press.’
    ‘Did you?’ I asked. Burgess was reliable but was so used to doing things his own way and in his own time, he could have said something carelessly in earshot of the wrong person.
    ‘I did not,’ he said, indignantly. ‘I don’t know who told them, but it certainly wasn’t me.’
    ‘Then forget about it,’ I reasoned.
    ‘But Harry said—’ he protested.
    ‘Don’t worry about it,’ I said. ‘There’s no harm done.’
    I was fairly certain it hadn’t been Burgess who’d leaked the news. But I had lied when I’d said there was no harm done. It had alerted Lorcan Hutton to the fact that we were looking for him, which would probably mean that he’d go underground for a while.
    Satisfied that I was convinced, Burgess wandered off, trying to look busy. I followed suit.
    I scanned the crowd in front of me as I walked. There were upwards on one hundred present. Two press photographers skirted the body of people. One of them climbed up onto the pillar of someone’s garden wall in order to get a shot encompassing the whole crowd. I climbed up on the wall beside him to get a better view of proceedings myself.
    ‘All right,’ he said, nodding, his camera poised in front of him. I suspected he thought I was going to tell him to get off the wall.
    ‘What’s the story?’ I asked, gesturing towards the front of the throng.
    ‘You tell me,’ he shrugged. ‘We just got word that this Rising crowd were protesting tonight. Do you think there’ll be any trouble?’
    ‘I doubt it,’ I shrugged.
    ‘Pity,’ he replied, then continued taking his shots.
    I thought of something and, checking my jacket pockets, found the pictures Jim Hendry had given me the day previous.
    ‘You couldn’t do me a favour,’ I said, handing the images to the photographer. ‘Would you let me know if you spot any of that crew?’
    He glanced down at the pictures, flicking from one to the next, committing the faces to memory. At the third he stopped.
    ‘Jimmy Irvine?’
    I nodded.
    ‘Shouldn’t be too hard to spot that baldy bastard,’ he said, handing me back the pictures I’d given him.
    I scanned the gathering myself, looking for familiar faces. To the front of the crowd, a cameraman and interviewer were moving slowly backwards while they interviewed someone at the head of the mass of protesters. The cameraman had a light attached to the top of his camera, which silhouetted the heads of those in the front rows, making it difficult for me to see who the interviewer was speaking to.
    The lights went out suddenly, as the crew finished filming, and flickers of white light dazzled my eyes as I adjusted to the darkness again. Someone at the front had produced a bullhorn and was starting a chant of ‘What do we want? Dealers out! When do we want it? Now!’ The gathered crowd soon took up the mantra, their chants growing in intensity.
    Finally, the shouting began to quieten and I realized someone at the front had started to address the crowd. It was difficult to hear exactly what was being said, though I could hear something about ‘peaceful protest’. I saw, from my vantage point, a figure break from the protesters and walk up to the door of Lorcan Hutton’s house. He stopped at the door and pushed a white envelope through the letter box. The crowd cheered and the man with the bullhorn started another chorus of chanting. The crowd stood like that for a further fifteen minutes before those gathered at the rear, disappointed not to have witnessed a lynching, began to break away and make their way back out of the court.
    As they did so, the photographer I’d spoken with