Joe Joyce Transcript

Listen to Joe Joyce reading from Echoland.

Welcome to the Dublin City Public Libraries and Archive Podcast. In this episode author Joe Joyce reads from his thriller 'Echoland'. Recorded in front of a live audience in the Central Library on 3 October, 2013 as part of its 'Crime in the City: Crime and History' series.

In a sense I’m here under a bit of a false title in that the title is Crime and the City and the book Echoland is not exactly a crime novel in the conventional sense it's more a spy novel, a thriller or as the Americans tend to categorise them a mystery novel but it most certainly set in Dublin so at least I'm here under at least half a flag of convenience. It's also set during what's known as you all know as the Emergency, the Second World War period in Dublin. And when we think of the Emergency we tend to look back at it with a very nostalgic glow. the time of dodging the glimmerman, cutting turf in the Wicklow Mountains, everybody rowing in together to make the country self-sufficient and for those of us who were involved in newspapers it was a time when our forbearers fought nightly battles to put one over on the censor. And their victories went down in legends and are still retold in newsrooms around the city. But it was of course a time of hardship though nothing like the hardship suffered by people in the countries directly involved in the war. But there were shortages of nearly everything coal, sugar, tea, petrol, oil, candles. Movement was restricted by the petrol shortages and reduced public transport. Trains were few and far between and very slow, last buses in the city ran at 9 o'clock at night. The bread was gray; the winters were very cold and gloomy, especially the winter of 1940-41. The city was initially blacked out but there were so many accidents the black-out was partially lifted to allow lights at junctions. Florescent ads around O'Connell Bridge which had been a feature of Dublin were turned off and a concrete bomb shelter was built along the central meridian of O'Connell Street.

The reminders of the dangers and of the randomness of war were never too far away. More than seven hundred people died in one night in a bombing raid in Belfast in 1941. The worst incident in the South, as we all know was the bombing of the North Strand a few weeks later. Though there were many other incidents though not as deadly as these two. For instance there was more than a dozen German bombs dropped on several parts of Ireland in the first three days of 1941. Two of them fell on Dublin, on South Circular Road and Terenure but nobody was killed. But another one killed three women who were asleep in a farmhouse in the middle of county Carlow, out in the country in the middle of nowhere literally. Bodies from the Atlantic war were washed up regularly on the coast mainly in the north and west. Mines came ashore too occasionally killing people on shore notably in Donegal where more than a dozen people were killed in one explosion.

People followed the war in the newspapers and through the maps in the windows of McConbridges in Dame Street. Publically or privately they wanted one side or the other to win but nobody knew at the time how things were going to work out. As the historical novelist Robert Goddard, who probably has a shelf to himself in the library here, pointed out at the Festival of History in Dublin Castle last weekend, people in the past didn't know they were living in the past. Just like we don't realise that we are now living in somebody else's past.  And one of the main reasons I think for nostalgia is the belief that the past was always a simpler time but it rarely was. But we tend to think it was simple because we know what happened and the narrative of what happened is usually well-rounded and simplified. But the present and future are always uncertain. There are always different ways in which things can go. And the Second World War years were very uncertain even in neutral Ireland. Which is what attracted me to write about the period, trying to put yourself back into somebody else's shoes in those days when it was far from clear how the big picture was going to turn out and dealing at the same time with the small pictures of everyday life.

The second thing that attracted me to the period of course was the drama, the spies, the diplomatic manoeuvres, the constant dangers of invasion, the local war going on between the IRA and the Guards, to the political balancing acts to stay on the neutrality tightrope. I have set Echoland in early June 1940 and used my main character Paul Duggan as our eyes and ears in an attempt to recreate that time and place. The time is significant because it was the period when the German Blitzkrieg was racing through France and the unthinkable was actually happening. France, one of the great world military, cultural powers and one of the strongest democracies was being overrun in a matter of weeks by one of the new dictatorships. It was a brave, even foolhardy person who would have bet money against Germany winning the war in 1940. Paul Duggan, the central character in Echoland is a young army officer in his early twenties, the son of an IRA veteran of the War of Independence. He's just been moved from western command in Galway into the army intelligence unit G2, partly because he learned German in school and partly because of the machinations of his uncle, another veteran of the War of Independence, who is a Fianna Fáil backbench TD but likes to know everything that goes on. Duggan is given the job of trying to find out more about a German business named Hans Harbusch, who is suspected of spying but doesn't actually appear to do anything. And in this first extract I'd like to read to you he is told to go and see a young special branch detective called Peter Gifford, who is manning a stakeout on Harbusch's flat in Merrion Square. Duggan is told or instructed to find out what Gifford knows about Harbusch but not to tell him anything of what G2 knows about Harbusch. So he gets on his bike at the Red House, which is the G2 Offices and the Army Headquarters at Park Gate Street and cycles down the quays, along Nassau Street to Merrion Square.

Near the end of the street he swung his left leg over the saddle and coasted on one pedal into the railings of the park. He clicked the padlock shut on his chain, hearing the sound of men digging and talking inside the park. Through a gap in the bushes he caught a glimpse of a mound of earth. Another air-raid shelter, he thought. Their voices mixed with the sound of their shovels sloughing into the earth and then an angry voice shouted 'Fuck the lot of ye' and there was a chorus of raucous laughter and catcalls.
Duggan walked across the road, to a building with a polished plaque on the door and pushed it open. There was a reception desk in the room on the left and a young woman behind it.
'I'm looking for...' he began.
'Top floor,' she smiled. 'Keep going up till you can't go any further and it's the door straight ahead of you.'
The wide staircase narrowed as it went up. The last flight was steep and wide enough for only one person and led onto a corridor with a low ceiling. He went to the door facing him and knocked. A voice inside said something and he went in.
Peter Gifford was sitting on a kitchen chair tipped back against the side of the window, the Evening Herald in this hands, his feet against the other side of the window. 'Ah,' he looked up. 'The cavalry's here. I'm saved.'
He dropped his feet and the chair’s front legs to the floor and let the newspapers fall down as he stood up. He was about the same age at Duggan, a stockier build, and an inch or so shorter, maybe five ten. His black hair was combed straight back and set solid with Brylcream, the comb marks as clear as the ridge of a ploughed field. He held out his hand. ‘Detective Superintendent Peter Gifford.’
‘In my head. I should be one in reality too, of course.’
Duggan laughed and introduced himself.
‘Only a lieutenant,’ Gifford shook his head. ‘But what are you in your head? Commandant? Colonel? General?’
‘Probably a private.’
‘A modest man. You’re a culchie.’ It wasn’t a question.
Duggan nodded. ‘And you’re a Dublin jackeen?’
‘One of the originals. Here since before the Vikings. Welcome to my humble abode.’ He waved his hand as if it was anything but humble. The chair in the window was the only furniture. The white paint on the walls was beginning to peel in places and there were no curtains on the window. There was a tray on the floor beside the chair with a used cup and a plate with biscuit crumbs.
‘How long have you been here?’
‘Since the bloody Vikings. A month or so. On and off.’
‘On your own?’
Gifford nodded. ‘There were two of us to begin with. But your man rarely goes out. Doesn’t seem to do anything. So they decided he could be left to the young lads. To us.’
Duggan went over to the window. Over the treetops he could see the edge of the hole they were digging for the shelter in the park and the first few houses on the next side of the square. ‘Which one is it?’
Gifford moved the chair out of the way and joined him at the window. ‘Fourth house down. Second floor. Windows on the left.’
The sun was glancing off the windows and he could see nothing inside. ‘Can you ever see anything?’
‘No. The most exciting part of the day is when they put on a light at night and pull the curtains. That’s the only way we know there’s anyone there most of the time.’
‘Maybe he’s going out the back.’
‘If he’s dug a tunnel. The back garden’s a jungle. The door hasn’t been opened in years. And I can’t see Hans climbing the wall.’
‘Why not?’
‘He’s not exactly the athletic type.’
‘Does he have any visitors?’
‘No. Only people going in or out live there. All checked out at the start of the stakeout.’
‘All cleared?’
Gifford nodded.
‘So what’s he doing?’
‘I don’t know, Herr Oberst,’ Gifford clicked his heels. ‘Is this an interrogation?’
‘No’, Duggan shook his head. ‘Sorry. It just doesn’t seem to make any sense.’
‘That’s why you’re here. Bring the superior deviousness of G2 to it. Make sense of it.’
Duggan grimaced.
‘So why’d they put you in the German section?’ Gifford asked.
‘Because I know some German, I think. But who knows why the army does things? I was in an infantry battalion, western command. Transferred a couple of weeks ago out of the blue.’
‘They must have detected a twisted mind in you.’
Duggan laughed and shook his head.
‘How do you like it?’
‘Not a lot, to tell you the truth. I haven’t a clue what’s going on.’
‘Ah,’ Gifford said with satisfaction. ‘That’s why you’re in military intelligence.’
‘I’m here right now,’ Duggan smiled back, ‘so the experts can tell me what’s going on.’
‘Haven’t you read the letters?’
‘What letters?’
‘The only thing Hans does regularly is post letters. What do they say?’
Duggan shrugged. ‘I don’t know anything about any letters.’
‘Bullshit,’ Gifford nodded to himself.
‘Are you interrogating me now?’ Duggan smiled. ‘Do you have electrodes and things here?’
Gifford laughed in turn. ‘Okay. Ceasefire.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Nearly afternoon tea time. Did you order a cup and a biscuit with Sinéad on your way in? Mariettas, no choice.’

Duggan scratched his head and picked the newspaper off the floor. ‘German Seize Channel Ports,’ a headline said. ‘British Claim Successful Evacuation from Dunkirk’, another said. He read the first few paragraphs and dropped the paper on the floor. ‘I’ve got to find out something about Harbusch. Have you talked to the neighbours? Had a look…’
‘Fuck me!’ Gifford interrupted, looking out the window behind him. ‘Beginner’s luck. They’re moving.’
Duggan turned to the window but Gifford was already out the door and taking the stairs three at a time. Duggan chased after him. Gifford hit the ground floor and blew a kiss to Sinéad at the reception desk. She was still smiling a wistful smile when Duggan went by a few moments later and crashed through the front door. Gifford was strolling calmly up the street when he joined him.

They crossed the road and turned into the other side of the square alongside the park railings. There was no one on the footpath but Hans Harbusch and a woman. He was short and fat and was wearing a navy suit and a navy hat. The woman linking him was half a head taller, her golden hair curled up at her collar. She had on a brown two-piece suit with a short jacket that showed off her hour glass figure.

‘Ah Erica,’ Gifford sighed. ‘The beacon in the darkness of my life. My only consolation. Walking behind Erica.’
‘Erica who?’
‘Erica Godfrey, aka Eliza Harbusch. Born London 1913. A pearl beyond compare.’
‘What was Hans doing in London?’
‘Shacking up with Erica.’
‘Apart from that.’
‘I don’t know. Your fellows know but they haven’t told me.’
‘How would they know?’
‘Because they’re like that’ – Gifford held up the two first fingers of his right hand together – ‘with MI5.’
Duggan gave him a disbelieving laugh. ‘I doubt that.’
Gifford glanced sideways at him, realised he was serious, and shook his head.

A number 8 tram went wobbling by towards Dalkey as they crossed the junction into Clare Street. Duggan stopped to let two cyclists go past and then was held up by a car as Gifford slipped ahead.

The Harbusches walked on at a steady pace, not talking, looking neither left nor right, he waddling slightly with the gait of an overweight man, she swaying seductively on her high heel shoes.
From behind the wall of Trinity College came the smack of a hard ball on a cricket bat followed by a sprinkling of applause. A light stream of traffic went by in both directions, the growl of car engines interspersed with the clip-clop of an occasional dray. They went past a success of bookshops.

‘You read it?’ Gifford pointed to a copy of Mein Kampf by Adolf Hitler in the window of Fred Hanna’s. ‘I don’t have time. Maybe after the war.’
‘You might be reciting it by then. The new catechism.’
‘You think they’re going to win?’
‘Looking good for Adolf,’ Gifford shrugged. ‘France is tottering.’
‘But they still have a big army, mostly intact,’ Duggan said, relaying mess chat he had heard.
‘All the same to me. Whoever wins will need policemen. They’ll shoot everybody in military intelligence, of course. First thing the victor always does.’
‘Thanks,’ Duggan said. ‘I’m sure they’ll shoot the secret police too.’
‘Interesting. You think that’s what we are? Secret police?’ Gifford turned to him. ‘You a republican?’
‘I’m a member of Óglaigh na hÉireann.’
‘Not the Óglaigh na hÉireann that’s causing a lot of trouble at the moment and wants Hansi’s friends to win the war?’
‘No the Óglaigh na hÉireann that’ll defend Ireland against all comers’.
‘Right,’ Gifford said, as if that explained everything.

(Echoland, pp. 11-18)

The novel of course is fiction but fiction set against real events both in Ireland and in the European war at the time. There are numerous real people mentioned, obviously politicians like Éamon de Valera, Frank Aiken, Churchill and so on, and some real spies mentioned as well like as Hermann Görtz but all the main characters are fictional. And as well as his investigation into Hans Harbusch, Duggan also finds himself embroiled by his uncle Timmy, The Fianna Fáil backbencher, in a family matter. Having been summoned by Timmy to meet him, Duggan gets on his bike again and reluctantly heads for Timmy’s house in Rathmines fearing that he’s going to be embroiled in some kind of political manipulation.

Duggan breasted the bridge over the canal at Portobello and Rathmines Road stretched before him, the wires above its tram tracks undulating like the long troughs of waves leading to the dull humps of the Dublin Mountains in the distance. The evening was cooling, the sun still above the horizon to the west. Its light lay along the canal, turning the murky water golden. A family of ducks circled by the reeds.
He free-wheeled down the hill, hearing the smooth whirr of the wheels and the rub of the tyres on the tarmac as he went past the church of Mary Immaculate, its new dome top-heavy and seeming to push it into the ground. A truckload of soldiers at the back glaring at him impassively, their Lee Enfield rifles upright between their knees, as they accelerated away from him.
He turned left at the Stella Cinema and threaded his way through suburban streets up to Palmerston Road. The Road was empty between its heavy trees, the large houses silent, the air still. The only sounds were of some children shrieking somewhere distant and a dog barking. He pulled into Timmy’s gate and the gravel slowed him to a halt. He walked the bike around a shiny new Ford and left it beside the granite steps.
Light footsteps came along the hall in response to his knock and the door was opened by a young girl wearing a white apron.
‘Hello,’ Duggan said. ‘I’m Paul.’
She looked at him, unknowing.
‘Mr Monaghan’s nephew,’ he added.
A door banged inside and Timmy Monaghan came bustling down the hall.
‘The man himself,’ he boomed as Duggan came in and Timmy pumped his hand. ‘This is Cait,’ he added. ‘She’s just come to us from Aran.’
‘Ah,’ Duggan turned to her. ‘Conas atá tú?’
‘Go maith,’ she said, taking his hand and giving him an uncertain curtsey.
‘This is First Lieutenant Paul Duggan,’ Timmy told her. ‘A very important man these days. And one of the family.’
Duggan shook his head and she looked from one to the other. She was about fifteen and uncertain in English.
‘You’ll have something to ear,’ Timmy said, putting his arm around Duggan’s shoulder. ‘Cait’ll get you something, won’t you Cait?’ he said over his shoulder to her as he guided Duggan into a high-ceilinged room overlooking the back garden. The walls were a washed green and there were large leather armchairs on either side of the marble fireplace. A fire was set in the grate but unlit. A large mahogany table took up the centre of the room with an uneven scattering of dining chairs around it. It was covered with newspapers, green Dáil order papers, parliamentary bills and volumes of debates. On one side there was a blotter pad surrounded by a neat stack of headed Dáil notepaper and prepaid envelopes, a pen and ink set, and a full ashtray. A silver cigarette case lay open beside it.
‘You enjoyed the intelligence course?’
‘It was interesting,’ Duggan said, noncommittal, keeping any surprise out of his voice. So it’s true, he thought, as I suspected. Timmy’s the reason I’m in G2. Pulled some strings to get me in there. As he had feared.
‘And weren’t you right to take my advice about the German?’
Duggan said nothing, not knowing what he was talking about.
‘Didn’t I tell you to learn German when you went to college? Not to bother with that French. German’s the coming language.’
Duggan nodded though he had no memory of that. He’d learned long ago not to bother arguing facts with Timmy.
‘And look at you now,’ Timmy gave him a knowing smile, knowing that a message had been delivered. It was what he loved about politics, the mind games, the subtle messages the manipulations, out-witting the other guys. He knew it was unlikely that he’d rise above the backbenches but he still hadn’t abandoned all ambition. Age was coming against him now, forty-five last birthday, heading for fifty, but anything was possible in politics. He had done his bit in the War of Independence and the Civil War. Nobody could challenge his national record, the foundation of his electoral success and impenetrable protection against some of his internal opponents in Fianna Fáil.
‘A hard language, they say. A bit like Irish.’
‘I like it. It’s a nice language.’
‘Good, good,’ Timmy rubbed his hands. ‘The language of the future.’
Great, Duggan thought. Gifford has me up against a wall facing a firing squad. Timmy has me marked out as some kind of gauleiter.
‘The English are fucked,’ Timmy said, gesticulating towards the table. He sat down in front of the blotter. Duggan took the chair across the table.
‘The lion has had its day,’ Timmy went on, pacing every word as if he was coming to the climax of a public speech. ‘Going to find out now what it’s like to be an occupied country. But’ – he raised a finger – ‘the lion can be dangerous when wounded. Lash out. You know what I mean? Last desperate twitch of the tail.’ He paused. ‘Don’t be surprised if they come over the border. Try to take back what they lost. Churchill has never forgiven us for beating them the last time. Nothing he’d like better than revenge. Play the game again. Hitler’s right about him, he’s a war monger. They made a bad choice there. And he’ll use any excuse to invade. The ports. Pretend to be protecting us from the Germans.’
Timmy sat back in his chair and joined his hands over his stomach with satisfaction. Duggan didn’t know what to say. He was saved by a knock on the door and Cait entered with a tray. Duggan cleared a pile of letters from Timmy’s constituents to one side and she put down the tray and began taking the plates from the try and putting them down on the table.
‘Don’t bother with that,’ Timmy interrupted. ‘We don’t stand on ceremony here. He can eat off the tray.’
Duggan thanked her in Irish and re-arranged the plates and cup and saucer on the tray. The main plate had two cuts of cold chicken, two of ham, a few leaves of lettuce and half a tomato. A side plate had three cuts of buttered brown bread. He poured himself a cup of tea.
‘Whatever happens,’ Timmy said, ‘we won’t go hungry. We can always feed ourselves, thank God. Unlike the English. They’ll find out now what a bit of starvation’s like as well.’
He watched Duggan eat for a few moments. ‘Anyway, that was all bye the bye. For your own information. To be kept to yourself,’ he repeated. ‘The reason I wanted to talk to you was about a family matter.’
 Duggan looked up in surprise. He assumed he had already got the messages. I got you transferred to G2. Be nice to the Germans. Beware of perfidious Albion. He went on eating, realising that he was starving. He hadn’t had anything to eat after getting back to the Red House and writing a report on the Harbusches’ visit to Grafton Street. Timmy watched him in silence for a minute then reached for a cigarette and lit it with a heavy desk lighter.
‘Naula,’ he said eventually. Nuala was his eldest daughter. A year or two older than Duggan. A change in his tone caught Duggan’s attention and he stopped eating. ‘Nuala,’ Timmy said again and sighed. ‘She’s gone…We don’t know where she is.’
‘She’s missing?’
‘No, no, not missing.’ Timmy didn’t seem to want to use the word. ‘We don’t know where she is.’
‘How long? Where did she…go?’
Timmy took a deep breath. ‘Two weeks ago. Maybe a bit more. About two weeks ago we realised she wasn’t where we thought she was.’
‘She didn’t come home?’
Timmy looked at him in surprise and then realised that Duggan knew nothing about Nuala’s movements. ‘She’s been living in a flat in town for the last few months. Since the new year, actually. But she usually comes home for the Sunday dinner. And she didn’t turn up last Sunday fortnight. Her mother went to the flat. No sign of her, then or since. Mona’s going up the walls. You can imagine.’
Duggan could imagine. His aunt Mona was known in the family for suffering from nerves, which Duggan had never found surprising. Timmy would turn anyone into a nervous wreck, as Duggan’s father pointed out from time to time when Timmy had over-tried his patience. It was one of the few bones of contention between Duggan’s parents. His father had no time for Timmy; his mother felt a need to defend her sister’s choice of husband.
Duggan put a dab of strawberry jam on the last slice of bread and poured himself another cup of tea.
‘Have you told the guards?’
‘Ah, no, no,’ Timmy tipped the ash from his cigarette. ‘It’s not like that.’
‘If she’s been missing for two weeks…’ Duggan let the thought hang in the air.
‘Not…missing.’ Timmy, never short of words, seemed to be finding them elusive now.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘It’s her mother, you know. She’s very upset. Wants me to do something about it. But I keep telling her Naula’s just gone away for a bit. She’s all right. She’ll be back.’
Timmy suddenly held out the cigarette case to him. ‘You smoke Players, don’t you?’
‘Afton, usually.’
‘Well, try one of these.’
Duggan took the cigarette and Timmy pushed the lighter over to him.
‘Aye, she’ll be back,’ Timmy said, staring at his cigarette. ‘She’s just trying to …teach me a lesson.’ He paused and then looked up at Duggan. ‘You know we don’t see eye to eye a lot of the time. Too alike, Mona says. Knock sparks off each other. But it doesn’t mean anything. Still the best of friends behind it all.’
Duggan didn’t know that. He and Nuala were more or less the same age and had been thrown together as children at family events; they had ignored each other as far as possible. As they grew up, they hadn’t much more to say to each other, beyond an occasional effort at politeness. Duggan found her bossy and had no idea what she thought of him, probably found him boring. He couldn’t remember ever having had a real conversation with her.
Timmy straightened himself up in the chair like a man facing up to his fate. ‘We had an argument. Over the Christmas. Terrible time to be having an argument in a family but God knows it happens. She wanted to move into a flat in town. I couldn’t see any sense to it. She’s not working, you know. No money. She gave up that job I got her in Clery’s. Wanted to do a secretarial course. Fine, I said. But what’d you be wasting money for on a flat when we have the house here? Plenty of room. But nothing would do her. Mona sided with her, of course. Said she’d pay for the flat out of the housekeeping. So she, Nuala, moved into this little place. And I ended up paying for it anyway. Couldn’t have it said that I wasn’t giving the wife enough to run the house.
He stubbed out his cigarette and got up suddenly and walked to the window. ‘Jesus, Women,’ he said. ‘Anyway,’ he turned back to Duggan ‘it all blew up again the last Sunday she was here. I was under orders not to mention the fucking flat but you know how it is. One thing led to another and it got a bit hot and heavy and she stamped out.’
He sat down and lit another cigarette, ‘That’s it,’ he said.
‘I see,’ Duggan said. ‘Sorry to hear…’
Timmy waved his sympathy away with his cigarette, leaving a faint trail of smoke in the air.
‘Two weeks,’ Duggan began and paused, ‘is a long time. And she hasn’t been in touch with auntie Mona or her sisters?’
‘No. That’s the thing. I could understand her cutting me off. I could handle that. I’ve had my share of knocks. I could take it. But she knows that too. So she’s staying away from everyone, knowing that’ll put the pressure on me. Dropped out of her course as well. Hasn’t been seen there for two weeks either.’ He paused. ‘Anyway. You see why I don’t want the guards? Apart from anything else, it’s not a headline you want in the papers. “TD’s Daughter Missing.”
‘You could keep it out of the papers.’
‘Oh, aye, Aiken. He loves being the censor in chief. Telling all those fuckers what to put in their papers now,’ he laughed. ‘Getting our own back for all the shite they wrote about us. No, the papers wouldn’t be the problem. But everyone’d know about it if the guards got involved. Still a lot of Free Staters and Blueshirts among them, keeping their heads down and talking out the sides of their mouths. Only too happy to spread any dirt about our party.
‘No,’ Timmy went on. ‘What we need is some discreet inquiries to be made. Find out where Nuala is. Reassure your auntie Mona and the other girls. Put their minds at rest that she’s all right.’
Oh fuck, Duggan thought. This was worse than he had feared, worse than some political manoeuvre, involving the G2 information. ‘I don’t know how I could help,’ he said. ‘I’ve no idea how to find somebody.’
‘You’re moving in those general areas. Investigations, and the like.’
‘I’m not, you know. I’m in an office, just moving files around. Today was the first day I was out of the office. In the field, so to speak.’
‘There you go,’ Timmy said, as if that proved his point. ‘Just make some discreet inquiries.’
‘I…’
‘I always say that there are times when you can only rely on family. When you can’t trust anybody. And Christ knows, you can never trust anybody in my business. Family’s all you’ve got.’
Timmy eased a sheet of paper from under the blotter on the table and handed it to Duggan.

(Echoland, pp. 20-29)

Thank-you very much for coming.
 

Thank-you for listening to the Dublin City Public Libraries and Archive Podcast. To hear more, please subscribe on iTunes or SoundCloud. You can also visit our website - dublincitypubliclibraries.ie and follow us on Twitter and Facebook.