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John Thomas Gilbert, born in Dublin on the 23rd January 1829, was the author of the influential three-volume 'History of the City of Dublin', published from 1854-59. He was a firm advocate of documenting the history of his native city using primary sources.

This gallery is a tribute to an animal which has been a friend to Dubliners through the centuries. Whether as a working horse, a military high-stepper, a means of transport or simply a beloved companion, these images show the important role Dublin horses played in daily life throughout the last century, from those pulling the Lord Mayor’s Coach to those feeding from an old car in Labre Park.

Crying cockles and mussels! Alive Alive O! Cabbages on Moore Street, lilies on Grafton Street, Christmas decorations on Thomas Street. The photographs here tell the story of the changes to the markets during the late 20th and early 21st century - the demise of the Iveagh clothes market, the re-invention of the Smithfield Horse Fair and the huge changes undergone by the street traders in Moore Street during the redevelopment of the area from the 1970s onwards.

Crime is serious business in Dublin and we love to read about it. From novels about detectives to accounts of serial killers, from gangster biographies to analysis of social issues, we have an appetite for all of it. The series hosted by the Central Library 'Crime in the City: Crime and History', looks at the broad issue of crime in Dublin through the ages.

Listen to Michael Russell's reading and talk.Welcome to the Dublin City Public Libraries and Archive Podcast. In this episode author Michael Russell reads from his two novels, 'The City of Shadows' and 'The City of Strangers'. Recorded in front of a live audience in the Central Library on 17 October 2013 as part of its 'Crime in the City: Crime and History' series.Thank-you very much. You’ll excuse me if I’m a little breathless starting. Just to prove that I’ve come up from West Wicklow where parts of my novels are written, I was held up just outside Stratford, a tractor and trailer had shed about fifty bales of straw and the Guards wouldn’t let us through until the road was completely clear. I did my best but they were unimpressed when I said that I had to get to Dublin Central Library to talk to people about crime. I’ve written two novels which I guess loosely you would call, for want of a better phrase, historical crime fiction. One was The City of Shadows, which was published last year and The City of Strangers which is about to be published. It has actually already been published on the dreaded e-book but doesn’t come out as a real book until the beginning of November.Now these are both books which in the tradition of crime fiction feature a central character who is a detective as it happens he is not a private investigator, he’s a Garda detective. And they are the first two books of a number that will follow this character through the years from the early 1930s  through into the Second World War/ ‘Emergency’ whichever you prefer to call it.  It’s worth saying that somewhere in the DNA of crime fiction is the fact that it is popular literature. Whatever else it’s about, if it doesn't tell a story that people want to read, it’s somehow something else. So in a way, the first thing to say is these are stories, hopefully they are good stories, hopefully they are stories that will keep people's attention and make people want to turn the page. They may be about other things. Hopefully the history that’s in them is reasonably accurate and when there is supposition it’s based on hopefully a reasonably intelligent knowledge of the period.A critic this week, on my new book, was kind enough to say that at its heart this is a novel about memory and history and how this binds people together and what it meant to be Irish as the fledgling state established what it wanted to be. Now I hope there is a bit of that in there but I think primarily it’s about storytelling. Now I’ll talk a bit about how I started to write these books. Now I’m not very good at talking off the cuff, so I’ve just written a few things down so excuse me if I read. When I’ve done this - it’s only a page – I’ll read a bit from the books.Raymond Chandler said that one of the characteristics of crime fiction, for want of a better name, is the unnatural squeezing up of time frames. The same thing applies to history when it's dragged willingly or otherwise, into the world of crime writing. But why squeeze all that up at all? The answer to why anyone of us write anything, is always that we write what we love writing. We take what interests us and intrigues us and we try to turn that into a story. That doesn't mean there isn't usually bit more to it as well. We probably spend too much time putting fiction into genres and sub-genres these days. The historical crime novel is clearly a genre of some kind, combining as it does two resiliently popular areas of fiction, history and mystery. But it was an odd quality that a contemporary setting doesn’t demand. You can’t play fast and loose with the past the way you can with the present. Readers expect their history to be historical, especially if your detective is going to stumble into real events and real people along the way.When I started the first of this series of crime novels set in Ireland in the ‘30s and ‘40s, The City of Shadows, part of the pleasure and part of the purpose was to explore that time and in particular the way the Second World War touched Ireland.  And over the series to visit several cities sometimes at the heart of that war, sometimes at its compromised periphery: Dublin, Danzig, New York, Lisbon, Berlin, London, Rome. The starting point would always be the perspective of one small island that was to remain resolutely but uncomfortably neutral through the whole course of the conflict, even though tens of thousands of Irish men and women too would leave to fight for the allies, and when a major opposition to De Valera’s government in the form of the IRA wanted nothing more than a German invasion to shake off the last vestiges of British rule on the island. It would be about a time when British and German spies sat at adjacent tables in Dublin pubs and where Irish neutrality was best summed up not by the political rhetoric, but by the fact that German aircrew landing in Ireland were interned for the duration of the war. While allied airmen were put on a bus straight to Belfast.None of us know quite know where what we write comes from. It was really only when I started to write, that I realised the part played by the childhood tales my grandmother had told me about the War of Independence and the Civil War that followed in the ‘20s, and my mother and father’s stories of growing up in Second World War Britain.  As I wrote I felt I knew those dark streets better than I thought. History is only a piece of it and if our stories don’t work as crime fiction it doesn't matter how good the history is. It’s the stories that have to drive the history. The stories that have to open up the life of the main characters, in my case Stefan Gillespie, an outsider never happy with simple answers who is often uneasy with what his country is doing and with what it sometimes asks him to turn a blind eye to.The stories start with simple crimes, dead bodies and missing people. They lead Gillespie into dark places in the way that crime stories usually do. But those crimes frequently take him to the uncomfortable margins of the coming war and later to the war itself. It is in those deep shadows as I wrote that I found real events and real characters pushing their way into the story.It began with a man called Adolf Mahr, an archaeologist who was the much respected director of Ireland’s National Museum. He also happened to be the leader of the Nazi Party in Ireland and bluntly a German spy. Across Europe an Irishman called Seán Lester, a great man who has been erased from even schoolbooks my children read for Leaving Cert when studying this period. He happened to be the League of Nations High Commissioner in the city state of Danzig, which we know now as the Polish city of Gdansk, a German enclaves surrounded by Poland, which had recently elected a Nazi government and was busy dismantling its democratic constitution. For two years with little more than a stubborn nature and Irish charm, Lester and the Roman Catholic Bishop of Danzig, a Russian émigré who went by the unlikely Russian name of Edward O’Rourke stood in the way Danzig’s attempts to unite itself with Hitler’s Germany. Lester was called the most hated men in Germany. Danzig eventually joined Germany in 1939 of course, and the rest as we might say is history because Danzig was where the first shots of the Second World War were fired.  In The City of Shadows two bodies in the Dublin Mountains lead Stefan Gillespie to Danzig in search of a murderer. Four years later, in The City of Strangers he has to bring a killer back from New York. A death after the city’s Patrick Day celebrations pulls him into a world of espionage and counter-espionage again, this time via Republican politics. Again real characters are there to stumble on. The IRA chief of Staff Seán Russell in New York to raise money for the extensive but unsuccessful, sabotage against Britain; A Jewish gangster called "Longie" Zwillman who had unexpected FBI friends; Charles Coughlin, the radio priest who was one of America's most pro-Hitler voices and a visit by the English King to New York's World’s Fair.There is a struggle to remain neutral in the face of war that is in the background to both The City of Shadows and The City of Strangers.  A struggle in which both Ireland and America were involved. Sometimes it looks more like fight over which side you are going to be neutral on. It's an unfamiliar backwater of history, and maybe that's what combining history and mystery gives - the opportunity to go to some of the forgotten places history doesn't take us. But then perhaps that’s what all crime writing is doing all the time, using strong, compelling narratives to take us to places we would otherwise never get to.Now having said that the story is all important, the story is clearly the thing you can't really represent in a reading. And I thought the best thing to do is to read a few extracts that in a sense are about description, about the atmosphere of the time, partly in some cases about Dublin, the city.But I’ll start with an extract from The Irish Times. Each book is divided into three parts and it happened, I mean it came about by chance but each part is introduced by a real extract from an Irish Times article of the period. Sometimes those are very specific things which I’ve actually used in order to actually develop a crime. Sometimes they are pieces that give the atmosphere of the time. There is an extraordinary one which I probably won’t have time to read in the last part of the second book. A great thing to do an Irish Times reporter on the day war was declared by Britain and Germany - or Britain and France I guess, strictly speaking -  just went out into the streets of Dublin to see what was happening and just wrote about the conversations he overheard, almost none of which were about war. Actually it's a fantastic piece of writing and one of those things that I wish I'd written and wished I could've just sneaked straight into my book, but I do credit the guy with writing it.But anyway, when I was writing the first book I wanted something to happen, that involved, it was quite specific, I wanted my main detective character to be involved on a raid on an abortion clinic, but I didn’t want it to be just any abortion clinic. It wasn’t a backstreet abortion story. It had to be about an abortion clinic run by a man with friends and influence. It was operating as it were in plain sight. But it was more complicated than that. I wanted him to be German. I wanted him to be a friend of Adolf Mahr and I wanted him to be at some level involved in some quite complex areas of spying and blackmail, which meant that he was not only getting information, but that he was also selling information for instance to special branch at Dublin Castle. And I thought it was unlikely that I'd find anything like that but I’ll look in The Irish Times Archive, see if there is anything that just gives me a kind of leader into… Anyway I found this article about a police raid by a detective Garda Sergeant - it’s from the court report - on a house in Merrion Square where a man was running a clinic and he was German and he was very good friends of a lot of influential people. And it read:In the back drawing-room there was a quantity of medical and electrical apparatus. From the ceiling, operated by pulleys, was a large 170 centimetre shadow-less operating lamp hanging over a canvas covered object -when the cover was removed it was found to be a gynaecological chair with foot rests. The detective sergeant found a specially padded belt that could be used in conjunction with the chair. Among the objects found in the drawing-room was a sterilising case, in the drawer of which was wads of cotton wool. In the office there was a cardboard box containing a dozen contraceptives and a revolver.The Irish TimesThat last sentence is an extraordinary statement about the evidence of the time. Which was the most dangerous? Hard to know - the contraceptives or the revolver.The first book starts actually two years earlier than that raid and it’s the night before the Eucharistic mass in the Phoenix Park.The moon shone on the Liffey as it moved quietly through Dublin, towards the sea. The river was sparkling. Silver and gold flecks of light shimmered and played between the canal-like embankments of stone and concrete that squeezed it tightly into the city’s streets. By day the river was grey and sluggish, even in sunlight, darker than its sheer walls, dingier and duller than the noisy confusion of buildings that lined the Quays on either side. Its wilder origins, in the emptiness of the Wicklow Mountains, seemed long forgotten as it slid, strait-jacketed and servile, through the city it had given birth to. It wasn’t the kind of river anyone stood and looked at for long. It had neither majesty nor magic. Its spirit had been tamed, even if its city never had been. From Arran Quay to Bachelor’s Walk on one side, from Usher’s Quay to Aston Quay on the other, you walked above the river that oozed below like a great, grey drain. And if you did look at it, crossing from the Southside to the Northside, over Gratton Bridge, the Halfpenny Bridge, O'Connell Bridge, it wasn’t the Liffey itself that held your gaze, but the soft light on the horizon where it escaped its walls and found its way into the sea at last. Yet, sometimes, when the moon was low and heavy over the city, the Liffey seemed to remember the light of the moon and the stars in the mountains, and the nights when its cascading streams were the only sound.It was three o'clock in the morning as Vincent Walsh walked west along Ormond Quay. There was still no hint of dawn in the night sky. He had no reason at all to imagine that this would be the last day of his short life of only twenty-three years. He caught the glittering moonlight on the water. He saw the Liffey every day and never noticed it, but tonight it was full of light and full of life. More than a good omen, it felt like a blessing, cutting through the darkness that weighed him down. It was a fine night and surely a fine day to come. Turning a corner he saw lights everywhere now, lighting up the fronts of building, strung between the lampposts along the Quays, illuminating every shop and every bar. Curtains were drawn back to show lamps and candles in the windows of every home. The night was filling up with people. The streets had been empty, even fifteen minutes ago, when he’d set off from Red Cow Lane, but suddenly there were figures in the darkness, more and more of them now, in front, behind, crossing over the bridges from south of the river, all walking in the same direction: west.A stream of Dubliners moved along with him, flowing in the opposite direction to the Liffey, growing at every tributary junction that fed into the Quays. Men and women on their own, quiet and purposeful; couples, old and young, silent and garrulous, some holding hands like lovers and some oblivious of one another; families pushing prams and pulling stubborn toddlers, while youngsters of every age raced in and out of the throng with growing excitement. There were young men who walked in quiet, sober groups, some fingering a rosary, and others full of raucous good humour; women and girls, arm in arm in lines across the street, gossiping and giggling as eager, teasing, endless words tumbled out of their mouths. Occasionally the whole population of a side street decorated with flowers and banners erupted out to join the flow of people moving towards the Phoenix Park. Vincent Walsh glanced back to see the first pink glow behind him in the sky. The new day was coming. And it was as if everyone around him had that same thought at once, as if all those footsteps, already full of such happy anticipation, were moving even faster now, more purposefully and more exuberantly forward, to the gates that led into the Park.The noise was suddenly much louder. Everyone was talking. The sense of being a part of it all, of belonging to it all, of being absorbed into this hopeful stream of humanity, was irresistible. It wasn't something Vincent wanted to resist. He was fighting back tears, even as his face beamed and smiled in response to the joyful faces around him. This was how he wanted to feel; it was how, when this day ended, he knew he could never be allowed to feel. As they all poured through the Park gates together to find their places for the next day’s mass it was quiet again for a moment. Abruptly the night had opened up around them.  Dublin, always so closed and crowding in on itself, was gone. There was only the rhythmic sound of thousands of feet on grass and gravel, and the sight of thousands of shadows amongst the trees of the Phoenix Park.The City of Shadows, pp 3-5This is actually from close to the end of the second book and I guess it’s a demonstration of awe; it’s an example of real history, some real history, being incorporated in something. The background to this is the murder of an Irish intelligence officer who is working in New York at the Irish pavilion for the World’s Fair, which was on in New York in 1939 and where the Free State had spent an enormous amount of money on a pavilion, which was meant to do many things. It wasn’t only there to show Ireland's independence from Britain because it was very separate. In fact the World’s Fair of 1939 was the last World Fair at which there actually was and entity, an area that was called the British Empire and the Irish pavilion was a long way from that. One of the other things it was meant to do and that was very important to De Valera, it was meant to show to the world that the future somehow lay not with empires, not with big states, it lay with the free small countries of the world. And in that sense it was meant to kind of give a lead to what people saw was going to happen in terms of the breakup in particular, of the British Empire, but of other empires too. In the light of what was about to happen, of course, it has its own irony. Within six months of the opening of the World’s Fair at least two of the pavilions there, the Czechoslovak Pavilion and the Polish Pavilion were actually represented countries that no longer existed. But anyway, this is about a murder. It is about Stefan Gillespie, the detective, finding out why this murder happened. It seems quite simple. It has something to do with the aftermath of the Civil War and events that happened in West Cork in the early 1920s. In the end it turns out to be something which is rather more complex and is as much about betrayal within a family as it is about what was actually going on in the Civil War. This is the end of that story. It’s a story that’s kind of woven through and comes to the fore now and again. It’s a separate section; it’s what happens to one of the main characters involved in that story. You will recognise that there are certain historical events that are woven into that.The night before Aidan McCarthy's execution, Thomas Pierrepoint, the English hangman watched him through a secret window in the condemned cell at Winson Green Prison, Birmingham, in order to finalise his calculations. Although the Home Office provided a table that matched height and weight to the length of the noose required for an efficient hanging, the final judgment was the hangman’s own; hanging was an intimate business and in the last seconds, when the hood was put over the head, there were only two people involved, the hangman and the to-be-hanged. Other judgments had, of course, already been made, and if there was another to come after the drop, well, that was in a different jurisdiction altogether.As Pierrepoint watched him, McCarthy was kneeling at the side of the bed praying.He prayed for the people he loved. For his wife and the man he had always looked on as his son. He prayed for the brother his silence had sentenced to death in another execution all those years ago on a stormy night outside Castleberehaven. He prayed for his country and the struggle for freedom that he was dying for. He thought of the places he loved. He remembered the sound of the sea; the breath of the cattle in the cold morning air; the rain on the Caha Mountains. He prayed for the places he loved too. He did pray for the man who had met a brutal death in a strange city because of the lies he had told, and because of the lies other people had made out of those lies, and because of what had been left inside a small boy’s heart seventeen years earlier; but it would be an exaggeration to say that the life of the soldier of the Free State, even then, warranted very much praying.He didn't pray for the five people who had died outside of the jewellery shop in Coventry’s Broadgate: a man of eighty-one, a man of fifty, a man of thirty-three, a woman of twenty-one, a boy of fifteen. He had heard their names many times in the course of the trial, but he didn't think of them now. He felt no real remorse for what he had done. A war was being fought, and wars had victims; there had been enough Irish victims after all. How many of their names were on English lips?He got up from his prayers and moved to the table where a plate of steak and roast potatoes and cabbage was waiting for him. There was a glass of Guinness. He had no particular love of stout; he was no great drinker; but he drank it out of politeness to the warder. And he was calm enough. What was happening now was what had to happen. He had known that from the moment he was arrested. And he had thought about it before in the bare, damp room in Hammersmith, lying awake at night, listening to the rumble of the Underground. He would die for Ireland and in doing that maybe someone else, someone younger wouldn’t have to die. In dying he would pay his debt too, and in paying it, finally the past would be purged.Aidan McCarthy had left Ireland for England the day Stefan Gillespie and Gearóid De Paor returned to Dublin. He had not waited for goodbyes; he would not see the faces of the people he loved changed in the way they saw him forever. He had simply walked away with enough money to take the boat from Cove to England.In London he had gone to Hammersmith, for no special reason other than that there were Irish people there, but not too many. He called himself David Haigh. He had got himself a job on a building site and, after sleeping rough for two nights, a room in Cambridge Grove, overlooking the District Line; he worked hard and kept himself to himself.The first night in Cambridge Grove he had walked down to the Thames; he had a drink at the Blue Anchor and drank it outside, looking at Hammersmith Bridge.The IRA’s attempt to blow it up was in Aidan McCarthy’s mind that night. It wasn't difficult, over a period of months, for him to find his way to people who knew people in the IRA in London, and to make it clear that he was willing to work for the cause. He had soon sensed who he should talk to and the habit of silence that characterised him recommended him to him. Since the bombing campaign had started in January the bombs had continued to go off, regularly and ineffectually; the IRA was now an illegal organisation in Ireland as well as Britain; more and more IRA men had been imprisoned. Volunteers were thin on the ground now, and because of that David Haigh was trusted sooner than he might have been. He moved very quickly from carrying messages across London to carrying explosives.On 21 August he had taken a train to Coventry to visit James Richards, an IRA man lodging with a family in Clara Street to instruct him to prepare a bomb. The bomb would be collected by another IRA man and planted in the city. McCarthy had returned to Hammersmith the next day to supply explosives for three bombs destined for Scotland Yard, Westminster Abbey and the Bank of England. The bombers were caught before the bombs could be planted but two days later in Coventry, James Richards’ bomb went off outside a jewellery shop. The man who left the bomb was never identified, but James Richards was arrested immediately and Aidan McCarthy, as David Haigh, was already in custody. Now he was to hang.A man can only give what he has, but as he faced death, Aidan McCarthy found more than he knew he had. He had said little during the trial; he had answered questions where there was an answer he chose to give, but he said nothing, nothing that incriminated anyone. Only at the end of the day did he say anything about himself.‘My lord, before you pass sentence of death on me, I wish to thank sincerely the gentlemen who have defended me. I wish to state that what I have done I have done for a just cause. As a soldier of the Irish Republican Army I am not afraid to die.’ He died under the name he had called himself in London. He made no attempt to communicate with his family in Béarra. There was no consolation to be offered to them and he didn't expect his death to give any; but he felt he had done his duty at the highest level, and in doing so, he had tried to pay the debt he owed his brother. If there was forgiveness, please God, he had earned it. He died well for what he believed in; the five people in Coventry who had died also for what he believed didn’t; but as tens of millions prepared to die all over the world, well and not so well, for what others believed, none of it mattered very much.Many years later, Aidan McCarthy’s body would be transferred from the grounds of Winson Green to Ireland for burial. His coffin would be draped in the Irish tricolour, just as Captain John Cavendish’s had been, and just as alongside the Stars and Stripes Captain Aaron Phelan’s of the NYPD had been.Yet as Aidan McCarthy walked the cold stone corridor of Winson Green to meet Thomas Pierrepoint, his final thoughts were not as easy as he has hoped they might be. The priest walked beside him; his last confession was said; he had received his last Eucharist and he had carried its promise of salvation. And he wanted to believe it, yet the words that came to him, not the priest’s words but words suddenly there in his head, were not words of absolution. ‘But whoso shall offend one of these little ones … it were better for him a millstone were hung around his neck and he were drowned in the bottom of the sea.’As the black hood went over his head, the sound he heard was a sound from that morning, seventeen years ago on Pallas Strand, somehow there with him now, at the end; it was the angry screaming of the gulls. And it wasn't the eyeless face of his dead brother he saw, buried in sand almost up to the shoulders; it was the face of the small boy staring at it.The City of Strangers pp 456-460I’ll read one more bit, which kind of follows on from that. It’s about Stefan Gillespie, the detective, the hero if you like. The events of the book have been responsible for… in ways which are not direct for breaking up a relationship.  He is a fairly young man but he’s a widower and these are just some thoughts he has which I guess are relevant to what we are talking about.  This is a conversation that Stefan is having with a woman that he has been having an affair with, who is an English woman married to an Irishman who is in the British Army - which was the complexity of those days. And the odd thing is that although she is an English woman, and her husband, because he is a soldier has lived away a lot and oddly it's her husband who’s confused about his relationship with Ireland, whereas she actually has come to see it as her home and is now having to leave.‘Christmas in Sussex shouldn't be so bad. Isn’t it home?’ said Stefan.‘I'm not sure it is,’ she said quietly.He looked at her. He could see tears welling in her eyes.‘It’s not just Jane and Alex [they are her children who are friends of Stefan’s son and they are kind of eight and nine] I’m probably not doing a good job of enthusing them about going to England. I keep saying it’s going home, but it’s not their home. This is. And I suppose – I’ve never thought about it - I’d never realised. You know I spend all my time complaining about Whitehall Grove - it’s falling round our ears - and the farm’s a disaster - and all going to hell in a handcart while Simon swans around the Empire and leaves us all to rot here – well, you’ve been on the receiving end of enough of it.’‘That doesn’t sound like you at all.’She smiled, but the smile was only on her lips.‘The truth is - it’s my home too. I don’t want to go. It’s nothing to do with the war. It’s nothing to do with Simon. I don’t mean that the way it sounds. I want us to be a family again. I want children to know their father, for all of us. But I wish it was here. I wish it was all the other way around.’‘Whatever happens, it won’t go on forever.’‘Is that the best you can do, Stefan?’ Now she laughed.  Okay it wasn’t very good even for a platitude.‘But you’ll have the children.’She nodded; that was better; at least that was true.For a moment they both looked at the fire.It was still, when everything else was over between them, the children that held them together.‘Can I sound like your mother, Stefan?’‘How the hell do I answer that?’‘I’ve never been very good at making wishes for other people. I wish you - I wish you and Tom - I suppose what I mean is I hope anything that happened between you and me - didn't get in the way of anything else -’He sat back and shook his head.‘Unfortunately there was nothing for it to get in the way of.’Then he laughed. It was a throwaway from the list of throwaways he had in stock for the occasions when people said such things. Valerie never had in the past; he liked her because she didn't push those lazy ideas at him. It didn't much matter that she had now. But he was conscious of the trip he had taken to Dún Laoghaire the week before. There had been a few days, just a few days out of years, when he had thought differently.  It hadn’t lasted very long. And even that tiny, fragile hope, maybe only barely there, had been broken, not by anything in him, not by anything in Kate O’Donnell, but by other people’s battles, other people's memories, other people's rattle bags of righteousness and revenge, other people’s wars. The past didn’t only come up out of the ground at you in Ireland; it walked around the streets, following you, and if you turned around to complain it spat in your face.The City of Strangers, pp 423-425 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.

Listen to Donal Fallon's talk.Welcome to the Dublin City Public Libraries and Archive Podcast. In this episode Donal Fallon seeks to separate fact from folklore regarding the notorious 'Animal gangs' of the 1930s and 1940s in Dublin. Recorded in front of a live audience in the Central Library on 10 October, 2013, as part of its 'Crime in the City: Crime and History' series.Firstly thank-you to everyone for coming along today. My name is Donal Fallon and I’ve always had a particular interest in Dublin gang violence and in particular the most infamous of Dublin gangs who were without doubt the ‘Animal Gangs’. Now when people think of the ‘Animal Gangs’ they think of the 1940s and onwards, they think of razor blades in potatoes, they think of Garda Lugs Branigan, they think of the battle of Baldoyle and characters like the infamous Hencho of the 1960s. And I should say gang violence in Dublin is nothing new. You know at the minute everyone's talking about Nidge and the lads on Love/Hate on television. But you can find gang violence in Dublin going right back as far as you're willing to go. In the eighteenth century you had Liberty Boys and the Ormond Boys. But I don’t think there’s been a single gang in the history of Dublin that have left the same lasting impact on the folklore of the city as the Animal Gang. Now what particularly interests me about the Animal Gang is their origins. Who are the first Animal Gang?  Where did they come from? And what I found during my research is that they emerged actually in the 1930s, not the later 1940s. That the Animal Gangs were actually there long before Lugs Branigan had ever even joined the Guards.  This gang are also often blamed for very many attacks on the Left and on the Republican movement in the 1930s. Not only have they entered the folklore of Dubliners and people in this city but they have also entered Republican folklore. Republicans of a certain age talk about being attacked by these gangs in the 1930s and 1940s.I chose this image very deliberately and this is a Jack B Yeats painting of a young newsboy because when you read about the Animal Gangs what you picture are grown man with razor blades in potatoes and swinging bicycle tyres.  What I found over the course of my research and what I’ll talk about today a little bit, is the fact the first Animal Gang seem to have actually been made up of young, juvenile newsboys. Going back to the Republican folklore, the first I ever heard of the Animal Gang, the first reference I ever heard was a song, and a song which was sung by the Dubliners, in which it said:On Banajos red ramparts the Spanish workers diedBut O’Duffy’s bellowing animal gang sang hymns of hate with prideSo the idea that the gangs were part of some fascist movement or anti-republican movement was always something I thought. Now as I say the story of these gangs begins not with men but rather children. Newspaper boys to be precise and a newspaper strike in 1934. It’s important today before we talk about the very newspaper boys that produced the Animal Gang to talk a little bit about newspaper boys in general. Where did newsboys even come from in Dublin? References to young newsboys in the city can be found as early as the 1880s in the newspapers. And the first illustration I have managed to find of a young newsboy in Dublin is this one here. This image appeared in The Irish Times in 1882, and as far as I know is the earliest depiction of young newspaper boys in Dublin. Alongside this illustration was a letter written by Pro Bono Public who said, there are many trials and hardships faced by the majority of newsboys in Dublin, asking is not possible for us to establish a charity, a benevolent undertaking from the citizens of Dublin, to look out for these newsboys and provide for them. Newsboys appear from that time onwards in newspaper reports and they are always described in a couple of ways, they are typically ragged and barefoot; they are typically talked about as being starving and children of the slums. The Irish Times when they produced this illustration they warned readers underneath these children can perish of cold or some worse fate on the streets of Dublin. Newsboys were long in the city before the Animal Gang or before the 1930s. And Pádraig Yeates that historian of the Lock Out has written about how young newsboys in Dublin had a real tendency towards militancy in the early twentieth century. In 1911, Big Jim Larkin, the Liverpool firebrand socialist set about trying to establish young Dublin newsboys into a trade union. Incredibly he managed to do this and as Pádraig Yeates has written by organising young newsboys, Larkin also ensured that his own newspaper had a very good, effective distribution network on the streets. He built up a very good working relationship with some of Dublin’s youngest and poorest workers. The young newsboys were so influenced by Jim Larkin that in 1911 they showed their own militancy when the children went on strike in opposition to this man William Martin Murphy. Young Dublin newsboys took strike action in 1911. They were selling the Evening Herald newspaper and unhappy with the terms on which the paper was provided to them and encouraged no doubt by Jim Larkin they took militant action. During this dispute there were wild scenes and one occasion a gang of newsboys numbering two hundred attacked an Evening Herald van and threw bundles of the papers into the River Liffey. Ernie O’Malley in his brilliant diaries, his brilliant memoirs writes about seeing young newsboys in the streets attacking policemen and staff of the Evening Herald. He describes them as quick-witted urchins who lured the attackers into narrow by lanes. There the boys used stones and pieces of brick with accuracy against the police.The links between the young Dublin newsboys and the union movement remained very strong, right through 1913 and continued into future decades. There are also many attempts to provide for these young newsboys, charity attempts. Ironically, the most successful of which was spearheaded by the son of William Martin Murphy, Doctor William Lombard Murphy, perhaps with a guilty conscience of the actions of his father. By 1928 the Belvedere Newsboys Club, a group, which have been established by William Lombard Murphy and many others, was operating from a very impressive premises on Pearse Street. And that was a charity which aimed to provide meals, and provide clothes and look out for these young newsboys in the streets of Dublin. William Lombard Murphy said at the opening of the Club brilliantly that, quote:‘Everyone who knows the Dublin newsboy knows what good qualities are to be found in him. He might not possess the greater civil virtues such as thrift, order or regularity but he has immense loyalty to his parents and an innate and essential decency of mind.’This club continued to grow right through the 1920s and 1930s. By 1931 the Belvedere Newsboys Club was looking out for one hundred and fifty young Dublin newsboys providing them with meals. Not alone did the institution provide food and shelter for youngsters it also argued for them and on their behalf. At their Annual General Meeting in 1931 the Newsboys Club put forward a proposal that a special court should be established in Dublin for children under fourteen far removed from the ordinary courts and presided over perhaps by a lady.By the 1930s young Dublin newsboys found themselves once again flirting with politics on the Left and on the Right. In 1934 a newspaper dispute in Dublin would change everything on this front and bring the newsboys into conflict with Irish Republicans and ultimately lead to the establishment of the first Animal Gang. Dublin in the summer of 1934 saw a phenomenal newspaper strike, which shut down print media in the city. It began in the Irish Independent but it spread to The Irish Press and The Irish Times when the Irish Transport and General Workers’ Union, which been established by Jim Larkin so many years previously, began to remove their members from the offices of these newspapers. The strike would last for months with workers inside print media demanding an increase in pay and better conditions. An Phoblacht the radical newspaper of the Republican movement gave vocal and consistent support to the striking workers. And as Brian Hanley has noted the print unions strike committee allowed only two papers to be printed during that strike. One was An Phoblacht and the other was another Republican newspaper called The Republican Congress. The striking workers believed that both of these newspapers were on their side, and while they were definitely not going to allow anyone print The Irish Times, you were allowed print Republican newspapers. An Phoblacht said that this newspaper strike is more than a dispute between newspaper owners and newspaper employees this is a challenge to the workers and must be taken up by every citizen who has the interest of a free Ireland and a free people at heart. Now that message may have been appreciated by striking workers inside the offices of the Irish Independent and The Irish Press but it wasn't appreciated by one group of workers, and that was newsboys. The newsboys depended on these newspapers to make a living and the scarcity of the newspapers has a very direct impact on their living conditions. For workers in the Irish Press in the Irish Independent may have been getting strike pay while they were out on strike, there was no strike pay for youngsters on the streets who needed these papers in their hands. In 1934, the issue of the young newsboys was raised inside of the Dáil and it was said that officially there were only thirty-four boys and thirteen girls between the ages of fourteen and sixteen working on the street selling papers but the dogs on the street knew that that wasn’t true and there were many, many more than that perhaps as many as two hundred youngsters on the streets who needed these newspapers.So as you can imagine, when there’s only two papers in Dublin even if they are An Phoblacht and Republican Congress, they are in hot demand. Suddenly these papers which had been fringe papers on the Left become quite popular. The wholesale rate on the two papers was higher than newsboys were used to paying to The Irish Times or the Irish Independent, and so they make the decision to confront the editors of both newspapers, An Phoblacht and Republican Congress. There’s a brilliant file in the National Archives and it’s titled ‘Disturbances Created by Newsboys at Frederick’s Lane, Dublin City’. The file from the 14th September 1934 reports that on the 12th September Gardaí were alerted to the fact there was a row between newspaper boys and Republicans in Frederick Lane and that some windows were broken. Gardaí noted that when they got the scene they found fifty newsboys quickly moving away from the scene having refused to pay an extra three pence per dozen on copies of An Phoblacht. Later at about 8.50pm Gardaí noted that fifty men were seen marching four deep towards Parnell Square and taking up positions around the offices of An Phoblacht. It was obvious that the IRA had come to defend the offices of An Phoblacht after they had earlier been attacked by these young newspaper boys. The Republican movement took it upon themselves rather than going to the Gardaí to protect the premises from future attack. Not only did the young newspaper boys go to the offices of An Phoblacht and break several windows and attack IRA men, they later went to the offices of the Republican Congress and in this next incident you find where the very name animal gang comes from.  Going to the offices of the Republican Congress, they bump into a man Frank Ryan, a rather famous figure in republican history and indeed in republican folklore. Frank Ryan, on the left here, was the man who led Irish republicans to fight in Spain against forces of General Franco. Now Ryan produces this paper, The Republican Congress, which has emerged from a left-wing split, very shortly previously within the IRA. Essentially, the left-wing of the IRA had left the movement and established this new movement The Republican Congress in an attempt to create a new broad republican socialist front in Ireland. Now the newsboys go the offices of the Republican Congress and make the same demands which were made of An Phoblacht and the IRA’s newspaper. Again they demand a cheaper wholesale rate from Frank Ryan and Frank Ryan totally and completely refuses. Gardaí then noted that the newspaper boys attacked Frank Ryan, and according to the intelligence report Frank Ryan shouted after them that they were little better than animals in their behaviour. By this remark he unconsciously christened the gang because they later adopted the title animal gang. So Frank Ryan by condemning them as animals inadvertently christens them; they quite like the title. That theory is very interesting because like most Dublin people interested in the history and folklore of Dublin I've always believed that there were two potential origins for the name. One was the viciousness of the gang probably labelled against them by ordinary Dubliners who would call them animals.  And the other theory could have been that these were…it was always said that these men were supposedly dockers, grown men who had worked on the docks of Dublin alongside real animals and livestock. But in the Garda files, you have this theory, this brilliant theory that Frank Ryan was the one who named the gangs.An Phoblacht and Republican Congress wasted no time in condemning the youths. On the 15th September 1934 the front of An Phoblacht said a gang known as the animals have smashed windows at their offices and had made several abortive attempts to enter the office. The IRA newspaper also claimed that some of the young newspaper boys were wearing Blueshirts. Now that claim is not in the Garda reports at all. This was a time when there was very intense anti-republican and anti-Communism in Dublin, and I think the IRA embarrassed by the fact that they had been attacked by young Dublin newsboys twist the story to look like the Blueshirts had attacked the office. The Garda report on the incident makes no reference to such shirts and it’s so detailed it's not the kind of thing they would have missed. The IRA also claimed the attack on their office was an outrage, an anti-strike move by agents of the employers and the Irish Independent. In a follow-up edition of the paper the IRA pledged itself to clean up city gangs.Now two Dublin newsboys came to the attention of the IRA, now when I say boys these were grown men who sold newspapers but worked around the boys known as Macaulay and Lawless from the north inner city and identified by IRA as ringleaders of the violence. The IRA go into the north inner city in search of these young newsboys and it quickly becomes apparent that the bulk them live around this premise. This was Corporation Buildings in the heart of the north inner city. Corporation housing which was built in the early twentieth century in 1904 in the very heart of what had been the Monto district, the red light district of Dublin. Now Corporation Buildings have brilliantly been described as a total failure of housing for the working-class in Dublin and that is a good description of what they were. They are shown here in 1932 at the time of the Eucharistic Congress in Dublin. The IRA know that the bulk of young boys who attacked their offices come from this housing scheme and houses around it. They also know that they hang out in a hall called the Ardee Hall which the IRA describe as the animal gang hideout. In late September 1934, several members of the IRA go to the Ardee Hall, or in the words of An Phoblacht take over the Ardee Hall and they warn the animal gang that more exciting run-ins could happen in the future if their activity continues.Now thankfully for the newspaper boys and the IRA, not long after this in late September 1934, the newspaper strike came to an end. A resolution was reached. The Times of London said the next day, that the losses that have been sustained by the city of Dublin are incalculable, but none have suffered as much as the youth of the city.  Gardaí believed if the newspaper strike was over, then the principal cause of conflict between the news vendors and An Phoblacht had been removed, and that the animal gang were likely to disappear. Gardaí also said that this young gang had no political motive and that the members were quote “hooligans”, pure and simple. But that was not to be the last anyone would hear of the animal gang. In fact, the term rapidly spread like wild fire. Being given huge, huge attention in the mainstream press, it actually seems that what would happen next is copycat gangs would begin to appear right across the city of Dublin. The Cork Examiner was one newspaper, which of course was totally unaffected by the printing strike in Dublin and like An Phoblacht and Republican Congress the Cork Examiner became quite popular in Dublin during the newspaper strike. Now they gave incredibly sensationalist coverage to the animal guy during the newspaper dispute. They wrote about how youngsters were inflicting ugly wounds with sharp instruments on one another and also wrote about clashes between two rival gangs at Railway Street in the heart of the inner-city. While the original animal gang had come from Corporation Buildings, it seems that quite soon afterwards copycat gangs begin to appear.  A tiger gang in Ringsend and yet another self-titled animal gang in Donnybrook appear only moments after the initial violence in the newspaper strike. No longer were these youngsters attacking the proprietors of newspapers, but it seems like much of the violence was now youth on youth and between rival gangs of youth.So where does all of this fit into anti-communism if youths are attacking youths how is that relevant to anti-communism, which was also in the title of this lecture? It is important to state that the 1930s was a time of very militant anti-communism in Ireland. We had seen a red scare almost unlike anything before it in 1932 at the time of that election. Cumann na nGaedheal famously whip up anti-Communist feelings and try and present Fianna Fáil as a Communist menace. In the 1932 election there is a brilliant Cumann na nGaedheal poster which shows an Irish Tricolour with a red flag superimposed and says, quite simply, ‘keep the red off our flag’. Now, in addition to Cumann na nGaedheal whipping up anti-communist hysteria with regards the republican movement in Ireland there is an international dimension to this.  In Spain a democratically elected government, a democrat socialist government in many ways, comes the power. And the over throw of the Spanish Monarchy and the rise of anti-clerical feeling in Spain is used by the Catholic Church and others in Ireland. The argument is made that if the Catholic Church should fall in Spain it will next fall in Dublin.There is also the very intense poverty of the inner city, and there’s a belief that that poverty is fertile ground for communism to spread. The Irish Times said in October 1931, that in a city where four thousand and eight-hundred tenements shield twenty-five thousand families it is almost a miracle communism has not flourished aggressively in this hideous city. March 1933, saw some of the worst anti-Communist violence in Irish history. Violence that RM Douglas, a historian of the period has described as the worst violence in Dublin since the Civil War. Much of the anti-communism in the early thirties was whipped up by various organizations. In particular, a group known as the St Patrick’s Anti-Communist League established in March 1933. The members of the St Patrick’s Anti-Communist League pledged themselves to keep the menace of communism off the streets of Ireland. And not long after the establishment of that group, in late March 1933, Connolly House on Great Strand Street in Dublin was attacked - headquarters of the Revolutionary Workers’ Group, the Communist Party of Ireland. Now this picture shows the inside of Connolly House after it had been attacked and two young Gardaí inside the attacked building. In March ’33, over three nights a crowd laid siege to this building, really whipped up by hysteria in the Pro-Cathedral. At a particularly vicious sermon, a Jesuit Preacher informed the congregation in the Pro-Cathedral, that here in the holy city of Dublin the vile creatures of communism are among us. Over three nights the crowd besieged this building while a small number of socialist activists inside including IRA men attempted to protect it. The blame for this attack in Irish left-wing folklore has always been laid on the animal gang. Charlie Gilmour who was then active with the IRA, recalled in a 1983 interview with The Irish Times being inside of this building when it was attacked. He said the backbone of the mob who attacked us that night were the animal gang. A vicious street gang drawn from the worst of the city’s slums.  In a 2003 obituary for Eugene Downing, another socialist who was inside of the building, The Irish Times said he took part in the defence of Connolly House when it was attacked by the notorious animal gang. But the length of time between this event and those claims should definitely be noted. There is no reference to an animal gang at the siege in the Garda reports at the time. The Guards compiled a very detailed account of just who attacked this building and what’s interesting about it, they say in their report there was a very large percentage of respectably dressed young women. They talk about the make-up of the crowd and it comes across as a very middle class mob.  I've always believed that republicans and socialists are unwilling to admit just how unpopular they were in the early 1930s and it’s much easier to blame this kind of violence on some animal gang than on those who actually carried it out.Now where things get confusing is in the fact some people who are active at this time, even then made claims of an animal gang attacking them, though a little later. No one made claims as strongly as Peadar O'Donnell, the brilliant novelists and republican activist right through the revolutionary period and into the 1930s. Peadar O'Donnell claims in a 1937 book, that the animal gang were made up of very fine fighting material from the slum basements and were the most effective terrorist gang of 1930s Dublin. He also said that the animal guys were mobilised in an inner city hall at one stage in the 1930s and told by a young woman that the fight in Spain is only a precursor to a war against religion in Ireland and the churches of Dublin would be the first to suffer. O'Donnell claimed that young Dublin youths were gathered into a religious hall and told the Pro-Cathedral would be turned into an anti-God Museum if Communism ever succeeded in Dublin.O'Donnell was not the only one to claim the Left at the time were attacked by the animal gang.  In his 2006 memoirs, Bob Doyle, the last surviving Irishman to fight in the Spanish Civil War before he died claimed that he remembered a gang he knew in the 1930s who were also attacking the Left.  He said they were made up of toughs. They used bicycle chains. He said they would fight Republicans with frequency on O'Connell Street. He also claimed, rather boldly, that the animal gang wore British Legion Poppies under their clothes. Now he believed they fought for the Blueshirts and he always thought a priest organized them. He went on to claim they attacked anyone on the Left: meetings, marches, demonstrations. Now those claims in 2006 they were made long after the events are I’ve never found a reference to an animal gang or inner city youths wearing poppies while attacking Republicans in Dublin.There’s a couple of instances of anti-communist violence in the 1930s that are worth talking about. But firstly to give an extent of how widespread anti-communism was, this is a great story, because this is the band of the Pro-Cathedral, the St. Mary's Pipe Band who in the 1930 in the anti-communist hysteria of the moment are renamed the St. Mary's Anti-Communist Pipe Band, the official band of the Pro-Cathedral. All of the men you're looking at here follow Eoin O’Duffy out to Spain. The Blueshirts in Spain claim that Irish soldiers were unable to march to Spanish music and O’Duffy recruits this band from the inner-city, from the Pro-Cathedral to go to Spain so that, you know, Irish soldiers can march to Spanish airs while in Spain. Brendan Behan famously proclaimed that the Blueshirts were the only army in history to come back with more men than they left with. They did actually come back with more men than they left with because the pipers went out after most of the Blueshirts had gone.On occasion in April 1936 there was a particularly nasty incident in Dublin of anti-communist mob violence that has always been blamed on the animal gang. It was an Easter Rising commemoration in April of that year. One historian has noted that the Communist Party and Republican Congress members were attacked by the animal gangs as they marched to Glasnevin Cemetery. Jack White, a man who had been a founding member of the Irish Citizen Army in 1913 but later became a militant anarchist in Spain was there in April 1936 he wrote years later, ‘I had to fight for three kilometres against the Catholic actionists who attacked us on the streets as we marched to honour the memory of the Republican dead who fell at Easter 1916. These were pious hooligans who came inside of the cemetery and tore up grave rails simply to attack us.’  Now this all happened out at Glasnevin Cemetery, and as I say in the folklore of the city, it has often been blamed on animal gangs. What encouraged the crowd to attack this Easter parade? I’ve always thought it was the presence of one man among them, a man called Willie Gallagher who was marching in the Easter parade was a Scottish MP, but more than being a Scottish MP he was a Scottish Communist MP, one of only four Communists ever elected into Westminster in London. There was a brilliant line at the time as Willie Gallagher was marching into Glasnevin Cemetery someone shouted in the mob, ‘Don’t allow that Scottish Communist bastard into a Catholic Cemetery.’ Now the funny thing about that Glasnevin Cemetery is, of course, a non-denominational cemetery where Catholics and Protestants are buried alongside one another, but that fact was lost on the mob.Not only did they attack an Easter parade in April 1936, two days later, at College Green there was another day out. A crowd of between four and five thousand people gathered at a republican meeting where Willie Gallagher the Communist MP was going to speak alongside Irishman Peadar O'Donnell. Now between four and five thousand people turned up for that meeting but Gardaí estimated that ‘about ninety-eight percent of the people at College Green were hostile to the aims of the meeting.’ That’s a pretty good turnout for the hostile crowd. This meeting was stopped from happening. Again, I’ve always believed from the Gardaí reports of who was there on the day, this was not actions of young inner-city newsboys, the initial animal gang. Once again, this was the actions of a rather respectable middle-class mob. Not only did they stop a meeting on College Green from happening, but they later attacked Trinity College Dublin and the Masonic Hall. Now when you look at those three targets Communists, Trinity and the Masonic Hall it indicates a single thing and that is a sense of militant Catholicism at the forefront. Trinity College would've been regarded by the crowd as a Protestant institution. Of course Catholics were forbidden from attending it without the permission of the bishop right until 1970. The Republican Congress organisation at the time blamed the animal gang and other such defenders of faith and morals for the attacks in April, 1936. But was animal gang just shorthand by that stage for violent mob? Did the term mean anything? Certainly those who carried out the violence were far removed from a newspaper strike a few years previously.Now when you're talking about the animal gangs to Dubliners today it's not communism in the 1930s they think of. It's the 1940s and infamous battles, like the Battles of Baldoyle and the Battle of Tolka Park. A certain folklore has emerged around the animal gangs of the 1940s but it’s very, very clear that they are quite far removed from the animal gangs of the 1930s.  I've always believed that the Spanish Civil War is a real turning point in Irish political history. You know the Left and the Right both go and fight in this war, seeing it as a continuation of their own struggles in Ireland. But in many cases they don’t return and the hostility and the militant violence between the Left and Right, in the thirties in Ireland, the street politics if you will, really seems to die out with the Civil War in Spain in the late 1930s. By the 1940s people talk about the animal gangs in a very, very different sense. Kevin Kearns in his oral history books of Dublin has done very, very good work on the animals in the 1940s. These seem to be totally different gangs who were in no way occupied with the Republican movement but rather gangs that were affiliated to bookies, affiliated to publicans and the like and who were involved in just simple criminality. A folklore has also emerged that the animal gangs were smashed in the 1940s by Garda James C Branigan or Lugs Branigan as he is known to generations of Dubliners. In his biography of Garda James C Branigan, Bernard Neary writes that the 1940s saw the Gardaí and indeed the state adopt a much tougher approach to Dublin gangs. I mentioned two instances there in my introduction to the ‘40s which are particularly interesting: a battle at Baldoyle and another battle at Tolka Park dragged the animal gangs back to the front pages of newspapers. In fact the battle at Baldoyle which was said to be orchestrated by two Dublin bookmakers in May of 1940 displaced the Second World War from the top of the national media in Ireland and whipped up hysteria in the capital that the animal gang were still alive and well.Now that battle is a story for another study and another day but while focusing on the ‘30s I always like to briefly mention the Battle of Tolka Park in 1942, because I think it’s one of the most obscure moments in history of youth gang violence in Dublin. In March 26th 1942 nine youths were charged in Dublin with attempted murder because of a battle, or a clash to give guidance on the pitch of Shelbourne Football Club in Tolka Park. ‘Dublin Football Venue Onslaught’ read the headlines of The Irish Times reporting on truly bizarre scenes. During a clash between Mountain View and St Steven’s United in the Junior Combination Cup, hardly a crowd-puller, blood had been spilled on the terraces of an Irish football stadium. The clash occurred between two rival gangs, the Stafford Street Gang on one hand and the Ashe Street Gang on the other. Now how did two Dublin gangs come to find themselves on the pitch of Tolka Park? Newspaper reports at the time said one gang had rather incredibly gained access to the Stadium by travelling down the river Tolka on makeshift boats. The Irish Press reported that this gang had climbed over the partition from the Riverside into the stadium. The other gang had entered into the ground as a result of the turnstile man leaving his ‘stile, permitting easy access into the ground. The Irish Times, said that none of these youths had paid into the stadium as if that fact was ever in doubt. It was ten minutes into the second half play before the gangs would clash. The Irish Press reported a spectator noting that it was like hell had been let loose and the paper noted that the violence occurred for the something like the region of fifteen minutes, leading to two hundred spectators fleeing from the ground in panic. Arthur Smith, the linesman on the day would note to the papers that he saw a man running with a sword and heard spectators in the crowd shout it's the Ashe Street Gang and the Stafford Street Animal Gang. He also remarked that one man bleeding from the head was carried away from the violence behind the Drumcondra goal and onto the field of play by players. The ref of the day would note that he immediately stopped the game upon seeing the panic in the stands and that the injured man carried onto the field of play was taken into dressing room. Thirty youths were involved in the disturbances. Nine were tried for murder and very, very heavy sentences were handed out against those youths.The idea that Lugs Branigan, shown here, had single-handedly stopped the animal gangs from running wild in Dublin is not something I believe to be true. I don't think you could beat gang violence off the streets by applying the tactics of gang violence and what actually brought about an end of the animal gang in my view, was the very heavy sentences that were handed out to youths in the courts. They were essentially treated as adults would be. Very, very lengthy sentences. Very few of them seem to have become active in gang violence after coming out of prison again. The youths, the nine of them that were charged with murder ranged in age from sixteen to twenty-three. In the June court settings, Lugs Branigan himself came forward and spoke in the courts about the scourge of the animal gangs in Dublin.There’s an entire different layer of folklore around the animal gangs in the 1940s. Dominic Behan, for example in his classic memoirs, Teems of Times and Happy Returns, tells a story about the Dublin animal gang who he says were mainly dockers boarding boats and going to Liverpool where they fought their equivalent for a day and took over the city of Liverpool. How much of that is actually true we’ll never know. And as is so often the case with this kind of Dublin history, the line between fact and folklore is often very, very blurred indeed. But I hope with my research at least what I’ve managed to do is show that in the 1930s it was not the animal gang who were attacking the Left at will but a much higher percentage of ordinary citizens motivated primarily I believe by religious hysteria. So thank you so much for listening. I hope you took something from that today.(applause) 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.

Listen to Kevin McCarthy's reading and talk.Welcome to the Dublin City Public Libraries and Archive Podcast. In this episode author Kevin McCarthy reads from his crime novel 'Irregulars'. Recorded in front of a live audience in the Central Library on 31 October 2013 as part of its 'Crime in the City: Crime and History' series.Hello, how are you? Yeah, I am shocked and delighted to say I was shortlisted there (2013 Irish Book Awards: Crime Fiction Book of the Year) so I’ve just literally jumped in a cab from the Theatre to come over so I’m really delighted, and thanks very much to Mary and I’d like to thank as well Dublin Libraries for having me. My new novel is called Irregulars. It's an historical crime novel set in Dublin in 1922, during the Irish Civil War and what I’d like to do…I’ll read three passages they are about five minutes each to give you a kind of a sense of the book and some of the characters in it, without hopefully giving anything away at the same time - it is a mystery. My first novel Peeler with the same character Sean O'Keefe was set in West Cork during the War of Independence when Sean O’Keefe was an RIC man. In this novel Sean O’Keefe has been demobbed obviously and the RIC has been disbanded. So he is kind of at a loose end. So whereas my first novel Peeler was kind of a police procedural, if you will, it was set during the War of Independence; Irregulars is kind of…I was describing it recently, it just came to me and I liked it, a noir war novel if that’s possible. So it’s kind of a mystery more in the private detective genre I suppose than police procedural like the first.So I’ll take three passages. So the first passage is Sean O'Keefe himself who’d be the protagonist, the main character in the book.O’Keefe's mother had told him that his father had been employed by a woman named Dolan. That his father had taken on the work to repay a debt he would not disclose to wife or son, despite it driving him to wake in terror sweats, shouting, pleading with the darkness.‘I didn't know… she never told me, I couldn't have known…please…’‘Told you what, Da?’ O'Keefe had ventured the night before, but his father had responded to his question with the same blank look that O’Keefe had come to recognise, the vagueness in his features that spoke of shadows, voids in his father's mind. ‘You'll see to it, won’t you, son?’ his mother had asked. ‘Your father’s not able. It would shame him, it would, if the woman were to see him like he is…’‘You know her?’ O’Keefe had asked her in turn. ‘This Dolan woman?’‘Not at all. Don't be daft,’ his mother had said, turning away. Now O’Keefe dresses in his freshly laundered suit of clothes. Civilian clothes marking the civilian he has become. A grey suit, white shirt and starched collar, though O’Keefe notices now that the shirt is not his own and must be his father's.Even after five months as a civilian, he catches himself staring at this unfamiliar image in the mirror and, as he knots his tie, thinks back to the day he marched in the RIC’s last parade before disbandment, his polished black boot slapping the smooth cobbles of the Phoenix Park Depot parade-ground. The lowering of the Union Jack and the raising of the Irish tricolour. He remembers the way he folded his bottle-green uniform trousers on the hanger with the coat and the hat, and how he had left them on the bunk there in the Depot.  Like a second skin, the armour of his past life shed, exchanged for this one suit of grey wool. The suit of everyman. Making him feel somehow less a man in the world now than he was before.His childhood home behind him, O’Keefe turns onto Clanbrassil Street, slow-hoofs it to Patrick Street and past St Patrick's Cathedral, Foley’s pub across the way, the public baths on his right, the address of the Dolan woman folded in his pocket. The streets are filled with the clatter and shriek of tram wheels on rails and the clanging of tram bells; the splutter and belch of coal lorries and motor cars; the clopping of cart-horses, movement and light assaulting O’Keefe’s eyes. He starts, goose-pimples peppering his skin as barefooted boys scarper from an alleyway, fleeing some unseen misdemeanour.Knock the booze on the head, he thinks. Too much of it altogether since he left the Peelers. He thinks again that he should have joined his barrack mates who signed on with The Palestinian Police after disbandment. The Greater Manchester Police as well was looking for experienced men. Or he could always go up north, to the six counties excluded from the Free State by the Treaty, as many other Peelers had done. Take a job at the very wellspring of the civil war now raging. Like the policing he had done in the Tan War, policing in Ulster-they had changed the name to the Royal Ulster Constabulary-would be little more than presiding over pogroms and sectarian bigots with their banners and sashes and such. No thanks, pal. Still, though he is wary, he is happy for this job, happy to repay his father’s debt, whatever it may be. If only because nothing good comes of an Irishman with too much time on his hands.A newspaper boy interrupts his reverie, hawking the dailies. Read it he-ar! Free State Army crush Irregulars in Cork. Many dead, the newsboy shouts, nearly singing. Lo-ads reported dead. Read it he-ar!O’Keefe continues on up towards Christ Church Cathedral, passing young girls begging for coppers, clutching baby siblings to their scrawny chests or selling matches, some selling themselves. Common as rain in winter-women, girls hawking themselves in the laneways, doorways and cold water flats of the city. More whores than anywhere on earth, so it’s said. Dublin, city of whores and angry men. Which is he? he thinks, and shakes his head at the routes taken by his mind when he lets it run.He passes fruit and vegetable stalls. Thomas's bicycle repair shop-push bikes upturned on the footpath like obstructions in no-man's land. O'Brien and Sons Butchers next, the coppery scent of blood from the open doorway suffusing the October air, seeping into O'Keefe's consciousness and turning his mind to memories of battle, but this time he does not let his thoughts wander. Instead, he forces them down into the place on the sea-floor of his memory where he keeps them. The murder hole he has named it, and smiles sadly that he should have need of such a place, and wonders would there ever be a time when the smell of a butcher’s shop would not remind him of the war.In thinking this, O’Keefe considers how memory-experience-is locked into the meat of the body. He has no believe in a soul, or anything so elevated, but he does believe-he has read this recently during one of his long, clock-killing afternoons in the library and agrees with it - that memory becomes embedded in the physical self; that traces of all past action lay dormant in the muscle, in the sinew and tissue and blood of a man like some latent, malarial sickness and return to attack the mind and body in the form of recollection, unbidden, unexpected. No better than beasts, we are, he thinks as he continues walking, as much slave to the senses as any butcher’s dog seeking scraps at the sound of the knife strop.Irregulars (pp. 31-33)That’s the first bit there that just gives you a sense of maybe of O’Keefe and what kind of character he is and the Dublin that he inhabits in 1922 which again I’ll talk about I suppose when I’m finished reading. The second bit I’ll read is just a bit- again without giving too much away, the book involves in some ways, and again I didn’t perhaps realise this until I’d finished writing it but it involves maybe the treatment of children in war-time and in this particular passage, a messenger boy has been captured or lifted by whom we do not know yet in the book so far. So I’ll read you this bit and I don't think it gives too much away but it might give you a sense…this boy is fifteen years old and it was common enough for young boys to be fighting on both sides, Free State side and the Republican side during the  Civil War and indeed the War of Independence. Whether they were viewed as children as such again is one of the questions the book asks I hope.The messenger boys is no longer sobbing, but tears well in his eyes and run down his face when he blinks, his cheeks hot with shame because crying is not what proper soldiers of the Irish Republican Army do.Nor do they wet themselves in terror, as he has done, in the back of the motor car as they brought him here, the man seated next to him letting out a roar when he felt the piss encroaching onto his side of the bench seat and driving his elbow into the boy’s mouth, cutting the boy’s lip against his teeth.The messenger boy sniffs back blood and snot and tries to wipe the tears from his face with his shoulder. He cannot use his hands because they are cuffed so tightly behind him that he has lost all feeling in them. His legs are also bound with the belt from his own trousers, and men have left him on the muddy floor with his back against the damp wall of this derelict cottage, the interior of which holds a cold darkness all its own, colder even, the boy imagines, than outside.Shivering, unable to warm himself, he swallows back his fear and wonders how long he has been here, in the dark. And he wonders where the other boy has been taken. They had brought him in the car as well, the thief curled up on the floor of the Ford, resting their boots on him, digging their heels into his ribs, his balls, when he whimpered. The messenger wonders whether the other boy had pissed his trousers as well. Would serve him right if he had, the filthy, robbing gouger.The enemy is everywhere, he thinks, Free State traitor bastards and street robbers; dippers and tenement scum like the lad with the fish-knife. When the Republic comes – the proper, goodo, decent Republic the IRA had fought the Tans and Tommies for and not this half-arsed, cap-tipping Free State model sold to an ignorant people by Collins and Griffith and their mob of Crown stooges – they will clean up the streets right enough. No more dark lanes and mugger boys with knives. The streets are full of them, his mother has always said, and it flashes through his mind to tell his mother what happened, how the two had tried to rob him.  She was always on to him, when he was younger, about minding himself on the streets.Tears well again in his eyes, and he swallows down the hard lump of sadness and fear in his throat. Another thing no proper soldier of the Republic would do: cry for his mammy when his prick is in fire. Like his is now.He sniffs again, and resolves to buck up and act like a soldier. No more tears, for the sake of all that’s right and holy. I’m fifteen years old, he thinks. Not some youngfella in short trousers mitching from school, but a scout, a messenger, a soldier of the IRA, Dublin Brigade, and now a prisoner of war, no less. He is momentarily pleased by this. I am a prisoner of war, he tells himself, thinking of the letter he will write his mother. Dear mother, fear not for my safety. I am currently a prisoner of war…And he resolves to say nothing to the men who have brought him here, no matter what they do to him. The message to Mr Murphy in Burton’s Hotel had been delivered, as ordered, mouth to ear, and no evidence of this can be found on his person. So he will keep the head down, the mouth shut, no matter what they try on him. He is certain of this. He will make Commandant O’Hanley proud, he will, straightening his back against the wall and wishing he had a cigarette, though he has only recently begun smoking.For some time he lets his mind wander in the dark, images of himself in the uniform of a soldier – in his fantasy it is a British Army uniform, as familiarity brings it to his mind first, and the army he fights for does not yet have one – of himself on a gallows, his eyes blindfolded, a rakish cigarette dangling from his lip, a fine sweet weeping girleen dabbing at her eyes. He smiles to himself.  A prisoner of war, I am. He only wishes his friend were with him. At least then he would not be alone in the dark.  Even that thieving bastard of a robber would be company. Even him.He wonders again what has become of the other boy, and as if his thoughts have provoked it, the thief boy begins to scream. The scream comes from outside the cottage and is piercing and girlish. One word is intelligible. The word is No.The messenger boy shivers in the cold. The tears overflow his eyes and run down his cheeks, and this time he does nothing to try to staunch them. Different images now parade through his head.Irregulars (pp. 24-25)Okay and then the third and last passage… this involves another I suppose co-protagonist and her name is Nora, Nora Flynn. She works for the CID, the Criminal Investigation Department based in Oriel House. The CID, just to give you a bit of background, they were the…I’m trying to think of an equivalent, I don’t know, like the NKVD in Russia, I suppose.  They were the intelligence department and special policing, political police, basically during the time of the Civil War and for shortly after.  People in Dublin were terrified of them, people around the country were terrified of them, they kind of had carte blanche, and they were founded originally by members of Michael Collins’s squad. So you might imagine they didn’t do a whole of detecting but they did do a whole lot of shooting.  In researching the book what I found was really interesting was there were six women on the rosters. I’ll talk a bit about the CID records in a minute when I finish, but literally the only CID records you can find is pension lists, and on it are six women and they are down as typists, but in other accounts you read, in other departments they are called “cloaked as typists”. So they weren’t actually typists they had other work; they were spies and intelligence officers themselves.  In the CID they were called Detective Officers. Initially the character, I intended to make him a male character but when I came upon this list, and that’s kind of the joy of writing historical fiction is that you come upon things and you say, Oh I’ll have to use that. So Nora came to life as a female agent I suppose and really moved the book in directions that I didn't expect it to take in the first place.  So I’ll read you this:Nora had never considered herself to be a Republican. She had become one eventually – or the Free State, pro-Treaty version of a republican, if such were even possible - but reluctantly, only after she had begun passing information to Ned Broy, DMP detective and one of the IRA’s men inside the Castle, who would in turn pass her information on to Michael Collins and the volunteers who would use it against her employers in Crown intelligence. Two years ago. It seems a lifetime. A reluctant rebel now working for the most feared unit in the entire country. A ‘typist’ spy. A paper killer.Nora had always been a good girl. Decent and kind and perhaps a bit spoiled. The daughter of an accountant father and piano teacher mother, she had finished her schooling in the Loreto convent on Stephen’s Green at sixteen and entered the typist pool in the Dublin Corporation offices after attending secretarial college. Her older sisters had found fine husbands and Nora, it was assumed, would do the same after some years of light work.She could be opinionated, as the nuns had noted in their reports - Nora has come to think of them now as intelligence reports when she allows herself to think of her past -  but had been generally obedient and well-liked by the nuns and her classmates. A bright, mild-mannered girl who reflected her social class and rearing.From Dublin Corporation to Dublin Castle after reading an advertisement in The Irish Times for skilled typists and filers. The pay had been better, and there was something the slightest bit thrilling about the idea of working behind the great walls of the Castle among the men in uniform and government. Three happy years there, in the Lord Lieutenant's offices, before the Tan War ignited in 1919 and she was transferred to the offices of the Chief of Combined Intelligence Services in Ireland as an epitomiser - a glorified reference librarian for the various networks of Crown spies in Ireland. Typing, filing and compiling like any other secretary in the country, except that was intelligence reports and dossiers on IRA men she filed for the people whom many – including her own brothers – considered to be the enemy of the people of Ireland. She typed and filed and lunched in the Castle canteens or on benches on the parade ground with other girls from the typing pool. And in the evenings she went to dances with officers and intelligence men: even the odd RIC constable, up from the country on prison escorts or protection details. It had been a good life. The benighted contentment of a young modern city girl.She had enjoyed the work at first. From the cold, bureaucratic distance of the Castle ‘I Division’ offices, she did a thorough and efficient job of absorbing intelligence from disparate sources, surprising herself with her ability to remember aliases and names gleaned from various reports and documentation. She proved equally adept at scouring old photographs collected in raids of suspects’ houses and matching them to custody photographs to prove identity. The ability was noted by her superiors, and soon she was asked to work on specific cases, assigned by agents of the secret service, British Army intelligence and RISC Crimes Special Branch to consolidate, or epitomise as it was called in I-Division, information on men requiring ‘urgent attention’ from their services.Nora slumps into the single, hard-backed chair at the table, the table’s surface bare but for a half-full ashtray bristling with dog-ends. She laughs through her nose and takes out a Murad Turkish from her handbag. The Crown had been masters of euphemism. How naïve she had been. ‘Urgent Attention’ when what they meant was murder.And now, she thinks, lighting her cigarette, the Free State Army and the Dáil are becoming as bad as their past masters. The anti-Treatyites, no longer to be called Republicans in the newspapers, by order of the Free State Director of Communications, but instead ‘Irregulars’ or ‘rebels’. No longer will the Irregulars ‘attack’ or ‘commandeer’ or ‘arrest’, but now ‘fire at’ or ‘loot’ or ‘kidnap’ like common criminals. Her colleagues in the CID ‘attend’ to their targets. Nobody says ‘kill.’ ‘Shoot.’ ‘Dispatch.’ But this is what she had abetted in the Castle, and it is what she does now: picks targets and sources routes for the shooters. Puts names to faces. A pointer bitch, she thinks. A gundog in her second war now. A proper veteran spook.Irregulars (pp. 107-108)That’s it for the readings now.(applause)Thanks very much. Now a bit more about the CID maybe to start off with. In Peeler and in Irregulars what I’m trying to get at is the underbelly of the founding of the Free State. In the sense that Nation States…you know the accepted view of history that certainly that I was taught, and I think many of us were taught was one of kind of black and white, British/Irish, good/evil, there was a kind of Manichean divide and I’ve always found the story of the founding of the Irish Free State a little bit too simplistic not that I’m attempting anything greatly revisionist or anything. But I think there is a lot of stuff available there about the founding of the Free State. All nation states in their founding have a nasty underbelly, and I think…and that’s not to discount the fact that what resulted was ultimately a very good thing. You know eighty, ninety, seventy-five years of very good stable democracy in a wonderful country. But as a crime novelist particularly I thought crime fiction is the ideal way to examine that underbelly, you know the nastiness that goes on, that is later covered up. You know and the myth then presides, you know, in order to have myths of the founding of any state you have to bury some of the ugly stuff.  What I hope I’ve done is…I haven’t uncovered particularly - all the stuff is there but I hope I’ve revealed perhaps some of the ugliness that went on, know that the compromises that are made, the very anti-democratic means, that are used to uphold democracy, ironically which again, as I said happens in virtually every state.So one of the things I discovered anyway the CID were a very nasty crew, as were Free State Army intelligence as well. But I think one of the things that inspired me to write this particular story was the fact that when I looked into CID files in the archives you can’t find any. So I asked somebody, I said, ‘Why are there no CID files?’, and they said ‘Well, they were burned in the 1930s. Well I had two dates, one said 1927 and the other said 1933 - every CID case file was burned by the Minister for Home Affairs or the Office of Home Affairs which is now the Department of Justice. So I asked why. One of the archivists was very funny and she said, ‘Well, you know, there were no peace and reconciliation committees then.’ So I thought this was a really interesting aspect that in order for the Republic to move onwards and to become properly Democratic we had to start fresh. And you had people sitting next to each other in government who had done horrible things to each other and to each others’ families and things like this and that in some ways I almost vaguely understand why they did it. I am appalled by it on one hand and particularly looking back at it. Any historian is appalled by it as well. But I can almost vaguely see if we are going to go ahead with this is project that is the Irish nation state, the Republic of Ireland as we know it now. You have to let bygones be bygones in some ways, getting rid of the evidence expedited that. But as a novelist it actually presents a great opportunity. You know, there are accounts of the crimes and we know who committed some of them and we know who shot who and we know the CID men who were killed and like I said there are pension lists and stuff like that that you can find.  And indeed some, though not as many CID as you might expect went into the Guards then when the Garda Síochána was founded. But not many because the state knew that these were not men that maybe police work came naturally to, to put it lightly.  So you can find the pension lists but as a novelist that absence is a great place to work from. Barry Unsworth, the great English historical novelist, always said that he strives for authenticity over veracity. So while I start with real cases as my thing, the absence of files allows you to generate authenticity without having to rely on the veracity of the actual cases.  So I think it kind of his aids you as a fiction writer.The other thing maybe Dublin at the time too is kind of interesting. In the novel O’Keefe has left the RIC in that passage – he hasn’t left it it’s been disbanded. And again like I said – and I find this really interesting too, and there is a great novel for someone who wants to do the research, a lot of the RIC men went and joined the Palestinian Police.  So they went from policing a very troubled and sectarian situation here to one in Palestine and Jerusalem there. In fact, in 1922, I can’t think of his name, but the Chief of the Palestinian Police was a former RIC man himself.  So he welcomed these RIC men to Palestine and Jerusalem with open arms. A lot of them also went to Manchester and joined the Manchester Police.  It was very sad to say after the boycott and after the War of Independence a lot of RIC men could not go back to their hometowns.  Others, you read did deals with the local IRA. If they were not perceived to have been very vigorous in their persecution or prosecution of the IRA during the War of Independence, some of them, after consultation were allowed to return to their hometowns. Others were not. And another thing that I discovered, which is again not really much in the historical record is a lot of RIC men were shot during the time of the treaty when there was a supposed cease-fire on. They were taken off trains and murdered and things like this on their way home, or a lot of them just disappeared. So we know that a lot emigrated to Canada. We know that a lot went up north and joined the RUC, Palestinian Police, Greater Manchester Police but a lot actually flat-out disappeared. There were scores settled and things like that in that period when it was supposed to be a cease-fire. And that’s also not to discount the fact that the RIC did some very nasty things during the War of Independence as well. But O’Keefe then anyway ends up back in Dublin. He’s a Dubliner. And discovers that his father is ill and takes on this case for a very powerful madam in Monto in Dublin. So that’s the basis for the book.So what I’d like to do now is take any questions if anybody has some it’d be great if I could.Q & AQuestion 1: Can you tell us a bit about how you did your research? Did you go to the existing archives that still exist or are there any books you can recommend?Kevin: Yeah it’s funny because a lot of the research for Peeler overlapped with this, but then I had to go and look at the Civil War specifically and actually one of things I found most difficult is the Civil War is exceedingly difficult to explain in a fictional sense. You don’t want reams and reams of pages explaining things. So to get it down to a fictionally compact unit is very hard to explain. And I had to go and really clarify things for myself. So what I started with is the big books, the Charles Townshend and the Civil War. Townsend has a new book out now actually on the whole period; he's wonderful and in terms of the macro picture. Then oh gosh books….I don’t know I read pretty much anything there was. I’m trying to think was there anything really unique, really interesting. I actually managed to get a copy of Charles Dalton's memoirs from the War of Independence. A friend of mine's father lent it to me and it was actually signed by Charles Dalton so it was kind of a precious heirloom which I read very carefully, kid gloves and all. And that was really, really interesting because it kind of disguised form, and I won't say much more about it. Dalton is kind of a character. Dalton was a member of the Dublin Brigade in the War of Independence and was kind of a notorious figure in the Civil War. Now his memoirs only go up to the…finish with the War of Independence. And he was involved with some other things afterwards, possibly, allegedly. So it’s almost a primary source; it’s not. And of course the archives were a great source, and the memoirs of Irish seamen. Some of the research I did for Peeler was actually more interesting. I went to the Imperial War Museum in London and I looked at diaries from the trenches. O’Keefe is a war veteran I should say that to you. He fought in Gallipoli on V beach. If people are familiar with it – in the doomed landings that the Irish, Dublin and Munster Fusiliers did there at V Beach. I was able to get some diaries from the trenches and from soldiers that had served in Gallipoli. I wanted to get a sense of the experiences for to write about but also I wanted to get a sense of how they talked. One of the diaries is really interesting because he put in every swear word but he just put a line where it would be.  So you just get a sense that this is exactly how people spoke. And one of the things I took from it too, you know, Downton Abbey and things aside, is just how modern…you know I think we tend to think of that period as being quite a long time ago and things were different then, but I think a lot of expressions and things that we use in speech now and think of as very modern were actually quite common then. A lot of the military terms, a lot of the swearing, a lot of the sentiments you know about war and its futility and things like that which we think of as post-war sentiments were actually very existent then. So those are kind of some of the ways I did it. One of the pleasures of being a historical novelist, one of the pleasures and the banes, I suppose because a lot of the research is really fun to do and it’s really interesting and you wouldn’t write about if you weren’t interested in it in the first place. I’m doing a new novel which is not in this series, although I am going back to this series, I’ve found myself reading the diaries of this Pioneer woman – I’m literally falling asleep reading it and I was thinking why do I have to read this? But you do because the great thing about research is it takes the story in a different direction and quite often you think you have a story set and then you come across like the fact that there were female agents and the story goes in a completely different direction. I love that about research. I tend to research widely first and then go and research for things I need in the story specifically. It’s kind of daunting sometimes. I was on the radio with an historian recently and he had a vast, comprehensive knowledge of the subject and I have kind of a fraudulent gadfly’s, you know a magpie’s knowledge of it because fiction writers research to suit the story as much as anything. I could never write a scholarly treatise on the period. But the research suddenly it will throw something up from the dullest, most banal text and you suddenly think, I have to use that. That’s fascinating. Or what often happens too is your story will be going one direction and something you read will confirm it, you know, I wonder if they would have done that? and then suddenly you’ll just fortuitously stumble upon something – they did do that. Thank God!Question 2:  How long did it take you to write it? What do you do when you get writer’s block?Kevin: My first book Peeler took a lot longer time because I had a lot more research about the whole period to do, about World War I, about the War of Independence, about the 1910s, the 1920s itself. That took me about three years to write.  Irregulars took me two years to write – about 6 months of research maybe, and a year and a half writing. I have the day job obviously. In fact there’s a great quote I read recently that’s…Jess Walter who wrote that book Beautiful Ruins it was quite big this summer, but there was a great quote by him he said when a writer tells you he spent fifteen years writing a book. What he means is he spent thirteen years full of drinking and self-loathing, and two years writing a book. And I thought that was a great quote. So when I say it took me two years - day job, self-loathing, drinking included – it probably took me about a year and a half, two years.Writers block? Touch wood I haven't gotten it. What I do find happens is if I sit down every day…I say every day, of course I don't. But I tend to get up early in the mornings before work and do it. When I’m writing a rough draft I don't care if it’s good or bad. Whatever goes out on the page, goes down on the page and once I get, you know eight hundred to a thousand words done they can be rubbish. But I have this notion that if I have a stack of pages I can always fix them. Sometime you are blocked when you sit down or you can’t figure out what’s going to happen. But then you just write rubbish and then suddenly something comes out of that.The other thing I tend to do is I tend to have a story, fermenting I suppose, over a couple of months. So you do have a sense of what you are going to write about generally. But then I don’t have any particular plan. I wing it and I just start. I have a scene, maybe or some dialogue and start. And then I get about a third of the way through and I find myself in a cul-de-sac. So then I stop and I plan the rest of it.  I wouldn't be able to the plan it from the very beginning. I know writers do it - literally A this chapter, B this is going to be it.  I would find that a bit…for me personally that it would be almost like work. Whereas I do need to figure it out at one point usually about fifty or sixty pages in, I have to go back and plan. And inevitably where I think I’ve started the book is always too early. I usually scrap maybe fifty or sixty pages. I usually write the beginnings last, that’s one thing I do too. But I always, I just have the faith. I wrote four novels before Peeler was published. None of which were published. I get the sense now that I can do it. If I sit down, something will come and even if it’s rubbish and a lot of it is you can always fix it. If you have nothing you can’t fix it but if you have a lot you can fix it. So that’s the sense I get.Question 3: Well it turned out very, very good. Coming back to your first excerpt where you were talking about the trams and the sounds of the trams and all that. Is that your imagination purely? I’d be a bit older myself and I thought it was tremendously atmospheric what you said. It would certainly come through very, very well in an audio version of the book. The question remains have you any basis for it?Kevin: Thank you. Everything – in the way that all things influence. I suppose from films I've seen, from other books I’ve read. Reading contemporary novels from the period give you a lot of stuff that the drier scholarly texts don’t. I mean Strumpet City would be an influence and there are bits of homage throughout. Also the O’Flaherty novels were big.  So reading novels from the period I think is a good way to get that sense. And if you rob little bits here and there or you certainly take images from it and then they are filtered through all the other images you have. What I love about Dublin – I live in County Dublin now, but I lived in the city for eight or nine years and one of the things, coming from abroad like I did, is that I loved the fact that so much of what's in this book and I loved when I first got, there is so much history here.  So you know walking up or driving up Clanbrassil Street now, occasionally you do see a coal wagon with a horse. You don’t have trams anymore there or things like that. But I find going around Dublin it’s not that big a stretch to imagine what it would have been like. Virtually every locale in the book is still there now for me. I definitely included some of my favourite pubs in different scenes and things like that. So I would say mostly imagination, but in the filtered through those different things. There was a street scene in Peelers where I came across shawlies, the old women...and this was down in Cork City obviously. But the shawlies used to sell mass cards and religious cards and you know relic cards I suppose. But they also under their shawls would keep dirty postcards as well and sell those too and I came across that and I thought, ‘I have to use them’. That they are selling both and there is no division between them. So those kind of things you come across and you say, ‘Oh I’ll stick that in!’Comment: I’m from the Clanbrassil Street area and I think you got it right. From today you’d have trouble going back to certainly 1922Kevin: Thanks very much. His house where he lives, I can’t think of the address – it’s in there someplace. But I actually found it on Google Maps. It was the first time I’d ever used Google Street View. So I knew from the earlier book - and it was just a throw away - that he had Jewish neighbours I think that’s why so I had to have an area...but I actually found it on Google Street View.One of the reason I wrote Irregulars as a noir novel to some extent is that it was a particularly dark period of Irish history much more so than the War of Independence. There’s a lot of British intelligence reports you can read that say just how little touting there was, or little informing there was during the War of Independence. Although people were appalled by some of the atrocities in the War of Independence it was a generally popular campaign, generally, I say, again someone could debate that obviously but whereas the Civil War was far nastier, so much personal enmity. Again I read a statistic somewhere that something like seventy percent of all the killings in the War of Independence were done with a revolver, so that shows you how close you had to be and it’s a very similar statistic for the Civil War. It's slightly lower. There was actually more pitched fighting in some ways there were actually battle lines and things like that in Limerick and in a few other places in the Civil War than in the traditional guerrilla war of the War of Independence. But the thing that stands out is how well everyone knew everybody. Obviously you have a huge increase in people joining the Free State army, mainly for wages because the economy was bad and people needed a wage. Truce-aleers they were called, who had no kind of part in the War of Independence but then joined up afterwards. The greatest term of derision used by anyone with Republican leanings was, ‘oh he’s a truce-aleer’; he joined after the truce. But at the ground level, particularly in Dublin everyone knew who was shooting at you pretty much and there were cases of people torturing people they had fought alongside.One account I read and this is debateable, I’m not sure if this is true or not was that the big attack by the Irregulars, by the Republicans on Wellington Barracks, Griffith Barracks now, was because certain Free State Intelligence Officer ran a torture centre, in what is now primary school interestingly. They had tortured one commander’s brother and so they said we are going to attack the whole barracks. And they did and they killed one or two Free State guys but they lost seven or eight in the ensuing pursuit and in fact they actually captured a bunch of guys who were innocent and killed them too.  Things were so personal. You know O’Higgins and the executions as well - the best man at his wedding – whose name escapes me – [Rory] O’Connor.Image right: O'Higgin's wedding - back row l-r: Éamon de Valera, Kevin O'Higgins and O'Connor at O'Higgins' wedding, 1921. O'Higgins was later to sign O'Connor's execution orderSorry there was a question there.Question 4: Your character O’Keefe sounds very much like Harry Bosch or John Rebus. Was that your idea to create a character who is kind of suspicious of everybody and doesn’t trust anyone.Kevin: Well funnily enough I love the Michael Connolly novels. I loved them. I wasn’t aware until after Peeler, but Harry Bosch is a Vietnam vet and he’s a World War I vet, he’s a policeman and he was definitely an influence on me.  Michael Connolly is coming to Trinity College, he's launching his book. There is an Irish Crime Fiction: A Festival is on in Trinity College - I am plugging it here - the 22nd- 23rd November and there is a panel speaking on historical crime fiction which I’m part of and Eoin McNamee is chairing it. He’s one of my favourite Irish writers as well, he’s wonderful. Michael Connolly is launching his book, his newest book. It’s the first time he’s been to Ireland so I’m really looking forward to that because he’d be an influence.Question 5: Why did you decide historical crime fiction instead of just modern crime fiction?Kevin: I’ve always read crime fiction. I read everything kind of basically. But I’ve always loved crime fiction I suppose but at the same time I have a great love of history and the two kind of combined. My mother-in-law's father, so my wife's grandfather was an RIC man. It was several years into my marriage before I figured this out and my mother-in-law had a copy of Jim Herlihy's RIC: A Genealogical Guide [The Royal Irish Constabulary: A short history & genealogical guide with a select list of medals and casualties. Jim Herlihy foreword by Kevin B. Nowlan]. And I picked it up and thought this is really interesting and at the same time I think I was looking to write another book – I’d had no success with the last one.  You know you are in kind of a fallow period and everything strikes you as a good idea for a novel. You know you watch a football match and you think that’s a great idea for a novel and then you end up discarding most of them, but then some stick.  So I picked up this and read this and the very same evening, or shortly afterwards I watched a documentary during the big push in Iraq, in Fallujah. I watched a think it was BBC documentary on the Iraqi police that were working alongside the American troops and how they were being targeted and things like this and things started crossing over and I thought wow that’s a very similar experience that these Iraqi men must be having to what the common garden RIC man had during the War of Independence with the boycott and the targeting and everything else. And as I started to think who were the RIC? The RIC, if you look at any guard out on Moore Street they were exactly them. They were ninety-eight percent Irish, this is before the introduction of the Black and Tans and the auxiliaries. But they were ninety-eight per cent Irish, Catholic, most of them were in favour of some sort of Home Rule. They were big men. They had to be over a certain size and they had to have girth requirements. They had to have a certain level of literacy and numeracy, which was higher generally than average. It was a job for life. They married teachers. You know they were exactly the same yet they were shot down in every town in this country they were shot. I wanted to write it. I thought it was perfect for a crime novel you know. And then I started reading more too. A lot of them joined up and fought in World War I and then came back to their jobs and how traumatized they must have been there. There was just a lot that was ripe for a novel.  I think it was one of those rare things where it stuck and you think, I’ll try it.  Then you write ten pages, you write twenty, thirty and fifty and you realise I can’t stop now.Characters sort of develop themselves when they start talking they kind of develop personalities.  And then of course there are crime novel staples that that you use. Although in the passage he talks about drinking too much he’s not your typical alcoholic, divorced, rule-breaking detective. In fact when he’s in the RIC it’s one of the things that he thinks will maintain order is if everyone still follows the rules. He views the insurrection or the War of Independence as people stopping…they are not following the rules anymore and where there's no rules, no order, there’s chaos and there’s murders and there’s things like this. I hope he is somewhat different than the average detective, but of course he is recognizable as a fictional detective as well.Question 6: How do you write? Do you write on paper or do you use a word processor?Kevin: Mainly computer. I went to High School in America and we were forced to take typing and still one of the most useful classes I ever took was typing. I can type faster than I can hand write. Although the new novel I’m writing now just as an experiment I wanted to try and hand write it.  I’ve found two things. One that you do write slightly differently I find. Now it’s a very different subject matter. There’s a different degree of flow, there’s a physicality to it that’s slightly different. And when I'm typing it up now I'm finding the sentences…they’re longer. I've a tendency towards long sentences anyway. Half my life is spent chopping sentences into three or four sentences. But I find there’s a flow to it that's very different from typing. I’m not saying it’s better or worse. The other thing I’m finding is that it’s really hard to keep up with transcribing it onto the typewriter without changing it as you’re going along. I'm a big believer in just write the draft. Get it finished. Don’t change anything. Don't even look back at it. Because every time you look back at it and try to edit while you are working you kind of start to panic… oh this is no good. But what I’ve found it I have so many reams of notebooks that I’m having to transcribe it and then it’s very difficult not to edit, to self-edit while you are typing. So it’s a longer process too. You are writing, then you are typing, then you are editing, then you are editing kind of thing. So I think I'll continue with it. I’m about a third of the way done with the new one and I think I'll continue with it because I’ve like it so far. But it’s different. So I think I’m comfortable enough typing you know that kind of way.Question 7: Do you reject much of what you’ve typed? or do you feel I’ve done it and I can’t reject it.Kevin: No, no I throw out a lot. I came across this quote the other day, I think it’s Hemingway or someone who said, ‘write drunk. Edit sober’. Hemingway was kind of a blow hard as well and I doubt that he did much drunk-writing in fact. I don’t think he meant actually inebriated, I think he meant write with abandon and write without any kind of inhibitions or things like that. But then you cast a really cold sober eye on it and most of what you find yourself doing is going, that’s rubbish, that’s rubbish. Cut it out. Occasionally you come across some and you think, that’s good. And then you really read it again a month later you think that could need changes. Even as I’m doing my readings here I’m still putting commas into my head and changing words as I read even still. It’s never perfect.  What’s the phrase? ‘Kill your darlings’. You know some of the best things you write you have to kill. An editor for Peeler wanted two or three whole chapters removed and I was happy to remove two of them, but one of them, I insisted on leaving in and she was fine with that too. But I still think that’s the best chapter in the book that she wanted me to cut. Whereas the other chapters I thought were really well-written but she was right they didn't serve the story particularly well. So I’m not too precious about it if it bottles it up. I still see pieces here where I could have cut and then other bits where I could have added more.Comment:  Was it George Bernard Shaw who wrote to Mrs Patrick Campbell, Madam I am writing you this long letter because I do not have time to write a short letter.Kevin: It’s great. I love that. Someone else said too that ‘hard reading is easy writing; and easy reading is hard writing’. And I think there’s really some truth to that. Not to discount any of the wonderful experimental postmodern novels that we’ve all read. But if it’s hard on the reader there is an easier way to say it and I think it’s the writer’s duty to try to find that way. Hemingway himself said he would rewrite things twenty, thirty times – sentences alone and that comes across. Which is why I don’t believe he wrote drunk in the first place. Anything else? I think we’ll leave it there then if that’s okay. Thanks very much. I appreciate it. 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.

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. 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The Lockout 1913 inspired many poems, ballads, songs and rhymes. Many of which were published in The Irish Worker. These poems and ballads provide a vivid portrait of the conditions faced by Dubliners during the Lockout, the battle between the Irish Transport and General Workers’ Union and the Dublin Employers’ Federation and the key personalities of the time.As part of the City Hall Springtime Lectures Francis Devine and Fergus Russell performed ballads and songs of the 1913 Lockout. Songs include 'Freedom's Pioneers' by James Connolly and 'The Red Hand Badge' by AP Wilson.Right: Image from A Capital in Conflict, Dublin City and the 1913 Lockout. Copyright: Dublin City Library & ArchiveFrancis Devine's accompanying historical commentary gives the background of the Lockout and the songs featured here. He discusses The Irish Worker newspaper, women and the Lockout, Bloody Sunday, victims of the Lockout and figures such as Jim Larkin, William Marting Murphy, Divisional Magistrate E.G. Swifte (aka "forty bob") and Rosie Hackett after whom the newest bridge over the River Liffey was recently named.Listen to songs and poems of the 1913 Lockout with historical commentary by Francis Devine.Read the transcript.Recorded by Dublin Community Television on Tuesday 2nd April 2013 as part of the Spring series of City Hall lectures. The City Hall Lectures are organised by Dublin City Archives.Further ResourcesDublin Commemorations 1913-1916 Sources available at Dublin City Archives.The Reading Room, Dublin City Library and Archive, Pearse Street holds a wealth of material on the history of Dublin, including books, pamphlets, journals, street directories, and almanacs.Browse books on the 1913 Lockout in the Library Catalogue. Dictionary of Irish Biography: Over 9,000 signed biographical articles. Includes many figures from 1913 Lockout mentioned in this talk such as James Larkin, William Martin Murphy, James Connolly, Delia Larkin, Countess Markievicz, Helena Moloney, WP Partridge.The following online resources can be accessed free of charge at your local library (access links via our NetVibes portal). Ask library staff for information and assistance.Dictionary of Irish Biography: A comprehensive and authoritative biographical dictionary for IrelandIrish Times Digital Archive: This online archive service gives access to contemporary editions of the Irish Times from the mid-nineteenth century until the present.Irish Newspaper Archive: This online archive service gives access to contemporary editions of the Irish Independent and a range of other newspapers.The Ireland-JSTOR Collection: This online archive of academic articles can also be accessed free of charge at your local library.

Vincent Lavery is a retired secondary school teacher who taught U.S. Government and Economics in the States. He is an active member of the United States of America Democratic Party. He worked with Senator Robert F Kennedy's campaign for president in 1968.