A Prayer for the Dying (v5) (11 page)

'Where in hell did you spring from?' Daniel demanded. 'Never mind that,' Fallon said. 'What's going on in there?'

Daniel knew trouble when he saw it, but completely miscalculated his man. 'You little squirt,' he said contemptuously. 'Get the hell out of it.'

He moved in fast, his hands reaching out to destroy, but they only fastened on thin air as his feet were kicked expertly from beneath him.

He thudded against the wet pavement and scrambled to his feet, mouthing obscenities. Fallon seized his right wrist with both hands, twisting it up and around. Daniel gave a cry of agony as the muscle started to give. Still keeping that terrible hold in position, Fallon ran him headfirst into the railings.

Daniel pulled himself up off his knees, blood on his face, one hand out in supplication. 'No more, for Christ's sake.'

'All right,' Fallon said. 'Answers then. What's the game?'

'They're supposed to turn the place over.'

'Who for?' Daniel hesitated and Fallon kicked his feet from under him. 'Who for?'

'Jack Meehan,' Daniel gabbled.

Fallon pulled him to his feet and stood back. 'Next time you get a bullet in the kneecap. That's a promise. Now get out of it.'

Daniel turned and staggered into the darkness.

At the first sudden noisy rush, Father da Costa knew he was in trouble. As he moved forward, a bench went over and then another. Hands pawed at him, someone pulled his cassock. He was aware of Anna crying out in alarm and turning, saw O'Hara grab her from behind, arms about her waist.

'Now then, darlin', what about a little kiss?' he demanded.

She pulled away from him in a panic, hands reaching out blindly and cannoned into the trestle table, knocking it over, soup spilling out across the floor, plates clattering.

As Father da Costa fought to get towards her, O'Hara laughed out loud. 'Now look what you've done.'

A soft, quiet voice called from the doorway, cutting through the noise.

'Mickeen O'Hara. Is it you I see?'

The room went quiet. Everyone waited. O'Hara turned, an expression of disbelief on his face that seemed to say this couldn't be happening. The expression was quickly replaced by one that was a mixture of awe and fear.

'God in heaven,' he whispered. 'Is that you, Martin?'

Fallon went towards him, hands in pockets and everyone waited. He said softly, 'Tell them to clean the place up, Mick, like a good boy, then wait for me outside.'

O'Hara did as he was told without hesitation and moved towards the door. The other men started to right the tables and benches, one of them got a bucket and mop and started on the floor.

Father da Costa had moved to comfort Anna and Fallon joined them. 'I'm sorry about that, Father,' he said. 'It won't happen again.'

'Meehan?' Father da Costa asked.

Fallon nodded. 'Were you expecting something like this?'

'He came to see me earlier this evening. You might say we didn't get on too well.' He hesitated. 'The big Irishman. He knew you.'

'Little friend of all the world, that's me.' Fallon smiled. 'Good night to you,' he said and turned to the door.

Father da Costa reached him as he opened it and put a hand on his arm. 'We must talk, Fallon. You owe me that.'

'All right,' Fallon said. 'When?'

'I'll be busy in the morning, but I don't have a lunchtime confession tomorrow. Will one o'clock suit you? At the presbytery.'

'I'll be there.'

Fallon went out, closing the door behind him and crossed the street to where O'Hara waited nervously under the lamp. As Fallon approached he turned to face him.

'Before God, if I'd known you were mixed up in this, Martin I wouldn't have come within a mile of it. I thought you were dead by now - we all did.'

'All right,' Fallon said. 'How much was Meehan paying you?'

'Twenty-five quid. Fifty if the priest got a broken arm.'

'How much in advance?'

'Not a sou.'

Fallon opened his wallet, took out two ten-pound notes and handed them to him. 'Travelling money - for old times' sake. I don't think it's going to be too healthy for you round here. Not when Jack Meehan finds out you've let him down.'

'God bless you, Martin, I'll be out of it this very night.' He started to turn away, then hesitated. 'Does it bother you any more, Martin, what happened back there?'

'Every minute of every hour of every day of my life,' Fallon said with deep conviction and he turned and walked away up the side street.

From the shelter of the porch, Father da Costa saw O'Hara cross the main road. He made for the pub on the corner, going in at the saloon bar entrance and Father da Costa went after him.

It was quiet in the saloon bar which was why O'Hara had chosen it. He was still badly shaken and ordered a large whisky which he swallowed at once. As he asked for another, the door opened and Father da Costa entered.

O'Hara tried to brazen it out. 'So there you are, Father,' he said. 'Will you have a drink with me?'

'I'd sooner drink with the Devil.' Father da Costa dragged him across to a nearby booth and sat opposite him. 'Where did you know Fallon?' he demanded. 'Before tonight, I mean?'

O'Hara stared at him in blank astonishment, glass half-raised to his lips. 'Fallon?' he said. 'I don't know anyone called Fallon.'

'Martin Fallon, you fool,' Father da Costa said impatiently. 'Haven't I just seen you talking together outside the church?'

'Oh, you mean Martin,' O'Hara said. 'Fallon - is that what he's calling himself now?'

'What can you tell me about him?'

'Why should I tell you anything?'

'Because I'll ring for the police and put you in charge for assault if you don't. Detective-Superintendent Miller is a personal friend. He'll be happy to oblige, I'm sure.'

'All right, Father, you can call off the dogs.' O'Hara, mellowed by two large whiskies, went to the bar for a third and returned. 'What do you want to know for?'

'Does that matter?'

'It does to me. Martin Fallon, as you call him, is probably the best man I ever knew in my life. A hero.'

'To whom?'

'To the Irish people.'

'Oh, I see. Well, I don't mean him any harm, I can assure you of that.'

'You give me your word on it?'

'Of course.'

'All right, I won't tell you his name, his real name. It doesn't matter anyway. He was a lieutenant in the Provisional IRA. They used to call him the Executioner in Derry. I've never known the likes of him with a gun in his hand. He'd have killed the Pope if he'd thought it would advance the cause. And brains.' He shook his head. 'A university man, Father, would you believe it? Trinity College, no less. There were days when it all poured out of him. Poetry - books. That sort of thing - and he played the piano like an angel.' O'Hara hesitated, fingering a cirgarette, frowning into the past. 'And then there were other times.'

'What do you mean?' Father da Costa asked him.

'Oh, he used to change completely. Go right inside himself. No emotion, no response. Nothing. Cold and dark.' O'Hara shivered and stuck the cigarette into the corner of his mouth. 'When he was like that, he scared the hell out of everybody, including me, I can tell you.'

'You were with him long?'

'Only for a time. They never really trusted me. I'm a Prod, you see, so I got out.'

'And Fallon?'

'He laid this ambush for a Saracen armoured car, somewhere in Armagh. Mined the road. Someone had got the time wrong. They got a school bus instead with a dozen kids on board. Five killed, the rest crippled. You know how it is. It finished Martin. I think he'd been worrying about the way things were going for a while. All the killing and so on. The business with the bus was the final straw, you might say.'

'I can see that it would be,' Father da Costa said without irony.

'I thought he was dead,' O'Hara said. 'Last I heard, the IRA had an execution squad out after him. Me, I'm no account. Nobody worries about me, but for someone like Martin, it's different. He knows too much. For a man like him, there's only one way out of the movement and that's in a coffin.'

He got to his feet, face flushed. 'Well, Father, I'll be leaving you now. This town and I are parting company.'

He walked to the door and Father da Costa went with him. As rain drifted across the street, O'Hara buttoned up his coat and said cheerfully, 'Have you ever wondered what it's all about, Father? Life, I mean?'

'Constantly,' Father da Costa told him.

'That's honest, anyway. See you in hell, Father.'

He moved off along the pavement, whistling, and Father da Costa went back across the road to the Holy Name. When he went back into the crypt, everything was in good order again. The men had gone and Anna waited patiently on one of the bench seats.

'I'm sorry I had to leave you,' he said, 'but I wanted to speak to the man who knew Fallon. The one who started all the trouble. He went into the pub on the corner.'

'What did you find out?'

He hesitated, then told her. When he was finished, there was pain on her face. She said slowly, 'Then he isn't what he seemed at first.'

'He killed Krasko,' Father da Costa reminded her. 'Murdered him in cold blood. There was nothing romantic about that.'

'You're right, of course.' She groped for her coat and stood up. 'What are you going to do now?'

'What on earth do you expect me to do?' he said half-angrily. 'Save his soul?'

'It's a thought,' she said, slipping her hand into his arm and they went out together.

* * *

There was an old warehouse at the rear of Meehan's premises in Paul's Square and a fire escape gave easy access to its flat roof.

Fallon crouched behind a low wall as he screwed the silencer on to the barrel of the Ceska and peered across through the rain. The two dormer windows at the rear of Meehan's penthouse were no more than twenty yards away and the curtains weren't drawn. He had seen Meehan several times pacing backwards and forwards, a glass in his hand. On one occasion, Rupert had joined him, putting an arm about his neck, but Meehan had shoved him away and angrily from the look of it.

It was a difficult shot at that distance for a handgun, but not impossible. Fallon crouched down, holding the Ceska ready in both hands, aiming at the left-hand window. Meehan appeared briefly and paused, raising a glass to his lips. Fallon fired the silenced pistol once.

In the penthouse, a mirror on the wall shattered and Meehan dropped to the floor. Rupert, who was lying on the couch watching television, turned quickly. His eyes widened.

'My God, look at the window. Somebody took a shot at you.'

Meehan looked up at the bullet hole, the spider's web of cracks, then across at the mirror. He got up slowly.

Rupert joined him. 'You want to know something, ducky? You're getting to be too damn dangerous to know.'

Meehan shoved him away angrily. 'Get me a drink, damn you. I've got to think this thing out.'

A couple of minutes later the phone rang. When he picked up the receiver, he got a call-box signal and then the line cleared as a coin went in at the other end.

'That you, Meehan?' Fallon said. 'You know who this is?'

'You bastard,' Meehan said. 'What are you trying to do?'

'This time I missed because I meant to,' Fallon said. 'Remember that and tell your goons to stay away from Holy Name - and that includes you.'

He put down the receiver and Meehan did the same. He turned, his face white with fury, and Rupert handed him a drink. 'You don't look too good, ducky, bad news?'

'Fallon,' Meehan said between his teeth. 'It was that bastard Fallon and he missed because he wanted to.'

'Never mind, ducky,' Rupert said. 'After all, you've always got me.'

'That's right,' Meehan said. 'So I have. I was forgetting,' and he hit him in the stomach with his clenched fist.

It was late when Fallon got back, much later than he had intended, and there was no sign of Jenny. He took off his shoes and went up the stairs and along the landing to his room quietly.

He undressed, got into bed and lit a cigarette. He was tired. It had certainly been one hell of a day. There was a slight, timid knock on the door. It opened and Jenny came in.

She wore a dark-blue nylon nightdress, her hair was tied back with a ribbon and her face was scrubbed clean. She said, 'Jack Meehan was on the phone about half an hour ago. He says he wants to see you in the morning.'

'Did he say where?'

'No, he just said to tell you it couldn't be more public so you've nothing to worry about. He'll send a car at seven-thirty.'

Fallon frowned. 'A bit early for him, isn't it?'

'I wouldn't know.' She hesitated. 'I waited. You said an hour. You didn't come.'

'I'm sorry,' he said. 'It couldn't be helped, believe me.'

'I did,' she said. 'You were the first man in years who didn't treat me like something you'd scrape off your shoe.'