Flights of Angels (Exit Unicorns Series) (10 page)

“And your brother is alright with this? He doesn’t seem one to be passive when it comes to his woman.”

“Not alright,” Pat said. “No, I wouldn’t say that. It’s caused some friction for them all, but Pamela has known Jamie for a very long time. He was a fact of her life and firmly in place by the time Casey met her. He’s also one of her dearest friends and my brother is not fool enough to try to take that away from her. She might allow it, but it would never sit well with her. Eventually it would cause resentment and Casey wouldn’t want that. He can be possessive of her certainly, but he’s not stupid.”

“Speaking of Jamie,” David said, “does anyone hear from him these days?”

“Why do ye ask?”

“I ask because he seemingly disappeared some time ago, and I’ve not been able to get so much as a whiff of him since. And if he’s not on our radar, then he’s gone very deep underground.”

“You keep tabs on Jamie?” Pat asked.

“To a certain extent, yes. The man is considered either an asset or a danger, depending on whom you ask on what day.”

“An’ what about you—do you consider him a danger or an asset?”

David laughed. “I don’t think I’ve ever met a more dangerous man nor one better placed to help this country to a more peaceable solution.”

“Ye sound like ye got to know him rather well,” Pat said, shocked that David had revealed so much in a simple statement.

“It’s alright, Pat. I don’t have to shoot you for merely telling you that. You know Jamie well enough to know that he has a finger in several pies, politically speaking. It was inevitable that I would be dealing with him at some point. Odds are I wouldn’t be the man for that task anymore though, were His Lordship still in residence.”

“Which begs the question of just what they’ve sent ye back for an’ why yer runnin’ about lookin’ like a hooligan in the streets of Belfast?”

“They couldn’t think of anywhere worse to send me, so here I am, back in Belfast.”

“As punishment goes, it’s severe, that’s for certain,” Pat said dryly.

Pat felt suddenly exhausted and realized that all his adrenaline had ebbed. The heat from the Aga was like a sleeping draught that had filled his limbs with sand. His anger had gone along with the adrenaline.

“Ye’ll take care for my brother, won’t ye? He loved Lawrence like he was a son, an’ he’s been torn up inside since the lad’s death. I don’t want him rushin’ in blindly an’ gettin’ hurt or worse.”

“I will. I’m terrified of him but I find I rather like him as well, now that I’m getting to know him a little.”

“Have ye…” Pat cleared his throat, uncomfortable and yet knowing a friend asked such things, “found someone?”

David gave him a long look before answering.

“I’m not good at celibacy, so yes, I have partners. My life, however, is not conducive to a permanent arrangement of any sort. If you’re asking if I love anyone, well… some things in a person’s life do not change.” He placed his cup carefully on the table and took a measured breath. “I’m afraid, for me, this is one of them. Seeing you on the street that day told me all I needed to know about the state of my feelings. But I—I’d like to be friends again. I know you don’t feel the same way and I understand that entirely. If you could find a small corner in your life for a friendship that’s a bit like a rare plant, you never know where or when it might show up, nor how long it will last in each instance. Well then, I would be grateful for that. Do you think we can still be friends, Pat?”

Pat looked at the man across the table and knew, despite everything, he did indeed value him as a friend and had missed him in this last year. He nodded.

“We never stopped.”

Chapter Nine
March 1973
Blooding

Pamela was on her way home from taking pictures
of a new baby for a couple down past Drumintree and she stopped in at the wee village market to buy milk and bread before continuing on the last stretch home. She had been to this shop a few times before and the shopkeeper, Mr. Linehan, nodded and smiled as she came in. He was a middle-aged man, father of five and ran a bustling little store that always had fresh produce and milk—something of a minor miracle in this area, where trucks were often at the mercy of the local Provisional IRA, the British Army, and the roadblocks and traffic snarls that occurred as a result.

“Not too much longer then?” he said, nodding at her belly.

“Another six weeks or so,” she said, instinctively rubbing a hand over the occupant, who rewarded her with a firm kick. She headed for the back of the store where the tall old coolers held milk and butter. She was late in the day for the milk and only one bottle was left, near the back of the cooler at the bottom. She sighed and, taking hold of the handle, got down on one knee. How to bend over far enough to retrieve the bottle was the next question.

She felt someone behind her and turned slightly. It was a woman, young to judge by the fray-cuffed denims she wore. The woman kneeled down behind her, apparently searching the lower shelves for some item.

Pamela had just grasped the cool smooth glass of the milk bottle when she felt it, an inrush of people and a strange silence accompanying them. Her backbone understood before she did and she drew back, glancing up quickly at the mirror in the corner. It was old and had a soft green haze to it but she didn’t need to see any clearer to understand what three men in balaclavas with guns held at waist height meant. She drew back sharply, knocking the milk bottle over in her haste. The noise was covered by the sudden explosion of glass and the spray of an automatic weapon.

She glanced up into the mirror, saw blood, and looked no longer. Mr. Linehan was most assuredly dead and so would she be if she didn’t do something quickly. The storage area was directly to the right hand of the coolers. She grabbed the woman roughly by the arm and pulled her through the door, hoping to God the men were too focused on the till and the man they had just killed to realize the shop hadn’t been entirely empty.

The storeroom was cool and dark and filled with boxes and crates. She pulled the woman in behind the tall stack of crates with
Kerry Gold
stamped in plain letters on the side. They found themselves in a corner with only one side of their hidey-hole open. Pamela motioned to the woman to stay put, and though she did not acknowledge the flick of fingers, she did move deeper into the shadows.

There were a few spare crates and Pamela thought if she could bring them over and stack them silently, it would made their hiding place far more secure. She held her breath, praying that the crates were empty because there was no way she would be able to move them if they weren’t. They were and she stacked them swiftly, not taking the ones at the bottom for fear it would leave traces if the floor hadn’t been swept in a bit. She slipped back into the space and re-stacked the crates to close off the entryway.

“What—” the woman began, her whisper soft but seeming to carry with the boom of a death knell.

Pamela hissed at her as low as she could. “Sshh.”

She could still hear the men at the front, their boots crunching over the broken glass, but one set of footsteps was coming toward the back of the shop. She had no doubt that if they were found the men would shoot them, for the sin of being a witness and for being Catholic and thus, in South Armagh, considered an IRA sympathizer by default.

She thought about the open cooler door and felt her stomach drop a little more. The baby was kicking frantically, set adrift on a sea of adrenaline and all too aware of her own panic. She rubbed her belly as firmly as the tight space would allow. The woman laid a hand to her belly and kept it there. It was oddly calming to be touched so in the midst of such a fraught moment. Apparently the baby thought so too, for it ceased to kick with such vehemence and settled for a series of pokes instead.

The door opened and a waft of warmer air and light accompanied the man who walked into the storeroom. The sense of menace was tangible, with a taste to it like something bitter and hot on the tongue. He turned over crates, unworried apparently by the noise he was making. Then he turned the light on. Pamela fought the urge to close her eyes so that if he found them and killed them she wouldn’t know the exact instant it was about to happen. Her mind was racing in a jumbled panic. The words, ‘
please let the baby survive somehow, some way, please let Casey find happiness again
’ the only ones that bobbed out of the stew of sheer terror she found herself in.

They were deep in the shadows but it would be a natural place to look. The open cooler door was going to make him search longer and more thoroughly than he might have otherwise. The only saving grace was that the crates were solid ones, no cracks between the slats. If he realized they weren’t stacked right back to the wall though, they were as good as dead.

He poked at the crates and they swayed a bit, threatening to topple into their hole and give them away. The woman clutched her hand convulsively and Pamela clutched back. They were both holding their breath now, hearts pounding erratically. She could feel the woman’s pulse hard and panicked against her palm.

She had learned the hard way how to be still, how to not move or breathe so that one did not attract unwanted attention. She had learned that some men did not see a person with a life and loved ones, they simply saw something to use or to kill when they looked at a woman. She had learned that one night on a train. It was a lesson that did not go away… ever.

He was lingering around the crates as if he sensed them, the way a fox will hear the rapid tattoo of a rabbit’s heart as it lies paralyzed in its sights. She could feel him listening, hear him breathing, and smell the sweat of violence on his skin. Then, as suddenly as he had entered the small space he was gone, shouting in a rough voice that he had searched the back and there wasn’t anyone on the premises. She let her air out slowly, feeling like a punctured balloon, not certain how her legs were going to bear her up out of this space. She turned to look at the woman and found herself confronted by eyes the color of fringed gentian. As clear as the remarkable color, was the fact that the woman was blind. As terrifying as Pamela was finding this, she knew that to experience it without sight had to be doubly horrifying.

“I have to check on Mr. Linehan,” she said, though she knew it was futile. The man was dead, but on the one chance in a million that he had a thready pulse left, she could not leave him this way. “But then I’ll come back and we’ll go out the back door. It’s just behind you. I’m going to put your hand on the knob so that you can get out if I’m not back in two minutes. Alright?”

The woman nodded, her face pinched and white with fear.

The shop was littered with glass and a spreading crimson pool, congealing already at its edges. The door to the street was open, the street outside as quiet as if it were three in the morning rather than the afternoon. One glance at Mr. Linehan told Pamela all she needed to know, he was beyond any sort of mortal help. She took a breath, careful not to step in the blood, though the men who had shot Mr. Linehan hadn’t taken any such precautions. If she had to lay odds on them being caught, she wouldn’t bet much more than the sheep shed. She walked swiftly back to the storeroom where the woman waited, hand still on the doorknob.

Outside, the air seemed to hum with a high vibration. Violence, she had found through experience, left a definite energy in its wake as if the moment kept playing itself over and over long after the actual event. The warm March day had disappeared in the time she had been in the shop and a cold wind ripped down from the slopes of Slieve Gullion, slapping their faces and stinging their eyes. She scanned the area quickly. The narrow lane, the overhanging trees. The closest houses were within sight and surely within the sound of an automatic weapon blast, but there was no sign that anyone had heard anything.

The car was parked beside the village’s old church, only a minute’s walk away.

“Take my arm,” she said, guiding the woman’s hand to her elbow.

“Is he… is he dead?” she asked, the gentian eyes near black.

“Yes, he is,” Pamela said shortly, half her mind occupied with how to leave this village without being spotted, the other half trying to push away the image of Mr. Linehan’s shattered skull, with one eye still intact, staring in that thousand-yard way that said whatever he saw wasn’t of this world any longer.

“How did you get here?” Pamela asked. “Do you live in the village?”

“No,” the woman replied. “Someone brings me in. I live down near the border. I’m not supposed to be here today though. I—if my brother finds out I was away from home, I’ll be in terrible trouble. Please,” she said, “ye don’t understand, I have to be gone from here before the police arrive. I can’t be found by the police. I simply cannot.” The urgency fairly poured off the woman’s skin, her eyes a deeper blue, pupils dilated in panic. Pamela herself wasn’t entirely a stranger to not trusting the police, especially here in South Armagh.

She wondered what sort of character this brother was. Not someone you’d want to run into in a dark hedgerow, that much was apparent. She helped the woman into the car and cast a glance about the empty streets. Curtains were firmly drawn and she knew it was best not to linger.

She drove for twenty minutes straight, until they were firmly in the wilds of South Armagh, without fear of police or Army showing up. She pulled the car over on a narrow lay-by that was more hedge, ditch, and weed than it was a parking space. The events of the last hour had caught up to her so suddenly, that she felt swamped by it and unable to drive any farther.

“I’m sorry. I just need a minute to get my breath.”

The interior of the car was washed with the flickering shadows of leaves fretting in the stiff breeze. Raindrops flew from the hedge onto the windshield. It was strangely peaceful. The woman didn’t say anything but laid a soft hand on Pamela’s shoulder. Pamela bent her head into the steering wheel and took several deep breaths. She could feel her body slowly calm though her mind swam with the images from the shop. She could still smell the hot copper stink of blood as though it clung to her own hands and skin. She knew she wouldn’t calm entirely until Casey held her, his arms and the scent and touch of him, the final ingredient she always needed to restore a sense of order and security to the universe.