Of Blood and Honey (Fey and the Fallen) (21 page)

“What is she on about?” Oran asked.

Sighing as they stepped onto the sidewalk, Liam said, “We had a fight, Mary Kate and I. Mrs. Black thinks I hit her.”

“Did you?”

“How could you even ask?”

Oran glanced away and shrugged. After a long pause, he said, “I like you, Liam, but sometimes you get this look about you. And I get the feeling I’d rather not see you crossed or riled.”

Liam remembered Mary Kate flinching away from him in the kitchen. He nodded, feeling a heavy weight tugging at his shoulders. Happy as he was, there were times when he thought he shouldn’t have married—not because of Mary Kate—but because of the monster living inside him. When he was with Mary Kate he often forgot about the creature altogether, and for that reason he hoped that she might have the power to banish it forever. Nonetheless, from time to time the thing would remind him of its presence, and he’d worry if there might come a day when it would slip from his control.

Again.

Never. I’d never let it harm her,
he thought.

Mrs. Black’s whisper echoed in his head.
Couldn’t help hearing the ruckus. Did that brute hurt you?

I’m not Patrick. I’m not at all, at all.
Liam walked half the block in silence then said, “You don’t trust me.”

“Don’t be stupid. I trust you with more than my life,” Oran said. “I trust you with my family’s.”

Liam counted twenty steps. “Thank you.”

“Think nothing of it.”

He followed Oran, turning right at the end of the street and proceeding up the next block. New to the organization, Liam hadn’t been issued a gun, and he wouldn’t get one until Éamon was certain of him. Éamon had a reputation for discipline and caution. These were good qualities, Liam felt, particularly in an organization infamous for lacking both. However, at the moment Liam wished the man were a little less careful. Regardless of the ceasefire, he was walking into a dangerous situation unarmed. “Where are we headed?”

“The residence of one Mrs. Russell, widow,” Oran said.

“The others will meet us there?”

“This one is just you and me.”

Uneasy, Liam asked, “If I’m not to drive, what am I to do?”

“Carry this for a start,” Oran said, handing off the heavy tool box. His brown eyes twinkled in the streetlights. “Are your carpentry skills as good as your auto mechanics?”

“Far worse, I suspect. Why?”

“Ah, well. It’s not as if anyone will be asking you to build a church altar.”

Liam began to suspect the evening’s venture was some sort of test. It was clear Oran didn’t intend to tell him much of anything by way of preparation. With a deep breath, Liam decided to return the favor and trust Oran. It wasn’t easy. His stomach twisted into a fluttering knot.

“Why did you take apart the cab?” Oran asked.

“Bobby mentioned if I kept it in good condition, it might perform better,” Liam said. “Also said there were small adjustments I should make to the suspension. It’ll take turns better if I do. Of course, it’d be better to not use the taxi at all, but if we could afford better wheels—”

“Why would you go to all that trouble?” Oran glanced over at him.

Liam shrugged. “In case.”

“Bobby said you were going with him next weekend to the Rally.”

“Said he’d ask one of the others show me a few things. Thought if I prepared—if I knew what to expect—what to do, I’d be more likely to get us home. No matter what.” Liam shrugged again. “In case.”

“Interesting,” Oran said with a considering look. “You know, we usually get the ones who would rather be anything but a driver.”

“I won’t let you down again.”

Oran traced a circuitous route through various back gardens in order to avoid two BA checkpoints. Liam followed in silence. At last they arrived at their destination—a stucco building with a blue window box. Stepping through the white picket gate, Oran proceeded to what was apparently Mrs. Russell’s front door. He knocked, and an old woman dressed in a colorless print dress answered. Grey hair curled around her grey face, and she gave Oran a closed look. A baby cried from somewhere inside.

“Yes? What is it you want?” she asked.

“I understand you had some trouble with your fence,” Oran said. “We’re here to repair it.”

Liam looked to Oran, confused.

“What is this going to cost?” she asked.

“It’ll cost nothing. Will you show us where the man damaged it last week?” Oran asked. “He sends his apologies and is saddened that he’s unavailable to do the repair himself.”

Mrs. Russell’s face transformed into a warm smile, and she stepped back. “Bless you both. And him.”

After ushering them inside, she shut the door and then edged carefully around them. The narrow hallway was crammed with knick-knacks and smelled of lavender and boiled cabbage. Last in line, Liam attempted to keep from knocking over the items on the shelves with the bulky toolbox. A young woman bouncing a sobbing baby stood on the stair. The lines of her face echoed that of Mrs. Russell’s from an earlier time.

“Is something wrong, Mother?” Her eyes were round with fear.

“Go on upstairs, dear,” Mrs. Russell said, “They’re friends.”

The young woman gave the toolbox a worried look before she vanished up the stairs.

Mrs. Russell led them through the kitchen to the back door. The scent of boiled cabbage grew stronger. “Did your man get away safe, do you know?” she asked. “I’d feel terrible if my fence was the cause of a delay—that it caused his family grief.”

Oran smiled. “He’s fine.”

“Good. Good. Well, the damaged planks are along the left. The hole at the back was there before,” she said. “Would you like some tea?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Oran said, entering the back garden.

When she was gone Liam whispered, “We’re here to repair a fence?”

Oran nodded, assessing the damage. “Is there a problem?”

“No,” Liam said. “I never thought that…. It’s only…. This isn’t what I expected.”

“Lesson one,” Oran said. “The organization can’t presume to keep the hearts of the people if we go blundering through their property like a bunch of BAs. Give me the hammer, will you? We’ll start by removing the broken boards. Then I’ll want you to hold the flashlight.”

Liam didn’t ask where the fresh fence slats stacked in the alley on the opposite side of the broken fence came from. He had heard the IRA had connections with the construction industry around Belfast. Materials went missing often enough that some construction projects were never completed, the company in charge having long since gone bankrupt.

During the course of the work, Mrs. Russell plied them with several pots of tea and homemade biscuits. The job took twice as long because Oran insisted upon repairing the hole in the back fence as well. It was late by the time they were ready to leave, and Liam couldn’t help thinking of Mary Kate alone and worrying. Oran decided to risk the last checkpoint to save time on the way home. The wooden barricade stretched across the road, and on the opposite side of the street, cars were being stopped and their drivers questioned. As Liam and Oran approached, two BAs moved to meet them. Liam recognized both, having driven through the particular checkpoint several times earlier in the day.

The first BA took their identification. “Put down the box and open it.”

Liam did as he was told, and the first BA sorted through the toolbox, not bothering to put things back where he found them.

The first BA asked, “You’re William Kelly and Oran MacMahon?”

“Yes,” Oran said.

Liam kept his mouth shut, but one hand curled into a fist. They damned well knew who he was. They’d checked his driver’s license at least three times a day for two weeks—even the dimmest BA’s memory couldn’t be that short.

“What are you doing with that?” the second BA asked, kicking the toolbox.

Pointing to Liam, Oran smiled and said, “Fixing his Granny’s fence.”

The first BA straightened and stared into Liam’s face. “I know you. You’re that one that runs every morning.”

And you’re the one that sites your fucking rifle on me while I jog past,
Liam thought. His jaw clenched, but he kept his gaze averted and shrugged.

“I should think even a Paddy would know how to run without practice.” The second BA smirked.

Liam felt Oran’s hand on his arm. “Easy, now,” Oran whispered.

“Right. Up against the wall, you two. Arms and legs spread,” the second BA said. “Don’t like the looks of you.”

Liam was shoved against the brick wall.

“Aren’t our papers in order?” Oran asked.

The BA didn’t bother with an answer and started patting down Oran. The bricks were rough against Liam’s cheek, and he could feel the second BA’s hand in the middle of his back. Shutting his eyes and gritting his teeth, he prepared himself to endure yet another search.

Chapter 16

Andersonstown, Belfast, County Antrim, Northern Ireland

December 1975

Sitting behind the wheel of a stolen Ford Escort RS1600, Liam listened to his heart slam a bass drum counter-beat to the rumble of the engine. Even with the heat on it was cold. He blew into his hands and rubbed them together. The others were inside, presumably clearing out the bank vault. The alley behind the bank was bloody dark with the headlights off, but he planned to make the first part of the journey home without them anyway. Lights might risk unwanted attention, and he could see well enough without as long as he kept the speed down.

A black cat stalked its prey among the rubbish bins twenty feet away. He watched until it vanished behind a broken crate and then turned his attention to the instrument panel. Petrol. Oil. Temperature. Everything was as it should be. The engine gave off a steady purr—the result of new performance spark plugs and an adjustment to the carburetor earlier in the day. Nonetheless, his shoulders cramped and his knuckles were white on the steering wheel. When he dared release his grip his hands trembled. Closing his eyes, Liam took a deep breath against the weight of the pistol tucked in a holster under his jacket. The familiar smell of engine grease and plastic filling his nose was reassuring, and he told himself that the next thirty minutes would be no different than any normal drive home after an evening’s work.

This was his first real job, and it was natural to be nervous. Afraid of letting everyone down, Liam had done everything he could to prepare, including several timed practice runs in his black taxi. Since the stolen RS1600 was the same model as the one he borrowed for rallies, he felt comfortable driving. Oh, the car had its quirks; they all tended to, but once the new wheels and sticky racing tires were installed, the handling was relatively consistent with the RS he’d been driving for the last six months. Escorts had the advantage of being common on the streets and were equipped with a powerful 16-valve engine—even the four-door models. In addition, Escorts were light and fairly easy to steal. Bobby had been an amazing source of information about such things.

Uncomfortable with forcing financial hardship on a hard-working Catholic family, Liam had lifted the current vehicle from a known UVF sympathizer near Shankill Road. Oran had helped, of course. It’d been a thrill to drive off in the black RS, imagining the owner’s face when the bastard discovered it missing. After everything Liam had witnessed during the “cease fire” he didn’t think anyone could blame him for stealing from a Loyalist—not even peace-loving Father Murray.

Another deep breath and Liam’s confidence was bolstered. He felt pre-pared—ready to handle any situation that might arise.

Someone was tapping on the window.

Liam’s eyes snapped open and in that moment he knew he was fucked.

“What are you doing here at this time of night?” A constable directed a flashlight beam through the glass, temporarily destroying Liam’s night vision.

Placing a hand on the grip of his pistol, Liam rolled down the window and mentally ran through a list of plausible excuses to get rid of the man. He knew his orders, Éamon had been explicit, and it was against the training, but Liam hadn’t killed anyone before. Now that he was faced with doing so, he hesitated. A gold ring on the constable’s left hand glittered in the light reflecting off the car.

“This is no place to be sleeping it off, Mick. Your identification. Now. Then out of the car with y—”

Liam’s heart stopped when the bank’s back door slammed open and Éamon, Oran and Níal exited loaded down with heavy canvas bags. Oran and Níal’s expressions would’ve been comical but for the situation. The constable reached for his gun in slow motion. Liam pointed his pistol out the window and then fired twice before the constable’s gun cleared its holster. Bang-bang. The report was deafening from inside the car, and the recoil sent a shock up his arm. Struck, the constable dropped with a surprised look frozen on his face—a black dot on his cheek.

Rolling up the window, Liam tossed the gun onto the seat and then slotted the pre-prepared mix tape into the stereo. The car rocked with the force of the doors slamming shut. Someone shouted. No. Multiple someones—from inside the car and outside of it. Too late for stealth now. Feeling numb, Liam checked to see that the others were inside. Then he gunned the engine, punched play on the tape and flipped on the headlights. He heard the remote pop of gunfire. Something smacked hard against the back of the front seat, and then T. Rex launched into “Get It On.” There wasn’t time to consider what had just happened, to think about the dark, lumpy splash that had appeared on the wall beyond the constable or about the man’s hat having been blown off his head. Liam released the brake and felt the tires slide as his foot mashed the accelerator a little too hard a little too fast. He automatically let up and rubber gripped pavement. The Escort was catapulted past the rubbish bins. Absurdly, Liam found himself hoping the cat was well out of the way.

A long high-pitched squeal came from the backseat. “Jesus Mary and Patrick man you fucking killed him!”

“Shut it, Níal! Let the man fucking drive!”

Liam vaguely understood the last had come from Oran as the car made a quick but smooth left turn at the end of the alley. Distant sirens told him they wouldn’t have the streets to themselves much longer—not that they would anyway; it was time the pubs were letting out. He took a right, swerved around a parked delivery van and headed west. Sitting next to him in the front seat, Éamon leaned forward with both hands splayed on the dashboard. The hard lines of his narrow face were set in a determined expression. As planned, Éamon focused on the road, intent on scouting for trouble. He gave off an air of professional steadiness. A volunteer since the 1940s, nothing affected Éamon. Níal was another matter.