Pray for Us Sinners (28 page)

The Cause and all that went with it; hard men in luxury flats, ammonium nitrate, urea nitrate, dynamite, nitro, blasting caps, ArmaLites, constant guard, skulking and subterfuge, death and maiming … dead ten-year-old girls. Even now, the Land Rover raid more than a fortnight gone, he could hear her “pleeease…” in the small lonely hours of his nights.

The hollow times between the action. Nowhere to go but the backstreets of the Falls or an unlicenced drinking den full of broken-down relics refighting battles of a forgotten, failed war, men with whom he had nothing but a past to share. No friends except Jimmy and a scruffy ginger cat. No contact with the rest of his battalion save Sean and Brendan McGuinness.

Days spent in a cramped, two-down-two-up, empty house—empty because Fiona wasn't there. He had lost count of the number of times he had set out, determined to phone her. And he had reason now. He'd do the big one. His mind was set on that. It might win the war, but even if it didn't, it would be his last.

He would call her when it was over and done with for good. Next time he saw Jimmy, he'd find out more about Canada. That Roberts lad knew an IRA man who'd moved there.

Davy was impatient. Impatient for the summons from Myrtlefield Park. Until then, he had no way of contacting the CO. No way of getting it over with. And now, now that his mind was made up, he wanted it finished.

He was impatient to talk to her again, face-to-face, not on the impersonal telephone. Maybe they could start a new life in Canada. He wasn't too old. She would have to enquire at the Canadian consulate if her teaching certificate from Stranmillis College would be good enough for a Canadian school.

He shifted the weight from his bad leg. Dream on, Davy McCutcheon. What if she says, “No, I don't want to go to Canada”? He'd not think about that now. He'd dream. You're good at dreams, Davy, he thought—dreams of Celtic Twilight, dreams of a new life in a new country, dreams of Fiona. He hawked, the spit bitter in his throat. Dreams, Davy. They're all you've got.

He swallowed Guinness, the bottled beer more bitter than the draught he preferred. He wondered if he would be able to get a decent pint in Canada. He should have asked Mike Roberts. He'd been living there for years. Or so he said. The youngster certainly knew his explosives. As soon as Davy got the word and the plastique from Sean, he'd have Roberts round. Forget buggering about with learning on putty; Roberts could make the real thing. There was no need to mention anything to Sean Conlon. Roberts could fix the Semtex charges, and Davy would deliver them. The Active Service Unit would go out well equipped, and Davy would have kept his promise to Sean, with that shit McGuinness none the wiser. The plan seemed watertight and pleased Davy.

And then—Fiona. He hugged the thought, a smile playing on his lips.

*   *   *

Sean Conlon had no smile on his face as he paced up and down the big drawing room. “Fuck it, Brendan. We can't go ahead without permission from Army Council.”

Brendan sat in an armchair beside the carved fireplace. “As far as I know, we've got it.”

“How the hell can you tell? Turlough was meant to bring back the word from Dublin.”

“He can't, can he, Sean?”

“How the hell did the Brits know he'd be crossing the border at Dundalk yesterday?”

“You tell me.”

“Jesus, Brendan, Turlough's the third OC Belfast Brigade they've lifted.” He counted on his fingers, “Adams, Bell, and now Turlough.”

“Yes,” said Brendan, “and you'd better have a look at this.” He handed Sean a piece of paper. “It's from Army Council. They've confirmed me as OC, Belfast Brigade.”

Sean stopped pacing and scanned the note. “Congratulations,” he said coldly as he handed the paper back.

“I'm sure we'll work together very well. I'll carry on as IO until we find a new one. It won't interfere with my duties as OC, and I say we're going ahead.”

“On the British prime minister?”

“Jesus, Sean, at the first meeting of Provisional Army Council they said that action could be left to the discretion of local leadership.” His voice hardened. “And that's me.”

And likely to stay that way, Sean thought, if you pull this one off. Pity the PIRA doesn't hand out medals. You'd like that, Brendan, wouldn't you? Sean let his head bow. “All right.”

“Great.” McGuinness stood. Just for a moment Sean wondered if McGuinness had had prior knowledge of Turlough's impending arrest and kept quiet about it, either to improve his own chances of promotion or to ensure that there would be no interference with his plans to go after Harold Wilson. He could be devious, but surely not
that
devious.

“We need another big victory. Remember what Chairman Mao said about power coming from the barrel of a gun? We've got our tails up now. Look. Peter McMullen, the ex-para, got four bombs into Claro Barracks in Ripon in Yorkshire on March 26; we set off fourteen bombs in London stores on April 6, aye, and two in Manchester and three in Birmingham. Incendiaries took out half the city centre in Armagh yesterday. Ten shops gone in Market, Scotch, and Thomas Streets.”

“And you think wasting Wilson would help?”

“Yes, for fuck's sake. You know what our New Year's message said?”

Sean quoted, “We look forward with confidence to 1974 as a year in which the British rule in Ireland shall be destroyed and the curse of alien power banished from our land for all time.”

“‘Banished for all time'! We can do it, Sean. Kill Wilson, and the Prods'll start tearing the province apart. Paisley would go fucking Harpic.”

Sean smiled at Brendan's allusion to the Harpic lavatory cleaner's slogan: “Clean round the bend.” And he might just be right. It could be the final nail in England's coffin. Perhaps when Sean had told Davy that this one could win the war, he hadn't been too far from the truth. “So, where do we go from here?”

“I've just heard. Wilson's going to helicopter into Thiepval and be driven to Government House at Hillsborough on the eighteenth. Lisburn's in First Battalion's area of operations, so we don't have to clear it with the County Down boys. We just need to finish the final arrangements, then get your man McCutcheon up here.”

*   *   *

Davy drained the glass and moved to the front of the bar.

Paddy Flynn said, “You're looking cheerful the night, Davy. Another?”

“Aye.”

“Here y'are.” Flynn uncapped the dark bottle and took Davy's money. “Haven't seen you in for a brave while.”

“I've been busy.”

“Right enough?”

“Aye.”

“Full of chat, as usual. Jesus, Davy, you'd talk the hind leg off a donkey.”

Davy craned over the bar. “Doesn't seem to have fell off yet, Flynn.”

The barman guffawed. “You're so fucking sharp you'll cut yourself.”

“Aye.”

Davy moved back to his place against the wall. He tilted his glass, tide-marked with grey-white rings of foam, and poured from the bottle, slowly, watching the black beer rise, thinking of Fiona's black eyes.

The patriot with the squint pushed past on his way to the bar. He jostled Davy's elbow, spilling some of his beer. “Easy, son,” Davy said.

“Who the fuck're you calling ‘son'?” The youth turned on Davy, forcing him to push back against the wall.

Davy could smell the whiskey on the boy's breath, see the red vessels in the whites of his eyes. The wee shite needed a shave. He needed to learn some manners, too, but Davy was in no mood to teach him. “Forget it.”

“I said”—the youth swayed. His eyelids drooped. “I said, who the fuck are you calling ‘son'?”

“No one.”

A hand thumped into Davy's shoulder, slamming it against the wall. He heard the crash as his glass hit the floor. He turned his face away to avoid the spittle as the drunk yelled, “Don't you fucking well call me ‘son,' you old cunt.”

Davy saw Flynn moving round from behind the bar, yelling, “Get you to hell out of that, Seamus Rourke.” Flynn could put an end to this.

“Look at me when I'm fucking well talking to you.” Rourke grabbed Davy's hair. “Fuck, you. Look … at … me!”

Davy looked. Hard. His stare bored into the bloodshot eyes, six inches from his own. His voice was level. “Take your hands off me.”

“Fuck you.” Rourke darted his head forward. Davy pulled aside, but the hand in his hair held him. He managed to move so Rourke's skull missed the bridge of his nose. He felt the smash on his right cheekbone.

He lashed his knee into Rourke's crotch, feeling the crunch against the man's pelvis and the pain flashing along his own badly set thigh bone. Hot breath whistled past his ear, the breath of a shriek cut short as Rourke tried to inhale and failed as he doubled forward, clutching his groin.

Davy lifted his right hand like an axe, fingers extended, the edge its blade, and aimed a vicious chop at the side of the man's neck. Before making contact, he checked the swing, jerking his hand back up and away.

Rourke collapsed and lay on the floor in the spilled Guinness and broken glass, curled up like a baby, gasping like a stunned mullet. Davy lifted his knee to smash his boot into Rourke's face and hesitated as the fighting madness flowed from him. He stood breathing deeply.

“You all right, Davy?” Paddy Flynn kicked the fallen youth in the ribs. “See you, Seamus Rourke? Youse is barred.”

He drew back his leg to kick again but Davy grabbed his arm. “Let him be, Paddy.”

Flynn spat on Rourke. “You, Arthur, get him the fuck out of here.”

The man called Arthur bent over Rourke, ignored his whimpering, hauled him to his feet, and yelled, “Give us a hand with this stupid—oh, Jesus.”

Rourke puked.

“Get him out.” Flynn snarled.

Davy clenched his teeth, trying to ignore the ache in his thigh, the throbbing in his cheek. The silence was broken only by weak retching sounds from Rourke. Davy heard Flynn say to the crowd, “That's it. It's all over. Pay no heed.”

Faces turned away. The hum of conversation started slowly and gradually rose. Arthur and another man dragged the semi-conscious Rourke toward the door.

“Sorry about that, Davy.” Flynn looked worried. “Did he get you?”

“I'll live.” Davy rubbed his cheek, feeling the heat in the bruised skin, satisfied that the cheekbone was intact.

“Here.” Flynn slopped a generous measure of Bushmills into a glass. “Here, get this down you.”

“Thanks.” Davy took the glass, noticing how his hand shook. He drank the neat spirits.

“Shook you up a bit, Davy?”

“Aye.”

Flynn poured one for himself. “I thought you were going to murder him.” He sipped the whiskey. “When I seen the rabbit punch coming, I thought your man was a goner. You'd've broke his neck. Fucking good thing you pulled back.”

“Aye,” said Davy. “Aye. It was.”

 

FORTY-ONE

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 10

“You look like shit, McCutcheon.” McGuinness's eyebrow rose.

“Some puppy took a poke at me in Flynn's last night.”

“He must have fetched you a right one.” McGuinness's lips smiled. His eye was flat.

“Aye. Head butt.”

McGuinness tutted. “I hear there was a time you'd not have let him do a thing like that.”

“I hear there was a time that young lad sang bass.” Davy's gaze held McGuinness's. The threat was in Davy's voice: step outside anytime, boy. Anytime at all.

Sean sat with his back to the window, the afternoon light casting his long shadow across the tabletop.

Davy limped over. “Good to see you, Sean.”

“Are you all right, Davy?”

“Oh, aye.”

“Good. Sit down.”

Davy sat and waited for McGuinness to be seated opposite, beside Sean. McGuinness leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, one hand enfolding the other, cracking his knuckles.

“We need you now,” Sean said. “The big one's set for the eighteenth.”

Davy glanced at McGuinness and back to Sean Conlon. “Military target?”

Sean nodded.

“What?”

“A convoy.”

Why the hell was that old song buzzing in Davy's head again?
The tans in their great Crossley tenders were rolling along to their doom …
Soldiers. “Sounds like an important one.”

McGuinness spoke softly. “It is, Davy. It is.”

“Good,” said Davy. “I'll make the bombs for you. Have you the Semtex?”

“We have.” Sean Conlon coughed. “But we'll need you to do more than make the bombs, Davy.”

*   *   *

The red velvet curtains were closed against the dark outside. A map of Ulster lay unrolled on the table. McGuinness had gone next door. Sean stood at the far side of the table. Davy thought the CO looked tired, worried. “Cheer up, Sean. It'll work.”

“What?”

“It'll work.”

“Davy, I'm sorry to ask you to go out alone on this one. Honest to God I am.”

Davy shrugged. “Jimmy's as well out of it and you've no other choice. You need an explosives man to set the charges. It's not just a big bang you want. That bridge'll have to come down at the right time. I'll have to get the measurements of the span to figure out P.” Davy tried to recall the formula for calculating the amount of explosive.

“P?”

“Aye, the number of pounds of TNT.”

“But we're giving you Semtex.”

“I know, Sean, but you calculate the amount of TNT, then divide it by 1.6.” He congratulated himself for remembering that much. “Semtex is about one and a half times more powerful than TNT.”

“Oh,” said Sean, obviously impressed. “So do you reckon about sixty pounds would be enough?”

“Why sixty?”