Pray for Us Sinners (30 page)

“Ach, Davy. It's been hard for you.”

“Aye, well. It'll be over soon.”

“Why not right now?”

“I promised a man.”

Her lips curved in a little smile. “And you've always kept your word?”

“Something like that.” He footered with his empty teacup. “It's more than that.”

“Go on.”

“Fiona, it's the real thing this time.” He couldn't give any details in public about the upcoming attack. “I need to do one right. Just one.”

She put her hand over his. “And you think you'll find absolution for the little girl and the ticket man and his little girls?”

How had she seen that so quickly? He knew. She had always been able to look deep into him. “Aye.”

“I don't think you will, Davy,” and he flinched at her words, “but I understand. I'll not hold it against you.”

He rolled his hand over and twined his fingers with hers, holding her hand as a child holds its mother's for comfort. “I'll make it up to you. God, but I've missed you, girl.”

“I've missed you, Davy. I told you, I still love you.”

Her words engulfed him like warm surf on a soft beach. He pulled her hand to his lips.

“I know,” she said.

He lowered their hands to the tabletop and sat in the silence between them. “More tea?” he said.

She shook her head. “When?” she asked. “When will you be finished?”

“Next week.”

“Good.” Her eyebrow lifted in question. “Then what?”

“Jimmy's been talking about going to Canada.”

“Canada?”

“Aye. I thought maybe—” He waited.

She smiled, and its radiance lit up the tearoom. “You thought maybe we could go, too?”

“I did.”

“I'll need to find out how we'd go about it.”

Davy leaned across the table and kissed her. “Bless you, girl.”

Her smile faded. “But only if you get out, Davy.”

“I swear to God.”

She laughed. “And you always keep your word.”

He realized she was teasing him. “Aye. I do.”

“Good. I'll wait for you.”

He looked down at the table. “Fiona, I've a couple of lamb chops at home.” He looked up. “McCusker misses you. I don't suppose—?”

“Not tonight. I keep my promises, too. I meant it. Only when you're out.”

He stifled his disappointment. The one kiss had brought the memories of the sweetness of her, the joy of their loving, and he wanted her now, tonight, and forever. “All right,” he said, “but let me take you to your sister's place.”

“I'd like that, Davy. I'd like that a lot.”

He paid the bill, held the door for her, then took her hand. Together they walked to the bus stop, Davy lost in the nearness of her and his dreams of their future, with barely a thought for the last job still to come.

 

FORTY-THREE

THURSDAY, APRIL 11

Marcus shrugged into his Stampeders windcheater. “‘Vesti la giubba'—on with the motley, the paint, and the powder.” He mouthed the clown's aria from
Pagliacci
. Marcus felt like a clown.

He'd not heard anything more from Davy McCutcheon, and he'd been as successful at meeting other Provos as an angler fishing in a winter-killed lake. How was he ever to make contact?

He zipped the jacket front. Sitting in this cruddy bed-sit would solve none of his problems. He might as well go for a walk.

He let himself out, still trying to decide what to do next. For two pins he'd pack up the whole bloody spying thing now. Except he had come to like John Smith, did not want to let him down. How the hell could he keep the man's respect if he quit? And how could he keep Siobhan if he didn't?

He felt something squish underfoot and glanced down. He'd stepped in a pile of dog turd.

*   *   *

Davy stood washing the dishes. He'd eaten both chops wishing Fiona'd been with him but content that in a week she would be. He regretted that he'd agreed to go on this mission, wondered if he could tell Sean he didn't want to. Davy shook his head. It had to be done, and that was an end to it. He put his knife and fork on the draining board. He'd worry about it no more.

He stiffened and cocked his head. From Conway Street, faint at first, then rising, a clamour swelled until his ears were assailed by the din of women's screams, hoarse men's commands, the crash of hobnail boots on the street. And over all rang the clatter of stick on dustbin lid as the women of the street beat out a wild tattoo, announcing that the Security Forces were up to something more than a routine patrol.

Were they chasing suspects? When that happened, the people of the Falls were quick to respond, hindering the efforts of the troops by chucking broken concrete and homemade Molotov cocktails, finding back doors and alleys for the fugitives.

He knew he should keep his head down, but curiosity drove him into the front room. The racket was louder, and through the drawn curtains the flames outside threw flickering shadows on the walls. He parted the curtains to peer outside. A mob, fifty or sixty strong, stood on the street, hurling abuse and jagged missiles at an army platoon. Overhead, the comet tails of petrol bombs arced through the darkness, crashed to the tarmac, and spread pools of fire. A soldier, hampered by his flak jacket, helmet, and body-length Perspex shield, stooped, grabbed an unbroken bottle with its wick still alight, and hurled it at his tormentors. Davy watched as the flames from its burst engulfed a young man, listened to the shrieks.

Soldiers deployed on both sides of a Saracen and, led by the “Pig,” charged, holding their shields before them, lashing out with heavy truncheons. He saw two, three men go down, the blood from their split heads black in the garish light. The mob retreated, and over it all—the yells of the troops, the roar of the Pig's engine, the curses of the mob, the howls of the wounded—the clatter of stick on bin lid filled Davy's ears, as the smell of melting tar and burning petrol filled his nostrils and anger filled his heart. This was slaughter. And for what?

Then he saw. Opposite, a door lay wide open. Soldiers crouched on either side, backs to the wall, 7.62-mm SLRs at high port, moving back and forth, quartering the street, oblivious to the battle. One of the shits had a CS gas projector, another the wide-bore Webley-Schermuly gun that fired the hated rubber bullets. The troops were protecting something—or somebody.

Christ Almighty, the Brits were on a house-to-house search. The fuckers were rounding up suspected PIRA sympathizers. He watched as three soldiers hustled a man into the back of a Saracen. Davy let the curtain swing shut when he saw a sergeant and his squad run across the street.

Davy glanced down. He hoped to God the cache of blasting caps was safe. He limped back to the kitchen, then heard his front door crash against the wall, boots thumping along his hall, feet clattering up his stairs. Two paras, a private with an SLR and a corporal carrying an L3/4A1 SMG, burst into his kitchen. Just like John-fucking-Wayne.

The corporal yelled, “Hands on your head!” slammed his back to the wall, and menaced Davy with the automatic. Davy obeyed—slowly, deliberately, looking into the corporal's face. The NCO's teeth were bared, his nostrils flared. He was right to hate and to be scared in bandit country deep in the Falls.

“Right, then.” The corporal jerked his head to the other soldier. “Get on with it.”

“Right, Corp.” He slung his rifle, wrenched out Davy's kitchen drawers, and dumped their contents onto the linoleum floor. He attacked the cupboards, scattering china, the bag of cat food, pots and pans onto the growing heap of Davy's possessions. The racket, for a moment, stifled the din of wrecking coming from overhead.

“Nothing here, Corp.”

“Dresser.”

The private bent, opened the doors, and peered inside. He dumped the two small drawers on the shambles below, swept the china away, grunted, and overturned the dresser. As it toppled sideways, the bottle of sherry tumbled off and the dresser's corner ripped Fiona's picture from the wall.

Footsteps pounded down the stairs.

Davy stood immobile, hands on his head, watching. These khaki-clad English bastards, Cockneys by the sound of them, playing hell with Davy's home as their lords and masters had run roughshod over Ireland for eight hundred years. This was the enemy. He was careful to let no hint of the anger show; he'd not give the fuckers the satisfaction of thinking they were getting to him—nor any reason to search more thoroughly. He heard a yell from the parlour.

“In here quick, Corp. Bring the paddy bastard with you.”

Davy kept his eyes downcast, his face impassive, but his interlocked fingers tightened on top of his head.

The private grabbed Davy's arm. “Move yer arse.”

Davy shrugged the hand free as a horse would flick away a botfly. He stood, big, solid, quietly menacing. “Get your hands off me.”

The private grabbed for his slung rifle.

Davy's slow smile held the contempt of all oppressed for their oppressors. “You'll not need your gun, sonny.”

He stopped in the parlour doorway. The corporal stood inside the room. Two other soldiers searched. The pink lightbulb was drowned by the glare of flames in the street, flooding through the windows. The curtains, ripped from their rails, lay crumpled over the settee, upended against one wall, plaster dust flowing over the ragged fabric where McCusker had clawed. The armchair was cast aside and the rug crammed in a corner.

The dark blotches of the soldiers' camouflaged smocks looked like the blood he had seen spilled by the truncheons of the riot squad. Davy wanted blood. Soldiers' blood. This was his house, fuck it. His ma and da's house. They'd no right. No fucking right …

“Loose board here, Corp.”

“Where?”

Davy didn't look. He heard the corporal say, “Everyone out,” and watched as the two squaddies sidled past to join their mate in the hall. The corporal moved to the doorway, turned, covered Davy with his weapon, and shouted staccato commands. “You, Thompson. Backyard. White. Lyons. Street. Nail this bastard if he tries to come out.” He bared his teeth and lowered his voice. “All right, Paddy. I'm off. When I'm gone, you lift that board.” He took two paces back. “I hope there's no little surprise under it—for your sake, mate.”

Davy waited, breathing deeply, telling himself to let his rage abate, not to do something stupid because he felt violated. They were getting cleverer, these Brit bastards. There could be a booby trap under a loose board. Could be, but there wasn't. Only the blasting caps under the concrete.

He bent and lifted the loose plank, leaving sweat stains where his hands held the wood. He stood, cursing under his breath, waiting for his enemies—his real enemies—to return.

Outside, he heard the steady growling of Pigs' engines, more muted now, distant yelling from the Falls Road at the end of Conway Street. The soldiers must have forced the mob there. The dustbin lids had fallen silent. The dying flares of burning petrol hissed in the rain. He looked through the window, seeing rubble, broken glass, tendrils of CS gas leaking from a spent canister.

“Good lad.” The corporal had returned. “That wasn't too hard, now was it?”

“Fuck you.”

The corporal made a sucking noise, pressing his upper buckteeth against his lower lip. “You a bit pissed off then, Paddy?”

“Fuck, you.”

The corporal shook his head, helmet exaggerating the movement. “Not very polite. I'd not want to black your other eye, mate, so watch your fucking mouth.” He turned to the hall. “In here, White. Keep an eye on Sunshine.”

The private stood in the doorway, insolent and in charge.

“Right then,” said the corporal, “let's be having a butcher's.” He lay on the floor and peered into the hole. “Hang about.” He produced a torch, shone the beam into the cavity.

Davy waited, teeth clenched. He wished he had the faith to pray, but his faith had gone with his da on a rainy night in the Sperrin Mountains.

“Fuck it. Nothing in here.” The corporal stood, switched off the torch, stowed it back in his pack, and dusted off his hands. “Looks like you're clean after all, mate. Sorry about the inconvenience. Aren't we, Private White?”

The private laughed, a harsh, grating guffaw. “Dead sorry, corp.”

“Come on, then. Next door. You and Thompson, up the apples and pears. Me and Lyons'll do down.”

Davy followed them into the hall and slammed the door behind them. He was shaking. Relief, delight at having fooled the bastards mingled with hot rage inside him.
Get out of my house. Get out of my country. Get out. Get out.

He went back to the kitchen and surveyed the wreckage. All his china was smashed, the pots dented. A shattered sherry bottle had turned the spilled cat food into a soggy mess. Oh, bugger it. Bugger it.

He pulled Fiona's picture from the heap, shaking the broken shards of glass from the frame. He spoke to her softly. “Do you not see, lass? These are the hoors I'm fighting. Not wee girls. These arrogant, booted, armed men. Britannia's Huns.” And he saw her face in the frame, white gashes in her black hair where broken glass had torn the glossy paper. He saw her smile.

He righted a chair, put it by the table, and sat for a long moment, bent forward, her picture held in his big hands. “Fiona, I did it once. I turned the other cheek to that wee skitter who wanted to fight. I'll do it again. Girl, I want to fight the fuckers that did this to my house, to all the houses in the street, but they're not worth it. Not if it means you'll not come back.”

He set the picture on the table where her eyes could not see his. “Och, but—it's a close thing. I'd like to kill the bastards. All of them.” He felt his nails digging into his palms. “One more night like tonight. One more invasion by the fucking Brits, and I'd change my mind about quitting.” He knew it was the truth.