Pray for Us Sinners (37 page)

The yellow Northern Ireland Hospitals Authority ambulance was parked behind his Mercedes. Blue-uniformed attendants lounged against the ambulance's mudguards, one smoking, the other holding his peaked cap in his hands. Firemen waited, two in the cab, the rest perched on the big red fire engine pulled up alongside the skip.

Two police Hotspur Land Rovers had arrived, and policemen were erecting barricades at each end of the street, keeping newcomers from entering the cordoned-off area, hustling those who had been in the nearby shops to safety on the far sides of the barriers.

The television crew had set up their equipment behind the skip. A cameraman peered round its metal side, lens focused on McGuiggan's. An infantry platoon moved in. Their officer decided that the lee of the heavy metal container would provide sufficient shelter for his men if the bomb in the grocer's did go off.

At 9:45, two hundred pounds of ammonium nitrate, mixed with sump oil, blew the skip and the morning apart.

Brendan McGuinness had planned the ambush precisely so that those seeking refuge would move directly into the eye of the blast.

 

FIFTY-FOUR

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 17

“So,” said Marcus, “we've to take out a car when it crosses the span?”

“Aye.” Davy looked at the thirty blocks of Semtex stacked on the kitchen table. “Do you think we've enough to do her?”

“Aye, certainly. If we use crown charges under the centre of the span. Look. The roadbed's three-feet thick, and we'll call it good masonry, so the material factor is”—Marcus scratched his head—“0.48. We'll not be able to do much tamping, so that gives us a tamping factor of 1.8. So”—he scribbled on a scrap of paper—“we'd need just under twenty pounds of TNT.”

“Aye. But you've to divide by 1.6 because we're using Semtex.”

“Right. That works out at just under thirteen pounds per charge.”

“Per charge?”

“We'll need three charges so that their cavities overlap and the whole fucking issue collapses.”

“I see.”

“So. Two side charges and one in the middle, and we'll shape that one.”

“Good.”

Marcus smiled. He knew he was taking some risks, building demolition devices exactly to the correct specifications, but he was determined that, once he'd secretly sabotaged the thing by disconnecting the soldered wire in the receiver, Davy would have no grounds for complaint about Mike Roberts's workmanship and would still have to keep his side of the bargain. Marcus stood and separated the Semtex into three heaps of ten orange blocks. “Come on,” he said, “let's see what we can find in the barn.”

*   *   *

It took a while, rooting about in the open structure, to find exactly what Marcus needed to make shaped charges: a length of copper piping, some wooden dowels, plywood. He was not surprised that the bits and pieces were readily available. Farmers kept all kinds of junk lying around.

Marcus knew he was being melodramatic, impressing Davy by making a shaped charge. A solid one would have been nearly as effective if the explosion was truly going to go ahead as planned, but he wanted Davy to be convinced that Mike Roberts had really done his best.

He worked steadily until the job was done. Marcus looked at his handiwork again. It had been a slow business.

But there the charges sat. Waiting. All that was required was to pop in the detonators and wire them to the receiver. Well, not quite all. Their bright orange hue would stick out like a sore thumb. Davy cocked his head to one side. “Just have to give them a lick of paint.” He went to fetch the white enamel and the coloured dyes that Jimmy had provided.

“It's not as easy as that, Davy.”

“What?”

“You can't paint Semtex.”

“So what do we do?”

Marcus opened a drawer, pulled out the contents, and removed the liner paper. “Wrap them in that and paint the paper.”

“All right.” Davy began to work.

Marcus sat and watched Davy calmly painting the undersides of the now-wrapped charges. Davy was not a man to be fooled by a shoddy job. Not yet, anyway.

When Davy finished, he looked at Marcus. “I never really thanked you for fishing me out of the river.” His voice was soft.

“Never worry. You'd have done the same for me.”

“Aye, Mike. I would.”

Marcus heard the catch in Davy's voice. “I could take a shine to you, you old bugger.”

“You're not such a bad lad yourself.”

“Fuck off.” Marcus laughed and said, “Try not to fall in again tonight.”

“I will.” Davy paused. “Does all this not bother you?”

“Why should it?”

“Because when we blow the bridge, the soldiers will be rushing round like chickens with their heads cut off.”

“What soldiers? You've not seen what this stuff can do. Anyway, I'm with you.”

“So?”

“Jesus, Davy. How long have you been keeping away from the Brits? Twenty years?”

“Aye. Give or take.” Suddenly, Davy looked even older and more tired. “A brave wheen of years.”

Marcus chuckled. “You must be good at it, then.” He watched a look of pride cross Davy's face. “One of the best.”

“Away on.”

It was funny how the big man could be embarrassed. “Should be exciting.”

“You like a bit of excitement, don't you?”

Marcus nodded. It seemed simpler to agree. His taste for peril had diminished since that van bomb.

“That's why you defused the bomb in that pub, isn't it?”

“Aye.” It wasn't, but Marcus was not going to tell Davy that either.

“Son, you could've been me twenty-five years ago. I thought it was a game.”

Marcus was surprised to feel Davy's hand on his arm. He looked up and saw sadness in the man's eyes.

“It's not a game, Mike. We've a job to do.” He hesitated. “It'll be my last one.”

“What?”

“You heard.”

“But—”

“No buts. I've had enough.” Davy's fingers tightened. “Take my advice. Make it your last one, too.”

“I suppose that's up to you. I still want to get involved.”

“Jesus, I knew you'd say that. I suppose I'd have been disappointed if you hadn't.”

“Why?”

“I've been watching you. You've guts. I don't want to see them spilled.”

“Come on now, Davy.” This was crazy. Marcus was setting Davy up to be arrested, yet he felt pleased that he had not “disappointed” the big man, had enjoyed his praise and his concern.

“I mean it, son. I mean it, but it's your choice. I'll put in the word if you want me to.” Davy nodded toward the plastique. “Maybe we should get started.”

“Great.” Marcus hummed the first bars of the triumphal march from
Aida
, then realized that it was not the kind of thing Mike Roberts would know and changed to a pop song.

“What's that tune?”

Marcus's smile was very wide. “It's called ‘Spinning Wheel.'” He began to sing the words. “What goes up, must come down—”

 

FIFTY-FIVE

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 17

“So far, so good,” Brendan McGuinness said.

Sean said nothing.

Brendan grinned. “We got the judge and we scared the bejesus out of the peelers in Comber.”

“We lost three men yesterday—two dead, the other one picked up at the Holywood Arches.”

“You get casualties in a war.”

“Give over, for God's sake.”

Brendan sat. “This morning went off like a breeze. The paper said we killed four soldiers, a fireman, and that bloody reporter.” He jabbed his finger on the tabletop. “Do you know how many of the Security Forces were up the Shankill this morning?”

“No.”

“Thirty. Peelers, soldiers, bomb-disposal men. And that's only a start. We'll be able to get nearly a thousand tied up tomorrow.”

“Good. Davy's going to need all the help he can get.”

“He'll have it. Have you organized the sheepmen?”

“Aye. The action squad goes into Norman Johnston's farm at four tomorrow morning. They'll have plenty of time to get the flock ready. What about the motorbike?”

“It'll be delivered tonight. I doubt if he'll need it, but it'll be there. Just in case. I just hope your man McCutcheon will be up to his job tomorrow.”

“Don't worry about Davy.”

“I won't. I've more to worry about than him. My man called.”

“Oh?”

“He's been busting his arse. The bloody MPs wanted to take the direct Lisburn–Hillsborough road. He had to work like hell to persuade them that if there was going to be an attack on Wilson, the best way to avoid it was to use an unexpected route.”

“Good for him.”

“He told me something else.” Brendan had decided that now that the Wilson attack was almost over, it was time to tell Sean about the new British agent. There was no reason for him to know that Brendan had known about the bastard for weeks.

“The Brits have a new undercover man in New Lodge.”

“Fuck.”

“Some lad who calls himself Mike Roberts. I'm going after him once the big one's over.”

*   *   *

Marcus sat in the kitchen as he and Davy waited for dark. “So,” said Marcus, “what'll we do to while away the shining hour?”

Davy shook his head. “You're still not one bit bothered, are you?”

“Not much. I was pissed off at first when you told me I wasn't going to get to meet the big lads for a while, but this here's great, so it is.”

Great? Jesus, Davy thought, as he packed the charges and the wires into his canvas carryall. “The detonators and the receiver'll fit in my tool kit.” He hesitated as if coming to a decision. “I'll do the rest myself.”

“Worried I might blow myself up?” Marcus did not want to seem too eager, but he knew he had to get to the receiver to disable it.

“I shouldn't have brought you. It's not your fight. I want you out of here.”

“Fuck off.”

“Don't worry. I'll find you when it's over. I'll put in the word with the CO.”

“Shit, Davy, I'll not be used. You couldn't make the charges, so you kidnapped me to do it for you.”

“Aye.”

Marcus stabbed a finger at Davy. “You owe me the chance to finish the job. And what the hell are you going to do if you fall in the fucking river again?”

Davy said nothing.

“Davy, two of us can do the job in half the time.”

“Aye. Well.”

“You know it. Don't you?” Davy was backing down. “Davy, I want to help.”

Davy pushed the carryall aside and sat silently before saying, “On your own head be it.”

Marcus grinned. “Thanks.”

“But I'll carry the detonators.”

“Fair enough—Mammy.”

“Mammy?”

“Aye. You're trying to look after me like an old broody hen. I know about the risks of fulminate as well as you do.”

Davy offered his hand. “Thanks, son.”

They shook, and Marcus, not knowing what to say, let the silence hang between them.

Davy coughed and held his fist before his mouth, using his curled index finger to smooth his moustache. He turned and faced Marcus. “I don't know about all the stuff going on now.”

“What about it?”

“Army Council. They reckon we can make the Brits go home if we cost them too much. Wreck businesses and fuck up civilian life. The more we bomb, the more it costs, the more fed up the Brits get.”

“Do you not think it'll work?”

Davy snorted. “I doubt Army Council ever heard about Dunkirk. The harder you push the English, the tighter they hold on. They don't have a fucking bulldog for a mascot for nothing.” He put his hands in the small of his back. “Jesus, I gave that a right wrench last night. Anyway. I don't think hitting soft targets is right.”

“But you're not worried about tomorrow?”

“The army's fair game. It's probably some general'll be in the car.” He hesitated. “As long as it goes all right.”

“Why shouldn't it?”

“The last one was a right fuckup. Right bollocks.”

Silence.

Davy moved back to the table. He stood, resting his hands on the edge. He pushed out his lower lip. “I'm going to tell you about a wee girl—a wee girl in a motorcar.”

“Davy, you don't have to.” Marcus shifted uncomfortably. He was unused to older men unburdening themselves.

“I want to. By God, Mike, I want you to understand.”

Marcus listened, heard the story, heard Davy's remorse. When the big man finished, Marcus groped for the right words, knowing that any suggestions that the Hanrahan girl
had
been a casualty of war would be dismissed. Yet he knew he had to try.

“Come on, Davy. You know it was an accident.”

“There's been too many accidents. I want no more. I'm finished after tomorrow. Fiona and me's going to Canada.”

Fiona? Who the hell was Fiona? Leave it, Marcus told himself.

Davy said, “I've had enough. I'm telling you this because you're a decent lad. I wanted you out because there's no need for you or Siobhan to get tied up the way I was. No need for you to be a fucking murderer.”

“Davy. You're not a murderer. You're a soldier.” Marcus searched for the right words, “One of the Fianna.”

“Aye. Finn MacCool's bodyguard. Right enough.”

Despite the bitterness in Davy's voice, Marcus could see that the thought had comforted him.

“I think you're a good man, Davy McCutcheon.” And Marcus knew that he meant what he had just said.

*   *   *

Davy laboured along and envied the easy lope of the younger man as he made his way through the furrow closest to the hedge. The night was clear, and a clear night meant dew. Unless they kept out of the grass they would leave a shining trail—like the path laid by a snail, and just as obvious in the sun's morning rays.