Seventy Times Seven (32 page)

The small peninsular island was dotted with large granite boulders that eventually merged into a cluster of craggy rock pools before dipping into the cold clear waters lapping around its edges. The tiny outcrop was covered in gorse and heather, and jutted into the Irish Sea at the far end of a long, arching spine of alabaster-coloured sand.

At the opposite end of the beach sat the village of Cushendun, built round the mouth of the River Dun. Two granite-block quays faced each other on either side of a small inlet that harboured a number of fishing boats, pleasure craft and dinghies. Sail ropes snapped against their metal masts and gulls floated and hovered overhead, squawking as the boats swayed back and forth – clunking together in the gentle offshore breeze. The south bank of the quayside was lined with a terrace of white houses once used for fishermen, but now largely owned or rented by holidaymakers.

There was a two-storey hotel near the high street with a seaward view from the second floor that – on a clear day – stretched all the way over to the Mull of Kintyre in Scotland. The hotel also overlooked the north-bank quayside which was triangular in shape and used mostly as a visitors’ car park. It had a two-foot-high stone wall that framed its circumference and separated the car park from the sandy beach beyond.

The holiday season wasn’t yet under way, so the car park was empty, apart from a few vehicles belonging to the locals. The village had a post office that doubled as a convenience store, a pub, a café and a tourist information bureau that stocked Celtic souvenirs. There were no roadblocks, or army patrols or sectarian graffiti on any of the village’s walls. The Troubles affecting the rest of Northern Ireland had left Cushendun to its own devices. Even the local police officer – despite having the authority to carry a firearm – left his weapon locked in the station’s gun cabinet when he went out on patrol.

Many years ago this was where Órlaith and Sean had spent their honeymoon.

It was early. The only sign of habitation was the two distant figures picking their way through granite boulders and gorse at the northernmost point of the bay. The rising sun cast their shadows long over the dewy tufts of grass.

Órlaith jumped the final few feet onto the sandy beach and stood waiting for Kathleen McGuire to join her.

She regretted coming here to hide. The carefree memories of her past were being pushed to one side and replaced with less happy ones. It had been five days since Órlaith and Mrs McGuire had checked into the hotel. There was still no word from Danny, and no news of what had happened to Niamh.

Órlaith looked pale and drawn. Her skin was as dry as the sand she was standing on and almost the same colour. Even the thin lines around her eyes and mouth seemed to have deepened in the last few days.

Kathleen McGuire on the other hand had lived with the consequences of the Troubles for so long that, for her, little had changed. Since the death of her husband, followed by her son’s murder, pain and anguish had become so familiar to her that they were now part of who she was. Every day was the same battle: a struggle to keep herself sane.

She had given up all hope of ever finding peace, but she was no longer at war.

Kathleen had always liked Órlaith. She had been good for Sean. She had watched her son mellow and mature under Órlaith’s influence. Órlaith had her head screwed on and she could play Sean like a fiddle.

Intellectually she was more than his match. She’d studied politics and Irish history at Queen’s University in Belfast and could put across a convincing argument in favour of a political settlement to the Troubles as opposed to an armed struggle.

Sean and Órlaith would argue long into the night about the best approach to take. Philosophically they were in agreement, but the means each of them would employ to reach the goal were at opposite ends of the spectrum. At the heart of their relationship was their ability to see each other’s point of view. They respected each other’s opinion and that’s why they had worked so well as a couple.

Over the last few days Kathleen had found herself opening up to Órlaith in a way that she hadn’t done with anyone since Sean had been murdered. Perversely the situation they now found themselves in had been good for their relationship. It had brought them closer together. They shared a common tragedy: Órlaith had lost her husband, Kathleen her son.

Both of them prayed that Niamh’s name would not also be added to the list.

The two women made their way across the sand in silence. They had spent every night since their arrival talking over the events of the past week‚ trying to piece a narrative together out of what little information they had.

The conclusion they had come to at the end of every evening was the same: none of it made any sense and there was almost no point in trying to explain what happened.

Suddenly Órlaith reached out and grabbed Kathleen by the hand‚ pulling her to a stop.

The unexpected movement startled her. She turned quickly and saw the look of apprehension on Órlaith’s face.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

Órlaith gripped her hand even more tightly and stared straight ahead of her. ‘Look,’ she replied.

Her voice was so quiet against the noise of waves breaking along the shoreline that Kathleen strained to hear what she said. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked again.

Órlaith nodded in the direction of the car park and repeated herself.

‘Look.’

Kathleen followed Órlaith’s gaze along the beach.

Two men were walking towards them.

Without saying another word, Órlaith let go of Kathleen’s hand and started running across the sand towards the men.

Kathleen stood watching in confusion: rooted to the spot.

One of the men was limping quite badly and was using the other’s shoulder to support him as he struggled over the loose sand. His head was bowed forward as though he was ashamed to show his face. The other man was holding a young girl in his arms and was walking slowly to provide a steady prop for his injured companion. Kathleen watched the young girl wriggle free from the man’s arms and run to meet Órlaith‚ who scooped her up and held her in a tight embrace.

It was only then she realised that the young girl was her granddaughter Niamh and the man carrying Niamh was her son Danny. She had barely recognised him at first. He looked so much older than when she’d last seen him: life had scarred his face, the boyish looks gone for ever. She watched as Órlaith exchanged words with Danny and the other man, their conversation swallowed up by the wind.

Suddenly Órlaith collapsed to her knees and had to be helped back to her feet. Kathleen looked on as the other man reached out and held Órlaith to him‚ her head buried in his shoulder.

Eventually Kathleen saw Órlaith lift her head and turn, the expression on her face imploring Kathleen to join the small group.

But Kathleen didn’t move. She knew instinctively that it was for them to come to her; not the other way round.

A few moments later Danny and the other man left Órlaith – with Niamh standing by her side – and continued along the beach.

As they drew closer the man leaning on Danny’s shoulder raised his eyes and stared at her, seemingly uncertain what to do next. His face was pale and drawn, and full of sadness.

‘I’m so sorry, Ma . . . ’ he said as he reached her.

But Kathleen held her finger to her lips.

‘Shh. You don’t have to say it, son. I’ve always known.’

She slowly struck her clenched fist against the middle of her chest and continued, ‘In here . . . I’ve always known.’

In her dreams she knew exactly what to say: she had lived this moment many times, but never dared to hope that one day it might come true. But standing there now, with her son Sean in front of her, Kathleen found that she could no longer speak: the words were choked back by her quiet, gentle sobs.

The tears she’d held locked in her heart for eight years tumbled freely down her face.

Sean took the final few steps towards his mother and accepted her embrace. The long journey home was finally at an end.

Sean and Danny decided to take the country lanes around the back of Camlough on their way to Newry. Most of the main routes in and out of the small town had army roadblocks. A random ‘stop-and-search’ was the last thing they needed.

The headlines on the car radio carried the news of Frank Thompson’s murder. The report focused mainly on the links between the head of intelligence’s death and those of E. I. O’Leary and Owen O’Brien. Almost the entire programme was given over to this one story.

Danny sat stony-faced as the commentary revealed that several – as yet unidentified – bodies had been recovered from the attic of a building in Cochron Road where O’Brien’s corpse had been discovered. It also mentioned that one of the big newspapers had received a phone call late the night before, alleging that Owen O’Brien was the notorious informant known as the Thevshi.

A massive security operation was under way with the security forces issuing a warning that there were bound to be major repercussions over the deaths. They appealed for anyone with any information to come forward, and urged the caller who had contacted the newspaper to get back in touch in order to substantiate their claims regarding O’Brien.

Sean gave a wry smile. ‘Just as well we’re leaving, eh?’

The day was milder than usual for the time of year and several times on the journey Danny had to squint against the sunlight streaming in through the car window. They had spent the previous night with Órlaith, Niamh, and their mother in the hotel at Cushendun, talking into the small hours about nothing in particular.

There was so much to be discussed, but they all seemed to recognise that the deeper conversations concerning what had happened would come at a later date. For now they were happy to be in each other’s company.

The hotel owner served them drinks until closing time, then left them the keys of the bar and told them to keep a tab: they could settle up with him in the morning.

Órlaith had gone to her room first, taking Niamh – who had been asleep for hours – with her. Kathleen McGuire stayed on for one more drink, then held both boys in a tight embrace for several minutes before retiring to her room. Danny and Sean had sat on in silence and finished their drinks, then Danny helped Sean upstairs and into bed.

The only awkwardness had been between Sean and Órlaith: they were like strangers meeting for the first time.

Órlaith had loved Sean once, but he had died, she’d grieved, and emotionally she had moved on. It had been a long and difficult process to get to where she was now and – to his credit – Sean seemed to have recognised that she was a different person now. At one point during the evening whilst Danny was talking to his mother, Sean had leant across and whispered to her, ‘Do you think we can still be friends?’ Órlaith knew exactly what he was saying: it was impossible to go back. She was unable to disguise the sadness in her eyes as she nodded in reply. But if she was being honest, the sadness was tinged with a sense of relief. It was exactly what she had wanted to say to him.

For a number of reasons she’d also decided not to tell Sean that he was Niamh’s father. Uppermost in her mind was an overriding instinct to protect her daughter from any further harm or emotional upset. It was obvious from what Sean had been saying that – ultimately – he was planning to go back to the States. Gaining a father who was already making plans to leave would be too much for Niamh to bear: it was in no one’s best interest.

In the morning the family had breakfasted together, then Sean and Danny set off for Newry to pick up the girls’ passports from their mother’s house.

It had been decided during the course of their conversations the previous evening – even before they’d heard the news reports – that staying in Northern Ireland was no longer an option for any of them.

Back in the car, Sean reached across and retuned the radio to a music channel. David Bowie was singing ‘Wild-Eyed Boy’ from
Freecloud.
‘It’s good to hear some decent music for a change,’ he said, looking round at Danny. ‘All they play in Tuscaloosa is bloody Country and Western or bluegrass. Not that they’re shit, but it does your head in after a while . . . Are you all right, our lad? You haven’t said a word for the past ten minutes.’ asked Sean.

‘I want to go in and visit Angela’s ma, Mrs Fitzpatrick, before we head off.’

‘Is that wise?’ asked Sean. ‘The RUC are out in force. Could cause us a few problems.’

‘The least I can do is pay my respects in person.’

‘It’s up to you, our lad.’

The first he was aware that anything was wrong was when the car started swerving from side to side. Danny struggled briefly to keep it travelling in a straight line before the car suddenly slewed off to one side and crashed into a deep ditch that ran along the edge of the narrow road.

They came to a shuddering halt with the car resting on its side at a ninety-degree angle: the front and rear offside wheels spinning in mid-air and steam billowing from the engine.

Sean was slumped against the passenger door with his head pressed against the roof of the car and blood oozing from a cut above his right eye.

Luckily Danny had been wearing his seatbelt otherwise he would have landed on top of him. Instead he was clinging on to the steering wheel and trying to manoeuvre himself into a position where he could wind down the window and escape.

‘Jesus, Danny, what the hell happened there?’

‘God only knows, I think the front tyre blew.’

‘We need to get out your side.’

‘You okay?’ asked Danny.

‘Fine! Got a crack on the head, but I’m fine. C’mon, let’s get out.’

Danny braced his legs against the steering column while he unclipped his seat belt, then clamped his arms on the side of the car and pulled himself clear.

He jumped down onto the rough tarmac, then turned to help Sean. As he reached in to take hold of his brother’s arm, he caught a movement on the hillside just a few hundred metres over to his left.

There was a muzzle flash.

Sean’s head was just above the level of the car door when the first bullet whistled past and caught Danny on the shoulder.

The impact spun his body backwards and sent him crashing to the ground.

Sean ducked back inside. Another round pierced the roof and buried itself in the padding of the driver’s seat – closely followed by another, then another.

Sean shouted to Danny, ‘Are you hit?’

The roof exploded just above his head.

‘Fuckers got me in the shoulder,’ replied Danny. ‘The front tyre’s in shreds: they must have shot it out.’

‘Where’s your gun?’

‘Nine mil’s in the glove box,’ replied Danny. ‘Armalite’s in the back.’

‘Any movement out there?’

‘Up on the hill to the left, but I’ve no idea how many.’

‘I’m going to throw you out the Armalite. Tell me when you’re set up, and see if you can keep the bastards’ heads down. I need to get out of here. You ready? Here it comes.’

The instant Sean pushed the AR15 assault rifle up out of the window he heard several more rounds cracking off the hillside.

Another three holes appeared in the car roof.

‘Have you got it?’

‘Yeah!’

‘On the count of three?’

‘Go for it!’ replied Danny.

‘One . . . two . . . three.’

Danny stood up with the assault rifle clamped to his injured shoulder and sprayed several short bursts into the hillside.

Almost immediately there was a return of fire from not one, but two locations – three hundred metres separating them.

Danny retaliated, this time alternating between the two areas.

Sean was already out of the window and scrambling across the door. He was nearly over the edge of the car when a bullet punched his leg out from underneath him. A searing hot pain surged up the middle of his calf. ‘Bastard,’ he screamed as he crumpled onto the ground next to Danny. ‘Ya fucker!’

His calf muscle had a six-inch tear running lengthways along it.

‘Is it bad?’ asked Danny.

Sean shook his head. ‘Nah! Stings like fuck, but I’ve had worse playing football.’

‘You reckon we could make it across that field?’

‘Probably . . .’

‘But?’

‘But, there’s no glory in running away. They’re never going to write a rebel song about two brothers that jumped over a hedge and crawled away.’

Sean and Danny exchanged a look.

‘We are in the shit, are we not?’ asked Sean. ‘If there are two snipers up on the hill, there’s bound to be another one at the bottom of the field behind just waiting for us to come leaping over that hedge. And then there’s the fucker that shot out our tyres. He’ll be along in a minute as well. These SAS guys give good ambush.’

‘We could split up, take a flank each, see how far we get down the field,’ said Danny. ‘Take at least one of them in a pincer movement.’

‘I’m not crawling anywhere,’ replied Sean.

‘Nah‚ neither am I,’ said Danny. ‘. . . Listen!’

‘What?’

‘What’s that noise?’ asked Danny.

A low rumbling noise like a peal of rolling thunder growled in the distance.

‘Here, you take the pistol and I’ll have this,’ said Sean, reaching over to take the Armalite from Danny. ‘They’ve got back-up. Shitehawks have called in a chopper.’

‘Ah well,’ sighed Danny, ‘that’s the end of that then, eh?’

‘No option but to take the fuckers on, eh?’

‘Aye, it looks like it,’ replied Danny. ‘Remember that night at Cailleach Berra Lough?’

‘Jesus! Talk about random! What the hell’s that got to do with anything?’

‘I never thanked you for saving my life.’

Sean thought for a second then said, ‘You’ve got it all wrong, Wub. It wasn’t me saved you. I was too scared to go on the ice. It was Lep ran on and grabbed you.’

‘You sure?’

‘Positive. That ice was thinner than a sheet of cling film.’

Danny looked up at the cloudless sky and sighed. ‘Ah, well . . . thank you, Lep.’

‘You know, the worst part of those years I spent in America was not having you there. I missed you like crazy, our lad. I wish we had a wee bit longer.’

‘Sure, you’ve nothing to worry about‚ Sean: we’ll be together for the rest of our lives,’ said Danny, looking over at his brother.

Another thought struck him. ‘What does Wub stand for?’

‘What made you think of that?’

‘Because I’ve never known.’

The helicopter was getting closer, drowning out their voices.

‘Wee ugly bastard,’ shouted Sean over the din.

Danny smiled.

Sean cocked the Armalite and stood up. ‘You coming?’

Danny raised himself off the ground and stood beside his brother.

They walked out from behind the car together and took it in turns to fire into the hillside and up at the approaching dark-green military helicopter.

Suddenly the air around them was filled with the rasp and crack of gunfire.

The ground they were standing on disintegrated and crumbled and seemed to vanish beneath their feet as the two men disappeared behind a fine mist of blood, dried earth and smoke.

Their bodies buckled and bucked as the bullets ripped and tore at their flesh.

When they fell they landed side by side in the ditch at the front of the upturned car.

Sean lay staring blindly at the clear blue sky overhead, his eye sockets filled with blood.

The shooting had finally stopped.

Through the stillness he could hear the echo of a woman’s voice calling to him.

Two young boys raced each other across the sands of Cushendun towards their parents, who were standing together at the head of the bay.

Sean could see his father waiting to sweep the winner up into his open arms. He tried even harder to catch his brother, who was just a few paces in front.

But as they approached the finish line, Sean noticed Danny starting to tire. Rather than push past and overtake him – which he could easily have done – Sean held back so that his brother could still win the race.

He stood and smiled at Danny’s whoops and screams as his dad spun him high through the air.

Sean reached out and fumbled beside him, searching for his brother’s hand. Using what little strength he had left, Sean pulled Danny closer.

‘You’ll be all right, our lad, don’t you worry now,’ he said as he kissed his brother on the forehead for the last time.