The Killer (16 page)

McQuillan’s good eye closed slowly, trying to concentrate his mind on the words he was hearing.
This was wrong.
This wasn’t what had kept him going in hospital.
‘A prison guard?
You want me to be a fucking prison guard?
A jumped up nanny to some low-life shits,’ he finally managed.

Profanity to a superior officer was frowned on, but Cavanaugh ignored the offence.
‘It’s a promotion, Eddie, more money.
Look at it that way.
It could have been worse.
I’ve fought to keep you out from behind a desk.
At least this way you’ll still be hands on with the punishment.’

McQuillan took a beat.
‘Hands on, sir?
Literally hands on?’

‘What happens in the Maze, stays in the Maze,’ Cavanaugh informed him.
‘I can say no more than that.

He had been Deputy Warden at the prison for about a month, and he loved it.
It wasn’t what he had dreamed of in his hospital bed.
Oh no, it was much, much better.
Many of his colleagues disliked the routine, the daily grind, but Edward “Eddie” McQuillan thrived on the relentless repetition.
Each day began with him slowly dressing in his uniform, assessing his appearance in a full-length mirror, adjusting the eye patch to exactly the right angle.
He would arrive at the prison immaculately presented, but he’d had to buy several extra uniform shirts.
Sometimes the blood just wouldn’t come out.

His daily routine had developed and the exactness pleased him.
He drove to work carefully, meticulously obeying the speed limit, never wanting to attract attention, always checking his surroundings.
Out here he must blend in until he arrived at his domain, his private sanctuary.
In there, no one questioned him and he had a growing collection of faces in his head, each one twisted in pain as he did his job of trying to extract information from captured I.R.A
.
terrorists.
He smiled to himself.
He wasn’t actually that good at his job, though it seemed no one dared call him out on it.
He couldn’t think of one useful piece of information he’d extracted, because he simply wasn’t interested in what they had to say.
All he wanted was to see those faces, each one of them turning in his mind to the face of the man he hated, the man who had stolen his eye.

He arrived in the prison and parked in his reserved spot.
He was special here.
He was somebody.
Kenny Allen had arrived for his shift a few moments earlier and already had the kettle on as Eddie entered the small office.
He liked this kid.
He was quiet but tough and he always knew how to turn a blind eye.
‘Good morning Kenny,’ he offered.

‘Oh, it’s a good morning indeed sir,’ Kenny replied.
‘Take a look at the new intake.’

Eddie scanned the list of the roster board.
Three names, two of which meant nothing, but the third, oh the third.
The Maze prison would today be taking custody of one Darren McCann.

Darren came round in a small, dank room and he had no idea what day it was.
The last thing he remembered clearly was seeing that gun pointing at him and then there was a hazy recollection of a loud, incessant whirring noise.
His head throbbed and he knew he’d taken several beatings, but the taste in his mouth suggested he’d been drugged as well.
He tried to assess his surroundings but, though he could detect light, he could see nothing.
There was a tight sensation on his mouth, so he knew he was gagged, while the scratchy feel of rough cloth confirmed that he was blindfolded.
He tried to move, but his arms and legs were securely bound to something that was holding him in a seated position.
He fought to banish the fear that enveloped him, but he was in the shit.
Of that there was no doubt.

***

Darren was still unconscious in the small prison cell as Turner walked slowly from his antique shop, the sedate tread belying his thoughts.
He fought the impulse to rush, knowing that he must always remain in character, but he needed to travel north as quickly as possible.

‘How the Hell did that happen?’ he’d snapped down the phone only moments earlier.
‘Deniable operation isn’t supposed to mean complete screw up.’
He’d heard the intake of breath on the other end of the connection and realised he’d surprised the caller with his tone.
Everyone knew that he hated bad language and his, though mild, had been unusual for him.
He’d calmed himself quickly.
It would do no good to let his anger get the better of him.
‘I’m sorry.
It will be handled.
Make sure that chopper’s ready,’ he’d concluded.

Finally in the air and heading to Belfast he only hoped he wasn’t too late.
So much planning had gone into this operation and he couldn’t see it fail now.
McCann was the prize he’d been after.
Years of intelligence gathering and assessing the background of potential recruits had brought Turner two successful ‘traitors’, one of whom had given him the information that led him to concentrate all his efforts on the young Darren McCann.
Everything he knew told him this was the one – not naturally allied with the opposing force, but trained by them into just the kind of ruthless killing machine he needed.
He had thick files of names and dates.
He knew all about Collins, though he hadn’t touched the man.
He was handy left in place, doing half the job for him.
He assumed Collins would know that one of his earlier apprentices had changed sides.
If he was successful with a second protégé, McCann, he had a feeling Collins would disappear without any help from him.

The plan had been good.
A mercenary, deniable squad had done their job well, trailing the target until just the right moment and then extracting him.
Where it had gone wrong between then and now, Turner didn’t know, but somehow McCann wasn’t where he was supposed to be.
It probably came down to some pen pusher doing his job just a little too efficiently.
Instead of being off the radar in the secret headquarters of British Intelligence, Darren McCann, Butcher of Belfast, had entered the system as just one more terrorist and now he was in the Maze.

***

Eddie McQuillan stood quietly in the small room, watching the slight movements that indicated his prey was waking up.
Good old Kenny would keep everyone off his back and he had as long in here as he needed.
This was going to be quite a day.
He waited patiently as the man on the chair started to move more noticeably and then to wriggle frantically against his bonds and it was clear that he was fully conscious.
Still Eddie stayed silent.
He didn’t want to rush this.
He had perfected his method and routine over the last month and he was not about to deviate from it now.
Indeed the thought of any deviation bothered him.
Everything had to be step by step – fear, control, pain – though there might be a few extra specifics to throw into this day’s work.

‘I see you’re with us at last,’ he said, finally breaking the silence, and was rewarded with quick, ineffective movements from the man in front of him.
A few mumbled sounds came from the bag over his face.
Eddie reached out and patted him gently on the head, which responded by jerking violently from side to side.
‘There, there son, no need to worry - not just yet anyhow,’ he whispered menacingly.
He paused, savouring the moment, and then slowly removed the patch from his eye socket.
In one smooth motion he snatched the bag from the man’s head.

Darren blinked quickly as he adjusted his eyes to the bright light suddenly assaulting them.
A man’s silhouette stood in front of him and slowly formed into a defined shape with recognisable features – too recognisable as he finally focused on the horribly deformed face of the R.U.C. Sergeant, Edward McQuillan, as it moved within inches of his own.
Recoiling from the sight, and the reek of foul breath, Darren shrank his head backwards as far as he possibly could but he was restricted by something at his neck and couldn’t escape the stench.
He tried to fight his bonds, but he was held fast.
Even the chair was bolted to the floor.
He had no option but to stare into McQuillan’s face and what he saw there was pure hatred.
In that instant he knew he was a dead man.

‘Hello McCann, I’ve been looking forward to our reunion,’ McQuillan whispered, his voice barely more than a hiss.
‘Do you know where you are?’

Darren swallowed but didn’t try to speak, just shook his head slowly from side to side.

‘Well, you’re back in Ireland my fine lad, and you’re in my care now,’ McQuillan informed him.
As he continued, his voice rose, word by word.
‘You fucking ruined my life and my career in the R.U.C.
A job guarding scum like you was the only work I could get - After You Fucking Blinded Me!’
 
he ended on a scream, saliva drooling down his chin.
He jumped back from the chair and spread his arms wide, circling as a maniacal laugh escaped his ruined face.
‘Welcome to Her Majesty’s Prison: Maze, McCann.
You’re in Long Kesh.
You’re in the fucking H-blocks.’

Darren reeled in disgust and fear as he stared at the mad man in front of him.
His breath came in short, sharp bursts as he tried to assess his situation, to think of anything he could do or say to get himself out of this mess, but he knew he was done for.
He could think of many people who had cause to hate him, but they were all dead and could do nothing about it.
Now, in front of him, stood a very large, and very much alive, man with complete power over him.
Worst of all, Darren knew it with absolute clarity as he looked into the one remaining eye; this man was completely insane.
He had no idea what to expect, but McQuillan quickly left him in no doubt.

‘The Bible tells us we must take an eye for an eye - and I am a devout man.
I obey the word of God absolutely.’
He licked the saliva from his chin before continuing in a voice that seemed to have no regular pattern, rising and falling, changing from laugh to hiss to shrill scream and back again.
‘First I’m going to break both of your hands - every single fucking finger - every single fucking bone.
Then I’m going to remove one of your eyes.
I think I’ll gouge it out - slowly - with my pen.
Would you like to see the pen McCann?’

It was almost a girlish giggle that came from his mouth now as he slowly removed a fountain pen from his pocket and twirled it in front of his captive’s face.
Of all the sounds he’d heard over the last minute or so it was that giggle which terrified Darren the most and finally gave him back the ability to speak.
‘Fuck you, you blind, mad bastard.
You’re a fucking head case.
I should’ve finished you when I had the chance,’ he screamed at the psychotic ex cop.

‘Ah, I may very well be blind McCann, but you see - I’m only blind in one fucking eye - and I’m going to take both of yours.’
He seemed to have regained control of his voice again as he added, ‘but I think I’ll only take one today.
Don’t want to get the fun over all in one go, do we?’

Darren was soaked with sweat and the tremors in his body were impossible to control, but he continued his efforts to loose himself from the bonds.
Nothing.
He couldn’t move an inch.
McQuillan slid behind him and he felt the rubbing on his wrist as one of his hands was freed.
He tried to pull it in front of him but his arm was numb and he seemed to have no strength as McQuillan kept a firm, yet strangely gentle, grasp.
He examined each of Darren’s fingers in turn, massaging them until the circulation returned.

Darren stared in fascinated horror as McQuillan continued his ministrations.
‘Which do you think would produce the most pain McCann, breaking your fingers first - or your fucking wrists?’
 
he asked as he smirked at his panic-stricken captive.

Though it truly horrified him, Darren couldn’t help but consider the question, and he shuddered at the images in his mind.

‘I don’t know what you think McCann, but I’ve a bit of experience here and I’m pretty sure the most painful thing would be to start with your fingers - then work my way up, don’t you agree?’ McQuillan continued in an almost friendly manner, still holding onto the hand.

Darren watched as his tormentor opened a drawer in the desk to his immediate left.
He removed a small leather work bag and, making sure that Darren could see, began pulling out a succession of hand tools; chisels, screwdrivers and a selection of pliers, all the while gaily whistling “Protestant Men”.
He examined each tool with exaggerated consideration and finally settled on a claw hammer, then smiled at his captor in satisfaction.
Darren attempted to return the gaze with defiance, but knew that he was trembling and betraying his fear.
He’d felt fear before when facing an enemy, but that had been in a fair fight and had given him an adrenalin rush.
Here he had no chance of retaliation and his thoughts went back to the Spanish thief and the similar position in which he had held him.