Nothing but Memories (DCI Wilson Book 1) (18 page)

             
"They are indeed," Wilson was beginning to feel the mellowing effects of the alcohol. “You can buy them in the shops now but when I collected them they came off the backs of men I played against.”

             
"You actually represented Ireland," there was awe in her voice. She stood staring at the glass-windowed case.

             
"So it appears," Wilson moved to the drinks cabinet and poured himself another drink. "But long before your time. I was a flank forward to be reckoned with in those days. Tackled like a train and ran like a gazelle. Then I took part of a Provo bomb in the leg and I wasn't so fast about the field after that."

             
"There's a Lions jersey in there," she said. “You actually played for the Lion’s”

             
Wilson seldom thought of those halcyon days now. If it wasn't for the constant reminder of the display case he would have thought it simply a dream. Susan had erected the case as a reminder. Not only to him but to all those fortunate enough to be invited into their living-room. While he had been at his peak, Susan had harboured delusions of him as a future Chief Constable. Malwood Park was part of that dream. The poor deluded woman, he thought. If the Provo bomb hadn't stopped him, he might have continued for another couple of seasons but he already knew that rugby wasn't going to be his fortune. He'd been born twenty years too soon for that. There had been as little chance of ‘Ian Wilson plc’ in those days as there had been of him ever achieving his wife's ambition for him. As soon as his sporting prowess had disappeared, his honesty permitted the jackals of RUC Headquarters to descend on him. That was why he occupied a cubby hole in Tennent Street instead of a sumptuous office at Castlereagh.

             
"Let's blame the Provos," Wilson said lifting his glass in a toast.

             
"I never heard about your sporting accomplishments," she said turning away from the case for the first time. “My dad is a big fan. I bet he’s heard of you.”

             
"Former sporting accomplishments," Wilson said. "It's all ancient history now. A glass case full of ageing jerseys and tattered caps.” He looked at his almost finished glass.  “I'm drinkin' too much." His words contained the scent of a slur. "But I suppose it comes with the job. We're two bright sparks, aren't we? Not a real friend in the world between us." The thickness was now evident on his tongue. "Not one single real friend. They hate you because you're a woman and a Catholic and they hate me because I'm not one of them. Some life. Eh!"

             
Moira shuffled uneasily. She could see the redness in his cheeks and noticed that his eyes were watering. He had already drunk three large free-poured whiskeys and he obviously hadn’t eaten all day. That was probably enough to put an elephant to sleep. It was time to beat a retreat. She certainly didn’t want this to get embarrassing.

             
"You should have stayed in that job in the Civil Service," Wilson continued. "Take my advice and go back to your family. Forget all this business about contributing. You’re a nice intelligent lass with a future. Forget the PSNI. There's only pain in this job." He finished the contents of his glass and poured himself another.

             
"I think I should be off," she said laying her glass down on a stained mahogany coffee table. She hadn't expected that she would be drawn so closely into Wilson's private world. She'd heard that many officers suffered from burn-out and suspected she was witnessing at least part of Wilson's trauma. Too many dead bodies followed by too many fruitless investigations created cynical husks of men who had once really cared.

             
"Good-night, Moira," Wilson said sitting on the sofa with a thump. "I’ll be alright here. You see yourself out." He watched the young woman's back disappearing into the hallway. “Christ, I'll have to eat something or this bloody stuff will rot my guts.” He tried to rise from the chair but then thought the better of it. He'd phone the Chinese take-away later. He sipped on the whiskey and sat back. He never felt his eyes closing.

CHAPTER 21

The little alarm bell had been ringing inside Joe Case's head for several minutes but he chose to ignore it. His day had been the model of inactivity. After lunch in a city centre pub, he had spent the afternoon at the movies. Now, completely relaxed, he was seated at a corner table in the `Black Bear' in Agnes Street. Case raised his pint glass to his lips and glanced around the room looking for the source of his internal disquiet. There were about fifteen other people in the pub scattered in groups around the bar. His eyes flitted over the groups assessing them before dismissing them as potential threats. He stopped as his gaze fell on a group of four men standing drinking at the bar. The level of his alarm bell began to increase. There was something about the four men that wasn't quite right. He put down his pint glass and resumed his reading of the evening paper in such a way as to keep the group at the bar under observation. It was always a bit dangerous hanging around known Provo or UVF haunts. The highest thrill for SAS men serving in Northern Ireland was to pass themselves off perfectly in Republican or Loyalist strongholds. To do that you needed the right accent and a repertoire of the right songs. He loved feeling the adrenaline flowing in torrents as he had sat there right in the midst of the enemy belting out either 'Kevin Barry' or 'The Sash'. The high was incredible but so were the risks. Anyone found to be playing that game was liable to end up wrapped in barbed wire and face down in a field in South Armagh. The internal alarm bell was proving reliable yet again. The four men at the bar were talking animatedly and he could see occasional glance being shot in his direction. Instinctively, he rubbed the inside of his right foot against the inside calf of his left leg feeling the comfort of the sheath containing his combat knife. Four to one was pretty steep odds and considering that this was Belfast it was odds on that if the boys at the bar were 'connected' and that some kind of weapon would not be too far away.

             
Case slunk back in his seat as two of the men at the bar detached themselves from the group and made their way towards his table.

             
"My friend here says that you're a fucking Taig," the man who spoke was in his thirties and of medium height. A large paunch drooped over the belt of his trousers and his forearms were covered with the obligatory tattoos.

             
Case looked up slowly from his newspaper. His glance passed from the speaker to the `friend': a lanky youth of about nineteen with long mousy brown hair. "Your friend has his head up his fuckin' arse," his Belfast accent was faultless.

             
"You're not from round here, are ye?" the heavy set man spoke again.

             
"Mind your own fuckin' business," Case resumed his reading of the newspaper.

             
The young man leaned over the table and laid a bony hand on the newspaper. "My two mates at the bar," he flicked his head in the direction of the other two men. "They think you're a Taig too."

             
"Then you've all got your heads up your arses," Case pushed the young man's hand off the newspaper. He smiled as he felt his heart rate dropping and his emotions becoming cold. He had been astonished when he had seen some of his comrade’s reactions to battle. Their hearts pounded and their palms began to sweat. He was the complete opposite. He was now completely ready for action. He would deal with whatever was coming whatever the consequences to himself.

             
The heavy set man looked around the pub. "There's a yard at the back of the bar. We'll talk there. If you're not a Taig, then you've nothing to worry about."

             
Case sat looking into the two men's faces. This was trouble with a capital T. He was in no doubt that he'd had the misfortune to run into a group of the local crazies. At best he was going to pick up a beating and at worse the bastards might actually go the full distance and kill him. Since he had urgent business to conduct, he couldn't afford either. "OK," he said folding the newspaper neatly. "Should I finish my pint before we leave?"

             
The two men looked at each other and the younger one smiled.

             
"I think maybe you should finish the drink," the older man said suppressing a grin.

             
Case picked up his pint glass and swallowed the contents. "Let's get this over with." He was aware of every eye in the pub watching as the two men led him to the bar. He ran his hand along the left side of his face obscuring it from the view of the onlookers. It wouldn’t be wise for him to be recognised. If the police were to enquire in the future whether he had been in the pub, none of those watching him so intently would remember. They were all `non-witnesses' to what was happening. The two men at the bar finished their drinks. He saw one of them nod at the barman and the barman passed a baseball bat across the wooden counter.

             
Ah shit, Case said to himself. He looked into the face of the man who had received the bat and was slipping it under his coat and resolved to do real damage to the bastard.

             
The four men led him towards the rear of the pub.

             
The heavy set man opened a door which led into the yard at the rear and indicated for the group to pass through. "Arty," he said to one of the men who had been at the bar. "Plant yerself here and watch the buggers inside. We don't want some nosy bastard decidin' to take a piss out here."

             
Sheets of rain poured into the exposed part of the yard. Case and the three men stood under a canopy which covered roughly half the space between the buildings.

             
"Who the fuck are you then, Taig?" the heavy set man punched Case in the side of the head.

             
Although the blow stung Case only marginally, he let himself fall to his knees. He felt a stream of rainwater running across the knees of his trousers. He'd been right. This wasn't going to be an interrogation followed by a beating. The beating was going to precede the interrogation.

             
"You're not so fucking cocky now," the mousy haired youth kicked Case's side and the three men laughed together.

             
Case moaned and the men continued laughing. The bastards were gettin' off on his pain. He came upright suddenly ramming, as he rose, a bunched fist into the genitals of the man holding the baseball bat. He felt the air exhale from the man's body in one sudden gust before he collapsed onto the soaking wet cobbles. The bat clanged on the stones of the yard skipping away from the four men. The heavy set man stopped laughing just before Case punched him violently in the throat. The man fell to the ground clutching his throat and retching. The mousy haired youth tried to run for a wooden door at the other end of the yard but slipped on the wet cobble-stones and pitched forward across the rain soaked yard.

             
"You should learn to kick a bit harder, mate. Like this." Case unleashed a kick which shattered the youth's jaw and sent him rushing headlong into oblivion.

             
It was less than thirty seconds since Case had started moving. The door from the pub into the yard started to open.

             
"Is everyth..."

             
Case pulled the door and the man called Arty came flying into the yard tumbling over the prone bodies of his comrades. Before he could regain his wits, Case kicked him in the side of the head and Arty fell senseless onto the ground. The man who had earlier been holding the baseball bat was lying doubled over holding his genitals. Case kicked him hard in the spot where he held his hands and felt satisfaction as the toe of his shoe bit into the soft tissue of the man's groin. The man's scream died in his throat and his eyes widened as he watched Case bend and remove the knife from the sheath on his leg.

"I have a thing about arseholes trying to beat me up," he held the knife up so that the prone man could see it. "You should always try to know who you're screwing with," he put the sole of his rig
ht foot on the man's throat. He smiled as he saw the fear in the prone mans eyes and smelled the astringent smell of fresh urine. He pulled the man's right hand towards him and pushed back the cuff of his coat exposing a full white hand.

             
"Hey your hand's the wrong colour," Case said. He placed the man’s hand on a wooden packing case and chopped down vigorously with the razor sharp combat knife severing the thumb at the joint. "Your symbol's the red hand isn't it," he said as he repeated the process with the index finger. "Now you can have one all to your self."

             
The prone man fainted and his bloodied hand went limp. Case severed the remaining fingers and let the emasculated hand fall across the man's body.

             
Time to go, Case thought. He moved across the exposed part of the yard and let himself out through the back door. His ribs hurt where the youth had kicked him. "Fucking pussies," he said and moved away quickly.