Pray for Us Sinners (15 page)

“No.”

McGuinness slammed the pistol barrel against Cathal's shattered left patella. He howled, and thrashed on the ground.

“No one?”

“No! Oh, God. No. No.”

“Fine.” McGuinness took Cathal's hand, put a twenty-pound note in the palm, and closed the fingers around it.

Cathal Fogarty knew that it was his Judas money.

He was going to die.

 

TWENTY-TWO

THURSDAY, MARCH 21

“Is that a fact? Real cowboys?” The man standing at the bar beside Marcus seemed to be impressed. “I never knew that.”

“Right enough,” Marcus said, “bucking broncos and all, just like the films.” Nearly two weeks gone and this was the first time anybody had even tried to talk to him. Marcus Richardson, now fully into his Mike Roberts impersonation, was determined to keep this one on the hook. “Them chuck-wagon races was terrific.”

“I never heard of them.”

“D'y'ever see
Ben Hur
?”

“Aye.” The man, beefy face, thick lips, stubbled chin, leaned his elbow on the bar counter. “Your man Charlton Heston was great.”

“Them chuck wagons is just like chariots, but they've six horses. They run like the hammers of hell.” Marcus finished his pint. “You go another?”

“Is the pope Catholic?”

Marcus tried to attract the barman's attention, but that worthy was busy at the other end of the short bar, pulling a pint, working the ceramic handle of a beer pump. He looked as though his piles hurt. Marcus glanced around. The place was small, poorly lit, and half-empty. All of the patrons were men. Three stood farther down the bar, hunched over their drinks. One man, a painter by his overalls, was in front of the barman, waiting for his pint. Only two of the seven or eight tables were occupied. It was Thursday night, and Marcus had hoped the place would be packed. He should have known better. Friday was dole day.

At a table, four young lads—jeans, windcheaters—argued loudly over the prospects at Sandown Park. One with a badly repaired harelip mumbled, “Catch up in the straight? That horse couldn't catch a fucking cold.”

Marcus laughed at the remark, then said, “A fellow could die of thirst in here.”

The big man grinned back and yelled, “Liam.”

He was obviously a regular, maybe thirty, maybe a bit older. He'd come up to the bar twenty minutes ago and called for a pint. By the time it was nearly finished he had turned and smiled at Marcus. “New here?”

“Aye. Just back from Canada.” The stranger had a brother in San Francisco and was a bit hazy about geography. He'd started to ask questions and Marcus had played along.

The barman ambled up. “What do you want, Eamon?”

Eamon tossed his head at Marcus, a cowlick of dark hair swinging. “Your man here's buying.”

“Pints?”

Marcus said, “Aye. Two.”

“Right.” Liam took their glasses and the scowl he brought with him back to the beer pumps.

“Right ray of sunshine, our Liam,” said Eamon. “Probably 'cos Liam's short for William. He'd make a right good Protestant some nights. He can be sour enough.” Eamon chuckled at his own humour. “What's your name, by the way?”

“Mike. Mike Roberts.”

“Eamon Laverty.” He held out a calloused hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mike.”

The new pints arrived.

“So. What do you do with yourself, Eamon?”

“Brickie. I'm dead lucky. Most of the lads in here are on the burroo.”

Marcus smiled at the Belfast mispronunciation of “bureau,” the unemployment office.

“Aye,” said Eamon. “Lots of work these days for bricklayers. Rebuilding, if you know what I mean.”

“Right enough. I never seen anything like the Falls. Must have been bloody awful.”

“It was teetotally fucking well dire, so it was. You never seen nothing like it in your life. Protestant fuckers with their petrol bombs.”

“Bad like?”

“You wouldn't believe it. Fucking hoors' melts. Sooner we get rid of the Brits the better.” Eamon turned and leaned his back against the bar, pint clutched in one hand. “See these lads in here? Not a one of them can get a decent job. And that Willie Whitelaw, blethering on about no more discrimination. Damn good thing he's gone.” He hawked and Marcus thought that his new companion was going to spit on the plank floor. “There's still no joy for Catholics in Belfast. And this new fellow, Rees? He's only been in the job a couple of weeks.” Eamon managed a credible imitation of a singsongy Welsh voice: “I'm delighted to take up the challenge as Secretary of State for Northern Ireland, working to bring harmony to the two communities.” Eamon's native Belfast accent returned. “The only harmony that Welsh git understands comes from a bunch of singing miners. His da was one, you know.” He took another deep swallow. “You're lucky to be out of it, over in Canada.”

“I don't know about that. The winters is ferocious. Founder you, so they would.” Marcus finished his second pint and waved to Liam. “Still,” he laid two pound notes on the counter, “money's all right.”

The drinks arrived. “Keep the change.”

Liam forced a condescending smile, showing a gap where an incisor was missing.

Eamon made no attempt to protest that it was his round. “What do you do, anyway?”

Marcus lifted his third pint. He'd better slow down. His head was beginning to buzz. Jesus, but the locals drank with a grim determination to get as many pints down their throats as possible. “Oil fields.” His eyes held Eamon's for a moment. “Explosives.”

“Explosives? If you knew the right lads round here, you'd get a job like a flash.”

“What kind of a job?”

Eamon threw his arm round Marcus's shoulder. “I'm having you on.” His voice dropped. “Just you keep away from the hard men.”

“What hard men?”

“Not in here, for Christ's sake. The lads wouldn't come into a place like this.”

“If you say so.” Marcus tried to keep the next question innocent. “Do you know any?”

Eamon pulled his arm away. “Any what?”

“You know. Provos.”

“What's it to you?”

Marcus held up his hands, palms out. “The half of fuck all. Honest.”

“Look, mate. A bit of advice. I know you're just back from Canada and all, but there's questions you don't ask round here.” Eamon looked along the bar as if to see if anyone had overheard. “People that ask questions like that can find themselves in deep shit. D'you hear about the fellow last night up in Andersonstown?”

“No.”

“One kneecap blew off and a bullet in the back of his head. They found him on a bit of waste ground. Twenty pounds in his hand. Fucking tout.”

Marcus had a sudden image of the man called Fred.
If they think you're a bad fucker—head job.
Marcus took a long drink. “I don't like the sound of that.” He looked round the room. Several more men were at the counter. Another three tables were occupied. The level of noise had risen and tobacco smoke fugged the air. No one was paying any attention to Eamon and him. “I'll keep my trap shut in future.”

“I'd do that if I was you.” Eamon finished his pint and looked at his empty glass.

Marcus waved to Liam and pulled out two more pounds.

Eamon smiled. “Aye. Well. We'll put it down to you just being back from being away and say no more.”

“Right.” It was time to change the subject. “I'm busting. Here. You pay.” He gave the money to Eamon. “Where's the pisser?”

Eamon pointed across the room to a door with frosted glass in its top half. “Through there and across the yard.”

Marcus walked past the nearest table. Harelip was stabbing a nicotine-stained finger at the youth opposite. “Away off and chase yourself…”

Marcus pushed his way past the other patrons. The door opened onto a small yard, lit by a single bulb behind a wire-mesh screen. At its far side a three-quarter cement wall stood beneath a corrugated-iron roof. Wiggly tin, he thought, and immediately banished the army slang for corrugated iron. Marcus Richardson might think about wiggly tin. Mike Roberts would not.

Marcus rounded the wall. A second bulb, hanging from a flex, threw a weak pool of light onto the concrete floor of the enclosure. The floor sloped down to a galvanized iron trough at the foot of the wall. A sheet of aluminum stretched from the trough to waist height. Along the top of the metal a single, verdigris-encrusted pipe sprayed a thin trickle of water down the aluminum and into the trough. A rivulet of piss and disintegrating cigarette butts flowed weakly toward a metal grille. He unzipped.

A fat man, face wrinkled like a dried-out chamois leather, came in. He ignored Marcus and looked down. “Come on, you useless bugger. I've worked for you for sixty years. You work for me.”

Marcus heard the plashing and the man muttering, “Thank you.” He winked. “Better an empty house than a bad tenant.”

“Right enough.” Marcus finished and zipped his trousers. And this undercover stuff was meant to be exciting? A whole two weeks of dingy bars, betting shops, his cruddy bed-sit. Not a decent bird in sight, unless he fancied the scrubbers that worked at the Gallagher's cigarette factory: a lovely lot with their hair under scarves to hide their plastic Spoolies hair curlers, shrill laughs that would cut tin, coarse complexions, fat calves like Mullingar heifers.

He headed back. James Bond would be in the Ritz-Carlton, vodka martini in one hand, the other up Pussy Galore's skirt. Right up. And Marcus Richardson, at least, would be in the comfort of the officers' mess.

He stopped. Dead. A rat crouched in the corner of the yard. He felt his gorge rise and hairs on his arms stiffen. He hated rats. They terrified him. The one by the wall was huge, seemed to be as big as a Jack Russell. Its fur, black in the dim light, was mottled with patches of mange and its tail looked scaly and nacreous, like the skin of a decaying snake.

Marcus hugged his arms round himself and willed the creature to go.

It sat upright and preened its whiskers with tiny skeletal hands, clearly oblivious to the man who stood so close. Marcus watched as its nose whiffled, scenting the air, scenting the man. The rat fell to all fours and hunched its narrow shoulders. He saw its teeth, yellow as the gleam in its bright eyes. It hissed.

Marcus took a step back. The rat advanced. One skittering step. Two. It sat upright, glared at him, and hissed again.

Marcus fled into the pub.

Eamon asked, “You all right?”

Marcus nodded.

“You look like you seen a ghost.”

“Rat. Huge bugger.”

Eamon laughed. “You're an explosives man but you're scared of rats?”

“I hate them. There aren't any in Alberta.”

“You'd better get used to them here.”

“Shit.” Marcus closed his eyes. Rats in the yard. Pints of Guinness, a thick brickie for company, and a roomful of dull-faced men with poor haircuts. Not a woman in the place. The chances of finding out anything useful? Next to nonexistent. James Bond? Shit. He'd have one more pint—any more and he might fall on his arse, or worse, give himself away—and then home.

Eamon handed Marcus his pint. “Get that down you and never worry about the odd rat.” He handed over some change. “I suppose you tip barmen in Canada. We don't. I don't want you giving Liam big ideas. He'll expect all of us to do it.”

“Sorry. Cheers.” Marcus was searching for something to say when someone started banging a glass on a tabletop. At one of the centre tables a small man in painters' overalls stood, waiting for something. Marcus recognized him. He'd been up at the bar a while ago. His sandy hair and narrow face, which earlier had made Marcus think of an underfed fox terrier, were hard to forget and—Christ! He'd seen that face before. In a photograph. What was the man waiting for?

“Oh God,” he heard Eamon mouth. “Jimmy's going to recite.”

“Jimmy?”

“Aye. Jimmy. Jimmy Ferguson. He thinks he's William Butler Yeats.”

 

TWENTY-THREE

THURSDAY, 21 MARCH

Two men stood side by side on the back row of the terraces, faceless at the periphery of the crowd at Dunmore Stadium. The light from the arc lamps illuminated the track but left the upper levels in darkness. As the spectators on the lower levels watched six greyhounds tear round the oval in pursuit of the electric hare, the two bent their heads close in conversation.

Brendan McGuinness wanted to leave as soon as possible. He hated public places but had bowed to his companion's assertion that the best place to hide a tree was in a forest. None of the small mob of punters stood anywhere near. There was no one within earshot. “So,” Brendan said, “back of the Antrim Hills, tomorrow night. You'll arrange for our British friends to go out?”

“Aye. Two Rovers.”

“Good. It's set at our end.” Brendan hunched into his mackintosh. The drizzle was cold. “What about the prime minister?”

“Harold Wilson's coming.”

“When?”

“Jesus Christ, he only won the election three weeks ago.”

“I need to know.”

“For fuck's sake, I told you it'll be April. I'll give you the word as soon as I hear. Chapter and verse.”

“Do that.”

Brendan's companion, a squat, broad-shouldered man, ground his teeth. “McGuinness, let's you and me get something straight. I'm the one sticking his neck out. I don't take fucking orders like some volunteer from the back of the Falls. I'll deliver, but I don't work bloody miracles. Clear?”

Brendan shrugged. It was risky working undercover. His informant had the right to be pissed off. “Clear.”

“All right. Just you remember.”

“I will. We need all the stuff you can give us, like the word on that wee skitter Cathal Fogarty. We seen to him.”