Pray for Us Sinners (23 page)

Jimmy coughed. “Bothered you, didn't it?”

“How do you know that?”

Jimmy's jaw twitched. “Ah, Jesus, Davy. Neither one of us likes hitting civilians.”

“Right.”

“I thought so.” Jimmy stubbed out his cigarette. “You mind I was talking about getting out? Why don't you pack it in?”

Davy drew on his smoke. “No.”

“Davy?” Jimmy took a deep breath. “I've just about had enough.” He pointed at the photographs. “Your da would understand.”

“Maybe.” Davy looked at the picture as he said, “Jimmy, I killed a wee girl. I had to leave her to burn.”

“Jesus.”

“I'll tell you this, and I'd tell no one else. I'd to go and see Sean. I'd half a mind then to tell him I was quitting.”

“Why the fuck didn't you?”

“I don't know. First of all, he was with that shite McGuinness.”

Jimmy sucked in his breath.

“Aye. McGuinness was having a go at Sean, blaming him for my fuckup with the land mine.”

“Why?”

“Doesn't matter. Sean needs to put that skitter McGuinness in his box. He wants our help for a big job, and he's always stuck up for us.”

“And that's important?”

“For God's sake, Jim, if it's not, what the hell is?”

“Davy.” Jimmy nodded at the other picture. “No harm to ye, but I mind Fiona said she'd have you back if you quit. That would be more important. To me anyway.” His jaw shot sideways. “I ran into her the other day in Smithfield Market.”

Davy's hands shook. “Is she well?”

“She was asking after you.”

Davy closed his eyes. He could see her. Dark hair. Laughing eyes. He swallowed. Hard.

“She said to say hello.”

“Here.” Davy handed a plate of barmbrack across. “Eat that up.” Jesus. She'd asked after him. He tossed his butt into the sink. He felt like a schoolboy whose friend had just told him that the girl in the front row thought he was smashing. She'd said to say hello. Maybe there was still a chance. Aye. And there was still a promise to Sean.

Davy carried two cups to the table and sat opposite Jim. He saw Jimmy's look, like a hopeful child. “Here's your tea.”

“Why don't you phone her?”

“I can't, Jim.”

“Why the fuck not?”

Davy clenched his teeth.

“Davy, why not?”

“Look. You just said it. She'd have me back if I quit.”

“So?”

“Sean says the next one's so big it could win the war.”

“Ah, Jesus, Davy. I suppose you believe in leprechauns, too.”

“I believe Sean Conlon,” Davy snapped.

“Well, I've had enough.”

Davy held Jimmy's eyes with a cold stare. “You have not, Jim. Maybe after this one.”

“What's so fucking great about it that's more important than having a word with Fiona?”

“A whole lot of things.”

“Like what?”

“I told you, I promised Sean.”

“He'd understand if you backed out.”

“I doubt it. Anyway, it's not just that. I've believed—fuck it—
we've
believed in the Cause for twenty-five years.” He struggled to find the words. “I've done bugger-all but think about that wee girl since I killed her. I've started to feel like a priest who's stopped believing in God. I can't let that happen.” His right hand clenched over his left. “Jimmy, the bloody war's near won.”

Jimmy put one hand on Davy's. He was grateful for his friend's touch.

“It still means that much to you, Davy?”

“Jesus, I hope so. And Jim? I need to say ‘sorry' to the wee Hanrahan girl.”

“What the hell are you on about?”

“Look. If I quit now, then all I am is a murderer.”

Jimmy sat quietly.

“I want to win this war. I want Ireland to be free.” Davy shook his head. “Fuck it, I'm starting to sound like one of them stupid movies—but if I can do a big one, one that really matters, then—I don't know. Somehow, somehow her dying would have been more like an accident.”

Jimmy squeezed Davy's knuckles. “I don't understand, but I'll see you right on this one. Just this one, mind.”

“Thanks, Jim.” Davy forced a laugh. “I never thought you'd have to nurse me again. Not since the Sperrins.”

“Water under the bridge.”

“Not for me, Jim.”

“Look, Davy. Do this one, but then”—he hesitated—“ah, for God's sake, call her. She's living with her sister.”

Davy took a deep breath. “I might.”

“No ‘might' about it. Do it.”

“We'll see, but Jim, there's a wee problem with the next one.”

“What?”

“I've to use the Semtex.”

“So?”

“You know bloody well I can't make shaped charges.”

“Hee-hee. No sweat.”

“What do you mean?”

“What kind of shaped charges? Hollow. Ribbon? One, or a bunch in sequence? Or maybe you'd just like to stick a fucking great lump of the stuff on and hope for the best?”

“How do you know about all that?”

“I don't, but there's this young lad, Mike Roberts.”

“Never heard of him.”

“He's just back from Canada. Davy, he's a fucking explosives expert.”

“So are half the British army.”

“You'd need to get a look at him. I never seen a fellow looks less like a soldier. Hair like Mick Jagger and a moustache like Pancho-fucking-Villa. Him and me had a brave wee chat the other night. He told me that he'd be in the Provos if he lived here. Davy, he told me the names of them charges.”

“Could you get him to tell you how to make them?”

“Indeed I could or, if I can't, my Siobhan can. You should've seen his face the first time he seen her. He looked like he near took the rickets. He's been out with her a couple of times.” Jimmy picked his nose. “Do you want to meet him?”

“I'm not sure. How much do you know about him?”

“Not a whole hell of a lot. But he's in the pub every Saturday. I'll get a word with him the night.”

 

THIRTY-FIVE

SATURDAY, MARCH 30

“How're you, Mike?” Jimmy motioned to an empty seat.

Marcus took the chair. “Grand, Jimmy. How's Siobhan?” He'd rather be with Jimmy's daughter right now. Still, he'd be seeing her tomorrow.

“She doesn't think a whole hell of a lot of Belfast. Not after Tuesday night. I seen in the paper there was three people killed in that cinema.”

“Pints, Mike?” Liam stood by the table.

Marcus glanced at Jimmy's glass. “Jimmy?”

Jimmy nodded. “You done good getting her out and bringing her home.” He hee-hee'd. “She was fit to be tied. She thinks we're all fucking mad.”

“She's a great girl.”

“I know.”

Marcus saw the pride in the little man's eyes.

“Where's Eamon, Jimmy?”

“He'll be in. He can smell a free pint six streets away. You should let him buy his shout once in a while, so you should.”

Marcus grinned. “I wouldn't want him to take a heart attack.”

“Right enough. Eamon could peel an orange in his pocket so he wouldn't have to share.” Jimmy lit a cigarette. “Busy the night. Usual mob.”

Marcus looked around. Harelip and his friends. The older man who'd been in the pisser telling his willie to get a move on. Familiar faces. “Who's that up at the bar?” Marcus inclined his head to a young man standing by himself.

“Who?”

“The young lad. The one with the green and white scarf footering about in a wee knapsack.”

“Celtic colours? No idea. Never seen him before. Probably drowning his sorrows. Ards beat Celtic 3–0.”

Liam arrived. “Here y'are.” He waved away Marcus's fiver. “Settle up before you go.”

“Right.” No doubt about it, Marcus thought, I'm one of the lads now. Wonderful. “Cheers, Jim.”

He watched Eamon push his way through the small crowd. Heard him say, “How's about you?” Bovine. Smiling.

“Sit down, Eamon. Pint?”

“Aye,” said Eamon. “So, what's new and exciting?”

“Celtic got beat again.” Jimmy stubbed out his smoke.

“Jesus,” said Eamon, “and the Germans lost the war. Tell me something I don't know.”

“Your fly's undone,” said Jimmy. And hee-hee'd mightily as Eamon looked down and his hands flew to his crotch.

“Stop codding about, Jim. It never is.”

Marcus drank, ignored Jimmy and Eamon's banter, and let his gaze wander round the bar and his mind dwell on Siobhan. Her dad was right. She was a gazelle. High-spirited, likely to dart away if approached too suddenly. She was the most lovely creature he had ever met. And she had pretty strong views about the civil war. She'd forced him to take stock. That was the first time he'd actually been there when a bomb had wreaked havoc on a civilian target. Usually his squad arrived in time to defuse it or wasn't called if it had already blown. He did not like what had happened on Tuesday night. Not one bit.

He'd found himself agreeing with her. The years in England had distanced him from his birthplace. Since he'd seen more and more of the effects of the Troubles firsthand, he had become disgusted with the hard men. They were making a charnel house of Ulster, and Ulster was his home. He'd been foolish to pretend it wasn't. He'd grown up here, felt comfortable with Eamon and Jimmy, even if they did come from different backgrounds.

“Do explosives make you deaf?” Jimmy said.

“What?”

“I just said, ‘I'm for another.'” Jimmy held up his empty glass.

Something Marcus couldn't put his finger on bothered him like a vague toothache.

“Mike, for fuck's sake. Do you want another?”

“Right.”

“It's my shout.”

“Sure.” Marcus could hear Eamon blethering on but paid no attention. He glanced over to the bar. Something was missing. There was no flash of green and white. The Celtic supporter was gone but beneath the bar counter, where the young man had stood, lay his knapsack. Marcus could see the straps and brown canvas webbing between two pairs of trousered legs. No sign of the bag's owner. Still, he'd probably just nipped out for a pee. Marcus shook his head. Nothing to get excited about. Marcus glanced at his Timex. Eight thirty-two. Give him a wee while.

“You're quiet the night, Mike.” Eamon leaned back in his chair.

“Not like some,” Jimmy said.

Marcus saw Eamon smile as he said, “Away off and chase yourself, Jim.”

There was still no sign of the green and white scarf. Marcus remembered his “Special to Theatre” course. A captain asking, “What's the fastest game in the world?” and Al Cowan answering, “Pass the parcel in an Irish pub.” It hadn't been funny for armless, eyeless Cowan two months later.

The knapsack shouldn't be there, yet Marcus didn't want to make a fuss, didn't want to draw undue attention to himself. He rose. “I'm going to shake the dew off the lily.”

Eamon cackled and Jimmy hee-hee'd at the old chestnut.

Marcus pushed his way past the men at the bar and into the cramped backyard. He glanced in the corner where he had seen the rat. Nothing. He hurried to the urinal and looked behind the wall. No green scarf. He hurried back into the bar, head darting as he scanned the room. No green scarf. He took a deep breath and headed for the counter, elbowing aside one of the men who stood close to the brown bag. He ignored the, “Watch it, for fuck's sake,” and knelt beside the knapsack.

The bag was held shut by a single leather strap. Marcus lifted the strap gingerly, scanning its underside for hidden wires. Nothing. Not surprising. These types of bombs, if that was what it was, were usually booby-trapped on the inside. He unbuckled the strap and slowly lifted the top flap. Enough. Just enough to see the ends of six red cylinders and the top of a saltcellar.

Thundering shite. Dynamite and a saltcellar trip switch. Jiggle that, close the circuit, and good night.

Now what? His immediate thought was to get everyone out. He wanted nothing to do with trying to defuse the bloody thing. And yet … He would put his stock up with the locals if he did. That might even lead someone to approach him. The sooner that happened, the sooner he could get on with his mission and the sooner he could leave bombs behind for good. Was it worth the risk? Inside his head, he heard a voice whisper, “Don't be a sissy.”

He exhaled, replaced the flap, and stood slowly, careful to place his legs astraddle the bag. He did not want the men beside him to disturb it. Not at all.

“What are you up to?”

Marcus saw a questioning look on an acne-pitted face. He forced a smile. “Just a wee minute.” He beckoned to Liam. The bloody man dismissed the summons with a flap of his hand.

“Liam. Come here, fuck it.”

He felt Acne Face start. “It's all right,” Marcus said, as the level of noise fell and questioning faces turned his way.

Liam strode along behind the bar. “Who're you yelling at?”

“Liam. Get everyone out.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

Marcus felt the man on his left shift. He ignored Liam and reached out his hands to hold on to the coat sleeves of the men hemming him in. He kept his voice low and steady, but loud enough that Liam and the two could hear him. “You two. Move away very slowly. There's a bomb on the floor. Between my feet.”

He felt both men pull back and saw them stare downward. Saw the scarred one's eyes widen. Heard him whisper, “Fucking Jesus.”

“Keep your mouth shut and move slowly,” said Marcus. “Very slowly.” The men backed off.

Liam craned over the counter, eyes wide, mouth open. “You sure that's a bomb?”

“Dynamite. Can you get them out without starting a stampede? If they shake it too much it'll go off.”