Pray for Us Sinners (24 page)

Liam's whistle, shrill, piercing, echoed from the low ceiling. Marcus looked over his shoulder. All faces were turned to the barman. Liam spoke. “Right.” He pointed at Marcus. “Your man here's found a bomb.”

A low muttering filled the little room. Several men started to rise. Marcus saw big Eamon's mouth open in a perfect O.

“Shut the fuck up.” Liam sounded like a sergeant major and was obeyed with the same kind of unquestioning servility. “He says if we jiggle, it it'll blow. I want everyone out, quietly, and, for fuck's sake, walk lightly.”

Men made for the door. Marcus watched them go. If he'd any sense he'd go with them.

Liam picked up a telephone.

“Who are you calling?”

“The army. I don't want my bar blew up.”

“They'll take too long to get here. Have you pliers?”

“Pliers?”

“Jesus, Liam, I work with explosives.”

“Can you fix it?”

“I can try.”

“Right,” said Liam, “they're in the back.”

“Quick as you can.” Marcus stood for a moment. He glanced round. Everyone was out—yes, Eamon and Jimmy were gone—except him and Liam. What the hell was he doing? To hell with it. He'd made his decision. He'd have to live with it—he hoped. He knelt beside the bag, regretting that he was not wearing his Kevlar armour.

A voice said, “Here. Pliers.”

Marcus took the tool. Good, there was a built-in wire cutter. He laid the pliers close to hand. “Get out, Liam.”

“Right.”

Marcus took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He reached for the flap, noticing the slightest tremor in his fingers. He lifted the flap. Let's see. Charge? Six red sticks. Detonator? Nothing protruded from any of the dynamite. The blasting cap must be down there somewhere.

The damn saltcellar was buried in a rat's nest of red and blue wires. Far too many for a simple circuit. Lots of extra wires to confuse any bomb-disposal expert. Detonator below somewhere. No chance of simply cutting a wire. He'd have to untangle the whole bloody lot to find the right ones.

He straightened his back. That saltcellar contained a ball bearing. If the thing was dislodged, it would fall and land on two metal terminals and the circuit would be completed. He gave a small, involuntary shudder. He couldn't simply pick up the bag and carry it into the backyard. The metal ball might fall. For a second he gave a thought for the Protestant paramilitary man who had brought the bomb in here. It would have been easy enough to transport the thing with the saltcellar upside down. The ball bearing would be snug against the narrow end of the glass. That's what he'd been doing fumbling in the bag. Putting the bloody booby trap the right way up.

And Marcus had never heard of a device like this rigged only with a saltcellar fuse. There had to be a timer in there somewhere, too.

So. Dynamite. Two detonating circuits and a mess of wires. The saltcellar would fire nothing, as long as it wasn't moved. It would be nice to get it out of the way, though, then go after the timer.

He reached gingerly forward, surprised to see that now he was immersed in his work the tremor had vanished. He grasped the top of the cellar. Holding it firmly, he moved the wires aside. He worked his fingers lower, feeling the wires against the back of his hand. Under the cellar, he turned his hand.

Crafty buggers. He couldn't tell how many wires were soldered to the metal base. It wouldn't be a simple snip-snip to disable it. It could take quite some time to sort out which wire was a dummy and which was live. He didn't have that kind of time.

His hand burrowed more deeply, searching, until his fingers hit something round and smooth. There was a tiny knurled button at one side of the circumference. Wristwatch timer. Set to go off when? The last time he had looked at his own watch, it had been just after eight thirty. He could see its face now, on his left wrist, six inches from where his fingers were clamped round the saltcellar. Eight fifty-five. He'd bet his life the timer below was set for nine. A tiny smile touched his lips. Bet his life. Five minutes.

He willed his breathing to slow. Christ, his fingertips had started to sweat. He shifted his grip on the cellar and heard a tiny, tinny noise. The ball bearing had shifted. He froze.

Eight fifty-six. Gently, gently, he started to withdraw his right hand, moving the wires as little as possible. The timer in his fingers followed. Gently. It snagged. He pushed his hand more deeply into the satchel, paused, withdrew at a different angle, and gained another two or three inches before the damn thing snagged again.

Eight fifty-seven. Back in. Different angle. Withdraw. It was coming. His fingertips appeared above the surface of the tangle of wires. He could see the face of a cheap wristwatch. The minute hand had been removed and a brass screw driven into the face at exactly nine o'clock. Hour hand touches screw: kablooie. It was 8:58.

He pulled. The watch came closer. He could see the wires attached to the back of the case. Two of them. Marcus laid the watch on top of the tangle and reached for the pliers. Damn it, he was hamstrung. He daren't let go of the saltcellar and yet he'd need one hand to steady the wires from the timer and one to work the wire cutter.

Less than two minutes. If he ran he might have a chance of getting clear. He mouthed, “Fuck it,” let go of the saltcellar, and heard the tinny sound again. He ignored it.

Eight fifty-nine. Marcus lifted the watch, slipped the pliers beneath, and severed one of the leads. He bent it away from any possible contact with the watch case. He snipped the other and dealt with it. He held the watch in his hand, exhaling deeply as silently, jerkily, the hand advanced and stuck on the top of the brass screw. Beat you, you bastard.

Now. That booby trap. It worked if the ball bearing inside fell down. That should be fairly simple to deal with by making down up. Marcus grasped the satchel in both hands and inclined it sideways. Gradually, he increased the angle until the bag lay on its side. He paused and wiped his hands on his trouser legs. He took hold of the bottom corners and turned the thing until it was almost inverted. Not completely. At this angle the ball bearing could not roll to the business end of the saltcellar.

Marcus took a grip on the dynamite sticks. They moved fairly easily. The dynamite came loose. He inhaled. He could see the blasting cap sticking out from one of the sticks. He laid the bundle on the floor and eased the detonator free. He exhaled.

He wasn't out of the woods yet, though. If the switch made its connection, there was enough force in the fulminate of mercury to blow off his hand. He laid the detonator on the floor, hunted for the pliers, found them, and severed the leads to the blasting cap.

Marcus Richardson stood slowly, feeling the kinks in his knees and the stiffness in his back. His hands, which for the duration of the work had been rock-steady, were shaking again. He was proud of having forced himself to confront and master his fear, but he knew that nothing on God's green earth could persuade him to carry on as an ATO. He hoped his heroics had been worth it. Ignoring the materials lying beside him, he walked through the deserted room. He saw unfinished drinks at every table, a pool of Guinness, black and scummy, on the floor where a glass had been overturned.

The street outside was deserted. In the neon glow, he could make out a familiar face peering round the gable end of a house. He heard Jimmy's voice. “Mike. Get over here.”

Marcus crossed the road to where a clearly agitated Jimmy waited.

“You all right?”

“Aye.”

“You fix it?”

“I did.”

Jimmy beamed. “So you weren't just blowing about being an explosives man?”

“No.”

Jimmy had a strange look on his face. A cross between respect and concern. “Right,” he said, grabbing Marcus's arm. “You and me had better get the fuck out of here.”

“Why? It's safe now.” He followed as Jimmy hustled them along.

“The fuck it is. Liam phoned the peelers.”

Marcus could hear the “nee-naw, nee-naw” of sirens. “We've done nothing wrong.”

“Jesus,” said Jimmy, halting for a moment. “Nothing wrong? What're they going to think when they find out a local lad defused the bomb?”

Marcus hadn't considered that. It could get messy if he was held for questioning. And he would be. Here in New Lodge, anyone with explosives expertise would be suspect. Suspect PIRA. He didn't have time to bugger about with the Security Forces. “Come on then, Jimmy.” He started walking rapidly, his longer strides forcing the smaller man to trot to keep up as they crossed several streets before turning onto Robina Street. Marcus could hear his companion's laboured breathing. “Do you reckon we're far enough away, Jimmy? I live up here.”

“Aye.” Jimmy gasped. “I need a wee breather.”

Marcus halted. Jimmy stood beside him, bent over, hands on his knees, sucking in air like a marathon runner at the finish line. Finally, he stood erect. “Fucking cigarettes.” He shot his jaw. “Jesus, Mike, you done good there the night. Bloody quick off the mark to spot what was going on.”

“I got lucky, Jim.”

“Bloody good thing you did. If it hadn't been for you, we could be all over the place like raspberry jam. But you done enough just finding the fucking thing. Why did you bother staying to fix it?”

“Seemed like the right thing to do.”

“Rather you nor me. You could have been killed.”

Marcus knew that too well but said, “Jim, my job's to use explosives to blow up rocks and tree stumps. If that bloody thing had gone off, it would have killed people, a bunch of folks I've got to know, like you and Eamon.”

Jimmy lit a cigarette, coughed, spat, and said, “And you, too.”

“Aye. It would.” Marcus controlled his desire to shudder. He had to be Mike the cocky Ulster-Canadian explosives expert.

“Liam'll be quare grateful.”

“I suppose so. Anyway, I'd not want to see them Prod shites get lucky.”

Jimmy stopped the cigarette halfway to his mouth. “I hope the peelers don't come looking for you.”

“They can't. Nobody knows I live here.” Marcus grunted. “Hardly anyone knows I even bloody well exist.”

Jimmy threw his fag into the gutter and stood, head to one side, looking at Marcus.

“What did I say?”

“Nobody knows you.”

“It's true. If it hadn't been for you and Eamon, I'd still be sitting talking to myself.”

“So, I tell you what. You come round to my place on Monday morning.”

“What for?”

“I want you to meet somebody.”

 

THIRTY-SIX

SUNDAY, MARCH 31

He was going to be late. Marcus jammed the Morris Mini in gear and drove to the exit of McCausland's car-hire parking lot. He forced his way into the traffic, but something was stopping the line of cars. He banged his fist on the steering wheel, “Come on. Come on.” He wound down the window and craned out. Bugger, bugger, bugger. Ten cars ahead he could see a couple of Saracens parked across the road. A police Land Rover stood at the curb. Uniformed police in bottle-green flak jackets, Ruger revolvers in waist holsters. A sergeant carrying a Sten gun walked along the row of cars, stopping at each, bending, looking in the windows. Mike watched the man approach.

The sergeant peered through Mike's open window. Sweat streaked a haggard face under a peaked cap. Even in late March, the sun was warm.

“Yes, officer?”

“May I see your licence, sir?”

“Sure.”

“Canadian, sir?” he asked as he scrutinized the plasticized card.

“Not at all. I'm from Bangor. I just live in Canada.”

The licence was returned. “Sorry about the delay. There was a near thing in New Lodge last night.”

“Right enough?”

“Aye. Bomb in a pub. Someone defused it.”

“Oh,” Marcus's hands tightened on the wheel but he forced a yawn. “That's nice.”

“Shouldn't hold you up much longer.” The policeman adjusted the sling of his weapon. “Do you think there'd be any jobs in the Mounties?”

“Dunno.”

“Just asking. I'm fucking sick of this.” The sergeant waved Marcus on.

“Have a nice day,” he called out of the window, and drove on, wondering if the officers had been looking for the bomber or the man who had defused the bomb. Good thing he'd not worn his Stampeders jacket last night. Someone might have given that bit of information to the police.

He parked outside Jimmy's house and ran up the path.

Siobhan answered his knock.

“Sorry I'm late. I got held up by a police roadblock.” He scanned her face for any signs of irritation.

Siobhan smiled, sunshine in her violet eyes. “That's all right. Happens all the time round here, Dad says. But he'll be sorry to have missed you. He'd to go to see my uncle Davy.”

“I'll see your dad again. I'd rather be seeing you,” he said. “How was Ballymena, anyway?”

“Boring,” she said, “but nice and peaceful.”

“Come on,” he said, taking a small rucksack from her, thinking for a second of last night's rucksack and the bomb in the cinema on Tuesday. Ballymena might have its charms after all. “Picnic in here?”

She nodded and asked, “Where are we going?”

“Have you ever been to Gransha Point?”

*   *   *

The Mini bounced over the rough grass of a lane between whin bushes, bright yellow flowers clean against dark green spikes. The stunted evergreens bloomed year-round. He remembered something his mother had once said. When the whins are out of bloom, kissing is out of fashion.

He stole a quick glance to where she sat beside him, hair in a long ponytail, hands clasped in the lap of her black stirrup pants. Apart from remarking how sad it was that three people had been killed in the cinema bombing, she'd hardly spoken during the drive here. Marcus hadn't minded, as long as she was there. Her blond hair was yellow in the sunlight. Whin-flower yellow.