Pray for Us Sinners (29 page)

“Because the stuff comes in thirty-kilo boxes and that's just a bit more than sixty pounds.”

“Dead-on,” said Davy, hoping he was right.

“Sixty pounds is a fair load. Are you sure you won't need backup?”

“Jesus, Sean have we not just spent the last three hours thrashing this out? Look.” Davy pointed at the map. “The convoy leaves Thiepval Barracks on the eighteenth, right?”

Sean nodded.

“You want the target hit as it crosses this bridge between eleven thirty and twelve, so that means we can't use a timer. Someone's going to have to push the button at just the right minute. How many men does it take to push a fucking button?”

“One.”

“Right. Now, there'll be heavy security and no decent cover near the bridge, so nobody can get near with an RPG or a mortar. Mortars is too inaccurate anyway.”

Sean nodded again.

“Someone'll have to measure up and make the charges. I can do that a few days before.” Davy let the lie roll off his tongue. He knew damn well he had not fully understood what Roberts had tried to explain. Trouble was, he wouldn't be able to get Roberts to prepare the charges in advance. He'd figure that out later. “All I have to do then is set the charges. If I can't carry sixty pounds by myself, I should have packed this up years ago. I reckon I'll get the Semtex in the night before. What are you looking so worried about?”

“What if the Brits sweep the bridge just before the convoy comes?”

“Christ, if the target's as important as you say, the security people will go over the bridge with a fine-tooth comb days before, and it'll be clean then. They'll come back nearer the time, but they won't be expecting to find anything. Not after their thorough search. Their dogs can't sniff out Semtex, and I'm losing my touch if I can't camouflage the plastique well enough for the kind of quick once-over the place will get the second time.” He smiled. “You don't find things you know aren't there.”

“I suppose you're right.”

“I am. Now, if it takes one man to set the explosives, the same man can watch for the convoy from that empty farmhouse.”

“Right.”

“So if I move in a few days in advance, I'll be inconspicuous.”

“True.”

“By the same token, when the charges blow, the Brits'll be all over the place like wasps from a broken nest. Do you reckon one man or a squad would have a better chance of getting away?”

“That's another thing,” Sean said. “The getaway. You should be able to get out the way you went in, but just in case”—he pointed to the map where a cluster of symbols indicated a wood—“can you ride a motorbike?”

“Aye, certainly.”

“We'll leave one inside that wood. If you can't get out by car, head for the wood and take the bike.”

“You'd only get a whole action squad on a motorbike if they were in Duffy's Circus.”

“All right, Davy.” Sean laughed at the allusion to the little one-tent show that still toured the country districts in the summer months. “You've made your point, but this is strictly a volunteer mission. You can back out now.”

“I want this one.” Davy hesitated. “You said this one's so big it could win the war for us.”

“It might.”

“I've not asked you why, and I won't, but after this one I want out.”

“You what? Jesus, Davy, don't say that in front of Brendan.”

“Sean, how you sort him out is up to you, but I mean it. I've had enough. I'm out after this one.”

“Davy, you've been in all your life. We're going to win. Why the hell do you want out now?”

Davy ran a hand through his hair. “Sean, I want a free Ireland as much as you. I don't want it at the price men like McGuinness want to pay. Ten-year-olds and babies. And, Sean? You met Fiona once.” Davy knew that a pleading tone he had not intended had crept into his voice. He ploughed on. “She'll have me back if I quit.”

Why was Sean staring at the painting of the pheasant and nodding his head? “All right, Davy.” Sean leaned across the table, hand outstretched. “I understand.”

Sean's palm felt dry. “I'll not let you down on this last one, Sean.”

“I know.”

“Right,” said Davy. “I'll away on and get my bus.”

*   *   *

Brendan came into the room. “All set?”

Sean said, “He'll do it all right. He's a proud man, Davy. He insists on going in alone.”

“Good.”

“Could we not give him any backup?”

“We can do two things.”

“What?”

“We'll set up diversionary raids all over the province the week before. Keep the Brits unsettled.”

“Have we time to arrange that?”

Brendan laughed. “It's arranged already. For Christ's sake, Sean, I want this to work. Now look,” he pointed at the map, “see that other farm there?”

“The one half a mile down the road from the bridge?”

“Aye. There's a back road that swings by Davy's farm just beyond it. Now. The first Saracen might get over the bridge. It could head for this road and cut him off from behind.”

“Shit.”

“Not if we put a squad in there.”

“What with? RPGs?”

“Sheep.”

“What?”

“Sheep. If the lads fire a rocket grenade, they'll give themselves away. But if they let a flock of sheep onto the road, the Brits would be tangled up long enough, and there's no law against sheep.”

“That's bloody brilliant.” Sean smiled. “And I thought you were going to leave Davy on his own.”

*   *   *

The bus stopped at the end of the Lisburn Road before joining the traffic moving slowly round Shaftesbury Square. Davy sat on the upper deck thinking about his orders. The map with the directions to the farm was folded in his inside pocket. He put a hand to his left breast and felt the crackling of the paper. An old van, the kind farmers used, would be delivered to his house. The Semtex, remote-control detonator, and a weapon for Davy would be hidden in the van. Sean had smiled when Davy asked for a Heckler and Koch and told him he'd have to be satisfied with an ArmaLite.

Davy looked along the bus, distracted by the efforts of a mother to make her youngster sit down and stop making faces at the man in the seat behind. For a moment he wondered, but he knew the answer—Fiona would be too old for kids. He regretted the time they had wasted, but he'd waste no more. Now that he knew when it would be over, there was no reason not to phone her. He'd call tonight.

He told himself to forget about her and think about the job. He'd need his tools and some paint. Jimmy could get the paint. A wee lick of the right colour and the Semtex would look just like bits of the bridge supports. That would be the easy bit. The difficulty was figuring out how to destroy the bridge.

Davy understood that the size of the thing to be demolished influenced the size and weight of the charges. Without knowing the bridge's dimensions, Roberts couldn't prefabricate anything. There was a solution. Roberts would have to come on the raid. He'd said he wanted to help. Let him. Davy knew bloody well that McGuinness would have a fit if he found out. Sean wouldn't be too happy, either. No one was meant to be involved in the PIRA until they had been thoroughly screened. The most destructive spies were ones on the inside. The fucking British were forever trying to infiltrate the Provos.

But if Davy told Roberts he was being taken to meet the CO, he'd get into the van like a lamb. Once in a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, who was he going to tell? And come hell or high water, Roberts would make the charges.

The bus passed the end of the Grosvenor Road. Davy noticed that
The Sting,
one of last year's big films was showing at the Grand Opera House. Paul Newman, Robert Redford, Robert Shaw, Charles Durning. Cast of bloody thousands. Not like next week, when there'd just be him and Roberts. And the convoy.

*   *   *

The phone box stank of piss. Davy thumbed through a damp telephone directory and found Fiona's sister's number. He dialed and closed his eyes, shutting out the square window frames—frames from which the glass had been smashed for as long as he could remember—“Brits Out” and “Fuck Paisley” daubed in black on the peeling red paint.

The line crackled.

“Hello?” He knew her voice at once. “Hello? Belfast 642376.”

“Hello. Fiona?”

“Can you speak up please? It's a terrible line.”

“Fiona, it's me. Davy.”

“Davy? Are you all right?” He heard her concern but refused to play on it.

“I'm fine. I just need to talk to you. Just for a wee while.” He waited, his fingers grasping the receiver.

“I see.” Her voice was noncommittal. “Well. I'll listen.”

“Not on the phone. I—I need to see you.”

“Something's wrong.”

“Not at all.”

He heard a chuckle. “God, but you're still a stubborn, proud man, Davy McCutcheon.”

“Aye. Well.”

“But not too proud to ask for help?”

“No.”

“All right. What do you need to see me about?”

It wasn't likely that public phones were bugged, but … “Look, I've one more wee errand to run.” She'd understand. He waited. Nothing but the crackling in his ear. “Once it's done, I'm handing in my cards. For good. Jimmy said he seen you in Smithfield and you said—” He couldn't finish the sentence.

“I meant it.” He heard a catch in her voice. “I'm still in love with you.”

“Oh, Jesus, Fiona.” Davy's knees felt weak. “You mean it?” And he cursed himself. Fiona Kavanagh had never said anything she didn't mean.

“It's not what I mean, Davy. It's what you do.”

“I am finished, after this one.”

“What are you up to tomorrow? At four?”

“Nothing.”

“Do you remember where you took me for tea the day we met?”

“God, aye.”

“I'll see you there tomorrow. At four.”

 

FORTY-TWO

THURSDAY, APRIL 11

Davy had hardly slept, and all morning he prowled round his home, changing the sheets, dusting, vacuuming, tidying. If McCusker hadn't fled, Davy would have dusted the cat. He polished the glass of Fiona's picture twice. He kept thinking the twinkle in it, from the sunshine fighting in through the window, was the sparkle in her eyes.

He walked down to the shops and bought two lamb chops, enough fresh broccoli for two, and a ten-pound sack of potatoes. He picked up a bottle of Harveys Shooting Sherry at the off-licence. Fiona rarely took a drink, but sometimes, on special occasions, she'd have a glass of sherry. On his way home he got a haircut in the barber's shop with the chipped red and white pole outside and two creaky old chairs inside, along with three pairs of scissors and two combs in a glass cylinder full of disinfectant, posters for Brylcreem tacked to the walls.

At one o'clock he took a bath and changed into the shirt with an attached collar, the one that went with his only suit. He stood in his shirttails ironing the pants of the suit, smoothing until he was satisfied with the sharpness of the creases. He slipped his trousers on, laced up his polished boots, and tugged a V-necked sweater over his head.

He combed his new haircut and looked at his face in the mirror, seeing the grey of his freshly trimmed moustache and the black, now turning to yellow, in the bruise under his left eye.

The suit jacket was shiny at the elbows. He tutted, put it on, took one last look at himself in the mirror, collected his raincoat—his duncher was in the pocket—and left the house. He knew that he would be too early, but he couldn't bear to wait any longer. Maybe if he arrived before four o'clock, so would Fiona.

*   *   *

He sat at a table in the corner of the little tearoom. He was on his third cup of tea and fourth cigarette when she came through the door. He slammed the cup into the saucer, slopping tea over the rim; crushed out his cigarette in a tin ashtray, burning a fingertip in his hurry; and stood.

She smiled at him, and he saw her damson eyes, crow's-feet at the corners, and her jet-black hair, streaked with silver like a stoat's tail tip in winter, cut to frame her face. His heart swelled at the loveliness of her.

“Well, Davy,” she said, her words melodious.

“Aye.” He stumbled in his haste to pull out her chair. “Thank you for coming.”

She sat and set her handbag on the tabletop.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” he asked, and she laughed, warm and throaty, melting him with memories of her.

“That's what you said all those years ago.”

He blushed. “I know.”

“I'll help myself.”

Davy watched her pour and admired her short fingers, nails cut blunt. No nail polish. No rings. He handed her the milk.

“Thank you.” She took the jug, brushing her chilled fingers against his.

“Your hand's frozen.”

“Rubbish,” she said, and chuckled.

Davy sat drinking her in as she drank her tea, waiting for her to speak, feeling as tongue-tied as a fourteen-year-old on his first date.

“What happened to your face?”

“Some eejit took a poke at me the other night. It's nothing. I stopped him.” He wanted to tell her that he had been proud of himself for pulling his punches, that he was a changed man.

“So,” she said, “you're getting out?”

He nodded. It was just like her, a few pleasantries and then straight to the point.

“Why?”

He told her, haltingly, in veiled terms—it was a public place—about the botched attack. Davy spoke of the Hanrahan girl, and waited for her to say it was about time he recognized what his work did. He should have known better; Fiona had never played the “I told you so” game. He looked up into her eyes and saw sadness.