Pray for Us Sinners (31 page)

Someone was knocking at the door. He skirted the debris, limped along the hall, and opened the door.

“Mr. McCutcheon?” It was Mrs. Cahill from four doors down, a tartan shawl hooded over her head, her arms crossed over her chest, holding the plaid to herself.

Davy forced himself to speak calmly. “Yes, dear?”

“Like, could you come down the street for a wee minute?”

“What for?”

“Mr. McCutcheon, I think it's your McCusker.”

“McCusker?”

She reached out and took his hand. “Come on.”

“McCusker?” He followed her through the rain and the rubble.

“There.” She pointed along the gutter.

In the dim light he saw a dark lump huddled against the curb. “McCusker?” He knelt.

McCusker lay on his side, his back twisted at a grotesque angle. Cat shit fouled the fur of his hind legs. His eyes were open, and he made a low mewling. He scrambled with his front paws against the hard pavement. His back legs moved not at all.

“Ah, Jesus, McCusker.” Davy fondled the animal's head but he spat and tried to bite.

Mrs. Cahill said, “I seen one of the soldiers fetch him a powerful boot.” She bent closer. “Do you think he'll be all right?”

“His back's broke.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”

Davy grasped the cat's back paws in his left hand and stood, holding McCusker at waist height, head dangling, howling. Davy lifted his right hand. One short chop to the back of the neck, and the howling stopped.

Davy, standing in the rain, cheeks wet, holding the corpse of his friend, knew the kick that had snapped the cat's spine had nearly broken more: it had nearly broken his own resolve to get out. He'd taken the wrecking, the jibes, the mocking. He'd taken them all. But he had taken enough. He would still quit after Sean's raid, but he'd go gladly on that one, hoping the squad who'd desecrated his home would be on the bridge when the Semtex blew.

“Thank you, Mrs. Cahill,” he said. “Away you on home, dear.” He wondered why she was looking at him, as if he had threatened to kill her, too.

 

FORTY-FOUR

FRIDAY, APRIL 12

“I don't give a bugger how tired you are, Conlon. Get a van organized.” McGuinness slammed the door behind him as he returned to the communications room.

Sean Conlon massaged his shoulder with one hand and wished that McGuinness was not such an abrasive bugger. Despite his dislike of McGuinness, Sean had to admire the man's tirelessness; he could even understand Brendan's bitterness.

He hadn't been bitter until he lost his eye. Late in 1971, Brendan had been set on by members of a “tartan gang”—Protestant youths who wore tartan scarves in memory of three Scottish soldiers who had been killed by the Provos. The Prod bastards dressed up in their scarves and balaclavas and beat the shit out of any Catholic they encountered on a deserted street. Brendan, in the wrong place at the wrong time, had been lucky that an eye was all he lost.

Sean knew it was Brendan's hatred of the Prods that made him so committed to the Cause, to the goals they both pursued, but since his promotion to CO, Brendan had become arrogant.

Sean had swallowed his irritation and worked with McGuinness to organize the details of the assassination of the British prime minister. They'd worked out the diversionary raids and the attack.

The diversions were aimed at keeping the Security Forces off-balance. Some would be targets of opportunity, others mounted on information from Brendan's inside man or from the electronic equipment manned round the clock by 1st Battalion. The province would be a hot spot next week. White-hot.

The attack on Harold Wilson needed a great deal of organization. The action squad that would move into the farm to herd the sheep had been selected and would be briefed next week. Tomorrow night, two of Sean's 2nd Battalion men would drive to the deserted farm beside the Ravernet Bridge and provision the place. Sean and Brendan had decided to put Davy in on Sunday night, and he'd need enough grub to see him through until Thursday. The provisioning team could nip back later next week to hide Davy's backup getaway motorbike in the little wood. If they put it in place too early, someone might find it or, in the damp of the Ulster spring, something important might rust.

A van must be stolen to transport Davy and his tools. Arranging, that was Sean's next task. He picked up a telephone and began to dial.

*   *   *

Davy had been getting his place redd up when a dicker arrived and handed over an envelope. So, he was to go in on Sunday, two days away. A camouflaged van would be brought round on Sunday morning, loaded with the Semtex and other tools of his trade. He told the dicker to nip round to Jimmy's and ask him to come over.

While Davy waited, he dragged more wreckage into the backyard. The dustbin was full. There had only been room in it for some broken china and poor old McCusker.

Davy barely listened to Jimmy's sympathetic noises about the damage the buggers had done, his rabbitting on about how he and the missus were going to go to Canada, his patent delight with the news that Davy had seen Fiona, was going to quit, and hoped to follow Jimmy to the land of the maple leaf and beaver. That wasn't important now.

What was important was that Davy needed to paint the Semtex to make it blend in with the bridge. Jimmy had answered that at once; he'd get Davy some white enamel and tubes of tinting to mix with the paint and produce any required colour. He was grateful that finding the gear was to be his only contribution. Jimmy had had enough and didn't mind saying so, nor did he mind telling Davy that he had taken leave of his senses to risk his chance of a new life with Fiona.

Davy ignored Jimmy's concern and asked him to contact Mike Roberts and tell him to be at the corner of Albert Street and Cullingtree Road at five o'clock on Sunday evening. He was to be told that the CO of 2nd Battalion wanted to meet him. Davy brushed aside Jimmy's questions about why Roberts was to be told to bring changes of clothes and his toilet gear.

*   *   *

The major fretted and twisted his ring. Richardson had been out of touch for five weeks. He might as well be dead. He wasn't, and that was a relief—one of Harry Swanson's blokes had identified Mike Roberts in a pub in New Lodge. The sergeant had seen Roberts keeping company with Siobhan, the daughter of that old Official, Jimmy Ferguson.

It was all very well for Richardson to be having fun, but he'd been sent out there to do a job, not get his hand up some girl's leg. Sir Charles had been busy. Eric Gillespie had been privy to information about all the incidents where the Provos had hit selected targets. The major was certain Gillespie was the mole. He just needed one more tangible piece of evidence, evidence that Richardson was meant to provide, albeit unknowingly, to hang the bastard.

And time was of the essence. Sir Charles had phoned last night to say that his patience was running out. He had given Major Smith ten more days to solve the problem or forget all about it, and a commission, permanently.

The spectre of being rusticated to Bourn hung like the sword of Damocles, and there wasn't a damn thing the major could do until Richardson made contact with the Provos' upper echelons—if ever he was going to.

 

FORTY-FIVE

SATURDAY, APRIL 13

Marcus arranged to take Siobhan to lunch tomorrow, kissed her good night, and walked down the path. He heard a voice calling his name.

“Mike. Could I have a wee word?” Jimmy hurried along the path.

“Sure, Jimmy.” What could he want?

“Brave nice night,” Jimmy said.

Marcus did not think Jimmy wanted to discuss the weather.

“You and Siobhan have a nice time?”

“Oh, aye.”

Jimmy shot his jaw. “Listen. You mind the man we seen at the waterworks?”

“Aye.”

“He wants to see you tomorrow.”

“Oh?” Finally.

“Do you know the corner of Albert Street and Cullingtree Road?”

“I'll find it.”

“Fair enough. Be there at five. And he says to bring a wee bag and clothes for a few days.”

“Am I going on my holidays?” Marcus tried to make light of the situation.

“It'll be no holiday. Your man's CO wants to meet you.”

“Great.”

“I hope so, for your sake. I'd not—” Jimmy shook his head.

“Not what?”

“Never mind. You look after yourself. Siobhan wouldn't want anything—”

“I'll be grand, Jimmy.”

“So you will. Mind now, five o'clock. Cullingtree Road and Albert Street.”

“I'll be there. Thanks, Jimmy.”

“Don't thank me. Take my advice. Do what your man wants and then get the fuck away from them fellows.”

“Jimmy. Do me a favour? Don't say nothing to Siobhan. She doesn't like all this stuff. I'll tell her tomorrow.”

“Fair enough.” Jimmy held on to Marcus's sleeve. “You take care, now.”

“I'll be fine. I'd better be running on.”

Marcus set off to walk home. At last. He was going to get on with things. The sooner he got this charade over with, the better. At least if he met some senior Provos he'd be able to finish his mission properly and, as Dad always used to say, “If a job's worth doing, it's worth doing right.”

He wondered what his next moves should be. He'd have to explain to Siobhan. For a moment he considered making up some plausible excuse, but he soon dismissed the thought. That he was not Mike Roberts was going to be tough enough to explain when the time came; he must be completely truthful with her in all else. That he wasn't exactly sure what was happening would be the truth, although Captain Warnock had explained that potential Provo recruits were usually screened for several days by the intelligence officers.

Should he contact the major now that he had something to report? Of course he should, but before or after tomorrow night's meeting? He weighed the options. He'd have a lot more information after. He should probably hang on until then. Certainly this was not the time to rush up to the nearest bobby yelling the password, “whigmaleerie,” nor to use the last-resort telephone number, Lisburn 574669. The GP, Dr. Kennedy, whose surgery on the Antrim Road was to have been used as a rendezvous, would be unlikely to be open on the weekend.

He turned into Robina Street and suddenly felt chilled. Tomorrow he was going to meet a man who did not trust Mike Roberts, who would take him to meet one or more equally suspicious hard men for an unspecified time in an unspecified place. The major wanted the bomber and his superiors. If Marcus did get into bother with the Provos, he might not come back. He inhaled deeply. That was not a thought to relish. It would be prudent to contact the major and at least let him know that Mike was making progress.

Marcus let himself into the hall of his digs. There was a communal telephone. He looked up the GP, Dr. Kennedy, in the telephone book. Beside his surgery number was a listing, “After hours and weekends.” He inserted the coins and dialed.

“Contactors' Bureau,” said a female voice.

“Hello,” he said. “I'm a patient of Dr. Kennedy's.”

“What seems to be the trouble?”

“I'd like to leave a message.”

“I'm sorry, sir, but we're very busy. What seems to be the trouble?”

“Listen. I need to leave a message for Dr. Kennedy.”

“Contactors' Bureau only provides locum cover for outside-hours emergencies. Call his surgery on Monday.”

“I won't be able to. Can you give me his home number?”

Marcus heard a giggle and realized he might as well have asked the operator for the Queen Mother's private line. “Sorry, sir.”

“So I can't leave a message and I can't reach him tonight?”

“That's right. If you'll excuse me, sir—” The line went dead.

He replaced the receiver. Typical bloody army SNAFU—Situation Normal. All Fucked Up. Set up a system that doesn't work.

 

FORTY-SIX

SUNDAY, APRIL 14

The Presbyterian church at Killinchy had been there for two hundred years, its granite blocks softened by the gentle country rains, its slate roof moss-covered and bowed at the peak, its stained-glass windows faded. It was a place of contemplation, a peaceful place for the Sunday-morning service that was now ending.

Justice William Boyes, sixty-nine years old, helped his wife, Alice, out of the front pew, glad of the weekend's respite from his duties on the bench, grateful that today he did not have to listen to another prosecution of a gunman. He'd lost count of the number he'd sentenced, Republican and Loyalist paramilitary alike, to years of incarceration in Crumlin Road Jail or Long Kesh.

Alice's arthritis was getting worse, and Judge Boyes waited as she picked up her walking stick and hobbled along the nave, pausing on the steps to exchange a few pleasantries with the minister. As they spoke, Judge Boyes nodded at Detective Constable Hogan, the plainclothes man assigned today for the judge's protection.

“Next Sunday then, Judge?” Reverend Borland asked.

“Yes indeed, Mr. Borland.” He took Alice's arm to help her along the gravel path toward the lych-gate, where they would wait for Constable Hogan to bring the Bentley as close as possible.

Standing under the crossbeam of the gate, the judge hoped the warm sun would be good for his wife's aching joints. The damp weather played hell with the old girl's hips.

Before he could wonder what was keeping Hogan, a black Austin with mud-caked plates slowed down as it passed the gate. A hail of .45 bullets, fired from a Thompson gun by a young woman in the passenger seat, knocked the judge sprawling. Alice's cane was shattered, and two slugs tore holes in her chest.

Constable Hogan, hearing the shots, threw open the door of the Bentley and hurled himself behind the wheel. He slammed the driver's door, forgetting in his haste that standard police procedure was to start a car's engine with the door open, a precaution that would dissipate the force of any booby trap. He shoved the key in the ignition and turned it.