Pray for Us Sinners (32 page)

The blast of gelignite wired to the starter scattered pieces of the Bentley, and Constable Hogan, over the hedge and into the nearby field, scaring the living bejesus out of a herd of Hereford bullocks.

Brendan McGuinness's diversionary campaign had started.

 

FORTY-SEVEN

SUNDAY, APRIL 14

Marcus stood in the pouring rain and watched a grey van pull up to the curb. He opened the passenger door and nearly choked. Dear God, the stink would gag a maggot.

“What the hell's that?”

“Get in.” Davy McCutcheon stared ahead.

Marcus held his breath as he slid into the passenger seat, slammed the door, and immediately wound down his window. “Jesus. That's ferocious.”

“Aye. Pig manure.” Davy drove off.

Marcus looked at Davy. There was a fading bruise on his left cheek. Marcus remembered his own bruises, the ones he'd got two months ago when the bomb in a van much like this one blew. He grinned. At least pig shit wasn't going to explode.

“Do up your belt. No need to give the peelers an excuse to stop us.”

Marcus fumbled with the webbing, trying to ignore the all-pervasive stench. He distracted himself by watching the rhythmic to-and-fro sweep of the windshield wipers, the terrace houses, tobacconists', dreary pubs—the monotonous sameness of the slums of Belfast—while he waited for the driver to say something.

The van headed south, too far south for the Falls or Ballymurphy. Much too far south for Andersonstown. Davy turned onto the M1, toward Lisburn. “See that there?” he pointed out over the Bog Meadows to rows of gravestones on a hillside. “That's Milltown Cemetery.”

“So?”

“They bury Republican heroes up there. Green, white, and gold flag on the coffin. Honour guard. Volley of rifle fire.”

“That's nice.” Marcus would rather not think about burials. He slid down into the seat. They were heading into the country, where he'd be cut off from army patrols and the police. At least the smell didn't seem to be quite so overpowering, though—he was becoming inured to manure.

Up ahead, Marcus saw the row of stopped cars and heard McCutcheon's muttered “fuck” as he geared down.

“Roadblock?” Marcus sat erect.

“Aye. Now listen. Say nothing unless you're asked. You're my cousin and we're on our way back to my farm near Hillsborough. We've been picking up this pig manure from my brother's place outside Dunmurry. You got that?” He brought the van to a halt at the end of the line of vehicles.

“Just one wee snag,” Marcus said.

“What?”

“If you were my cousin I'd know your name.”

“Davy McCutcheon.” He lifted his hands off the steering wheel but did not offer to shake hands.

Marcus could see damp sweat patches on the wheel. “Pleased to meet you, Cousin Davy.”

Marcus wiped condensation from the glass with the back of his hand. There was no sign of troops or police moving toward them. They must be up ahead at the front of the queue, examining each vehicle as it passed. The van advanced. He saw a lorry pulled off at the side of the motorway. A soldier wearing a Denison smock and red beret stood beside the open rear doors. The man was a para, and they were tough bastards.

Davy banged his fist on the steering wheel in time with the wipers, then rolled down his window. An officer, bulky under his rain-slicked waterproof cape, stuck his head inside. It was Robby Knox, the captain who'd approached Marcus in the Causerie. The one who had mistaken Mike Roberts for Marcus Richardson. He shrank back in his seat, holding his breath, and stared straight ahead.

An English voice said, “Oh, shit.”

“Aye,” said Davy, “pig shite.”

“Out of the van. Both of you.”

Marcus heard Davy's door open, and the van lurched on poorly maintained springs. Marcus climbed out and hunched his shoulders against the rain, trying to hide his features. He sensed movement. The captain stood one foot away.

“Have you some identification, sir?”

Marcus reached for his wallet.

“I say. Haven't we met?”

Marcus looked the young officer full in the face and let a smile of recognition play on his lips. Please God, don't let the captain go into his “thought you were someone I knew in the army” routine. “Aye. A while back. In the Causerie.”

“Right. You were with a smashing blond.”

“Aye.” Marcus lowered his voice. “Don't mention her. She's a Protestant. We're Catholics. My cousin Davy would go bananas if he knew about her.”

The Para captain grinned. “See what you mean.” A heavier-than-usual rain squall slashed along the road. “Go on.” He gestured to the van. “Sorry about this. Routine, you know.”

“Thanks.” Marcus nipped back inside and slammed the door. “Get us out of here, Davy.”

“What did that fucker want?” Davy drove past a parked Saracen.

Marcus watched the man's face, the way he sat. He was tense, angry. Marcus said, “The usual, but he thinks we're a couple of farmers. Didn't go much for the stink.”

“Good.” Davy's smile was obviously forced. “Grand stuff, pig shite. Attracts flies but keeps the soldiers off.”

“Off what?”

“Off our case. Jesus. You think this is some kind of game. You don't understand, do you?”

“Understand what?”

“Oh, for fuck's sake, you know I'm a Provo.”

Finally. The man had admitted it.

“If the soldiers had found that out, were after me—where do you think that would have left you?”

“In the back of the van.”

“What are you talking about?”

“In the shite, Davy. In the shite.” Marcus's voice held a trace more sincerity than he had intended.

“It's no time to be buggering about,” Davy laughed. What Marcus had just said must have struck home. Perhaps it was a release of tension—the wisecrack hadn't been that funny—but Davy threw back his head and guffawed. “Right enough. That's just where we'd have been.” His big shoulders shook under his waterproof jacket. “In the shite.” He chuckled for a moment longer, then said, “You're a cool bastard, aren't you, Mike Roberts?”

Marcus's own relieved laughter died away. “Probably don't know enough to be worried.”

“Unless them lads in camouflage suits is your mates.”

“Aye. Right enough. I was in the Chinese forces before I went to Canada.”

Davy looked puzzled. “Chinese—?”

“The Foo-king arm-ee.”

“The—?” McCutcheon laughed again. “All right. We'll say no more.”

Marcus listened to the engine, the sounds of the tyres on the wet road, the ticking of the wiper blades. At least he'd made McCutcheon laugh. They sat in silence, and Marcus was able to contain his curiosity now that he knew where they were heading. Hillsborough. Government House was there. He did not think they were going to pay a social call. More important, something had happened at the checkpoint. Was it because Davy had opened up enough there to give his name, because they had shared a laugh, because Davy had admitted he was PIRA and said he believed Mike's story—or because, for a moment, each for his own reason had been scared silly?

Marcus looked over at the big man beside him. Something about the way he was sitting, one arm resting on the window edge, wheel held loosely, told Marcus that Davy had sensed it, too. Good. If he was satisfied, that would make it easier with the Provos. Whenever they finally met them.

He watched the trees flash by, lime and apple green in their early spring foliage, sheep huddled against a hedge, the little fields. The van turned onto a country road, narrow and tree-lined; jolted over the potholes; slowed; and entered a lane leading to a grey farmhouse.

“We're here,” Davy said as he parked in the farmyard.

“Right.” Marcus was alert, anticipating the meeting. He remembered the SAS man's instructions. Take a good look around and study your surroundings. You never know what might be important if you have to get out in a hurry.

McCutcheon had left the van and hurried through the rain to the door of the farmhouse. Grey stone. Two stories. Sash windows with green frames, the paint blistered and peeling. Two slates were missing from the roof. Telephone wires ran from white ceramic insulators under the eaves to a bare pole standing starkly among a windbreak of tall poplars. The trees marched from the corner of the house along the lane to the country road a hundred yards away. The phone lines were strung on telegraph poles among the trees.

Marcus retrieved his knapsack, opened the door, and stepped out into the mud of the farmyard. There was no dog, and that was strange. All farms had dogs. Border collies, usually.

He turned to get his bearings. The house fronted onto a yard of mud and straw. A blackthorn hedge bordered its near side. Across the yard an open barn, rusting corrugated iron sheets held up on wooden posts, sheltered a Massey-Harris tractor. He could see empty stalls at the back of the building. No animals, and by this time of the evening the cows should be in for milking. No dog. No cattle.

“Will you come in the fuck out of the rain?” Davy stood inside the doorway, beckoning.

Marcus squelched across the yard. Something nagged at him. It wasn't that the place seemed to be deserted … He stopped. There were no other vehicles. How had the men he was to meet got here? He pushed past Davy.

In the dim light coming from the two windows behind him, Marcus could see that there was no hall. He had entered the main room. A sink set into a countertop, cupboards above, took up space on the wall to his right. Past it he could see a staircase. To his left a range bulked black. Beside it was a pile of turf, which filled the space between the range and a huge open fireplace, visible directly ahead, behind the plain wooden table and chairs in the middle of the room. Where did that door beside the fireplace lead to? Black cast-iron gallows stood out from the sides of the hearth. There was no fire. And there was no one else there. Marcus spun round and saw Davy standing by a cardboard suitcase on the slate floor. Davy said, “Cold in here.”

“Cold? Never mind that. Where the hell is everybody?”

“Nobody lives here. The owner, Sammy McCandless, died a month ago.”

“I don't mean that. You said I'd meet the senior men. Where the hell are they?”

“They'll be along.”

Marcus sensed that Davy was lying but said, “Jesus Christ, I came here to meet people. I should have listened to Siobhan.”

“What?”

“I was out with her for lunch today. I told her I was seeing you again this evening.”

“You told her?”

“Come on, Davy. Jimmy's daughter's not going to blow the whistle.”

“Mebbe.”

“She says I'm daft. I should forget about you lot and go back to Canada with her.”

“Mebbe you should.”

“Look. I want to find out what's going on.”

“You will. We've to get this place ready for them.”

“All right.”

“Put down your bag and give us a hand.”

Marcus set his knapsack on the planks of the tabletop, seeing the dust of disuse on the wood. “What do you want me to do?”

“Get a fire lit. I'm foundered.” Davy produced a box of Swift matches.

Marcus took the matchbox, moved round the table, and knelt at the hearth. Someone had laid a fire. Bunched-up balls of newspaper supported a pile of fresh kindling. Two bricks of peat perched on top. Dust on the tabletop but a freshly laid fire? It was like
Alice in Wonderland
—curiouser and curiouser. He struck a match and held the flame to the paper. The kindling began crackling. Marcus heard Davy say, “Give us the matches,” and stood to hand over the box.

Davy held a brass kerosene lamp in one hand; the funnel and globe lay on the tabletop. He lit the wick, slipped the funnel over, and covered it with the glass globe. The light was bright and threw shadows on the white plaster walls. “That's better.” He opened his waterproof coat, took it off, and said, “Here. Gimme yours.”

Davy shook the rain off both and hung them on a coatrack tucked in between the front door and a large chest of drawers. Marcus asked, “What now?”

“We'll have to wait.” Davy lit a cigarette. He seemed to have found something of interest on the floor, and he was scratching his nose.

Pinocchio. The SAS chap had said that when men lied they often touched their noses. Marcus felt an alarm bell ringing in his head. The same one that went off when he sensed all was not well with a fuse, and when that happened, you got the hell out—fast.

“How long?” Marcus looked directly at Davy.

His stare was returned. “Until we do a wee job together.”

“A what?”

“A wee job.” Davy smiled and there was a challenge in his smile. “With Semtex.”

Davy stood by the door watching Roberts's response.

“A job? With Semtex?” was all the younger man said. Either Roberts was a bloody good bluffer, or he had meant what he'd said about joining up.

“Aye. Semtex. That's what's under all the pig shite.”

“Wait a minute. You told me you were going to introduce me to higher-ups in the Provos. You never said nothing about a fucking job.”

“Would you have come if I had?”

“No bloody way.”

“But you're here now, and you are going to give me a hand.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“What do you think?”

The lad fidgeted, rubbing one foot back and forth over the slates. “I don't suppose I do, do I?”

“That's about the length and the breadth of it.”

Roberts surprised Davy by saying, “I'm your man, then.”

“You
will
get to meet my CO—once it's over.” Davy looked into the younger man's eyes. “I suppose you'd want to know about the job?”

“Not at all. I'll just stand here, both legs the same length, picking my fucking nose.”