Pray for Us Sinners (34 page)

Davy grunted. “I'd believe that when I saw it. Us Catholics have always been shit on.”

After what Marcus had learned in the last month he could sympathize. He said, “It's a good country. Jimmy and his missus'll do rightly there, so they will.”

“Like Siobhan?”

“She loves it. Thinks Toronto's great.”

“Are you in love with her?”

Marcus swallowed as he sought for an answer.

“Well?” Davy's eyes held the same intensity Marcus had seen on the day when the man opposite had been testing him about his knowledge of explosives.

“I'm daft about her.” And as he spoke he could see her. “She's a great girl.”

“She is that. I've known her and her brother Fergus since they were wee.” Great open smile. “They called me Uncle Davy.”

“You've no kids?”

“How the fuck do you think a fellow like me could get married, never mind have a family? Fergus and Siobhan were as close as I got.” Davy sniffed. “Is she in love with you?”

“God, yes. It's great.”

“And she doesn't think much about you getting mixed up with the likes of me?”

Marcus hesitated before answering. “I told you her and me's talked about it. She thinks the whole thing's crazy. She wants to go back to Canada.”

“Would you go with her?”

“I want to, but—”

“Take my advice, son. Once this lot's done, get Siobhan as far away from Northern Ireland as you can.”

“But you said you'd take me to meet the big fellows.”

“Aye. Well.” Davy lowered his eyes. “Jimmy says you've cowboys in Alberta.”

“What's that got to do with me and the Provos?”

Davy looked Marcus right in the eye. “The fight between the Provos and the Brits isn't cowboys and Indians. People get killed.”

“I'm not scared.”

“I wasn't thinking about our side.”

“You don't give a shit about the Brits, do you?”

“The Brits? Not at all.”

“Who then?”

“Civilians.”

“Do you not think that's worth it?”

Davy muttered, “Sometimes I wonder. I suppose it's all right to die for your country. It's a different matter to make somebody else do the dying.”

Marcus put his hand over Davy's. It was cold.

Davy started, as if unused to human touch. “Aye. Well. I'll say no more.”

For a second Marcus had been permitted to glimpse another side of the usually closemouthed Davy McCutcheon—the Provo who was also Siobhan's “Uncle Davy.” He found himself warming to the man and decided not to ask for an explanation. “If you say so, Davy. You're the boss.”

Marcus was surprised by Davy's look of gratitude. He heard Davy say, “Thanks, son.”

Engine noises, very close engine noises, intruded. Marcus said, “What the fuck's that?”

Davy eye's narrowed. “Someone's coming down the lane.”

“Coming here?”

“Aye. Fuck it.”

“Were you expecting somebody?”

“Not at all.”

The engine noises grew louder, then stopped. “Jesus,” Davy whispered. “They're in the yard.”

He jumped from the chair. “I'm off upstairs. You get rid of whoever it is.” He raced to the staircase. “Remember what I told you about the fellow who owned this place.”

“But—” Someone pounded on the kitchen door.

“Who is it?” Marcus felt sweat on his palms.

“Police.”

“Hang on.” Marcus took a deep breath, exhaled, crossed the kitchen, and opened the door.

“Evening, sir.” A heavily built RUC constable stood on the threshold.

“Evening, Officer.” A Hotspur Land Rover was parked in the farmyard. A private of the Ulster Defence Regiment sat behind the wheel. Marcus knew that these part-time soldiers served as armed escorts for the police. “What can I do for you?”

“Mind if I come in, sir?”

“Not at all. Just kick the mud off your boots.” Marcus nodded to a cast-iron boot scraper at the side of the doorway. He stood aside to let the man see into the empty kitchen.

The policeman smiled. Big, circular, jowly face; eyes flickering around the room in front of him; fair hair sticking out like a badly stooked haystack from under his green peaked cap. “Right enough. It's quare and mucky out in the yard, sir. You'd not want all that clabber inside.” He looked embarrassed. “Tell you what. I'll just ask you a few questions.”

“All right.”

“Who are you?”

“Mike Roberts.”

“Haven't seen you about the place.”

Local officer. He'd know everyone. “I don't live here.”

“Oh?”

“Just come down from Belfast.”

“What for?” The man's right hand now rested on the butt of his revolver.

Think, Marcus told himself, think. “To give this place the once-over. The fellow that owned it died.” Jesus. What had Davy said the previous owner was called? The policeman looked tense as a wound-up spring. “My cousin,” Marcus added, then the name finally came back to him. “Sammy McCandless.”

“Sammy was your cousin?”

“Aye. I'd a letter.” Marcus rummaged in his pocket and produced his Canadian passport.

“Can I have a look at that, sir?”

Marcus handed it over, inwardly blessing the major's thoroughness, and Davy's hint about the dead farmer.

“You live in Alberta?”

“Aye.”

“Don't suppose you know my brother? He's in Halifax.”

Marcus laughed. “You live closer to him than me.”

It took a moment for that to sink in, then the constable's booming laugh drowned Marcus's forced chuckle. “Right enough. It's a brave big country.”

“It is that.”

“You'll be here long?” He returned the passport.

“Maybe a couple of days. The rent's good.”

“What?”

“It's free.”

“Right enough.” The policeman laughed again, an open, trusting laugh.

“I was surprised there's no beasts here. By the look of the byre, Sammy kept cows,” Marcus said, hoping he was not overembellishing his spur-of-the-moment story.

“He did. Aberdeen Angus. They're over at the Johnston's place. Norman's a decent man. He's minding them until after the estate's sorted out.”

“I'll maybe take a run-race over to see them. Johnston's?”

“Aye. About half a mile up the road, sir. You can't miss it. There's a big red barn. Norman keeps a lot of sheep.”

“Thanks.”

The constable started to move away. “I'll maybe look in again, sir. The name's Young, Constable Young. Sorry to have bothered you, Mr. Roberts, but we have to be careful over here.”

“Aye. I've heard.”

The policeman shrugged, the movement exaggerated by his flak jacket. “There's some highheejin coming in a day or two.” He pointed to the Rover. “That's why me and him's out here bothering you.”

“No bother. You lads have your job to do.”

“I'll be away on, sir.” The constable squelched back to the Land Rover. Marcus looked down and saw two other distinct sets of footprints in the mud. His own and Davy's irregular strides. Don't look down, he thought, willing the constable to keep moving.

He gave them a cheery wave as the vehicle pulled away. Jesus, for a minute or two that had been close. For his mission and for Davy.

Why, he wondered, was he worried about McCutcheon? He'd better be careful. He was starting to like the man.

Marcus went back into the kitchen. He heard Davy moving about upstairs. The phone on the dresser caught Marcus's eye. He glanced upward. More noises from overhead. Davy was in his bedroom.

Marcus lifted the receiver and put it to his ear. The dial tone was music. The phone had not been disconnected. It was unlikely he would need to use it, but it was good to know it was there if needed. “It's OK,” he yelled, gently replacing the receiver, “they've gone.” He hoped his shouts would cover the faint “ting” as the phone settled in its cradle.

 

FIFTY

TUESDAY, APRIL 16

A tractor rumbled down the Newtownards Comber Road. Its front-mounted hydraulic arms carried a deep metal bucket, tangy with a load of seaweed harvested from the mudflats of Strangford Lough. The driver and his mate sat in the cab.

Behind the slow-moving vehicle a row of cars followed, some drivers exasperated by the hold-up, most well acquainted with the realities of rural Ulster life. If it wasn't a tractor it would be a horse box or a herd of cows slowing things down. And Tuesday was market day in Comber.

*   *   *

The major had not heard from Richardson, and Harry Swanson had reported that his man in New Lodge had not seen Marcus since Sunday. It was a mark of the major's concern that he had phoned Harry this morning. The deadline set by Sir Charles five days earlier was approaching. To make matters worse, the senior civil servant had arrived in Ulster last night and summoned the major to a meeting this morning at Stormont Castle—or, to be more precise, his secretary had. It was the first time that Sir Charles had not spoken personally to Major Smith.

*   *   *

Woman Police Constable Mary Young retreated upstairs, heading, she said, to the bathroom. She had just started her shift and already she was feeling peevish. It was bad enough being stuck behind the desk of the Comber police station without the attentions of that bloody man, Sergeant Crawford. He didn't seem to be able to take no for an answer and the last thing she wanted was to accept his invitation for a drink after work. She knew damn well what he was after. And he was married.

She could hear him below, telling one of his crude jokes to the other two constables on duty. Mary Young was no prude; she could have a laugh with the lads, but not today. Today she felt claustrophobic. The two-storey, grey building hemmed her in. It squatted behind a twenty-foot high-wire-mesh fence. The doors were of reinforced steel and every downstairs window had steel loopholed shutters.

The armoury held racks of Sten guns, CS gas projectors, and Webley-Schermuly riot guns that fired plastic bullets. She thought it was silly. This wasn't Crossmaglen or Springfield Road. Comber was a small country town, eight miles from Belfast on the Belfast–Downpatrick Road.

*   *   *

Sir Charles came straight to the point. “The PM's coming over here on Thursday.”

Harold Wilson's impending arrival was news to the major. “Can't dissuade the silly bugger,” Sir Charles continued. “He's determined to have it out with the Unionists. Harold knows Paisley's lot are trying to arrange a general strike. Apparently the PM thinks he can lend the moderate Unionist faction a bit of moral support by his presence here.” Sir Charles looked as aquiline as ever. An eagle with badly ruffled feathers.

“Yes, Sir Charles.”

Sir Charles glared over his desk. “All hell's broken loose since my boss, Merlyn Rees, announced in the Commons that the British government legalized Sinn Fein and the Ulster Volunteer Force.” He snorted. “Two bunches of thugs, Catholic and Protestant. And the government's going to begin a phased release of IRA internees. Paisley's fit to be tied.”

Sir Charles shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose between a bony thumb and forefinger. “As if that wasn't bad enough, our dear Secretary of State for Defence, Roy Mason, has just dropped another brick.” Sir Charles took his hand from his nose. The exasperation in his voice was palpable. “He said in the House that there's widespread feeling among the British public that the troops should be withdrawn from Ulster. Paisley, Craig, and West and the rest of the Loyalists are having a field day. Yelling that they're going to be sold out. Harold's tried to calm things down. He's announced that the troops will have to stay for as long as the security situation demands.”

“I'm not quite sure what this has to do with me, Sir Charles.”

Sir Charles's face darkened, a dusky hue tinging the wattles at his throat. “I'll tell you precisely what it has to do with you, Smith.”

*   *   *

Mary Young sighed and tried to ignore the guffaws from below. She couldn't stay up here all day. Women's Lib might have arrived in America, but the Neanderthals downstairs hadn't heard of it. If she kept turning Sergeant Crawford down, he'd probably try to club her and drag her off to his cave by her hair—which reminded her, she'd better wash it tonight.

She looked out through the window. At least the sun was shining. A line of cars had stopped at a traffic light. The second vehicle was a tractor with its bucket full of seaweed. Something caught her eye. There was more in the bucket than wrack. She could see quite clearly from her vantage point that at one side of the bucket the kelp had shifted, and beneath was a brown gunnysack. No farmer would stink up whatever was in the sack by dumping a load of wrack on top.

*   *   *

Sir Charles had spoken for several minutes without interruption. “Harold's promised that the terrorists will be crushed.” He glowered at the major. “That's going to be damn difficult, as long as the Provos have a direct line into the Security Forces. That's been your job—finding the bugger—for quite a while now, and frankly I'm disappointed.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“Sorry's not good enough. I'm taking enormous stick. I expect results. I don't care how, as long as it's soon.” Sir Charles waved a dismissive hand. “I'd suggest you ask Gillespie for a hand.”

“But I thought—”

“Don't think, Smith. Get on with it.”

“I'll meet with him today, sir.”

“Right.” Sir Charles began to read. He glanced up. “I'll be going back to London on Thursday with the PM. So will you, although you'll be travelling economy, if you haven't got some answers by then.”

*   *   *