Pray for Us Sinners (36 page)

They'd timed it well, moving round the edge of the field in the gloaming, the trees at the gate on the far side easy to identify, dark against the indigo sky. There'd been a nasty moment when a Lynx helicopter had whisked low overhead, and they'd cowered in the hedgerow, hidden from prying eyes even if the aircraft's observers were equipped with infrared sniper scopes. Marcus knew it would have been a different matter if the helicopter had had thermal imagers aboard. Those bloody things could pick up the heat from a man's body through foliage.

Davy looked up. There was no moon, but the stars were beginning to appear, cold white points against the darkening sky. There was the Plough, Cassiopeia, Venus. Do they have the same stars in Canada? he wondered. He remembered the night he took Fiona to the beach at Tyrella and made love under the stars on a soft summer evening—the sand dunes, breeze in the coarse grass, and the bowl of the sky star-bright and distant.

Davy stiffened. In the distance a light brightened the edge of the sky. Was it a car, or a Land Rover or a Saracen? The light was coming this way. He scrambled to the bank, pulled his waders up his thighs and slipped into the water, feeling the current pushing him toward the bridge. He worked his way along the edge of the abutment, cursing as he stumbled and an icy wavelet slopped over the top of a boot.

He crept beneath the arch, moving deeper under the overhang. There was Mike, silhouetted against the dim light at the far end of the tunnel. He must be standing on a rock. He'd seemed at first to be enormously tall as he held his hands over his head to feel the masonry above.

“Mike.” Davy kept his voice low-pitched. “Mike.”

Mike stepped into the water and started to wade upstream, forcing his way into the current.

Davy moved downstream. The river was frigid. A stone rolled under his foot and he flailed his arms, trying in vain to keep his balance. His head went under. He gasped, pulling water into his lungs. He tried to cough and thrashed, feeling the stones of the riverbed hammering him as he was tumbled along. Finally, his head broke the surface. He tried to get a lungful of air, but there was nothing but strangling water as he was pulled under again. Although the river was only two feet deep, the current was too strong. His chest was bursting. A red haze blurred his vision, and Davy McCutcheon knew that he was drowning, held under by the weight of water in his boots.

Something grabbed him by the left arm and lifted his mouth above the surface. He felt a wrenching on his hair and thought of old myths of water kelpies—evil river spirits—but he didn't care. He could breathe. Greedily. Noisily. Wheezing and retching. The red blur faded. He realized that Mike was holding them both against the masonry of the bridge. The thing pulling his hair was Mike's hand.

Davy tried to find a footing but skidded off a slippery rock, and would have fallen but for Mike's grip. Managing to get his feet under him, Davy stood, crouched, gasping. Jesus, he was freezing. The pain in his left leg gnawed like the teeth of a rat.

“Oh, shit. Oh, shit.” He retched, spewing up river water into the blackness under the bridge. “Oh, shit.” His teeth chattered, and Davy did not know whether it was from cold or from fear.

“You all right?” Mike had his head bent close to Davy's ear.

“No, I'm fucking well freezing. Have you done?”

“Aye.”

“Come on to hell out of here.” Davy worked his way along the arch, pressing his palms to the rough stones, moving his feet cautiously. God, but his waterlogged boots must weigh a ton apiece. Davy's breath rasped in his throat. He didn't think he would have made it up the bank if it hadn't been for a heave in the small of his back. He rolled onto dry land and heard Mike scramble out of the river.

“All right, Davy?”

“Hang on. I need to get my boots off.”

“I'll give you a hand.”

Mike's tugging overcame the suction created by the water in the boots. One and then the other came off. Mike, bless him, lifted each by the toe and upended them, waiting for the water to cascade out.

“Here. Get those back on you.”

Davy struggled to force his damp socks into the wet waders, stood, and turned down the tops of the boots, the thigh parts hanging as flaps below his knees. “Come on.” He set off toward the gate, limping, trying not to let his teeth start chattering again.

*   *   *

He thanked God for the fire and for Mike Roberts. Davy sat on a stool in front of a blazing heap of turf, letting the warmth soak into him. His bare feet tingled painfully as the circulation returned. The ache in his left thigh ground on and on. Mike had half carried him, half dragged him for the last hundred yards. The tea in the mug he held in both hands was life-saving, hot and sweet. His sodden clothes hung steaming over chairbacks. He remembered being stripped by Mike, toweled dry, bundled into this coarse blanket, and set in front of the fire. The tea had appeared moments later. Mike was upstairs now, changing his own soaked clothes. He must have been frozen, too, but had paid no attention to his own needs, not until he had seen to Davy.

He watched Mike come downstairs carrying his shirt, sweater, trousers, and underwear. He wore a pair of jeans and a dry pullover. His long hair was sleek, ragged at the ends and still not dry.

“All right, Davy?”

“I'll live.” Davy massaged his thigh with his left hand.

Mike hung his wet things on a chairback. “Enjoy your swim?”

“Piss off. I fell in.”

Mike pulled a chair over beside Davy and sat, leaning forward, holding his hands out to the warmth. “I noticed. For a minute I thought you were the biggest salmon in Ulster.” Mike laughed. “You went down with a powerful spraughle.”

“Mike, I damn near drowned. If you hadn't…”

“Och, the hold I had on your hair, you came nearer to being scalped.”

“Are you trying to spare my feelings?”

“Not at all. You fell in. It could have happened to a bishop.” Mike rubbed his hands. “Boys-a-dear, that's great. I was cold there myself.”

“Thanks, Mike.” Davy touched Mike's arm, feeling the tight muscles, envying the man his youth. “Thanks for the haul home, too.”

“Aye. Well. I couldn't help but notice the scars on your leg. It's a bloody miracle you can walk at all. What happened?”

“Tell you what. Find me a fag.”

Mike rose. He lifted a packet of Woodbines from the table. “Here.”

Davy lit up and coughed. “Thanks.”

Mike took his seat.

Davy stared into the fire. “Nineteen fifty-seven. One of mine went off too soon.”

Mike's breath made a little whistling noise as he inhaled sharply.

“Aye. Killed four men—and my da.”

“Your da?”

“Aye.” Davy lowered his head. He felt a hand on his shoulder. “Aye.” The moisture in his eyes had not come from the river. Davy sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

“I'm sorry, Davy.”

Davy inhaled smoke. “Water under the bridge,” and before he could help it, found himself smiling at what he had said. “Water under the bridge.” He knew his laugh must sound hysterical, but he couldn't stop, peals echoing from the rafters as tears ran down his cheeks.

 

FIFTY-THREE

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 17

“Trace this call,” Ulster television reporter Jack Henderson scribbled on his pad, handing the note to his producer. His fingers tightened around the telephone. “I'm sorry, sir. Would you mind repeating that?”

He heard a mocking chuckle at the other end. “Aye. I would.” The line went dead.

It was a hell of a way to start a Wednesday. “Get a camera crew ready,” Henderson said as he dialed the number pinned to a corkboard above his desk. The number was in bold black numerals on a yellow card bearing the title: “In case of bomb threat.”

*   *   *

Even though they had both retired early last night, Marcus knew that Davy had slept badly. He'd been up to take a leak and had spent a fair bit of time downstairs. Probably making himself a cup of tea. The sound of the lid of the range being lifted had rung metallically from below. He'd said very little since the pair of them rose this morning.

Marcus finished his breakfast and looked across the table at Davy. The bruise on his cheek was still there, and now the left side of his forehead was raw and abraded. His eyes were bloodshot, and the three days of grey stubble made him look like an old man.

Marcus felt the cold through his shirt and nipped upstairs to get a sweater. He glanced out the window to the bridge. Something was going on. “Davy. Get up here. Quick.” He heard the scrape of a chair on the slates, Davy's uneven footsteps as he crossed the floor.

Davy appeared. “What is it?”

“Dunno. C'm'ere 'til you see.” Marcus stood by the window. “Look. Down at the river.”

British soldiers were posted at both sides of the bridge, crouched in the hedgerows, rifles covering the road. There were more men on both riverbanks. In the distance he could see two Saracens and a half-tonner parked. “What do you reckon?”

*   *   *

The desk sergeant took the call from the reporter. The message had been accompanied by the correct password. This was no hoax. Only the Provos knew what the identifying word would be, and they thoughtfully supplied it to the Security Forces so that when a message was received, the police or the army could be in no doubt about its origin.

“Thanks, Mr. Henderson. We'll get onto it.”

The sergeant issued his orders. Get the nearest car round to the Shankill Road and have the officers clear McGuiggan's greengrocer's shop and the premises on both sides. Get more officers into the area for crowd control. The shops would be busy. Notify the army to send in an EOD squad to deal with the device, although it was unlikely they would arrive in time. The message had said the bomb would blow at 9:45. He looked up at the clock—twenty-eight minutes. It would be up to the soldiers to decide whether to have a protective infantry detachment go with the bomb-disposal boys. Call ambulance control, just in case. Notify the fire brigade. And one more thing—tell the senior officer on the spot to keep Henderson and his camera crew well away.

*   *   *

Marcus watched as a corporal walked an Alsatian sniffer dog in a harness. The dog trotted, nose down, tail waving, along one side of the bridge. For a moment Marcus thought he might be watching some of his own mob, 321 EOD Company. They were headquartered at Thiepval, but the RAOC didn't use sniffer dogs. This was a detachment of the Royal Engineers.

He glanced back to where vehicles were parked. No Goblin or Gobbler load carriers. The RAOC weren't here—not yet—but the Royal Engineers blokes would send for them if something was found. He should know. He'd been out enough times at the Royal Engineers' behest. Whenever they found a bomb, it would be some poor ATO's job to defuse it. Someone Marcus would know. When the time came, he'd better make bloody sure the Semtex was harmless. He comforted himself with the thought that he had determined exactly how the receiver's wiring could be short-circuited. Now, making sure the thing did not go off was one less cause for concern. He turned as Davy muttered, “Looking for bombs.”

*   *   *

The Wolseley Saloon pulled up against the curb. Two constables dismounted. One, carrying a megaphone, said, “You, Peter, inside McGuiggan's. Get them out.”

The second constable elbowed his way through the shoppers who thronged the pavements—women in head scarves and curlers, shopping bags on arms. At least the Shankill was Loyalist, and he didn't have to put up with jibes and catcalls the way he would have on the Falls.

From far away the sirens of the ambulances, police cars, and fire engines wailed like demented donkeys. A Mercedes-Benz, Felix the Cat sticker on one door, swung round a corner. The EOD squad had arrived. They parked beside a van with a dish aerial on its roof. The UTV camera crew had arrived, too.

The constable went into the greengrocer's and began shepherding customers, shop assistants, and the protesting owner out onto the Shankill Road. His companion yelled at them through his megaphone, telling them to clear the area as quickly as possible or to take shelter behind a large metal rubbish container. The skip sat in front of a slum-clearance site on the other side of the road. Its cast-iron sides were rusted and covered in brick dust from the broken walls that had been dumped into its capacious hold.

*   *   *

An officer of the Royal Engineers, dressed in anglers' chest waders, slipped into the Ravernet River and made his way under the span. From where he stood, Marcus could make out the flash of a torch beam in the darkness under the bridge.

Davy said, “I hope they're happy at their work. They'll find bugger all.”

Marcus watched the patrol. “What'll we do if they come here, Davy?”

“Give them a cup of tea. Like a couple of good farmers.” He did not seem to be perturbed. “And wait for them to piss off.”

“Does it not bother you?”

Davy shook his head. “I'd have been worried if they'd come after we'd set the bomb. If they come back again now, they won't be so thorough, and that suits us fine.”

“Can't be much joy, looking for bombs,” Marcus said.

*   *   *

It wasn't. Back on the Shankill, an ATO struggled into his EOD suit. He wished that when the bloody Provos gave a warning they'd be more specific about the positioning of the device. It was all very well to say it was in a greengrocer's shop. Where exactly in the shop was going to be his problem. He checked his watch. 9:41. He had four minutes.

He paused, helmet in his hands, and looked about. McGuiggan's was empty. He could see in through the window, past the wire-mesh grille that was meant to protect the glass from drive-by firebombings. Lettuces and cauliflowers, brussels sprouts, turnips, and mounds of spuds sat on racks. People ran from the adjacent shops, a cobbler's and a chemist's.