Pray for Us Sinners (38 page)

It was heavy going in thigh boots, the mud of the field clinging to their soles. Davy found relief in remembering Mike's words. “I think you're a good man, Davy McCutcheon. You know it was an accident.” Decent of the lad to say that. It helped. Just a bit. But it hadn't been an accident. Davy knew he was guilty as sin. Tried and convicted in his own soul. And if there was the hell that the bloody priests ranted on about, that's where he was going.

The toe of his boot snagged in a root. Davy stumbled and clutched the toolbox tightly to his chest; then his shoulder hit the soft earth as he measured his length. He lay still for a moment, letting out his breath in a long gasp. Jesus. Going to hell? If the jolt of the fall had fired the blasting caps, he'd be there now.

“You all right?”

“I'll live.” Davy stood.

“At least you don't have to swim in a field. Here, give me the toolbox.”

“Be careful with that.” Davy immediately regretted his words. How careful had he been? “Come on.” He rubbed his palms together to wipe away the mud and set off for the gateway.

It was dark as the pit of hell beneath the bridge. Mike was saying something. Davy bent his head to hear.

“Can you hold on to the toolbox and give me a hammer and a big screwdriver?”

Davy took the box and opened the lid. The receiver, wires, and caps were snug where he'd put them, in a nest he'd made of strips torn from an old towel. “Here.”

“Thanks.”

Davy heard a scraping noise overhead. Mike must be loosening the mortar round one of the granite blocks. The scraping went on and on, the only sound louder than the gurgling of the stream against his legs.

Clangggg.
Jesus. Mike had hit the screwdriver a clout with the hammer. The noise was magnified under the bridge, and in the stillness of the night Davy was sure the racket must have been heard in Thiepval Barracks, only a few miles away.
Clangggg.
Davy crouched and turned to look out into the night. No signs of life. No headlights.
Clangggg.

“Out of the way, Davy.”

The granite block splashed into the water.

“One,” said Mike. He was panting. “Here, gimme the box.”

Davy handed it over.

“Where'd you put the staples?”

“Top end.”

Davy waited, flinching with every hammer stroke as Mike pounded in two rows of staples, one on either side of the cavity. Nylon rope from the barn would be strung between the staples to support the charges.

“Done,” said Mike. “Your turn.”

Davy followed Mike to the far side of the centre of the arch. He had a hand over his head, the pale skin just visible in the darkness. “This one.”

Davy felt the rough, clammy stone and the raised and cracked cement that bound it to its fellows. “Right.” He began to work and was amazed at how easily the mortar fell away, but the work took longer than he had thought. The stone was well anchored. Davy was sweating by the time he was able to rock the block in its bed. “Give us a bit of that cloth packing.” Davy bound the rough material round the head of the hammer. “Out of the way.” He held the screwdriver firmly and hit it an almighty belt. The noise was less, muffled by the toweling.

“I should have thought of that,” Mike said.

Davy smiled. The old dog could still teach the pup a trick or two. He grunted and swung the hammer.

*   *   *

The final block to be removed was a hoor, smack in the centre of the span. Mike swayed as he scraped. After twenty minutes he climbed down. “I'm buggered. You have a go.”

Davy took the screwdriver, felt for the groove above his head, and began to work. The perspiration from his previous efforts had not dried, and when he started to chip away at the mortar, he was cold. Half an hour later, the sweat blinded him, his shoulder was on fire—but the stone was loose.

“Hammer.” He took the heavy tool, steadied himself, and belted the head of the screwdriver. Cement rained onto Davy's head and the block tore free, plummeting down and hitting him a glancing blow on his thigh. The twisted bone protested, and he fought not to cry out. Biting down hard on his lower lip, he screwed his eyes tight shut and waited for the pain to pass. There'd be a bloody great bruise there tomorrow.

“You all right, Davy?”

He felt a steadying hand on his arm. “Aye. Just a minute.” The pain was less now. Bearable. Davy leaned on Mike's shoulder and stepped down into the water. “Jesus, that rock hit me a queer dunt.”

“Here. Take the toolbox. I'll knock the staples in and make the grooves for the wires.”

Davy moved to the side of the stream and leaned against the abutment, taking the weight off his bad leg. He could hear the scraping as Mike dug channels between the blocks. The wires from the receiver to the detonators would be hidden in there.

Davy froze as the barking of dogs tore the night, becoming louder, more insistent by the moment. A man yelled, “Shut the fuck up, Landy.” A door slammed, and the dog obeyed its master.

Davy held his breath for a long time. Mike must have crouched. Davy sensed the movement as his companion straightened up and said, “Fucking dog. I near filled my pants.”

“Me, too.” Davy allowed himself a dry laugh. “Sounds carry at night. It must be away to hell and gone.”

“Come on, let's get finished and out of here.”

“Right,” said Davy.

“I'll only be a minute.”

Davy waited as Mike moved upstream to collect the carryall. “Come on,” he said as he stepped back under the haunch. Davy followed. “Here,” said Mike, “hold you the bag.”

Davy took it and tightened his muscles. Sixty pounds of Semtex was heavy enough.

Mike reached into the bag and produced the first charge. He lifted it over his head and said, “Fits like a glove. Give us the rope.”

Davy pulled a length from the bag and handed it over. He waited, knowing that Mike would be anchoring the plastique into the cavity left by the granite block.

“Done. Next.” Mike moved downstream. Davy followed.

Setting the charges didn't take long. And it was a good thing, too. That fucking Landy might start howling again. “Detonators?”

“Aye.”

Davy waded back to the bank. The ache in his leg was there, but, thank God, not as insistent. He'd known worse. He lifted the lid of the toolbox and took the blasting caps and their attached wires from their toweling nest. Three number 6 detonators connected in sequence, and the command wires to go to the receiver. One last check. Davy touched the wires to the posts of the galvanometer. He couldn't see the needle in the dark. It had been all right when they'd tested the circuit back at the farmhouse, but you were always meant to run a final check before the detonating circuit was fitted to the charges.

“Mike.”

“What?”

“I can't see the galvanometer.”

“Hang on.”

Davy heard the gentle splashing.

Mike said, “Have you a match?”

Davy rummaged in his pocket.

“You watch the dial, Davy.”

“Right.”

Davy heard the scrape, saw the flare and the flicker of the needle across the dial. “It's OK.”

*   *   *

Fitting the detonators to the charges and burying the wires in their precut grooves took little time. The two men brought handfuls of mud from the riverbank to plaster the dark earth around the edges of the three charges and along the grooves where the wires ran. Davy hoped that it would dry slowly and still hide the wires—at least until midday tomorrow.

Together, they ran the command wires into the ivy that covered the abutment. The receiver would be well hidden among the leaves, just the tip of the tiny aerial sticking out.

Mike grunted. “Where's the whigmaleerie?”

Och, Mike, Davy thought. He was never able to be serious for too long. It was a bit like having Jimmy along, him and his always acting the buck eejit. Mind you, now that they were nearly finished, Davy could feel his own tension ebbing. “It's in the tool kit. I'll get it.”

Davy handed the receiver to Mike, who made the final splice to the command wire. “That's her,” he said. “Have you the screwdriver?”

“What for?”

“Just want to check that joint we soldered.”

Davy laughed. “I checked it last night. And I soldered the back of the receiver shut.”

 

FIFTY-SIX

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 17

It had been so simple the way he'd planned to slip off the back of the receiver and snap a wire. Marcus sat by the embers in the fireplace, berating himself. He'd painted himself into a hell of a corner.

Last night when he'd heard Davy working at the range, he'd assumed the man was making tea. He'd been soldering the back onto the receiver. To waterproof it, he said.

Jesus Christ on a crutch. Now the pair of them were stuck in the farmhouse, and under the bridge was a perfectly constructed line of demolition charges—set, wired, live, and ready to blow the span, the army convoy, and the VIP all over the fields of County Down. Marcus felt like the crazy colonel in
Bridge on the River Kwai
, working like a beaver for the enemy. He should be whistling “Colonel Bogey.”

He watched Davy pour boiling water into two glasses. The older man had his back turned, and Marcus wondered if he could take Davy by surprise. Probably, but that would put paid to any hopes of introductions to the senior Provos. Now that he was so close to completing his mission, Marcus was determined to see it through. There had to be a way to stop the explosion yet still retain Davy's trust. There might be a way—if Marcus could get to the phone.

Davy came over with a couple of glasses. “Here, get that into you.”

“What is it?”

“A wee hot half.”

The whiskey, sugar, and hot water smelled good. “
Sláinte
.”

“
Sláinte mHaith
.” Maybe, Marcus thought, if Davy gets a few into him he'll get drowsy.

“I was wrong,” Davy said. “I couldn't have fixed it by myself. I owe you.”

“Away on.”

Davy drank. “Exciting enough, was it?”

Marcus laughed. “When that bloody dog started—” And when he'd found the receiver soldered shut.

“You done good. I've known men run when they got a shock.” Davy leaned forward. “You'd be a useful man to the Provos, but I still think you should forget it. For Siobhan's sake. You love her, don't you?”

“Very much.”

“I know how you feel.”

“Have you a girl, Davy?”

“I bloody well hope so.”

“You mentioned Fiona last night.”

“Fiona. There's music to that name, son.” Davy looked into the embers and said softly, “You should hear her laugh.”

“Tell me about her.”

“We lived together before one of my specials killed the da of a couple of kids in her class.”

“She's a teacher?”

“She is.”

“What happened?”

“She gave me the choice: her or the Provos. I chose. She left.” Davy smiled, “But I saw her last week, and she'll come back if I quit.”

So there was more to Davy's wanting to get out than guilt. “What'll you do?” Marcus asked.

“It's likely just a dream, but we want to go to Canada.” Davy looked up. “Do you think a fellow like me could make a go of it there?”

“I don't see why not. In the oil fields, maybe. Tell them you learned about explosives on the North Sea rigs.”

“I could, couldn't I?”

“And you learn fast. I watched you with the Semtex. I could teach you more.”

“Would you?”

“Aye, certainly.” There was hope in Davy's eyes. The man was hearing what he wanted to hear. It seemed a shame to lead him on.

Davy looked wistful. “I think Fiona and me could be happy in Canada.”

“Davy?” Marcus hesitated. “I don't suppose you'd think about not going ahead tomorrow?”

“What?”

“I just thought, after what you said, like, maybe it wasn't so important anymore.”

Davy shook his head. “I've always delivered. Have you heard of Danny Blanchflower? Best soccer player Northern Ireland ever had. He scored two goals in his last game.”

“And you want to go out with a bang?” Marcus chuckled at his unconscious pun.

Davy had had a smile on his lips, but it faded. “Desperate thing, pride, and it's not just that. I promised a man.”

“I could stay here and fire the Semtex, let you get away tonight. To Fiona.”

Davy rose. The big man's eyes were misted. “Son, you don't know what you've just said. Thank you. But I want this one. I owe the Brits; I owe it to myself to get this one right.” He spoke as if to himself. “And Brendan McGuinness can go and fuck himself.”

Brendan McGuinness. Marcus stored the name. The major would want to know. “All right, Davy. We'll do it together, but when we're done, maybe I could help you find a job in Alberta. Put the word in with the company I work for. Like you're going to do with—what's his name—McGuinness?”

“The IO? Shite.”

IO. Information Officer. Marcus knew he was getting closer and did not want to seem too forward. “Tell you what. When we get out of here, I'll make a few phone calls to the oil people.”

He was pleased by Davy's grateful smile and wondered how the big man would have looked had he known that Marcus had decided to make a phone call all right. To the major's emergency number.

Davy stretched. “I'm knackered. I'm going for a pee, then I'm off to my bed.”

“I'll be along in a wee minute.” Marcus sat rigidly, listening to the uneven footsteps, the door opening and shutting. He leapt up and strode toward the phone. Something moved at the foot of the dresser where the phone sat. Oh Christ. A rat. A fucking great rat. Marcus inhaled, clamped his jaws so tightly that he heard the joint at his temple creak, and took a step forward. The rat scuttled in under the dresser.