Seventy Times Seven (24 page)

Danny didn’t react. He stood there stony-faced and waited for Sean to continue.

‘What stuck in my head – the bit I keep running over and over – is that Frank Thompson asked me at one point to give them more details about the operation we were planning, to bomb the Prime Minister when she was in Belfast. The thing is, I hadn’t told him anything about that operation. There were only seven of us in the RA knew anything about it, so that narrowed my hunt for the Thevshi right down. It was a big op – top secret – the information could only have come from one of the other six. So whether he realised he’d made a slip-up, or whether “The Ghost” was in Castlereagh at the same time as me, and Thompson thought I might have seen him when I went off to the toilet, I don’t know. But when the death threats started I knew they were serious. I knew the only way out was to disappear. If I’d tried to take you, or Órlaith or Ma, we’d have all ended up dead. I had to disappear . . . but I also had to die.’

‘Who were you reporting back to in the RA?’ asked Danny.

‘E. I. O’Leary.’

‘Why didn’t you tell him what was going on?’

‘Because’, replied Sean, ‘he was one of the other six.’

The sight that greeted Marie on her return was not the one she had been expecting. The two men were leaning against the trunk of the car talking quietly to each other like they were making a plan. Danny had just handed a Sean small set of what looked like keys to a post-office box.

As she approached, Marie scanned their faces for signs of battle, but there didn’t appear to be any.

‘Have you boys kissed and made up?’ she said.

‘Sinner Joe not interested?’ asked Sean.

‘He wanted nine thousand dollars,’ replied Marie.

‘Did you tell him we only have five?’ asked Sean.

‘I told him we only have three.’

‘What’d he say?’

‘He’s gone to the restroom to “evac his back-pack” – his words not mine – then he’s dusting down his chauffeur’s cap and he’ll meet us over by the blue-and-white Kenworth with the tandem axle: says we’re lucky he ain’t pulling a load or he wouldn’t be able to help us. I just smiled like I knew what he was talking about. Says he’ll take us wherever we want to go, but we got to pay extra for the fuel . . .’ she smiled half-heartedly before continuing ‘ . . . so, where d’you boys fancy?’

Danny pushed himself off the trunk and walked round to the driver’s side of the car and opened the door. ‘Sean is heading for the nearest train station with Sinner Joe and you and I are going in the Cadillac to visit some pals back in Tuscaloosa.’

‘Oh!’ said Marie. ‘Nothing turns out the way you expect it around here‚ does it?’

‘D’you want to ride up front‚ or get back in the boot?’

Angela sat in the corner with her back pressed against the musty-smelling black drapes and cradled Niamh’s tiny frame in her arms. The carpeted floor in front of them was covered with ominous black stains that glistened in the darkness and filled the room with a sickening aroma of stale blood and faeces. Someone had attempted to conceal the smell with disinfectant, but no amount of cleaning could ever neutralise the stench of death.

A door slammed in another part of the house. Seconds later Angela could hear someone making their way upstairs towards the room. The young girl’s body tensed. Neither of them spoke as they sat staring at the door.

Niamh jumped when the lock turned with a sharp, metallic clunk. The handle twisted clockwise and the door swung open.

Standing in the doorway was the figure of a heavy-set man; behind him in the hall was the short skinny guy who had driven Angela to the house yesterday. Or was it the day before? Angela had lost all track of time.

‘Take the young one downstairs and fix her something to eat, and get Slim to bring up the kettle,’ said the big guy as he took a few steps into the room.

‘Please don’t. I don’t want to go. Please,’ sobbed Niamh.

Angela could feel her small hand gripping onto her arm as the skinny guy made his way over and tried to prise her off.

‘Don’t worry, you’re going downstairs for a wee while so that I can have a few words with Angela here, in private,’ said the big guy.

‘Why don’t you leave her be?’ said Angela. ‘The poor girl’s petrified. Just say what you have to say then leave us alone.’

The skinny guy hesitated.

‘It’ll only take a few minutes, then she can come back up,’ said the other one.

Angela watched Niamh’s reluctant figure being dragged out of the room. Her tiny shoulders were hunched forward and her head bowed. There were tears streaming down her small face. It was as pitiful a sight as Angela had ever seen, and one she prayed she would never have to witness again.

When Niamh was out in the hall she glanced back and tried to smile, as if – in her own small way – she wanted to reassure Angela everything would be all right. It was a gesture so delicate and fragile that it made Angela’s eyes sting.

The big guy slammed the door closed and turned the key in the lock.

‘Take a seat . . . make yourself comfortable,’ he said, nodding towards the metal-framed chair in the middle of the room.

‘And sit amongst the piss and blood?’ replied Angela, ‘I don’t think so.’

She raised herself up off the floor and stood in the corner with her back to the wall.

‘Fair enough! Makes no odds to me whether you’re standing or sitting or doing a fucking headstand, outcome will still be the same,’ he replied, making it sound like a threat.

‘Outcome of what?’ asked Angela. But the big guy ignored her question.

‘Do you know who I am?’ he asked.

‘Should I?’

‘Not necessarily, but maybe your boyfriend mentioned me.’

‘My boyfriend?’ Angela sounded surprised. ‘I think you’ve got me mixed up with someone else. I don’t have a boyfriend.’

‘Is that a fact?’ said the big guy, with a snort. ‘Well why don’t you take a wee seat anyway and we’ll talk about the fuckin weather then. Either way, I’d like you to sit down.’

‘I’d rather stand,’ said Angela defiantly.

Without warning the big guy took a step towards her and punched her in the face. He weighed nearly two hundred pounds and put every ounce of his bulk behind the blow: no holding back. Angela’s head snapped back and cracked against the wall. Instantly her legs gave way underneath her and she crumpled to the floor.

‘Last time! Go and sit on the fucking chair,’ he barked as he kicked her hard in the back of her ribs. ‘Sit on the fucking chair. I’m not asking if you want to. I’m telling you. Sit in the fucking chair.’

Angela was badly dazed. She lay slumped on the floor staring up at the ceiling, and for a brief moment wondered what the strange thumping noise was she could hear pounding at the inside of her skull. She tried to get back on her feet, but for the moment was incapable of telling which way was up and which was down.

The guy looked like he was about to kick her again, but a knock at the door stopped him.

The fat guy – Slim Jim McMahon – pushed the door open and handed over a kettle and a tape recorder before leaving the room.

It required a lot of effort, but eventually Angela managed to get back on her feet. She felt nauseous, and had to lean against the wall to stop herself from toppling over.

The big guy plugged the kettle into the wall and switched it on.

‘Are . . . you . . . making a cup of tea?’ she mumbled incoherently.

‘What?’

‘Are you making tea?’

The big guy laughed like she’d made a joke. ‘Aye, that’s right . . . and you’re the teabag. You don’t mind if I record our conversation, to play back to your boyfriend,’ he continued. ‘When we do eventually catch up with him we’ll probably need to have a wee chat with him as well. This is just to keep him focused.’

Angela stared back at him blankly. She couldn’t think straight. One punch had done this to her.

‘When . . . I’ve answered . . . your questions . . . can I leave?’ she said falteringly over the dull burble of the kettle heating up.

‘Depends.’

‘On what?’

‘How well we get on,’ the guy replied. ‘If I think it’s going well, you can leave with a few bruises. If I think you’re fucking me around, you’ll leave in a wheelchair – but one way or the other you’ll certainly get to leave.’

Angela didn’t know how to respond. There was nothing veiled about this threat and its effect was immediate.

Her legs started to tremble involuntarily.

 ‘Are those the two choices?’ she asked.

‘Who said it was a choice? It’s a decision for me to make, not a choice for you.’

‘I don’t know who you think I am, or what you think I know, but I swear to God, you’ve got the wrong person. You can beat the shit out of me all you like . . .’

‘I intend to,’ he interrupted.

Angela continued, feeling oddly ashamed that she was close to tears, ‘. . . but I still won’t be able to tell you anything.’

He was moving towards her again.

‘My name is Owen O’Brien. I’m “the man” when it comes to getting information from people that might be useful to me, and the organisation I represent. Now, that wee slap I just gave you was to let you know that I’m not one for pissing about. Most people who have passed through here find it difficult to talk when they’ve had their teeth knocked out, or their noses broken, so if there’s anything you feel you want to tell me, my advice would be to just come right out and say it. One other thing before we get started . . .’ O’Brien grabbed Angela by the hair and pulled her over to the centre of the room. ‘Sit in the fucking chair.’

He pushed her with such force that she fell backwards onto the chair and nearly tipped it over.

Angela was trying desperately to focus. She was staring at him trying to remember her nurse’s training on how to deal with difficult patients. The guy was definitely psychotic: the smiles were gone and any pretence of friendliness dropped. She knew it didn’t matter what she said, there was no placating a guy like O’Brien.

He was standing just in front of her with his arms folded across his chest. If she was quick enough she could kick out and catch him between the legs, but she didn’t have the strength to sustain an all-out attack. As she gathered herself ready, O’Brien took a step backward and the opportunity was lost for the moment.

Angela had made a decision.

If he put his head anywhere within reach again she would grab him and gouge his fucking eyes out.

O’Brien was talking again.

‘When did you last speak to your boyfriend?’

‘Who?’

‘Your boyfriend! When did you last speak to him?’

‘I don’t know who you mean.’

‘Fair enough, if you want to play the dumb cunt that’s fine, but don’t think you’re going to treat me like one.’ O’Brien started shouting at her. ‘Danny McGuire! When did you last hear from Danny McGuire, dumb cunt?’

‘I saw him at the end of last week,’ replied Angela.

‘At the Mourne Arms – we know that. Then you went back to his place. I know you saw him, but that’s not what I fucking asked. When did you last speak to him?’

How did O’Brien know they’d been to the Mourne Arms and how did he know that Angela and Danny had gone home together? Someone must have spotted them, or they had been followed.

‘He called me the other night, but I don’t know where from: he didn’t say.’

‘And did he mention anything about his brother, or say when his brother was coming home?’ asked O’Brien.

Angela watched O’Brien pacing backwards and forwards.

‘His brother is dead,’ she said.

O’Brien stopped and smiled at her.

‘You’ve just rendered yourself superfluous, you dumb bitch. It only took one question. One question and you fucked it.’

Angela felt she had regained enough strength to take O’Brien on, but she needed him to get close.

‘It was two questions.’

O’Brien stared back at her. ‘What?’

‘It was two questions you asked, not one. ‘“When did I last talk to Danny?” and “Did he say anything about his brother?” Two questions! Who’s the dumb bitch now?’

O’Brien stood gawking at Angela in disbelief.

‘You think beating the shit out of women is something a smart person does?’ She continued. ‘Or kidnapping a seven-year-old girl? I’ve no idea what sort of voices you’ve got talking to you in that tiny, retarded brain of yours, mister, but you’re clearly fucking deranged. Sean McGuire’s been dead for nearly ten years. My da – Joe Fitzpatrick – was a republican who was proud to fight for a cause that he believed in, but you are just a bloody animal. You’re a disgrace to republicanism. You’ve hijacked it to justify behaving like a goddamn psychopath. That’s all you are, a big, dumb psychopath. You can ask me what you like, but I’m not saying one more word, you prick.’

Angela watched O’Brien’s face contort into a twisted sneer.

He advanced slowly towards her and leant forward.

Angela knew this might be the only opportunity she would get.

When his face was just inches away she reached up with her hands and dug her fingers into his face. She ripped and tore and tried to stab her thumb into his eyes: gouging as deeply as she could. O’Brien let out a yelp and quickly pulled away, easily breaking Angela’s hold. She reached out and tried to grab him again, but he was too quick. He caught her by the wrist and bent her arm back, twisting it over her shoulder. Angela flipped round and lashed out again, but O’Brien caught her hard on the side of the face with the back of his hand, knocking her to the floor again. ‘D’you think I’m fresh out of the wrapper, bitch? I saw that coming before you’d even thought it.’

O’Brien had blood pouring down his face where her nails had dug into the soft flesh of his cheek, and his right eye had tears streaming from it. He towered over her, waiting for her to make a move. ‘If you don’t know that Danny McGuire’s brother Sean is still alive, then obviously you are not in the loop,’ he said, grabbing a handful of Angela’s hair and yanking her to her feet. ‘And if you’re not in the loop, you’re no good to any fucker. One question, two questions: who gives a shit? Either way you’ve landed yourself in a wheelchair – cunt.’

Angela tried to struggle free, but the more she twisted and turned the more force O’Brien applied.

When the blow came, Angela had no way of avoiding it. O’Brien suddenly tipped his head backward and – before she could turn away – butted her hard on the face. The loud cracking noise she heard was the sound of her nose breaking.

 Angela let out a low moan and felt the warm blood gushing over her lips and dripping from her chin onto her blouse. She could taste the blood running down the back of her throat. O’Brien kept hold of her hair and started punching her repeatedly in the face with his large fists. There was nothing she could do to protect herself.

After several more loud cracks her body went limp.

She had no idea how long she had been unconscious, but she woke up with a start. Something was causing an excruciating pain at the top of her thighs. Her instinct was to push back and get away from whatever it was, but her legs wouldn’t move: she couldn’t straighten them. They had been tied to the chair and her hands bound tightly behind her back. She opened her mouth and screamed until her throat crackled and croaked and no more sound would come.

Owen O’Brien was pouring a kettle of boiling water over her legs: starting at her crotch and moving slowly down her thighs and along her shins.

When he saw that her eyes were open he lifted the kettle up until it was directly over her head.

‘In some respects, you should consider yourself lucky,’ he said. ‘You being a nurse and everything you’ll understand how hard it is to cover burns with make-up. But lucky you: there’s hardly any water left. When your boyfriend sees you next your face won’t look too bad.’

Angela was taking short, sharp intakes of breath. She wanted to scream again, but the only noise she could make was a long lowing growl, like an injured animal.

Suddenly her head was on fire as the boiling water seared across her scalp and down over her forehead.

The pain was so intense that it caused Angela’s bowels to open.

The last thing she heard was O’Brien laughing at her. ‘Don’t you be worrying yourself there, darlin, everyone who sits in that seat pisses themselves.’