Seventy Times Seven (6 page)

‘Down on your knees and face the ditch,’ said the soldier holding the gun.

Danny didn’t move.

The guy walked behind him and kicked the back of his knees, knocking him to the ground.

‘You want to see your Órlaith’s lipstick on my cock before you die, or would you rather see his?’ said the soldier, nodding towards his comrade.

The two men laughed.

‘C’mon, cheer up fuckwit, we’re just giving you something to think about for the rest of eternity.’

Danny stared defiantly into the soldier’s face as the gun was lifted and placed against his forehead.

‘While you were having a wee snooze in the van we went back inside and made her happy. She said it was the first time she’d ever had an orgasm.’

Danny kept his gaze steady, determined not to give them the satisfaction of showing any emotion.

‘Any last requests?’ said the soldier.

For a moment the wind buffeting against Danny’s naked body seemed to subside; the branches of the trees fell quiet, the long grass in the field beyond the hedgerow stood still. Then . . .

 . . . Nothing . . .

 . . . A long silence as if time itself was holding its breath . . .

 . . . The three short clicks followed one after the other: click, click, click.

The soldier squeezed the trigger again for a fourth time then bent over and whispered in Danny’s ear. ‘That’s how easy it would be. Now you’re wondering how we know their names? We know everything. Where you live, where Órlaith works, what number bus she gets, where Niamh goes to school, how many times a day your mother takes a shit. We could take you out any time we like, you dirty Irish fuck. You ever point a gun at one of our comrades again and you’re dead. We’re watching you, McGuire.’ With that the two men turned and walked casually back to the van, climbed in and drove away.

Danny watched the van disappear from view then smiled faintly.

KIB
1024.

Vincent could hear voices in his head: he didn’t recognise them as the ones he usually heard, the imaginary ones. These voices were real, using words he didn’t understand, like they were talking in code: obviously educated . . . white. Right now he didn’t care: the pain in his arm had gone.

Vincent tried to open his eyes. He couldn’t understand why his goddamn eyelids wouldn’t work, why such a small movement – one that happened involuntarily a thousand times a day – had become such a pain in the ass to do. Vincent tried to speak – ask what the hell was going on – but he was so heavily sedated his mouth wouldn’t open either. The best he could manage was a long moan lasting the length of a full sentence.

‘Looks like he’s coming round.’

‘Top him up with some more anaesthetic; we don’t want him awake before they get here, but no more morphine until we establish who’s picking up the tab.’

‘Nice,’ thought Vincent. ‘Whatever happened to the Hippocratic fuckin oath?’

The voices continued. ‘He gonna be okay?’

‘Concussion, and a few bruises but nothing more serious as far as the crash is concerned. Miraculous!’

‘And his arm?’

‘Gunshot wound, no denying. Lost a lot of blood due to that, but he’s been topped up so he should be fine. Go ask the front desk what’s happened to Sheriff Beasley and tell them to get a member of the security team down here as quickly as possible. If he does regain consciousness and wants to go home I don’t want to be the one to tell him “no”. Maybe give him another squirt of the pentobarbital, but take it easy . . . we do want him to wake up eventually.’

Vincent was confused: on the one hand he was enjoying the vibe: he’d never been a fan of the heavier narcotics – preferred a ‘smoke to a coke’ – but if the shit made you feel this good, he could be persuaded otherwise. Trouble was the word ‘sheriff’ had set an alarm bell ringing in Vincent’s head. His dilemma was this: should he keep his eyes closed a little longer and see if he could figure out what the hell these guys were talking about, maybe get another hit of the pentobarb-shit, or should he get himself together and get the hell out of wherever the hell he was?

The effects of the drugs were making it hard to think straight. The last thing he could remember with any clarity was the crowd on the sidewalk outside McHales. Everything after that was a blur.

He needed to focus: get a handle on what was going on. A blood-pressure monitor just to his left was beeping and whirring: every so often it would burst into life and the collar wrapped round his arm would inflate and tighten automatically. It was only after it had inflated for the third or fourth time that Vincent realised he was in a hospital: the carbolic scent and clean antiseptic smells suddenly made sense.

He tried to concentrate on the noise of the machine in the hope that it would help him to stay conscious. All his instincts were telling him to get out of there as quickly as possible.

Someone was standing next to the bed. Vincent realised too late that it was a nurse, increasing the flow of anaesthetic. He let out another moan – ‘No. No more shit till I can figure out what’s going on.’ – but the effects were immediate: he was falling, floating, comfortable, happy, warm, relaxed, carefree and well and truly fucked all in the same instant.

When Vincent eventually floated to the surface again he found he could open his eyes. His lopsided gaze slowly focused on a large round face hovering just inches above his own.

‘Cock-a-doodle-do‚ brother! That sound good to you?’ said Sheriff Beasley.

‘Shit. I’ve died an gone to hell?’ replied Vincent, still slurring his words slightly from the effects of the drugs.

‘Vincent Lee Croll?’ asked the sheriff.

A deputy standing by the door had his arms crossed behind his back like he was on guard duty. Vincent stared at him and smiled, ‘S’that you?’

The deputy shook his head: had the deadpan look on, like he wasn’t going to take any shit.

‘Then, as we is the only three in the room and you two’s way too ugly to be named Vincent, I guess it must be me.’

The sheriff pushed his face even closer to Vincent’s.

‘You aware the vehicle you were driving at the time of your incident was stolen, Mr Croll?’

‘I wasn’t even aware I was in a
vehicle
. How would I know whether it was stolen or not . . . I is suffering from amnesia, officer: got it so bad I can’t even remember what colour I am. Hope to fuck it ain’t the same as you,’ replied Vincent.

Sheriff Beasley ignored the comment and pressed on. ‘We also recovered an unregistered weapon from the vehicle. You got anything to say about that?’

Vincent screwed up his face. ‘Man‚ you been eatin way too much red meat. You mind stepping back a bit? If you got private medical you should ask if one of the doctors in here got anything to help you out . . . but as my ole grandma used to say, “halitosis is better than no breath at all”. Although in your case: not much better.’

The sheriff tried again.

‘You able to explain why you got a gunshot wound in your arm, Mr Croll?’

‘Seems to me like you got amnesia too, Sheriff. Seems to me like you’ve forgotten the
co-rrect
procedure. How long you been in the law, Sheriff Beasley?’ asked Vincent, reading his badge. ‘You smell like you been doin it for long enough to know I ain’t answering one fuckin thing you gonna ask me, so why don’t you get your big, fat, ugly face outta my way and do things the way they supposed to be done. That means I can keep you on my Christmas-card list and I don’t sue you and your department for all sorts of shit. Cause the way I’m reading this story in the newspaper is, you an your boyfriend over there came in here an threatened to beat the shit out of me cause I’m a poor nigger-boy . . . Least that’s the version of the complaint my lawyer will be workin from.’

Sheriff Beasley raised his hand and struck Vincent hard across the mouth. The force of the blow split Vincent’s lip on the crease and spattered dark red blood over the clean, white walls and ceiling.

‘Oh‚ man. What’d you have to do that for, Mr Beasley?’ spluttered Vincent, playing it all hangdog. ‘I just got topped up, on account I lost so much blood in my accident and there you are going and spillin it again all over my nice clean pillowcase.’

‘You sustained all sorts of injuries in your motor vehicle, Mr Croll. You think anyone’s gonna raise an eyebrow if I do beat the shit out of you?’

Sheriff Beasley aimed another blow: this time at Vincent’s arm. It caught him just above the elbow, where the bullet had torn away the flesh. Even with the help of the medication the pain was excruciating.

Vincent let out a yelp.

‘Mr Beasley: the first one I could have put down to a lapse in judgement, but now I’m beginning to think you don’t like me. What I ever done to you?’ Vincent moaned, his face all screwed up with pain.

‘My fellow officer and me are just waiting for your discharge papers then we gonna take you over to our place and ask you these questions again. See what smart-ass answers you can think of there, see how chirpy you are when the medication wears off.’

Vincent smiled up at the sheriff. ‘“Chirpy”? . . . “Chirpy”? What school you go to teaches you words like “Chirpy”? You got a good right hook for a fat-boy sheriff, but you got to get a bit more street with your chit-chat, man.’

Sheriff Beasley looked like he was about to punch Vincent again. As he drew his hand back, Vincent suddenly reached up and grabbed him by the throat. He still had enough strength in his good arm to hold the sheriff up. In the same movement he’d unclipped the sheriff’s gun from its holster. Despite the searing pain Vincent managed to swing the pistol in a tight arc and smash it into the underside of Sheriff Beasley’s chin. The sheriff stumbled backwards and fell to the floor, blood pouring from a gaping wound just below his mouth.

The speed of the attack caught the deputy off guard. As he fumbled to draw his weapon, Vincent shot him twice: once in the chest, and once in the throat.

The deputy stared at Vincent with a look of disbelief as he clutched at his throat, but thirty seconds later his eyes lost focus and he was dead.

Vincent tore the blood pressure cuff from his arm and unhooked himself from the various monitors he was attached to. Alarms started sounding. He tried to pull the power cords from the wall but that only made matters worse. Vincent kicked out, sending the monitors crashing to the floor.

Sheriff Beasley sat up suddenly and threw a punch, catching Vincent hard in the groin. Vincent winced and stumbled backwards. As the sheriff tried to pull himself up on the side of the bed Vincent started kicking. The first blow caught the sheriff on the side of the face, snapping his head back violently. There was a cracking sound as his skull glanced off the metal bed-frame.

‘Mr Beasley, you gotta stop fuckin hitting me man,’ said Vincent as he stamped down heavily on the officer’s face. Sheriff Beasley’s arms flailed around in a vain attempt to hit back at Vincent, but he was starting to lose consciousness. Only the sound of people banging at the door stopped Vincent from kicking him to death.

The deputy’s body was slumped against the door, preventing it from being opened. Vincent pointed the gun at the door and fired off a couple of rounds.

There were screams from the corridor.

No one was trying to get in any more.

It was time to leave.

His clothes were on a table just under the window, folded neatly in a clear polythene bag. Vincent tried to pull on his trousers as quickly as possible, but they were so soaked through with blood they kept sticking to his legs. His shirt wasn’t any easier, but he had no choice: there was nothing else to wear.

Vincent looked out of the window and was relieved to find that he was on the ground floor.

‘Something going my way at last.’

He took a step back and fired again.

Glass exploded onto the lawn outside.

As he started to clamber through the broken window a hand reached up and caught hold of his foot.

‘Shit, man, you don’t know when you is whipped.’

Sheriff Beasley’s blood-drenched face was staring up at him, his arm outstretched as he gripped Vincent’s leg like a vice.

‘Let go of my fuckin leg, man, you messing up my strides,’ said Vincent with a scowl.

‘You got a couple of bullets left in your gun, Mr Beasley . . . you want em back?’

Two loud bangs marked the end of Sheriff Beasley’s life.

To the south of him lay Chimney Rock Mountain and to the north he could just make out the small coastal town of Newcastle mirrored on the shimmering waters of Dundrum Bay. If he was right, he was on Kilkeel Road, some way north of Bloody Bridge: An Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty.

His lips cracked a thin smile.

It was small consolation, but at least he knew where he was.

Danny had barely enough strength left to stay upright. Each faltering step left him struggling to balance and several times his legs buckled underneath him: like a drunk, but without any of the fun. The exertion of reaching the main road had used up the last of his reserves.

He knew of a safe-house nearby: a cottage used by volunteers to lie low after carrying out what were referred to as ‘military operations’. The cottage was only a few miles north from where he was standing: a thirty-minute walk if he was fit. But in his present condition, he’d never make it that far. It had taken almost half an hour to travel less than fifty yards. At this pace it would take him nearly three days to reach the cottage. If he didn’t find shelter soon he’d be lucky to survive three more minutes. There was no option but to keep walking in the direction of the nearest town . . . and pray.

The sound of a car engine in the distance made Danny turn sharply, his hand already in the air in a pitiful attempt to wave it down, even though the car was still hidden from view by the bend in the road. The sudden exertion made him lose his balance and he stumbled backwards against the sea wall. By the time Danny had scrambled back to his feet it was too late. The car sped past and continued on into the dim, grey mist rolling down off the hills. Danny thought he glimpsed the driver’s eyes in the rear-view mirror staring back at him, but he could hardly blame the guy for not stopping. If he’d been behind the wheel he wouldn’t have stopped. Picking up strangers in these parts wasn’t recommended at the best of times. No one with any sense would pull over for a half-naked guy covered in blood and stumbling around like a drunkard.

The possibility of rescue had lifted his spirits momentarily and galvanised him against the sharp-toothed breeze that had started to blow in off the Irish Sea. However, the sense of elation quickly turned to disappointment, then from disappointment to an overwhelming feeling of desolation, as he tried once again to move forward.

Danny was in real danger of dying and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

After three more steps he collapsed heavily to his knees.

Being surrounded by death from an early age was one thing‚ but Danny had never once imagined how his own life would end.

Certainly not like this.

A strange noise – a loud, distressed screech, like the sound of a baby crying – echoed off the hills. Danny twisted round and scanned the surrounding countryside. There was nothing to see but the shadows of gorse bushes jostling each other as they set themselves against the stiff breeze. The sound came again, this time much closer. Danny’s eyes strained for signs of movement, but still nothing. Suddenly there was a commotion of rushing wind above Danny’s head, followed by another harrowing squeal. Danny threw his arms up instinctively to protect himself from the invisible attacker and felt a series of blows smacking off his raised forearms. A moment later a large black crow landed in a flurry of beating wings on the verge just a few yards ahead.

‘You fucker!’ cursed Danny breathlessly. ‘What the hell are you doing? You scared the shit out of me.’ Danny stared at the bird: his mind scrabbling to make sense of what he was seeing. ‘What the hell d’you want with me, Morrigan? Tired of “guarding my death”?’

The bird’s nicotine-yellow beak opened wide and let out a loud squawk as if it were answering him back.

Danny had been fascinated by the story of the Morrigan ever since he’d read about it in school. In Irish mythology the Morrigan was the goddess of slaughter who took the earthly form of a crow. She was a harbinger of death: when she appeared on the battlefield she was said to be waiting to devour the souls of the dead.

‘If you think I’m going to just lie here and let you watch me die, you’re wrong,’ said Danny. He pressed his knuckles onto the ground and pushed himself into a squat. From there – after a lung-searing effort – he raised himself up to a standing position and faced the crow. With arms spread wide open in a grand gesture of defiance, Danny summoned every ounce of energy he had left.

‘Come ahead, ya bastard, c’mon. I am Danny McGuire and I’ll have the fuckin lot of ye. Those that killed my brother are going to die. I’ll kill every goddamn one of them, Sean, then stand beside you. I am Danny McGuire and I have not yet fallen.’ In his delirious state he imagined that all Ireland had turned to listen as his words echoed from Black Hill to Knockdore and Carnabanagh to Carncormick and off the peak of Trostan out across the Atlantic Ocean.

When he had finished he lunged towards the crow, screaming at the top of his voice, ‘C’mon ya bastard, do your worst.’

But the crow was gone.

Standing in its place was a young woman with dark eyes and raven-coloured hair.

‘You all right there, mister?’ she asked.

Danny was certain now that he was hallucinating. ‘You look good in human form,’ he said.

‘Thank you,’ replied the girl, looking confused. ‘Are you all right?’

Danny was staring straight at her, frightened to close his eyes in case she disappeared.

‘Do I look all right?’ he replied, his voice little more than a whisper.

‘I was being polite: you look like shite. I was wondering if you needed a lift somewhere?’ she continued.

It was Danny’s turn to look confused. The line between what was real and what was the product of his imagination had become too blurred. Eventually he replied, ‘You going anywhere near a bus stop?’

The girl suddenly smiled. ‘I was thinking more like a hospital or something.’

‘I’ll mess up your car,’ said Danny.

‘Well don’t be worrying about that,’ she replied. ‘It isn’t exactly a limo.’

Danny swayed unsteadily as he glanced across the road at the old Ford Escort parked on the verge.

‘Well? You after a written invitation?’ asked the young woman.

‘Are you the Morrigan?’

‘The what?’

‘The Phantom Queen . . . the Terror?’

‘Sure, I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ replied the woman.

‘What’s your name?’ asked Danny.

‘Is that going to make your mind up whether to accept a lift or not?’

‘My ma told me never to accept lifts from strangers.’

The girl smiled again. ‘My name’s Angela.’

‘Aren’t you scared?’

‘Of you?’ Angela shook her head. ‘If I sneezed right now I could knock you over. Now why don’t you get in the car before I lose one of my legs to frostbite.’

Danny wanted to move towards her, but the darkness was closing in around him.

When he opened his eyes again he was sitting in the passenger seat of Angela’s car with her warm coat laid over the top of him. He had no idea how he’d got there.

‘Are you from heaven or hell?’ mumbled Danny quietly.

‘Newry,’ replied the girl.

Danny’s eyes struggled to focus on her, ‘Near enough,’ he said. ‘If I die will you tell Órlaith . . . I forgot to get Easter eggs?’

‘If I knew who Órlaith was then I would, but it’s probably better if you live long enough to tell her yourself. You don’t want “I forgot the Easter eggs” to be your epitaph.’

Danny smiled faintly as the gentle motion of the car cruising along the twisting country roads lulled him back to sleep.

Someone was standing over him.

He could feel hot water stinging the cuts in his feet and arms, then a deep, rich, warmth enveloped his body.

Did he ask the angel if she knew Órlaith, or had he only thought about asking?

Cool cotton sheets pressed against his face and the musky scent of his mother’s hair filled his nostrils.

The pain was gone, but he could feel himself sinking deeper and deeper into the darkness.

The air around Danny was still. No sound penetrated the delicate membrane surrounding the vision playing itself out before his unfocused gaze. Nothing existed in his present but the past: a memory.

Cailleach Berra’s Lough stretched out frozen before him. It was covered in a sheet of burnished ice that creaked and groaned under the weight of the young boy lying in the middle, his face shrouded and obscured by the white clouds of breath billowing from between his chattering teeth.

Danny couldn’t see the boy’s face clearly, but he knew he was staring at his younger self.

‘He’s passed out,’ said a voice in the darkness.

Danny’s mind was filling in the blanks, presenting him with a perspective he couldn’t possibly have seen for himself.

Sean was trying to lift Danny off the ice, but the area surrounding the two boys started to crack and give way. The more Sean struggled, the more they were in danger of crashing through to the freezing waters below. Lep MacFarlane shouted words of encouragement from the far shore, but did little else to help his friends. Eventually – heaving with the exertion – Sean managed to drag Danny to safety. He made it to the embankment and collapsed in a heap on the crisp gorse.

Danny opened his eyes.

His brother Sean was standing at the foot of the bed. ‘You’ll be all right, our lad, don’t you worry now.’

Danny scowled. ‘I never thanked you for saving my life.’

Sean raised his finger to his lip. ‘Shh!’

Danny tried to focus. He didn’t know where he was. He tried sitting upright, but found the effort too much. Sharp, debilitating pains stabbed and hacked at the inside of his skull and made him moan out loud.

The room was dark but for a few chinks of daylight at the edge of the curtains. Slowly the objects surrounding him became more familiar. He was in his flat . . . but had no idea how he’d got there.

Danny freed his right hand from underneath the covers and held it up in front of his face. How had it come to be bandaged? He turned his head slowly, wondering if Órlaith had been in the room. He tried to call her name, but the best he could manage was a hoarse whisper.

There was a noise outside the bedroom door: a loud creak that sparked a surge of adrenalin as he instantly recalled the events of the previous night. Danny pressed his head deeper into the pillow and realised his Glock wasn’t there. He’d left it at Órlaith’s.

The handle on the bedroom door turned slowly anticlockwise and clicked open. A young woman was standing in the doorway.

‘You’ve got me for about another half an hour, then I have to be getting back to work, I just thought I’d check you were okay an see if there’s anything else you needed.’ She walked over and placed a glass of water and some painkillers on the table beside the bed.

Danny stared at her for a few moments, ‘Órlaith?’

‘No. Nor Sean, nor the Morrigan nor your ma neither,’ she replied. ‘You were mumbling all sorts of nonsense in your sleep. How’re you feeling?’

It was only when the girl smiled that Danny remembered. ‘Have you ever had a hedgehog shoved down your throat and pulled out your arse?’

‘Not that I remember,’ replied Angela.

‘How did we end up here?’

‘You told me the address.’

It was clear from the look on Danny’s face that he couldn’t remember anything.

‘You were pretty adamant you didn’t want to go to the hospital,’ continued Angela, ‘so I brought you here.’

‘How did we get in?’

‘A key . . . and before you ask: it was under the doormat. You’re not in great shape‚ you should really see a doctor. If I was you I’d take up another sport – rambling’s too dangerous.’

Danny smiled weakly. ‘I was sightseeing,’ he said, not wanting to have to explain the real reason for the state he was in. ‘Visiting old haunts. My brother and I used to play on the beach in Newcastle when we were lads.’

‘Naked?’ she asked.

‘Always,’ he replied. ‘You’re the angel‚ aren’t ye?’

‘Sort of,’ she replied. ‘It’s Angela.’

Danny gave a slight nod. It was starting to come back to him.

‘You’re Danny McGuire,’ she said quietly‚ as if someone might be listening.

Danny took his time answering.

‘Bits of me.’

‘I’ve seen you before.’

Danny turned his head to get a better look at her.

‘I used to live in Clanrye Avenue.’ Angela paused for a moment. ‘My da was Joe Fitzpatrick, he knew your da‚ I think.’

‘Aye, that’s right,’ said Danny. ‘I think I remember your da. He was a RA man, is that right? So‚ you’re a girl from the Meadah?’

Angela nodded. ‘I watched you from my living-room window once, carrying your brother’s coffin up the road.’

‘I didn’t carry it‚’ interrupted Danny, ‘I dragged it.’

‘Why?’

‘It was too heavy to carry.’

‘No, I mean, did you not consider using a hearse?’

‘There wasn’t enough of my brother left to bury. I was trying to make a point.’

‘What was in the coffin?’

‘Blood . . . from the abattoir. I dragged it past every RUC officer and soldier I could find on my way to the cemetery.’

‘The story became a bit of a legend on the estate,’ continued Angela in the same quiet tone. ‘My da said you were off your head. He heard you refused to let the RA give your brother a proper send-off.’

Danny interrupted her again. ‘He heard wrong. My ma . . . she wouldn’t have them anywhere near the funeral. I don’t mean to be rude, but what the hell does this have to do with anything, Angel?’ asked Danny with a little edge creeping into his voice.

There was silence in the room.

Danny’s head was throbbing. Even the smallest of movements caused pain in some part of his body. He was aware that he’d been short with her, but right now he didn’t care: everything was hurting.

Eventually Angela leant over, picked up a glass of water and held it to Danny’s lips. ‘If you drink some water, you’ll feel a lot better a lot quicker.’