The Killer (20 page)

‘Quite,’ Darren agreed.

Turner ignored the sarcasm of the interruption and continued.
‘You will only terminate carefully selected targets.
I’m sure your old colleagues will eventually be selected, but first there are more pressing matters.’

‘Like what?’ Darren asked flatly.

‘Well, and this is only one example,’ Turner offered, ‘we urgently need to stem the flow of money and arms to several Irish terrorist groups.
And as the majority of these goods seem to originate in the United States of America, I would imagine your first terminations would be carried out over there - not here in Ireland my boy.’

Darren returned his gaze to the papers in front of him.
It was all so official, all so fucking sanitised, though he kept the words to himself.
He was really sitting here considering signing up to work for the British government, a body he had hated for so long.
Yet, what choice did he have?
His hatred now had a different target and really, honestly, this looked like the best, the only, way to get his revenge.

‘So, old bean, what is it to be?
A yea or a nay?’ Turner pressed.

‘People really talk like that?’ Darren mused.
Then he sighed and picked up the pen.
‘Fuck it,’ he said.
‘Let’s take a look at that Jaguar.’

‘Mr. McCann.
Really.’

‘Sorry,’ mumbled Darren as he signed his life away.

Turner took the papers from him.
‘A wise decision, son,’ he thought as he passed a brown paper package across the desk.
‘Your possessions,’ he said, ‘then we need to talk about the next step.’

Darren looked inside the parcel and quickly pocketed a pack of cigarettes and his lighter and cradled
The Killer
in his palm.
The rest of his personal items he dropped directly into the waste bin.

He followed Turner out of the cell and the watery light of early morning seeped through the corridor windows to offer him the first glimpse of sunlight he had seen since driving the little Honda through Spain.
It saddened him to realise that he could never return that car to its owner, the wizened old lady who had come to mean so much to him.
He didn’t know how long it had been since his abduction and he wondered if she and her boys knew what had happened to him.
Yes, they probably did, at least in part.
They would eventually find the crashed car and he thought Vassi, for sure, would be able to put the pieces together.
Oh, how he missed his brothers in arms and he longed to be back with them.

The weight of
T
he Killer in his hand, and the feeling of the Spanish lettering along the side, only served to deepen that longing as he and Turner arrived at another door.
When it opened he looked out into a large yard, with trees in the distance beyond a tall fence, and the need for freedom overwhelmed him.

The Shooting

As Eddie McQuillan arrived for work that morning he parked in his spot and emptied the contents of his ashtray into one of the neatly folded paper bags he carried for the purpose.
He exited the car, locked the doors and walked round the vehicle checking that everything was secure and wiping down each handle in turn.
‘There, nice and clean again,’ he whispered.
He walked to the main entrance, depositing his rubbish in the bin as he passed, then entered his domain.

For the last two days he had incorporated new rituals into his routine, and they were working out well.
He didn’t really like anything new, but since his last interrogation had been so rudely interrupted, he had to prepare himself.
Everything had to be perfect so that he was ready to take over again.
He now arrived an hour early for his shift and spent the first thirty minutes on an exacting routine in the gym.
He counted his reps aloud in groups of three; happy in the order they brought to his mind.
Then he would have a close shave and take a scalding hot shower.
With precisely fifteen minutes left before his shift began he had the kettle boiling while he dressed in his freshly laundered and perfectly pressed uniform.
Then he would make his tea and take it with him through to the office.

He was sitting at his desk finishing the last of his tea when Kenny Allen entered.
‘Someone got a good dose this morning,’ the young officer informed him.
‘Just heard that another of those bastards is dead.
Shot trying to escape about an hour ago.’

McQuillan smiled as he rose to check his appearance one last time in the mirror before the two men headed out across the yard to the wing.
The stench of the yard made Allen gag every time, but McQuillan loved it.
It was the stink of his domain, the smell of power and he relished it.

The warden was walking towards them as they approached the wing.
This man was his only superior here, and Eddie was surprised to see him.
He was usually locked away in his office, and that’s when he was even on the premises.
Today he looked unhappy.
‘Paperwork,’ he announced as he reached his juniors.

‘The attempted escape, sir?’ questioned Kenny.

‘Yes, but this one’s a fucking celebrity, and I didn’t even know we had him in our nick.
How’s that going to look, eh?’
He marched off muttering,
‘
Fucking Butcher of Belfast.’

Kenny saw the colour drain from McQuillan’s face and became quickly concerned as the man stumbled, looking ready to collapse.
‘Eddie, you going to be okay, man?’ he asked.
Eddie honestly didn’t think he was.
He felt physically ill.
‘Let’s get you back to the office, eh?’ said Kenny, already shepherding him in that direction and Eddie offered no resistance.

Within minutes Kenny had him seated and the kettle was on.
He was really worried.
The man looked truly ill.
Of course he knew that it was the Butcher who had taken McQuillan’s eye, everyone knew, so he understood the personal connection, but this reaction seemed extreme.
‘Eddie, man,’ he began.

‘Bastard,’ cried McQuillan, the piercing shriek stopping Kenny in his tracks.
‘McCann was supposed to be mine.
He was not intended for some fucking squaddie to use as fucking target practice.
What the fuck am I going to do now?’

‘He’s gone, Eddie,’ offered Kenny, knowing it was a stupid thing to say, but at a loss for anything else.

‘I know he’s fucking gone, you twat,’ McQuillan spat in his face.
‘McCann you fucking bastard, I hope you rot in fucking Hell - for fucking ever.’

Allen watched as tears fell from the lone eye.
‘Jesus,’ he muttered.
‘Eddie, calm down mate.
The man’s dead - there’s nothing you can do about it.
I know you wanted him for yourself, but he’s gone mate, he’s dead, face it.
He is dead.’

‘You fucking know that bastard was mine, no one else’s - he was mine,’ McQuillan hissed.

‘Aye, I know that mate, but at least he’s dead.
It’s not like he escaped or anything - is it?’

Eddie stared at him and, just as quickly as they had come, the tears stopped and he grinned.
‘You know, you’re right, he is dead.
Fuck him
,
’ he replied calmly.

Allen risked a cautious smile as he looked at his friend.
‘Unbelievable,’ he thought, but never said a word.
It only took a split second for him to change from that screaming, rabid lunatic, back into a calm rational human being.
Inwardly Allen shuddered.
‘Fuck me,’ he thought.
‘I knew Eddie had his problems.
But Jesus, now he’s really starting to scare me.’

‘Well then,’ McQuillan announced, ‘back to work.’

Kenny watched him stride off back through the yard.
‘Shit,’ he said.
‘He’s finally lost it.’

Word of the latest shooting quickly made its way round the H-Blocks.
The Protestants were cheering while the Provos mourned the loss of yet another brother.
Several times during the day a fellow officer would pass by and pat McQuillan on the shoulder.
‘We’ve got him for you mate,’ was the general feeling of congratulatory brotherhood, and McQuillan would grin widely and agree that it was, indeed, a great day.

In the early afternoon a helicopter landed just outside the prison walls and was seen leaving again a short time later.
‘Looks like we’ve got rid of that English bastard too,’ McQuillan noted with glee.
‘This day just keeps getting better and better.’

Kenny Allen watched closely and was concerned.
If he hadn’t witnessed the original reaction he probably wouldn’t have thought anything of it, but this excessive mood-swing unsettled him.
As they finally walked together from the prison at the end of their shift, Kenny suggested, ‘Hey, fancy a pint Eddie?’

‘No can do,’ replied McQuillan.
‘Not tonight I’m afraid.’
He got in his car and left with a cheery wave.

‘Pity, I reckon a couple of pints would have done him good,’ thought Kenny as he headed for his own car and then to his favourite pub.
It was only 6pm, with the sun just beginning to set, and a little early for his daily tipple, but Kenny felt in need of an extra beer that evening.

When Edward “Eddie” McQuillan didn’t show up for work the next day a call to his landlady resulted in the news that he had been found at home, naked, service pistol in hand and a gaping hole through what had once been his good eye.
On the table next to him, neatly ordered rags and light oil suggested the pistol had received a thorough cleaning first.

England, 1981

As the helicopter touched down a few hours after the infamous Butcher of Belfast had attempted to escape, Turner sighed with relief.
He couldn’t wait to leave this place.
The incidents there had saddened him and, since the shooting, he’d had to listen to the cheers and wails that echoed menacingly off the prison walls.
He really couldn’t think straight with all those emotions going on around him.
It wasn’t until the helicopter took off and the only sound was the loud, yet somehow hypnotic, whir of the blades that he began to focus again.
It had been a truly terrible couple of days and he was keen to get back to his little antique shop and once more become the sad, quiet Englishman whom everyone ignored.
He’d have to spend a bit of time in England first, but he would be home soon.
He was English through and through, but that tiny corner of Dublin had become his sanctuary.

The two guards who had accompanied him had been separately dispatched and the only other occupant of the helicopter was Mr. O’Neil, who was considering the paperwork that Turner had given him.
‘Shame,’ his fellow passenger yelled above the din of the chopper.
Turner nodded to agree that it was, indeed, a shame, accepted the returned paperwork, placed it in his briefcase and then settled back to try to sleep.
Conversation really wasn’t an option.

After just two days in blighty, Anthony Turner prepared for his last meeting before he could leave.
He was to see Liam O’Neil again, and then he could go home.
He had the tea ready brewing as the secretary brought in his guest.
A brief handshake and they got straight down to business.
‘So you’ve seen the file on Ryan McKee?’
Turner asked.

‘Yes.
So he’s not the head of N.O.R.A.I.D
.
then?’

‘No, but as controller of the Manhattan branch, he’s certainly a fellow of great interest,’ Turner assured him.
‘Here are the rest of the documents you require.’

His visitor accepted the package and fumbled to open the passport with one hand, his other hampered by a sling.
‘Fuck me,’ he said.

‘Mr. McCann, please,’ protested Turner.

‘Sorry,’ said Darren, as he placed the passport on the desk and idly fingered the scar on his check.
‘And don’t you think we’d better keep it to Liam O’Neil from now on.
Darren McCann is dead, remember.’

‘Indeed he is, Mr. O’Neil.
Indeed he is,’ Turner agreed.

The End…

B
u
t only of The
Begin
ning

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