The Killer (5 page)

The street had turned to complete chaos as Vic lay sprawled out on his back.
His screams were an awful sound to hear as he cried, bled and very slowly died, right in front of his mates.
They could do nothing but hunt and find the murdering Paddy bastard who’d shot him.

Darren moved fast, quickly fingering the selector switch.
The instant he found “auto”, he emptied the mag completely.
Hot shell casings flew everywhere as he sprayed the street below with automatic gunfire.
The sound of ricocheting bullets still echoing in his ears, he hurriedly rewrapped the sacking around the hot rifle and, after sliding it back under the floorboards, he quickly wiped dust around the area to cover the hiding place.
Stopping only to pocket his fags and pull out his pistol he ran, gun in hand, downstairs, through the old door and into the street.
A quick glance confirmed he was alone; there was no movement at all - until the front door of the house opposite swung slowly open.

An old lady stood in the doorway of her terrace house.
Frowning in his direction she slowly shook her head, subconsciously stroking her blindingly white hair as she gave him the negative signal.
Then, after taking another quick look to her left and right, her frown was replaced with a warm and gummy smile.
She beckoned him towards her using her crooked, arthritic old finger in a “come here” manner.
Smiling even more now, she blessed him as he left his doorway and shot through hers.
As the door slammed shut with a bang, she shouted, ‘God bless you son,’ as he ran past her and straight through her house.

He continued on, running into the next home and the next.
Three houses later he found he was alone in a small, cobble-stoned back alley.
Turning to his left he could plainly hear the distinctive popping sound of several AK’s as they fired repeatedly.
He began running once more in the direction of the
Kalashnikov rifles
and the boys who were firing them.
Though now out of breath, he struggled onward, down towards the main road and the friendly sound of the automatic gunfire.

Edward “Eddie” McQuillan was an intelligent man.
A graduate of the Queen's University here in Belfast, and also of the University of Ulster, he had risen quickly through the ranks under the Accelerated Promotion System.
He also proudly held the RUC Service Medal and had been commended on a number of occasions for the performance of his duty.
Having served in most parts of Northern Ireland, including south Londonderry, Portadown, Crossmaglen, West Belfast, Holywood and Musgrave Street in Belfast city centre, he was no stranger to violence.
He’d seen it all.
He also hated the I.R.A. and its members with a vengeance.

When Sergeant McQuillan heard the pattern of fire – pistol shot, rifle shot, automatic rounds – an immediate scene formed in his head and he knew there was a sniper at work.
He ran in the opposite direction from the noise.
He was far too long in the tooth to run towards it.
He knew from long experience that the instant a gunman had finished his work he would run like hell
away
from the area.
After all, a sniper who stayed around to admire his work was, or would shortly be, a very dead sniper.
McQuillan ran for around half a mile, then slowed.
Carefully he looked down the small back streets, one at a time, which led towards the hot area.
He saw nothing.
Street after street he checked without results.
Then, as he was about to give up and return to the hot spot, he heard hurried footsteps coming in his direction.
He tapped his service weapon three times before removing it from his belt, he liked threes, then he stood patiently at the junction of a small back street and the main road, waiting and holding his breath.
Judging his moment carefully, he jumped out with the intention of blocking the runner’s path, but he mistimed his appearance slightly.
The runner was actually on top of him instead of the few feet away that he'd anticipated.
The running man crashed heavily into him and the collision knocked the pair of them to the ground.

The point of impact was so hard and unexpected that Darren’s pistol flew from his hand, while McQuillan landed heavily on a grate and his own weapon disappeared into the sewer system.
The crash stunned the pair of them.
Both dazed and winded they rolled about, gasping for breath, on the cobbled floor.
McQuillan’s eyes eventually began to refocus and he noticed the pistol lying about five feet away from him.
Turning to face the runner a quick look of recognition flashed across his face.
‘McCann, you murdering Catholic bastard,’ he yelled, reacting instinctively and reaching inside his raincoat, desperately grasping for the Beretta, his secondary piece.

Still shocked by the savage impact, Darren was on his knees, a look of horror spreading across his face.
‘Oh, Christ, not you, you bastard,’ he shouted, staring at the Sergeant’s face.
Seeing the policeman’s hand sliding under the coat, Darren knew he was going for a gun.
He also realised he had no time to reach his own pistol.
Using every ounce of his strength, he pulled up his head and sent it crashing down, directly into the stunned policeman’s face.

The cop’s eyes rolled upward as McCann’s forehead smashed into his nose.
Quickly Darren head-butted him again and again until the cop was obviously down and out.
Rising quickly to his feet he stared for a second at the prostrate form of this much hated RUC man.
Then, with a quick and violent swing of his boot, he kicked him with all the force he could muster, aiming straight into his face.
As Darren’s boot made contact, the cop’s left eye socket smashed leaving the area around his eyebrow concave, his face changed forever to a bizarre appearance.
The savage impact of the kick had forced his eyeball from its socket.
It hung, crushed into a bloody pulp, as a mixture of blood and dark red jelly slowly oozed down his cheek.

Darren reached once more for his pistol, grabbed it and, hearing small arms fire coming from Brit guns, he knew they were very close by.
He had no time to finish the man off now, so he turned and started running again.
Within five minutes he was inside the safe house.
Quickly he closed the door behind him, breathing deeply as he locked it.
He sat and waited.

As day turned into night the eerie shadows began to creep across the dusty floorboards towards him.
Though he knew they were cast by the street lamp opposite, an involuntary shiver ran down Darren’s spine as he watched.
Sitting silently, the wait continued.
He had nothing to eat and only water from the old decaying tap to drink.
Still not daring to set foot outside, he had little option but to sit patiently and wait some more.
Two days after the shooting, Darren was still sitting in the same spot, leaning against the cold, cracked tiles of the old fireplace.
His eyes were starting to droop once more as he was at the point of drifting off to sleep again, but he jumped as he heard a noise.
Forcing himself awake he opened his eyes wide.
It was there again, he was sure.
He could faintly hear a slight scratching -
and
it was coming from the door.

Darren took a deep breath and held it tightly in his chest.
Trembling, he stood behind the door, straining his ears as he listened.
The old worn out hinges creaked and groaned as it slowly swung wider and wider, until at last it was fully open.
He could clearly hear the rain gently falling outside now as he waited, motionless, behind the open door.
Slowly he began easing out his pistol.
‘Too loud,’ he realised, as he slid it back into his belt.
His hand reached, inch by inch, for
The Killer.
Sliding it from his pocket he felt instantly reassured.
That familiar feel, the mix of cold brass and warm wood, was good in his grip.
It was like shaking hands with an old and trusted friend.
Slitting his eyes in an attempt to gain a little better night vision, he watched as the shadow of a single figure was cast on the floor.
The shadow then took a slow and deliberate footstep forwards, making it seem altogether bigger and more intimidating as it grew in the room.
The next step taken caused a piece of gravel to crunch as it was flattened and crushed underfoot.
Darren pushed the button at the same instant.
The blade sprang out and locked into place as if it were a living thing, the snap of its action concealed perfectly by the sound of the shadowy footstep.

Though the night was cold and damp, a constant trickle of sweat dripped down his face as the shadow grew in size, the extra steps sharpening the edges to the clear silhouette of a man.
Once inside, the man gingerly pushed the door behind him.
It creaked as it closed and then, once more, there was nothing but silence.
Darren gripped
The Killer
hard.
Springing forward he grabbed the man from behind and held him tightly around the throat.
Hand raised, he prepared for the kill; a quick thrust to the heart was swift, effective and deadly, but best of all, it was silent.

‘Butch, Butch… it’s me, Thomas… for fuck's sake… let me go… you mad cunt,’ the man croaked between gasps of much needed air.
Darren slowly released his arm lock and spun the man around.
He stood facing him, still with
The Killer
poised, but after only a second’s inspection he was convinced that the man he was about to kill really was his long time friend and comrade Thomas Mallone.

‘Are you fucking crazy Thomas?
You don’t just walk in on someone like that.’
Tutting in Thomas’s direction, he spat, ‘Have you never heard of knocking man?
And maybe saying something like… it’s me, Thomas, please don’t stick me with that big fuck off knife of yours - thank you very much.’
Then, in a sarcastic tone he told him, ‘I should have stabbed you in the friggin’ arse, just for being stupid.’

Thomas, normally a man of few words, except when he was with his old mate Butch, gave him one of his famous “looks”, which basically said, “bollocks to you!”
‘Oh aye, that’d look fuckin’ wonderful wouldn’t it?
And here’s meself knocking on the door of a fuckin’ derelict house shouting out at the top of me voice.
Hello, I’m here to see the sniper who killed two Brits the other day.
Oh aye and by the way, would you be needing a bit of dinner?’

‘Two of ‘em?’
Darren was shocked.
‘Must've been a lucky shot when I emptied the mag.’

‘Aye, and another one in hospital.
In critical condition too, that one is.’

‘Fuck me, I never expected that.’
Darren looked his friend up and down before asking impatiently, ‘what have you brought me?
You said something about dinner, where is it?
And what is it?
I’m fucking starving to death here man.’

‘Ham sarnies son, here you go.’
Thomas grinned as he tossed over a greasy, brown paper bag.
‘Sorry I couldn’t get here any sooner, but the place has been fuckin’ crawling with Brits.
I’ve never ever seen so many of the bastards in all me life.’

Darren snatched the bag and, smiling with satisfaction, ripped it open.
Sighing contentedly he quickly wolfed down the sandwiches.
Finishing the last one he sat licking his lips.
‘Jesus, they were good… So, what’s the news then?’ he asked excitedly.

‘You’re as hot as they come mate.
They’ve issued a “wanted” for you,
and
it’s got your fucking photo on it too.
Been plastered everywhere it has,’ Thomas replied.
‘The word is, you’ve been called down to Cross me old son.
And from there, they’re gonna fuck you off someplace else - until things quiet down a bit.’
They chatted a little longer until Thomas stood to leave, explaining, ‘Got to go to sort some stuff out for you Butch me old mate.’

When he returned around three hours later, Thomas whispered, ‘It’s me, put that fucking great dagger down will ya?’
before
he poked his head round the open door.

Darren stood giggling like a schoolgirl at the sight of his friend, who was nervously peering into the darkened room.
‘I’m over here, you bog Irish cunt,’ he whispered in the direction of the door.

‘Well I still can’t see a fucking thing, it’s pitch black in here, and I’m not too sure if I want to cast me eyes on a fucking
Englishman
anyhow,’ Thomas replied in a mocking tone.
As Darren had been born and raised in Belfast, part of a British colony, he held a British,
not Irish,
passport.
And Thomas would never miss an opportunity to remind him of this fact.