The Killer II (12 page)

Within seconds he was in the car and ducked low in the seat.
The clock on the dash showed five minutes past two so he was already late for the chopper.
But it would wait for him.
It must wait for him.
He’d warned that
fuckin
’ soldier that it had better wait for him.
Christ there
were
plenty of hours of darkness left to get a helicopter out unseen.

He waited a further five minutes until the noise in the street lessened and he guessed that anyone who hadn’t gone off in a car would be searching round the back of the hotel.
It was now or never and he started the engine, coasting away quietly, his lights off, until he reached the crossroads.
He was just about to turn left when he saw headlights coming from that direction at immense speed so he shot across the junction and was out of sight in the shadows as he heard tyres screeching behind him and heading back towards the hotel.
He had only heard one car so he waited a few seconds to make sure there was no more traffic and then a careful reverse manoeuvre had him on the main road and accelerating away in the direction of the airfield.
He arrived there at twenty minutes past two.

His heart sank immediately.
He scanned the airfield in the beam from his headlights
but there was nothing.
The helicopter had gone.
‘You
fuckin
’ British bastard,’ he yelled through his windscreen, ‘you’ve left me
fuckin
’ stranded.’
He sat stunned for a moment and then he heard a sound.
He reacted immediately and threw the car into reverse, swinging it round as his headlights illuminated the figure of a large lumbering man running back to a parked car as quickly as his bulk would allow.

In a second he was in forward gear and out of
there
, forcing the Granada to its maximum speed back on the road and taking the first turn off that he came to.
He kept going for several minutes, turning at every junction as the engine screamed at him.
When he finally looked behind, there was nothing.
He had no idea where he was, but he was free and clear and that would have to do.

He reduced speed and allowed himself to think.
What the fuck was he going to do now?
If there weren’t roadblocks on the main roads already there would be soon, he knew it.
The Peelers would be out in force, so he had to stick to the small lanes - but headed where exactly?
The only thing that made sense was to get out of the Republic and head north, but that was enemy territory to him these days.
It would only take one person to recognise him and the Butcher of Belfast would be dead for real.
Yet he had no option but to risk it.

And then he thought of Thomas.

1
3

An Old Friend

It was a long drive on winding country lanes until he saw a sign for Kilkenny and finally got his bearings.
He headed north on small roads, passing
Nenagh
and finally pulling onto the main N7 road when he was sure he had gone far enough to be out of roadblock potential.
As dawn approached he found a dirt track heading nowhere and pulled up to sleep the day away uncomfortably in the car.
No use asking for trouble by travelling in daylight.
At dusk he was off again.
Just before Naas he took a small road in the direction of
Maynooth
/
Ardee
, and from there it was on to
Carrickmacross
and Thomas.

Liam could count on one hand the number of true friends he’d had in his life and Thomas was among them.
He was several years older and had looked after him when he first joined the Republican Army.
Then, as novice soldier had turned into the Butcher of Belfast, Thomas was there to support him.
He was loyal to the cause, but Liam had to hope for the greater loyalty of friendship.
He was a religious man, though, and seeing someone who’d gone all Jesus on him and risen from the dead might be a little hard to take.
‘Best go slow,’ Liam decided.

It was dark as he entered “Carrick”, but he remained cautious.
This was a small
border town and anything out of place would be noticed.
Slowly he approached the leafy lane heading to Thomas’ back door and drove down at a snail’s pace, ending with an unexpected bump and a loud, shrill squeal that came and went in a second.
‘Jesus Mary mother of God, what the Hell was that?’ he whispered as he sat with hands frozen to the steering wheel.

When there was no further sound he cautiously opened the door and climbed out of the car, keeping
himself
close to the bodywork as he edged forward and then felt something soft underfoot.
He collected the torch from the glove box and bent to the front wheel, shielding the light with his hand.
‘Oh fuck me.’
He recoiled at the sight of the black and white cat flattened under his wheel.
‘Oh no, I’ve killed
Tiddles
.
Oh shite.’

Mrs.
Malone, Thomas’ mother, was a kind but fierce old lady and she loved her cat.
‘She’ll skin me alive,’ Liam thought as his head darted from side to side, checking for any witnesses to his latest victim.
‘Got to get rid of the evidence fast.
But where?’
He couldn’t just throw him over the hedge.
That would be disrespectful.
Leaving Mad Dog lying in his own entrails in a hotel room was one thing, but this was a poor little cat.
He scanned the ground around him, but it was hard as iron.
Then his torch picked up a mound of soft earth and a newly planted bush.
That would do it.

He reversed the car gingerly and then retrieved the small, flattened body, a
Michelin radial tread pattern where its belly used to be, and carried it gently to the burial site.
Carefully he dug up the bush with the bayonet he’d remembered was in the boot and laid
Tiddles
to rest.

‘I’m so
fuckin
’ sorry, me old mate,’ he whispered as he covered the body and replanted the bush.
He examined the site in the eerie torch glow and stepped sharply backwards as the earth moved and the tip of a black and white tail rose slowly from the ground.
‘Ooh, that’s not right,’ he muttered as he instinctively crossed himself.
‘Oh Fuck.’
This was giving him the jitters and he quickly scraped away some soil, gently pushed down the tail and covered it again, stamping the ground with his foot until he was sure the cat was well and truly buried.
‘Ugh,’ he shuddered.
That had been unpleasant.

It occurred to him then just how quiet it was.
Mrs.
Malone could well be in bed.
She had always retired early, but if Thomas wasn’t around he was pretty much fucked.
Or was he?
Hold on, it was Saturday.
Thomas would be at the pub and all he had to do was wait for him to come home.
He walked quietly to the door and knocked gently, not wanting to frighten the unknowingly bereaved
Mrs.
Malone.
When there was no answer he tried again and then finally pushed the door.
It was open, as he knew it would be.
Nobody round here locked
their
doors.
It had been so different for him growing up in Belfast where everyone was scared of everyone else, but there was no
crime out here.
‘Perhaps it’s because the average homeowner here has more weapons than a
bleedin
’ R.A. arms dump,’ he reasoned.

He was soon in the back kitchen where he saw a huge pile of dirty pots and pans dumped in the sink.
Ah, that explained why everything was so quiet, then.
Mrs.
Malone must have taken one of her trips to see her sister.
She kept an immaculate house.
Thomas, on the other hand…
A quick foray in the living room confirmed his suspicions.
Empty beer cans, a full ashtray and a couple of handguns lay carelessly on the floor.
‘You’ll catch it if you don’t clean up, me old son,’ he laughed.

He found some dry bread and made a sandwich.
It was pretty tasteless, but he was starving.
He moved to the sofa and lit a cigarette.
He probably had a few hours to wait until Thomas came home and he might as well be comfortable.
He thought about hiding the car, but decided against it.
Most likely Thomas would come in through the front door and not see it, or he would see it and have a bit of warning that there was a visitor.
Either way he was going to get a shock.

A noise outside brought him from a doze some time later and he shook himself awake angrily.
‘You
fuckin
’ tool,’ he reprimanded himself for the lapse in concentration.
He heard, ‘Aye, see you later mate,’ and quickly grabbed the crocheted blanket from the back of the sofa and moved to hide behind the
door just before a rather tipsy Thomas Malone tottered in.
He threw the blanket over his head, pressed the .38 into his neck and whispered, ‘Keep quiet.’
Thomas sobered up.

‘Do you know
who
you’re
fuckin
’ with?’ he snapped.

‘Quiet,’ Liam repeated, his voice remaining low as he forced him across the room and down into a chair.
‘This gun
ain’t
for show.’

Clearly Thomas knew better than to argue and he didn’t struggle as Liam quickly bound his hands and feet.
Once he was positive the restraints were secure Liam switched on the light and took a couple of deep breaths.
No point putting this off any longer and he reached to the blanket and pulled it from the man’s head.
‘So Thomas me old skin, how’s the form?’ asked Liam with a grin that he hoped would ease the situation.

In the chair the man’s eyes widened, the colour drained from his face, his mouth fell opened, then closed, then opened again, hanging agape, and not one single syllable came out.
‘It really is me,’ Liam offered in assistance.

‘B… B… Butch?’ Thomas finally managed.

‘Aye.’

‘You’re – dead.’

‘Aye.’

‘All the saints help me,’ said Thomas, his eyes closing in prayer.

‘It’s OK mate, it’s OK.’
Liam reached out and touched his friend’s face and the man shrank back as far as his bonds would allow.
‘No, feel it.
See, it’s flesh and blood.
I’m alive you
friggin
’ spanner.
Believe it will you.’

Thomas slowly opened his eyes and glanced at the apparition in his living room.
Liam twirled in front of him as if showing off a dress on a catwalk and stretched his arms wide.
‘Da Dah.’

‘You’re – alive.’

‘To be sure I am.’

‘I went to your wake.’

‘No you didn’t.

‘Yes I
fuckin
’ did,’ and finally anger began to replace the incredulity.
‘If you’re a-
fuckin
’-live then who the fuck died in the H-Blocks?’

‘I have no idea, mate.
Could’ve been anyone.
Could’ve been no one.
I don’t think they’re short of bodies in there.
But it wasn’t me, OK?’

‘Then where the fuck have you been?’ spat Thomas struggling against his bonds, the anger now finally to the fore.

‘OK, now, here’s the thing,’ Liam began as he gently placed down the gun and spread his palms in that “calm down” manner.
‘I can explain everything, but you have to promise to hear me out, OK?’

‘How can I promise
someth
…’

‘No really, you need to hear this.’

‘I don’t think I want to hear it.’

‘Mate, shut the fuck up and listen, will
ya
?’

Thomas opened his mouth to protest again, but then pursed his lips and said nothing, offering instead a stare that said ‘This better be good.’

Liam lit two cigarettes and placed one in his friend’s mouth.
‘First,’ he began, ‘me name’s not Butch anymore.
And it’s not Darren and it’s not McCann and it’s not Paddy and God knows how many other things I’ve been called.
It’s Liam now and…’

‘What?’

‘Thomas, shut up and listen.
I’m not with the
Provos
anymore.
I’m…’
He paused and swallowed hard before continuing.
‘Thomas, I work for the Brits now.’

‘You
fuckin
’ what?’
Thomas nearly picked the chair from the floor as he fought against the ropes securing him.
‘You’re a
fuckin
’ tout?
You treacherous bastard.
I’ll
fuckin
’ kill you.
I’ll…’

‘For Christ’s sake Thomas, you’ve got to hear me out man.
Please.’

As the trace of anguish in Liam’s voice reached his ears, Thomas breathed deeply and slowly sank back against the seat.
His eyes blazed as he looked at the man in front of him, but he said nothing.

‘It was the boys who killed me Ma, Thomas, it was the
fuckin
’ R.A.
Honest man, it was,’ Liam went on hurriedly before his captive could speak again.
‘I know we all thought it was the
Shankill
bastards, and they did a damn good job of making it look that way, but it was the boys, Thomas, our own
fuckin
’ side.
I swear to you man.’
He
paused and looked into his friend’s eyes and realised this was hopeless.

‘You’re a
fuckin
’ liar, Butch,’ Thomas hissed.

Liam shook his head slowly and picked up the Smith & Wesson .38 special and held it in front of the man’s face.
Thomas stared back, unflinching, and then watched as Liam opened the revolver’s cylinder showing five unspent rounds.
‘See?
All live.’
Thomas nodded.
Then Liam pulled
The Killer
from his pocket, cut the bonds, pulled forward Thomas’ arm and thrust the gun into his palm.
‘So kill me then.’

Thomas looked at the gun in his hand and then
back
at the man in front of him.
‘Talk Butch, or whatever the fuck your name is,’ he said with controlled anger.
‘You’ve got five minutes.’

‘Thank fuck,’ Liam sighed.
‘Now, you remember Jonny O’Leary?’

‘Aye, he turned tout too.
Boys found that out a few months back.
It’s a big price he’s got on his head now.’

‘I’m sure it is, but you see I saw him before he disappeared.
He was in the H-Blocks, just like me…’

‘So you really were in there then?’

‘Oh aye.
They got me in Spain just after I’d dropped you at the airport.
Anyway, stop changing the subject and let me talk.
So, there I was in prison and there was this English guy who kept making tea.’

‘What the f…’

‘No, sorry, you’re right.
That doesn’t matter.
Long story short, OK?
He brought Jonny to see me and he admitted it to my face, man.
He killed me Ma.
She was cut to
fuckin
’ ribbons.’