The Trojan Boy (5 page)

Authors: Ken McClure

Tags: #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Thrillers & Suspense, #Medical, #Suspense, #Thrillers

BOOK: The Trojan Boy

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'If you feel that way why didn't you turn me in?'

The woman threw back her head and laughed bitterly. ‘Turn you in?' she exclaimed. 'Me, a Catholic woman living in the Doonan, turn in a Provo? Do you think I'm mental or something?'

O'Neill conceded the point silently and tried to raise himself on to his good elbow. He said, 'If you will just give me a hand, I'll be getting out your road.'

Political considerations became personal ones. The woman said, 'You will do no such thing. Besides, Con and Michael have gone to get medical help for you.' She saw the look of alarm appear in O'Neill's eyes and added, 'Don't worry. They’re daft but not that daft. There's a woman, used to be a district nurse, her brother's in the Maze, she's quite safe.'

Thanks,' said O'Neill.

The woman sat down on the edge of the bed, her face showing the signs of strain that the last few hours had brought. 'Would you like a cup of tea?' she asked quietly.

‘
I’d love one.'

The woman's husband returned, accompanied by his brother and a small woman in her fifties. In her hand she carried a battered leather case.

'Connor McShane,' announced the man holding out his hand but taking it back in embarrassment as he realised that O'Neill was in no position to accept it. O'Neill nodded.

'And this is my brother Pat.' The smaller of the two men grinned and O'Neill nodded again.

'And this here is Mrs O'Hara. She's going to have a look at your arm.'

'I'm obliged to you,' said O'Neill.

The woman did not smile but put down her case and took off her coat while the rest retreated to a respectful distance. She gingerly started to cut away the blood-caked sleeve of O'Neill's shirt with scissors that seemed none too sharp judging by the difficulty she was having. O'Neill watched what she was doing impassively but was afraid inside for he feared that the bullet had shattered the bone.

'I'll need some water,' said the woman. 'His shirt is stuck to the wound. I'll have to bathe it free.' McShane's wife left
the room and returned a few minutes later with some warm
water in a bowl.

This will hurt,’ said the nurse as she began teasing the cloth away from O'Neill's arm. A sharp intake of breath
from O'Neill verified it. He was watching the faces of the
onlookers when his shirt was finally freed from the wound and saw them wince. He looked down to see the smashed
pulp of tissue and bone that had been his left elbow and felt
despair threaten.

The nurse's shoulders sagged. 'You need a hospital,’ she
said.

'No hospital,’ replied O'Neill.

There's nothing I can do for you.'

That's what they always say in the pictures before they
go and patch it up anyway,’ said O'Neill with a desperate
attempt at humour.

The nurse's face showed both cynicism and pity. 'Not in
your case,’ she said. 'Your arm will have to come off.'

The fact that O'Neill, only a few short hours before, had
been preparing to take his own life did not seem to matter now as he was stricken by the thought of mutilation. In his mind he could see the empty sleeve, turned up and secured
with a safety pin which would rust with the passing of time.
He could see the little stump at bedtime, flapping like the
useless wing of a penguin.

The hell was all inside O'Neill's head. Outwardly he was
calm but he saw that McShane was construing this as
bravery. The man's face was bursting with emotion as he
turned to his brother and said, 'See! What did I tell you?
With one arm they are still more than a match for these Brit
bastards.'

McShane came over to O'Neill's bedside and knelt like an
adoring shepherd. 'I tell you, mister,’ he said to O'Neill.
'When I saw you in that doorway preparing to take on the
Brits single-handed, I've never felt so proud in my life.'

O'Neill looked at the man. Should he tell him the truth?
Tell him that he had never had any intention of taking
anyone on single-handed? Tell him that he had, in fact,
been preparing to blow his own brains out because this was
the real world and the real world was a long way from a
John Wayne film? Tell him that the real struggle was for professionals not romantics, it was for men who calculated the odds with their brains not their hearts, men who figured
out risk against return? O'Neill decided that there was no
point in telling him anything. Let the myths flourish with
the folk songs. After all, the British had television.

'Can you fix me up so I can move out of here?' O'Neill
asked the nurse.

I’ll do what I can but it will just be a case of covering the
whole mess up and strapping your arm to your body. We'll
keep the tourniquet on but you'll have to remember to
release it at intervals or gangrene will set in.’

The nurse cleaned up the wound before smothering it in
white dressing. O'Neill was exhausted for it had been an agonising fifteen minutes, during which the woman seemed
to have consistently sought out the most sensitive areas to
linger over and probe and prod for bone fragments.
Suppressed anger and frustration had welled up inside him
like the rolling waves of a rising tide, till now he felt too weak to move.

'He will have to rest for a bit,’ said the nurse as she packed her case.

'We can take him where he wants to go later tonight,’
said McShane.

'No.’ said O'Neill weakly. 'You've done enough. Phone
this number.' He recited a series of digits. Tell them that
you have a parcel ready for collection, then tell them what
they want to know.'

'You can rely on us,’ said McShane.

Two men came for O'Neill at nine in the evening. Any later and the risk of a spot check would have been greater, but at
that time the traffic was just right. McShane and his brother
stood on either side of the doorway like football fans seeing
their team out of the tunnel. O'Neill stopped and thanked
them both.

'Anything for a free Ireland,’ said McShane self-
consciously.

'Don't go selling your story to a newspaper now, will you?' said one of the men who had come for O'Neill.

McShane laughed nervously for he had seen the veiled
threat. O'Neill looked at McShane's wife and saw that she had not bothered to laugh. Thank you as well, missus,' he
said.

'You're welcome,' said the woman as she turned away.

The dark blue Bedford van took off from the kerb and the
driver said to O'Neill, 'We can't take you home. The Brits
know you're missing. They turned your place over last
night.'

'What about Kathleen?'

'Your sister told them that you were away for a few days
but they turned it over anyway.'

'So where are we going?'

The Long House. They've got a doctor for you.'

'I want to see Kathleen.'

'It's difficult. The Brits are watching your house all the time.'

The army?'

The woman at number seventeen has a new lodger,
works the boats . . . you know the game.'

'At least it's predictable,' said O'Neill.

'We'll try to set up some kind of decoy so that your sister
can slip away.'

‘
Thanks.'

The Long House was a warehouse. It was owned by a
wholesale newsagency that distributed stationery,
magazines and periodicals throughout the north and as
such, with the ephemeral nature of news, it was ideal cover
for the IRA with delivery vans coming and going at all
hours. They had been using the building successfully for
two years without problem, utilising its extensive cellarage
for administration, meetings at top level and, when the
circumstances dictated it, for living quarters. Circumstances
dictated that O'Neill stay there for the present.

The doctor was already in the room when O'Neill was helped in by the two men who had brought him. They laid
him gently on the table as the doctor continued to scrub his
hands and forearms in the sink.

The thought of someone else poking and prodding at his wound prompted O'Neill to ask, 'Can you give me some
thing? The pain's bad.'

'You'll feel better in a moment,' said the doctor, drying
his hands and picking up a syringe.

The tiny prick of the needle was followed by a warm
feeling of well-being and peace which spread inexorably
through O'Neill's body, bringing a tranquillity that he had seldom
experienced. He did not feel drowsy, more
weightless, as if he were floating in a world free from pain and care.

'How's that?' asked the doctor.

'What did you give me?' asked O'Neill.

The doctor told him.

'I can see the attraction, ’replied O'Neill.

'You do know that your arm will have to come off?' asked
the doctor.

‘
The nurse told me.'

The Bairn says I have to do it here. We can't risk a
hospital with what you know.’

‘
I’d like to see my sister.’

‘
The Bairn says no, not until after.'

'There might not be an after. That's why I want to see her.'

‘
The Bairn says no.'
'Bastard,’ said O'Neill softly.

'He's taken over from O'Donnell,’ said the doctor. 'He's
the new commander.'

Finbarr Kell, known as The Bairn to everyone within the
organisation, but never to his face, scared O'Neill. For years
he had been convinced that Kell was a hopeless psychopath
but, within the organisation, his credentials were imp
eccable and he had risen relentlessly until now he was their
new commander. O'Neill had never known anyone so
lacking in compassion of any kind.

Kell seemed to O'Neill to have been born to violence and
baptised in hatred. When this was combined with a street
cunning that would have made him the envy of a New York
street gang and a brain that was devious to the point of genius, Kell inspired fear in all who came to know him.

Hatred, cunning and the bravery of a lion had made The
Bairn a living legend. His exploits were the stuff of folklore,
or at least they had been until a bomb that he had been
setting had gone off prematurely. The blast had fractured his
spine and blown off both legs but he had survived, and survived to rise within the organisation.

Since the loss of his legs Kell had been transported around
in a contraption that resembled a pram, hence the
nickname The Bairn. If Kell had ever possessed the tiniest
spark of decency it had been totally extinguished by the
accident. He was a cold, cruel man, feared, loathed, but
always obeyed. The thought that now he would no longer
be subject to the moderating influence of Kevin O'Donnell was not one that O'Neill could take any pleasure in. As the anaesthetic took effect he thought of O'Donnell's last order.

Through a sea of pain O'Neill could hear voices. They were
far away, as if he were at the bottom of a well and the voices
were at the top, but he could hear what they were saying.

'Probably won't make it through the night . . .'

'Surgical shock too much in his condition . . .'

'Desperately weak . . .'

'No blood to give him

‘
The Bairn's coming down just in case he comes round.'

'What about his sister?'

‘
The Bairn says no.'