Pray for Us Sinners

  He’d not wasted the two hours the drying had taken. The pieces for the trigger were finished. Two thin metal plates, one ten by ten, the other eight by ten, were separated by four short wooden blocks, one at each corner. He’d soldered a piece of copper wire to the top plate. It would go to the batteries. One of the wires from the detonator would run to the batteries and the other to the bottom plate. Push the pieces of metal together and the circuit would be completed. He’d leave the batteries in the torch that lay on the table and finish the assembly on Friday, at the ambush. He’d just have to nail the plates to the blocks and attach the wires to the trigger. He lifted a roll of black insulating tape and set it closer to the wood and metal. He’d need that to wrap the sides of the trigger. A bit of mud in there might stop the plates touching when compressed by the wheel of a vehicle. No contact, no explosion. And Sean was relying on him.

  He went to the parlour and drew the curtains. He switched on the light, pale from a forty-watt bulb hidden in a pink lightshade. The shadows cast by the hanging silk tassels made looped patterns on the papered walls.

  Davy leaned his weight against a small settee, tutting to himself when he noticed a bit of kapok sticking through the fabric where McCusker had sharpened his claws. Once the couch was against the wall he rolled back an imitation Persian rug, threadbare in the centre, colours still bright where the weave had been protected by the settee. Fiona had wanted rid of that old rug, but it had been Ma’s and she had been proud of it.

  The bare planks of the floor were dusty. One was loose, and he had no difficulty prying it free. The dust made his eyes water, and he sneezed, grabbed for his hanky, blew his nose, and wiped his eyes.

  Only joists and boards and concrete foundations were below the floorboards. He squatted by the hole, imagining the reactions of the members of a British search team—their initial delight at finding such a poorly concealed hiding place, their frustration when they saw that it held nothing.

  He slipped his hand into his coat pocket and took out a screwdriver. It took him some time to find the hole in the concrete. It was blocked with dust. The screwdriver slipped in easily, and it only took a moment to lever out a slab that had been cut with precision to fit into its niche.

  He reached into the cavity. His searching fingers felt the box of blasting caps. They were safer in here than in a bag of cat food. He removed a five-pound tin of Epsom salts, a length of iron pipe, and the wooden box and set them on the floor. He opened the box and took one blasting cap from among its companions, closed the box, put it gently back into the hole, replaced the slab, and filled the nearly invisible cracks with a generous helping of concrete dust. The dust hid the crevices and—he sneezed again—would do just that to any Brit sniffer dogs.

  Davy relaid the rug and heaved the settee back into place. Maybe it was the effects of his cold, but the effort had tired him. He sat on the sofa. Just for a wee breather.

  And unbidden the memories came of the night of the Abercorn. Davy hunched forward, elbows on knees, big fingers massaging his forehead. Fiona’s ghost sat beside him now, so real he could nearly touch her. He heard her voice, soft, contralto: “Davy, I wish you’d get out.”

  He stood and gathered up the components. “I can’t.” He sighed, a deep shuddering noise. He would put her from his mind. He had his trade, and he’d better get on with it. He switched out the light and took his equipment back to the kitchen.

  He put the blasting cap and pipe on the tabletop. He used the screwdriver to lift the lid of the tin and, taking the bowl of white crystals from their water bath, tipped them into the rest of the urea nitrate in the Epsom salts tin. Now, where was the aluminum powder? The mix was four to one.

  Davy sat at the table, humming to himself as he worked. The tune was one she’d loved, “Down by the Salley Gardens.” Jimmy would approve. His Mr. Yeats had written the words.

  Done. The pipe, screw cap fixed to one end, was crammed with the explosive; the detonator was snug at the top end, buried in the powder. The wires were coiled neatly inside. He knew he was taking a chance. Detonators and the explosives were not meant to be put together until the last moment, but he could think of no other way to hide the blasting cap. He screwed another cap onto the top of the pipe. He’d drill the holes for the wires when he reached the site of the ambush.

  He looked at the assortment of objects on the tabletop. Pipe, metal plates, wooden blocks, wires, insulating tape, nails. There was nothing sinister about any of the separate pieces, unless someone unscrewed the top of the pipe. When he packed them in his toolbox, along with his drill and hammer and assortment of wrenches, he’d have little difficulty persuading any nosy security man that he was simply what he seemed to be—a plumber going about his lawful purpose. Even the batteries in the torch were perfectly legitimate—until they sent their current through the fulminate of mercury in the detonator hidden in the pipe. Assembling the device should only take about twenty minutes, and Sean had said he’d allowed plenty of time.

  Davy stretched. He’d pack all this away in his toolbox. Then bed. He had nothing to do now but wait until Friday night. He sneezed, sniffed, and made one last check. Everything was in order. He’d not let Sean down. It was all going to go perfectly.

  TWENTY-ONE

  WEDNESDAY, MARCH 20

  Cathal Fogarty finished his fifth pint, stood unsteadily, and said, “I’m away on now, lads.”

  Other men at the table waved or mouthed, “’Night, Cathal. See you about.” One added, “And buy your fucking round next time.”

  He left the bar and walked through the dim night. He didn’t need streetlights. He’d lived here in Andersonstown all his life and knew his way around these alleys. Not like his sister’s place in Fivemiletown where he had spent the last couple of weeks. The country was spooky at night and he’d been bored silly. He was glad to be back on home territory, able to have a jar with his mates. “Buy your fucking round,” indeed. That Willy Brennan was a right chancer. Cathal had used the last of the money he’d got from the peeler to buy two rounds.

  He was in no hurry to accept any more of Sergeant Dunlop’s cash. Cathal knew he’d been right to get out of the city for a while. Get away from that fucking RUC man with the red hair. Maybe the bugger would leave him alone for a bit. Cathal gave a little shudder. It was a bloody chancy business, informing. Bloody chancy.

  Cathal sensed movement beside him. Someone grabbed his wrist and forced his right arm up into the small of his back. Christ, that hurt. He wriggled. A hand was clamped over his mouth, and he was shoved into the back of a waiting car.

  The car drove away and turned onto a main street. He could feel something digging into his ribs. Something cold and hard. A voice said, “Keep your mouth shut,” and the hand was taken from his face.

  He drew in a great lungful of air. “What—”

  “Keep your fucking mouth shut.”

  The gun muzzle ground into his side. Cathal tried but couldn’t stop making soft moaning noises. He stared about him. The driver was a dark hump, silhouetted by the glare of streetlights. Two men hemmed Cathal in; the one who had snatched him and the one with the gun, a short man who carried his left shoulder higher than his right. Cathal sobbed.

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  Cathal clapped his hand over his mouth and felt his breath hot on the palm of his hand. The car jolted as it pulled onto a rough piece of ground. He peered through the windscreen. He could make out piles of rubble and the broken walls and fallen roof timbers of a row of razed houses. They were in one of the streets that had been gutted in the riots of ’69. Benweeds struggled through piles of fire-blackened bricks. Pools of muddy water sullenly reflected the headlights’ glare. The car stopped.

  “Holy Mary,” Cathal whimpered. His whole body shook. He was fucked.

  The driver switched off the headlamps. The dim glow of distant streetlights cast shadows inside the vehicle.

  “Who are you? What do youse want?”

  “What are you worried
about, Cathal? We’re your friends.” The man with the gun turned. He wore spectacles and there was something odd about the left lens. His voice was low-pitched.

  Cathal squirmed. “Friends? I’ve no friends that would take a fellow off a street like that. You’re UVF.”

  “Not at all. Ulster Volunteer Force? We’re not a bunch of fucking Prods.”

  Oh, Jesus. These men were Provos. Cathal felt hot tears run down his cheeks, tasted the salt.

  “We just wanted a wee word.”

  Cathal jerked his head from side to side. He had to get out, but he couldn’t. The man who had forced him into the car sat solidly, arms folded, staring ahead. The other one had the gun.

  “What about?” he sobbed.

  “One of the boys says he saw you in the Elbow Room a couple of weeks back.”

  Cathal bent forward and leaned his head on the upholstery of the seat in front.

  “Well?”

  He sat up. “So?”

  “Says you were talking to a peeler.”

  “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

  “A red-haired man. At the bar.”

  Cathal shook his head, sniffed, and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Red-haired? Sure that fellow only wanted a light. I’ve never seen him in my life before. He’s a bulky?”

  “Special Branch.”

  “Fuck me. If I’d of known I wouldn’t have given him one.” He stared at his interrogator’s face, trying to detect any signs that he was believed.

  “So our lad was wrong?”

  “Aye, certainly. Look. I’m a volunteer in First Battalion. I’d not want to be near any fucking policemen.”

  “It’s our mistake then?”

  “Aye, it is.” Cathal took a deep breath. “Jesus, you’d me half scared to death there.” He was going to get away with it. And as soon as he was out of here he was going to England, as far the fuck away from Belfast as he could get.

  The man with the gun opened the door and slid along the seat. Cathal followed, only to be stopped when the man said, “We’ve to be careful, you know.”

  Cathal nodded. “It’s all right. No sweat.”

  The gunman left the car. “Mind the puddle,” he said, stepping aside as Cathal got out.

  Cathal stood on the rough ground hauling in lungfuls of air, hardly believing his luck. He looked up and saw the stars, faint against the glow of the city.

  A metal pipe with holes drilled in its sides, wrapped in cotton wool, and stuffed inside a pipe of wider bore makes a very effective silencer. The .22 pistol made only a coughing sound as Brendan McGuinness shot Cathal Fogarty behind the left knee.

  Cathal screamed, clasped both hands to his leg, and toppled over to lie on the broken bricks, his head in a pool of stagnant water. He howled, high-pitched keening like a wounded hare, choking as the water blocked his throat.

  McGuinness knelt beside Cathal, grabbed a handful of hair, and hauled the man’s head out of the scum. “Shut up.”

  Cathal screamed.

  McGuinness slashed the pistol butt across his mouth. Blood spurted over the youth’s chin.

  Cathal’s screams shrank to whimpers.

  “That’s better.” McGuinness squatted. “Now, son. How long were you working for the Brits?”

  Cathal tried to shake his head, but the grip in his hair was too tight. He felt the muzzle of the pistol resting against his right kneecap. “All right. All right.” His tears flowed and mingled with the blood from his smashed mouth.

  “How long?”

  “Six months.”

  “Six?”

  “I swear to God. Six months.”

  “Who ran you?”

  “Sergeant Dunlop. Springfield Road.” Cathal grabbed for his inquisitor’s sleeve. “Agh, Christ, please. Please!”

  “Any more of our lads working with you?”

  “No.”

  McGuinness slammed the pistol barrel against Cathal’s shattered left patella. He howled, and thrashed on the ground.

  “No one?”

  “No! Oh, God. No. No.”

  “Fine.” McGuinness took Cathal’s hand, put a twenty-pound note in the palm, and closed the fingers around it.

  Cathal Fogarty knew that it was his Judas money.

  He was going to die.

  TWENTY-TWO

  THURSDAY, MARCH 21

  “Is that a fact? Real cowboys?” The man standing at the bar beside Marcus seemed to be impressed. “I never knew that.”

  “Right enough,” Marcus said, “bucking broncos and all, just like the films.” Nearly two weeks gone and this was the first time anybody had even tried to talk to him. Marcus Richardson, now fully into his Mike Roberts impersonation, was determined to keep this one on the hook. “Them chuck-wagon races was terrific.”

  “I never heard of them.”

  “D’y’ever see Ben Hur?”

  “Aye.” The man, beefy face, thick lips, stubbled chin, leaned his elbow on the bar counter. “Your man Charlton Heston was great.”

  “Them chuck wagons is just like chariots, but they’ve six horses. They run like the hammers of hell.” Marcus finished his pint. “You go another?”

  “Is the pope Catholic?”

  Marcus tried to attract the barman’s attention, but that worthy was busy at the other end of the short bar, pulling a pint, working the ceramic handle of a beer pump. He looked as though his piles hurt. Marcus glanced around. The place was small, poorly lit, and half-empty. All of the patrons were men. Three stood farther down the bar, hunched over their drinks. One man, a painter by his overalls, was in front of the barman, waiting for his pint. Only two of the seven or eight tables were occupied. It was Thursday night, and Marcus had hoped the place would be packed. He should have known better. Friday was dole day.

  At a table, four young lads—jeans, windcheaters—argued loudly over the prospects at Sandown Park. One with a badly repaired harelip mumbled, “Catch up in the straight? That horse couldn’t catch a fucking cold.”

  Marcus laughed at the remark, then said, “A fellow could die of thirst in here.”

  The big man grinned back and yelled, “Liam.”

  He was obviously a regular, maybe thirty, maybe a bit older. He’d come up to the bar twenty minutes ago and called for a pint. By the time it was nearly finished he had turned and smiled at Marcus. “New here?”

  “Aye. Just back from Canada.” The stranger had a brother in San Francisco and was a bit hazy about geography. He’d started to ask questions and Marcus had played along.

  The barman ambled up. “What do you want, Eamon?”

  Eamon tossed his head at Marcus, a cowlick of dark hair swinging. “Your man here’s buying.”

  “Pints?”

  Marcus said, “Aye. Two.”

  “Right.” Liam took their glasses and the scowl he brought with him back to the beer pumps.

  “Right ray of sunshine, our Liam,” said Eamon. “Probably ’cos Liam’s short for William. He’d make a right good Protestant some nights. He can be sour enough.” Eamon chuckled at his own humour. “What’s your name, by the way?”

  “Mike. Mike Roberts.”

  “Eamon Laverty.” He held out a calloused hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mike.”

  The new pints arrived.

  “So. What do you do with yourself, Eamon?”

  “Brickie. I’m dead lucky. Most of the lads in here are on the burroo.”

  Marcus smiled at the Belfast mispronunciation of “bureau,” the unemployment office.

  “Aye,” said Eamon. “Lots of work these days for bricklayers. Rebuilding, if you know what I mean.”

  “Right enough. I never seen anything like the Falls. Must have been bloody awful.”

  “It was teetotally fucking well dire, so it was. You never seen nothing like it in your life. Protestant fuckers with their petrol bombs.”

  “Bad like?”

  “You wouldn’t believe it. Fucking hoors’ melts. Sooner we get rid of the Brits the bett
er.” Eamon turned and leaned his back against the bar, pint clutched in one hand. “See these lads in here? Not a one of them can get a decent job. And that Willie Whitelaw, blethering on about no more discrimination. Damn good thing he’s gone.” He hawked and Marcus thought that his new companion was going to spit on the plank floor. “There’s still no joy for Catholics in Belfast. And this new fellow, Rees? He’s only been in the job a couple of weeks.” Eamon managed a credible imitation of a singsongy Welsh voice: “I’m delighted to take up the challenge as Secretary of State for Northern Ireland, working to bring harmony to the two communities.” Eamon’s native Belfast accent returned. “The only harmony that Welsh git understands comes from a bunch of singing miners. His da was one, you know.” He took another deep swallow. “You’re lucky to be out of it, over in Canada.”

  “I don’t know about that. The winters is ferocious. Founder you, so they would.” Marcus finished his second pint and waved to Liam. “Still,” he laid two pound notes on the counter, “money’s all right.”

  The drinks arrived. “Keep the change.”

  Liam forced a condescending smile, showing a gap where an incisor was missing.

  Eamon made no attempt to protest that it was his round. “What do you do, anyway?”

  Marcus lifted his third pint. He’d better slow down. His head was beginning to buzz. Jesus, but the locals drank with a grim determination to get as many pints down their throats as possible. “Oil fields.” His eyes held Eamon’s for a moment. “Explosives.”

  “Explosives? If you knew the right lads round here, you’d get a job like a flash.”

  “What kind of a job?”

  Eamon threw his arm round Marcus’s shoulder. “I’m having you on.” His voice dropped. “Just you keep away from the hard men.”

  “What hard men?”

  “Not in here, for Christ’s sake. The lads wouldn’t come into a place like this.”

  “If you say so.” Marcus tried to keep the next question innocent. “Do you know any?”

  Eamon pulled his arm away. “Any what?”