Pray for Us Sinners

  He was bored silly and there was no telly in his room, just an elderly wireless. He looked at his watch. Quarter past two. Damn it. He had been looking forward to a broadcast on Radio 4 and now he’d missed the overture and part of the first act. He leaned over and fiddled with the dial, found the station, and waited for the music to paint its pictures. Spain, Seville, cigarette girls, army corporals, toreadors, and the witch herself, Carmen. He still remembered the liner notes on one of his dad’s records—the one with Risë Stevens singing the title role. The notes’ author had stolen a biblical phrase to describe the tzigane. “She was a woman to make men run out of their wits.” From what he’d seen coming through the gates of Gallagher’s cigarette factory, no Carmens worked there.

  Marcus had little time for the Rolling Stones or Pink Floyd, but opera, and particularly the works of Mozart and Verdi, struck something inside between his heart and his stomach. A something that seemed to lead directly to his tear glands. He could never listen to Il nozze de Figaro or Nabucco in their entirety without having to use his hanky.

  He’d grown up hearing the old vinyl records that both Mum and Dad had loved, and the taste had rubbed off. He’d long ago given up trying to understand why these works affected him. He accepted it, reveled in them as a cat rolls in catnip—and kept his preferences to himself. A lieutenant couldn’t afford to have his men think of him as some sort of highbrow sissy.

  The music swelled and filled his room. “Près des remparts de Séville, chez mon ami Lillas Pastia…”

  The soprano was a young New Zealander, Kiri te Kanawa. She had the voice of an angel. He closed his eyes and coasted on the rise and fall of the music, lost in its swells, at peace with himself and far from the cruddy bed-sit in New Lodge.

  * * *

  Five o’clock. Marcus was in a foul mood. He’d not been able to finish listening to Carmen. Halfway into the third act one of the other residents had started pounding on the wall and yelling, “Turn off that fucking row.” He’d turned it down, but the banging on the wall had become more insistent. Eventually, he had given up and shut off the wireless.

  Now the smell of burnt lard coming from the kitchen made him gag. It was Saturday night. He might as well go out for a bite. There was a Chinese place a couple of streets away, run by the son of Hong Kong immigrants. Yellow skin, slanted eyes, and a Belfast accent thick as champ. The restaurant served Cantonese food—and chips. The natives thought they were being starved if they couldn’t have their chips.

  Marcus went to the walnut-veneered wardrobe and pulled out the Calgary Stampeders windcheater. Maybe the flash of colour would provoke some interest in the boozer when he dropped in after he had eaten. Maybe.

  * * *

  Marcus stood at the bar, his stomach acid and heavy. The chips had left a scum of grease on his palate.

  “Pint, Mike?”

  Wonderful. First-name terms with lugubrious Liam. “Aye, please. Eamon not in the night?”

  “He’ll be in later.” Liam built the pint slowly, letting the Guinness settle between pours. “Here.”

  “Fair enough.” Marcus paid and, as had become his habit, left a generous tip. Liam pocketed the coins, making a desultory swipe at the bar top with a tea towel illustrated with scenes of Ulster, beer stains hiding Scrabo Tower and giving Lough Erne a muddy appearance.

  Marcus looked over the tables. The youth with the harelip was telling the world how his horse had won at twenty to one, only interrupting his boasting to yell for “Four more Monk by the neck!” Cackling at his own humour when Liam brought the brown bottles of Wm. Younger’s Monk Export without glasses, Harelip grinned at Liam. “That’s a Protestant order, so it is. Four monks by the throat.”

  “Fuck off, Colin Heaney,” said Liam.

  Someone stood farther down the bar. Marcus turned, expecting to see Eamon. Jimmy Ferguson, no dungarees this time—grey pants and an old raincoat—had one short leg up on the brass rail below the bar. Marcus watched as Ferguson sank the first few mouthfuls of his pint and then tipped a glass of whiskey into the stout. Why, Marcus wondered, did the natives call that particular combination a horse’s neck?

  The little man looked at Marcus’s red Stampeders windcheater. He cocked his head and asked, “You a Canadian?”

  “Not at all. I’m from Bangor. But I worked in Canada for a while.”

  Jimmy moved along the bar. “My daughter’s just back from Canada. Toronto, like.”

  “Toronto? Never been there, but we learnt all about them Great Lakes at school.”

  “Where’d you go to school?”

  It was like strange dogs sniffing each other’s backsides.

  “Bangor Grammar.”

  “Bangor Grammar?”

  “Aye. What about it?”

  Jimmy Ferguson began to sidle away.

  “I was the only Taig in the place. My da thought I’d get better learned there.”

  “So you dig with the left?”

  “Aye certainly.” Marcus crossed himself.

  Jimmy moved closer. “You’d me going there for a minute. We don’t have Prods in here.”

  “They’d likely have as much joy as I had at a Protestant school.”

  “None?”

  “Jesus. None at all. Nothing open, like, but it was there. ‘How do you tell a Catholic? His eyes is too close together.’” Marcus grunted derisively. “I never fitted in. I’d of been far better at Saint Columba’s.” He nodded at Ferguson’s glass. “Another?”

  “Better not. The missus is expecting me.” Jimmy hesitated. “Still—just the one won’t hurt. Just a wee Jameson. A wee half-un. It’s not often a man comes in here that’s been to Canada. Jimmy Ferguson, by the way.”

  “Mike Roberts.” Marcus signalled to Liam. Jimmy reached for his fresh drink. “Thanks very much—Mike.”

  Marcus saw Eamon come through the door. He raised his hand in salute. Eamon stood at Ferguson’s other shoulder. “How’s about you, Jimmy?”

  “Rightly. Just having a craic with your man here. Mate of yours?”

  “Aye. Mike Roberts. Did he buy you a jar?”

  Jimmy nodded.

  “Don’t think you’ve to buy back, like. He’s loaded. Makes a million in the Alberta oil fields. Mine’s a pint, Mike.”

  Jimmy asked. “What do you do, Mike?”

  Eamon let out a guffaw. “He’d’ve been a brave useful lad to your lot twenty years ago, Jimmy Ferguson.” He dropped his voice to a stage whisper. “He’s an explosives expert.”

  It wasn’t the way Jimmy’s jaw shot forward, but more how his pupils constricted—only for a split second. He was quick to recover. “Away off and chase yourself, Laverty. I’ve been out of that for years.” Jimmy must have noticed Marcus’s look. “I was one of the bad boys. Years ago.” He turned to Eamon and snapped, “And you just keep your big trap shut about that.”

  “I was only joking.”

  The major had written Jimmy Ferguson off. By whose word? A double agent. Was it possible—just possible—that Ferguson was a Provo?

  “There’s some things you don’t fucking well joke about.” Ferguson’s voice had risen.

  “Look. I’m sorry, Jim. All right?” Eamon looked like a whipped Labrador.

  “It’s just not funny, so it’s not.”

  “How many times’ve I to say I’m sorry? Do you want me to cut my fucking throat?”

  Marcus interrupted. “Mr. Ferguson. Look. It’s none of my business, but if Eamon means what I think he does”—he looked directly into Jimmy’s eyes—“it’s fine by me. I’d’ve been on your side.”

  Jimmy’s voice lost its hectoring tone. “Aye. Right. But we don’t talk about the likes of that. Them days is over for me.”

  “I understand. It’s none of my business anyhow. Would you go another, Mr. Ferguson?”

  “I’d better be getting on, like. Herself’ll be on the warpath if I’m late the night.” He turned to go, then swung back. “It’s Mike, isn’t it?”

  “Aye.”
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  “I’d love another jar. Tell you what. Come on round to my place. We’ll have a wee one there. I want to hear more about how much Yeats you know. Siobhan’ll be pleased to meet someone else from Canada.”

  “Siobhan?”

  “My wee girl. I told you. She’s here on her holidays.” He looked at Eamon. “She should get a chance to see there’s one educated man round here.”

  “I’d like that, right enough,” Marcus said, hoping his voice held sufficient respect. This Ferguson could just, just, be someone worth getting to know better. “Hang on a wee minute. I’ll settle up.” He paid. “’Night, Eamon.”

  “Aye,” said Eamon, hunching over his pint. “Any rats at your place, Jimmy?”

  “What?”

  “Your man’s heart scared of rats.” Eamon chuckled.

  “Fuck off, Eamon,” said Marcus.

  * * *

  Marcus followed Jimmy onto the road. New Lodge at night. Neon streetlights, cluttered gutters, terraces, the incessant sounds of cars, lorries. He watched a bus pass and read the exhortation on its side to phone Belfast 652155 to report any suspicious activity. Confidentiality assured.

  “Where do you live, Jimmy?”

  “Ten Hogarth Street.”

  Marcus knew the place. Terrace houses set back a few yards behind tiny box hedges stunted by the fumes of the traffic. Shrubs in New Lodge clung to a precarious existence like the tobacconists’ and corner grocery stores, hanging on to their roots with grim determination.

  They turned past a two-foot brick wall onto a narrow path. The garden, dimly seen in the streetlamp’s glow, was a slab of concrete with a rosebush skulking through a diamond-shaped hole in the middle. Jimmy pushed a key into the lock. “Come on in.”

  Marcus followed into the narrow hall. He could smell cabbage water.

  “I’m home.”

  A female voice answered, “About bloody well time.”

  Jimmy rolled his eyes. “I’ve a friend with me.”

  A large woman, pink fluffy slippers, bare shins mottled with too much sitting in front of a fire, calico pinafore, appeared from the other end of the passage. She ignored Marcus. “Where the hell’ve you been?”

  Jimmy tried to plant a kiss on her cheek. “Come on now, don’t be at it, dear. This here’s Mike. From Canada.”

  “That’s nice.” She swung on Marcus. “I suppose it’s your fault he’s half cut.”

  “Ah. Come on now, Mrs. Ferguson. He’s only had a couple. It was me that was on for getting stocious. Jimmy said I should pack it up and come round here for a cup of tea.”

  “That’s right. Mike and me was just after a wee cup in our hand.”

  Her fleshy face softened. “I believe you. Thousands wouldn’t. Go on into the parlour. I’ll bring you a cup, seeing you’re from Canada and all.”

  Jimmy scuttled past her, and Marcus followed.

  “Good thinking about the cup of tea,” Jimmy said in an undertone as he switched on the light. “Mind you, I’d rather have a wee half.”

  The room was tiny but tidy. Antimacassars were draped over the backs of two red-velvet armchairs and a matching sofa, and the walls were papered with a climbing flower pattern. Over a polished iron grate, where paper and sticks and black coal were laid ready to light, a flight of three china mallard climbed through the blossoms.

  “Sit down. Sit down.” Jimmy pointed to one of the armchairs. “Jesus. You saved my bacon there. Hold on a wee minute, Mike. I’ll light the fire.”

  “Never worry, Jimmy. I’m warm enough.”

  “Right enough. I suppose you get used to the cold in Canada. Siobhan says it’s ferocious.” He took the other armchair. “She lives in Toronto, but she come home here on Thursday. Her ma and me’s quare pleased to see her.”

  Siobhan? If she was a cross between Jimmy and Mrs. F., she’d look like a heifer with the face of a stoat. Stifling the thought, Marcus picked up on something Jimmy had said earlier. “Canada? It can get parky enough. Particularly if you’re out on the permafrost.”

  “Must be dangerous, your work?” Jimmy sat forward.

  “Not at all. Just took a while to learn. Folks reckon explosives is risky. They just take a bit of getting used to. That’s all.”

  “Can’t say I fancy messing about with nitroglycerine. I seen a film about that once. One shake and kaboom!”

  Marcus laughed, looking the little man straight in the eye. “Jimmy, we don’t use nitro any more. Do most of the work with dynamite. Once in a while we get to use plastic explosives.”

  Jimmy’s pupils contracted, a tiny twitch. That chap Warnock from the SAS had been right. Watch the eyes to gauge interest. “Rather you nor me, Mike.” Jimmy nodded his head at the corners of the room. “Not a bad wee place, is it? Missus keeps it lovely.”

  Marcus was disappointed. The earlier questions could have been simple curiosity. “Right enough. I like the ducks. I like the shape of the fat one at the back.”

  “Got them for the wife for her birthday a brave few years back. It is a grand shape, right enough.” Jimmy cocked his head and said, “I seen another movie. One of them war ones. Your man—the hero—he had to make what they called ‘shaped charges’ out of plastic. What you said about the wee duck brought that to mind.”

  “We do the lot, shaped ones, hollow ones, ribbon charges. All depends on the job. Bloody powerful, so they are.”

  “Shaped, hollow, and ribbon.” Jimmy hee-heed. “Sounds like a set of Irish dances.” Twitch went Jimmy’s jaw.

  Marcus heard the front door open, someone walking back to the kitchen, and Mrs. Ferguson making welcoming noises before saying, “Take that along to your da. He’s a friend with him.”

  Jimmy was on his feet. “That’ll be Siobhan. She must have been out. I thought she would have stayed home with her ma.”

  The door was opened by a young woman carrying a tray. Marcus stumbled in his hurry to stand. Jimmy said, “Siobhan, this is Mike Roberts.”

  Marcus barely heard Jimmy. He wasn’t sure if it was Siobhan’s waist-length blond hair catching the light or the light catching her dark blue eyes that took his breath away. His words caught in his throat. “Pleased to meet you.” He knew his accent had softened. He did not want her to think him a boor.

  She smiled. “Hi, Mike.” Just a tiny transatlantic twang. Where in the name of the wee man did she get those eyes? Somewhere between moonrise and star rise? “Do you want me to pour, Dad?”

  Please pour, Siobhan Ferguson. Please stay. All Marcus Richardson’s thoughts of bombers and the Provos fled, burned away by the radiance of her.

  TWENTY-SIX

  SATURDAY, MARCH 23

  Davy McCutcheon and two badly scared men tried to keep warm, huddled under a pile of cut turf. They had been there since they bolted from the botched ambush, Davy following blindly as they charged through the fields back to the farmyard, where the third member of the action squad was waiting with the car.

  The younger men had wanted to drive off at once, and they’d wasted valuable minutes arguing. Davy took an automatic from the bewildered driver—its possession would guarantee his conviction when the car was inevitably stopped and searched—and told him to drive away slowly. His job was to act as a decoy while the other three found somewhere to hide.

  As soon as the car had turned onto the road the headlights of the army patrol swung after it. The bleak hillside would soon be crawling with soldiers. It was a bloody good thing that this was where he had trained, back in the late forties. He still knew the country. He’d led his companions inland through the gorse and peat bog, running like bejesus through the dark night, away from the dying flames of the farmer’s car. Away from the little girl.

  They found what Davy was searching for, a pile of cut turf bulking darker against the ebony sky. His companions needed little urging to help him burrow into the damp peat, hollowing out a chamber in the heart of the mound, stacking the soft blocks behind them to hide the entrance. Davy had just begun to catch his breath as the
first helicopter roared overhead.

  The warmth of his exertion soon wore off. His leg pounded, his sweat congealed, and soon he was shuddering. By morning the stink of fear and piss mingled with the all-pervading smell of turf. By ten o’clock on Saturday night the young man on his first mission had suggested that it was time to go.

  Davy turned on him. “You’re out of your fucking mind. The Brits don’t give up that quick.”

  “But I’m foundered.”

  “You’ll be colder by tomorrow.”

  “Ah, Jesus.”

  Davy couldn’t see the youth’s face. He reached out, found an arm, and held it in a crushing grip. “We’re staying here ’til tomorrow.” His voice was low and venomous. He had enough to think about without having to deal with this wet-behind-the-ears kid and his sniveling about being cold. “Now shut the fuck up and try to get some sleep.” Davy released the arm. He heard the youngster sniff and sensed him move away. “And keep quiet. There could be half the fucking British army outside.”

  Maybe the lad would be able to doze. The other fellow seemed to have nodded off. But Davy knew there would be no sleep for him—not as long as he kept seeing flames, smelling scorched flesh, and hearing a high-pitched, supplicant, “Pleeease.”

  * * *

  Far removed from the squalor of the turf pile, Brendan McGuinness sat comfortably at a table in the drawing room of 15B Myrtlefield Park. Sean Conlon paced up and down. He stopped, turned to face McGuinness, and said, “So you reckon they’re still out there?”

  McGuinness nodded. “We’d a report from the driver. He’s not sure what went wrong. All he knows is they missed the troops and had to run. Your man, McCutcheon, sent him off. He got stopped but the soldiers believed his story.”

  “Do you think someone tipped the army the nod?”