TUESDAY, MARCH 26
Davy stared through the window of the Malone Road bus. Strange skeletal bronzes hung on the wall of the Shaftesbury Square side of the Northern Bank. No human ever looked like those things. He’d never understood modern art, and at the moment there was a hell of a lot more he didn’t understand—like whether he wanted to go on fighting. He wished he could have a cigarette. It seemed to be taking forever to get to Myrtlefield Park.
The Club Bar came into view. Ten thirty and already a couple of Queen’s University students—he recognized their green, blue, and black scarves—were pushing their way through the swing doors.
The bus stopped outside the main university gates. Davy could see the cenotaph in the forecourt. A memorial to the Ulstermen who had died fighting for the enemy in both World Wars. There’d be no memorials to the girl he’d murdered in the wee hours of Saturday morning or to the Brit bastards that fell in Ulster. This conflict was no heroic struggle, honourable and glorious. It was like all civil wars: long, brutish, vicious, and dirty. It had just got a lot dirtier.
He’d been deluding himself, pretending that he was fighting the troops of the occupying power. The bombs he and Jimmy made must have killed and maimed scores of civilians. Civilians like the Mary Hanrahan girl. He’d read her name in the Telegraph.
The bus jerked to a stop at the front of the David Keir Building. The words FACULTY OF SCIENCE. DEPARTMENT OF CHEMISTRY were chiseled into a marble slab over the doors. Maybe, he thought, he should be teaching in there. He was a damn good practical chemist. Not smart enough to make Semtex, mind you, but there was someone in that building who would know how to use the stuff. He could just see himself talking to one of them professors. “’Scuse me. Could you tell me how to make Semtex work?” The idiocy of the thought brought a smile to his lips. It faded fast.
Well, maybe he wouldn’t have to find out. Sean had said Davy’s chance to use the plastique depended on how well the last attack had gone. He sighed. Did he give a fuck about the Semtex?
Yes and no. Yes. It was a matter of pride. Yes. He owed Sean Conlon. Sean had had faith in Davy, a faith that should be repaid. Yes. Semtex was always kept for special attacks, attacks on soldiers or peelers.
No. He never, ever wanted to hear, as he still heard Mary Hanrahan now, another little girl screaming, “Pleeease.”
He looked out the window. Fuck it—he’d missed his stop. He yanked the string that looped along the sides of the bus.
He dismounted, lit a smoke as he waited for the 71 bus to move off, crossed the Malone Road, turned right, and limped toward Myrtlefield Park.
* * *
“Come in, Davy.” Sean Conlon remained seated at the big table.
Davy crossed the carpet, pulled out a chair, and sat, back to the window, hands on the tabletop, the oil of his fingers making little blurred ovals on the polished wood.
“How are you?” The CO’s voice was level.
“I’ve been worser.”
“You’re back in one piece, anyhow.”
“Aye.” Davy picked at a fingernail. “I’m sorry I fucked up.”
“You didn’t, Davy. It wasn’t your fault.”
“It was. I let you down, Sean.”
“The fuck you did.” Davy saw no condemnation in Sean’s eyes. “You did the best you could. No one’s blaming you here.” Sean’s gaze held Davy’s. “All right. Now, just so you know, we’ve already had the other lads in.”
“What lads?”
“The ones you were out with. They all said you done good, that they’d be in jail up the Crumlin or in Long Kesh if you hadn’t kept your head.”
Davy shrugged.
Sean rose. “There’s someone here just wants to ask you a few questions.”
“Who? What questions?”
“Come on, Davy. You know the form. The information officer needs to debrief volunteers after a raid.”
“Oh. That.” Only a postmortem. He’d been to enough of those. “Fair enough. Go and get him. And, Sean. I’m sorry about the fuckup.”
“Give over, Davy. It’s done.”
Davy watched as Sean walked to the door and left the room. He looked up at the great chandelier hanging over the table. Decent of Sean not to lay blame, but Davy knew very well where the fault lay. Both failing his CO and—ah, shit, he didn’t want to think of her now. Anyway, someone was coming.
The man who accompanied Sean was not 2nd Battalion IO. The newcomer was thin, dark-haired, and wore spectacles with an eye patch. Davy saw in the eye behind the wire-rimmed glasses the colours of a dead fire. And about as much warmth. Davy began to rise in the presence of a strange senior officer.
“Stay where you are, McCutcheon,” the man rasped.
Davy lowered himself into his chair and let his hands fall limply into his lap.
Sean and the other man sat opposite.
Sean spoke. “Davy, this is Brigade IO.”
“Brigade?” Davy looked questioningly at Sean.
Sean gave a reassuring twitch of his head. “He just wanted to meet you. Clear up a few things. Tell us exactly what happened. Take your time.”
Davy ran quickly through the events of the weekend, truthfully, accurately, answering the occasional question, letting no hint of his feelings show.
The IO pulled his glasses from his nose; held them by one leg, his own elbow resting on the table; and said, “How do you think the Brits avoided the booby trap?”
Davy looked away from the man’s puckered eye socket. “Buggered if I know. One of the other lads said they drove on the verges.”
“Could anyone have tipped them off?” The light from the window made little flashes sparkle from the lens as the IO swung his spectacles.
Davy thought for a while before saying, “I doubt it. If they’d known what we were up to, the Rovers would never have come down the track. The Brits would have been looking for us with helicopters, nightscopes, the whole fucking army.”
“Aye.” The IO sucked on the end of his spectacles. “That’s what we thought, Sean.”
Sean nodded.
Davy looked from one man to the other. Where the hell had he seen the IO before?
The IO asked, “Do you think we can recover the weapons?”
“Aye. They’d be a bit rusty, but one of the Active Service lads could show you where we left them. They’re well hid in the turf.” He could smell it, as if there was a pile of damp peat in this room.
“Not like to go for them yourself, Davy? Maybe the old leg…?” The IO pulled his lips back in a tiny smile, and Davy saw the man’s irregular teeth.
“There’s fuck-all wrong with my leg.” Davy noticed green discolouration of the IO’s incisors. McGuinness. Brendan McGuinness. It was the teeth Davy remembered. He’d met the man years ago, sometime after 1962 in Bodenstown, County Kildare, at an annual Wolfe Tone commemoration service. McGuinness had only been a youngster then. Not even in the IRA. A hanger-on. He had both eyes back then. Now he was Brigade IO. Jesus.
McGuinness rehooked the wire earpieces of his spectacles around his ears and settled the frames on the bridge of his nose. “All right, McCutcheon.”
Davy glanced at Sean, who shook his head.
Davy stayed put as McGuinness turned to Sean and spoke to him as though Davy had ceased to exist.
“Pity your people didn’t get the Brits. A younger man might have hung around. The group should have had the firepower to knock out two armoured Land Rovers.”
Davy flinched. He hadn’t even considered that option.
Sean kept his gaze on Davy’s face and said, levelly, “They did not. We lost our RPG-7s in the ammo-dump raid. A couple of hand grenades won’t stop a moving Land Rover. The lads did their best. The commander on the ground has to make decisions fast.”
“Aye. But age slows the reflexes. McCutcheon’s getting on. You’ve to be choosy who you send out.”
Davy sat bolt upright. McGuinness was having a go at Sean, and using Davy as a weapon. He saw Sean?
??s eyes narrow. “I am choosy. Very. You’re one of my best men, so you are, Davy,” Sean’s voice was measured.
A vessel throbbed at Davy’s temple. Sean Conlon understood the meaning of loyalty. So did Davy. And whatever was going on between these two, it was his fault that McGuinness was scoring points.
Davy leaned across the table. “Stop you picking on my CO.”
“Pardon?” McGuinness’s upper lip lifted. His words were sibilant. “McCutcheon, I’ll ask your advice when I want it. Sit you there and keep your mouth shut.”
Davy felt the flush start from beneath his collar. Fucking whippersnapper. Wet behind the ears. Talking to a Fifties Man like that.
“It’s all right, Davy.” Sean spoke rapidly.
“Anyway, Sean, even if McCutcheon didn’t hit the primary target, the end result was very satisfactory.”
“Jesus Christ.” Davy thrust his chair back. “Satisfactory. Satisfactory? Have you ever seen what a bomb does? That wee girl was ten years old. Ten, for fuck’s sake. Her da had both legs blew off. They’re all dead.” He wiped the spittle from his chin with the back of one hand.
McGuinness smiled his rat smile. “Pity your Second Battalion men are a bit undisciplined, Sean. McCutcheon should understand about casualties. And that there are other matters that don’t concern him.”
“Understand?” Davy felt his nails digging into his palms. “Understand casualties? I was one, when you were in nappies. We didn’t murder children back then. We didn’t have to apologize like Army Council. How the fuck do you say ‘I’m sorry’ for killing a wee girl?”
“Davy!” Sean’s voice cut across the table.
Davy lowered his head and took several deep breaths. “Right.” He looked up. “Sean, you know very well I don’t think we should hit soft targets. Look. Jim and me makes explosives. We don’t ask what for, but I’m telling you now,” his gaze darted from the CO to the IO, “I’m going out on no more missions unless it’s against the peelers or the army. I’ve half a mind not to go on at all.”
“McCutcheon,” said McGuinness, “you’ll do exactly as you’re ordered. Volunteers don’t pick and choose their operations.” He glanced at Sean. “At least not in First Battalion.”
Davy stiffened. “I do exactly what my CO tells me.”
“Not quite.” McGuinness’s dark brows lifted. “He told you to take out an army patrol.”
Sean swung on McGuinness. “That’s enough.”
McGuinness held up a hand.
Davy waited, willing his rapid breathing to slow, feeling the sweat beneath the collarless neckband of his shirt, inwardly thanking Sean for coming to his defence.
“All right.” Sean turned back to Davy. “I told you about the big job coming up, Davy. We still need you for it.”
“Is he up to it?” Davy saw McGuinness leaning back in his chair.
“I’m able for anything my CO needs.”
“I hope so.” McGuinness rose and left.
Davy watched the man go. Little shit. He waited for Sean to speak.
“Sorry about that, Davy. Brigade IO and me…” He let the words hang. “You got stuck in the middle.”
“Never worry. Brendan McGuinness doesn’t bother me.”
“How the hell do you know who he is?”
“I met him years ago. I don’t think he remembers me. What’s going on with the pair of you, anyway?”
“Either him or me’s next in line for OC Belfast Brigade. He wants it.”
“Do you not?”
“I’m not fussed. I’m like you, Davy. I just want to get the job done and over.”
“Aye. Right.” Davy hesitated. “You know, Sean, after that wee lassie—I came here and I was nearly going to ask about getting out. The screams of her were fucking dire.”
“Giving you nightmares?”
“Aye.”
“You’d not be the first.” Sean looked directly at Davy. “It wasn’t your fault.”
Davy snorted.
“Do you want out?”
“If I did?”
“It would be a bugger for us. We’ve lads out in Libya training, but you’re still our best man in Belfast.”
“Aye, well.” Davy inwardly thanked his commanding officer for the words of praise.
“Davy, the big one’s still on. The one with the Semtex.”
The Semtex. Jimmy had said to tell Sean they didn’t know how to use the new plastique. Davy started to speak, but Conlon carried on, “I can’t tell you the target. Yet. But it’ll be fair game, I swear to God. It could even be the one to finish the whole damn war.”
“Finish the war?” Jesus. Fiona. And after the way Sean had stood up to McGuinness, how could he not do as Conlon asked? “All right.”
“Good man.”
“Sean?”
“What?”
“It’ll go right.”
“I know that, Davy.” Sean had a tired smile.
Davy said nothing. He waited until Sean said, “You’ll be going out in a week or two. ’Til then keep your head down.”
“Right.”
“And, Davy?”
“What?”
“You’d be happy enough about using Semtex?”
“Sure. I told you, it’s no sweat.”
THIRTY-TWO
TUESDAY, MARCH 26
Siobhan watched Steve McQueen and Gregory Sierra race through the jungles of some South American country. She smiled at Sierra’s ungainly lope. Papillon had been Mike’s choice of film, but she was enjoying it thoroughly. She hadn’t told him she’d seen it in Toronto last year. She knew that first run in Belfast usually meant at least a year old. She’d wait until the spears of the mantrap skewered Sierra before she snuggled up against Mike. That would give him a chance to put his arm round her. It was like being sixteen again, lurking in the dark back row of the Capitol.
She’d been surprised that he hadn’t made a move already, or even last night. In Canada men had embraced the sexual revolution and believed that an expensive dinner was a ticket straight to bed. Mike hadn’t. He’d been a gentleman. She smiled to herself at the old-fashioned word. She’d read Germaine Greer’s Female Eunuch and fully subscribed to the ideas of the women’s movement—even to the extent of not wearing a bra tonight. She might let Mike know that later.
On the screen Sierra’s face contorted as pointed branches slammed into his chest. She squealed and leaned her head against Mike’s shoulder. His arm slipped round her. She could feel the muscles through his windcheater. He was a gentleman and a sexy man. His hazel eyes had tiny gold flecks in the irises, and she thought he’d look even better if he shaved off that silly moustache. It had tickled when he kissed her last night and—she sensed him moving toward her—it was tickling now, but his lips were gentle on hers. She moved toward him and felt her nipples harden against the silky material of her blouse.
The house lights went up.
She pulled away, seeing a shocked look on Mike’s face. A man in a dinner suit appeared on the stage in front of the screen. The cinema’s manager. He spoke into a microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, please do not panic. We have received a bomb threat.”
People scrambled to their feet. A woman screamed.
“Please, ladies and gentlemen, please make an orderly exit.”
“Come on.” Mike was on his feet tugging at her hand.
“Right.” She stood and followed as he crabbed along the row. A fat woman in front pummeled the man beside her. “For fuck’s sake, hurry up.”
More screams, drowning the manager’s pleas for calm.
Mike reached the aisle. He held on to Siobhan’s hand and stood like a rock in a torrent, back thrust against the press of bodies, clearing a passage for her. She left the seats and at once they were swept toward the foyer by a human flood. Siobhan lost a shoe and yelped as a foot squashed her toes. Her hands were sweating, and it was difficult to breathe. She stumbled, but Mike hauled her upright.
Bodies jammed the doors onto the Antrim Road.
Mike pulled Siobhan to him. “Hang on,” he said, lowering one shoulder and driving it hard into the back of a smaller man wedged in the doorway. The man popped through like a cork from a bottle, and they were in the open air.
People ran, women screamed, men swore. A door went down with a crash of splintering glass. From behind Siobhan came a dull rumble. She turned to see part of the cinema’s flat asphalt roof rise lazily, tear apart, and collapse into itself. A dense column of smoke spiraled upward.
And still people spilled through the doors. Some were coughing, others’ faces were soot-stained. Women cried. One man yelled “fuck it, fuck it” over and over. A short youth beat at his woman companion’s smouldering hair with his cloth cap. Siobhan felt Mike pulling at her hand. “Come on, Siobhan.”
“Mike, we’ve got to do something.”
“What?”
“Help.”
She saw him stare above the smashed doors where the marquee sagged drunkenly, the neon PAPILLON flashing on and off, sparks jetting from loose wiring. The short lad and his sobbing girlfriend stood beneath the marquee. It groaned and sagged. They seemed unaware.
“Wait here,” Mike said, dropping her hand and pushing his way through the press of bodies.
She watched him force his way forward toward the broken building. There was a screech of tearing metal as the signboard started to tear free from its moorings. Mike darted beneath, grabbed the woman by one arm, yelling something at her dazed companion. Siobhan couldn’t hear him over the crackling of the flames, the sobbing and cursing of the throng, and the howl of the sirens of ambulances and police cars.
Mike dragged the woman onto the street. The short youth stumbled after. The marquee parted from the wall and smashed to the pavement.
Siobhan ignored the cold in her shoeless foot. She noticed, quite dispassionately, that she was trembling and yet she was not scared for herself. She realized she had been terrified for Mike’s sake.
He stood by her side, panting. “I don’t think we can do much more here.”
The crowd had thinned. Funny, she thought. In Toronto spectators always gathered to rubberneck at accidents or fires. Here in Belfast almost everyone had disappeared except a few small knots of people who clung to each other and stared with glassy eyes at the ruined building. She guessed they were waiting for those who had not made it outside.