Jimmy put one hand on Davy’s. He was grateful for his friend’s touch.
“It still means that much to you, Davy?”
“Jesus, I hope so. And Jim? I need to say ‘sorry’ to the wee Hanrahan girl.”
“What the hell are you on about?”
“Look. If I quit now, then all I am is a murderer.”
Jimmy sat quietly.
“I want to win this war. I want Ireland to be free.” Davy shook his head. “Fuck it, I’m starting to sound like one of them stupid movies—but if I can do a big one, one that really matters, then—I don’t know. Somehow, somehow her dying would have been more like an accident.”
Jimmy squeezed Davy’s knuckles. “I don’t understand, but I’ll see you right on this one. Just this one, mind.”
“Thanks, Jim.” Davy forced a laugh. “I never thought you’d have to nurse me again. Not since the Sperrins.”
“Water under the bridge.”
“Not for me, Jim.”
“Look, Davy. Do this one, but then”—he hesitated—“ah, for God’s sake, call her. She’s living with her sister.”
Davy took a deep breath. “I might.”
“No ‘might’ about it. Do it.”
“We’ll see, but Jim, there’s a wee problem with the next one.”
“What?”
“I’ve to use the Semtex.”
“So?”
“You know bloody well I can’t make shaped charges.”
“Hee-hee. No sweat.”
“What do you mean?”
“What kind of shaped charges? Hollow. Ribbon? One, or a bunch in sequence? Or maybe you’d just like to stick a fucking great lump of the stuff on and hope for the best?”
“How do you know about all that?”
“I don’t, but there’s this young lad, Mike Roberts.”
“Never heard of him.”
“He’s just back from Canada. Davy, he’s a fucking explosives expert.”
“So are half the British army.”
“You’d need to get a look at him. I never seen a fellow looks less like a soldier. Hair like Mick Jagger and a moustache like Pancho-fucking-Villa. Him and me had a brave wee chat the other night. He told me that he’d be in the Provos if he lived here. Davy, he told me the names of them charges.”
“Could you get him to tell you how to make them?”
“Indeed I could or, if I can’t, my Siobhan can. You should’ve seen his face the first time he seen her. He looked like he near took the rickets. He’s been out with her a couple of times.” Jimmy picked his nose. “Do you want to meet him?”
“I’m not sure. How much do you know about him?”
“Not a whole hell of a lot. But he’s in the pub every Saturday. I’ll get a word with him the night.”
THIRTY-FIVE
SATURDAY, MARCH 30
“How’re you, Mike?” Jimmy motioned to an empty seat.
Marcus took the chair. “Grand, Jimmy. How’s Siobhan?” He’d rather be with Jimmy’s daughter right now. Still, he’d be seeing her tomorrow.
“She doesn’t think a whole hell of a lot of Belfast. Not after Tuesday night. I seen in the paper there was three people killed in that cinema.”
“Pints, Mike?” Liam stood by the table.
Marcus glanced at Jimmy’s glass. “Jimmy?”
Jimmy nodded. “You done good getting her out and bringing her home.” He hee-hee’d. “She was fit to be tied. She thinks we’re all fucking mad.”
“She’s a great girl.”
“I know.”
Marcus saw the pride in the little man’s eyes.
“Where’s Eamon, Jimmy?”
“He’ll be in. He can smell a free pint six streets away. You should let him buy his shout once in a while, so you should.”
Marcus grinned. “I wouldn’t want him to take a heart attack.”
“Right enough. Eamon could peel an orange in his pocket so he wouldn’t have to share.” Jimmy lit a cigarette. “Busy the night. Usual mob.”
Marcus looked around. Harelip and his friends. The older man who’d been in the pisser telling his willie to get a move on. Familiar faces. “Who’s that up at the bar?” Marcus inclined his head to a young man standing by himself.
“Who?”
“The young lad. The one with the green and white scarf footering about in a wee knapsack.”
“Celtic colours? No idea. Never seen him before. Probably drowning his sorrows. Ards beat Celtic 3–0.”
Liam arrived. “Here y’are.” He waved away Marcus’s fiver. “Settle up before you go.”
“Right.” No doubt about it, Marcus thought, I’m one of the lads now. Wonderful. “Cheers, Jim.”
He watched Eamon push his way through the small crowd. Heard him say, “How’s about you?” Bovine. Smiling.
“Sit down, Eamon. Pint?”
“Aye,” said Eamon. “So, what’s new and exciting?”
“Celtic got beat again.” Jimmy stubbed out his smoke.
“Jesus,” said Eamon, “and the Germans lost the war. Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Your fly’s undone,” said Jimmy. And hee-hee’d mightily as Eamon looked down and his hands flew to his crotch.
“Stop codding about, Jim. It never is.”
Marcus drank, ignored Jimmy and Eamon’s banter, and let his gaze wander round the bar and his mind dwell on Siobhan. Her dad was right. She was a gazelle. High-spirited, likely to dart away if approached too suddenly. She was the most lovely creature he had ever met. And she had pretty strong views about the civil war. She’d forced him to take stock. That was the first time he’d actually been there when a bomb had wreaked havoc on a civilian target. Usually his squad arrived in time to defuse it or wasn’t called if it had already blown. He did not like what had happened on Tuesday night. Not one bit.
He’d found himself agreeing with her. The years in England had distanced him from his birthplace. Since he’d seen more and more of the effects of the Troubles firsthand, he had become disgusted with the hard men. They were making a charnel house of Ulster, and Ulster was his home. He’d been foolish to pretend it wasn’t. He’d grown up here, felt comfortable with Eamon and Jimmy, even if they did come from different backgrounds.
“Do explosives make you deaf?” Jimmy said.
“What?”
“I just said, ‘I’m for another.’” Jimmy held up his empty glass.
Something Marcus couldn’t put his finger on bothered him like a vague toothache.
“Mike, for fuck’s sake. Do you want another?”
“Right.”
“It’s my shout.”
“Sure.” Marcus could hear Eamon blethering on but paid no attention. He glanced over to the bar. Something was missing. There was no flash of green and white. The Celtic supporter was gone but beneath the bar counter, where the young man had stood, lay his knapsack. Marcus could see the straps and brown canvas webbing between two pairs of trousered legs. No sign of the bag’s owner. Still, he’d probably just nipped out for a pee. Marcus shook his head. Nothing to get excited about. Marcus glanced at his Timex. Eight thirty-two. Give him a wee while.
“You’re quiet the night, Mike.” Eamon leaned back in his chair.
“Not like some,” Jimmy said.
Marcus saw Eamon smile as he said, “Away off and chase yourself, Jim.”
There was still no sign of the green and white scarf. Marcus remembered his “Special to Theatre” course. A captain asking, “What’s the fastest game in the world?” and Al Cowan answering, “Pass the parcel in an Irish pub.” It hadn’t been funny for armless, eyeless Cowan two months later.
The knapsack shouldn’t be there, yet Marcus didn’t want to make a fuss, didn’t want to draw undue attention to himself. He rose. “I’m going to shake the dew off the lily.”
Eamon cackled and Jimmy hee-hee’d at the old chestnut.
Marcus pushed his way past the men at the bar and into the cramped backyard. He glance
d in the corner where he had seen the rat. Nothing. He hurried to the urinal and looked behind the wall. No green scarf. He hurried back into the bar, head darting as he scanned the room. No green scarf. He took a deep breath and headed for the counter, elbowing aside one of the men who stood close to the brown bag. He ignored the, “Watch it, for fuck’s sake,” and knelt beside the knapsack.
The bag was held shut by a single leather strap. Marcus lifted the strap gingerly, scanning its underside for hidden wires. Nothing. Not surprising. These types of bombs, if that was what it was, were usually booby-trapped on the inside. He unbuckled the strap and slowly lifted the top flap. Enough. Just enough to see the ends of six red cylinders and the top of a saltcellar.
Thundering shite. Dynamite and a saltcellar trip switch. Jiggle that, close the circuit, and good night.
Now what? His immediate thought was to get everyone out. He wanted nothing to do with trying to defuse the bloody thing. And yet … He would put his stock up with the locals if he did. That might even lead someone to approach him. The sooner that happened, the sooner he could get on with his mission and the sooner he could leave bombs behind for good. Was it worth the risk? Inside his head, he heard a voice whisper, “Don’t be a sissy.”
He exhaled, replaced the flap, and stood slowly, careful to place his legs astraddle the bag. He did not want the men beside him to disturb it. Not at all.
“What are you up to?”
Marcus saw a questioning look on an acne-pitted face. He forced a smile. “Just a wee minute.” He beckoned to Liam. The bloody man dismissed the summons with a flap of his hand.
“Liam. Come here, fuck it.”
He felt Acne Face start. “It’s all right,” Marcus said, as the level of noise fell and questioning faces turned his way.
Liam strode along behind the bar. “Who’re you yelling at?”
“Liam. Get everyone out.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
Marcus felt the man on his left shift. He ignored Liam and reached out his hands to hold on to the coat sleeves of the men hemming him in. He kept his voice low and steady, but loud enough that Liam and the two could hear him. “You two. Move away very slowly. There’s a bomb on the floor. Between my feet.”
He felt both men pull back and saw them stare downward. Saw the scarred one’s eyes widen. Heard him whisper, “Fucking Jesus.”
“Keep your mouth shut and move slowly,” said Marcus. “Very slowly.” The men backed off.
Liam craned over the counter, eyes wide, mouth open. “You sure that’s a bomb?”
“Dynamite. Can you get them out without starting a stampede? If they shake it too much it’ll go off.”
Liam’s whistle, shrill, piercing, echoed from the low ceiling. Marcus looked over his shoulder. All faces were turned to the barman. Liam spoke. “Right.” He pointed at Marcus. “Your man here’s found a bomb.”
A low muttering filled the little room. Several men started to rise. Marcus saw big Eamon’s mouth open in a perfect O.
“Shut the fuck up.” Liam sounded like a sergeant major and was obeyed with the same kind of unquestioning servility. “He says if we jiggle, it it’ll blow. I want everyone out, quietly, and, for fuck’s sake, walk lightly.”
Men made for the door. Marcus watched them go. If he’d any sense he’d go with them.
Liam picked up a telephone.
“Who are you calling?”
“The army. I don’t want my bar blew up.”
“They’ll take too long to get here. Have you pliers?”
“Pliers?”
“Jesus, Liam, I work with explosives.”
“Can you fix it?”
“I can try.”
“Right,” said Liam, “they’re in the back.”
“Quick as you can.” Marcus stood for a moment. He glanced round. Everyone was out—yes, Eamon and Jimmy were gone—except him and Liam. What the hell was he doing? To hell with it. He’d made his decision. He’d have to live with it—he hoped. He knelt beside the bag, regretting that he was not wearing his Kevlar armour.
A voice said, “Here. Pliers.”
Marcus took the tool. Good, there was a built-in wire cutter. He laid the pliers close to hand. “Get out, Liam.”
“Right.”
Marcus took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He reached for the flap, noticing the slightest tremor in his fingers. He lifted the flap. Let’s see. Charge? Six red sticks. Detonator? Nothing protruded from any of the dynamite. The blasting cap must be down there somewhere.
The damn saltcellar was buried in a rat’s nest of red and blue wires. Far too many for a simple circuit. Lots of extra wires to confuse any bomb-disposal expert. Detonator below somewhere. No chance of simply cutting a wire. He’d have to untangle the whole bloody lot to find the right ones.
He straightened his back. That saltcellar contained a ball bearing. If the thing was dislodged, it would fall and land on two metal terminals and the circuit would be completed. He gave a small, involuntary shudder. He couldn’t simply pick up the bag and carry it into the backyard. The metal ball might fall. For a second he gave a thought for the Protestant paramilitary man who had brought the bomb in here. It would have been easy enough to transport the thing with the saltcellar upside down. The ball bearing would be snug against the narrow end of the glass. That’s what he’d been doing fumbling in the bag. Putting the bloody booby trap the right way up.
And Marcus had never heard of a device like this rigged only with a saltcellar fuse. There had to be a timer in there somewhere, too.
So. Dynamite. Two detonating circuits and a mess of wires. The saltcellar would fire nothing, as long as it wasn’t moved. It would be nice to get it out of the way, though, then go after the timer.
He reached gingerly forward, surprised to see that now he was immersed in his work the tremor had vanished. He grasped the top of the cellar. Holding it firmly, he moved the wires aside. He worked his fingers lower, feeling the wires against the back of his hand. Under the cellar, he turned his hand.
Crafty buggers. He couldn’t tell how many wires were soldered to the metal base. It wouldn’t be a simple snip-snip to disable it. It could take quite some time to sort out which wire was a dummy and which was live. He didn’t have that kind of time.
His hand burrowed more deeply, searching, until his fingers hit something round and smooth. There was a tiny knurled button at one side of the circumference. Wristwatch timer. Set to go off when? The last time he had looked at his own watch, it had been just after eight thirty. He could see its face now, on his left wrist, six inches from where his fingers were clamped round the saltcellar. Eight fifty-five. He’d bet his life the timer below was set for nine. A tiny smile touched his lips. Bet his life. Five minutes.
He willed his breathing to slow. Christ, his fingertips had started to sweat. He shifted his grip on the cellar and heard a tiny, tinny noise. The ball bearing had shifted. He froze.
Eight fifty-six. Gently, gently, he started to withdraw his right hand, moving the wires as little as possible. The timer in his fingers followed. Gently. It snagged. He pushed his hand more deeply into the satchel, paused, withdrew at a different angle, and gained another two or three inches before the damn thing snagged again.
Eight fifty-seven. Back in. Different angle. Withdraw. It was coming. His fingertips appeared above the surface of the tangle of wires. He could see the face of a cheap wristwatch. The minute hand had been removed and a brass screw driven into the face at exactly nine o’clock. Hour hand touches screw: kablooie. It was 8:58.
He pulled. The watch came closer. He could see the wires attached to the back of the case. Two of them. Marcus laid the watch on top of the tangle and reached for the pliers. Damn it, he was hamstrung. He daren’t let go of the saltcellar and yet he’d need one hand to steady the wires from the timer and one to work the wire cutter.
Less than two minutes. If he ran he might have a chance of getting clear. He mouthed, “Fuck i
t,” let go of the saltcellar, and heard the tinny sound again. He ignored it.
Eight fifty-nine. Marcus lifted the watch, slipped the pliers beneath, and severed one of the leads. He bent it away from any possible contact with the watch case. He snipped the other and dealt with it. He held the watch in his hand, exhaling deeply as silently, jerkily, the hand advanced and stuck on the top of the brass screw. Beat you, you bastard.
Now. That booby trap. It worked if the ball bearing inside fell down. That should be fairly simple to deal with by making down up. Marcus grasped the satchel in both hands and inclined it sideways. Gradually, he increased the angle until the bag lay on its side. He paused and wiped his hands on his trouser legs. He took hold of the bottom corners and turned the thing until it was almost inverted. Not completely. At this angle the ball bearing could not roll to the business end of the saltcellar.
Marcus took a grip on the dynamite sticks. They moved fairly easily. The dynamite came loose. He inhaled. He could see the blasting cap sticking out from one of the sticks. He laid the bundle on the floor and eased the detonator free. He exhaled.
He wasn’t out of the woods yet, though. If the switch made its connection, there was enough force in the fulminate of mercury to blow off his hand. He laid the detonator on the floor, hunted for the pliers, found them, and severed the leads to the blasting cap.
Marcus Richardson stood slowly, feeling the kinks in his knees and the stiffness in his back. His hands, which for the duration of the work had been rock-steady, were shaking again. He was proud of having forced himself to confront and master his fear, but he knew that nothing on God’s green earth could persuade him to carry on as an ATO. He hoped his heroics had been worth it. Ignoring the materials lying beside him, he walked through the deserted room. He saw unfinished drinks at every table, a pool of Guinness, black and scummy, on the floor where a glass had been overturned.
The street outside was deserted. In the neon glow, he could make out a familiar face peering round the gable end of a house. He heard Jimmy’s voice. “Mike. Get over here.”