“‘Banished for all time’! We can do it, Sean. Kill Wilson, and the Prods’ll start tearing the province apart. Paisley would go fucking Harpic.”
Sean smiled at Brendan’s allusion to the Harpic lavatory cleaner’s slogan: “Clean round the bend.” And he might just be right. It could be the final nail in England’s coffin. Perhaps when Sean had told Davy that this one could win the war, he hadn’t been too far from the truth. “So, where do we go from here?”
“I’ve just heard. Wilson’s going to helicopter into Thiepval and be driven to Government House at Hillsborough on the eighteenth. Lisburn’s in First Battalion’s area of operations, so we don’t have to clear it with the County Down boys. We just need to finish the final arrangements, then get your man McCutcheon up here.”
* * *
Davy drained the glass and moved to the front of the bar.
Paddy Flynn said, “You’re looking cheerful the night, Davy. Another?”
“Aye.”
“Here y’are.” Flynn uncapped the dark bottle and took Davy’s money. “Haven’t seen you in for a brave while.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Right enough?”
“Aye.”
“Full of chat, as usual. Jesus, Davy, you’d talk the hind leg off a donkey.”
Davy craned over the bar. “Doesn’t seem to have fell off yet, Flynn.”
The barman guffawed. “You’re so fucking sharp you’ll cut yourself.”
“Aye.”
Davy moved back to his place against the wall. He tilted his glass, tide-marked with grey-white rings of foam, and poured from the bottle, slowly, watching the black beer rise, thinking of Fiona’s black eyes.
The patriot with the squint pushed past on his way to the bar. He jostled Davy’s elbow, spilling some of his beer. “Easy, son,” Davy said.
“Who the fuck’re you calling ‘son’?” The youth turned on Davy, forcing him to push back against the wall.
Davy could smell the whiskey on the boy’s breath, see the red vessels in the whites of his eyes. The wee shite needed a shave. He needed to learn some manners, too, but Davy was in no mood to teach him. “Forget it.”
“I said”—the youth swayed. His eyelids drooped. “I said, who the fuck are you calling ‘son’?”
“No one.”
A hand thumped into Davy’s shoulder, slamming it against the wall. He heard the crash as his glass hit the floor. He turned his face away to avoid the spittle as the drunk yelled, “Don’t you fucking well call me ‘son,’ you old cunt.”
Davy saw Flynn moving round from behind the bar, yelling, “Get you to hell out of that, Seamus Rourke.” Flynn could put an end to this.
“Look at me when I’m fucking well talking to you.” Rourke grabbed Davy’s hair. “Fuck, you. Look … at … me!”
Davy looked. Hard. His stare bored into the bloodshot eyes, six inches from his own. His voice was level. “Take your hands off me.”
“Fuck you.” Rourke darted his head forward. Davy pulled aside, but the hand in his hair held him. He managed to move so Rourke’s skull missed the bridge of his nose. He felt the smash on his right cheekbone.
He lashed his knee into Rourke’s crotch, feeling the crunch against the man’s pelvis and the pain flashing along his own badly set thigh bone. Hot breath whistled past his ear, the breath of a shriek cut short as Rourke tried to inhale and failed as he doubled forward, clutching his groin.
Davy lifted his right hand like an axe, fingers extended, the edge its blade, and aimed a vicious chop at the side of the man’s neck. Before making contact, he checked the swing, jerking his hand back up and away.
Rourke collapsed and lay on the floor in the spilled Guinness and broken glass, curled up like a baby, gasping like a stunned mullet. Davy lifted his knee to smash his boot into Rourke’s face and hesitated as the fighting madness flowed from him. He stood breathing deeply.
“You all right, Davy?” Paddy Flynn kicked the fallen youth in the ribs. “See you, Seamus Rourke? Youse is barred.”
He drew back his leg to kick again but Davy grabbed his arm. “Let him be, Paddy.”
Flynn spat on Rourke. “You, Arthur, get him the fuck out of here.”
The man called Arthur bent over Rourke, ignored his whimpering, hauled him to his feet, and yelled, “Give us a hand with this stupid—oh, Jesus.”
Rourke puked.
“Get him out.” Flynn snarled.
Davy clenched his teeth, trying to ignore the ache in his thigh, the throbbing in his cheek. The silence was broken only by weak retching sounds from Rourke. Davy heard Flynn say to the crowd, “That’s it. It’s all over. Pay no heed.”
Faces turned away. The hum of conversation started slowly and gradually rose. Arthur and another man dragged the semi-conscious Rourke toward the door.
“Sorry about that, Davy.” Flynn looked worried. “Did he get you?”
“I’ll live.” Davy rubbed his cheek, feeling the heat in the bruised skin, satisfied that the cheekbone was intact.
“Here.” Flynn slopped a generous measure of Bushmills into a glass. “Here, get this down you.”
“Thanks.” Davy took the glass, noticing how his hand shook. He drank the neat spirits.
“Shook you up a bit, Davy?”
“Aye.”
Flynn poured one for himself. “I thought you were going to murder him.” He sipped the whiskey. “When I seen the rabbit punch coming, I thought your man was a goner. You’d’ve broke his neck. Fucking good thing you pulled back.”
“Aye,” said Davy. “Aye. It was.”
FORTY-ONE
WEDNESDAY, APRIL 10
“You look like shit, McCutcheon.” McGuinness’s eyebrow rose.
“Some puppy took a poke at me in Flynn’s last night.”
“He must have fetched you a right one.” McGuinness’s lips smiled. His eye was flat.
“Aye. Head butt.”
McGuinness tutted. “I hear there was a time you’d not have let him do a thing like that.”
“I hear there was a time that young lad sang bass.” Davy’s gaze held McGuinness’s. The threat was in Davy’s voice: step outside anytime, boy. Anytime at all.
Sean sat with his back to the window, the afternoon light casting his long shadow across the tabletop.
Davy limped over. “Good to see you, Sean.”
“Are you all right, Davy?”
“Oh, aye.”
“Good. Sit down.”
Davy sat and waited for McGuinness to be seated opposite, beside Sean. McGuinness leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, one hand enfolding the other, cracking his knuckles.
“We need you now,” Sean said. “The big one’s set for the eighteenth.”
Davy glanced at McGuinness and back to Sean Conlon. “Military target?”
Sean nodded.
“What?”
“A convoy.”
Why the hell was that old song buzzing in Davy’s head again? The tans in their great Crossley tenders were rolling along to their doom … Soldiers. “Sounds like an important one.”
McGuinness spoke softly. “It is, Davy. It is.”
“Good,” said Davy. “I’ll make the bombs for you. Have you the Semtex?”
“We have.” Sean Conlon coughed. “But we’ll need you to do more than make the bombs, Davy.”
* * *
The red velvet curtains were closed against the dark outside. A map of Ulster lay unrolled on the table. McGuinness had gone next door. Sean stood at the far side of the table. Davy thought the CO looked tired, worried. “Cheer up, Sean. It’ll work.”
“What?”
“It’ll work.”
“Davy, I’m sorry to ask you to go out alone on this one. Honest to God I am.”
Davy shrugged. “Jimmy’s as well out of it and you’ve no other choice. You need an explosives man to set the charges. It’s not just a big bang you want. That bridge’ll have to come down at the right time. I’ll have t
o get the measurements of the span to figure out P.” Davy tried to recall the formula for calculating the amount of explosive.
“P?”
“Aye, the number of pounds of TNT.”
“But we’re giving you Semtex.”
“I know, Sean, but you calculate the amount of TNT, then divide it by 1.6.” He congratulated himself for remembering that much. “Semtex is about one and a half times more powerful than TNT.”
“Oh,” said Sean, obviously impressed. “So do you reckon about sixty pounds would be enough?”
“Why sixty?”
“Because the stuff comes in thirty-kilo boxes and that’s just a bit more than sixty pounds.”
“Dead-on,” said Davy, hoping he was right.
“Sixty pounds is a fair load. Are you sure you won’t need backup?”
“Jesus, Sean have we not just spent the last three hours thrashing this out? Look.” Davy pointed at the map. “The convoy leaves Thiepval Barracks on the eighteenth, right?”
Sean nodded.
“You want the target hit as it crosses this bridge between eleven thirty and twelve, so that means we can’t use a timer. Someone’s going to have to push the button at just the right minute. How many men does it take to push a fucking button?”
“One.”
“Right. Now, there’ll be heavy security and no decent cover near the bridge, so nobody can get near with an RPG or a mortar. Mortars is too inaccurate anyway.”
Sean nodded again.
“Someone’ll have to measure up and make the charges. I can do that a few days before.” Davy let the lie roll off his tongue. He knew damn well he had not fully understood what Roberts had tried to explain. Trouble was, he wouldn’t be able to get Roberts to prepare the charges in advance. He’d figure that out later. “All I have to do then is set the charges. If I can’t carry sixty pounds by myself, I should have packed this up years ago. I reckon I’ll get the Semtex in the night before. What are you looking so worried about?”
“What if the Brits sweep the bridge just before the convoy comes?”
“Christ, if the target’s as important as you say, the security people will go over the bridge with a fine-tooth comb days before, and it’ll be clean then. They’ll come back nearer the time, but they won’t be expecting to find anything. Not after their thorough search. Their dogs can’t sniff out Semtex, and I’m losing my touch if I can’t camouflage the plastique well enough for the kind of quick once-over the place will get the second time.” He smiled. “You don’t find things you know aren’t there.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“I am. Now, if it takes one man to set the explosives, the same man can watch for the convoy from that empty farmhouse.”
“Right.”
“So if I move in a few days in advance, I’ll be inconspicuous.”
“True.”
“By the same token, when the charges blow, the Brits’ll be all over the place like wasps from a broken nest. Do you reckon one man or a squad would have a better chance of getting away?”
“That’s another thing,” Sean said. “The getaway. You should be able to get out the way you went in, but just in case”—he pointed to the map where a cluster of symbols indicated a wood—“can you ride a motorbike?”
“Aye, certainly.”
“We’ll leave one inside that wood. If you can’t get out by car, head for the wood and take the bike.”
“You’d only get a whole action squad on a motorbike if they were in Duffy’s Circus.”
“All right, Davy.” Sean laughed at the allusion to the little one-tent show that still toured the country districts in the summer months. “You’ve made your point, but this is strictly a volunteer mission. You can back out now.”
“I want this one.” Davy hesitated. “You said this one’s so big it could win the war for us.”
“It might.”
“I’ve not asked you why, and I won’t, but after this one I want out.”
“You what? Jesus, Davy, don’t say that in front of Brendan.”
“Sean, how you sort him out is up to you, but I mean it. I’ve had enough. I’m out after this one.”
“Davy, you’ve been in all your life. We’re going to win. Why the hell do you want out now?”
Davy ran a hand through his hair. “Sean, I want a free Ireland as much as you. I don’t want it at the price men like McGuinness want to pay. Ten-year-olds and babies. And, Sean? You met Fiona once.” Davy knew that a pleading tone he had not intended had crept into his voice. He ploughed on. “She’ll have me back if I quit.”
Why was Sean staring at the painting of the pheasant and nodding his head? “All right, Davy.” Sean leaned across the table, hand outstretched. “I understand.”
Sean’s palm felt dry. “I’ll not let you down on this last one, Sean.”
“I know.”
“Right,” said Davy. “I’ll away on and get my bus.”
* * *
Brendan came into the room. “All set?”
Sean said, “He’ll do it all right. He’s a proud man, Davy. He insists on going in alone.”
“Good.”
“Could we not give him any backup?”
“We can do two things.”
“What?”
“We’ll set up diversionary raids all over the province the week before. Keep the Brits unsettled.”
“Have we time to arrange that?”
Brendan laughed. “It’s arranged already. For Christ’s sake, Sean, I want this to work. Now look,” he pointed at the map, “see that other farm there?”
“The one half a mile down the road from the bridge?”
“Aye. There’s a back road that swings by Davy’s farm just beyond it. Now. The first Saracen might get over the bridge. It could head for this road and cut him off from behind.”
“Shit.”
“Not if we put a squad in there.”
“What with? RPGs?”
“Sheep.”
“What?”
“Sheep. If the lads fire a rocket grenade, they’ll give themselves away. But if they let a flock of sheep onto the road, the Brits would be tangled up long enough, and there’s no law against sheep.”
“That’s bloody brilliant.” Sean smiled. “And I thought you were going to leave Davy on his own.”
* * *
The bus stopped at the end of the Lisburn Road before joining the traffic moving slowly round Shaftesbury Square. Davy sat on the upper deck thinking about his orders. The map with the directions to the farm was folded in his inside pocket. He put a hand to his left breast and felt the crackling of the paper. An old van, the kind farmers used, would be delivered to his house. The Semtex, remote-control detonator, and a weapon for Davy would be hidden in the van. Sean had smiled when Davy asked for a Heckler and Koch and told him he’d have to be satisfied with an ArmaLite.
Davy looked along the bus, distracted by the efforts of a mother to make her youngster sit down and stop making faces at the man in the seat behind. For a moment he wondered, but he knew the answer—Fiona would be too old for kids. He regretted the time they had wasted, but he’d waste no more. Now that he knew when it would be over, there was no reason not to phone her. He’d call tonight.
He told himself to forget about her and think about the job. He’d need his tools and some paint. Jimmy could get the paint. A wee lick of the right colour and the Semtex would look just like bits of the bridge supports. That would be the easy bit. The difficulty was figuring out how to destroy the bridge.
Davy understood that the size of the thing to be demolished influenced the size and weight of the charges. Without knowing the bridge’s dimensions, Roberts couldn’t prefabricate anything. There was a solution. Roberts would have to come on the raid. He’d said he wanted to help. Let him. Davy knew bloody well that McGuinness would have a fit if he found out. Sean wouldn’t be too happy, either. No one was meant to be involved in the PIRA until they had been thoroughly screened.
The most destructive spies were ones on the inside. The fucking British were forever trying to infiltrate the Provos.
But if Davy told Roberts he was being taken to meet the CO, he’d get into the van like a lamb. Once in a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, who was he going to tell? And come hell or high water, Roberts would make the charges.
The bus passed the end of the Grosvenor Road. Davy noticed that The Sting, one of last year’s big films was showing at the Grand Opera House. Paul Newman, Robert Redford, Robert Shaw, Charles Durning. Cast of bloody thousands. Not like next week, when there’d just be him and Roberts. And the convoy.
* * *
The phone box stank of piss. Davy thumbed through a damp telephone directory and found Fiona’s sister’s number. He dialed and closed his eyes, shutting out the square window frames—frames from which the glass had been smashed for as long as he could remember—“Brits Out” and “Fuck Paisley” daubed in black on the peeling red paint.
The line crackled.
“Hello?” He knew her voice at once. “Hello? Belfast 642376.”
“Hello. Fiona?”
“Can you speak up please? It’s a terrible line.”
“Fiona, it’s me. Davy.”
“Davy? Are you all right?” He heard her concern but refused to play on it.
“I’m fine. I just need to talk to you. Just for a wee while.” He waited, his fingers grasping the receiver.
“I see.” Her voice was noncommittal. “Well. I’ll listen.”
“Not on the phone. I—I need to see you.”
“Something’s wrong.”
“Not at all.”
He heard a chuckle. “God, but you’re still a stubborn, proud man, Davy McCutcheon.”
“Aye. Well.”
“But not too proud to ask for help?”
“No.”
“All right. What do you need to see me about?”
It wasn’t likely that public phones were bugged, but … “Look, I’ve one more wee errand to run.” She’d understand. He waited. Nothing but the crackling in his ear. “Once it’s done, I’m handing in my cards. For good. Jimmy said he seen you in Smithfield and you said—” He couldn’t finish the sentence.
“I meant it.” He heard a catch in her voice. “I’m still in love with you.”