Pray for Us Sinners

  “What?”

  “You heard.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. I’ve had enough.” Davy’s fingers tightened. “Take my advice. Make it your last one, too.”

  “I suppose that’s up to you. I still want to get involved.”

  “Jesus, I knew you’d say that. I suppose I’d have been disappointed if you hadn’t.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve been watching you. You’ve guts. I don’t want to see them spilled.”

  “Come on now, Davy.” This was crazy. Marcus was setting Davy up to be arrested, yet he felt pleased that he had not “disappointed” the big man, had enjoyed his praise and his concern.

  “I mean it, son. I mean it, but it’s your choice. I’ll put in the word if you want me to.” Davy nodded toward the plastique. “Maybe we should get started.”

  “Great.” Marcus hummed the first bars of the triumphal march from Aida, then realized that it was not the kind of thing Mike Roberts would know and changed to a pop song.

  “What’s that tune?”

  Marcus’s smile was very wide. “It’s called ‘Spinning Wheel.’” He began to sing the words. “What goes up, must come down—”

  FIFTY-FIVE

  WEDNESDAY, APRIL 17

  “So far, so good,” Brendan McGuinness said.

  Sean said nothing.

  Brendan grinned. “We got the judge and we scared the bejesus out of the peelers in Comber.”

  “We lost three men yesterday—two dead, the other one picked up at the Holywood Arches.”

  “You get casualties in a war.”

  “Give over, for God’s sake.”

  Brendan sat. “This morning went off like a breeze. The paper said we killed four soldiers, a fireman, and that bloody reporter.” He jabbed his finger on the tabletop. “Do you know how many of the Security Forces were up the Shankill this morning?”

  “No.”

  “Thirty. Peelers, soldiers, bomb-disposal men. And that’s only a start. We’ll be able to get nearly a thousand tied up tomorrow.”

  “Good. Davy’s going to need all the help he can get.”

  “He’ll have it. Have you organized the sheepmen?”

  “Aye. The action squad goes into Norman Johnston’s farm at four tomorrow morning. They’ll have plenty of time to get the flock ready. What about the motorbike?”

  “It’ll be delivered tonight. I doubt if he’ll need it, but it’ll be there. Just in case. I just hope your man McCutcheon will be up to his job tomorrow.”

  “Don’t worry about Davy.”

  “I won’t. I’ve more to worry about than him. My man called.”

  “Oh?”

  “He’s been busting his arse. The bloody MPs wanted to take the direct Lisburn–Hillsborough road. He had to work like hell to persuade them that if there was going to be an attack on Wilson, the best way to avoid it was to use an unexpected route.”

  “Good for him.”

  “He told me something else.” Brendan had decided that now that the Wilson attack was almost over, it was time to tell Sean about the new British agent. There was no reason for him to know that Brendan had known about the bastard for weeks.

  “The Brits have a new undercover man in New Lodge.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Some lad who calls himself Mike Roberts. I’m going after him once the big one’s over.”

  * * *

  Marcus sat in the kitchen as he and Davy waited for dark. “So,” said Marcus, “what’ll we do to while away the shining hour?”

  Davy shook his head. “You’re still not one bit bothered, are you?”

  “Not much. I was pissed off at first when you told me I wasn’t going to get to meet the big lads for a while, but this here’s great, so it is.”

  Great? Jesus, Davy thought, as he packed the charges and the wires into his canvas carryall. “The detonators and the receiver’ll fit in my tool kit.” He hesitated as if coming to a decision. “I’ll do the rest myself.”

  “Worried I might blow myself up?” Marcus did not want to seem too eager, but he knew he had to get to the receiver to disable it.

  “I shouldn’t have brought you. It’s not your fight. I want you out of here.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll find you when it’s over. I’ll put in the word with the CO.”

  “Shit, Davy, I’ll not be used. You couldn’t make the charges, so you kidnapped me to do it for you.”

  “Aye.”

  Marcus stabbed a finger at Davy. “You owe me the chance to finish the job. And what the hell are you going to do if you fall in the fucking river again?”

  Davy said nothing.

  “Davy, two of us can do the job in half the time.”

  “Aye. Well.”

  “You know it. Don’t you?” Davy was backing down. “Davy, I want to help.”

  Davy pushed the carryall aside and sat silently before saying, “On your own head be it.”

  Marcus grinned. “Thanks.”

  “But I’ll carry the detonators.”

  “Fair enough—Mammy.”

  “Mammy?”

  “Aye. You’re trying to look after me like an old broody hen. I know about the risks of fulminate as well as you do.”

  Davy offered his hand. “Thanks, son.”

  They shook, and Marcus, not knowing what to say, let the silence hang between them.

  Davy coughed and held his fist before his mouth, using his curled index finger to smooth his moustache. He turned and faced Marcus. “I don’t know about all the stuff going on now.”

  “What about it?”

  “Army Council. They reckon we can make the Brits go home if we cost them too much. Wreck businesses and fuck up civilian life. The more we bomb, the more it costs, the more fed up the Brits get.”

  “Do you not think it’ll work?”

  Davy snorted. “I doubt Army Council ever heard about Dunkirk. The harder you push the English, the tighter they hold on. They don’t have a fucking bulldog for a mascot for nothing.” He put his hands in the small of his back. “Jesus, I gave that a right wrench last night. Anyway. I don’t think hitting soft targets is right.”

  “But you’re not worried about tomorrow?”

  “The army’s fair game. It’s probably some general’ll be in the car.” He hesitated. “As long as it goes all right.”

  “Why shouldn’t it?”

  “The last one was a right fuckup. Right bollocks.”

  Silence.

  Davy moved back to the table. He stood, resting his hands on the edge. He pushed out his lower lip. “I’m going to tell you about a wee girl—a wee girl in a motorcar.”

  “Davy, you don’t have to.” Marcus shifted uncomfortably. He was unused to older men unburdening themselves.

  “I want to. By God, Mike, I want you to understand.”

  Marcus listened, heard the story, heard Davy’s remorse. When the big man finished, Marcus groped for the right words, knowing that any suggestions that the Hanrahan girl had been a casualty of war would be dismissed. Yet he knew he had to try.

  “Come on, Davy. You know it was an accident.”

  “There’s been too many accidents. I want no more. I’m finished after tomorrow. Fiona and me’s going to Canada.”

  Fiona? Who the hell was Fiona? Leave it, Marcus told himself.

  Davy said, “I’ve had enough. I’m telling you this because you’re a decent lad. I wanted you out because there’s no need for you or Siobhan to get tied up the way I was. No need for you to be a fucking murderer.”

  “Davy. You’re not a murderer. You’re a soldier.” Marcus searched for the right words, “One of the Fianna.”

  “Aye. Finn MacCool’s bodyguard. Right enough.”

  Despite the bitterness in Davy’s voice, Marcus could see that the thought had comforted him.

  “I think you’re a good man, Davy McCutcheon.” And Marcus knew that he meant what he had just said.


  * * *

  Davy laboured along and envied the easy lope of the younger man as he made his way through the furrow closest to the hedge. The night was clear, and a clear night meant dew. Unless they kept out of the grass they would leave a shining trail—like the path laid by a snail, and just as obvious in the sun’s morning rays.

  It was heavy going in thigh boots, the mud of the field clinging to their soles. Davy found relief in remembering Mike’s words. “I think you’re a good man, Davy McCutcheon. You know it was an accident.” Decent of the lad to say that. It helped. Just a bit. But it hadn’t been an accident. Davy knew he was guilty as sin. Tried and convicted in his own soul. And if there was the hell that the bloody priests ranted on about, that’s where he was going.

  The toe of his boot snagged in a root. Davy stumbled and clutched the toolbox tightly to his chest; then his shoulder hit the soft earth as he measured his length. He lay still for a moment, letting out his breath in a long gasp. Jesus. Going to hell? If the jolt of the fall had fired the blasting caps, he’d be there now.

  “You all right?”

  “I’ll live.” Davy stood.

  “At least you don’t have to swim in a field. Here, give me the toolbox.”

  “Be careful with that.” Davy immediately regretted his words. How careful had he been? “Come on.” He rubbed his palms together to wipe away the mud and set off for the gateway.

  It was dark as the pit of hell beneath the bridge. Mike was saying something. Davy bent his head to hear.

  “Can you hold on to the toolbox and give me a hammer and a big screwdriver?”

  Davy took the box and opened the lid. The receiver, wires, and caps were snug where he’d put them, in a nest he’d made of strips torn from an old towel. “Here.”

  “Thanks.”

  Davy heard a scraping noise overhead. Mike must be loosening the mortar round one of the granite blocks. The scraping went on and on, the only sound louder than the gurgling of the stream against his legs.

  Clangggg. Jesus. Mike had hit the screwdriver a clout with the hammer. The noise was magnified under the bridge, and in the stillness of the night Davy was sure the racket must have been heard in Thiepval Barracks, only a few miles away. Clangggg. Davy crouched and turned to look out into the night. No signs of life. No headlights. Clangggg.

  “Out of the way, Davy.”

  The granite block splashed into the water.

  “One,” said Mike. He was panting. “Here, gimme the box.”

  Davy handed it over.

  “Where’d you put the staples?”

  “Top end.”

  Davy waited, flinching with every hammer stroke as Mike pounded in two rows of staples, one on either side of the cavity. Nylon rope from the barn would be strung between the staples to support the charges.

  “Done,” said Mike. “Your turn.”

  Davy followed Mike to the far side of the centre of the arch. He had a hand over his head, the pale skin just visible in the darkness. “This one.”

  Davy felt the rough, clammy stone and the raised and cracked cement that bound it to its fellows. “Right.” He began to work and was amazed at how easily the mortar fell away, but the work took longer than he had thought. The stone was well anchored. Davy was sweating by the time he was able to rock the block in its bed. “Give us a bit of that cloth packing.” Davy bound the rough material round the head of the hammer. “Out of the way.” He held the screwdriver firmly and hit it an almighty belt. The noise was less, muffled by the toweling.

  “I should have thought of that,” Mike said.

  Davy smiled. The old dog could still teach the pup a trick or two. He grunted and swung the hammer.

  * * *

  The final block to be removed was a hoor, smack in the centre of the span. Mike swayed as he scraped. After twenty minutes he climbed down. “I’m buggered. You have a go.”

  Davy took the screwdriver, felt for the groove above his head, and began to work. The perspiration from his previous efforts had not dried, and when he started to chip away at the mortar, he was cold. Half an hour later, the sweat blinded him, his shoulder was on fire—but the stone was loose.

  “Hammer.” He took the heavy tool, steadied himself, and belted the head of the screwdriver. Cement rained onto Davy’s head and the block tore free, plummeting down and hitting him a glancing blow on his thigh. The twisted bone protested, and he fought not to cry out. Biting down hard on his lower lip, he screwed his eyes tight shut and waited for the pain to pass. There’d be a bloody great bruise there tomorrow.

  “You all right, Davy?”

  He felt a steadying hand on his arm. “Aye. Just a minute.” The pain was less now. Bearable. Davy leaned on Mike’s shoulder and stepped down into the water. “Jesus, that rock hit me a queer dunt.”

  “Here. Take the toolbox. I’ll knock the staples in and make the grooves for the wires.”

  Davy moved to the side of the stream and leaned against the abutment, taking the weight off his bad leg. He could hear the scraping as Mike dug channels between the blocks. The wires from the receiver to the detonators would be hidden in there.

  Davy froze as the barking of dogs tore the night, becoming louder, more insistent by the moment. A man yelled, “Shut the fuck up, Landy.” A door slammed, and the dog obeyed its master.

  Davy held his breath for a long time. Mike must have crouched. Davy sensed the movement as his companion straightened up and said, “Fucking dog. I near filled my pants.”

  “Me, too.” Davy allowed himself a dry laugh. “Sounds carry at night. It must be away to hell and gone.”

  “Come on, let’s get finished and out of here.”

  “Right,” said Davy.

  “I’ll only be a minute.”

  Davy waited as Mike moved upstream to collect the carryall. “Come on,” he said as he stepped back under the haunch. Davy followed. “Here,” said Mike, “hold you the bag.”

  Davy took it and tightened his muscles. Sixty pounds of Semtex was heavy enough.

  Mike reached into the bag and produced the first charge. He lifted it over his head and said, “Fits like a glove. Give us the rope.”

  Davy pulled a length from the bag and handed it over. He waited, knowing that Mike would be anchoring the plastique into the cavity left by the granite block.

  “Done. Next.” Mike moved downstream. Davy followed.

  Setting the charges didn’t take long. And it was a good thing, too. That fucking Landy might start howling again. “Detonators?”

  “Aye.”

  Davy waded back to the bank. The ache in his leg was there, but, thank God, not as insistent. He’d known worse. He lifted the lid of the toolbox and took the blasting caps and their attached wires from their toweling nest. Three number 6 detonators connected in sequence, and the command wires to go to the receiver. One last check. Davy touched the wires to the posts of the galvanometer. He couldn’t see the needle in the dark. It had been all right when they’d tested the circuit back at the farmhouse, but you were always meant to run a final check before the detonating circuit was fitted to the charges.

  “Mike.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t see the galvanometer.”

  “Hang on.”

  Davy heard the gentle splashing.

  Mike said, “Have you a match?”

  Davy rummaged in his pocket.

  “You watch the dial, Davy.”

  “Right.”

  Davy heard the scrape, saw the flare and the flicker of the needle across the dial. “It’s OK.”

  * * *

  Fitting the detonators to the charges and burying the wires in their precut grooves took little time. The two men brought handfuls of mud from the riverbank to plaster the dark earth around the edges of the three charges and along the grooves where the wires ran. Davy hoped that it would dry slowly and still hide the wires—at least until midday tomorrow.

  Together, they ran the command wires into the ivy that covered the
abutment. The receiver would be well hidden among the leaves, just the tip of the tiny aerial sticking out.

  Mike grunted. “Where’s the whigmaleerie?”

  Och, Mike, Davy thought. He was never able to be serious for too long. It was a bit like having Jimmy along, him and his always acting the buck eejit. Mind you, now that they were nearly finished, Davy could feel his own tension ebbing. “It’s in the tool kit. I’ll get it.”

  Davy handed the receiver to Mike, who made the final splice to the command wire. “That’s her,” he said. “Have you the screwdriver?”

  “What for?”

  “Just want to check that joint we soldered.”

  Davy laughed. “I checked it last night. And I soldered the back of the receiver shut.”

  FIFTY-SIX

  WEDNESDAY, APRIL 17

  It had been so simple the way he’d planned to slip off the back of the receiver and snap a wire. Marcus sat by the embers in the fireplace, berating himself. He’d painted himself into a hell of a corner.

  Last night when he’d heard Davy working at the range, he’d assumed the man was making tea. He’d been soldering the back onto the receiver. To waterproof it, he said.

  Jesus Christ on a crutch. Now the pair of them were stuck in the farmhouse, and under the bridge was a perfectly constructed line of demolition charges—set, wired, live, and ready to blow the span, the army convoy, and the VIP all over the fields of County Down. Marcus felt like the crazy colonel in Bridge on the River Kwai, working like a beaver for the enemy. He should be whistling “Colonel Bogey.”

  He watched Davy pour boiling water into two glasses. The older man had his back turned, and Marcus wondered if he could take Davy by surprise. Probably, but that would put paid to any hopes of introductions to the senior Provos. Now that he was so close to completing his mission, Marcus was determined to see it through. There had to be a way to stop the explosion yet still retain Davy’s trust. There might be a way—if Marcus could get to the phone.

  Davy came over with a couple of glasses. “Here, get that into you.”

  “What is it?”

  “A wee hot half.”

  The whiskey, sugar, and hot water smelled good. “Sláinte.”