Flu (17 page)

    He fired two shots through her skull, her little head exploding more dramatically than the others, as if more delicate. Once done, Norman stood at the doorway, handgun still smoking in his hand. His head hung low. He dimmed the torch quietly, reverently. His mind travelled back to the tower block at Finaghy. To flat 23. To the little girl, probably scuttling around there, every bit as (un)dead as all the other quarantined. He wished he hadn't done that. Of all the many questionable things he had done in life, that quarantine, that visit to the tower block, was what Norman Coulter regretted the most.

    He stepped out of the storeroom quickly, turning to look at the other man who was still bent double, retching. The smell in the shop was almost unbearable. Rancid flesh, pickled by spilt alcohol. And now the fresh puke of his fellow survivor. He could almost taste the virus in his mouth. Everything here was contaminated.

    "Let's just get out of here," Norman said, pulling the other man's arm as he made for the door.

Chapter Fourteen

Pzzt.
"We have the target area in sight, sir. But the area is heavily populated with hostiles. There's no way we can land."
Pzzt.

    Jackson held the radio mic to his mouth. "Circle the tower block. See if there's any sign of life."

    "The target's reacting, sir…" Gallagher said, tapping the screen with a long finger nail. They were still watching the quarantined flat on the monitors on the wall. "It's moving more quickly," he said pointing at the image of the shadow on the screen as it got over-excited. Unfortunately, the target, as Gallagher called it, wasn't reacting the way they had hoped. In fact, it seemed the 'target' was hiding.

    "Damn," whispered Jackson. He ran a hand through his greasy hair, turning and fixing Gallagher with a stressed look. The good doctor was far from stressed, of course, with a look resembling amusement etched across his long, pale face. "Any ideas?" Jackson asked him.

    "I suggest, sir, that your plan is solid. Have the helicopter circle the building a few more times. There may be a number of survivors in there. Drawing them out could be used to our advantage…"

    Jackson watched as the young, bedraggled private at the control panel switched views.

    "This one is from a camera looking unto the flats," he said. "You can get a good view of our boys' approach."

    They watched as the helicopter continued its orbit of the tower block, all eyes glued to the array of screens on the wall, showing a variety of angles. Jackson began to wonder how they got those cameras all fitted without the locals noticing, without anyone questioning the alleged maintenance work being carried out. Of course, having worked for The Chamber, he knew how easily they negotiated such seemingly impossible barriers. And how brutally.

    Pat was in a dark room, sitting on a chair. He was wearing a white shirt, once ironed to perfection by his wife, now stained by nervous sweat. His hands were tied behind his back. A light shone down on his tortured but clean face like the moon itself - bright, sombre, sinister. Shadows filled the walls, dancing as if part of some hellish puppet show.

    A man moved towards him, another man pulled him back, whispering something in his ear. The first man came towards him, again. Pat could hear his heels scraping the floor, as if being dragged.

    "We have your wife, Patrick…" the man said, his face completely hidden under the shadows of the light. His voice was smooth, like velvet, and perfectly intonated. Melodic, almost soothing, and polite to a fault. "She'll be charged for resisting arrest. Oh, and assaulting a member of the armed forces. Let's not forget that, of course."

    Pat spat in the direction of the voice's face. The man said nothing, but a charge of electricity raced through Pat's body, rinsing out pain that made him cry out involuntarily. Sweat and urine spread across his skin, the sudden attack of dampness making him feel both hot and cold at once.

    "Leave her alone, you -"

    "Now, now, Patrick," the first man said, leaning closer. Pat noticed his silhouette was tall, lean. "You play nice with us, and we'll play nice with you. And your good lady wife, fine looking woman that she is…"

    "You SCUM!" Pat yelled, trying to shake his hands free from the chair. It was no use. He shook the chair, frantically, growling like a mad dog, such was his frustration.

    The second man drew closer now, moving out of the shadows. He sighed as he looked at Pat.

    "Just tell us what we need to know…" he said to him, his deeper voice lending a serious tone to his words. "Please tell us, Pat. For everyone's sake…"

    "Fuck you," Pat said, simply.

    "Okay…" the first man said, walking back towards the door to the room. Pat could hear him muttering something out in the corridor. There was the sound of a struggle as someone else was dragged into the room by a pair of other men. "Just sit him down there," the first man ordered them.

    "Who's there?" Pat asked, still unable to see anything beyond shadows and silhouettes.

    "Daddy?" a voice said, nervously.

    "Sean?" Pat called. "Sean, is that you?"

    The second man came closer again. "Tell us, Pat," he said, his voice shaking with either anger or frustration. "Tell us, or God knows what's going to happen to the boy."

    "Daddy, don't tell them nothin'!" Sean protested.

    "Okay, that's enough," said the first voice. They bundled Sean out as quickly as they had bundled him in.

    "Wait!" Pat called, irritably. "Where are you taking him? Sean! SEAN!"

    But Sean was gone, the sounds of his voice fading. The two men hung in the shadows, as if building momentum. As if allowing what had just happened to digest, to sink in. Then they both came closer to Pat again, their feet dragging across the floor even slower than before.

    "One last chance, Pat," the lower voice said, drawing close to his ear.

    "We could make him disappear…" the more polite voice whispered, dramatically.

    "You -" Pat said, tears rinsing from his eyes in anger and frustration. He could hear the two men continuing to talk to him, continuing to reason, but he wasn't taking it in. He was too angry, too feral. Their words were garbled, their sounds soaring in volume as he sat there, tied to the chair, in that darkened room, crying like a baby. The words were nonsensical, now, mere jibberish, speeding up as if on fast-forward, rising in the air, circling around him, racing through him. He could hear it everywhere, as if it were some sort of machine, now. Relentless, frightful. Loud and obnoxious.

    His eyes flicked open. Pat was lying on top of his bed in the flat, still dressed. But he could still hear the sound of the babbling voices, insidiously close to him. It penetrated the silent room like some kind of huge engine. He realised it wasn't voices he was hearing. This was something else.

    Karen appeared at his door, hair all over the place and face spotty. She was talking to him, shouting at him, but her voice was lost under the deep monotony of the other sound. She ran back out, leaving the door to Pat's room swinging in the sheer excitement of the moment. Pat followed her out into the main living area of their flat. She was standing at the window, her window to the world, looking out upon all that was forbidden to her. The blinds were wide open. When she saw him, she started pointing. Her lips were moving, but the words were still lost in that all-consuming noise. It was like some kind of silent movie playing out before him. As if he were still dreaming.

    Pat followed her gaze, finding the source of the noise. A helicopter hung in the air, right outside their flat, the face of the pilot staring in at them. It was a green military helicopter and Pat immediately recognised it as the standard RAF Wessex, often used to transport the Army to and from operations in Northern Ireland. His heart sank as he spotted it, a cold sweat splashing against his spine like the very electric they had used against him all those years ago. He felt a sudden rage swell up within him, his hands immediately reaching for the bag behind the sofa.

    "Get away from the window," he spat at Karen, but his voice was as uselessly silent as hers. She looked at him, baffled. "NOW!" he stressed, but she still looked confused. He unzipped his bag, retrieving his AR 18 rifle. He quickly clicked the thirty-round mag into place.

    But Karen was yelling at him, her words lost in the deafening noise of the helicopter. She was rushing to him and grabbing his hands. She fought him viciously for the rifle. She sank her teeth into his arm, the sharpness of the bite tearing Pat's skin as if she was a wild dog. As if she had suddenly turned into one of the dead. He wrestled with her, trying to shake her off, surprised at how strong she was. How determined. The noise of the rotaries was even louder now that they drew closer to the open window, Karen still hanging off his arm, tears breaking from her crazed eyes like drunken piss. But he couldn't let her deter him. He couldn't let her get her way.

    Pat shook his rifle free with one arm, grabbing Karen's neck with the other. He pushed her away from the window, quickly grabbing the rifle with both arms to bring the butt of it across her face. She hit the ground, hard and fast. Turning the rifle, Pat opened fire on the helicopter a slow hail of bullets rattling out the open window. The helicopter immediately turned, evasively, several shots piercing its shell as it retreated.

    And then it was gone. As the noise receded into the fresh, cool air, Pat could make out the incessant crying of the girl on the floor. She looked up at him, her face damp, bloodied. Her sobs were aimed at him, angrily. It was as if she was howling at him like some angry, wounded wolf.

    There were times, Pat thought, when you had to do a terrible thing in order to do a good thing. A moment of evil for the greater good. He had held dear to this theory all through his service with the IRA. Even during interrogation. Even when they took his wife from him, his son… Even when the so-called 'peace process' had pissed all over his efforts from a great height whilst lining the pockets of the politicians - the people who he thought had been 'representing' him. The people who he had trusted to stand steadfastly against the empirical corruption of the British government. The people he had lost so much by protecting… To Pat, they hadn't found peace. Not real peace, on their terms. They had traded their integrity for a pay packet, for more power, more responsibility. They had made a mockery of him and people like him. They had made a mockery of his family, his boy… and all the people he had done terrible things to, in the name of 'the cause'.

    Pat unclipped the rifle's magazine, mechanically and without thinking. He slipped it all back into the bag as if to hide it. He sat down on the sofa, and he waited for Karen to stop crying. His face was hard. Heavy.

    "What did you do?" she asked, still damp. Still on the floor, like a broken doll. But she knew what he had done. And Pat thought for a moment that she knew that he
would
do it. A part of Pat considered that she knew it all along, but needed to test it, in some way. To test him.

    "I helped you," he said. "I kept you safe."

    She stared at him, face saturated with tears and anger. But something else was there, something new. There was hate in her eyes. He wondered if it was hate for him or hate for herself. Or hate for both of them and the world in which they now inhabited. He felt very sorry for her. She looked
beyond
broken, now. It was as if this helicopter thing was the last straw, and her back was now shattered.

    He suddenly wished he had blown it out of the sky. He hoped he'd at least nailed one of the crew with his shooting. Those fuckers deserved what they got. They had a lot to answer for - stealing a young girl's hopes like that.

    She lay on the floor, keening. Her long, sequinned skirt glistened in the sunlight. There was a stain in it that looked like blood. Her blood. The innocence that once radiated from her hung out to dry like dirty washing. This was her moment of transformation, thought Pat. This was her butterfly moment. When her young, spotty, innocent face would take on a harsher, older pallor. And it was for the best, Pat decided.

    For the greater good.

    "They aren't the good guys," he said quietly and calmly to her. "They never were."

    "Wessex Two, what's your status?" Jackson said into the mic. Banging his other hand on the table, he barked to the private operating the monitor control panel. "I want a better picture of who that is firing!"

    Pzzt. "Minimal damage, we think, sir. We're okay. Going to do an evasive circle of the city. Give us a chance to check our readings more closely." Pzzt.

    Even Gallagher appeared excited. Not nervous, of course. But definitely excited. "Roll in camera three," he said to the private. "That'll give us our best view." The private obliged, moving the camera as detailed by Gallagher, seemingly ignoring Jackson's agitated orders.

    Jackson reached for the bottle of vodka on the table. He poured the dregs down his throat, shaking his face as it disappeared. He felt himself hating Gallagher, intensely. This inhuman calmness of his. The constant undermining of his authority. He felt the booze swell his anger, sober logic dissolving like a tablet in water.

    "What are you doing?! I need that picture!" he yelled, dropping his empty bottle to the ground.

    "And I'm getting it for you, sir," the private said, continuing to close in on the image of the man firing. The man's face became more and more visible on the screen.

    "Okay, capture that image, private," Gallagher said, ever calmly. "We have our man, sir," he said to Jackson. As they watched, the private fed the image into some computer system on another one of the monitors. He proceeded to flip through various suggestions of who the suspect would be. "We were working towards a full database of offenders, sir," Gallagher said. "We only managed to get halfway through the project, but you never know what might pop up."