Now and in the Hour of Our Death (28 page)

He stared at the nearest watchtower. Two khaki-clad soldiers were on duty. One was leaning on the low parapet, watching the two guards cross the open space. As far as Davy could tell, the other was reading something. Their machine gun was unattended, its barrel in its perforated external air-cooling jacket pointing lazily at the sky above.

Those soldiers were bored. They must have pulled sentry duty a hundred times. Men like that would be slow to respond, and Davy hoped that when things started to happen they wouldn't suspect anything out of the ordinary until it was too late. He knew that even if they did, it would be to the advantage of the senior men in the lorry. It should be on its way, as it would be every Sunday. The sentries would ignore it and concentrate on what was happening
inside
the perimeter wall. That's what Eamon had said.

Davy felt disappointed by how cynically the senior officers planned to use one hundred of their own volunteers as live decoys, but inwardly blessed Eamon for arranging that he, Davy, would be in the lorry, not left to walk across the compound with the others. He comforted himself with the thought that if the walkers did manage to get outside the wall, there was a fighting chance that, as they'd been instructed, they would be able to steal cars from the guards' car park. That's why they'd forced the captured guards to give up their car keys and their parking spot and plate numbers. If they did succeed, they were to scatter through the length and breadth of Northern Ireland.

Davy heard movement behind him and turned to see Gerard Kelly leading a large group of men into the room.

“'Bout ye, Gerard,” Bic McFarlane said. “No problems?”

Kelly scowled. “I'd to shoot your man Adams.”

“You kill him?”

“Dunno. He was lying on the floor with blood coming out of his head when I locked him in the Control Centre.”

Davy closed his eyes and pictured George Smiley with a shattered head. It was a good thing it hadn't come to that. A goose walked over Davy's grave.

“Tough,” said Bic, his voice matter-of-fact. “But you're OK?”

“Aye, certainly.”

“Dead on. Now get that there uniform on you.”

Kelly began to change.

Davy watched as Brendan McGuinness moved to the trussed Gate Lodge officer and kicked him in the ribs while saying, “You hear that, you shite? Adams got his. One peep out of you and you'll get it, too.”

The guard grunted through his gag. His eyes widened.

McGuinness pulled back his boot.

Davy slipped off his chair and stepped between them. “Leave the man be.”

“Who the fuck are you to be giving me orders, McCutcheon?”

Davy stood rock solid and stared McGuinness down.

A sound like a gunshot ripped through the room. Davy swung from McGuinness and stared through the window. A high-sided lorry was approaching. Behind it was a cloud of blue smoke. The bloody thing must have backfired.

“The lorry's coming,” he said, his voice level, not betraying the racing of his heart. Davy wiped his palms on the legs of Mr. Smiley's blue serge pants.

Eamon called from where he was hiding, “See, Davy. I told you it would be grand.”

Davy hoped to God Eamon was right. He looked out and saw that the two screws were strolling toward another block, H-6, as if they hadn't a care in the world. He wished he felt as carefree as they seemed.

 

CHAPTER 24

TYRONE. SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 25, 1983

All the cares of the world weighed on Sammy McCandless's narrow shoulders. Not even watching Erin coming toward him could cheer him up. Fretting about being found out every waking hour, aye, and hours when he should have been asleep, was bad enough, but since Cal popped into Sammy's cottage this morning his nerves had been as stretched tight as the strings of an overtuned fiddle. Cal said Erin wanted to see Sammy this afternoon. Did she really want to talk to him about going after the Brits?

He propped his bicycle against the wall of the O'Byrnes' farmhouse, picked his nose, bent, and snatched off his bicycle clips. What the hell did she want to see him for on a Sunday? Was it about Fiach?

Cal had told Sammy about the lad's death. The news, terrible enough, had given Sammy one hell of a shock that had settled down to a nagging headache. It had hit him hard because he'd had no notion of what had happened on Saturday. Sammy had been keeping to himself lately. He'd stayed home all day trying to fix a leak in his roof. He hadn't even bothered going down to the pub on Saturday night. At least if he'd had a few, he'd have earned the ache above his eyes, but he'd not seen nobody since Friday, not until Cal had come and, without as much as a “How are you, Sam?” had said, as calmly as if he was remarking that it was nice that the sun was shining, “The Brits got the Ballydornan arms dump in the wee hours yesterday morning.”

“They what?” Sammy bloody near shit himself. “You're having me on,” he said, hoping to Christ that Cal was making some kind of stupid joke.

“No, I'm not.” His eyes held no humour.

It was no joke. “Did Fiach get…?”

“They got him.” Sammy noticed the quaver in Cal's voice.

“They lifted him?” Pray God, for Fiach's sake, that was all. But if there had been an ambush, Cal or Erin would know someone had grassed. That fucking Spud had promised that he'd not go after the weapons if it might compromise Sammy.

“He's dead.” Cal's voice was as dark and cold as a trout pool in the Strule.

“What? Dead? Mother of God.” No. He couldn't be. At that moment Sammy reckoned
he
was dead.

“Och, Holy Jesus. I'm … I'm very sorry, so I am.” For Fiach or for himself? And if he was sorry for himself, was it because now he must carry the guilt of Fiach's death along with his shame for having been turned, or was it because he was terrified that he might have been rumbled? “What happened, Cal?”

“The peelers were round at our place yesterday. They said … they said it was just a routine patrol.”

Did Cal not believe them?

“They said they saw someone acting suspicious. He fired at them. They fired back. The suspect got himself killed.” Cal's voice was as acid as unripe rhubarb.

Sammy stared at Cal's face. One of his eyelids twitched. His eyes were red-rimmed. “Do
you
think that's what happened?” Did Cal not believe the police account? If he didn't, and, more importantly, if Erin didn't … Sammy could see himself, head shattered, his Judas money in his hand. He shuddered. He had to know what the O'Byrnes were thinking. Sammy glanced at the open doorway. Try to sound natural, he told himself, and said, “It must've been something like that. Nobody knew about the arms but us and none of us would have squealed.”

He knew it was risky even sowing those seeds in Cal's mind. Neither Cal nor Erin would have touted so that only left him as a suspect. It was chancy half-raising the subject, but he
had
to know what Cal believed. Sammy measured the distance to the door. One hint that Cal suspected, and he'd be out through there like a whippet. He hadn't a clue where he'd go, but he'd make a run for it. His headache pounded. He moved closer to the door and stared at Cal.

“I think…” Cal curled his lip. “I think for once maybe the buggers are telling the truth. Erin's not so sure.”

“What's she not sure about?” Sammy started to sidle sideways. He could see the sunlight on the grass outside, desperately wanted to feel its warmth. He felt cold as a witch's tit in the cottage.

“Maybe she's right,” Cal said, and his brows furrowed.

“Right about what?” Sammy felt a reef knot tighten in his guts. What was Erin suggesting? That it hadn't been a routine patrol?

“She says Fiach didn't even know how to fire an ArmaLite. He couldn't have shot at them, but they told us his gun had been fired … and they can prove that.”

What had Fiach's shooting a gun to do with anything?

Cal clasped one big fist in the palm of his other hand. He squeezed and Sammy could hear the knuckles crack. He looked again at the doorway. He'd make a run for it, would he? Cal would be after him like a foxhound on a hot scent, and those big hands would snap Sammy's thin neck as if it were rotten kindling.

“Erin thinks it was a patrol all right…” Had Sammy heard right? “But that they shot Fiach and then rigged it to look like he'd fired the gun.”

Sammy muttered, “Oh.”

Cal let his hands fall loosely. “To tell you the truth, Sam, it doesn't matter to me one way or the other. Fiach's dead, and that's an end to it.”

“I'd not put it past the peelers to do a thing like that.” A half hitch was untied in the knot in Sammy's stomach. “They're a bunch of shites,” Sammy said, thanking Christ that the peelers had had a good story ready. He'd no doubt that Fiach had been set up, but maybe Spud
had
kept his word about protecting Sammy after all. Fiach was dead. He couldn't tell anybody he'd been ambushed, and the story about a routine patrol was feasible—just. “Fucking shites.”

“That's not the half of what Erin called them.”

“Is Erin all right? She must be mortified, so she must.” Sammy's concern for her now that it seemed the immediate threat to him was gone overrode his constant fear for himself. “It'll be hard on her, hard on you, losing a wee brother like that.” Sammy tried to put his hand on Cal's arm, but Cal moved away. “I really am very, very sorry for your grief, so I am,” Sammy said.

“I'll be all right. So'll Erin.”

Sammy held his tongue, glad that they'd got away from the question of someone's having grassed. He watched as Cal straightened his shoulders and said levelly, “She says no amount of crying'll bring Fiach back. What we need to do for the wee lad is hit the buggers back. I agree with her.”

“What?” Was she planning some kind of reprisal?

“She wants you round at the farm this afternoon about three.”

“I'll be there.” Bloody right he would. Maybe, just maybe, the details of whatever she was planning would be the big one that could persuade Spud to get Sammy out. After his Christ-awful scare in the last few minutes, the sooner that happened, the better.

“Good.” Cal turned to the door. “I'll be running on.”

Sammy walked Cal out into the yard. The sun was still shining, and Sammy let its radiance warm him. “I'm going to Mass, Cal. I'll say a clatter of Hail Marys for Fiach's soul.” Sammy's voice faltered as he thought, and I'll say a wheen more for Sammy McCandless, as he crossed himself and murmured, “May he rest in peace.”

“Thanks, Sam. I'd appreciate that.” Cal walked to his van. “See you at three.”

“You will.”

And here he was, right on time, just like Cal had told him to be.

As Sammy waited for Erin to cross the barnyard, Tessie came out of her kennel, gave him a quick look, clearly recognized him, and without barking ran on to greet Erin. He watched her bend to pat the dog, the sun shining on her hair. She straightened, and Sammy wondered how she managed to smile at him, but that smile, as it always did, melted something in him.

“Erin,” he said as she drew level, “I'm awful sorry for your troubles, so I am. Cal told me.” He snatched off his cloth cap and bowed his head and, as he did, saw the dark shadow between the swell of the tops of her breasts in the
V
of the open neck of her blouse.

“Thanks, Sammy, but what's done's done.”

“Aye. Well…” Oh, Christ, with the light behind her, he could see her nipples, dark through the thin material. He tried not to stare as she said, “Come on in. Cal's waiting for us.”

Cap in hand, he followed her into the warm, familiar kitchen, seeing the old, dark ceiling beams, the copper saucepans on the Welsh dresser, smelling the peat burning comfortably in the range, half-expecting to find Fiach sitting at the table with Cal. Sammy would have forfeited his hopes of the life everlasting to be able to turn the clock back to before he'd been lifted after the pub brawl, before he'd met the only man he could trust now, that bloody Spud.

Cal rose. “Come in, Sam. Have a pew.”

Sammy parked himself at the table opposite Cal and dropped his duncher on the table. He watched Erin walk over to stand behind her brother. Although light came through the windows, none shone through her blouse, and he was glad of that. He knew that he was going to have to keep his wits about him.

He'd been satisfied this morning that Cal didn't suspect anything, but Sammy knew how smart Erin was, and if she was worried about how the patrol had stumbled on Fiach, or that there had been a setup job, one slip by him, and she'd be on it like a Jack Russell on a rat. “Are you really all right, Erin?” he asked.

“Yes.” Her eyes narrowed. “Quit going on about it.”

“Look, I just want to say I am dreadful sorry, so I am.” He put one hand on top of his cap. “I don't think I should be here at a time like this, but Cal told me to come.” If there wasn't the chance he'd find out something useful, he knew he'd rather not be there at all. “I think it should be just the family, like.”

“You're as close to being family as makes no odds,” Erin said more softly than her earlier curt. “Quit going on.”

Sammy wondered whether she meant that about his being like family or whether she just saying it to keep him onside. “Och, come on,” he said, pleased despite his misgivings.

He heard the edge back in her voice when she said, “We've a couple of things to talk to you about.”

“Oh?” What things? Cal had said she wanted to mount an attack, but still … Sammy sat upright, listening, waiting for the questions he was dreading.

Erin folded her arms across her chest. “You remember the other day I said something about Eamon?”

“Aye.”