Now and in the Hour of Our Death (33 page)

The relief when Eamon had hauled him into the back of a black Mercedes that they'd stolen from a nearby farm had been replaced by a feeling that came close to despair when the bloody car ran out of petrol.

The surge of hope again when the ambush that Eamon had arranged paid off, even though it had seemed to take a lifetime. Davy had sprawled on the road pretending to be injured. Eamon flagged down a motorist, asked for help with Davy, then overpowered the man and hijacked his Hillman. The details were blurred, but the picture of the victim's wife sitting on the road, her skirt rumpled above her fat white thighs, shaking her fist and screaming, “
You Fenian bastards
,” would stay with Davy.

He took comfort from knowing that, although they'd lost their car and she'd lost her dignity, they were both still alive and unhurt. And a bit of her dignity was a small price to pay for the Hillman. Being on the move again had given Davy reason to believe he was going to make it, and everything that had passed was going to be worthwhile. It had been crowded in the small saloon.

There had been five other men in the Mercedes when Eamon had come back for Davy, and squeezing them into the Hillman had been a tight fit. Now there were only three in the new car. The others had headed for Belfast in the Hillman after Eamon had pulled into a lay-by and stolen an old Ford Prefect from an elderly couple who'd been having a picnic.

Davy felt his head bang off the roof and heard Brendan McGuinness, who was sitting in the passenger's seat, mutter, “Take it easy, Eamon.”

Just my luck, Davy thought, to be stuck with that shite McGuinness.

*   *   *

The group had split up. Three men from Andersonstown, a Republican ghetto in the city, had wanted to head for home, and Davy had assumed McGuinness would also want to get back to his own familiar territory, but no such luck. It seemed his plan was to head for Dublin and the headquarters of Provisional Army Council, the Provos' governing body. It suited him to make the attempt to cross the border from Tyrone.

Davy stared at the outline of the man's bullet head. What was it that made him such a bitter little shite?

Davy had felt sympathy when the old gentleman pleaded with Eamon not to take the Ford, explaining that his wife was diabetic and had to get home for her insulin. McGuinness had asked Davy if he still had the .25 and made no bones that he thought they should shoot the old folks and dump the bodies in the bushes so it would take much longer for the Security Forces to find out what car some escapees were using.

Fuck you, McGuinness, Davy thought, glad he had lied, said he'd dumped the gun. He dropped his hand to his pants' pocket. The little revolver was hard against his hand. He hoped the old pair had managed to get help.

The car started to slow down. Had they arrived at the sanctuary Eamon had promised? Davy craned forward and tried to see what the headlights were showing. He could just make out the rear end of another car. Eamon braked and stopped the Ford. Davy could see that they were in a built-up area with lighted shop windows on both sides of the road. They hadn't reached safety yet. Was this Castlederg?

“The bastards. The bastards.” Eamon pounded his fist on the steering wheel. “There's a fucking roadblock on the bridge.”

Christ, it was like being on a roller coaster, up one minute, down the next. Davy stared through the windscreen to where, by the Ford's headlights and the dim glow of streetlights, he could see a tailback before the bridge. He glanced behind through the rear window. There was a great big petrol tanker nearly up their arse.

The queue was creeping inexorably to the checkpoint. As they moved along the main road, Davy could see Land Rovers and Saracens blocking every side road. Peelers and helmeted soldiers, weapons never still, covered the vehicles moving toward the bridge. How the hell could they get out of here?

Eamon said, “We're going to have to run for it. I can see the roadblock ahead and they're making everybody get out of their cars. If they see your uniform pants, Davy…”

McGuinness growled, “Leave McCutcheon. We can make it while they chase him.”

Eamon ignored McGuinness. “There's a bunch of peelers in the street off to our left, then there's a gap up ahead and a bit of dark. As soon as we're into the shadow … everyone out.”

Davy could understand why Eamon was well regarded by the Provos. That was the second time today in a moment of crisis that Eamon had taken charge. No fuss, no bother—he simply got on with what had to be done.

Davy followed Eamon and Brendan as they kept in the shadows and slid toward a tobacconist's shop, its lighted windows protected by a metal grille. Beside him, the line of cars jerked forward, and from behind came the honking of a horn. It must be the driver of the petrol tanker, impatient because his path was blocked by the abandoned Ford.

He saw Eamon and Brendan vanish inside the shop. As Davy shut the door behind him, he heard a small bell jangle. There was a notice hanging from a suction cup stuck to the door's glass. Davy turned the sign so to any passerby it would read
CLOSED
.

The shopkeeper, beefy in a collarless shirt, stood behind a glass-topped counter. Shelves behind him on the wall bore packets of cigarettes. Glass-stoppered bottles of unwrapped Gobstoppers, brandy balls, midget gems, and liquorice comfits jostled for space. In a better time, Davy would have bought quarter pounds of all three to give to the youngsters on his street.

A bead curtain hung from an arch at the back of the premises. Was that another way out?

“Can I help you, gentlemen?”

Eamon said, “
An bHfuil Gaeilge aGat
?” It was about the only Irish Davy knew. The citizens of Belfast had given up the ancient tongue generations ago—Gerry Adams had had to take Gaelic lessons when he was in the Kesh—but many Republicans from the country were still fluent. Loyalists were not. Despite city folks' general ignorance of Gaelic, one phrase, “Do you speak Irish?” was still a handy password in any Republican area. Da had taught Davy that, years ago.

He saw the shopkeeper's eyes, piggy slits in his jowled face.

“What?”

“
An bHuil…”

“Fuckin' Fenian hoors' gits.” The man's face turned puce. He lifted a horizontal wooden gate at the side of the counter's glass and forced his bulk through. He had fists like hams. “Get the fuck out of my shop, or I'll…”

“You'll what?” Eamon said. He stood in front of the man. Davy and McGuinness flanked him, forcing him to back up against the counter. “You'll what? There's three of us.”

“I'll…” He swung at Eamon. Missed. Eamon grabbed the arm, and McGuinness kneed the man in the balls.

Davy heard him howl and his breath wheeze like air draining from torn bellows. The fat man's face crumpled, and he sank to his knees, clutching himself.

“See if we can get out the back, Davy. Brendan, lock the front door.”

Davy shoved the bead curtain aside. He was in a storeroom. Cardboard cartons and crates of soft drinks were stacked to the low ceiling. An aisle between the supplies led to a door. He hurried to it, found the lock, opened it and tried to pull the door open. It wouldn't budge. He jiggled the lock and tried again. Not an inch. Davy put both hands on the handle and hauled until he could feel the veins standing out on his forehead. He paused to take a breath before he put his shoulder down and charged the thing. As he leaned forward, he noticed a sign on the doorframe.
PUSH
.

Push, for fuck's sake.

He did, and the door opened onto a concrete-paved backyard huddled between low red-brick walls, half-lit by the glow from the street lamps in front of the shop. Davy took one step and froze when something metallic crashed ahead of him. He saw a dustbin lid, still jangling as it settled on the concrete, and a cat leaping to the top of the wall.

“Christ.” He ran back to the shop.

The shopkeeper lay on the floor, struggling to take off his trousers.

“There's a way out,” Davy said.

“Great,” Eamon said. “Get those guard's jacket and pants off you. Take your man's trousers.”

Davy undid the waist button and zip, ripped the dark blue serge down. When he hauled on the shopkeeper's corduroys, he felt as if he had climbed into a tent, but at least the pants were dry and didn't yell, “Escaped prisoner.” He peeled off his jacket, only pausing to retrieve Jimmy's letter and Fiona's picture and stick them in his pocket.

A shadow fell across the floor. Davy glanced to the window and saw a helmeted head and the outline of a self-loading-rifle. Their owner pounded on the locked front door.

“Open up.”

The shopkeeper tried to slide across the floor. McGuinness booted him in the guts. His grunt was smothered by the sounds of pounding on the glass and a yell from outside of, “Open the fucking door.” Glass shattered, and a hand slid though the broken pane, its fingers groping for the lock. There were more troops outside.

“Out the back,” Eamon said quietly.

Eamon, followed by McGuinness, led the way through the storeroom. Davy hesitated, bent and pulled the .25 from his discarded trousers, and stuffed it in his new pants' pocket. He had no intention of using it, but unless things had changed radically since his day, the Provos had always found arms hard to come by. The least he could do was give this one back to its owners.

He ran into the next room, turning cartons and crates into the aisle behind him. Out the door and across the yard. He could hear the soldiers swearing as they struggled with the cartons in the storeroom.

Eamon and McGuinness were up ahead, and Davy pounded after them, trying to ignore the ache in his thigh.

“Halt or I'll fire.”

A muzzle flash tore the night apart. The report echoed across the yard's walls. The bullet struck brick close to Davy's head, and the ricochet whined away to oblivion. Those fuckin' soldiers were given what the British army called Yellow Cards, rules of engagement that said troops could open fire only if fired upon. What the fuck did I fire at them, Davy asked himself, brandy balls?

He ran after Eamon. They were in a back alley between rows of terrace houses. Davy limped on as fast as he could, not daring to look back.

“
Halt
.”

Another shot. Eamon went down.

Davy ran up to the fallen man, grabbed him by the shoulder, and hauled him to his feet. There wasn't time to ask Eamon if he'd been shot. “Can you run?”

“Aye,” Eamon managed to gasp.

“Come on, then.” Davy pulled on Eamon's arm, relieved that he was following. If he hadn't been, Davy had already made up his mind to carry his friend.

The alley turned sharply to the left. That would protect them until the soldiers reached the corner.

Davy knew that he was flagging. His breath seared his lungs. He peered ahead. Where the hell had McGuinness gone?

Four more steps. It was only a matter of time before the soldiers …

“Get youse in here, quick,” a woman yelled from where a gate stood open.

Davy hauled Eamon into another concreted backyard, heard the gate scratch over the surface. “Into the house.”

He was in a kitchen, recently washed dishes stacked neatly in a draining board, laundry hanging from a pulley-operated rack overhead. The smell of boiled cabbage made him think of the Kesh and the back of the food lorry.

The woman, fluffy pink slippers on her feet, plastic Spoolies curlers in her hair, shut the kitchen door. “Your other fellah says you're out of the Kesh.”

“Right.”

“Me and my man heard the shooting.”

“God bless you.” Davy was able to breathe more easily.

Eamon supported himself on the kitchen table. “You folks in the…?”

“We're not all bloody Prods here in Castlederg. You lads that was in the Kesh was fighting for the likes of us. Now, come on next door.”

Davy helped Eamon across a hall and into a small parlour. A man in a dressing gown held out his hand. “Dermot Donnelly.”

Davy took the hand. “Davy…”

“I don't want to know. Take the end of that sofa. Shove it back.”

Davy pushed, and the sofa slid toward a wall, where three china mallards flew up to God alone knew where.

Dermot hauled the rug free, knelt, and lifted a section of floor. “Your other fellah's up in the attic. There's room for you two in there. Get in.”

Davy climbed in, and Eamon followed. Dust, mouse shit, joists, and enough room for the pair of them to lie down if they curled up.

The floorboards above were refitted, and the hidey-hole plunged into darkness. Davy stifled a sneeze. He felt Eamon wriggling.

“You all right, Eamon?” Davy whispered.

“I'll live. I tripped over something.”

“Jesus, I thought they'd got you.”

“They might as well have. I knocked the wind out of myself. If you hadn't … I owe you one. You should have left me.”

“Don't be daft. I've already left Sean Donovan behind. I wouldn't want it to get to be a habit.”

Eamon laughed. “Back in the Kesh, when I first was put in, Gerry Adams told me not to pay any heed to what McGuinness said about you, McCutcheon, that you're a sound man. Gerry was right.” Davy felt Eamon squeeze his arm. “But sure I've known that for years, Father.”

Davy tried to shrug, but his shoulders were jammed against a joist. “I'd not be here if you hadn't come back for me outside the prison.”

“But you are here, Davy, and I'm bloody glad that you are. I want to get home to Erin.” Eamon said it as a monk might tell a fellow cleric that he was heading for the Holy Grail.

“So do I. Want to get home, I mean.” Davy wondered why he'd said that. Canada wasn't his home. But Fiona was there. Had he ruined her photo when he'd crammed the revolver into the same pocket in his trousers? What the hell? It was only a snap; but it was that snap that had made him resolve to join this escape. Even if it was crushed and Jimmy's letter crumpled up, he'd still be able to read her phone number.