Now and in the Hour of Our Death (41 page)

Davy limped to the edge of the wood, leaving McGuinness to bring up the rear. In the distance, Davy saw a glow from farmhouse windows. Eamon was heading in that direction. The going was heavy. It must be muddy, and, by the weight of his feet increasing with each step, Davy knew that he'd be clabber to the knees by the time they'd left this field.

Once they were away from the trees, Davy could see the sky. He wondered if Eamon knew the names of any of the multitude of stars that glittered like bright tinsel on a black velvet-felt board. He could only recognize the Plough, hanging its handle to the earth, its pointers there to lead a man's gaze to Polaris.

He hesitated, trying to see the North Star, the constant, fixed point for navigators since the dawn of time, just as Fiona was his lodestone, drawing him to her.

He was nearly knocked sprawling when McGuinness blundered into him.

“Get the fuck out of my way, McCutcheon.” McGuinness lumbered past.

Davy plodded on. McGuinness had turned, and Davy followed, walking at an angle across the swaths of mown hay. His foot snagged in the sodden harvest, and he stumbled, landing heavily on both hands. Jesus Christ, the last time he'd fallen in a field, a ploughed field, had been on the night he and Mike Roberts had carried sixty pounds of Semtex to the Ravernet Bridge.

Davy shoved himself back to his feet. He'd not forget that earlier fall. He'd been carrying fulminate-of-mercury detonators. A sudden jar could make them go off. Anyone who'd watched
Lawrence of Arabia
wouldn't forget the scene where Lawrence's Arab friend, young Faraj, had done just that with a detonator in his shirt.

Davy had no detonators this time. Only a small .25 revolver in his pants' pocket.

He limped on, stared ahead, and could barely make out Eamon's shape, which was limned by the welcoming glow from the farmhouse. Davy had earlier imagined he could smell peat smoke. He wasn't imagining it now. It would be great to be going to that fireside.

By the light of the stars, he could make out his breath as it hung in little clouds. There was condensation in the hairs of his moustache. Surely to God they didn't have to go much farther?

Eamon had stopped. McGuinness was nowhere to be seen. As Davy approached, he saw that Eamon was standing beside a tall hedge.

“Not far now, Father.” Eamon showed Davy a gap between the plants. “Go on ahead. There's only room for one to get through. Watch out for the thorns.”

Davy sidled through the hedge, pricking his palm near the scar of the wound he'd made with the chisel. Had that only been ten days ago? Ten days in the past seemed to be as far away as the Ice Age. He heard branches being forced apart.

As he waited for Eamon, Davy watched a waxing moon slide up over distant hills, its cold, silver-shining light etching the dark crests against the ebony sky. He could make out the loom of moving headlights coming from somewhere between the hills and where he stood. Would that be locals in a car—or Security Forces in an armoured personnel carrier?

Eamon arrived at Davy's shoulder and pointed. “Down in there, Davy, and we'll've made it.”

Davy looked ahead to a hollow, where he could see nothing but a tangle of bramble bushes, snarled and intertwined like the coils of barbed wire outside the Kesh. There was no Skeet Hamilton to flatten them this time. Davy'd thought they were heading for the farm and its turf fire. He couldn't stifle his disappointment. “Christ Almighty, we're going to hide in more bloody bushes?”

Eamon simply laughed, said, “Come on,” and started down the hill.

Dear God, not another night out in the open. Davy wished they'd brought Dermot's tarpaulin instead of leaving it in the wood. He took a deep breath and followed Eamon, who had walked round the side of the bushes and stood waiting.

“You're going to have to be a rabbit, Father,” Eamon said as he knelt and carefully parted bramble stems. “Brendan'll've gone in already. I explained it to him before I sent him through the blackthorn. Can you see that there path?”

Davy peered in and could just make out a narrow animal track. “Aye.”

“Get in under here and follow your nose. I'll be right behind you.”

“Right.” Davy dropped to all fours and scrambled under the briars. He could hardly see where he was going and had to feel his way. He drew a rapid breath and pulled his hand back as bramble thorns pricked it. He could hear the noises Eamon made as he followed.

Davy nearly crawled headfirst into a large rock. To its left he saw what might be an opening. Was that the entrance to something? He stretched out his hand. There was nothing in front of it, until he felt some coarse material. He pushed it aside and blinked as pale yellow light shone from the entrance to a narrow tunnel.

“In there?”

“Aye, and get a move on. We don't want that bloody light shining out over half of Tyrone.”

*   *   *

Davy rose to his feet and looked around. The light coming from a couple of overhead bulbs was much brighter in the stone-walled chamber, and, thank God, it was warm. He could hear a low hum that had to be coming from a heater. He blessed whoever had thought to put the thing in here. He barely took notice of the crouched form of McGuinness and hoped they'd not have to stay long with the man. McGuinness was planning to head for the Republic, wasn't he? The sooner he went, the better. The space was smaller and mustier than Davy's cell in the Kesh. It was going to be a tight fit for three men.

He felt movement at his shoulder, stepped aside to let Eamon enter, and watched as he glanced round the room.

“Here we are, Davy, home sweet home for the next wee while. We'll do rightly in here. Look”—Eamon pointed to a heap on a table—“towels.” He nodded to the elements against one wall. “A cooker and”—Eamon bent and opened an ice chest—“grub.” He stood and grinned. “Not badly equipped for an old Celtic grave. Erin's done a grand job.”

So that's what this was. An old grave. Davy was glad he wasn't a superstitious man. When the lights were put out, it would be easy to imagine the ghosts of the original inhabitants being angry with whoever had disturbed their peace.

“Your Erin set it up?”

“Aye.” Davy could hear the pride in Eamon's voice. “And she'll be here soon, wait 'til you see.” There was more pride there than longing, and that didn't surprise Davy. Not one bit.

“I see Brendan's already made himself at home,” Eamon said.

“Too fuckin' right. I thought I'd never get warm 'til I got here. You give your Erin a big kiss from me, Eamon. She has done a grand job, so she has.”

Davy stared at McGuinness, surprised to hear the man praise anyone. Perhaps even that hard bastard had a soft side. He might have, but tidiness didn't seem to be part of his makeup. A crumpled towel lay discarded at his feet. His clothes were carelessly thrown over the back of a wooden chair beside a folding table. Mud from his pants had made dirty marks on the table's top.

The man himself was draped in a blanket that must have come from one of the camp beds Davy could make out in two side alcoves. McGuinness was crouched over the heater, but again surprised Davy when he moved to one side and said, “I won't hog all the heat.”

“Right,” said Eamon, picking a towel from the heap and passing it to Davy, “get you out of those sodden clothes and get yourself dry.” He turned back to the ice chest, pulled out a plastic container, and opened the lid. “Great,” he said, “chicken soup. I'll get this heated up.”

“Are you not going to get yourself dried off first?” McGuinness asked.

“Nah,” Eamon said. “We all need something hot inside us. It'll only take a minute.”

Davy, silently admiring Eamon's toughness, put his towel down and peeled off his soaked shirt and vest. As he took off his shoes and pants, he noticed that his arms were covered in goose flesh. He laid his clothes, except for his pants, on a chair and, ignoring how cold he was, reached into the pocket and left the .25 there but pulled out Jimmy's letter and Fiona's picture. Both were soaked. He smoothed them with his hand. Some of the writing where the ink hadn't run was still legible, and, praise be, that included the phone number.

Her picture was a soggy mess of crumpled paper. All he could make out was the brightness of her eyes. No matter. He'd be seeing her whole face soon. He put the papers on the table, noting as he did that someone had left a vase of flowers. A nice touch, he thought.

He grabbed the towel and began to dry himself, his hair, his face, chest, and belly, and as he dragged the terry cloth across his back, the chafing began to warm him. He closed his eyes, toweled harder, and reveled in the feeling.

He inhaled the vapours from the soup pot. “Jesus, Eamon, that smells good.”

“Right enough,” Eamon said, “but I'm sorry it's not the wee hot half-un we were thinking about.”

Davy laughed.

“Come on, Father,” Eamon said, “get you one of the blankets like Brendan.”

Davy hesitated. He didn't want to do anything like McGuinness and realized that he was being childish. He glanced at the two men. Both were intent on their own business, Eamon stirring the soup, McGuinness rubbing his palms together over the heater. Davy slipped the .25 out of his soggy pants' pocket, wrapped it in his towel, and walked to a bed in the alcove opposite to the one from which McGuinness had taken his blanket. He might have to share the accommodation with the man, but he'd be damned if he'd sleep next to him.

He slipped the revolver under the bedclothes, wondering why he hadn't simply given it to Eamon. Davy had no intention of using it. And yet—

He pulled off a blanket to wrap round himself and noticed an alcove ahead. In it he saw ArmaLites and Lee-Enfields. He'd wear a blanket like McGuinness, but if the bugger had any notions of Davy using one of those rifles, he had another think coming. Davy walked to the table and hung his trousers over the back of a chair.

“Fuck it, McCutcheon, you look like one of the blanket men back at the Kesh,” McGuinness said.

Davy spun on his heel, one big fist tightly clenched, but relaxed when he saw that McGuinness was smiling. Good God, he'd been making a joke.

“Right enough,” Davy said, “but don't you worry, I'm not going to smear my shite all over the walls.”

He was surprised to hear McGuinness chuckle, a dry, harsh sound. If it was a sign that he wanted to call a truce, that was all right with Davy; he'd play along. Maybe he'd not needed to hold onto the .25, but he still couldn't bring himself to trust the man.

Davy heard noise coming from the tunnel. He glanced to where he had left the little gun, then to Eamon, who was staring at the entrance.

A young woman with chestnut hair scrambled to her feet, her green eyes fixed on Eamon's face. By the narrowness of her lips, Davy could tell that she was angry.

“Erin,” Eamon whispered. “Dear God. Erin.” He grinned like a moon calf.

She took two paces across the floor and stared at him. “What kept you?” she demanded. “What the hell kept you? I was up all last night, worried sick. You were meant to be here
then
, damnit. I nearly went daft with the worry.”

Davy saw a single tear spill from one of her green eyes and heard Eamon say softly, “It's all right now, love. It's all right,” as he moved to take her in his arms.

To Davy's amazement—they'd been apart for three years, after all—she stepped back, put a hand on her hip, dashed the tear away with the other hand, forced a smile at Eamon, and said, “Don't you come near me in those filthy, soaking clothes. Jesus, and the stink of you.” She wrinkled her nose.

“You've not changed,” Eamon said. “Have you?”

“No,” she said, “but the sooner you change your clothes, the better.”

“I will,” he said, “but I'd like you to meet a couple of friends of mine first. Erin O'Byrne, Brendan McGuinness and Davy McCutcheon.”

She smiled at them, and Davy felt welcomed by it. “Miss O'Byrne,” he said.

“Pleased to meet you.” Her smile faded. “We were expecting four of you. I … I heard about Sean Donovan.”

“Aye,” said Eamon. “That was bad luck.”

“There's been a bit more bad luck,” she said, quietly.

“What?” Eamon frowned. “Tell me.”

She shook her head. “It'll keep.” She turned to Davy. “Look, I'm very sorry, but it wouldn't be safe for all three of you to come up to the house. Tyrone's up to its ears in peelers and soldiers. We had a patrol here earlier tonight.”

“Looking for me?” Eamon asked.

Davy heard the soup bubbling on the little stove and moved to take the pot off the ring.

“Aye, and your mates.” She smiled. “I don't think the peelers'll be back tonight, but I'd rather be safe than sorry, so I want you to come up to the house by yourself. You can have a bath. Your mates'll have to stay here. I'm sorry.”

Davy would have killed to have a bath, but he could smell the soup and feel the warmth of the blanket and the heater. That would satisfy him for now. He glanced at what would be his cot and ached to crawl into it. “Never you worry about that, Miss O'Byrne,” he said.

“Thanks, and it's Erin, Davy.” She smiled at him again, and behind her eyes he saw Fiona's smile. She turned to Eamon. “When we get up to the house, Cal and me have things to talk to you about, and”—she moved close to him and took his hand—“I want to get you out of those stinking clothes.”

Davy heard more in her words than the simple statement, and by the way Eamon was grinning, he'd certainly got the not-too-subtle message, too.

 

CHAPTER 35

TYRONE. MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 26, 1983

At last her wishes had come true. Eamon was here on the farm in Tyrone. His shirt, vest, and socks were in the dryer, along with the other men's clothes. Erin listened as shirt buttons rattled on the dryer's drum. Eamon's jacket and the trousers she'd sponged clean hung steaming on a clotheshorse in front of the range. They kept company with another pair of pants and a jacket that she'd bundled up before she and Eamon had left the grave and walked to the farmhouse. She hadn't bothered to see to the trousers Davy had given her. They were far too big for him. Some of Cal's should fit. When she'd asked him, he'd told her to take her pick. She'd take a pair of them down for Davy with the rest of the men's dry clothes. Cal wouldn't be needing them much longer anyway.