Now and in the Hour of Our Death (43 page)

CHAPTER 36

TYRONE. TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 27, 1983

Sammy hawked and spat. Bugger Ireland. The only thing he cared about the place was to get the fuck out of it as soon as possible, but that wasn't going to happen until he'd got these bejesusly jobs finished. Erin had told him what the target was, and he'd passed the information to Spud.

Sammy dragged on his cigarette as he walked along the path from his cottage to the outbuilding. He would finish up everything today, and he'd not be one bit sorry.

He hauled the doors of the big shed open. A sunbeam shone past him, its light washing over the sacks of ammonal piled against the back wall. They'd be a million times brighter in the millisecond of their explosion, and Sammy wished he knew exactly when that would be.

He dropped his Park Drive on the muddy path, ground the butt out with his heel, and went inside, leaving the doors half open.

He'd prefer to close them but this evening the place must be well ventilated when he started the tractor's engine to recheck the hydraulics. The station wagon he'd stolen in Derry yesterday was still to be repainted.

The red tractor with its new plates, HKM 561, stood to one side, the station wagon to the other. He climbed into the tractor's cab and started the motor, cocking his head to listen to the engine note. There was nothing wrong there. He worked the levers controlling the front bucket and watched it rise smoothly until he stopped its progress, waited, and lowered it back to the ground. He switched off the engine, coughing as the exhaust fumes irritated his throat. He'd load the sacks of ammonal after he'd finished with the paint job. Why anybody would want a powder-blue wagon was beyond him, but the light colour would be easy to disguise.

He walked round it to make sure the newspaper was firmly taped in place over the headlights and radiator grille, windscreen, windows, and taillights. He tutted when he had to retape a loose page of
The Belfast Telegraph
over the rear window. The headlines yelled, “Nineteen senior Provos recaptured. Nineteen still at large.” Lucky buggers, the ones still out.

He felt for the poor shites who'd been stuck back in the Kesh. They were as trapped as he was, but he had a key to his cell. All he needed was to be told the date the raid would happen and have his suspicions about the target confirmed.

He poured black paint into a paint sprayer, slipped a scarf over his mouth and nose, flipped on a switch, and directed a fine spray of paint over the bonnet of the wagon. The electric motor hummed, and the paint hissed out. It wouldn't take long to disguise the vehicle.

He wondered how long it would be before the Brits changed his identity once he got to England.

The blue vanished under a coat of wet, shiny black. Perhaps he'd have to dye his hair a different colour. Grow a beard. He'd always fancied having a beard. It was bother enough to shave, anyway. It cheered him to think about those kinds of details now that he was so close to getting away.

The O'Byrnes'd have to let him in on everything soon. Erin was right to be cautious about telling him the details. It was the way the Provos worked. If a volunteer was at risk in the early part of an operation, the less he knew, then the less he could tell if he was arrested.

There had been a real danger Sammy could be lifted stealing the vehicles. A peeler nearly got him in Derry when he'd been trying to feck a car before he went to Ballybofey to pick up the arms. Jesus, it seemed like a year ago. Look what had happened when he'd been driving the tractor home. He'd been stopped by the bloody army. He might have been arrested and interrogated—but he hadn't been.

Now that those kinds of risks were over, Sammy could go to Erin and tell her he'd done his job. She'd have to come clean with him then. Maybe she'd smile at him. He'd had few enough people smile at him in his whole fucking life. These days, nobody gave a shite about him except the O'Byrnes and Spud, and all Spud and Cal really cared about was using him. Erin was different. She would smile at him, didn't seem to mind much when he looked at her, never refused to look him in the eye. A while back there, she'd told him he was like family and he'd liked that.

Family? He'd no fucking family, no brothers, no sisters, no Ma since he was five. His oul' bastard of a da had been a vicious drouth and beat the living bejesus out of Ma every Friday night after he'd drunk his wages. She'd fucked off, and Sammy couldn't blame her, even if she had abandoned him to the oul' shite's rages. The day Da'd been crushed to death under a tractor, fifteen-year-old Sammy hadn't wept one tear.

Nor hardly a one since, except maybe when he got stocious himself and had maudlin thoughts about Erin, his shining girl, his star, his unreachable star. Well, in England he'd have to forget her, or at least try to forget her.

He knew he wouldn't, nor would she forget him. He couldn't find a way to keep her from mounting the attack. She'd be arrested, and she'd know who'd grassed. She'd hate him. Everyone here would hate him just like they hated Art O'Hanlon and Mollie MacDacker.

His hand trembled, and he misdirected the spray of paint, splattering the newspaper over the windscreen. He told himself to get a grip. If he wanted out, he couldn't turn back now, no matter what anyone would think of him. It wasn't, he told himself bitterly, as if anyone thought much of him anyway.

As soon as he knew everything, he'd get hold of Spud. It was better Sammy hadn't gone off at half cock when he'd tried to phone the E4A man on Sunday. Spud had said to get in touch in a couple of days. Sammy'd let Spud wait a while longer until, he hoped, he knew everything. He'd go to the farm tomorrow to tell them he was ready, hear what he wanted, and then—then one phone call, and he'd be on his way to England. It was all that really mattered, and it was going to happen. As he worked, Sammy whistled “The Irish Washerwoman” off-key.

Now that he felt more cheerful, the job went smoothly, and in an hour he was able to turn off the paint sprayer and admire his handiwork. It wouldn't take long for the paint to dry, and then he could strip off the newspaper, put on the false plates.

Now for the ammonal. He manhandled the first heavy sack across the floor and heaved it into the tractor's bucket, returned to the row of great bags labeled
FERTILIZER
, and repeated the task, feeling his sweat start.

When the last sack lay with its fellows in the tractor's bucket, Sammy's spine ached and his arms felt as if they had been stretched by six inches. He put a hand in the small of his back and took a deep breath.

He was sick to death of the smell of paint, sick to death of the whole bloody business, but he still had work to do on the station wagon before he could leave the shed.

After that, he'd go home and finish the last job, connecting two fulminate-of-mercury detonators to a timer and getting the batteries ready. Whoever was going to drive the tractor would have to connect the batteries to the circuit and put the fusing device in the ammonal just before they wanted the thing to go off. It was an absolute rule that you never transported the charge with the detonator wired in. Fulminate was unstable stuff. Only a fucking idiot would make a bomb live before the very last minute. Some buck-eejits had got their wings and halos or maybe horns and pitchforks a damn sight earlier than they'd expected.

He wished he had some RDX or PETN. They were fantastic accelerants, the best and most stable detonators available, but they'd been taken when—when—the soldiers shot Fiach. He told himself not to think about Fiach or anyone else getting killed, but the thought of death refused to go away.

Who, he asked himself, was the most likely to end up getting shot during the raid? The poor bugger driving the tractor, that's who. Fuck that for a game of soldiers. Even if by some weird cock-up Sammy had to go out on the attack, he'd make bloody sure he wasn't driving. He was only the armourer. It was his job to make final adjustments to the bomb. That was all. What the hell was he worried about anyway? By the time the O'Byrnes headed to Strabane, he'd be well away. In England.

Sammy wanted a smoke. Badly. The plates for the station wagon and taking off the newspaper masking could wait.

He left the building, closing the door behind him, pulled out a Park Drive, and lit up. His nostrils were clogged with the fresh-paint stink of the place. He sat on a bale of straw beside the building's plank wall, closed his eyes, and let the sun warm him.

The noise of a distant engine roused him. It was probably someone out on a tractor, but the engine note was wrong. He listened. It was a motorcar, and—he opened his eyes—dear God, he could see it coming down the lane to his cottage. Holy fuck. He glanced behind and took another quick pull on his fag. Thank Christ he'd shut the door. He'd not want any stranger to see what was in there.

The car kept coming, bouncing over the ruts in the lane, then stopped close by. Sammy jumped up, trying to see who was inside, and when he recognized the driver, Sammy dropped his smoke. What was Spud doing here in broad daylight? Sammy crouched as he neared the car and wrenched the driver's door open. “What the fuck are you doing here? If anybody sees the pair of us together…”

“Nobody's going to see us, and if anyone does, it won't matter, Sunshine. I'm just making routine enquiries.” Spud smiled. “Eamon Maguire's still out. He's not at the O'Byrnes'. We've checked…”

Aye, but you've not checked in the old grave, Sammy thought, and if I've guessed right, he should be there by now.

“You've known Eamon for years. It's only natural the police would pop in to see you. Make sure he's not here.” The E4A man lowered his voice. “After you phoned on Sunday I wanted to have a wee chat.”

“Out in the fucking open with your car sitting at my place? Why don't you just put an advert in
The Newsletter
?” Sammy scrabbled in his pocket for his packet of Park Drive.

“It's not my Lada. We never use the same car long. Too much risk of your lot recognizing it and wiring a wee surprise to the ignition. It's happened before.”

When Sammy opened the cigarette packet, it was empty. If ever he'd wanted a fag, it was at that moment. “For God's sake,” he begged, “come into the house. Out of sight.”

“Get in the car.”

Sammy hesitated, then shook his head. If anyone was watching, this had to look like a routine visit. He'd walk to his cottage and let himself in. As he headed slowly up the potholed tarmac of the path, he heard Spud park the car. Sammy pushed open the cottage door and waited for the policeman to enter.

He slammed the door behind Spud. He gathered up dirty clothes from where they lay scattered on the old sofa. “You're going to get me killed, coming here like this, so you are.” He dumped underpants and shirts in a heap on the table among the unwashed breakfast plates. “Sit down.” Sammy heard the springs creak as Spud sat, then he dragged a chair from the table and sat facing the policeman. “Can we get the fuck on with this?”

“What have you to tell me, Sunshine?” His tone was all business.

“You told me if I gave you a really big one, you'd get me out.”

Spud nodded.

Sammy stood up, paced, and thought, this is it; I'm sorry, Erin, but it's you in jail or me in England. “Like I tried to tell you on the phone, they're going after the barracks in Strabane,” he said with as much certainty in his voice as he could muster. The peeler had no way of telling it was only Sammy's best guess, but he had to know that this information would be the stuff that would do the trick.

Spud whistled softly. “Strabane.” Sammy knew the policeman could taste commendation and promotion. “Tell me when.”

“I don't know exactly, but soon. I had stuff to get ready in a big rush.”

“It's not much use to me if I don't know when.”

“Look, I'm right about this. Haven't I always been right? Ballydornan and the arms dump? The Kesh? I tried to tell you, but you wouldn't listen. It
is
fuckin' well true, and I'll find out when tomorrow.”

“Let me know.”

“Of course I'll fuckin' well let you know, but
I
need to know now, are you for getting me to England? If you go after the ones who're going to attack, I can't stay here in Tyrone.” Sammy picked his nose and gnawed a nicotine-stained knuckle.

“Why not?”

“Because if you lift them and don't get me away, the same senior Provos up in Derry that debriefed me after your mate lifted me and got me into this shite in the first place, them senior men know who I am, who I work with. They'll come after me. They don't trust nobody.” Sammy could still smell the stench of flesh burned by an electric drill when they'd punished the young lad who'd been selling drugs, still hear his screams. Sure, the Provos dealt in drugs to finance their operations. They did, but they took a very dim view of anyone who tried to go into business for himself.

“I'll be regally fucked,” Sammy said, remembering Finn McArdle, the poor bastard the peelers had set up the way they'd threatened to do to Sammy. After weeks of interrogation, Finn'd been forced to confess, even though he was innocent, and he'd got a .375 Magnum slug in his head. “You'll not get any help from a dead tout.”

“True.” Spud shrugged.

Was the man not listening, was he not going to promise to get him out of this God-forsaken country? Sammy felt his eyes fill. He sniffed, then shook his head. He had another card to play. He clenched his fists and said, with a hint of disgust, “Once you take my friends, I'll be no fuckin' use to you anyway. Can you not see that?”

“Why not?”

“Jesus, how many Provos do you think I know? Just one Active Service Unit, that's all. Do you suppose the senior men'll assign me to another Active Service Unit? As far as I know, there's not one for miles, and me with nothing but a bicycle to get about on. If you get my people, who the fuck else do you think I'll be able to find things out about? I'll have nothing left to tell you.”