The Killer (19 page)

When Turner eventually returned he was carrying tea and had managed to rustle up some biscuits from somewhere.
He kicked the door shut behind him and laid the fare in front of Darren.
‘Not sure when you last ate, son.’
Neither was Darren, and he was suddenly starving.
He wolfed down several biscuits in silence.

‘Fucking murdering bastards,’ he screamed at one point to no one in particular, and then he was quiet again.
Turner sat patiently and waited.
He’d played most of his cards and was confident of his position, but the next move belonged to his opponent.
And this was one scary man, Turner had to admit.

The silence continued and it was going on too long.
Turner’s instinct, combined with long experience, warned him that they were at a dangerous pass.
The tension and anger in the man opposite him were obvious and understandable, but there was something more and Turner decided he had to force the issue.
‘Would you care for another cigarette Mr. McCann?’ he offered, thrusting a pack of Senior Service, plain, no filter, towards him as he silently thanked that Kenny Allen lad for his choice of brand.

Darren considered the pack for several seconds.
Then, with trembling fingers, he took a cigarette, lit it and sat with his eyes tightly closed, a single tear rolling down his cheek.
His lips began to move, though no sound escaped them, but Turner knew the moment was approaching and he afforded himself a moment of congratulation as he waited for his latest defection.
Stupid, he realised just one second later.

‘Lies.’
The word was so quietly spoken that Turner wasn’t sure he had caught it.

‘What was that, Mr. McCann?’

‘Lies!’ Darren repeated, more audibly this time as he raised his head and stared at the man opposite.

Turner felt himself recoil at what he saw in those eyes.
The anger was to be expected, but this anger was directed at him, he could feel it.
He had only a second to react before Darren lunged in his direction and he narrowly avoided a punch to the face.
‘Guards,’ he yelled, and the door flew open, the two large men rushing to grab Darren before he could strike again.

‘Lying English cunts,’ Darren yelled as he struggled in the arms of the men holding him.
‘You made that tape yourself.
You must think I’m a fucking idiot.
Jonny O’Leary?
Holy fucking Christ, he’d never turn.
Never!’

Turner was at the door.
‘Leave him,’ he ordered the guards.
Within seconds Darren was alone in the cell once more.

Over the next few hours the Englishman returned to the cell several times, but he didn’t enter, simply observing Darren through the grill.
He had badly mistimed his last visit and he wasn’t about to make that mistake again.
There was an ace he still had to play but he had so hoped to avoid it.
It seemed too cruel beyond measure, and Turner wasn’t a cruel man.
Beyond that, it was dangerous.
He watched as Darren paced the tiny cell, ranting like a mad man at the walls.
‘Fucking Shankill Butchers, that’s who,’ he deciphered from one visit and
‘
Every fucking Brit,’ from another.
The recording hadn’t done the job he had hoped and Turner considered his last remaining move.
If that didn’t work, then Mr. Darren McCann would not receive the bullet to his head that he had requested.
Instead he would stay exactly where he was, no clerical error involved this time.
He would become an inmate of Her Majesty’s Prison: Maze, once again at the mercy of that madman McQuillan.

One of the guards summoned him for another visit to the cell and Turner observed Darren seated once more, slowly rocking back and forth in the chair.
All was finally quiet.
It was disturbing to Anthony Turner to see a man so horribly broken, but that was his job and this time he was sure he was judging his moment correctly.

Darren was exhausted and raised his head wearily as the door opened.
Turner entered first, but it was the second man who caused him to jump from his seat in panic.
‘No, man, no,’ he managed in ragged breaths as he staggered back towards the wall.

‘Sit down, Butch, I’ve something to tell you,’ Jonny O’Leary said quietly.

Turner walked silently from the room.

‘What the fuck, Jonny?’ Darren began as he sank slowly back into the chair.
‘Those bastards told me it was you who killed my mammy - but I don’t believe a fucking word.
They fabricated that fucking tape, I know it.’

‘You will hear me out before you say anything, won’t you Butch?’ and in those quietly spoken words from a friend, Darren knew the truth.
His head fell to his hands, all fight gone from him as his body began to shake with his sobs.

‘I had no choice, Butch,’ Jonny continued, his voice barely above a whisper.
‘It was a direct order from Cross and Belfast.
You know what happens if you disobey a direct order, Butch.
You’re gone, disappeared.
I could have taken that, man, for me, but it was my family, mate.
They threatened my family.’

Darren raised his head to look at his friend, but said nothing as Jonny went on, his voice rising now, the plea obvious in his tone.
‘I’m so fucking sorry, Butch.
You know how much I liked your mam.
It’s haunting me mate.
I can’t fucking sleep.
I didn’t give a shit about the others.
Not even poor Duggy.
He’d turned, you know, they were sure of it.
But your mammy?
All these years it’s got worse.
It won’t leave me.
It won’t go away.’

‘It won’t leave you?’ Darren finally managed through his sobs.
‘You can’t sleep?
You, you, you!
What about me?
What about fucking me?’

‘I know man, I know.’

‘You know fucking nothing,’ Darren hissed.
He took short sharp breaths, controlling his sobs, feeling the anger grow inside him once more.
‘Why?
Just tell me that.
Fucking why?’

‘I don’t know, Butch.
Honest, mate, I don’t.’

‘Don’t call me mate and don’t call me Butch,’ growled Darren, slowly rising to his feet.

Jonny backed away.
‘Okay, okay,’ he sputtered.
‘Look Bu… Darren.
I’ve asked myself, man.
I’ve asked myself why, but I don’t fucking know.
It makes no sense to me, man, and that’s why I’m here.’

Darren stared at him and Jonny, now with his back to the wall, raised his palms defensively.
‘I came to them man.
These Brits, they didn’t come for me.
I came to them.
And it was ‘cause of your mammy Bu…’

He wasn’t allowed to finish as Darren lunged at him, grabbing him by the throat and squeezing with all his might.
O’Leary made no attempt to defend himself as he sank to the floor, but the door flew open and the guards were immediately on top of them, pulling Darren off and forcing him back to the chair, holding him firmly.
Jonny O’Leary slowly crawled to the door, gasping for air, then rose to his feet.

‘Why the beating?
Why the knife?’ Darren screamed from his confinement.
‘Why the fucking knife?’

Jonny looked back at him, but could only shake his head.

‘I’ll fucking kill you,’ the screaming continued.
‘I’m gonna fucking skin you alive.
You’ll be begging me to end your life when I’ve done, you fucking bastard.’

The door closed and Jonny was gone.

The guards continued to hold him down until he stopped thrashing in his seat and the sobs overtook him once more.
At a nod through the grill from Turner, they left him and Darren was alone again.
At some point a meal was pushed through the door, but no one came to see him.
He rocked back and forth in his chair, then moved to the floor, curling into a ball like a small child, sobbing out his grief for his mother and for the betrayal he now knew was real.
When there were no sobs left, exhaustion finally brought sleep.

The door opened the following
- morning?
Afternoon?
Night?
He had no idea.
There was no light in the cell and time had lost all meaning to him, along with most of his life.
At Turner’s entrance, Darren fixed him with dark, sad eyes and offered just one word.
‘Why?’

‘I can’t say for sure, my boy,’ Turner confessed, his heart touched by the sheer dejection he heard in the young man’s voice.
‘My best guess is that they wanted you and that was the only way they knew how.
Had they tried to recruit you before?’

‘Aye.’

‘And you wouldn’t give in?’

‘No.’

‘Well, you are a hard nut to crack, Mr. McCann.’

At Darren’s accusatory glare, Turner quickly continued.
‘I really am so genuinely sorry it had to come to that.’

Darren nodded his head.
Though he no longer knew what to believe, he felt that much was true.
‘How long have you known?’ he asked.
‘About my mammy that is.’

‘Not long.
Not for sure, anyway.
We didn’t have any proof until O’Leary came to us.’

‘I’m going to kill him; him and the rest of those treacherous bastards.’

‘I don’t doubt it for a moment,’ Turner assured him, though he inwardly believed it w
ould prove difficult to find
Jonny O’Leary.
At this very moment, he was being whisked away to parts unknown.

‘I’m hungry,’ said Darren.

The normal, every day statement took Turner by surprise, but it was the breakthrough moment and he knew it.
He looked to the corner of the room and saw the cold, congealed, uneaten food that had been delivered some time earlier.
‘Oh my dear boy, you must be famished.
I’ll get something sorted for you immediately.’
After a quick word with the guards he was back at Darren’s side, knowing he must press his advantage right now.
‘Shall we have a look at some paperwork while we wait?’ he suggested.
‘It’s all a bit of a pain, I’s dotted, T’s crossed, that sort of thing,’ he mumbled as he removed documents from his case, not wanting to pause and give Darren too much time to think about it.

‘As I said previously, we would really value your services old boy.
You have intricate, specialist knowledge you see.
You know detailed information of the operations here in Ireland, and also the routes to and from mainland Europe.
You have direct contacts in Spain, France, Belgium, and possibly, other countries too.
Work for us, and you’ll get everything I promised.’
Turner placed the documents on the desk

Darren sighed.
‘You really have done your homework,’ he admitted, taking the offered pages and beginning to read.

He broke off when his meal arrived, ate hungrily, and then read some more.
He saw in black and white the details of a house, payment and that shiny new Jaguar that had been mentioned.
He saw, too, the carefully worded “specialist duties” he would be asked to perform.
A hit man by any other name, he knew.
Something approaching a small smile touched his lips as he finished the document.
‘So, I’m trading one set of murdering bastard masters for another, then?’

‘Mr. McCann, I really do have to object to all this profanity,’ Turner began, but Darren cut him short.

‘Do you know what the I.R.A. would do to me if they found out?’ he asked, then caught himself with a humourless laugh.
‘What do I mean, “if”?
They probably already know, don’t they?’

‘There’s a chance, dear boy,’ Turner acknowledged, ‘but I think we’ve got it covered.’

‘So you’re asking me to risk my fucking life for you and you object to the odd swear word?’

‘It’s more than the odd word, old bean.
Really, it is terribly offensive, you know.’

‘Well I am most
terribly
sorry,
old bean
, if I give offence,’ Darren mimicked.
‘Look, I’ll make you a deal.
I’ll watch my mouth if you will tell me when I get to kill those fu… er, nasty fellows who I’ve worked for all these fu…
- all these years.’

Turner smiled and nodded.
‘It’s a deal,’ he agreed.

 
‘So, if I sign these papers, when do I get to finish my mammy’s killers?’

‘Okay, okay, all in good time, my dear fellow.
First we will need some information from you, as I’ve already outlined, then we will move to the more, er, specialist duties and you will have to follow some orders.
We can’t have our operatives running wild, killing who they like willy nilly, now can we?
That would be quite unseemly.’