The Killer (3 page)

3

Active Service

Darren didn’t have long to wait for his first orders and, over the next few months, he honed his craft, carrying out his directives efficiently.
He was happiest when he worked alone.
He liked to carry out his own reconnaissance, seeing the job through to the end, and he quickly had several sniper kills to his credit.
The solitude part appealed to him.
Teamwork – not so much, but sometimes those were the orders.

He was still new to the cause when he saw his first interrogation.
The beating he witnessed sickened him in the beginning, offending his belief in a fair fight.
A guy strapped to a chair didn’t stand a chance, yet it was effective as the man quickly admitted his betrayal and was rewarded with a swift death.
At his second interrogation, Darren was more than just an onlooker.
Subject number two was far more resilient and all hands were needed before he finally gave up what he knew.
With interrogation number three he was fully employed and this guy gave up nothing.
Darren wasn’t sure he knew anything to give up, but one thing became clear.
If a man refuses to talk to you, then he talks to no one.
The death of subject number three was inevitable and Darren was the one to finish the job, which he did without flinching.
He knew he had changed.
He’d been a tough guy to begin with, but even his dear, departed mother wouldn’t recognise him now.
He wasn’t sure he recognised himself.

It was roughly six months after he had left the training camp when Duggy Mallone came to find him.
‘Have you seen the news, McCann?’ he asked, as he scanned the small room Darren called home.
‘Where’s your TV?’

‘Don’t have any use for one.’

‘How do you know what’s going on, then?’

‘People like you come and tell me.’

‘Ah.’

‘Like you’ve something to tell me now?’ Darren suggested.

‘Oh, aye, sure.
Everyone’s talking about it.
You know Calum O’Connell?’
Darren nodded at the name of the well-known and highly placed I.R.A. sympathiser.
‘Well, they’ve done for him, man,’ Duggy continued.
‘Those Shankill bastards, and they really went to town.
Gutted, he was, but that’s not the worst of it.
They took out his wife and kid too.
Slashed their throats.’

Darren winced.
That was against the code.
Each man lived by what he believed and was willing to die for it.
Often they were slaughtered in front of their families to make a point, but to kill the family was beyond the pale and images of his own mother, her neck slit open, rushed to his brain.
‘Bastards,’ he spat.

‘Aye,’ Duggy agreed.

The police search for the culprit went on for weeks, but they would never find him.
Just two days after the atrocity, news reached Darren that the boys had him and he raced to the scene.
At a few minutes before midnight he entered an old, boarded up house and descended the stairs to the damp, cold cellar where the unmistakable odours of blood, sweat and human shit assaulted his nostrils.
In the dimly lit interior a tall, bearded, tattooed man stood over a figure strapped to a chair, the face bloodied and beaten.

‘The man with the beard is wanting to extract much information before the kill,’ a strangely accented voice whispered from the shadows.

‘What has he said so far?’ Darren wanted to know.

‘Exactly nothing,’ said the voice.

‘Not a word?’

‘Oh, many words, yes, but this we already know.’

‘Like what?’ Darren pressed.

‘He is Shankill Butcher, yes.
He killed the man, yes.
He killed the woman and the boy, yes.
He has killed many others, yes.
He will tell the hairy man who they were, no.’

Darren watched as a fist connected with the disfigured face, blood flying from the broken nose.
‘How many others?’ came the question that had clearly been asked several times before.
There was no reply, just two bloodshot eyes staring defiantly from rearranged features.
This man could take a beating, Darren had to acknowledge, as he stared at the first Shankill Butcher he had knowingly encountered in the flesh.
He felt his pulse rate quicken as he thought of his mam and the fate she had endured at the hands of men such as him.

Darren moved slowly into the room.
‘How many women?’ he asked from behind the tattooed arm raised in preparation for another blow.
A bloodied face and a bearded face stared at him in equal surprise.

‘Who the fuck are you?’ slurred the bloody one through broken teeth.

‘How many women?’ Darren repeated, roughly pushing aside the large, imposing interrogator.

It seemed the tattooed fist was now aimed in his direction, but another hand restrained it, offering in that strange accent, ‘Let the boy try.’

Darren bent low, his face coming close to the one in the chair.
‘How about Mary McCann?’

‘Who?’

‘Mary Jeanette McCann.’

‘Never heard of her,’ came the reply.
‘Who was she?
Some Catholic whore?’

It was as though someone had flicked a switch in Darren’s brain.
He stood away from the chair, arched his back and howled at the ceiling before reaching into his back pocket to remove the knife he always kept there for protection.
In two swift movements he had slashed the Shankill Butcher across each cheek.
‘Mary Jeanette McCann,’ he screamed.
‘My mother.’

‘No, no.
I don’t know.
I don’t know her,’ came the reply.
It was difficult to make out the words now through the gaping mouth, but the fear was finally evident in the voice that rose to a shrill scream as Darren reached out to hold the man’s ear and began to hack at it with the knife that was a little too blunt for the job.

The Shankill Butcher gave up no further information.
He couldn’t, as Darren slowly cut his face to pieces.
Those in the room; a tall, bearded, tattooed man and three battle-hardened Provo activists, would later report having left the cellar before the job was finished, two of them even admitting to vomiting outside.
Only one man, a short, stocky Spaniard, stayed to witness the whole thing.
Just before midnight, Darren McCann had entered an old, boarded up building, but as the sun rose on the next day, The Butcher of Belfast emerged.

As the weeks passed, Darren grew to dislike the name of Butch, by which he was now addressed, but he couldn’t deny the respect with which it was spoken.
The legend grew around him and he heard how he had systematically removed each finger from the tortured man’s hand.
Darren really didn’t think he’d done that, but he couldn’t honestly remember.
The whole incident seemed unreal to him, as if he had dreamed it, but the Spaniard was there to remind him that it was all true.

Although he never found out his real name, Darren grew to like the man, even learning some Spanish, and was sorry when he finally had to leave.

‘I have some gifts for you,’ said his new friend on their last day together.

Darren accepted the book, “Speak Spanish in a month”, with a grateful smile, but his eyes widened at the second offering.
A valuable antique, it had been lovingly fashioned by craftsmen a hundred years or so ago.
It was an incredibly mean and savage looking switchblade, six inches long, slim, flat and heavy, with brass fittings at each end of the polished hardwood handle.
In the centre of the wood a row of raised brass letters spelled out the word
Matador.
He was impressed with the gift, but also confused.
‘What has this to do with bullfighting?’ he asked.

The Spaniard’s lips curled upwards forming a nasty and intimidating smile as he answered him.
‘Nothing, my friend.
Matador
is simply Spanish word, which mean
s
Killer.
The word, it is used in bullfighting, yes, but that is just because the fighter, he
kills
the bull.’
For a moment longer he fingered the weapon, as lovingly as he would a fine woman, then handed it over.
‘And you are a good killer, Mr. Butch.
I think you are the best killer I ever see.’

Darren took the knife in his hand.
It felt good and, when he pushed the brass release button, he couldn’t help but grin to himself as the razor-like blade flew out of the side.
He fell instantly in love with the knife.
From the sight of the action to the hissing sound the blade made as it shot out, it seemed they were made for each other.
This switchblade,
The Killer,
had been carried always, and used
to wonderful effect ever since.