by Scott Hunter
The silent, sorrowful derelicts of Blasket observed his progress with hollow-windowed indifference. Moran headed the way his instinct told him to go – that and O’Mahoney’s vitriolic aside to O’Shea, I believe he’s a mind to evict you from your cosy wee house…
O’Shea’s house it was, then. And Black probably had a great deal more than eviction on his mind; Moran couldn’t recall precisely how many of the long, shallow boxes he had counted on his last visit, but it was more than a few – more than enough to guarantee a warm reception. Moran tramped on, noting familiar landmarks as he went. He paused to mop his brow, glanced at his watch. Two o’clock. Later than he’d thought.
Moran picked up the pace and his leg shot him a reminder. He shrugged it off and concentrated on putting one foot after the other and thoughts of failure aside. There was nothing he could do about Geileis; he had to trust to O’Shea’s expertise. Donal would recover. Padraig’s issues would be mental, not physical. Which left two women: one a commoner, one as high-profile as you could get, but both relying on the half-baked plans of an inappropriately dressed and ill-prepared middle-aged policeman. The odds, he acknowledged, weren’t great. But they never were. It was how you played your hand that counted, not the hand itself.
There was something bright on the path ahead, catching the rays of the afternoon sun. Moran reached the spot and picked up a silver charm bracelet. It was Aine’s; he recalled commenting on the various objects dangling from its circlet. A cluster of stars, an angel, a crucifix, a lucky pixie – or leprechaun more likely – and a half-moon. A smorgasbord of superstition and religion. Moran called it hedging your bets, had commented as much while they’d been holed up in O’Shea’s house. ‘You have to believe in something, Brendan,’ Aine had replied. And he, insensitive as always, had responded: ‘Something, maybe, but not everything.’ Moran pocketed the bracelet and continued along the path. Here, in the shadow of An Cro Mor, Great Blasket’s brooding mountain, he could understand why human beings, particularly in isolated communities such as had existed here, clung to such superstition, their stories and traditions handed down generation by generation until one day there was no one left to receive them.
Moran tramped on, battling a growing sense of despondency at the futility of his mission. Even if he succeeded in freeing Aine from Black’s clutches, how could he communicate his success to Charlie? His mobile was dead, and even if some spark of charge could be coaxed from the battery, the likelihood of obtaining a signal was remote. He would be too late; Caitlin Hannigan would carry out Black’s plan and there was nothing he could do about it.
Too late.
The voice in his head whispered again. As usual. You were too late to save Janice; now you’ll be too late to save Aine.
And too late, maybe, to save a future queen.
Moran set his teeth to the wind and concentrated on placing one foot after the other. He half-expected to see O’Shea’s distant figure leading him on as before, the occasional turn of the head to check on his slower progress. Was it his imagination, or was there indeed a figure up ahead? He shielded his eyes from the glare of the sinking sun. Yes, just where the path meandered around an anvil-shaped bluff which jutted over the rocks, a stooped figure appeared to be making slow but steady progress, pausing occasionally as if waiting, as O’Shea had done, for him to catch up.
Moran wasn’t superstitious by nature, but he was well-versed in the folklore of the region, having spent many a dark evening during his teens scaring the pants off Janice, Geileis and Donal with tales of, among others, the Hag of Beara, the goddess of winter – a deity said to grow younger and stronger as the seasons gave way to spring. By winter, however, she had metamorphosed into a hideous old crone, holding the fate of the people in her hands during Ireland’s harshest season. Legend had it that the hag was eventually turned to stone.
Moran shaded his eyes again. The figure had disappeared, in its place a mound of rocks. He rubbed his eyes.
It’s not the goddess who’ll decide the outcome here, Brendan, just yourself…
A few minutes more and he would reach the bluff. From this vantage point, he remembered, he would catch his first glimpse of O’Shea’s eco-house. The ground was rising and the going getting tougher but Moran set his mind and feet to the task and tried not to think about his leg. Take it easy, Dr Purewal had advised. Your hiking days are over.
He made the bluff, rested up for a minute or so. As he’d recalled, the eco-house was visible, lying in the lee of the hill facing the sea. He could see someone on the decking, although he was still too far away to make out any detail. Not a wasted journey, then. No point trying to be covert; he was in the open now, easily visible from the house. He set off at a steady pace towards O’Shea’s DIY creation.
He’d only taken ten or so paces when he heard it: a high, piercing, whistle similar to the noise of a low-flying jet, only faster, louder … there was a tremendous whoosh as something passed overhead. Moran hit the ground. The explosion came from some way behind, but he still felt the force of the blast. A storm of tiny particles pattered to earth around him and lay, fizzing and smoking on the mossy grass. It was a new experience for Moran but he knew exactly what was happening.
Mortar.
He racked his brains for survival rules. Lie flat, don’t move when the first one hits. Better to let the shrapnel rain down than have it pass straight through you … find the lowest point. Look for water. Water lies low.
He lifted his head. The smoke was clearing; the danger from the first round was over. But what about the next?
Moran glanced around. He’d been saved by the rock formation; his goddess had come good. The shell had fallen directly behind the rocks, where he’d been standing just a minute before. Damn good ranging. Which meant the next one would be more accurate still…
Think, Moran, think…
Had he read somewhere that you shouldn’t run away from a mortar attack, you should run towards it. Because it’s more difficult for the enemy to get the trajectory right…
But run? He could hardly walk, let alone run.
Moran got to his feet and began an awkward, bent-over trot towards the distant eco-house. He was out of cover now. He just had to trust that Black’s marksmanship would be off. Maybe he’d used the only available shell. Maybe…
This time he heard a soft whump as the shell left the mortar tube. As the whistle escalated in volume he scanned the ground ahead. There was a dip to his right – not much of a dip, true, but it was the lowest on offer, so he altered course slightly and went for it, pitched himself forward in an awkward dive, hit the ground hard, felt his ribs protest on impact. He covered his head, pressed his nose into the grass.
The noise was huge this time, a sky-rending crack of doom. Clods of earth and soil crashed down around him and his lungs filled with acrid, foul-smelling smoke.
The shot was long. Moran counted to three, got to his feet. Dazed and shocked, he staggered forward. The eco-house swam in and out of focus. His sanctuary, his nemesis.
His legs weren’t working properly. Had he been hit? No, no blood. All limbs intact. Running was beyond him for now so he did what he could, stumbled on…
The whistle was louder this time; Black had gone for a lower trajectory. Moran pitched himself forward, spreadeagled his body onto the springy turf. This time he prayed.
And waited.
He heard the wind catch in the shell’s fins as it succumbed to gravity, spiralled lazily down towards him. The ground trembled as if someone had struck it with a mallet.
Closest yet…
Moran covered his head with his hands and waited for the explosion, or oblivion.
Nothing.
He risked a quick glance. The mortar’s tail fin was embedded in the grass three metres ahead.
Dud.
Moran got to his feet, fear lending him, if not wings, then at least sufficient motor ability to keep going. He gulped air, saw that he was closing the distance between him and the artiller
yman. His leg shot him bolts of pain as he pounded across the canted expanse of grass.
Better lame than in bits, Brendan…
He kept going, his lungs on fire and his breath coming in short gasps. Now he could see the figure on the decking more clearly. Black, had to be, bent over a cylindrical tube, working the mechanism, preparing one last attempt to blow him to pieces.
He was too close now, surely? Yes, the guy had straightened up. Hands on hips, watching him approach. Moran slowed to a standstill, bent at the waist, hands on knees, gasping for breath. When he looked up again Black had disappeared inside the house.
Another minute passed as Moran took stock, felt himself all over, checked for shrapnel damage. His heart was pounding and his ears ringing from the blasts. He’d been lucky.
Damn lucky.
The house was silent now. No movement.
He was completely exposed, but so what? He felt strangely elated, self-aware. Two minutes ago he’d thought he was going to die, but here he was, miraculously intact. Another omen from the goddess. Moran sank to his haunches at the perimeter. He could taste the dry, acidic tang of explosive and his tongue was sticking to the roof of his mouth. He found his water bottle, drank deeply, and noted with surprise that his hands were steady. At least he now knew for sure what kind of man he was dealing with, if there had ever been any doubt; Black had lived up to his reputation in spectacular fashion. Sure, Moran might have expected the guy to take a few pot shots at him, but not on this scale. The guy had tried to take him out, plain and simple. Survival rates weren’t the best when it came to mortar strikes, that was a given. Yet here he was.
Lucky, Brendan … lucky, lucky…
The contrast between the last few adrenaline-fuelled minutes and the absolute silence now surrounding the house was eerie, almost unreal. Moran was struck again by the same sense of isolation he’d felt on his first visit. O’Shea’s home was, to all intents and purposes, Europe’s last outpost, a lone sentinel perched here on the island with only the gulls and waves for company. Under the circumstances, Black could hardly have chosen a more appropriate location.
At that moment, as if on cue, the door opened and the same tall, well-built guy appeared on the decking. There was a passing resemblance to O’Shea, but the eyes were narrower, darker, the body language and facial expression hard and uncompromising. Moran was familiar enough with the look to recognise the stamp of fanaticism when he saw it.
‘Bit late in the day, DCI Moran. Enjoy the fireworks?’
No doubt now. It was the brogue he had last heard on the mobile phone – the unmistakeable mocking tone of a man confident that he had the situation under complete control.
Moran nodded. ‘First rule of battle: check your weaponry. Bit sloppy, I thought.’
‘Ah well, I’ll be blamin’ my wee bro for the dud. But it does give me the opportunity to meet you properly.’
‘I trust you won’t be disappointed.’
Black laughed. ‘Well I have to say you’re lookin’ fair dishevelled, Brendan, but good on youse – you made it, despite my best efforts – not that I was really trying to hit you, you understand. Just a bit of fun. But tell me, did you enjoy meetin’ my little bar girl? Dead ringer, I thought.’
‘I’d rather it’d been Aine, to be honest.’
‘Honest! There you go. An honest man is hard to find these days.’
‘I’d like to contact Caitlin. Let her know her mother is safe. I assume she is safe?’
Black scratched his cheek. ‘Come away in, Brendan. I can’t be offering hospitality out here.’
‘Let me see Aine first.’
Black came down the wooden steps, two at a time. His movements were languid but surprisingly quick for a big man. Although the mortar tube was on its side, smoking gently, harmless now, Moran took an involuntary step back.
‘Jumpy, Brendan?’ Black came to a halt just outside the boundary of Moran’s personal space. ‘Can’t blame you for that, I suppose. But you’ve lost, my friend; better get used to the idea. The game’s over. Too late, the hero.’
Moran saw the pistol nestling in Black’s easy grip. The Irishman could kill him where he stood, throw him over the cliff. It would be days, weeks maybe before his remains washed up on a beach somewhere.
‘You can’t know for certain.’ Moran kept his voice low and conversational to match Black’s. ‘You’ll be lucky to get any kind of signal out here.’
‘Sure, but if I hadn’t thought of that you’d be callin’ me a stupid Irishman, am I right?’
‘You have a radio?’
‘Satellite phone, Brendan. Heard of them? You being from the bakelite era an’ all?’
‘Of course.’ That was one less thing to worry about. He could get hold of Charlie.
‘So, what’s the story?’ Black looked at his watch. ‘Around eight and a half minutes till zero hour, I make it. All you have to do is knock me over the head, make the call, and hope your home team can persuade Caitlin not to hit the button. Does that about cover it, Brendan? Or am I missing somethin’?’
‘You might be, as it happens.’
‘I’m listening.’
Moran would have liked to tell Black exactly what he was missing, but that would have meant putting Aine in a potentially life-threatening situation. He tried to keep his eyes focused on Black instead of Aine’s measured, creeping progress from the eco-house’s front door to the top of the wooden steps. A resourceful woman as ever, the lock hadn’t presented much of a problem. Aine’s face was pale, her expression murderous. In her right hand she held what looked to Moran like a short length of lead piping.
He kept eye contact with Black, moved his arms, tried to channel the Irishman’s focus. ‘Caitlin won’t do it, Sean.’
‘Oh, she’ll do it all right.’ He jerked his head towards the eco-house. ‘Her and her ma – they’re like two peas in a pod. Inseparable.’
‘You’d kill Aine? With your history?’
Black’s face expressed mild surprise. ‘Ah, you know, then. I suppose that’s fair play, you bein’ the big detective man. A one-sided attraction, Brendan. Useful back in the day, but you know how these things are, affairs of the heart? Well, the one you’re talkin’ about is well past its expiry date.’
Aine’s mouth curled into a snarl as she edged closer, bare feet soundless on the decking; another two steps and she’d be within range.
‘As are contra-UK paramilitary campaigns.’
The Irishman’s expression changed in an instant. ‘No, no, no.’ Black shook his head. ‘You’re so wrong, Brendan. I’m not done with England yet.’
‘But most, if not all, your contemporaries are. 1998? Good Friday? Mean anything to you?’
‘Nothing. It means nothing.’
‘You’re decommissioned, Sean.’
‘Never.’
At that moment Aine swung the piping but Black seemed to sense something, moved forward a fraction, turned…
The blow caught Black on his shoulder blade. He staggered, almost lost his footing, righted himself as Aine came in for a second strike. Black recovered fast; he ducked under Aine’s swing, spun around and caught her by the throat. The piping clattered to the decking. It was over in a split second.
Breathing hard, Black hoisted Aine off her feet. Her hands scrabbled and scratched at his muscular arms but Black’s grip was firm. Moran made as if to assist but Black’s eyes shot him a warning. Aine’s cheeks were turning blue, eyes bulging, legs kicking. Black relaxed his grip a fraction, set her feet back onto the decking. She took a whoop of air, coughed, spat, cursed, struggled.
‘Fiery little girl, you are, eh?’ Black said in Aine’s ear. ‘I should’ve remembered. But memory’s a funny thing; not always to be trusted, eh, Brendan?’
He dragged Aine towards the door, all the while keeping his arm wrapped firmly around her neck, the pistol pressing into her flesh. Aine’s heels trailed helplessly along the boards. ‘Come on in, Brendan, why don’t you? We’ll drink a toas
t and you can be on your way, back to your English lords, eh?’
Moran accepted the invitation. No point staying out here; whatever chance he had would have to be taken at close quarters. He kept his eyes fixed on Black as he took a cautious step forward.
‘What good’ll it do you, Sean? D’you think high-profile murder’ll get you more support?’
Black hauled Aine over the threshold, breathless with the effort of keeping a conversation up while dealing with a kicking and twisting woman. ‘They’ll pay a damn sight more attention, that much I know. But this is just the beginning, Brendan. They’ll soon know who they’re dealing with. Now, you’d better come away in, my friend, where I can keep an eye on you.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The interior of O’Shea’s house was unchanged since Moran’s last visit. A recently kindled fire burned in the islander’s improvised grate. As his eyes grew accustomed to the flickering light he saw that the packing cases were still in situ. No, he was mistaken. One was missing. Moran glanced through the skirt of glass which formed the rear of the eco-house. The missing box was just outside, lid half-on, half-off, as if O’Shea – or perhaps Black – had been interrupted during an inspection of its contents.
‘Let her go, Sean.’
Black jammed the pistol harder into Aine’s neck. ‘She’d have brained me without a second thought and you want me to let her go? I don’t think so, Brendan. We’ll just sit the next few minutes out, if it’s all the same to you. Help yourself to a drink.’
Moran cocked an eyebrow. ‘It’s your brother’s hospitality you’ll be offering, Sean, but I’m sure Joseph won’t object.’
‘Him? The faint-hearted sibling? Keep still, will you?’ Black tightened his grip, and although Aine dug her nails into his flesh, drew her closer. Aine’s eyes were signalling Moran; she was trying to tell him something …