‘What sort of changes?’
Kerry prodded the ground with her pole and knelt down to inspect the grass. ‘Differences in texture or colour of the vegetation, any regular marks in the ground that aren’t natural, flattening of leaves or dirt, twigs or stones that have been moved. Anything that he might have dropped. None of those things in themselves prove that he’s gone this way but taken together they all add up to a trail.’ She turned round as she crouched and pointed back the way they’d come. ‘You can’t move across a field without leaving some sort of trace,’ she said.
Morrison turned and looked. Two lines of footprints were clearly marked in the damp grass stretching back across the fields as far as he could see.
‘The obvious signs will disappear as the sun evaporates the dew over the morning, but you see what I mean.’ She began walking again. ‘A lot of it is common sense, too,’ she said. ‘You’ve got to think like your quarry. If you come to an obstruction, like a hedge or a river, then you’ve got to be able to guess what he’ll do, whether he’ll go to the right or the left, whether he’ll go through a group of trees or round them, what he’ll do if he comes across a cottage or a farm. In some ways it’s easier to follow a man than a deer. A man usually has a reason for going somewhere, unless he’s lost, and if he’s lost then he’s pretty keen to be found. A deer is trying to avoid humans and most of the time it’s probably just grazing.’
‘You’ve hunted humans before?’
Kerry laughed. ‘Not with a gun, no. Even the Germans draw the line at deer, but it’s a thought, isn’t it? We could even arrange for the ears to be mounted.’
‘Yeah, OK, hunted was the wrong word. Tracked, then.’
‘From time to time a tourist will get lost in the mountains and the mountain rescue team will call up my dad and ask him for help. I’ve been with him a couple of times. But like I said, it’s one thing to track someone who’s hoping to be found, it’s quite another to trail a man who wants to hide. And The Chinaman is certainly going to be hiding. At least the weather’s going to be good. I suppose you know how the Blackfoot Indians forecast the weather?’
‘What?’
‘Weather forecasting, Indian-style. Here, I’ll show you.’ She bent down and picked up a small stone and twisted a piece of grass around it so that it was hanging like a conker on a string.
‘That’s it?’ asked Morrison, intrigued.
‘That’s it,’ she said. ‘You hold it in front of you like this, and you watch it. Here, you hold it.’
She handed it to him and Morrison studied the stone. ‘Now what?’ he asked.
‘Well, first you touch it. If it feels dry, the weather is fine. If it feels warm, it’s a hot day. If it turns white, it’s snowing. And if it’s wet, it’s raining. Then you look at it. If it’s swinging from side to side, it’s windy.’
Morrison laughed, realising he’d been taken for a ride.
‘And, Sean . . .’
‘Yes,’ he said warily.
‘If you can’t see it, it’s probably foggy.’ They both dissolved into laughter.
The telephone rang in the hallway. ‘I’ll get it,’ said O’Hara, who was sitting closer to the door than Hennessy. He picked up the receiver and then put his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘It’s for you,’ he called. ‘Won’t give his name.’
Hennessy pushed himself up from the table and took the phone from O’Hara. ‘Liam Hennessy,’ he said.
‘It’s Bromley,’ said a gruff voice. Hennessy reached behind him and closed the door on O’Hara, not wanting him to hear.
‘They called?’ Hennessy asked.
‘They called, but they didn’t give a codeword. What’s going on, Hennessy?’
Hennessy was confused and he put his hand to his head. ‘Look, Bromley, if they didn’t give the codeword, maybe it wasn’t them.’
‘It was them all right. The Press Association took the call last night. It was a man, Irish accent, and he said there would be no further co-operation with the British security forces and no more use of the codeword system.’
‘So how do you know the call was kosher?’
‘He knew exactly where the bomb had been placed and how much explosive was in it. And with all the other bombs they claimed responsibility within twenty-four hours. We had the normal hoax calls but that was the only one that had enough details to convince us that it was genuine.’
Hennessy closed his eyes. This wasn’t what he had expected at all.
‘Somebody talked,’ said Bromley.
‘That’s not possible,’ insisted Hennessy. ‘Only two people knew what was happening. Me and the man you met in London, Sean Morrison.’
‘Well, one of you isn’t to be trusted. And only you know which one it is.’
‘I brought Morrison back from the United States especially for this. He’d been away for two years, so there’s no way at all that he could be involved with the active service unit.’
‘Maybe you talk in your sleep,’ said Bromley.
‘I’ll treat that remark with the contempt it deserves,’ replied Hennessy, but something cold ran down his spine and settled in the pit of his stomach.
‘So what do you think went wrong? Do you think it was just coincidence, that they decided on a whim not to use the codeword so soon after you changed it?’
‘No, of course not. We’ve changed it twice before this year and each time they’ve picked it up immediately. No, you’re right, they’ve been warned off. But for the life of me I can’t think who it might be. Look, give me a number where I can reach you. I’ve got some thinking to do.’
Bromley read out a number and Hennessy wrote it down. ‘I can get you there day or night?’ he asked.
‘If I’m not there, they’ll be able to get hold of me.’
‘I’ll call you as soon as I find out what’s happening.’
‘For your sake I hope it’s not too late,’ said Bromley.
‘What do you mean?’
He heard Bromley click his tongue as if thinking, and when he spoke again his voice was hesitant. ‘The climate is changing here, Hennessy. These bombings have been so vicious that public opinion is turning against the IRA in a way that I’ve never seen before. We’re not just talking about right-wing MPs calling for the death penalty or sending in the SAS, this is different. Part of it is the lack of warnings, but a lot has got to do with the choice of targets. When the IRA killed MPs like Airey Neave and Ian Gow you might have been able to justify them as political killings, and the Stock Exchange and the Carlton Club could just about be described as establishment targets, but these latest atrocities, I mean, Bank Tube station, for God’s sake. And Ascot. I’ll tell you, Hennessy, if much more of this goes on you could find the rules changing.’
‘What do you mean, rules changing?’
‘I mean that, despite what you might think, in the past the IRA has had a relatively easy ride from the British Government.’
Hennessy snorted. ‘Bullshit. The Catholics in Northern Ireland have been ridden rough-shod over in a . . .’
‘We’re not talking about Catholics, we’re talking about the IRA. And all I’m saying is that you and your friends in Dublin, if you’re serious about not being involved in these bombings, are going to have to pull your fingers out, or you’ll feel a backlash the likes of which you’ve never known before.’
‘I hear what you’re saying, Bromley. And I’ve got your number.’ The line went dead. Hennessy went back into the kitchen, where O’Hara was sitting at the table spooning cornflakes into his mouth.
‘Trouble?’ he asked, seeing the worried look on Hennessy’s face.
‘It’s OK, Willie. Nothing I can’t handle.’ Oh really? said a voice in his head that sounded disturbingly like Mary’s.
Christy Murphy arrived at the farm just before ten o’clock. Hennessy was making coffee when one of the guards knocked on the kitchen door and announced that somebody was driving down the track towards the farm. A few seconds later a car crunched into the courtyard and Mu
rphy let himself into the kitchen.
‘Christy, just in time for coffee,’ said Hennessy, waving the large man to a chair. ‘Come on, sit down. How’s my wife?’
Murphy stood where he was, clenching and unclenching his hands like a prize-fighter about to get into the ring. His big, square face was creased into a frown and for a moment Hennessy feared that something had happened to Mary.
‘Mary’s all right, isn’t she, Christy?’
‘She’s fine, Liam, but . . .’ His voice tailed off.
Hennessy pushed his plate away. ‘What’s wrong, Christy? Cat got your tongue?’
Murphy seemed to be struggling for his words, and although he was normally a quiet man this was something different. He was acting like a small boy who wanted to confess to breaking a window but who was worried about being punished.
‘Can I speak to you, Liam. In private?’ he said.
‘Of course, of course. Come through to the lounge.’ Hennessy got to his feet and took the big man through the hallway.
As the morning sun climbed higher and higher in the sky, Kerry found it progressively harder to follow The Chinaman’s trail. Morrison didn’t have to ask why, she’d already explained about the importance the angle of the sun played in defining footprints. Eventually, after it had taken her the best part of an hour to cover a hundred yards, she called a halt.
‘I think we should rest for a while,’ she said. She indicated a leafy birch tree in the middle of a hedgerow. ‘Let’s sit in the shade,’ she said. They dropped down into the cool grass and she opened her rucksack. She took out a pack of sandwiches and two cans of ginger beer. ‘I knew we’d be out here for some time,’ she said.
‘How long do you think it’ll take?’ he asked, helping himself to a sandwich.
‘The trail is cold,’ she admitted. ‘He’s still heading for the forest, by the look of it, and if he is we’ve a better chance of finding him among the trees. It’s harder to move through woods without leaving signs.’
‘Can’t we just go straight there?’
Kerry shrugged. ‘We could, but we’d be taking a risk. There’s still a chance he might turn north or south before we get there, and even if he doesn’t we won’t know for sure where he went into the trees. You can’t take shortcuts, Sean. If we make a wrong call, we might have to spend hours backtracking.’ She popped open the can of ginger beer.
‘You know best,’ he said. He held up his sandwich. ‘These are good,’ he said. ‘You make them?’
‘Yeah, I had plenty of time while you were still in the land of Nod.’
They ate together in silence, enjoying the feel of the fresh summer breeze on their faces.
‘You live in New York now?’ Kerry asked, brushing crumbs from her trousers.
Morrison nodded. ‘Yeah, raising funds, flying the flag, telling the Yanks where their money is going.’
‘Don’t you miss it?’
‘Miss what?’
‘The crack. The kick from being in Belfast, where it’s all happening.’ She frowned. ‘You know what I mean, surely. The fight is in Northern Ireland, not in the States, and certainly not in Scotland.’ The look of intensity was back in her eyes.
‘There are different ways of helping the Cause,’ he said quietly, aware once again how quickly her temper could flare, how she’d snapped at Kavanagh in the farmhouse.
‘Like my dad, you mean. Hiding in Scotland. And keeping me with him.’
‘Hey, come on now, Kerry. Your father has heard the rattle of soil on too many coffin lids to deserve that. No one has done more for the IRA than Micky Geraghty, you shouldn’t forget that.’
She shook her head. ‘I know, that’s not what I meant. It’s not so much that he’s out of it now, it’s more that he won’t let me get involved. He’s so fucking protective.’
Morrison looked at her and immediately felt protective towards her himself. Her cheeks were flushing, her chin was up and her eyes flashed fire. She looked as if she was ready to fight the whole world. She was keen, there was no doubt about that, but he also knew that Long Kesh was full of men who had failed to temper enthusiasm with wisdom. ‘You should be glad you’re out of it,’ he said quietly.
‘I’ll never be glad until the British are out of Ireland. It’s our country, Sean, our country and our religion. You know what I mean, I know you do. You feel the same as I do when you see the black bastards swaggering through the streets in their bowler hats and sashes, their flutes and drums, ramming their religion down our throats. Did it never happen to you, Sean? Being grabbed by the bastard Billy boys and being forced to say “Fuck The Pope” and “All Catholics Are Shit”. Tell me that never happened to you. Tell me that your bile doesn’t rise when you see an Orange parade.’
Morrison said nothing, because he knew she was right.
‘I want this Chinaman,’ she said. ‘I want to show Uncle Liam what I can do. If I can prove myself just this once, he’ll let me do more for the Cause, and it won’t matter what my dad thinks.’
In the distance to the west a white star climbed into the sky leaving a greyish-blue trail zig-zagging behind it. The star popped with the sound of a bursting balloon.
‘That’s Uncle Liam!’ she said.
Morrison took the walkie-talkie out of the haversack and switched it on. ‘Are you there?’ he said. No names were to be used because the army constantly swept the airwaves.
‘I want you back here,’ said Hennessy’s voice. ‘Now.’
‘OK, we’re on our way. Have you found him?’
‘No, I just want you back.’
‘Understood.’ He switched off the receiver.
Kerry had heard and she sat forward. ‘I wonder what’s happened?’
‘No idea,’ said Morrison.
‘Look, Sean, I think I should stay out here. Uncle Liam said they haven’t found The Chinaman yet. And you can see how slowly it’s going. I want to keep at it, you can come back here once you’ve sorted out what he wants.’
‘How will I know where you are?’ he said. ‘You’re the tracker, not me.’
‘I’m not going to be moving that fast.’ She picked up a long twig from the hedgerow. ‘I’ll leave sticks like this sticking up every hundred yards or so, and I’ll drag the pole through any patches of soil I pass. You’ll have no problems finding me again. And I’m not likely to stumble across him, am I? This trail is dead cold. It’ll save time.’
‘I’ll have to check with him,’ said Sean, and switched the receiver back on. ‘Are you there?’
There was a delay before he heard Hennessy reply. ‘I’m here.’
‘I’ll come back alone.’
‘Is that wise?’
‘It’ll save time later and we are quite sure there’s no danger out here. Unless there’s a problem.’
Hennessy was quiet for a while as he considered Morrison’s suggestion. ‘Be careful,’ he said eventually.
‘Yeah!’ said Kerry.
‘Any doubt at all and you both come in,’ Hennessy said to Morrison.
‘Understood,’ he replied, and switched off the receiver again.
‘Like he says, be careful,’ Morrison said. He opened the haversack and took out the flare gun and the cartridges. He handed them, and the walkie-talkie, to her. ‘You’d better take these,’ he said.
‘What about the gun?’ she asked.
Morrison shook his head emphatically. ‘No, no gun,’ he said. ‘Liam was quite clear on that score. And if you think you’re getting close and there’s any chance of you finding him, then pull back and call me on that.’ He nodded at the walkie-talkie. ‘I’ll be back once I’ve found out what it is that he wants.’
‘It must be important otherwise he’d have told you on the radio what it was,’ she said.
Morrison thought about that as he jogged back to the farmhouse. Though they had been out for more than five hours they had covered just three miles and it only took him forty minutes to get back.
He was in good condition and he
’d barely worked up a sweat by the time he walked into the courtyard to find O’Hara there with two men carrying shotguns. The guns were broken, the barrels pointing down to the ground, but Morrison could see the brass ends of cartridges in place.
‘Liam’s in the lounge,’ said O’Hara.
‘Everything OK?’ asked Morrison, hoping for some clue as to what was going on.
‘Fucked if I know,’ said O’Hara. The two men with shotguns said goodbye to O’Hara and walked across the courtyard towards the cottage. Morrison felt himself sigh with relief. For a wild moment he had thought that they had been waiting for him. An armed escort.
He wiped his feet carefully on the mat by the kitchen door and walked through to the lounge. The door was half open and he walked in to find Hennessy sitting in one of the armchairs by the unlit fire. He didn’t get up as Morrison entered. ‘Sit down, Sean,’ he said. He seemed distant, almost shocked, and the one thought in Morrison’s mind was that there had been another bombing. As he went over to the sofa he realised there was somebody else in the room, standing by the door. It was Christy Murphy.
‘Christy!’ he said, surprised. ‘When did you get back?’
Murphy looked away from Morrison and seemed ill at ease.
‘Christy, you can wait outside,’ said Hennessy, and Murphy practically ran out of the door so keen was he to get out of Morrison’s presence. Hennessy studied Morrison with unsmiling eyes as Murphy closed the door and Morrison began to worry, but the fear was a shapeless, nameless thing, made all the more terrifying by his inability to identify it. He wanted to speak, to ask what was wrong, but felt that to do so would be to imply guilt and that his interests would be best served by keeping quiet. He could feel sweat on the palms of his hands but he resisted the urge to wipe them on his trousers. Liam Hennessy might look like a kindly grandfather but he had the power of life and death and would have no compunction at all about killing somebody who he thought had crossed him. Thoughts of Mary Hennessy flashed into his mind and he felt his cheeks redden.
‘The bombers have claimed responsibility for the Ascot bomb,’ Hennessy said flatly.
Morrison frowned, because that surely was good news, and yet Hennessy said it as if he was announcing the death of a close relative. ‘And?’ he said.
The Chinaman Page 29