England's Janissary

  ‘Enough!’ another voice commanded and Flynn squinted the second figure into focus. It was the man without a thumb. He was smoking, and from his tone and manner obviously in charge, if only just. Flynn gazed at him for a moment, weighing him up as the stench of stale sweat mixed with tobacco played in his nostrils. Behind him a third man, much younger than the others, stood anxiously by the door, nursing an obsolete Mauser rifle. ‘Give him a drink,’ Maguire ordered.

  ‘Piss off!’ McNamara hissed. ‘Why bother? Let’s just shoot him!’ McNamara flashed Flynn an evil smile as he pulled out a Mauser C96 automatic pistol from under his jacket. Click! He cocked the weapon and pointed it at Flynn’s head. ‘This is one of the bastards who killed Jerry,’ he snapped, looking at Maguire, his face contorted with pure malice. ‘Are you going to squeal, peeler? Like your friend did when I shot him?’ Flynn’s eyes widened in shock; this was the first he had heard of O’Leary’s death. ‘That’s right, pig! I put the little swine out of his misery over in Cardiff. Squealed like the filthy piglet he was. How he begged before he pissed himself,’ McNamara gloated pitilessly.

  Flynn looked up at the gunman in horror and felt the rage build inside him as he strained against his bonds. McNamara laughed loudly and pressed the pistol against Flynn’s forehead. ‘Let’s just get on with it.’ Flynn screwed his eyes closed, waiting for death, for release, but Maguire shoved McNamara’s arm upwards, angry at the gunman’s spiteful behaviour.

  ‘When the time comes, you can do it, but ’til then, Sean’s orders are clear. He lives! You’ll have to wait. The boss wants me to have a wee word with him.’ Flynn felt sick listening to the two men discussing his death as if he wasn’t in the room and eventually McNamara glared at Maguire then slid the gun back into his jacket.

  ‘I’ll wait for now, Joe, but I won’t wait long!’ A thrill of almost sexual anticipation rippled through McNamara as he looked down at Flynn and savoured the thought of putting a bullet through the policeman’s head, of shredding his brains and snuffing out his existence. He knew that he would really enjoy killing Flynn, just like he had enjoyed killing O’Leary or the traitor Muldoon or, indeed, any of his other victims. He loved the control, the power of life and death, the ability to take away everything from someone with the gentle flexing of a finger, as simple as switching off a light.

  McNamara smiled to himself as he recalled how Muldoon had begged for his life as he knelt, trussed like a lamb in an abattoir awaiting slaughter. How his brother Jerry had laughed at the look in the old man’s rheumy eyes; that look of disbelief they all had just before he pulled the trigger. It was that look that he enjoyed most – the realization that it was all over and that there was nothing they could do, nothing except accept death. Yes, he would look forward to seeing the same look in the policeman’s eyes; he would enjoy killing Flynn, for his brother’s sake, as well as his own. Then he would settle his account with Maguire – he would enjoy that too.

  Maguire threw McNamara a hostile sidelong glance as he took down an old army water bottle from a makeshift hook – a rusty nail hammered into the wall – and pulled out the cork stopper before kneeling down next to Flynn, studying him closely. ‘Here, drink this.’ He smiled. ‘You’re going to need your strength.’ He poured some water down Flynn’s throat and the policeman sputtered before being able to swallow a little. The tepid liquid cooled his throat, washing away some of the blood. It was his first drink in hours and his throat was dry with fear.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve some poteen?’ Flynn croaked with a cracked smile and in a shriek of outrage McNamara kicked him hard in the side, causing him to convulse in a spasm of pain and coughing before he managed to look back up at his assailant. He could see McNamara’s face contorted in pure hate, his eyes burning with fury.

  ‘Leave him!’ Maguire barked.

  Biting back his pain and fear, Flynn thought of what he’d just heard about O’Leary and forced himself to calmly look up at McNamara and smile humourlessly. ‘Touch me again and I will kill you,’ Flynn said tonelessly as he stared at McNamara. Maguire smiled but McNamara snarled with rage and snatched his gun back out of his pocket, levelling it at Flynn. The policeman’s eyes were cold, grey and empty as he fixed McNamara with a hard pitiless stare that did little to hide what he had planned for the gunman. McNamara’s hand began to tremble.

  ‘Steady, Mick,’ Maguire chortled, ‘I do believe Mr Peeler here means it!’ Then the IRA man laughed a harsh, forced bray before turning to the furious gunman. ‘Come on, we’ve things to be going on with, so leave him for now. His time will come soon enough.’ He took hold of McNamara’s sleeve and pulled him towards the door.

  Doyle shifted uncomfortably in the doorway. He knew that the policeman was an enemy, a traitor, and accepted that he had to die but he just wished that they would get on with it and execute the man rather than string it all out. Hegarty had laughingly said something about getting the peeler to dig his own grave to save them the effort but Doyle wasn’t looking forward to that either.

  Then, as suddenly as it had all started, the door thudded shut, leaving Flynn alone in the room with his fears. He knew that he had to do something soon or he was a dead man. Biting back his pain he wrestled with the heavy hemp rope that bound his wrists but his struggles simply tore his skin, achieving little. ‘Bugger,’ he cursed and frantically looked around the room for something sharp to part the cords. There was nothing. He urged himself to calm down and then, wriggling furiously, tried to slip his arms under his legs but they were bound too tight. He was stuck with his hands tied behind his back, trussed and helpless, unless something changed soon.

  Wobbling, he finally lurched unsteadily to his feet and staggered towards the boarded-up window. He may as well try and find out where it was he was going to die. His knees trembled beneath him and he felt sick as he leant against the wall, his bladder straining as he fought against the urge to pee, determined not to give them the satisfaction of seeing him piss himself.

  He was beginning to recover his senses now that the initial shock of capture had passed and his fear was also slowly subsiding. He was becoming irritated rather than afraid that he had been so lax as to let himself be captured and, deep inside, the determination to escape was beginning to grow. He needed a plan, if only to keep his mind occupied.

  Racked with pain and frustration, he pressed his battered face against a crack in the board and strained to see what was outside through his one good eye but could see very little. He sniffed; the air was dank, laced with decay, and it felt like early morning to him. He drew back slightly from the crack when he heard muffled voices outside and a car engine coughed into life. ‘Eunan, go tell the boss that we’ve got the prisoner secure and find out what he wants us to do next? Take Mick with you,’ Maguire said as Hegarty and McNamara climbed into the car. Flynn recognized the same dark Austin Tourer he’d seen pick up Kitty as it drove past his vantage point carrying two men. He wondered how many more of them were out there and began to make a mental appreciation of his situation. He wondered where Kelleher was. He must be around here somewhere too, he thought.

  Suddenly, the door swung open, shattering Flynn’s thoughts, and he span around. Maguire leant against the door frame, relaxed, confident, dangerous, eyeing his helpless prisoner. He pointed a pistol at Flynn and flashed him a charmless smile. ‘It’s a beautiful view, is it not?’ he said conversationally, as Flynn wobbled slightly, fighting to stay upright and not wet himself. ‘Come over here, peeler, and don’t try anything stupid.’ He flicked the pistol almost casually, beckoning Flynn towards him. The man dripped confidence and capability.

  ‘Or what?’ Flynn said softly. ‘You’ll kill me sooner than you planned to anyway?’ Maguire’s face was blank, betraying nothing of his thoughts. Flynn watched him, studying him; he felt strange, almost peaceful. It was as if he had come to terms with the fact that he was already a dead man and suddenly he felt calm for the first time in ages, almost as if a great weight had been lifted from his
shoulders.

  Maguire shrugged indifferently. ‘Who knows what fate holds for us,’ he said and Flynn stepped slowly towards him. His mind focused on the building pressure in his bladder as he followed Maguire into the front room of the croft. The room was cold and he blinked rapidly as he adjusted to the light and quickly drank in his surroundings. The sour smell of unwashed bodies and neglect slapped him across the face like a duellist’s challenge and he noticed the ash from a long-dead fire tumbling from the blackened grate whilst feeble shards of light fumbled through the caked-on grime of two cracked, cobwebbed windows, pooling in the room and deepening the shadows. The place was thick with dust and rat droppings and before him a musty, woodwormy table teetered precariously in the middle of the room.

  The damp air made Flynn’s joints ache like they had in the trenches, a legacy of too many nights sleeping rough, and only the throbbing pain in the rest of his body distracted him from it. His bladder was beginning to hurt now, spurred on by the cold, and he desperately needed to pee.

  ‘Sit!’ Maguire ordered as he pointed at a tatty chair by the table, which Flynn seriously suspected would collapse under his weight. A pitted, bone-scarred knife stood skewered in the centre of the table and the youth with the rifle stood nervously by the door, chewing his lower lip, giving Flynn the occasional furtive glance. Flynn gently tried working his bonds again as he eased himself onto the chair, his eyes fixed on Maguire.

  ‘What now?’ Flynn asked defiantly. He was determined not to give these men the satisfaction of seeing him break. Every fibre of his body was now focusing on his bloated bladder.

  ‘You know,’ Maguire said wearily, ‘I really tried to warn you off this nonsense with young Kitty Kiernan but you wouldn’t listen.’ Doyle glanced out of the door and then back at Maguire, his face shadowed by his tatty cap. ‘And look where it’s got you now. Your boss Kelleher is dead …’ Flynn looked up suddenly. ‘And you are here, a dead man walking. I really had hoped that it wouldn’t have come to this.’

  Maguire sighed wearily and palmed back the hammer of his revolver to half-cock. Click! Flynn prayed his bladder wouldn’t give out. ‘Pat,’ he said over his shoulder to Doyle, ‘take a look outside, would you now? Is there any sign of the others?’ Doyle felt a mixture of fear and excitement balling in his stomach as he quickly scanned the farmyard before looking back at Maguire and shaking his head.

  ‘Shouldn’t we wait for the others, Joe? You said that the boss wanted to talk to this one.’ Doyle sounded anxious, dreading seeing the policeman shot.

  ‘Not this time, Pat,’ Maguire said, hanging his head wearily, as if suddenly the whole world was pushing down on his shoulders. ‘There has been a slight change of plan.’ He looked at Flynn; his eyes were full of sorrow as if he’d struggled with some dilemma and come to some unfortunate but inevitable conclusion. ‘I’m truly sorry that I have to do this but you really haven’t left me with much choice.’ Maguire’s voice was soft, almost soothing, as he raised his revolver.

  Flynn tensed, forcing himself to stare straight at Maguire to meet his gaze and his fate head on. This is it! he thought as his breathing became erratic and he felt his whole body begin to tense. He fought to control himself. Maguire suddenly swung his arm round in a swift motion and pulled the trigger.

  The bullet tore through Doyle’s throat, slamming the lad against the door with a loud thud. His rifle fell as he slid down the door onto his backside, leaving a dark smear of blood behind him. Bright blood frothed from the wound as he wheezed for breath and welled through his fingers as he clawed at his neck, eyes wide, in stunned disbelief. Flynn was rooted to his chair in stunned silence as Maguire sighed and walked slowly over to Doyle, his arms hanging loosely by his sides. The boy looked up, confused, at his killer.

  ‘I’m sorry, Pat,’ Maguire said gently before he pointed his gun at Doyle’s head and, after a brief pause to aim, loosed off two more rounds into the young man’s head. Doyle’s body shuddered violently under the impacts and his right leg twitched for a second or two before he finally lay still. Dark blood trickled down the flaking door, snaking around gobbets of brain as it dripped.

  ‘It’s truly a bloody pity,’ Maguire muttered to himself as he looked ruefully down at Doyle’s body and poked it with the toe of his boot. ‘He wasn’t a bad lad, you know. Just in the wrong place at the wrong time, that’s all. Shit happens in war, I guess,’ he added as he turned to Flynn and put his pistol on the table. ‘Now let’s get you untied.’ He yanked the knife from the table as if nothing had happened whilst Flynn stared at Doyle’s shattered skull, the boy’s lifeless eyes wide in surprise. Flynn’s ears were ringing in the silence. ‘We don’t have much time before the others get back,’ Maguire said, as he reached behind Flynn and sawed through his bonds.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ Flynn asked in astonishment, turning to face Maguire.

  ‘Never mind who I am,’ Maguire muttered. ‘Suffice to say, I’m on your side. You’re lucky to still be alive; McNamara has really taken a serious dislike to you. As for that fool Kelleher, he has gone and got himself killed so the least I can do is try and get you out of here.’ He pulled Flynn’s hands free. His wrists were rope-burned and sore.

  ‘What happened to Kelleher?’ he asked.

  Maguire glanced out of the filthy window, scanning the horizon.

  ‘MacEoin shot him,’ he said, with all the emotion of someone inured to death, as if discussing the weather. Both men had seen enough killing not to get too teary about it. Flynn nodded. After all, he’d half expected to hear that he was dead anyway. The policeman glanced down at Maguire’s hand and as he looked up he caught Maguire’s eye and Flynn realized that he knew it was him who had shot his thumb off.

  Flynn shifted uncomfortably; his wrists burned. ‘Let’s go then,’ he said, but Maguire shook his head.

  ‘No, it’s best that I stay here.’

  Flynn gestured towards Doyle’s corpse. ‘But what about him?’ he said. ‘You can’t stay.’ Maguire picked up a piece of the cut rope and held it towards Flynn.

  ‘Tie me up and gag me, then give me one hell of a crack on the head. I’ll tell them that you got free and gave me a good kicking. It’s not like you don’t look like you could. Doyle must have disturbed you whilst you were tying me up so you shot him with my gun,’ he said, putting together a plausible version of events. ‘That’s why I got him to stand by the door, so that it would look like he was walking in when you shot him.’

  Jesus, what a cold bastard, Flynn thought as he looked at Maguire and shivered, but despite everything he felt a twinge of admiration for the calm, calculating way he’d disposed of Doyle. It was obvious that Maguire had not enjoyed killing the boy but Flynn had met plenty of men like him in the trenches and was realistic enough to know that they were good men to have with you in a fight. ‘It seems plausible,’ Flynn said. After all, there were no witnesses to contradict Maguire’s version of events. ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right?’ Flynn asked.

  Maguire shrugged. ‘I reckon,’ he said as he sat on the rickety chair. ‘After all, why shouldn’t they believe me? I’m the OC of the local IRA battalion.’ Maguire couldn’t help laughing when he saw the look of shock on Flynn’s face.

  Suddenly, the urge to urinate pushed itself back into his mind and Maguire watched curiously as Flynn walked to the corner of the room and fumbled with his flies. The sound of running water echoed around the room and Flynn sighed with obvious relief. ‘Sorry about this, but I’ve been dying to go for ages. It took everything I’ve got to hold it in and stop you bastards thinking you’d made me wet myself!’ he said over his shoulder and Maguire laughed. ‘So where are we?’ Flynn finally asked, as he buttoned up his flies.

  ‘We’re in an old abandoned farm and if you head off that way—’ He pointed off into the distance ‘—you should reach Drumlish. It’s about four and a half miles away.’ Carefully avoiding treading on Doyle’s corpse, Flynn looked out of the door and held his watch up to the sun.
>
  ‘You can use it to find north,’ Flynn said, when he saw Maguire’s puzzled look.

  ‘Aren’t we the Boy Scout!’ snorted Maguire from the chair. ‘Now stop farting about and tie my hands and be on your way. McNamara and Hegarty could be back any time and if you’re still here I may not be able to help you!’ Flynn squatted down behind the chair and tightly bound Maguire’s hands. ‘Now gag me and fetch me a hell of a knock on the head. I want them to think that you put me out. Punch me in the face first!’

  ‘If you insist.’ Flynn shrugged before slamming a haymaker into Maguire’s jaw. The man’s head snapped back and his lip split in a welter of blood. ‘Shit!’ Flynn hissed as he clutched his fist in his left hand. Maguire shook his head and spat out another gobbet of spittled blood. His skin was already beginning to discolour.

  ‘Now hit me with the pistol, hard on the back of the head.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Flynn asked and Maguire nodded again.

  ‘Just get on with it!’ Without a word Flynn picked up the pistol from the table and smacked it into the seated man’s head. ‘Jaysus!’ Maguire yelped.

  ‘Sorry,’ Flynn muttered apologetically, ‘but I’ve only ever killed people with these things before.’ He forced a makeshift gag into Maguire’s mouth. Blood leaked from the gash in the back of the man’s head into the cloth then onto Flynn’s hands and he wiped them on an old cloth before stuffing the gun into his jacket pocket. ‘Whoever you are, thanks,’ he said, patting Maguire on the shoulder before picking up Doyle’s discarded rifle. He rummaged through the boy’s pockets and pulled out a couple of rounds, which he slipped into his own before taking a good look at the rifle. It was an antique single-shot Mauser, like the ones smuggled into Howth by the Irish Volunteers in 1914. He worked the stiff mechanism and a bullet bounced onto the ground. He picked it up and replaced it in breech, cocking the weapon and twisting the safety catch to the on position.