Once a Pilgrim

by James Deegan

  It takes a special kind of man to step through a murder hole, and you can live or die by your actions.

  John Carr had danced with that particular devil on many occasions, and the devil had always had his arse kicked.

  That was because Carr knew what it took to breach successfully.

  It took speed, aggression and surprise.

  Dessie had lost surprise, and from the time it was taking him to come through that door it looked like he’d lost speed and aggression, too.

  A creak.

  That loose floorboard had annoyed Carr since he’d moved in, but DIY wasn’t his strongpoint.

  He’d never been happier about that than he was now.

  Then a shadow disrupting the light at the base of the door

  More hesitation.

  The door started to open.

  77.

  BEFORE HIS RECENT encounters with Mick Parry and Kevin Murphy, Dessie Callaghan had killed four men, not the three for which the PSNI suspected him.

  The RUC turncoat outside the Duke of York, Dessie had been part of a group which had seen its chance and taken it. Kicking that fucker’s head in while hooting in joy had been a rare experience indeed.

  Well worth every day of the sentence he’d served for it.

  As for the others, in two of them he’d snuck up behind his victims and shot them in the backs of their heads, and in the other the fella had been lying in pieces in a puddle in Dunmurry, begging and crying like a girl.

  The last thing he’d seen, this supposed OIRA hardman, had been big Dessie grinning down at him, finger squeezing the trigger.

  They’d all been simple enough.

  Dessie liked those odds just fine.

  But it had suddenly occurred to him that when it came to entering and clearing rooms – particularly rooms containing nineteen-year veterans of the hated and feared SAS – he was some way out of his depth.

  Things were not playing out the way he had expected.

  He paused, his brain scrambled.

  Who the fuck is that guy I just shot?

  Who knows.

  Who cares.

  I need to focus on this.

  Deep down, he wanted to turn around and go quietly down the stairs, and leave, and drive away, and never come back.

  But the shame.

  As against the respect.

  The respect he’d earn from the other guys in the Vollie…

  A vision in his head – himself, a Guinness in his hand, pressed there by an eager hanger-on, telling the bhoys once more how he’d gone right to the heart of the enemy to avenge his comrades.

  Rod Stewart’s voice entered his head, singing, Going home, running home, down to Gasoline Alley where I started from.

  ‘Fuck off,’ he said, aloud.

  He felt the weight of the Glock in his hand.

  He’s unarmed, Dessie, he thought to himself. Get a grip. The peelers could be here any minute. Let’s get this show on the road.

  Imbued with a renewed confidence, he pushed open the door, raised the Glock, and moved forwards.

  Unfortunately for Dessie, his expertise in this kind of thing was pretty much limited to what he’d seen in Hollywood movies.

  He came through that door like the bald fucker in Die Hard, and, best will in the world, the bald fucker in Die Hard doesn’t know what he’s doing either.

  Going through a door like that is a dance: there are steps you need to follow if you don’t want to be caught wearing clown shoes.

  The first step – the most basic rule of all – is that you move quickly to either side.

  You get out of the doorway and clear the murder hole.

  No-one had ever told Dessie that, and so he stood there, framing himself in the light from the hallway.

  It cost him dear.

  A split second after he appeared, Carr took aim low on the target, took up the first pressure on the trigger, and squeezed.

  Dessie’s mind registered a large flash from about fifteen feet away and the sensation of a giant sledgehammer smashing him in the balls.

  Reflexively, his finger jerked the trigger of the Glock, the round ending up in the ceiling, as he was knocked halfway back through the doorway.

  He found himself lying on the bright landing, his eyes temporarily blinded by the shotgun flash, the pistol knocked from his grasp.

  Somewhere downstairs, he heard a woman scream, and then he felt an overwhelming pain in his groin.

  Carr was up, out of the bedroom, into the hall and on top of Callaghan, almost before the wounded man had had time to work out what the hell had happened.

  Keeping the Beretta trained on the IRA man’s head, he checked for the Glock.

  Saw it lying on the floor somewhere near Dessie’s feet.

  Slid it further away with his boot.

  Not that Dessie had any use for it now. He was slowly curling up into the foetal position, both hands between his legs, and making a low, keening sound.

  Carr placed the shotgun against the wall, leaned down, grabbed the gunman by his ears and dragged him bodily into the flat.

  He switched on the lights.

  He could see that Callaghan had already lost a fair bit of blood, and was turning pale.

  His face was a rictus mask of shock and horror.

  Carr punched him in the mouth.

  ‘That’s for ruining my carpet,’ he said. ‘And for Kevin Murphy.’

  He punched him again, breaking his nose for the second time in a couple of days.

  ‘And that’s for Scouse.’

  ‘Fuck!’ said Dessie. ‘Fucking mother of Christ!’

  ‘She can’t help you now, son,’ said Carr.

  Callaghan wailed.

  ‘Who sent you?’

  Callaghan mumbled something. Blood was pumping out across the floor, bright red from the femoral artery.

  ‘Speak up!’ said Carr. ‘Who sent you?’

  ‘Fuck off,’ slurred Callaghan, teeth gritted, breathing hard.

  Carr stood up and stamped down on his groin.

  Callaghan screamed in agony.

  ‘Your face looks swollen,’ said Carr. ‘Try this.’

  He put his hands on the Irishman’s face and pressed in as hard as he could. He could feel the parts of the broken cheekbone grating against each other.

  Callaghan started crying, and then he passed out from the pain.

  Carr slapped him and banged his head on the floor, and he came back round.

  ‘Who sent you?’ he said.

  Weakened by loss of blood, Dessie Callaghan said something under his breath.

  Carr put his head down closer to his mouth.

  ‘Say again,’ he said.

  In that moment, Dessie realised that the pain was gone, and with it the fear.

  In its place was a kind of calm.

  He assumed that this must be because he was dying.

  He smiled, somehow.

  He had thrown the dice and lost, and that was how the game went.

  But he was not going to go out begging for help.

  ‘Pat Casey sent me,’ he slurred. ‘And there’s plenty more where I come from. You’re a dead man.’

  He laughed, breaking into a rasping cough.

  And then he propped himself up on an elbow and spat in Carr’s face.

  ‘You’ve actually got some balls,’ said Carr, wiping the saliva away. ‘Or you did have.’

  Dessie sank back to the floor, muttering something.

  ‘What’s that?’ said Carr.

  ‘I said Crawfordsburn’s a small place,’ mumbled Dessie, with an evil smile. ‘And your little girl’s a pretty wee thing.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Carr, grabbing him by the throat. ‘What the fuck do you mean?’

  But at that moment Callaghan’s eyes rolled back and he died.

  Cursing him, Carr picked up the Beretta and the Glock, stepped over the dead man, and ran downstairs.

  The girl in the flat below was sitting in her doorway, doin
g her best to cradle Kevin Murphy’s greying head in her lap with her bound hands, and crying.

  Carr knelt down, gently moved her hands, and felt for a pulse in his neck.

  Nothing.

  Turned Murphy’s head to the light.

  His eyes were open.

  No reaction from his pupils.

  ‘Oh shit,’ said Carr. ‘Kevin.’

  This is my fault.

  His head dropped, for a second, and then he pulled himself together.

  ‘You alright, Daisy?’ he said to the girl.

  She looked at him, looked through him.

  Almost catatonic.

  ‘You’re okay now. That guy upstairs… he’s not going to bother us any more.’

  He moved past her into her flat, found a knife, and cut her free. Then he did the same with her boyfriend, cradling their landline phone between his shoulder and ear and calling 999 as he did so.

  Once he’d done that, he ran back upstairs to his flat, stepping over the prone corpse of Dessie Callaghan, and dialling another number.

  It was picked up after three rings.

  ‘Stella?’ said Carr. ‘It’s me.’

  ‘If it’s about that ski trip, I…’

  ‘No, it’s not.’ Carr was in his bedroom, and stripping out of his bloodied kit, and quick-changing, the phone held between shoulder and ear. ‘Listen, love,’ he said, pulling on a clean pair of jeans. ‘Remember your neighbour? The old biddy who saw the guy in the blue car who was nosing about your house?’

  ‘Rose? What about her?’

  ‘You were right. He was RA. They’ve come over here for me, but they’re looking at you and the kids as another way to get at me.’

  ‘Oh, my God,’ said Stella. ‘What’s happened? Are you alright?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ He was in the wardrobe, now, reaching for his grab bag, and checking that he had his phone, car-keys and wallet. In a few minutes, the police were going to be here and they’d be sealing off the building as a major crime scene, and he’d not be able to get back in. ‘Never mind me, it’s you three we need to think about. Pack a bag and get out of the house, right now. You and David both. Make sure you’re not followed – you remember all the counter-surveillance stuff from before – and get yourself to a hotel. Somewhere a good way away. Call me and I’ll pay. Tomorrow you both call in sick, and you stay sick until I tell you otherwise. Got that?’

  ‘Why?’ She was a tough girl, but she sounded shakey.

  ‘Once the RA work out that your house has gone cold they might try to pick you up at the Ulster. And if they can’t locate you, they might try him. They follow him, they find you again.’

  ‘But you and me’s divorced. Why would they want to…?’

  ‘Because they’re evil bastards. Primarily, they’d want the kids. Especially George, if they find out.’

  ‘Oh, God.’

  ‘As soon as you’re at the hotel, you need to call Alice and tell her she can’t come over at the weekend like she was planning. Don’t tell her why, no need to worry her. Make something up. George is in the States and then off to Kenya, so he’s not a problem. I’ll deal with him, anyway.’

  ‘What about the police?’

  ‘Don’t say anything to them. You can’t trust the PSNI.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Got all that?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Good girl. Now get that bag packed and get out of there.’

  78.

  THE POLICE AND paramedics were there not long afterwards, and, for the second time in the recent past, John Carr found himself sitting in an interview room talking to a pair of detectives.

  They were as thorough as one would expect, but he told it pretty much as it happened, leaving out the fact that he’d kept a loaded shotgun under his bed. He knew the law, having been interviewed about many deaths in many different theatres: he showed them Kevin Murphy’s Osman warning letter, told them about Mick Parry and stressed that he’d been in fear of his life.

  ‘I’d just seen Kevin shot dead in front of me,’ he said. ‘This Callaghan guy was coming up the stairs after me. It was self-defence – I did what I had to do.’

  The cops were happy enough with that.

  They knew Carr’s history, and they knew Callaghan’s.

  As far as they were concerned, the PIRA scumbag was just one more piece of human trash they didn’t have to deal with.

  The CPS duty lawyer agreed.

  They released Carr, and he drove down to The Langham, where he’d booked himself into a junior suite – eight hundred quid a night, but Konstantin Avilov would pay.

  He checked in, but he was wired and still full of adrenalin, so instead of heading to his room he made for the Artesian bar.

  Despite the late hour it was reasonably busy, but he found a stool between a pair of women and a fat Arab, and ordered himself a large Glenmorangie.

  He necked that in two swallows and ordered another, and, as the barman brought it over, the woman next to Carr turned to him.

  ‘Well, you’re thirsty,’ she said, with a flirtatious smile.

  She raised her martini to him by way of salute, and took a big slug.

  She was American – Californian Valley Girl, Carr thought – mid-thirties, lightly tanned, and very good-looking.

  And clearly pissed, or well on the way.

  ‘I am,’ said Carr.

  ‘Makes two of us,’ she said.

  The woman on the other side leaned in and said something Carr didn’t catch. Then she looked directly at him. ‘So, I’m going to hit the sack,’ she said. ‘Nighty-night. You kids play nice.’

  As she slipped off the stool and walked out, the first woman held out her hand. ‘I’m Kelly,’ she said. ‘And you are…?’

  ‘John,’ he said, shaking her hand.

  ‘John, huh?’ said Kelly. She drained her martini and looked at Carr. ‘So what does a girl have to do?’

  He beckoned the barman over and got Kelly another martini, looking at her as he did so.

  Good legs, nice clothes, silk blouse opened a button too low, and – by the way she was touching his knee – clearly interested.

  ‘What brings you here, John?’ she said.

  ‘Business,’ he said. ‘You?’

  ‘I’m a partner in a major US law firm,’ she said. ‘We’re over here on a big merger and acquisition deal’ – she slurred that slightly, Carr noticed – ‘and it all got signed off today. So me and my friend Ellen were celebrating.’ She took a good glug of the martini and looked at him meaningfully over the glass. ‘This is my last night. Tomorrow I’m flying back to New York.’

  She made a fluttering gesture with her free hand, the Cartier bracelet on her wrist glittering in the low light, and then let it rest back on his thigh.

  Carr said nothing, just drank a little more whisky, enjoying the burn.

  ‘How did you get that scar?’ she said, looking at his chin.

  ‘Long story,’ he said.

  ‘Uh huh. So, where are you from?’ said Kelly. ‘Your voice… Are you Irish?’

  As she spoke, she wobbled slightly on her stool, and grabbed his forearm to steady herself.

  ‘Oops,’ she said, with a giggle. ‘Pardon me.’

  Carr looked down at her hand on his arm.

  ‘Scottish,’ he said.

  ‘Well, I love your accent.’ She removed the hand, took the olive out of her drink and popped it into her mouth, grinning at him. ‘Bet you never heard that before.’

  ‘Not often,’ said Carr, with a smile of his own.

  ‘And what line of business you in, John?’

  ‘Security,’ he said, drinking a little more whisky and looking into her eyes.

  He could be in this bird’s bed in two minutes, and inside her knickers in three, and he had a feeling it would be a thoroughly enjoyable experience. But…

  It was as though she’d read his mind.

  She threw back the dregs of the martini and slid off the stool.

 
‘Security, huh?’ she said. ‘Well, I have an early flight. Maybe you could walk me to my room? You never know. I might need a big strong man to protect me.’

  Carr looked into his scotch.

  Then back at her.

  She was certainly very fit.

  ‘Here today, gone tomorrow, John,’ she said, putting her hand on his left arm, and stroking his tricep.

  He finished off the Glenmorangie, and stood up.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, looking down into her upturned eyes. ‘Let’s get you to bed.’

  She led him to the lift, putting plenty into her walk.

  ‘Fourth floor,’ she said.

  He pressed 4 and the car shot smoothly upwards.

  A moment later, the bell pinged, and she stepped out. Taking his hand, she turned left and led him along the corridor to a room on the right.

  He watched her open her purse and take out her keycard.

  Put it into the slot.

  The lock whirred, and she opened the door.

  He could see a large bed, a black suitcase and various items of clothing on the floor and draped over a chair.

  He hesitated.

  ‘Okay, then,’ she said, bending down to take off her heels. She looked up at him. ‘Golly, you are big,’ she said.

  She grabbed him gently by the waistband of his jeans, to pull him into the room.

  But he resisted.

  ‘Listen, Kelly,’ he said, ‘I’m flattered. You’re a beautiful girl. But I never like to take advantage of a lady when she’s got the beer goggles on.’

  She took her hand from his jeans and looked at him.

  ‘Beer goggles?’ she said.

  ‘British expression. You’ve had a few, and you’re not thinking with your brain. I wouldnae want you hating yourself in the morning.’

  She smiled. ‘My, my,’ she said. ‘An actual British gentleman. I thought they were like unicorns.’

  ‘If you were around tomorrow I’d buy you dinner, and then who knows,’ said Carr. ‘But not like this.’

  Kelly looked disappointed for a moment. Then she said, ‘Wait here a second.’

  He watched her walk into the room – wondering whether he wasn’t making a big mistake – and over to the desk.

  She bent over the desk, skirt tight, writing something.

  Came back with it.

  ‘If you’re ever in New York,’ she said, handing him a hotel letterhead with some scribble on it, ‘look me up. I’d like to show you the town.’