by James Deegan
‘You should. Put it on your list.’
‘Aye.’
Silence.
Carr was keeping a mental clock running, trying to gauge how long he’d been in this chair.
Had to be closer to three hours than two, now.
That made it somewhere around one o’clock.
Four or five hours till Pat Casey showed up, but his chances of getting out of this predicament would decrease exponentially once the other three got back from the pub.
Not to mention, if they were pissed they could very well get started on him before Casey arrived.
He tried to work on the plasticuffs, but there was no movement there.
Fake something? A heart attack?
No. Tomas would just call the others back from the bar, and then…
His feet were taped tight to the chair legs. But the chair itself wasn’t anything much. In the old days, when PIRA was properly set up for this, they’d had people on really solid chairs which were also bolted to the floor. But this was just a flimsy, tubular steel thing, the kind that you see in stacks in a village hall. Carr was pretty confident that he could stand up by brute force, and break it in the process. That wouldn’t deal with his hands, and it would leave him less than mobile, but it was a start. If he could hobble over to the rough wall, maybe he could start to work on the plasticuffs.
But then what about young Tomas?
Sitting ten feet away with that Glock between his feet.
Well, life wasn’t perfect and you played the cards you were dealt. He had to get cracking, or else he was going to be in a world of pain fairly soon; to be fair, it would be better to take one from the Glock anyway.
He closed his eyes and focused on building up a good reservoir of saliva in his mouth.
Then he focused on swishing it round, getting it nice and frothy.
After a few minutes, he said, ‘Tommy, I feel a bit weird. My fucking chest…’
The teenager looked up at him.
Carr began mumbling incoherently, and half-closed his eyelids, rolling his eyes up to show the whites. He began to shake, and allowed some of the saliva to dribble from his mouth.
Hoping against hope that the kid would buy it.
That his animal fear of something happening to his prisoner before Pat Casey got here would override his higher brain.
Carr started groaning.
Then deliberately inhaled saliva, forcing an unmistakeably genuine choking fit, and slumping forwards, head down.
Tomas stood up.
Leaving the Glock on the floor.
Said, ‘What the fuck…’
Walked over, hesitantly.
He bent down close to Carr.
Carr struck.
Using every ounce of his physical power, he stood up, partially collapsing and buckling the chair, and launched himself at the young Irishman.
The headbutt caught Tomas flush on the chin and knocked him over, stunned.
Carr’s momentum hurled him over on top of the other man.
Face-to-face.
Eyeball to terrified eyeball.
He started butting and biting, screaming like a banshee as he did so to increase the sense of disorientation.
The teenager flailed away with fists, but his blows were weak and Carr hardly felt them.
Tomas should have rolled sideways, or even tried to get under Carr. But he’d never been in a fight to the death before, and so he did the natural thing, and wriggled back, desperate to get away.
Leaving his neck exposed.
Carr pounced.
Turning his head sideways, he managed to get his teeth around Tomas’s throat, and now he bit down, hard.
Tomas half-squealed, half-gurgled, punching Carr frantically in the face.
Scratching at his eyes.
Carr tore at his neck, feeling the skin yield.
Salty metallic blood.
Bit into the windpipe.
Ripped from side to side, like a dog with a bone.
And in a matter of a minute or two it was all over.
He rolled off the dead man and took a moment or two to compose himself.
Spat blood and tissue across the byre.
Got onto his knees and shuffled towards the Glock.
Somehow managed to get a hand on it.
He couldn’t aim it properly, but it was better than nothing.
He looked around the cowshed.
There was a stone manger at the other end.
He half-hopped, half-dragged himself to it, and turned around.
Felt for the rough edge, and starting rubbing the plastic tie against it.
Pistol gripped in his right hand.
Safety off.
One eye on the doorway.
Listening for a car.
It took him at least ten minutes to fray the black nylon to the point where it weakened enough.
He pulled his wrists apart and looked at them.
He’d taken half his skin off, too, and he was bleeding quite badly.
Did not feel a fucking thing.
He bent down, found the edge of the tape around his right leg, and ripped it off. Did the same with his left, and threw the chair into the corner of the shed.
Stood there, stark bollock naked, and laughed.
He checked the Glock.
A full mag, and it looked to have been well-maintained.
Went to the open doorway.
Quick peep.
No sign.
Think, John.
Get into the house and get some kit on.
Then what?
See what other weapons there are and go looking for the fuckers?
No, wait for them to come back.
Feeling very exposed, he ran from the stone barn to the cottage.
The door was unlocked.
He cleared the place quickly and efficiently – no saying that one of them hadn’t decided to stay back – and it was empty.
Went back and propped the door open, the better to hear anyone approach.
Found his clothes – in a black bin bag, ready to be disposed of – and quickly got dressed.
Found the folding stock AK.
He’d fired two shots this morning, which meant he had twenty-eight left. No sign of the spare mags, but he wouldn’t need them.
He could see the driveway through the kitchen window. It was dark inside the cottage, so he was confident they wouldn’t see him.
So, keeping an eye on that window, he made himself a cup of tea and a jam sandwich.
Got rid of the taste of that young wanker’s throat.
119.
THERE WAS NO clock in the kitchen, and they’d taken his watch off him, so he had to guess at the time.
His thinking was that it was about three when Status Quo, Nike Guy and Yellow Anorak appeared at the end of the drive, the three of them in a grey Merc Sprinter.
The van they’d have been burning his body in, twenty-four hours from now.
Or a lot longer than twenty-four hours, if he was unlucky.
Carr readied his weapons – he’d use the AK, for its stopping power, but he had the Glock in his trousers just in case.
Stood back from the open door, in the dark of the hallway, and waited.
The van stopped outside.
The sound of two doors slamming.
Feet crunching.
Ribald laughter.
Something about a barmaid.
‘Ach, you fucking know I could’ve!’
Getting closer.
AK into the shoulder.
He could hear them talking now.
‘…check on the fucker?’
‘Aye, in a minute.’
‘Sure, it looks like the door’s open.’
‘Aye, Tommy’ll have gone inside for a piss.’
‘Or a wank.’
More laughter.
‘Them was the days,’ said one of them.
‘I’ll beat the tar out of him if he is,’ said another. Status Quo, Car
r thought. ‘You’ve to take this sort of thing fucking seriously. This guy’s fucking dangerous, and…’
Three shapes filling the doorway.
Carr squeezed the trigger and gave them a dozen rounds.
At a range of a little over ten feet, the AK was devastating.
It near about took off Status Quo’s head, and it smashed Yellow Anorak back out of the cottage like he’d been hit with a wrecking ball, which in a way he had – four rounds to the chest, each of them delivering over 2,000 joules of kinetic energy.
The third of the group, Nike Guy, had been at the back, and to one side, and whether through luck or astonishing reflexes, had moved even further out just as Carr open fired.
As a result, he’d taken only one round, in the top of his right shoulder.
Still, it had punched him backwards and onto the ground outside, and now Carr followed him and watched him scrambling to his feet, pissing blood, staring in shock.
Carr walked forwards, rifle at the ready.
Nike Guy stumbled backwards, hand up on his good arm.
Carr reached him and smashed the stock into his face, splitting his forehead open.
He went down again, and this time he stayed there.
‘Get up,’ said Carr.
‘No.’
Carr grabbed him by his hair and dragged him towards the cowshed.
Inside, he released him and pointed the rifle at his head.
‘Get up,’ he said.
Slowly, the man stood.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Declan Reilly.’
‘That’s my fucking watch on your wrist.’
‘Eh?’
‘My watch. On your wrist. See that’s a Rolex, but it’s not just any old Rolex. Special edition for the Regiment. You only get to wear one if you’ve served. When did you pass Selection?’
‘Eh?’
‘It’s a simple question, Declan. When did you pass Selection?’
‘I never.’
‘Then you’d better give it back to me.’
Gritting his teeth through the pain in his shoulder, and wiping blood out of his eyes, Declan Reilly managed to unclasp the watch.
He passed it over, hand trembling.
‘Sorry,’ he said.
‘Aye, Declan,’ said Carr. ‘I bet you are.’ He kept the AK levelled at the injured man. ‘Have you got a phone?’ he said.
‘Aye.’
‘What is it?’
‘iPhone.’
‘I was hoping you’d say that. Contract?’
The IRA man raised his eyebrows in disbelief. ‘Pay as you go,’ he said.
‘I was hoping you’d say that, too. Pass it me. No funny business.’
Reilly reached into his back pocket and handed over the iPhone, grimacing in discomfort.
‘Thanks,’ said Carr. ‘What’s the code?’
Declan Reilly hesitated, but when Carr prodded the barrel of the AK into his bleeding shoulder wound he gave him the digits.
Stepping back a pace or two to give himself a little extra space, Carr looked down at the phone and tapped in the code.
Opened the phone.
Went to ‘Photos’.
Said, ‘Fuck me, is this your sister?’
Then, ‘Only kidding, Declan.’
Opened WhatsApp and stepped forward.
‘I want you to record a couple of wee messages for me,’ he said, handing over the phone and a piece of paper. ‘I wrote them down earlier, just in case.’
Reilly looked down at the piece of paper and studied it.
Looked up at Carr and said, ‘What’s this for?’
‘Never you mind,’ said Carr. ‘Just read them. Assuming you can fucking read.’
Reilly looked down. ‘I have information about the death of Pat Casey and several others at the farm in Camlough,’ he said, ‘and about Casey’s involvement in the death of Michael Parry, the former British soldier who…’
The speech continued for thirty seconds or so, Declan looking up now and then at Carr, Carr nodding encouragingly.
When he’d finished, he looked back at Carr.
‘Is that it?’ he said.
‘That is it,’ said Carr, with a grin, taking back the iPhone. ‘Thank you, Declan, and goodnight.’
The muzzle flash illuminated the dark interior.
Declan Reilly hit the floor with a dead thud.
The smell of cordite filled the air.
John Carr smiled and breathed deeply through his nose.
He loved the smell of gunfire, and it had been a while.
120.
CARR TOOK THE piece of paper from Declan Reilly’s dead hand, left the AK47 propped up by the open doorway and went outside.
The air was cool and the sky was grey, and he felt fucking fantastic.
He stood for a few moments, listening to the silence.
Looked at his watch, still warm from Reilly’s wrist.
Just a wee bit before 4pm.
Casey on his way.
Leaving Tomas and Reilly where they were, he dragged the other bodies into the cottage.
Glock in hand, ran to the farmhouse.
No sign of the farmer.
McKilty’s under instructions to keep well away… he’s off ploughin’ or fucking scatterin’ or whatever farmers do.
Had a quick scout round.
Found the central heating tank.
Not far away, and an empty twenty-litre jerry can nearby.
He filled the jerry can with heating oil from the measuring bar.
Went into the barn first, dousing everything.
Then the house, top to bottom, every room.
None of his DNA to be left behind.
Saved a little for the Mercedes Sprinter van, into which he now climbed.
Then he sat down to wait.
121.
HEADLIGHTS PIERCED THE wintry gloaming at just after 17.30.
The silver Volvo, bouncing along the lengthy farm track.
Carr had counted the rounds in the AK.
Nine left.
Seventeen in the Glock.
More than enough.
He gripped the rifle and slid lower in his seat.
The Volvo ground to a halt in front of the cottage.
Carr watched it in the big Merc’s wing mirror.
No movement.
Had they made him?
No way.
Maybe they’d called ahead to speak to one of their guys and were spooked by the lack of pick-up.
But in that case, why even drive to the farm?
Thirty seconds ticked by, and then the interior light came on as a door opened.
A rear door, though.
He looked closer.
Oleg Kovalev.
Holding a pistol, which was trained on the men in the front.
Carr cracked the door of the van.
Careful, John. Let’s not go spooking crazy Russians.
‘Oleg,’ he called. ‘It’s me. In the grey van. I’m alone and I’m coming out, okay?’
‘Slowly, John,’ said Oleg. ‘Walk to me.’
Carr hopped down.
Oleg backed and turned slightly, so that he could keep the two men in the Volvo in view, but see Carr out of his peripheral vision.
Flicked his eyes in the Scotsman’s direction.
Turned his body back to the Volvo.
Said over his shoulder, ‘Hi, Johnny. I bought you little present.’
He was grinning like a velociraptor.
‘So I can see. What the fuck are you doing?’
‘What you always say, John? Prior planning and preparation prevents performance?’
‘Something like that.’
‘So I plan and prepare to help you.’
Carr was at his side now, his own pistol pointing at the ground.
Kovalev opened the passenger door. ‘Put fucking hands on you fucking heads!’ he snapped.
Pat Casey and Paulie McMahon complied immediately.
> Oleg shot Carr a glance. Took in a face which was cut and bruised and smeared in blood. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, Johnny, looks like you needed help.’
‘Everything was under control.’
‘If you say.’
As he said that, he backed away from the Volvo, pistol still levelled at the two men.
‘Now, over to you, Johnny.’
Carr crouched down on his haunches.
Looked up at Casey.
‘Hello, Pat,’ he said. ‘I believe you want to kill me?’
Casey looked at him, fingers interlocked behind his skull.
‘I suppose it’s no point me telling you I’m not who you think I am?’ he said.
‘Not really.’
‘You think I’m a politician, but…’
Carr started laughing. ‘A politician?’ he said. ‘You’re a gangster and a murderer, legitimised by a corrupt peace process. Politicians don’t send people to kill people.’ He paused. ‘Well, you know what I mean.’
‘You think I’m a politician, but I’m a source, a source for MI5. I’ve been working for the British government for twenty years or more.’
Paulie McMahon had turned to look at his boss.
‘Pat,’ he said. ‘You’re a tout? Jesus. You cannat be fucking serious.’
‘Shut up, Paulie,’ said Casey. ‘Call my handler. I can give you his codename and number.’
‘Yes,’ said Carr. ‘Shut up, Paulie.’
He angled the Glock slightly and shot McMahon in the face.
Blood sprayed all over Pat Casey’s right ear and cheek, but he didn’t flinch.
‘Call him,’ said Casey, after a few moments. He wiped some of the blood and red matter away. ‘He’ll confirm it for you.’
‘I’m not interested, Pat,’ said Carr. ‘Guys like you, you thought you could play both sides. We should have put you down like a dog when we shot your brothers.’
‘You fucking bastard,’ breathed Casey. But then he quickly softened his tone. ‘I can pay you. What do you want?’
Carr chuckled and raised the Glock.
In that moment, Pat Casey was out of the door and away across the purple scrub, moving with a speed which was born of terror.
Oleg raised his pistol to shoot the fleeing man, but Carr smiled and held up a hand.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Leave him. He’s mine.’
Casey was slipping and sliding as he ran, and had not got far. His initial sprint had been based on adrenalin, but he was quickly out of breath, and slowing, and Carr caught up with him in fifty metres.
He tripped Casey from behind, and sent him sprawling onto the earth.