by Tom Graham
‘But we can’t keep paying,’ said Michael, his voice low. ‘That’s why we’re here. We’re not here on a regular assignment. This is a private matter. No need for police involvement. You’re better off turning a blind eye till we’re through.’
‘Can’t do that, Mickey,’ said Gene. ‘It’s not the Wild West. We’re still the law round here — me and him, not you boys.’
‘The law doesn’t apply here today,’ said Deery. ‘Let me and my lads finish this. None of us want word of this to get out. What’s been happening of late don’t put me in a good light, nor the boys up there. And it don’t do the Cause no favours neither. Just leave us to deal with it. No one’ll miss them Red Hand bastards. This whole thing can be sorted — like it never happened.’
Gene shook his head slowly. ‘I want Peter Verden and his merry band of playmates behind bars, Mickey, not lying in body bags.’
‘Behind bars?’ said Michael with a cold smile. ‘They wouldn’t be the only ones you’d be looking to bang up, though, would they? You’d be after me and them fellas up there too. Can’t let that happen.’
‘You seem to have got the mistaken idea into your head that I’m negotiating with you,’ growled Gene. ‘I’m not asking for anything, Deery — I’m telling. You and your spud-suckers don’t dictate terms, not to CID they don’t; not to me. Am I getting through to you, Murphy?’
Sam felt his stomach clench. For this time and place, and with these people, Gene’s tone was all wrong. They weren’t dealing here with a bunch of bank robbers with stockings on their heads and their eyes on the wages van. These men were a different breed altogether. What motivated them was something far deeper than the desire for loot. They were idealists. They had the British Army on the ropes, and were destined to keep them there for decades to come. Damn it, this was the IRA.
And yet, as well as fear, Sam felt pride. Gene had come here as a representative of the law — and no amount of guns pointing at him was going to make him swerve from his sworn duty. He was no more going to roll over in the face of superior numbers than Michael Deery or his IRA companions up there on the hill. The unstoppable force was meeting the immovable object. Both sides saw themselves as being on the side of right. Neither side saw any need to capitulate.
‘There’s a lot of issues at stake here,’ said Sam. ‘But the top priority is your daughter, Mr Deery. Even if we accomplish nothing else here today, we’re not leaving without Mary. We’re going to bring her home to you, Mr Deery — safe and well, no matter what.’
‘I appreciate that,’ said Deery, keeping his voice low. ‘But we don’t need you two. We can deal with it ourselves. I give you my word — I swear on the Holy Blood of Our Lord — we’re just here to get my kid back and give them bastards what they’ve got coming to them. That’s all. No British targets to hit. No politics dimension. It’s private business.’
‘I don’t like you lot,’ Gene said suddenly, sticking his chest out. ‘In fact, I despise you for the cold-blooded, murdering scum that you are.’
‘The feeling’s mutual, I can assure you of that,’ said Deery.
‘But I’m a little strapped for manpower just at the moment,’ Gene went on. ‘I’ve got a hostage to release and a bunch of crazed pinko hippies with guns to bring home in chains, and there’s just me and him free to do it.’ He indicated Sam with a nod of the head. ‘But watching you and your lads in action just now, making short work of them herberts up on the hill, it got me thinking. I figured that, if we could temporarily put aside our differences, we might just get this job done — together.’
‘I already said, we don’t need you. Get back in your motor and go home.’
‘You’re not seeing the situation clear enough, Deery,’ Gene growled, leaning closer to Michael and eyeballing him fiercely. ‘You want to watch your kiddy growing up from between the bars of a prison cell? Well, do you? Because that’s what you can look forward to. Behind bars — that’s where you and your missus will be. I can have you both banged up for so long that by the time you get out your daughter’ll be celebrating your release in her bloody old people’s home.’
‘If you won’t go nicely, like I told you,’ said Deery, his voice cold and level, ‘then we’ll have to remove you from this business forcibly.’
‘Murdered coppers attract a lot of attention,’ said Gene. ‘And how much attention do you really want brought to the fact that you, Mickey, and your bleedin’ harpy of a wife have been pinching bombs from the IRA to supply to the RHF? Won’t you and Cait and your four mates up there get into hot water with your high command if they find out the right royal balls-up you’ve been making of things?’
‘They won’t find out,’ said Deery, a flash of real fear in his eyes. ‘Like I said, it’s a private matter.’
‘But it won’t stay private if you whack me and him,’ said Gene. ‘Your masters will know you’ve been siphoning off arms. Stealing, Mickey boy. Pilfering. Thieving. From your own people. And you know better than me the internal IRA disciplinary procedures. What’ll they do to you and your old lady, eh, Mickey? A kneecapping? A going-over with baseball bats? Something nasty in the eyes? Or will they want you both out of the picture altogether? Maybe they’ll pay you the ol’ three a.m. house call and march you and the missus off to the woods, where you’ll find two shallow graves conveniently waiting for you. Maybe they’ll just drown you in your own bathtub — ladies first, of course, so you can watch your wife snuff it, before it’s your turn. Maybe you’ll find yourselves looking up a rope. I don’t know, Mickey, I’m not the expert — but something tells me you know what you can expect.’
Michael Deery’s face went ashen. Sam realized for the first time just how desperate both he and Cait must have been — desperate to get their daughter back, desperate for word of the blackmail not to reach IRA high command, desperate not to find themselves in line for some serious punishment at the hands of their masters.
‘There’s no way a Republican unit can work with the British police,’ said Deery.
‘You know where your daughter is, don’t you?’ said Sam. ‘That fella up there told you, before you shot him.’
Deery looked at Sam for a few seconds, then gave a curt nod.
‘Tell us,’ said Sam. ‘Wherever she is, we’ll get her out of there.’
‘We’ll get her out of there while you boys cover us,’ added Gene. ‘I need backup and I ain’t got anyone else to draw on but you, you bloodstained pack of murdering bog-hoppers.’
Deery’s eyes narrowed as his brain worked feverishly. He could see the deal on the table: he would get Mary back, CID would get Verden and the RHF, and the whole sorry business of blackmail and misappropriated IRA arms would disappear. Everybody gets what they want — but only if they can all stomach working with their sworn enemies, just for one day.
As the dawn light grew stronger, Deery paced up and down, chewing his nails and swinging the pistol about nervously. The four gunmen up on the hill began to exchange looks.
‘Make up your mind, Mickey,’ Gene urged him. ‘Your friends are waiting.’
Deery ignored him, ran a hand through his unwashed black hair, then made a decision. He straightened, lifted his head, looked confrontationally at both Sam and Gene, and said, ‘My daughter’s right over there.’
He pointed. Half a mile or so from the rugged shore, a large cabin cruiser was becoming visible in the morning light.
‘Apparently there’s a couple of dinghies down on the cove,’ Deery added. ‘Take one. Leave the other for us.’
And with that, he turned to go. But Sam stopped him.
‘Mr Deery,’ he said, and Deery turned and looked at him. Sam held out his hand. Deery made no move to take it. ‘Please. Michael. For Mary’s sake.’
Sam waited, his hand still offered. Deery suddenly laughed bitterly, turned away, shaking his head, and headed back up the hill. In moments, he and the IRA team were gone, taking the bodies of the men they’d shot with them. All that remained was the ominous br
ick building overlooking the sea, and the distant white speck that was the Capella.
‘Jesus, Guv, you took a gamble there,’ breathed Sam when they were alone.
‘You reckon, Sam?’ said Gene, stretching his limbs and filling his huge lungs with air. He scooped up his holster and strapped it back across his chest. ‘I preferred our odds of getting them bog-brains on side than of going up against the RHF with just the two of us.’
‘I know Guv, but even so …’
‘Keep your hair on, Margaret,’ Gene grinned. ‘I told you before: we get paid to take risks. That’s what we do. We’ve all got to go someday, Sam — but it’s not today, not for neither of us.’
At those words, Sam felt his throat tighten, his chest gasp for air. As he watched Gene leading the way down to the cove, he felt for a moment that he was suffocating, that he would pass out entirely. Gulls cawed and shrieked in the air above him, and for a fleeting instant their calls became the cries of mourners following a coffin to its final resting place.
What have you done, Sam? he asked himself. Sam, what have you done?
‘Shift yourself, you idle sod!’ Gene called up at him.
Sam forced the bracing sea air into his lungs, defied the shadow of death that kept sweeping across him, grabbed his firearm from where he had dropped it and followed Gene down towards the rugged foot of the cliffs.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
EAT MY BULLETS
The stocky gunman had not lied to Michael Deery. Down on the cove at the foot of the cliffs, where the sea fretted along a stony enclave, not two but three small motor launches were beached.
‘Oh, very professional!’ grinned Gene, heartily amused by the Red Hand logo stuck on the prow of each one — the RHF’s deluded attempt to feel like a real army, with real insignia. ‘Look out, Sam, they’ve got stick-on transfers!’
‘Don’t underestimate them,’ warned Sam as they dragged one of the launches down to the surf. ‘They’re deluded and pathetic, but they’re still dangerous.’
‘It’s funny, ain’t it, Sam, what turns a fella on? I mean, if I had Verden’s money I wouldn’t be wasting it on this old bollocks.’ Gene paused and looked out to sea. The Capella was sitting half a mile or more out from the shore, the hazy half-light of dawn filtering over it. ‘Yes to the boat, no to the world revolution. Yes to the birds, no to the long-haired hippies with shooters. What goes on in his head, do you reckon?’
‘According to the files Annie dug out, he was busted for drug possession back in ’68,’ said Sam. ‘Perhaps he inherited the family dough, scrambled his brains on magic mushrooms, and came out the other side thirsting for world domination. Whatever he did, he’s certainly found enough fellow loonies who think the same way.’
‘Youth and money,’ said Gene, shaking his head. ‘It’s wasted on the young and wealthy.’
They reached the line of the surf where it hissed and rolled over the shingle. Sam felt the cold seawater washing over his boots, freezing his feet. As he did, his vision blurred, and once again he felt as if he was passing out. The sound of the tide seemed to carry with it a human voice, low and solemn, its words broken and fragmented: ‘Commit his body to … the midst of life we are in … to ashes, dust to …’
Sam grabbed a handful of cold seawater and dashed it over his face to revive himself.
‘Wash and brush-up, is it, Sammy?’ he heard Gene saying. ‘Making yourself presentable for the big showdown? Nice touch. Classy.’
As Gene shoved the dinghy into the water and cumbersomely clambered aboard, Sam staggered for a moment, fighting to get breath into his lungs. The gulls were circling above him, screaming and screeching louder than ever.
Two thousand and six is history! he told himself. What’s happening there doesn’t concern me any more. I’m dead there, but here I’m alive! All that matters is the here and now. This place — right here!
It took a physical effort to wrench himself out of the state of suffocated semi-consciousness he was being dragged into. He sucked down fresh salty air, strode into the cold surf, and went to climb into the dinghy.
And then he saw her, standing up to her waist in the water, bedraggled in her stained dress, black veil draped with seaweed, cradling her bandaged dolly in the crook of her dripping arm.
‘You don’t belong here, Sam. You should have stayed where you were meant to be.’
Sam pushed straight past her, ignoring her.
‘What have you done to yourself, Sam? No going back … No going back …’
It’s a dream, Sam told himself. She’s not real — only the here and now is real!
He leapt into the dinghy just as Gene fired up the outboard motor, sending them bucking against the incoming waves. As they bounced their way out to sea, Sam dared to glance round. The girl was still there, standing in the water, but now she was lifting her drenched veil, revealing a bone-white face, fleshless and eyeless.
Sam shut his eyes tight.
I don’t want to see! I don’t want to see!
‘Good God, Sam, you’re not getting bloody seasick already, are you?’
‘I’m fine,’ grunted Sam through gritted teeth. ‘If you just leave me alone I’ll be fine.’
‘Last of the great outdoorsmen, eh?’ growled Gene. ‘The Fletcher Christian of CID.’
‘I said just leave it, Gene!’
He took mouthful after mouthful of air, fighting the horrible sensation of claustrophobia, of smothering, of choking that threatened to overwhelm him. Thankfully, the feeling started to recede. And, when he opened his eyes again, the girl in the black dress was gone.
Sam forced his mind back to the job at hand. Up ahead, in the misty light of dawn, the Capella was slowly becoming more visible. She was a sleek cruiser, gleaming white, designed and built for luxurious pleasure. Whoever Peter Verden was and wherever he came from, he certainly wasn’t short of a few bob.
But how could they reach the Capella without being spotted? If they came under fire from the deck, they’d have no option but to turn and flee.
It was then that Sam saw, away to his left and far off to his right, the other two dinghies, racing forward, skimming the waves. The dinghy to their right curved round and overtook them, and Sam saw the two men seated in it, their faces hidden behind balaclavas, their assault rifles over their shoulders. To the left, there were two more masked gunmen, and Michael Deery was with them, too. Sam could recognize him despite his mask, because he was still carrying his pistol, not a rifle like the rest of the unit.
Across the grey water, Sam and Deery made eye contact. Would Deery wave to him? Would he salute? Would he perhaps just incline his head in acknowledgement of the risks Sam had taken, and was still taking, to free his daughter from the clutches of the Red Hand Faction?
Deery did nothing. He turned his head, and the dinghy beetled ahead.
This is a marriage of convenience, Sam thought. It’s loveless, and it won’t last.
‘With luck, they’ll think it’s their guys returning from the handover, bringing home the supplies,’ said Gene.
‘They’ll soon twig there’s far more of us than there should be,’ replied Sam. ‘We’ll just have to see how close we can all get before the penny drops.’
The two dinghies to their sides homed in on the Capella, getting well ahead of Sam and Gene. Gene became angry, complained he’d been saddled with the poofiest boat of the three, began blaming the engine for not being as powerful as the others, the prow for being less streamlined, Sam’s presence for inexplicably being responsible for slowing their progress.
‘If you weren’t weighing us down I’d be there already,’ he bleated. ‘I should chuck you overboard as ballast.’
‘Just keep your hand on the tiller, Captain Bligh, and get ready to start shooting if we’re rumbled,’ Sam snapped back, drawing his weapon and trying to see if there was any movement on the deck of the Capella.
‘Who’d have thought it, eh, Sam?’ said Gene. ‘You and me, teamed up with the scum
of the earth.’
As he spoke, Sam watched the IRA unit drawing closer to the cruiser.
‘It’s a funny old world, Sam. Still, any port in a storm, no pun intended. If them bog-brained Guinness-swillers can draw their fire long enough, we might get ourselves a real result today. I want him, Sam. I want Verden — and that bird he’s with. I want the pair of ’em. When the smoke clears, Sam, I want ’em alive.’
‘When the smoke clears, I want us all alive,’ put in Sam.
‘You and me’ll be okay,’ Gene declared, arrogant as a Greek warrior at the walls of Troy. ‘Can’t speak for no one else, though.’
Sam peered ahead. ‘Look, Guv! They’re getting right up close now!’
The two other dinghies had slowed and were now bobbing towards the Capella, making for the rope ladders swaying down from the deck rail. One of the gunmen reached out and caught hold of a ladder.
‘They’re going to make it aboard, Guv! They’re actually going to ma-’
Figures appeared on the deck of the Capella, and instantly there was gunfire. The IRA man climbing the rope ladder jerked and fell, became tangled, and hung limply, his arm trailing into the sea. One of the dinghies roared away in a gush of foam while the man still in the other returned fire, driving the RHF guards back.
‘That’s it!’ bellowed Gene. ‘Time to play us some tic-tac-toe, Sammy-boy!’
He opened the throttle on the outboard motor and steered the boat straight for the thick of the action. With his left hand on the tiller, he drew the Magnum with his right. As they approached the Capella, he squinted along the huge barrel, caught sight of movement on deck and squeezed off a shot. The Magnum spat fire and recoiled. There was an agonized cry, and a guard toppled from the cruiser, bouncing off the hull as he went and leaving a splash of red on the pristine white.
Sam focused on the swaying rope ladders that were almost in reach. He shoved his pistol back into its holster and grabbed at the ladders with both hands, managing to catch hold. With all his strength he heaved himself up the rungs — and at once there were hostile shouts from the deck above. Sam heard the clatter of a rifle, felt bullets whine and scream within inches of him and go impacting into the sea below, heard wild cries and shouts and sudden explosions.