Seventy Times Seven

by John Gordon Sinclair

  Danny reckoned that’s what was happening now. It was confirmation that he was under surveillance – otherwise, how did they know he was staying the night at Órlaith’s?

  He heard the front door crack open, and the sound of footsteps as they padded swiftly up the stairs. He heard the warning creak from the top step as each of them passed over it.

  The bedroom door eased open and three of the men entered the room. The fourth he guessed had gone to the bedroom next door where his sister-in-law lay sleeping with her seven-year-old daughter Niamh.

  Through half-closed eyes he could just make out their shadowy outlines as they moved quickly to take up positions, strategically placing themselves so as to prevent any means of escape: one by the window, one by the door, and one holding the Browning against his cheek.

  On an invisible signal, the two others raised their weapons and pointed them at Danny.

  His 9 mm was just a few inches away under his pillow, easily within reach – but Danny knew if he made even the slightest movement they would shoot him.

  The three men had Heckler sub-machine guns fitted with suppressors clipped over their shoulders; all were wearing balaclavas pulled down over their faces and none of them was in uniform.

  If – as Danny suspected – they were SAS, he was in the shit. E4A were police: what the hell were the army here for?

  He’d been arrested plenty of times over the years, always in the middle of the night: questioned well into the early hours, and always released without charge. Special Branch in particular were determined to get something on him, but never could. The authorities had very little to go on except their own suspicions. The reason for the arrests had changed from pragmatism to harassment, with no specific purpose other than to intimidate him – but Danny knew instinctively that tonight was different.

  The shouting started.

  ‘Rise and shine fuckwit. C’mon you dirty Irish cunt. Up. Up. Up. Move it or get a bullet in the head.’ The one holding the gun in his face grabbed Danny round the back of his neck and started to pull him up out of bed.

  ‘C’mon move it! Get your dirty Fenian arse into gear.’

  Danny let himself be hauled to a standing position.

  He reached over to pick his glasses off the bedside table, but his arm was quickly smacked down with the butt of the Browning.

  Danny was naked except for his jockey-shorts.

  Having no shoes on – for him – was like having two weapons less: he couldn’t do much damage with his bare feet. At some point he would have to fight back: retaliation was inevitable, but the last thing he wanted was for the fight to start in the bedroom where there was no room to manoeuvre.

  ‘Under the Geneva Convention I’m allowed to get myself dressed,’ said Danny, ‘and put on my glasses.’

  ‘Get your murdering Irish arse down the fuckin stairs now,’ was the reply.

  Órlaith appeared just outside the bedroom door with sheets gathered around her and a gun pressed against her back.

  ‘For God’s sake! What the hell is going on?’

  ‘Phone John McGovern, Órlaith, tell him something bad is about to happen.’

  ‘It’s three in the morning,’ mumbled Órlaith, still half asleep. ‘Lawyers are not nocturnal: I’m sure he’d love to help, but only during daylight hours.’

  Danny would have argued the point, but there was no time.

  ‘Yer man here is trying to deny me my human rights,’ he said, leaning over to pick up his shoes.

  ‘Up straight‚ fucker,’ barked the soldier holding the Browning. ‘Human rights are for human beings, c’mon get a fuckin move on.’

  Suddenly Danny’s head was yanked up and he was pushed towards the door. One of the other soldiers stepped in front of him and caught him hard in the stomach with his elbow.

  Danny fell winded to the floor: he hadn’t landed a punch and already he was down. As he struggled to catch his breath Danny felt another crack on the side of his cheek from the heel of the soldier’s boot. Almost instantly he could taste the metallic saltiness of fresh blood in his mouth. Another onslaught of punches and kicks left him curled in a tight foetal ball.

  He heard Órlaith screaming: ‘Leave him alone you fucking animals.’

  Danny was being pulled to his feet.

  ‘Okay, okay‚ I surrender. Take it easy for Christ’s sake, I surrender,’ he said, trying to stall the soldiers long enough to get his breath back.

  He was hurt, but not too badly.

  Once they got him outside there would be no witnesses; they could do what they liked. If he was going to make a move, now was the time – while he still had some strength left.

  Outnumbered and with the odds heavily stacked against him there was no chance of winning the battle, but at least he wouldn’t be the only one with a headache in the morning.

  Danny glanced over his shoulder and bowed his head slightly to Órlaith.

  ‘For Sean.’

  Órlaith knew by the tone of his voice what was about to happen and tried her best to smile back at him. ‘Do your worst, Danny,’ she said with a rueful smile.

  Suddenly Danny feinted to the right, spun quickly on the balls of his feet and smacked one of the soldiers on the side of the head with the knuckles of his tightly clenched fist. As the soldier recoiled Danny brought his knee up with a sudden jerk and caught the guy hard in the groin, at the same time flicking his head forward. There was a dull crack as the top of his forehead connected with the bridge of the soldier’s nose and sent him crashing to the floor.

  The speed of the attack had taken the others by surprise and given Danny a small advantage, but it wouldn’t last. He had to throw everything he had at them as quickly as possible.

  One of the other soldiers was already on him. Danny flicked his elbow up to parry a blow and caught the soldier square on the jaw with a well-timed right hook. The soldier was knocked backwards against the bedroom wall.

  There was a sudden explosion of violence as the remaining two soldiers retaliated. Danny managed to sidestep a machine gun swung in a tight arc, avoiding the full impact. But it still caught him a glancing blow on his left cheek. He could feel someone kicking at his legs trying to knock them away from under him.

  He managed to get a couple more jabs in before another blow to the side of his face sent him crashing heavily to his knees.

  Órlaith was trying to pull one of the soldiers off him. Danny heard the sickening thud as she was punched full on the face, the force of the blow knocking her unconscious to the floor.

  A sudden burst of rage helped Danny to rally momentarily. He struggled to his feet and lashed out at the soldier standing immediately in front of him, but with little effect.

  He was aware of the soldier’s forehead lurching towards him, but could do little to stop the impact.

  A flash of white light exploded inside Danny’s head as their two skulls cracked together. He staggered backwards unsteadily for a few paces before falling dazed to the floor.

  The dull rhythmic pounding in his ears obscured any other sounds in the room. Niamh stood beside her mother with tears streaming down her face. Through a hazy prism Danny saw his hand reaching out to her. He could just make out the figure of a soldier heading towards her. Danny heaved and groaned like a wounded animal.

  ‘Leave her alone.’

  But a dark abyss had opened beneath him. He could feel himself slowly pitching forward, and tumbling in.

  *

  Danny was aware of an uncomfortable sensation in his wrists. He tried raising his hands, but a sudden stab of pain made him stop. His hands were tied behind his back with a thin nylon cord: bound so tightly that even the smallest movement made it cut deeper into his flesh. Trickles of warm blood seeped from the raw wound‚ down between his fingers and onto the ridged steel floor below.

  His eyes were wide open, but he could see nothing. No chinks of light penetrated the darkness. A black hood tied securely round his throat was making his breathing choked and difficul
t. Danny writhed around the floor and kicked his legs out in an effort to free himself from the bindings, but it only made the pain worse and he soon stopped.

  He had to concentrate: bring his breathing under control, try to work out where the hell he was.

  He knew he was in the back of a truck or van, but where they were heading was anyone’s guess. Whoever was driving seemed to be deliberately aiming for every bump and pothole in the road.

  Several times Danny tried to sit upright: but the rocking motion and sudden jolts made it impossible for him to keep his balance.

  The image of Niamh standing beside Órlaith with tears streaming down her cheeks flashed into his mind. The expression of fear on her young face made Danny feel ashamed. He realised in that moment that he was tired of it all, tired of the beatings, and the killings and the bombings and the shootings. He was tired of the effect it had on his family. He knew how much stress it was putting on Órlaith. The strain of not knowing where he was, or who he was with, or if she’d ever see him alive again, showed clearly: she looked much older than her years. Her eyes used to sparkle and gleam, but now they were dull and lifeless . . . like his mother’s. Danny couldn’t recall the last time he’d made either of them smile or laugh.

  He thought of his mum’s face when she’d heard that Sean – her eldest boy, her first-born – was dead. Even now, eight years later, Danny couldn’t bear to let the image form in his mind. His mother’s life had crumbled to ash: her spirit and soul were buried in the same grave as Sean. She had pleaded with Danny not to get involved. She’d begged him, on bended knee, but Danny was set on revenge. The only promise he had made was not to join the IRA. That didn’t exclude him from associating with them, working for them, killing for them. As far as she was concerned her pleading had counted for nothing: now she could barely bring herself to speak to him. When he called her she’d hang up without saying a word, as if the thought of losing another son was too much to bear and it was easier, somehow, to pretend that he’d never existed in the first place.

  But she didn’t understand: no one did. Danny blamed himself for Sean’s death.

  *

  He had been playing football in the street with his pals the night that Sean was murdered.

  Sean had pulled up in a stolen car, wound down the window and shouted for Danny to come over, but Danny’s mind was on the game. He’d run over to the car, but barely listened to what Sean was saying.

  ‘Promise you’ll look after Ma and Órlaith for me.’

  ‘Do it yourself.’

  ‘I’m serious‚ Wub, promise me.’

  ‘Whatever you’re up to just don’t get caught, then I won’t have to.’

  ‘Swear to me.’

  ‘I swear.’

  Sean grabbed a handful of Danny’s sweatshirt and pulled his head through the window of the car. ‘Take care, our lad!’ he said as he kissed Danny on the forehead.

  Danny broke free and pushed back from the car.

  ‘Hands off, you’ll get me lynched.’

  ‘What’s the score?’

  ‘Five nil, but we’re a man down.’

  ‘Five nil! Is it girls youse are playing?’

  ‘Aye, very funny,’ shouted Danny over his shoulder as he headed back to the game. ‘Just don’t get caught.’

  *

  He hadn’t picked up on the clues. Sean never came looking for him, so why had he done so that night? In retrospect Danny realised Sean was there to say goodbye. He must have known something was wrong and that he wasn’t coming back. The question was: who else knew?

  Danny felt guilty that he hadn’t said goodbye properly. He felt guilty that he hadn’t tried to stop Sean from driving off. He felt guilty that somehow all of it was his fault.

  Once he’d tied up the loose ends surrounding his brother’s murder, it would be time to make things different.

  All he had to do was survive this.

  Without warning‚ the van suddenly slewed off to the right and skidded to a halt. Danny could feel the skin on his elbows chafe and burn as he slid along the ridged metal floor and crashed into the far wall.

  For a few minutes everything was quiet. Then an icy blast of cold air swept over Danny as the van’s rear doors were thrown wide open. He was grabbed roughly by the arms and dragged out onto the road where he stood trembling, not with fear, but with cold and exhaustion. The hood was ripped from his head. Two men stood in front of him, one of them fixing a suppressor to the end of a 9 mm.

  ‘We’re in the middle of nowhere so nobody’s going to hear this thing pop anyway, it’s just that my friend and I don’t like loud bangs,’ said the one holding the gun.

  Danny could hear the sound of babbling water from a nearby stream and could smell the fresh air of the countryside. As he looked around it struck him that these might be the last things he’d ever see, or hear, or smell.

  ‘Down on your knees and face the ditch,’ said the soldier holding the gun.

  Danny didn’t move.

  The guy walked behind him and kicked the back of his knees, knocking him to the ground.

  ‘You want to see your Órlaith’s lipstick on my cock before you die, or would you rather see his?’ said the soldier, nodding towards his comrade.

  The two men laughed.

  ‘C’mon, cheer up fuckwit, we’re just giving you something to think about for the rest of eternity.’

  Danny stared defiantly into the soldier’s face as the gun was lifted and placed against his forehead.

  ‘While you were having a wee snooze in the van we went back inside and made her happy. She said it was the first time she’d ever had an orgasm.’

  Danny kept his gaze steady, determined not to give them the satisfaction of showing any emotion.

  ‘Any last requests?’ said the soldier.

  For a moment the wind buffeting against Danny’s naked body seemed to subside; the branches of the trees fell quiet, the long grass in the field beyond the hedgerow stood still. Then . . .

  . . . Nothing . . .

  . . . A long silence as if time itself was holding its breath . . .

  . . . The three short clicks followed one after the other: click, click, click.

  The soldier squeezed the trigger again for a fourth time then bent over and whispered in Danny’s ear. ‘That’s how easy it would be. Now you’re wondering how we know their names? We know everything. Where you live, where Órlaith works, what number bus she gets, where Niamh goes to school, how many times a day your mother takes a shit. We could take you out any time we like, you dirty Irish fuck. You ever point a gun at one of our comrades again and you’re dead. We’re watching you, McGuire.’ With that the two men turned and walked casually back to the van, climbed in and drove away.

  Danny watched the van disappear from view then smiled faintly.

  KIB 1024.

  Chapter 9

  Tuscaloosa‚ Maundy Thursday‚ late

  Vincent could hear voices in his head: he didn’t recognise them as the ones he usually heard, the imaginary ones. These voices were real, using words he didn’t understand, like they were talking in code: obviously educated . . . white. Right now he didn’t care: the pain in his arm had gone.

  Vincent tried to open his eyes. He couldn’t understand why his goddamn eyelids wouldn’t work, why such a small movement – one that happened involuntarily a thousand times a day – had become such a pain in the ass to do. Vincent tried to speak – ask what the hell was going on – but he was so heavily sedated his mouth wouldn’t open either. The best he could manage was a long moan lasting the length of a full sentence.

  ‘Looks like he’s coming round.’

  ‘Top him up with some more anaesthetic; we don’t want him awake before they get here, but no more morphine until we establish who’s picking up the tab.’

  ‘Nice,’ thought Vincent. ‘Whatever happened to the Hippocratic fuckin oath?’

  The voices continued. ‘He gonna be okay?’

  ‘Concussion, and a fe
w bruises but nothing more serious as far as the crash is concerned. Miraculous!’

  ‘And his arm?’

  ‘Gunshot wound, no denying. Lost a lot of blood due to that, but he’s been topped up so he should be fine. Go ask the front desk what’s happened to Sheriff Beasley and tell them to get a member of the security team down here as quickly as possible. If he does regain consciousness and wants to go home I don’t want to be the one to tell him “no”. Maybe give him another squirt of the pentobarbital, but take it easy . . . we do want him to wake up eventually.’

  Vincent was confused: on the one hand he was enjoying the vibe: he’d never been a fan of the heavier narcotics – preferred a ‘smoke to a coke’ – but if the shit made you feel this good, he could be persuaded otherwise. Trouble was the word ‘sheriff’ had set an alarm bell ringing in Vincent’s head. His dilemma was this: should he keep his eyes closed a little longer and see if he could figure out what the hell these guys were talking about, maybe get another hit of the pentobarb-shit, or should he get himself together and get the hell out of wherever the hell he was?

  The effects of the drugs were making it hard to think straight. The last thing he could remember with any clarity was the crowd on the sidewalk outside McHales. Everything after that was a blur.

  He needed to focus: get a handle on what was going on. A blood-pressure monitor just to his left was beeping and whirring: every so often it would burst into life and the collar wrapped round his arm would inflate and tighten automatically. It was only after it had inflated for the third or fourth time that Vincent realised he was in a hospital: the carbolic scent and clean antiseptic smells suddenly made sense.