Seventy Times Seven

by John Gordon Sinclair

  Marie’s expression was grave. She was standing with her back against the kitchen worktop, but she needed to sit down. She wondered if Kneller could see that her legs were trembling under her black gabardine slacks. ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘I’m here to deliver a warning. I’m not trying to scare you, just give you the information and let you make up your own mind. There’s a very strong possibility that all the charges against you will be dropped now. To my mind that’s the right decision. I believe you when you say you were an innocent in all this. That’s not to say you didn’t go along with what was happening, but you’re not a criminal. If I were you I’d take the opportunity to go away for a while, certainly move to a different address, better still get out of the state. The press still have a lot of questions and if you’re not here to answer them, there’s not much they can do.’

  ‘I’ve just finished unpacking,’ said Marie.

  ‘You still got the boxes?’

  Marie smiled. ‘Threw the last of them out this morning, would you believe?’

  ‘Go buy some more,’ said Kneller.

  Marie held up the coffee pot. ‘You want a top-up?’

  ‘No, I’m good.’

  ‘Can I ask you a few questions?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘What’ll happen to Ardel and Hud?’

  ‘Who knows!’ answered Kneller. ‘They’ve disappeared. If they know what’s good for them they’ll stay disappeared. There’s already a big prize fund on the heads of anyone involved with De Garza’s murder and Sly Rivera’s. And from what I can gather, Ardel and Hud are in the frame for causing the pile-up on the freeway.’

  ‘Shame. They were nice boys,’ said Marie.

  Kneller placed his coffee mug on the low table in front of the sofa and stood up. ‘I have to go. Don’t take too long to make up your mind.’

  ‘Does your partner Joe Evelyn know you’re here?’ asked Marie.

  ‘No,’ replied Kneller.

  ‘Should I tell my lawyer about our conversation?’

  ‘No.’

  Marie held the front door open and put her hand out to shake Kneller’s as he walked into the hallway. He looked at it for a second as if it was an odd thing to do, then reached out and took hold of it. His grip was firm and he held on to her for a few seconds longer then she was expecting.

  ‘You take care,’ he said, looking straight into her eyes.

  ‘You too . . . I hope you have a long and peaceful retirement.’

  Kneller gave her a wry smile as he finally let go.

  ‘It’ll be peaceful, but it won’t be very long.’

  Marie closed the door behind him then secured both of the dead bolts and turned the key before pulling the handle to make sure the door was firmly locked.

  She listened a few moments for the sounds of Kneller’s footsteps heading for the elevator, but the hallway outside was silent. Maybe he had already left.

  Truth was she’d never really liked the apartment anyway. She’d only taken it on until she could save enough money for a deposit on a small house further out of town. First thing she’d do was change out of the bloody trouser suit then – after she’d fixed herself a large sour – head down to the trash and see if her boxes were still there.

  Suddenly her letter box flipped open, making her jump. An envelope dropped on to the floor just by her feet. Straight away she picked it up and tore it open.

  Marie froze.

  There were footsteps moving quickly away from her front door. Someone was outside in the corridor.

  Marie strained to listen then relaxed again as she heard the call-bell for the elevator ping.

  The envelope contained a sheet of white foolscap covered with handwriting that she recognised instantly. Marie stared at the piece of paper and smiled. It was the note that she had written to Finn: the note that ‘some asshole’ in the FBI had ‘misplaced’.

  Marie bent down to the letterbox and lifted the flap. ‘Thank you, Mr Kneller,’ she shouted. Then added, ‘For your ineptitude.’

  There was no way of knowing if Kneller heard her as the elevator doors closed behind him, but she hoped he had.

  Chapter 45

  Cushendun, Northern Ireland’s north-east coast‚ Saturday‚ morning

  The small peninsular island was dotted with large granite boulders that eventually merged into a cluster of craggy rock pools before dipping into the cold clear waters lapping around its edges. The tiny outcrop was covered in gorse and heather, and jutted into the Irish Sea at the far end of a long, arching spine of alabaster-coloured sand.

  At the opposite end of the beach sat the village of Cushendun, built round the mouth of the River Dun. Two granite-block quays faced each other on either side of a small inlet that harboured a number of fishing boats, pleasure craft and dinghies. Sail ropes snapped against their metal masts and gulls floated and hovered overhead, squawking as the boats swayed back and forth – clunking together in the gentle offshore breeze. The south bank of the quayside was lined with a terrace of white houses once used for fishermen, but now largely owned or rented by holidaymakers.

  There was a two-storey hotel near the high street with a seaward view from the second floor that – on a clear day – stretched all the way over to the Mull of Kintyre in Scotland. The hotel also overlooked the north-bank quayside which was triangular in shape and used mostly as a visitors’ car park. It had a two-foot-high stone wall that framed its circumference and separated the car park from the sandy beach beyond.

  The holiday season wasn’t yet under way, so the car park was empty, apart from a few vehicles belonging to the locals. The village had a post office that doubled as a convenience store, a pub, a café and a tourist information bureau that stocked Celtic souvenirs. There were no roadblocks, or army patrols or sectarian graffiti on any of the village’s walls. The Troubles affecting the rest of Northern Ireland had left Cushendun to its own devices. Even the local police officer – despite having the authority to carry a firearm – left his weapon locked in the station’s gun cabinet when he went out on patrol.

  Many years ago this was where Órlaith and Sean had spent their honeymoon.

  *

  It was early. The only sign of habitation was the two distant figures picking their way through granite boulders and gorse at the northernmost point of the bay. The rising sun cast their shadows long over the dewy tufts of grass.

  Órlaith jumped the final few feet onto the sandy beach and stood waiting for Kathleen McGuire to join her.

  She regretted coming here to hide. The carefree memories of her past were being pushed to one side and replaced with less happy ones. It had been five days since Órlaith and Mrs McGuire had checked into the hotel. There was still no word from Danny, and no news of what had happened to Niamh.

  Órlaith looked pale and drawn. Her skin was as dry as the sand she was standing on and almost the same colour. Even the thin lines around her eyes and mouth seemed to have deepened in the last few days.

  Kathleen McGuire on the other hand had lived with the consequences of the Troubles for so long that, for her, little had changed. Since the death of her husband, followed by her son’s murder, pain and anguish had become so familiar to her that they were now part of who she was. Every day was the same battle: a struggle to keep herself sane.

  She had given up all hope of ever finding peace, but she was no longer at war.

  Kathleen had always liked Órlaith. She had been good for Sean. She had watched her son mellow and mature under Órlaith’s influence. Órlaith had her head screwed on and she could play Sean like a fiddle.

  Intellectually she was more than his match. She’d studied politics and Irish history at Queen’s University in Belfast and could put across a convincing argument in favour of a political settlement to the Troubles as opposed to an armed struggle.

  Sean and Órlaith would argue long into the night about the best approach to take. Philosophically they were in agreement, but the means each of them woul
d employ to reach the goal were at opposite ends of the spectrum. At the heart of their relationship was their ability to see each other’s point of view. They respected each other’s opinion and that’s why they had worked so well as a couple.

  Over the last few days Kathleen had found herself opening up to Órlaith in a way that she hadn’t done with anyone since Sean had been murdered. Perversely the situation they now found themselves in had been good for their relationship. It had brought them closer together. They shared a common tragedy: Órlaith had lost her husband, Kathleen her son.

  Both of them prayed that Niamh’s name would not also be added to the list.

  The two women made their way across the sand in silence. They had spent every night since their arrival talking over the events of the past week‚ trying to piece a narrative together out of what little information they had.

  The conclusion they had come to at the end of every evening was the same: none of it made any sense and there was almost no point in trying to explain what happened.

  Suddenly Órlaith reached out and grabbed Kathleen by the hand‚ pulling her to a stop.

  The unexpected movement startled her. She turned quickly and saw the look of apprehension on Órlaith’s face.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

  Órlaith gripped her hand even more tightly and stared straight ahead of her. ‘Look,’ she replied.

  Her voice was so quiet against the noise of waves breaking along the shoreline that Kathleen strained to hear what she said. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked again.

  Órlaith nodded in the direction of the car park and repeated herself.

  ‘Look.’

  Kathleen followed Órlaith’s gaze along the beach.

  Two men were walking towards them.

  Without saying another word, Órlaith let go of Kathleen’s hand and started running across the sand towards the men.

  Kathleen stood watching in confusion: rooted to the spot.

  One of the men was limping quite badly and was using the other’s shoulder to support him as he struggled over the loose sand. His head was bowed forward as though he was ashamed to show his face. The other man was holding a young girl in his arms and was walking slowly to provide a steady prop for his injured companion. Kathleen watched the young girl wriggle free from the man’s arms and run to meet Órlaith‚ who scooped her up and held her in a tight embrace.

  It was only then she realised that the young girl was her granddaughter Niamh and the man carrying Niamh was her son Danny. She had barely recognised him at first. He looked so much older than when she’d last seen him: life had scarred his face, the boyish looks gone for ever. She watched as Órlaith exchanged words with Danny and the other man, their conversation swallowed up by the wind.

  Suddenly Órlaith collapsed to her knees and had to be helped back to her feet. Kathleen looked on as the other man reached out and held Órlaith to him‚ her head buried in his shoulder.

  Eventually Kathleen saw Órlaith lift her head and turn, the expression on her face imploring Kathleen to join the small group.

  But Kathleen didn’t move. She knew instinctively that it was for them to come to her; not the other way round.

  A few moments later Danny and the other man left Órlaith – with Niamh standing by her side – and continued along the beach.

  As they drew closer the man leaning on Danny’s shoulder raised his eyes and stared at her, seemingly uncertain what to do next. His face was pale and drawn, and full of sadness.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Ma . . . ’ he said as he reached her.

  But Kathleen held her finger to her lips.

  ‘Shh. You don’t have to say it, son. I’ve always known.’

  She slowly struck her clenched fist against the middle of her chest and continued, ‘In here . . . I’ve always known.’

  In her dreams she knew exactly what to say: she had lived this moment many times, but never dared to hope that one day it might come true. But standing there now, with her son Sean in front of her, Kathleen found that she could no longer speak: the words were choked back by her quiet, gentle sobs.

  The tears she’d held locked in her heart for eight years tumbled freely down her face.

  Sean took the final few steps towards his mother and accepted her embrace. The long journey home was finally at an end.

  Chapter 46

  The outskirts of Newry‚ Sunday

  Sean and Danny decided to take the country lanes around the back of Camlough on their way to Newry. Most of the main routes in and out of the small town had army roadblocks. A random ‘stop-and-search’ was the last thing they needed.

  The headlines on the car radio carried the news of Frank Thompson’s murder. The report focused mainly on the links between the head of intelligence’s death and those of E. I. O’Leary and Owen O’Brien. Almost the entire programme was given over to this one story.

  Danny sat stony-faced as the commentary revealed that several – as yet unidentified – bodies had been recovered from the attic of a building in Cochron Road where O’Brien’s corpse had been discovered. It also mentioned that one of the big newspapers had received a phone call late the night before, alleging that Owen O’Brien was the notorious informant known as the Thevshi.

  A massive security operation was under way with the security forces issuing a warning that there were bound to be major repercussions over the deaths. They appealed for anyone with any information to come forward, and urged the caller who had contacted the newspaper to get back in touch in order to substantiate their claims regarding O’Brien.

  Sean gave a wry smile. ‘Just as well we’re leaving, eh?’

  The day was milder than usual for the time of year and several times on the journey Danny had to squint against the sunlight streaming in through the car window. They had spent the previous night with Órlaith, Niamh, and their mother in the hotel at Cushendun, talking into the small hours about nothing in particular.

  There was so much to be discussed, but they all seemed to recognise that the deeper conversations concerning what had happened would come at a later date. For now they were happy to be in each other’s company.

  The hotel owner served them drinks until closing time, then left them the keys of the bar and told them to keep a tab: they could settle up with him in the morning.

  Órlaith had gone to her room first, taking Niamh – who had been asleep for hours – with her. Kathleen McGuire stayed on for one more drink, then held both boys in a tight embrace for several minutes before retiring to her room. Danny and Sean had sat on in silence and finished their drinks, then Danny helped Sean upstairs and into bed.

  The only awkwardness had been between Sean and Órlaith: they were like strangers meeting for the first time.

  Órlaith had loved Sean once, but he had died, she’d grieved, and emotionally she had moved on. It had been a long and difficult process to get to where she was now and – to his credit – Sean seemed to have recognised that she was a different person now. At one point during the evening whilst Danny was talking to his mother, Sean had leant across and whispered to her, ‘Do you think we can still be friends?’ Órlaith knew exactly what he was saying: it was impossible to go back. She was unable to disguise the sadness in her eyes as she nodded in reply. But if she was being honest, the sadness was tinged with a sense of relief. It was exactly what she had wanted to say to him.

  For a number of reasons she’d also decided not to tell Sean that he was Niamh’s father. Uppermost in her mind was an overriding instinct to protect her daughter from any further harm or emotional upset. It was obvious from what Sean had been saying that – ultimately – he was planning to go back to the States. Gaining a father who was already making plans to leave would be too much for Niamh to bear: it was in no one’s best interest.

  In the morning the family had breakfasted together, then Sean and Danny set off for Newry to pick up the girls’ passports from their mother’s house.

  It had been decided during
the course of their conversations the previous evening – even before they’d heard the news reports – that staying in Northern Ireland was no longer an option for any of them.

  *

  Back in the car, Sean reached across and retuned the radio to a music channel. David Bowie was singing ‘Wild-Eyed Boy’ from Freecloud. ‘It’s good to hear some decent music for a change,’ he said, looking round at Danny. ‘All they play in Tuscaloosa is bloody Country and Western or bluegrass. Not that they’re shit, but it does your head in after a while . . . Are you all right, our lad? You haven’t said a word for the past ten minutes.’ asked Sean.

  ‘I want to go in and visit Angela’s ma, Mrs Fitzpatrick, before we head off.’

  ‘Is that wise?’ asked Sean. ‘The RUC are out in force. Could cause us a few problems.’

  ‘The least I can do is pay my respects in person.’

  ‘It’s up to you, our lad.’

  *

  The first he was aware that anything was wrong was when the car started swerving from side to side. Danny struggled briefly to keep it travelling in a straight line before the car suddenly slewed off to one side and crashed into a deep ditch that ran along the edge of the narrow road.

  They came to a shuddering halt with the car resting on its side at a ninety-degree angle: the front and rear offside wheels spinning in mid-air and steam billowing from the engine.