Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1

by Ian St. James

  Not until the last car disappeared over the brow of the hill did the locals turn back to their unfinished drinks. They talked in low conspiratorial voices and threw the odd glance now and then across the counter to see what the landlord made of it all. But Shaughnessey had never hurried in his life and after making sure that every man there had a full glass, he finished his own drink and then slipped upstairs to the small back room in which the visitor had been staying.

  The canvas holdall was still on the bed. It was big and long, like a cricket bag, and had been the only luggage the man had brought with him. Shaughnessey opened it carefully, listening for footsteps on the stairs, half afraid that the Gardai or the man might return to catch him at it. Shirts and underwear, a pair of socks and a cheap paperback - and beneath it all a Heckler and Koch 5.66 self-loading rifle. Shaughnessey whistled aloud at the sight of it, knowing just enough about guns to recognise a specialist's rifle when he saw one. like a machine gun he thought - seeing the tripod and the magazine clip for automatic fire. A killer's gun - fitted with telescopic sights and with enough spare ammo in the bottom of the bag to start a small war. Just holding it excited him - to feel the sculptured wooden butt - to look down the blue metal barrel - to dare to touch the trigger inside its guard.

  Afterwards he wiped it carefully with his handkerchief and returned it to the canvas bag, arranging the clothes over it in the same pattern as he had found them. Then he zipped the bag up tight and carried it up to the loft, where he hid it behind the water tank.

  They watched him return to his place behind the bar. Half of them guessed where he had been, but nobody dared ask. They watched while he packed his pipe with that dark shag of his, watched the match flicker and the blue smoke curl up to the oak beams. Watched and waited. And then, when the pipe was drawing to his satisfaction, he said in words loud enough for all to hear "Someone had better fetch Callan - tell him we've had a visitor."

  And for the first time that day they felt better. A man had been sent to settle the score, and even if the Mellick Gardai had taken him, others would come in his place. And Big Reilly and the others would be justly revenged.

  1930 Sunday

  I know very little about drugs. Booze and tobacco are my vices and they're bad enough. So whatever kind of hell Suzy was going through was outside my experience. The doctor and Max had taken everything, even the pills in the little glass jar, so all that sustained her were the endless cigarettes. At one stage I organised some coffee, but she wouldn't drink it. She even knocked mine halfway across the room before I could stop her.

  The first hour stretched as long as a day. By the end of it I had grown immune to the insults and her vicious expressions. When you've been called four-letter words in half a dozen languages there's nothing left which jars, and repetition merely blunts the message. Mind, it wasn't all reserved for me. I got my share, but "Western decadence" and "consumerism" and "Israeli imperialism" all caught some of the flak.

  Whether Ross planned us to tear into each other in quite the way we did is something I never found out. But I was so afraid of him giving her the strong arm treatment that I fairly flailed her with questions. For some reason I was convinced that if I gave them the answers they wanted, I would be allowed to get her to a hospital somewhere for proper treatment. I suppose even then I clung to the hope of saving her, but it wasn't a time to analyse my confused emotions. I was being torn apart, and she was equally desperate. The cigarettes were never enough to stop the shaking fits and sometimes the spasms lasted as long as five minutes at a time. There was no talking to her then, she barely retained the power of speech let alone the power of reasoning.

  By the second hour I was on the verge of panic. Nothing she said got us any closer to finding the bomb and I was convinced that if my questions failed, Ross would apply tortures as barbaric as any I could imagine. And of course I was still muzzy from my own experiences, so perhaps I wasn't thinking straight. Excuses - circumstances - self-deception? All three probably, though even now I am ashamed of the part I played in what happened next.

  We were into the third hour. Some of the stridency had lifted from her voice and I thought I detected a change in her attitude. The bitter outbursts and cackles of hysteria still flashed now and then, but more and more she seemed racked with a kind of whining helplessness. And halfway through the third hour she snapped.

  "For Christ's sake! What are those shitheads waiting for? Are we going to Bonn, or aren't we?"

  "I don't know—"

  "Liar! You heard that pig. I'm too important for him. It's an insult to the Palestinians to hold me here. I demand my rights—"

  "For God's sake, will you stop being such a little fool? You've got no rights. Not here. They'll kill you if you don't tell them. Can't you understand that?"

  For the first time she looked frightened enough to make me wonder if I was getting through to her. "Suzy, you've got to tell them - you've got to!"

  But before she could answer, another fit of the shakes engulfed her and she shook like a rat in a terrier's mouth. She sat all hunched up, with her rounded shoulders drawn down to her knees, while her hands fought each other to steady themselves. It was at least five minutes before she spoke and when she did she sounded pathetically close to tears. "They'll let me go in Bonn, won't they Harry?"

  I sat down next to her, an arm around her shoulders. "There's a chance - if you'll answer their questions."

  She shook her head, chewing her lip furiously as she fought to stifle her tears. "I can hold out till Bonn - at least I think I can - if it's soon, if we go now—"

  "We might not go anywhere," I said as gently as I could.

  She trembled like a leaf under my touch. "Oh Harry, be nice to me please. I'm sorry for the things I said—"

  "They don't matter. But you've got to answer—"

  "Please Harry," she cried desperately. "Make them give me a shot, please! They've even taken my pills for God's sake! What kind of people would do a thing like that? I'm sick - I need something—"

  Her face was wet with tears and I pulled her close to me: "If only you'd tell—"

  "I'll tell you Harry. I promise I'll tell you." Her eyes pleaded with me and I felt a sudden surge of hope until she said, "Get me a shot first though? Please Harry, please!"

  Still holding her I said, "Suzy, you need a proper hospital."

  "With you to look after me," she giggled, but there was no fun in the sound. "Is that what you want, Harry?"

  "That's right. They'll let me look after you—"

  "In a hospital bed. Just you and me?"

  "We'll make you better Suzy, I promise—"

  Again the giggle. "You can't make me better. I'm the best. I've been trained for it. How do you like doing it best, Harry? Best of all-tell me—"

  "For God's sake Suzy, tell them!"

  She struggled free of my arm and tried to remove her dress, tearing the top even more and panting hopelessly as I fought to restrain her. "We could do it here, Harry. On the sofa. Wouldn't you like that? I'm good Harry, I'm the best, Abou said so—"

  "Abou?" I grabbed her bare shoulders and shook her, trying to make her look at me. "Abou who?"

  She twisted her head away until her hair obscured her face. "My Abou, that's who." But she swung round then and I caught the sly gleam in her eye. "A shot Harry. Make them give me a shot. I'll talk to you, I promise. I'll talk to you while I make love to you on this seat. This seat, Harry. This seat here." She was slapping the sofa with one hand, while her other arm looped across my shoulder to pull my face down to hers. "Please Harry - I'm good—"

  "You're my daughter for God's sake. You're ill. If you'd only let me—"

  "I'll let you do anything, Harry. Anything you like. But get me some pills - anything - anything to keep me going."

  I kept trying to pin her arms to her sides, but I was still weak from the treatment. She fought me off until she was free of the dress and I could see the needle marks in her arms. "Come on, Harry. I'll give you a good
time. I'm half Arab remember? Daughter of an Arab whore. Whatever my mother did for you—"

  I hit her then. As hard as I could across the face. Hating myself and shouting at her. "Tell me about Abou!"

  "Soon Harry, soon," she was struggling with her bra when I hit her again. "Abou hits me sometimes. I don't mind Harry. Really I don't - just get me a shot and—"

  I hit her again. "Who's Abou? Where is he? Suzy, for God's sake!"

  She was crying and shivering and trying to hook her thumbs into the waistband of her briefs, but I clamped her wrists tight to her sides. "Harry, I'm good - really good. Abou says so. Even better than Monique and—"

  "Monique's dead." I gambled on a reaction. "Abou killed her. Abou tortured her to death."

  She shuddered, either from shock or another convulsion, then her hands were struggling back to my neck again. "Come on Harry - on this seat - this one - I'm good—"

  "Who's Abou?" I shouted, knocking her hands away and shaking her until her teeth rattled. "Tell me before they kill you!"

  “Like they killed Monique?"

  "Abou killed Monique. Abou killed her. Abou! Abou! Can't you understand that? Abou's a cold-blooded killer like Negib. A killer! A killer!"

  I was slapping her face, back and forth, hitting her with every ounce of my draining strength, shouting furiously and watching the blood spurt from her nose and dribble from her mouth. She made no attempt to defend herself, just fell one way and then the other as I lashed into her. Something exploded inside my head, detonated by her sneers about Haleem. Suzy revolted me, frightened me, sickened me. Had I been strong enough, I would have killed her. For a moment I wanted to - the urge was there - just like when I killed Negib. But the blows had no real strength behind them, and at the moment my fingers locked around her throat Max charged in and pulled me away. Thank God that he did. I was quite out of control and there was no telling what would have happened in another few minutes.

  From the open door Ross said, "The doctor will give you a shot in a minute Miss Katoul. Would you like that?"

  Max held me in a vicelike grip, but slowly the red cloud lifted from my brain. "You bastard, Ross," I shouted at him. "She needs a proper doctor, not—"

  "I asked if you'd like that Miss Katoul?" Ross said.

  She had curled herself into a ball on the sofa and was whimpering like a beaten animal, but apart from that she gave no answer.

  "Who's Abou?" Ross asked softly.

  She summoned every last ounce of her fading energy to spit at him. "I'll never tell you. Never, never, never! Can't you understand that? You're pigs, filthy pigs, the whole stinking rotten lot of you."

  I twisted in Max's grip to look at the expression on Ross's face, but there wasn't one, his features were like stone. "Who does Abou work for?" he asked slowly.

  "Wouldn't you like to know," she jeered defiantly, clutching her torn dress to her body and shivering behind it.

  "Abou betrayed you," Ross said. "You must see that. He knew we'd take your drugs away. Knew we'd torture you knew we might even kill you. But he doesn't care any more. Shall I tell you why? Because he's finished with you—"

  “Liar!" she screamed. “Liar - liar!"

  Ross shouted back: "Just like he finished with Monique Debray and Tubby Hayes."

  “Liar," she screamed again, but then her eyes widened and her mouth worked soundlessly, as if she had lost her voice.

  Her gaze shifted from Ross and now she was looking past him to somebody who had just entered the room. I twisted my head and watched the doctor cross the threshold, smiling his fanged smile and holding a hypodermic syringe.

  The last shreds of human dignity fell away from her then. She disintegrated. She slobbered like an animal. Even the noises which came from her throat were bestial and primitive. Until that one final piercing plea for relief sprang from her lips: "Please!"

  But the doctor stood his ground, while Ross put the question to her again. "Who is this man Abou working for Miss Katoul?"

  You could see the conflict and confusion in her eyes. She stared at the syringe as if her life depended on it, while Ross fuelled her doubts with words like "betrayal" and "he's sold you out" and similar expressions. Then the most terrible thing in the world happened. An act of indescribable cruelty. Sadism. Coldblooded and calculated to rip the last remnants of her willpower to shreds. The doctor simply emptied the contents of the syringe on to the floor.

  Wide-eyed with terror, Suzy flung the dress to one side and stumbled across the room to save the precious drug, but Smithers appeared from nowhere and bundled her back to the sofa. The doctor turned on his heel and left the room.

  "Who is this man Abou working for?" Ross asked relentlessly.

  A long moan escaped her lips and a trickle of blood ran down her chin from where I had beaten her. A soul in torment would not begin to describe her condition. Degradation, despair, defeat - were all twisted in the pain on her face. Then the doctor returned with another syringe and her eyes came alive again with hope.

  "For mercy's sake—" I began, but Max slapped a huge hand over my mouth.

  "Who is Abou working for?" Ross persisted.

  Suzy babbled something, but the words were meaningless, just noises, all jumbled up, incoherent and delirious. Ross asked her again.

  No answer. Silence almost. Just her strangulated breathing. Then the moment of quiet was broken by the sound of the syringe once more splattering its contents over the marble floor.

  When Suzy had stopped screaming, Ross said, "Start at the beginning, Miss Katoul, and tell us everything. And when we're satisfied, the doctor will stop being so careless."

  I once saw a soldier die in Vietnam. He had been caught in a burst of mortar fire and should have been killed outright. But he lay in the mud suffering the most appalling agony, dying from those terrible wounds, screaming noiselessly because his vocal cords had been severed and pleading with his eyes for his own men to kill him. He begged - not for his life, but for his death - and as the doctor left the room Suzy begged in the same way.

  "Who is Abou working for?"

  She would have killed herself had she the means, but Smithers held her so tight in the chair that she could barely move. She said something, but the words were inaudible.

  "Again," Ross said.

  But even then we couldn't hear her and Ross made her repeat it.

  "PEKING!" The scream which tore from her throat carried enough hatred to make the word itself obscene. Everything was in that word. It was her curse on Ross, her plea to the gods to strike him down, to make him suffer as she was suffering. And it was her demand that something, someone should punish her for her final betrayal. And it was something else. It was the signal to everyone in that room that Ross had broken Suzy Katoul.

  2330 Sunday

  It was five past eleven when Dorfman returned to the pub. Shaughnessey was stacking empty bottles into crates and whistling in that toneless way people use when their mind is on something else. Half the lights were switched out and Shaughnessey was quite alone. He heaved a crate from the counter and as he straightened up he saw Dorfman - in the shadows just inside the back door.

  "Is the front door locked then?" Dorfman asked quietly.

  Shaughnessey nodded, sweat greasing the palms of his hands and showing in a sudden sheen on his brow.

  "Are you expecting company?"

  Shaughnessey shook his head.

  "Cat got your tongue?" Dorfman remained in the shadows. "There's a light still on by the front door. Put it out."

  Shaughnessey moved behind the bar and flicked a switch.

  "That's better." Dorfman locked the back door behind him and walked across to the bar. "Give me a whisky - and a cheese sandwich or something - it's hours since I've eaten."

  Shaughnessey poured a double and took another for himself. He was relieved that his hand barely trembled, and he hoped that the man watching would not notice. But the man saw everything. "It's just my bag I'll be wanting - and maybe some information."


  Shaughnessey removed the plastic cover to reveal two sandwiches and a sausage roll. "They're maybe a bit stale - I'll make you some fresh if you like."

  "They'll do."

  Looking across the bar Shaughnessey could see the marks left by the fight earlier. The gash over the eye was bad, open to the bone with swollen lips of skin like an obscene mouth, and blood was caked dry down the man's face. And his nose looked swollen enough to be broken.

  The man said, "The Reilly boys were murdered. You know, that, don't you?"

  Shaughnessey nodded.

  "Who did it?"

  The man's eyes bored right through him. Killer's eyes, he thought, remembering the rifle in the bag upstairs. "God knows." He finished his drink at a single gulp.

  "He ain't telling," the man growled. "But there'll be someone in Conlaragh with an idea or two, and I'll not leave till I hear them."

  "There's a man wanting to see you. Shall I fetch him?"

  Dorfman gave him a very hard look. "And just who the hell would that be?"

  "Callan. He's the village butcher."

  "It's not pork chops I'm wanting."

  Shaughnessey gulped. "Callan was a friend of Big Reilly - a special friend."

  "And?"

  "He might know," Shaughnessey finished lamely. "He just might. Nobody ever knew everything - just Big Reilly himself - but Callan knew more than most. And he wants to see you."

  Dorfman licked his lips, displaying a trace of blood on his teeth. "Does he know who I am?"

  "We all know who you are," Shaughnessey said respectfully. "We saw what happened earlier - the Gardai."

  "This Callan. Will he come alone? It's not the whole damn village I want knowing I'm here."

  Shaughnessey explained about the alarm bell which rang in Callan's cold-store. Big Reilly had fitted it. Shaughnessey was to ring if ever a stranger arrived asking questions.