‘Well Maurice there you are.’ His polished accent and familiar manner gave the policeman an air of importance.
‘How are you Nick?’ replied Scott, a little too loudly. He wanted people to know that this English gentleman was his personal friend.
‘I have taken the liberty of ordering drinks, I hope you don’t mind Maurice.’
‘Not at all Nick, thanks,’ said Scott extending a hand.
‘I pride myself on being a good judge of character and pictured you as a creature of habit. I would have bet money that you would be here at the same time every evening,’ said Black, flashing a set of perfect teeth.
‘And you would be collecting for sure, it takes me a while to get down the Castlereagh Road but I usually get here at the same time every evening. How was business today?’ Black was caught a little off guard by the question.
‘What?’ he asked, somewhat taken aback.
‘The computers, manage to flog any today? prompted Scott.
‘Oh sorry Maurice, I was miles away. Not too bad, as a matter of fact things went quite well. How was your day?’ replied the Englishman, making a mental note to be on his guard in future, simple lapses could lead to his undoing.
‘Not bad Nick, we have an upgraded system, which was installed a wee while ago. I wasn’t too happy with it at first but now that I have mastered it, life has become much easier.’
‘Sounds interesting. What type of program are you using?’
‘Actually Nick, I really shouldn’t be talking about it outside work, security, you know how it is.’
‘Oh I see,’ replied Black, appearing somewhat put out. ‘I’m sorry Maurice I didn’t mean to pry.’
‘No, no it’s all right, silly really I never should have mentioned it in the first place. Look let me buy you a drink by way of apology. If you are really interested I can show you the program at my home. I can’t talk about it here, walls have ears,’ added Scott, sagely touching his left nostril.
‘Lets hear no more about it Maurice. It was thoughtless of me to broach the subject at all.
Besides I’m sure that you don’t want to waste your precious time discussing official business with the likes of me. Flitting backwards and forwards to the mainland can leave the old brain more than a little befuddled at times. Let’s say no more on the subject and be done with it.’
Maurice Scott was not by nature a suspicious character but he was a lonely one and the only real common ground that he shared with his new friend was the world of computers. Nick’s a man of the world, what does he want with me? He was near to panic when Black made an excuse to leave early. It was as plain on the nose on Maurice’s face that he was feigning tiredness. Had he hurt his feelings? Would his friend be here again tomorrow with a pint on the counter? Scott had been impressed by the simple gesture. It was precisely the thing that a friend would do for another. Bloody security, what had that shower at the station ever done for him? thought the sergeant sourly. Yet here he was risking his new found friendship in the name of professional ethics. Sod them, if Nick mentioned the subject again he would tell him everything. After all what difference would it make if an English gentleman knew about a load of bloody terrorists. Not one of his so-called colleagues would give him the time of day. Can’t picture one of those bastards having a pint settling on the bar waiting for me Maurice Scott to drink it.
‘Will you be in tomorrow night Nick?’ he blurted out anxiously.
‘Oh I don’t know Maurice. I shall have to see what head office has to say, I may be back in London this time tomorrow. Bloody job!’
‘Look if you are in, I’ll buy us dinner,’ uttered Scott, becoming desperate.
‘That’s kind of you. I’d like that but I couldn’t possibly accept.’ answered Black with conviction.
‘Why not Nick? It would be the least I could do. I am embarrassed, I feel as if I have hurt your feelings,’ stammered the policeman, desperately trying to retain his composure.
‘Because Maurice, I am a highly paid executive with a large international company and I would not dream of cadging a meal from a hard working, underpaid, public servant such as yourself. If anyone is buying, it will be me and I must insist.’
‘You make one feel like that Dickensien character, what’s his name? You know, Harry Seacombe took the part. Mr Bumble, that’s his name,’ he chuckled, humourlessly, pleased with himself at remembering the character’s name but still worried that he had hurt his friend’s feelings.
‘I’ll have no cheek from the likes of you,’ replied Black, mimicking the Seacombe role. ‘You’ll eat your dinner and like it,’ he chuckled, before standing. Apologising for his bout of-weariness Black took his leave. Humming Food Glorious Food he set off to collect his car.
Next evening Maurice Scott hurried to the bar only to be disappointed. The usual crew of regulars sat huddled at scattered, distant tables adhering to the Belfast trait, namely minding your own business. There was no sign of Nick. Scott was deflated. You’ve done it again you stupid bastard. The man wants no more to do with you, he admonished himself. ‘Give me a pint,’ he grumbled. ‘Service is getting bloody worse in here.’ Two hours dragged gloomily by as he sipped morosely at his pint, casting frequent glances at the entrance but there was no sign of Black. Finally he gave up and made for the door feeling utterly dejected. Giles on the other hand was elated. A few punters had sauntered in, took one look at Maurice and beat a hasty retreat. The young barman who had been sullenly polishing glasses behind the counter, heaved a sigh of relief as the imposing figure of Scott disappeared through the door. The following evening was virtually a carbon copy of the previous one, the only difference being a change of barman. Scott did not linger for two hours this time. He had purchased the latest edition of a magazine dealing with radical innovations in software technology and was anxious to get home to study it’s text. Nathan Black was ecstatic; he had taken up a vantage point, affording him an excellent view of the bar, with only a minimal risk of detection.
Scott’s distress was embarrassingly obvious. Avoidance of the big policeman was proving to be a masterstroke. He could not believe that a creature of habit such as Scott could be so easily distracted. ‘Two hours,’ he smiled. ‘Bloody unreal, I do believe that I have made a conquest. ‘Now,’ he pondered aloud, ‘If the prick will wait two hours for me to show up, just how deeply is Mr. Scott hooked ?’ He decided to let Scott dangle one more day just to make absolutely sure. Scott did not stay for two hours on the following evening but it was long enough and the way his shoulders were stooped, there was every indication to assume that the man was distraught at jeopardising their friendship. Assured and in an exuberant mood, Nathan booked a flight to London anticipating a well-earned weekend at home. Monday evening would be soon enough to see dear Maurice again. I wonder what information he has stored on his personal computer? Names, addresses, I can’t be so lucky as to have prospected a gold mine at the very outset of my endeavour. Surely this must be some sort of sign. ‘Come round to my house and I will explain the program, the man did actually say that. Could it be possible that Maurice has been naughty boy? Keeping his own records of known terrorists at home, for his own personal pleasure? ‘Please lord let it be so,’ he beseeched aloud.
CHAPTER 12
The airbus gave an unexpected lurch. Turbulence is an unfortunate but unavoidable feature of hotter climes. Several unseasoned travellers fought hard to keep stomachs and contents thereof in tact. ‘Bet the driver’s a Spaniard,’ offered one of the flock. ‘Si,’ replied another, trying to show a brave, although somewhat ashen, face. Bodies milled around like abandoned sheep, much to the annoyance of the overworked stewardesses. Please take your seats gentlemen, we are preparing to land,’ pleaded a blond stewardess, in a sensual Latin accent which belied her hair colouring.’ ‘Anything you say babe,’ came a reply form the rear.
‘OLE, OLE, OLE, OLE,
’ sang some idiot furnishing the cue to a spontaneous eruption of the most boring football song in the annals of the game. The hostesses assumed the mantle of diplomats amiably smiling as the melee exited from the aircraft whilst secretly dreading the return journey, which fate and an unpopular scheduler had decreed was their penance for some long forgotten transgression. Predictable mishaps befell the troublesome clientele. Some over indulged losing all sense of decorum, direction or both. Others blindly strolled away from the airport concourse causing mayhem with the tour reps but most made it to the buses and were courteously shuttled to their temporary residences. Tuesday night in Madrid. An adolescent’s playground which, the majority became, once freed from the marital leash. Ultimately the place to have a great time, as long as one stays clear of the local constabulary. Unfortunately, nobody had warned the N. Ireland Supporters Association of this minor detail. Suffice to say that this oversight brought about the arrest of four over exuberant farmers from Doagh. The men in question had set off to explore the city. Drinking, eating, drinking, sightseeing, drinking and inevitably fighting, albeit with each other. Mishaps withstanding, the trip would be remembered, for the better part, with a large degree of fondness. As for the rural foursome. They were fortunate enough to be released from jail the following morning upon their promise of good behaviour. ‘A Presbyterian’s word is his bond,’ was the solemn oath of William Masterson, the others sagely nodded affirmation. Fines paid and honour satisfied, all parties returned to their respective duties. ‘What is a Presbyterian?asked a bemused Spanish cop?’ ‘Search me,’ answered his colleague shrugging his beefy shoulders.’
As kick off time rapidly advanced the fans donned their colours in anticipation of the impending battle. ‘A draw would be great,’ enthused a young boy, whose pandering father, showing somewhat less conviction, agreed.
‘The only draw we’ll be seein, is the pints getting pulled after the game,’ chuckled the boy’s uncle.
‘Ach, stop teasin the boy Ralph,’ pleaded the youngster’s protective father.
‘I was only jokin son, we’re gonna stuff em eh?’ this seemed to reassure the lad whose frown blossomed into a beaming picture of anticipation. Fully prepared the expectant fans boarded the buses and set off for the stadium. Fortified by good humour and amply plied with gallons of Dutch courage most hoped for a draw but prayed for the upset of the century. As expected, things went the way everyone had feared. The Spanish team attacked from the first whistle, cheered on by one hundred thousand fanatical fans. Wave after wave of relentless surges ensued but the Irish defence stood solid. One hack poetically described it as, ‘Another Reurke’s Drift.’ The home fans became more agitated as time ebbed away, barracking and jeering at the Spanish side’s futile attempts to break down the underdog’s courageous rearguard action. When frustration sets in, mistakes are always waiting to inflict cruel retribution. Such was the case with the much-vaunted Spanish team. Eighty-seven minutes had elapsed when the unforgivable occurred. Northern Ireland scored. At first there was a deathly silence, then sporadic cheering from the minority away support and finallyhowls of derision from home fans. The atmosphere in the stadium became threatening, distressing parents who feared for the safety of their offspring. The crowd began spitting and baying for blood. Some of the Irish supporters stood agog, whilst others remained oblivious to their perilous situation. Chanting continued until the referee despairingly blew the final whistle, prudently ensuring that he was within close proximity of the tunnel before raising the implement to his lips. Deciding that discretion was the better part of valour, the official made a hurried beckoning gesture to the far away linesman and spurning the outstretched hands of ecstatic Irish players made hurriedly for the sanctuary of the tunnel. The referee did escape physical injury but the poor man had to run the gauntlet through a kaleidoscope of saliva. The Irish team suffered a similar fate much to the embarrassment of the Spanish Football Association.
The crowd spilled out into the cool evening breeze that apportioned welcome respite from the cauldron inside. The horde menacingly spewed forth enveloping every obstacle having the audacity to prohibit its progress. Slowly yet irresistibly forward it rolled, like a river of human lava encompassing everything in its path. Some of the Irish fans became interspersed with the locals but the throng seemed oblivious to their presence. After what seemed an eternity, the crowd mercifully began to thin. Gaps miraculously appeared but only served to expose the terrified away supporters. Tullen became completely detached from the others. His scarf was an insulting abomination, a humiliation, taunting the seething Spanish. Furtively he removed the offending garment concealing it beneath his sweat soaked jacket. Some were appeased, others laughed but one was so incensed that his Latin blood boiled over. Slowly he edged toward the Irishman withdrawing something from his waistband. With murderous determination he raised the implement above his head taking aim at Tullen’s unprotected back. The knife reached the top of its arc and began driving downwards toward the oblivious unsuspecting target. The knife did not achieve it’s objective. In a flash Clements exploded into action covering the distance between himself and the ensuing attack in a matter of strides throwing his body at the assailant. The blade sliced laterally across Tullen’s left shoulder, mercifully deflected from its fatal path. The Spaniard gave a surprised yelp as the breath was forced from his body. Tullen screamed in shocked surprise, a searing pain emanating from his ruptured shoulder. Clements quickly subdued the Spaniard wrenching the weapon from his grasp. The crowd stood open mouthed, visibly shocked by what they had witnessed. There was a great deal of shouting and agitated waving of arms. Clements steadied himself wielding the knife, fearing another attack. He need not have worried as the crowd’s anger was directed not at him but at Tullen’s flailing assailant. Tullen reached down and gripped Billy’s right arm dragging him to his feet. ‘Lets get to fuck outa here mate.’ He had to scream to make himself heard above the jabbering local’s protestations. His rescuer required no second invitation. In an instant the pair were running, running, as they thought, for their lives. The crowd paid scant attention to the strangers’ departure. Instead they vented their frustration on the would-be assassin.
They ran until their chests ached. Never turning to look at their pursuers. Darting around the corner of an alley Connor grabbed Clements arm spinning him violently around. The other gave a howl as he collided with a breeze block wall. Both men stood stock-still backs against the wall, fighting to regain their breath. Tullen put his finger to his lips and whispered, ‘I’ll take a look around the corner. Don’t think they followed us.’ His judgement was confirmed as he scrutinised an empty street. ‘All clear,’ he informed his rescuer. Clements tentatively stepped out from the alley.
‘Fuck me!’ was all Tullen could manage to say. ‘These Spanish bastards are mad..Jees, imagine wanton to gut somebody over a fuckin futball match.’
‘You know something mate, I think yer right, they are fuckin mad,’ assented Connor, with a smile and proffering his hand. ‘Graham’s the name, Dave Graham,’ he lied. ‘Where did you come from? Christ what does that matter? I’m just glad ye came when ye did. You saved my bacon. No doubt about it. God I’m babblin away, must be the shock. Anyway thanks a million mate.’
‘Hey no problems,’ smiled the stranger. ‘Billy Clements is the name. Jesus mate!’ he exclaimed, ‘I hope ye’ve got a new shirt, I think the, off the shoulder look, is out this year.’
‘Bastard, that cost me a score in Burton’s and my back’s fuckin achin into the bargain,’ added Tullen, as if becoming aware of his discomfort for the first time.
‘What hotel are you staying in?’ asked Clements.
‘El Rancho, or somethin like that,’ he was informed.
‘Mine’s The El Cordoba,’ said Clements. ‘Wonder why they call everything El over here?’ pondered Billy, which sent Tullen into rapturous laughter. Clements, infected by his new friend’s mood, joined in. It wa
s at that precise moment that an undeniable bond was formed. Connor was bleeding quite badly so they agreed that Billy should go in search of a clothing store. A replacement shirt was required to conceal the wound from prying eyes. Once back in Billy’s room the damage could be more thoroughly assessed. Clements informed his new friend that his medical skills were rudimentary but he had once completed a course in first aid. Taking great care to avoid contact with other locals they made their way back to one of the main thoroughfares. Tullen nudged Billy, drawing his attention to a covered bus terminal. Without further invite, the other headed toward the structure but they were frustrated in their effort. Casually putting his arm around Clements’ shoulder, Connor guided him to a shop window. The taller man had espied a possible hazard. A passing police patrol was casting a suspicious eye in their direction. Clements held his scarf aloft shouting, ‘Noarin Ireland.’ One of the policemen parried with something derogatory in Spanish, waved and retreated smiling. ‘See they’re not all bad,’ he observed, with an impish grin, before moving on. Fearing that the local force may have been informed of the incident and were possibly seeking them, Connor was less than pleased by the other’s show of bravado. Discretion being the better part of valour they decided to put some distance between themselves and the police. Having re-crossed the road they arrived at the shelter. The policeman remained on their side of the road, their interest in the Irishmen quickly forgotten. It was decided that the injured Tullen would wait in there. Assuring Connor that he’d return as soon as possible, Billy set off at a gallop. ‘Us Ulster men have to stick together eh,’ Billy informed his injured friend conspiratorially over his shoulder, catching Tullen unaware.
His head jerked up and he was about to shout aye ‘Tiochfaidh ar la,’ {Our day will come} but held himself in check, opting instead for a wry smile. As promised, Clements returned quickly having purchased a black sweatshirt, which brought a scowl to Tullen’s face. Obviously it was not quite his style. Billy had also acquired some gauze dressings and antiseptic, just to be on the safe side. At the same time he procured a half litre of cheap local Cognac. ‘Christ Billy a fuckin sweatshirt. In Spain!’ complained Tullen.
Seeds of Evil Page 5