‘Jesus I never thought about that. It was going cheap in the sale and anyway, it’ll cover that maw in yer back.
‘What do ye mean maw?’ chided Tullen. Does your girl’s luk like that?’
‘No but I had a duke at yer sister’s,’ retorted Billy. When a Belfast mans sexual prowess is called into question, it usually starts a repartee which ends in the denigration of someone’s sister or girlfriend.
‘Aye you wud know,’ was usually the final word, this time uttered by Tullen who had neither sister nor girlfriend. After Tullen had bravely pulled the garment over his head they set off heading for the city centre, where Clements hailed a cab. ‘Take us to the hotel El Cordoba por favor,’ the driver was instructed. To which he replied, ‘QE?’
‘Fuck me its Manuel’ jested Tullen, which set them off into another fit of laughter. Eventually they managed to get across to the driver the general direction of the hotel. It was still quite early for Madrid, which meant that the hotel foyer was deserted except for a smiling receptionist. Billy told Tullen to make straight for the lift that was obscured from the desk by a typical mosaic depicting a matador administering the coup-de-grace. Having retrieved the key, Billy rejoined Tullen at the elevator. Safely ensconced in the room Billy began his examination of the wound which ,although requiring sutures, turned out to be superficial.
‘Christ Davy, I thought ye were hurt, it’s only a wee scratch, well maybe a long scratch. Yer girl will think ye got yer mitts on a senorita.’
‘Not too bad I suppose,’ assented Tullen, craning his neck to look over his shoulder at the wound.
‘Know what? I’d say you are the luckiest bugger on the planet. Yer man wud have swung for ye, if this thing had gone straight down,’ said Clements earnestly, gesturing to the offensive weapon he was holding.
‘If ye hadn’t been there to stop him,’ whispered Tullen, the reality of the incident finally penetrating. ‘I don’t know how I am ever going to repay you Billy,’ added Tullen emotionally.
‘Agh away wi ye man. Anybody wud have done the same. Anyway, when we get you cleaned up a bit, you can buy me a pint. Besides this is a crackin souvenir. Shit you never know how many blokes the Cisco Kid has topped we this beauty,’ mused Billy, waving the knife around like Rambo. ‘The easy part is over, sure I’ve seen worse skinned knees. Here comes the hard bit. Ye have te take a wee swig of this pish,’ he chuckled, raising the bottle of cheap cognac. Connor warily complied. ‘Good, now take a deep breath. This is going to sting like a bastard.’ Before the other could argue, Clements quickly lashed the cheap liquor into the wound. The end result was a reasonably acceptable dressing. ‘There!’ he exclaimed stepping back to inspect his handiwork..
‘Superb Billy, Ye must’ve been sent as me guardian angel. I can see there’s no end to yer talents, what now Sherlock?’
‘The bright city lights are beckoning my man. Let us go forth and procreate.’’I hope ye mean with a women wee man. I’m not that grateful,’ quipped Connor.
Billy Clements turned the key unlocking the door to his small flat. He smiled at a pleasant memory seeded in Spain. Smirking at his reflection in the mirror he punched the air. ‘Yes!,’ he shouted, ‘We showed those Spanish bastards a thing or two. Christ yon Davy Graham is some boy. That reminds me, I must ring him tonight.’ Tullen had given Billy a false number. He had hated doing it but the situation was impossible. Sadly and virtually from the outset, he had determined that their paths could never cross in future. One thing was certain, he owed a debt that would be impossible to repay. Nevertheless he realised that Clements would always be there deep in the recesses of his mind. A pleasant, haunting memory available to be evoked in less happier times. ‘Maybe someday when things are different. Shit, what a mess.’ The irony of their encounter had not passed unnoticed. Here he was, a man who distrusted Protestants virtually from birth one had risked his life in order to save him.
CHAPTER 13
Miserable, was a less than adequate adjective to describe how Maurice Scott was feeling. Coping with his loss was akin to bereavement. He castigated himself over his treatment of Black. Turning to the mirror he glared at his deflated reflection, ‘You might as well be dead,’ he snarled. The only time anyone shows a morsel of respect you spit in his eye. Fucking duty. Fucking loyalty to the crown. When has the almighty RUC ever shown you loyalty,’ hissed Scott contemptuously, at his own reflection. Thirteen years on the force. Hardly ever missed a day in thirteen fucking years and what thanks do you get eh? Promotion to a lousy sergeant and not one civil word form those bastards at the station. Civil word, that’s a laugh!Christ they can hardly greet me without smirking.’ He rampaged around the house snarling. Frustration bubbling inside like the ingredients of a schoolroom physics experiment. The telephone’s irksome ringing was an unwelcome interruption. Angrily Scott glared at the instrument. ‘Who can that be?’ he roared in frustration. ‘If it’s some bastard from work I’ll tell them where to go,’ Still bellowing he snatched the implement from it’s cradle. ‘Yes, who is it?’ he snapped.
‘Maurice is that you?’ the voice was unmistakable.
‘Yes, yes its me Nick, are you back in town?’ answered the policeman excitedly, striving to regain some semblance of composure.
‘Too true old man. Look I feel a bit bad about last week, you must think me terribly rude.’’No, not at all Nick. It is I who should apologise,’ replied Maurice, almost too hastily.
‘Absolutely not, It is definitely I who should do the honours. Let that be an end to it. I hope it’s not too much of an imposition but I was wondering if you were free this evening.’ Maurice Scott was ecstatic. Transported from the jaws of desolation to instant euphoria. ‘No, no I mean yes,’ he stammered. ‘Of course Nick,’ his heart rate was approaching normal proportions at last. The mood swing was dramatic. What did you have in mind?’ he enquired, virtually purring.
‘Oh, nothing special, just a spot of dinner. I had hoped you would come, so on the off chance I booked a table at that chap Rankin’s place, you know, the one on the television with the charming wife. I hope that the venue is agreeable.’
‘Of course I agree, actually I thought that my officious manner had frightened you off completely. Rankin you say, that’ll be grand Nick just grand.’ enthused the policeman, making a mental note to find out, who exactly, the man Rankin was. ‘God, you really should watch TV Maurice,’ he chided himself mildly.’ He found it hard to believe that a celebrity from television actually owned a restaurant in Belfast.
Having arranged to meet at the Stormont they sipped Guinness while waiting for a taxi which Black had organised earlier. ‘I’ll get these,’ gushed Scott.
‘Wouldn’t hear tell of it Maurice. My apology, my treat remember?’
‘Sure I’ve already said to forget the whole affair Nick. It was just a misunderstanding. Let’s hear no more talk of apologies. That is definitely the last word on the subject, now let’s have a pleasant evening,’ ordered Scott, raising his glass.
‘Agreed,’ beamed the Englishman.
‘Here’s to a rare wee night.’ Scott was grinning like a Cheshire cat as he raised the glass to his lips. The restaurant was everything they had hoped it would be. As well as the excellent cuisine, the restaurant complimented its guests with a simple yet intimate ambience. No reference was made to the policeman’s hobby during the evening. Neither did Black bring up the subject of Scott’s employ. Extreme care was taken to insure that the sergeant’s suspicions were not aroused. Nathan was a patient man and now was the time to use the attribute to the fullest. Playing host had never been a hardship to the Englishman. In fact he considered it a vocation. Even a guest such as the buffoon he now pandered to, was regarded as a challenge. Under the circumstances it was one he relished. After all the fruits of his labour may bear record harvest. The policeman was captivated. Nathan treated him like a king. He tried to recollect an evenin
g that he enjoyed more. Impossible there simply was nothing to compare in the poor man’s miserable existence prior to his meeting Nathan. He felt like a boy again excited, ebullient and for once pleased to be alive. This stranger had rekindled his self-esteem. The idea that Maurice Scott could command the respect of an individual whose affluence was so apparent, fuelled his euphoria. Black had listened eagerly to the few stories that the Irish man had to tell. Never interrupting or displaying boredom with the policeman’s revelations. Seemingly dwelling on the big man’s every word. Asking the appropriate questions at the relevant time. Every inch the perfect host. A real gentleman. ‘Yes indeed,’ said Scott, as he studied his reflection with a new perspective. ‘Maurice old chap,’ he giggled like a schoolboy at his mimicry of Black. ‘You’re not as bad as you thought.’
Nathan Black was amazed. He had known that Scott was eager for a close friendship. Had he not planned their relationship to that very end? He had not bargained for what was taking place. Despite himself Black was beginning to feel something for the big Irish policeman. There was no physical attraction. They had nothing in common. No, it was more the man’s honest naivete. Scott had talked of his childhood. The loss of his mother at an early age. His inadequacy to form social contacts. Finally how he considered himself a figure of ridicule. Black was not inclined to take the life of a person who had trusted him enough to impart his most intimate secrets but alas prudence demanded that there was no other course of action. The man has no friends or relatives, he reasoned. Not one soul will appear at the man’s interment. He had been used one way or another for his entire life and his final days will be spent playing the proverbial patsy. An impish smile crossed Nathan’s lips as he thought of a fitting epitaph.’Maurice Scott Used Baggage.’
CHAPTER 14
Thursday March twenty-ninth. GeorgeBlack-more took on full responsibility for the termination of James Riley. One week from this date at ten forty five Blackmore would calmly walk into Riley’s Post Office and shoot the man dead. Two shots, one in the forehead and one in the temple for insurance. Then he and his accomplices would rob the post office and be gone in one minute and forty seconds. It was cold and damp. People were milling around the post office. Giro day again, Riley’s patrons had made it through another miserable week. Similar scenes were being enacted in most towns and cities throughout the United Kingdom. Today was different. Two dangerous men collars turned up to ward off the biting wind ambled past the post office. One stopped, looking over the head of an octogenarian, striving to see inside. Three queues of souls eagerly waiting for their government handout were milling about. Impassively he shrugged, turned to his friend and indicated that they should come back later. The old lady looked up and smiled ‘Aye,’ she said. ‘If you get into this queue, you could be as auld as me by the time you reach the counter.’
‘Yer not wrong Mrs. yer not wrong,’ agreed Blackmore, turning on his heel and heading away from the place.
‘What do ye think?’ asked his tall sallow compatriot, the third accomplice, the one Black-more was unsure of.
‘What do ya mean?’ he snapped.
‘What about the fuckin crowd George. In the shop?’ prompted the other.
‘Well there’s two ways of luckin at it son. One, if they give us any trouble we top a few. If they don’t there will be that many witnesses they won’t know what end of them’s up,’ replied Blackmore, affording a grudging smile.
‘I still don’t understand,’ countered the other, somewhat nonplussed.
‘Agh it’s simple. When ye have two people witnessing an event they give slightly different stories. So when ye get twenty or thirty seeing it, ye’d be lucky if ye cud get two te agree on anything. One person would say Ronnie Barker did it, whilst another would argue that they seen Ronnie Corbett. The whole thing will be over in the blink of an eye. Most people will be running for cover. Some will be diving to the ground, others will be protecting their kids. It will be pandemonium. No son, a crowd is better. Nobody wants to be a hero in a crowd. Why should they, when the fucker next te them has done a Jessie Owens?’
‘Aye yer right, I see what ye mean now George, it’s a goer then.’
‘Too true my man, that’s one less republican come this time next week’.
Billy Clements was confused. Why would Dave Graham lie to him? Had he not saved the man’s life? There was something very fishy about that guy and come to think of it, he seemed to avoid talking about his neighbourhood. Clements tried to remember back to the evening of the attack. It had been four days now. He had tried the phone number Tullen gave him. ‘No-one by that name here mate,’ had been the reply to his query about Dave Graham. Another thing that struck Clements as odd, was the way Graham had taken the attack. He had not given it much thought at the time but the other’s reaction was becoming apparent now. When a complete stranger tries to run you through, you don’t just shrug your shoulders. There was no shock afterwards, he took the incident in his stride, indeed he hardly mentioned the attack again. Strange behaviour for a common five eight. No I think our Mr. Graham has something to hide. I wonder if he is in something and if so, which organisation? I am going to have to do a wee bit of snooping around. See if the name Graham rings any bells, that is if Graham really is his name.
Nathan Black was sitting in his usual spot waiting for Scott to put in an appearance. He was dressed casually, sipping a gin and tonic whilst surveying his surroundings. He marvelled at the people’s apathy. The previous evening a bomb had gone off in a pub killing two people and a young man had probably been crippled for life in some barbaric punishment beating. Not one person seemed to give a damn. He could quite easily be sitting in an hotel lounge in England or Germany or anywhere for that matter. But he was not, he was here in Belfast watching a bunch of callous bastards ignore murder and torture happening beneath their noses. What of Scott, what would he think of yesterday’s catalogue of disaster? He decided to experiment.Slowly he reached over and opened the newspaper fully, completely obscuring the table. Scott, when he did eventually put in an appearance, could not miss the banner headline. ‘Belfast. City of The Damned.’ Two more innocent lives forfeited, where in God’s name will it end?was the impassioned observation of the journalist. Scott was a couple of minutes late. His pint sat on the bar already settled with the distinctive ice cream head, the trademark of a well-kept cellar. ‘Hello Nick, mine I hope?’ said Scott.’Yes Maurice of course but if you would prefer something else?”
‘You’ve got to be joking, look at that head, nectar from the gods,’ he smiled, wiping the froth from his lips with the back of his hand.’I thought we’d sit here this evening if you don’t mind. My back is rather stiff from driving and these seats are more comfortable than a bar stool.’ Scott
positioning himself between the seats glanced at the newspaper and casually remarked’Business as usual I see,’ referring to the headline. Without further ado he folded the paper and asked Black where he had been today. Black was incensed. This buffoon is no different from the rest of them. Bloody animals, he thought. Keeping his emotions firmly in check he related how he had, had a successful day in Coleraine but found the drive, ‘A little tedious,’ due to the heavy rain.
‘I’ve just the cure for what ails you Nick,’ advised Scott.
‘I’m intrigued,’ replied Black.
‘Don’t be intrigued my man, be hungry. I bought a couple of pounds of fillet steak some wine and a baked Alaska for dessert. Please come to my place to dine this evening. I’m a passable cook you know, well at least I do a good steak. What do you say Nick? If you don’t mind me saying it, you look a wee bit stressed. It’ll do you good to have an informal evening. Shit you can even put your feet up if you wish. What do you say?’ pleaded Scott.
‘Well put so eloquently, how can one possibly refuse but on one condition.’
‘Yes and what would that condition be?’ inquired Scott, suspiciously.
> ‘I insist on bringing the wine.’
‘Done,’ agreed the Irishman, grinning like a Cheshire cat. Scott gulped down the last of his drink. ‘Now I must rush to get the meal prepared. I’ll expect you at eight thirty on the dot.’
‘Aye Aye captain. Just one small detail before you beat a retreat. Haven’t you forgotten something?’
‘No I don’t think so’, answered Scott, a look of puzzlement shading his face.
‘Your address old boy. I still don’t know it.’
‘Oh God, how bloody stupid of me. Sorry Nick, its number eleven Park Avenue. You know where I showed you when we were looking for your digs.’
‘Ah yes I remember, well off you pop and I’ll see you at precisely eight thirty.’
True to his word the Englishman was on Scott’s doorstep at exactly the agreed hour. Everything was prepared in anticipation of his arrival. Black was pleasantly surprised at the interior of the policeman’s home. He was by all accounts fastidious in his choice of decor furthermore the place was spotless. Vivaldi was playing in the background and a bottle of very acceptable sherry was decanting on a sideboard. Well, well, thought Black, our Maurice is full of surprises. ‘I must compliment you on your choice of decor. This really is a most pleasant room,’ said Nathan, accompanying the compliment with a sweep of his manicured hand.
‘Thanks Nick, but its no big deal really. I subscribe to town and country and a few other
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