Seeds of Evil

by Robert Kitchen

  ‘Ye must be feelin better now Pete. Can I get ye somethin te drink,’ offered Billy.

  ‘No thanks, I don’t drink,’ he replied.

  ‘How about coffee or tea or a lemonade then,’ said Tullen.

  ‘No nothing really,’ answered the barman, I’m dead beat and I’d like to get this over with as quickly as possible, if you don’t mind,’ he added awkwardly.

  ‘Fair enough, we just have to set up the camcorder and audio equipment. Have a seat and we can get the ball rollin in a couplea ticks,’ said Tullen helpfully. The two operatives set to work and as promised were ready for the interview moments later. ‘All set,’ said Clements. Tullen sat down beside Peter who was nervously fidgeting on the sofa. ‘Just see if ye have us in focus there, Mr. White.’

  ‘Spot on,’ replied Clements.

  ‘Now then, where do we begin?’ Tullen pondered aloud, positioning himself opposite Peter. ‘You are wondering who we are and what our involvement with the murders of your friend and Aster is. It is only fair that we should fill ye in with as much detail as possible. It is important to us that ye realise we mean ye no harm. If ye’re scared of us ye won’t be completely focused and maybe forget some minute detail okay. Tullen looked the boy in the eye as he spoke. ‘What do ye think Mr White?’ he said turning toward his partner.

  ‘I don’t see that we have any choice but try te keep it brief,’ agreed Billy.

  ‘We have been given the task by both paramilitary organisations, namely the Irish Republican army and the Ulster Defence Regiment to seek and destroy the madman commonly referred to as The Preacher.’ Tullen paused for his words to take effect. ‘You have to be kidding,’ said Peter incredulously, this is a wind up isn’t it?’ he chuckled nervously.

  ‘No Peter we’re not messin around, this is deadly serious,’ said Clements solemnly.

  ‘Why are you telling me this? What in the Lord’s name has any of this got to do with me?

  ‘Good question Peter, perhaps nothin. Let me put it another way, it has nothin to do we you directly. But bear with us for a wee while and it will hopefully make sense. ‘Remember earlier in the bar we asked a lot of questions about yer friend Giles? prompted Connor. Peter answered with a nervous nod of the head.

  ‘We are betting that his death was the work of the Preacher.’

  ‘No that can’t be, he only kills women and kids, doesn’t he?’ replied the barman hesitantly, as if unsure of his facts.

  ‘Yeah that’s right but we believe he may have been compromised. Giles’ friend Aster was an operative of the UDA. We know that he followed Giles on the night of his murder. Giles met a man that night. That man was almost certainly the killer. Somehow he found out that Giles was being followed. Perhaps he surmised that Giles had betrayed him. If that was the case then he would have had no option but to dispose of them both.’

  ‘How would Giles get involved with an animal like that?’ asked Peter tremulously.

  ‘It is almost a cast iron certainty that Giles was the Preacher’s boyfriend,’ Clements informed him.

  ‘That’s a lie, Giles would never have anything to do with the murder and mutilation of little kids,’ retorted Peter angrily, resolutely defending the memory of his friend.

  ‘Hold on a minute there. Ye’ve got the wrong end of the stick Peter. Giles had no idea that the person he had befriended was a killer. He was as much in the dark about yer man’s hobby or identity as you or I.’ ‘Maybe I am missing the point or I’m just thick but I still don’t see how I can help,’ said Peter dubiously. ‘Did Giles ever mention a man to you by the name of Carver?’ enquired Tullen.

  ‘Carver, Nick Carver?’

  ‘Aye that’s the one!’ exclaimed Clements, his voice rising by at least two octaves.

  ‘He is a businessman. He was a regular visitor to the hotel a few months back. Come to think about it, he and Giles were rather chummy. Big fellow English I think, he used to tip very well. But if he and Giles were more than friendly he never said. Giles was a bit touchy, about being strange, you know what I mean. Some of us had our suspicions but no one was really sure. He never spoke about girls or stuff like that but he was equally tight-lipped about men. As I said before, he was very well liked and extremely trustworthy. The girls used to confide in him about their love life and stuff. He was a very popular guy. I don’t think I ever heard him say a bad word about anybody. Why would anybody want to harm somebody like that?’ A tear glistened

  as he recalled fond memories of his deceased friend.

  ‘Sorry Peter this must be a hell of a shock for ye. Do ye want te have a break, have a cuppa or somethin,’ asked Billy sympathetically.

  ‘No I’m really tired honest. I’d like to get this over with if you don’t mind,’ he answered.

  ‘Good man. Are you absolutely sure he said nothin about yer man Carver?’ asked Clements, displaying unguarded disappointment.

  ‘No sorry.’

  ‘How long have you been employed at the hotel Peter?’ asked Tullen, changing tack.

  ‘Nearly three years now, yes it will be three years in September.’

  ‘How well did you get to know Carver?’

  ‘What are you implying? I’m not gay if that’s what you mean,’ replied the young barman, bristling.

  ‘Oops sorry Pete, I wasn’t suggestin that ye were. What I meant was did ye ever get into conversation with him, at the bar like?’

  ‘Oh right, yes I suppose so. He seems like a nice man actually. He was always polite and as I said, he tipped well.’

  ‘Ye said ye thought he may have been English, what did ye mean by that?’ interjected Clements.

  ‘I am nearly certain that he is English but he could be Welsh. I have never been a great one for accents. He definitely wasn’t Scottish,’ he added meekly. ‘He comes from London, at least that’s what he told us and he is very la-de-da. I’d say that he went to university.’

  ‘Good Peter, ye’re doin great. Now do ye remember the first time he came into the bar?’

  ‘Shit that’s easy,’ he said casually. Clements and Tullen leaned closer, as if tied by an invisible rope. ‘Early last year.’

  ‘How can ye be so sure?’ prompted Connor excitedly.

  ‘My birthday is in March. A few of us went skiing and I came back with a tan. On my first day back at work, Carver was in the bar. That was the first time I had ever clapped eyes on him.’ said Peter proudly.’

  ‘Are ye definite about this Pete, it’s very important,’ said Clements.

  ‘I can remember it like it was yesterday. June, she’s the head bar person, was chatting to him when I came on duty. I can even remember the very words he said.’

  ‘Fuck ye must have a hell of a memory,’ said Clements sceptically.

  ‘Not really,’ continued the barman, ignoring the slight. ‘He said to June, and I quote, who is this handsome young man then?’ She told him that I had been skiing and that I celebrated my twenty first birthday out there. ‘Congratulations,’ he said and insisted on buying me a bottle of champagne,’ concluded Peter smugly.

  ‘ Now yer cookin on gas, this is great stuff Peter. Are ye sure yer not thirsty?’ asked Tullen.

  ‘No I’m fine really,’ replied Peter, now noticeably relaxed.

  ‘Yeah this is great,’ agreed Clements. ‘Did he make any friends?’

  ‘I’m not sure if I know what you mean by friends, after all I only ever saw the man in the bar.’

  ‘He became a sort of regular didn’t he?’ said Clements patiently.

  ‘I suppose so, he popped in every now and then when he was over on business.’

  ‘Regulars usually become acquainted with one another,’ said Tullen helpfully. ‘He must have spoken to some of them. Did he have anyone that he conversed with more than others?’

  ‘No not r
eally, he kept very much to himself. Ah wait a minute. I forgot about old Maurice. He did seem to get on well with him, though for the life of me I can’t understand why.’

  ‘Maurice you say, is there a surname to go with that?’ urged Billy.

  ‘Of course, he was one of our oldest customers and he was a right old so and so. It was Scott, Maurice Scott.’

  ‘Excellent Peter,’ enthused Connor. The boy smiled, at last feeling that he was contributing to the investigation. He was pretty certain that they meant him no harm and that his input was actually of some help to them. Having said that, he still thought that they were barking up the wrong tree. Nick Carver was a gentleman and people like him didn’t go around murdering helpless women and children.

  ‘Where would we be able to find Maurice? Is he still a regular?’ asked Tullen.

  ‘You’d have a hard job, unless you know a good clairvoyant. The poor old bugger’s dead,’ he informed them.

  ‘What did he die of,’ enquired Clements, deflated.

  ‘From what I heard he got drunk and set his house on fire. He burned to death. Apparently he left the gas on or something daft like that.’

  ‘Jesus, what a way te go. What did he work at?’ asked Clements, his hopes once more perking up.

  ‘He was in the RUC. a sergeant I believe at Castlereagh. He was in some kind of administrative job, records or something boring like that.’

  ‘Bingo,’ exclaimed Billy.

  ‘I don’t follow,’ said Peter, bemused.

  ‘Ach nothin Pete, ye don’t want te be payin any attention te him. He’s very excitable. I blame it on the lack of a secondary education. And that about wraps it up. Now that wasn’t too painful was it? We’ll have ye home before ye can say Mary Robinson. Oh one last thing, can ye remember how long ago it was when the peeler died?’

  ‘It must be about a year ago, maybe longer, why do you ask?’

  ‘Oh no reason, just curious,’ lied Tullen. ‘Right then, sorry about the auld blindfold Pete,’ said Connor, proffering the distasteful rag.

  ‘I know, it’s a ball ache but I suppose it’s for my own good.’

  ‘That’s the ticket, now when we drop ye off not a word te anyone about our wee conversation, okay,’ The young barman nodded vigorously, happy to comply. He considered it a miracle that he was going home at all.

  Par for the course, it had began to drizzle as they were approaching Belfast. They drove in silence up the Newtownards Road pulling up a few hundred yards from an all night taxi depot. Clements was out of the car in a trice opening the rear door. ‘Here we are again, familiar ground Peter,’ he told him removing the cover from the boy’s eyes. ‘Remember what we told ye, mum’s the word.’ The boy smiled sheepishly. ‘Oh one last thing Peter.’ Clements handed the barman an envelope. ‘That’s recompense for the bit of overtime you put in tonight. Whether ye believe it or not, yer info will go a long way to helpin us get thon bastard. Thanks again for yer help, see ya,’ Seconds later the car disappeared into a side street and was gone. Peter opened the envelope with trembling hands. Convinced that he had escaped death, he peered into the sheath. It contained a small bundle of notes that he tentatively removed. He was confused to find the sum of one hundred and twenty pounds. Confused and a little guilty at having misjudged the two strangers so wrongly. Exuding a sigh, he pocketed the money and headed to the taxi stand. By the time he had reached the rank the drizzle had graduated to a downpour. He was soaked to the skin but smiling from ear to ear as he entered the building. He was smiling at the irony of the situation. He had just spent the most exciting evening of his entire existence but would not be able to relate a word of it.

  Elated the two would-be detectives returned to the safe house. The journey was spent in silence, each man engrossed in his own thoughts. Clements mind was focused on the interview with the young barman. Tullen on the other hand had cast all remnants of it from his mind. He was missing Moira. It was weeks since they had last held each other and he ached for the smell of her. He longed to hold her close. What in God’s name is this all about? He was in a turmoil. For as long as he could remember his life had one purpose. Namely to see Ireland united and in charge of her own destiny. An inbred hatred of loyalists was his food and drink. Nothing else mattered, yet here he sits with a man whom, a mere few months ago, he would have blown away without a second’s hesitation. Tullen was under no delusions, he knew that Clements would dispose of him with as much thought that he gave to downing a pint. And Moira, what of her? His life had changed dramatically since her return. If she requested that he forsake his beloved Ireland for greener pastures, he would be packed and ready to leave before she was finished asking. But deep down he realised that there would be no happiness for them until the madman was dealt with. He glanced at Clements who was concentrating on the road, the trace of a smile distorting his lips. How could he ever kill again after befriending this rogue? He would never again look at a Protestant and see a potential enemy. It was after three when they arrived back at the house, Clements having taken a more round about route. ‘Don’t know about you mate but I’m fucked. Sure we can make up copies of the report in the mornin. Let’s call it a day. What do ye think eh?’ said Clements.

  ‘Ach I’m not too tired Billy. Tell ye what, I’ll stay up for a while longer and make the copies. You can make the breakfast, what do ye say?’ offered Connor

  ‘Aye that’s alright by me. I’ll wake ye up about ten and we can arrange meetins after we’ve eaten,’ Billy concurred.

  ‘Breakfast now that sounds civilised. I like my eggs runny and try not te burn the tatey bread,’ his breakfast order was answered by the raised middle finger of Clements’ weary right hand. Sleep was impossible for Tullen, there were too many conflicting images invading his conscience.

  With extreme difficulty he pushed all thoughts of Moira to the back of his mind and busied himself with the electronic gadgetry required to duplicate the conversation with the barman.

  CHAPTER 34

  The Preacher was awake and in deep concentration. Black was worried, aware that he had made his first mistake. Pensively he stared at the slowly melting ice in the bottom of a crystal glass, toying with the idea of another cognac. After deliberation he decided on a small measure. He poured the spirit, added one cube of ice and settled back in his favourite chair. As he swirled the golden liquid around in the glass, his thoughts turned to Giles. Despite his abhorrence for the Irish nation he had an undeniable soft spot for his young conquest. ‘Why did you have to betray our friendship Giles?’ he mumbled. ‘I never meant you any harm. Why did you have to be such a bloody fool?’ Mood swings were becoming more frequent and his present one changed from melancholy to outright rage. Exploding, he hurled the glass against the mantle. As always he vented his anger on the paramilitaries. ‘The innocent suffer because of scum,’ he screamed. Seething with rage he stomped into the room which housed his computer equipment. His temper dissipated as he took in the soothing hum of the PC. Lovingly Nathan brushed a speck of dust from the screen with the back of his hand. He was almost purring. Tenderly he drew his fingers across the synthetic casing of the VDU.

  as one would a lover’s body. ‘Good evening my precious,’ he whispered. ‘How can we avenge the death of poor misguided Giles? Perhaps we need a change of scenery.’ Closing his eyes he punched in a command. The computer gave an electronic garble before randomly selecting a city. ‘Londonderry you say, dangerous territory for an Englishman to go roaming around in, but still the challenge is irresistible.’ Nathan was slipping further over the edge as the hatred ate at his soul. He pondered on the idea for a few seconds before deciding to make Derry his next port of call. Decision made, he positioned himself in front of the screen punching the keyboard as the machine pandered to his perverted needs. In a veritable trance he gave the instrument his total attention. He was seeking a name, a name that would direct him to his next victim.
‘Which little piggy won’t be going to market in the near future?’ he cackled. Slowly he scanned down the list of known terrorists in County Londonderry. ‘I wonder should we up the stakes. Shall I go for a real murderer for a change? Yes I think that is an admirable idea. Now what was the name of the bastard they released last week? It began with an F, Flynn, no, Ferrus no that wasn’t it either. Flatley, no, ahh, I remember now, it was Farrel, yes Liam Farrel that was it. Now let me look you up, you piece of shit.’ Eagerly he scrolled down until he came to the name he was seeking. Positively drooling he opened the file on Liam Farrel. Details of the man’s crimes jumped unto the screen. Guilty of causing an explosion in Belfast. Four people dead including two Catholic school children. Seventeen injured, three seriously. ‘Fuck me Liam,’ gloated Black. ‘If anybody deserves to die it’s you. For incompetence of nothing else. You reeked more havoc upon your own people than you did on the Protestants. You really are one thick, Paddy bastard. Yes indeed Liam my man, you are in for the treat of your miserable life. Prepare to find out exactly how it feels to lose one’s reason for living. You are about to enter the world of grief, have first hand knowledge of what the sorrowing families suffer after some unknown executioner has taken away a lifetime of memories. After gathering the relevant data on Farrel and his family, he hit print and sat smugly waiting for the machine to spew forth the hard copy. With delight he fingered the paper which was as warm as a living thing. ‘Ah,’ he gloated with satisfaction, ‘The death warrant of Liam Farrel and family.’ Pleased with what he considered a successful evening’s endeavour, Nathan calmly shut down the computer, gave it one last pat and retired. Visions of Farrel’s futile struggles as he witnessed the mutilation of his loved ones sent a tingle down the madman’s spine. A sinister grin parted his lips as he drifted off.

  Blood splashed across the bedroom walls. Moira was beneath Con, his firm body driving into her as she held him tightly. She studied his face as he stiffened in ecstatic release. Their eyes met but his were lifeless, ghastly pinpoints set in a vacant stare. He slumped across her, his body weighing a ton and threatening to crush the life from her. She thrashed and struggled but he would not budge. She was struggling, gasping for air. ‘Connor, Connor,’ she cried but her pleas fell on death ears. It was at that moment she felt it, a hot sticky liquid streaming like a river in torrential flood flowing though the valley parting her breasts. She tried to scream but the sound came out as a silent whimper and he was becoming heavier. ‘God please help me,’ she beseeched, as panic tightened her heart began to race. Her lungs were imploding as she sucked in air in diminishing gasps but it was useless, she was asphyxiating beneath his lifeless form. Just as she was fading into oblivion a monster dragged the limp body from her causing her to gag as oxygen invaded the vacuum that was her lungs. Her eyes flew open to see the thing holding her lover aloft, it’s talons gripped firmly around his throat. He dangled in mid-air and the creature was cackling. Blood was spilling from every orifice, his mouth, his ears, and his rectum. A hideously large limp penis was dispensing blood like a bowser. She awakened screaming, perspiration glistening on her naked body. Tears were flooding as she, still half-asleep, tried to wipe away the blood. In a stupor, she stumbled across the cold floor in search of the bathroom. A drained ashen face stared back at her from the mirror above the sink. Her hair was matted, wisps adhering to her forehead like withered spider’s legs. She looked for all the world, as if she had exited from the shower. Realising that she had been having a nightmare, her breathing began to normalise. The night’s chill was turning her sweat to icy tendrils. Quickly Moira ran some water into the sink and forced herself to plunge her head into it’s freezing depths. The icy dousing had the desired affect and in a more relaxed state of mind she turned on the shower. After adjusting the temperature to a few degrees below boiling she entered the cubicle. Soothingly warm water chased away the chill from her body, making her feel much better. God Con what sort of a life do we have together? I may not survive another nightmare like that. A contact number that Tullen had given her and which she vowed never to use flashed into her head. She wanted no dealings with murderers or their apprentices. Moira smiled at the thought, apprentice murderer indeed, ‘Yer crackin up girl.’ ‘Get a grip,’ she scolded herself, before returning to bed. A tangle of sweat soaked bedding forced her from her reverie. ‘Fuck me what a mess,’ she complained. ‘Ah well no use lookin at it, it won’t make itself,’ she sighed, turning to fetch clean sheets from the airing cabinet.