Blood Will Be Born

by Donnelly, Gary

  BLEEEP BLEEEP

  But he would show patience, he would be the teacher, she would learn who was master. She would heel. Cecil had already broken her, this was just her youth, and maybe a bit of a wild streak that made her believe that she was not his. Sure it was the same bottle that convinced Cecil she was well worth keeping. Life was a funny thing sometimes. The phone had just started its eighth ring and then it was answered. Cecil’s face suddenly brightened.

  ‘What about ye mate?’ he said, his voice full of banter, rich and familiar. Your best mate, calling you when you were not expecting it. The voice which answered was less relaxed, made no pretence of warmth. Cecil’s smile widened. Despite the fact that he was going to use up a major favour, with the peelers about to lift him, he was starting to enjoy this.

  ‘You should not be calling me,’ hissed the voice on the other end of the phone. Taken by surprise, fair dues. This guy could be anywhere, but Cecil certainly hoped it was somewhere that Oswald needed to make excuses, scurry to a quiet place. This was the call he probably assumed would never come, certainly not this time on a Sunday morning, that was for sure.

  ‘Do you hear me?’ Oswald hissed, speaking in an urgent whisper. He was talking down to Cecil, like a man in control. But men in charge rarely sounded as panicked as Oswald did now. Cecil looked at his watch, nearly ten minutes since his warning call, the peelers were close, probably driving into Tiger’s Bay right now.

  ‘Ach Oswald, is that any way to speak to an old mucker? You’ll hurt my feelings mate, so you will,’ said Cecil, cold steel beneath the syrup of his words. He allowed himself a pause he could ill afford, keeping cool, so cool. ‘You really don’t want to go offending me, not after I have taken the time to pick up a phone and call you personally,’ he said. Cecil was no longer smiling, his eyes fixed on the road below. When they came, it would be from the main road, at the far end of the street, he had a good view.

  ‘Please, do not use my name,’ said Oswald. ‘What is it you want?’ he said. Still speaking in a hissing whisper, but all the authority gone now, pleading. ‘I am at work, believe it or not. I did not mean to appear… discourteous. What is this about?’ he said. Not exactly an apology, but not a kick in the arse off one, good enough for now. Oswald knew his place.

  And rightly so, Cecil had enough on the fucker to make Jimmy Saville look like Daddy Christmas. Oswald thought he was sitting at the big table when it came to that kind of jazz, but he had no clue, what others were involved in, it made Oswald’s sins look like public school fumbling after lights out. But the measure of a man’s sin, like his ability to survive is in his own mind. All of which meant that Oswald’s ass, to employ an apt phrase, was owned by Cecil.

  ‘The world is more full of weeping than you can understand,’ said Cecil.

  ‘What?’ asked Oswald.

  ‘Meaning you need to get your cheque book out son, and get ready to pay the piper,’ he said. There was a pause, this time from Oswald.

  ‘Is this line secure?’ he said.

  ‘Burner. Are you in NI?’ asked Cecil. Oswald told him he was.

  ‘Sure isn’t life just grand? Now shut your mouth and listen to me,’ said Cecil.

  Cecil spoke quickly, not his style, but this morning, he was as fast as a Chinaman in a whorehouse. He explained what he needed from Oswald with an eloquent lack of fluff in less than twenty seconds. Jackie Coyle must slip in the shower, cut his throat shaving, fall off a step, he must be gone.

  ‘I cannot just walk in,’ started Oswald. Cecil cut him off.

  ‘I have men inside, your hands will not get dirty, but I need access. Think of a way, and fast Oswald. Intelligence is your job, remember?’ said Cecil.

  ‘Yes, yes there is a way, I know how it can be done,’ he replied.

  ‘Good man. Now, one more thing,’ said Cecil. He outlined his second order of the morning, in the same careful, meticulous fashion as the first. Oswald listened. When he replied, his voice wavered.

  ‘Now that, ah, that’s going to take a bit of time. I’m not really sure I can guarantee –’

  ‘Yes you can Oswald. And you will,’ said Cecil. Silence, he had been told.

  ‘I was sorry to hear about your mother. I hope those responsible will be brought to justice,’ he said.

  ‘Cheers Oswald, appreciate that,’ said Cecil. Cecil knew exactly who was responsible for his mother’s death. He recognised the bastard as soon as he saw his Fenian face on the video from the kid Anderson’s phone, the voice recording from Burgoyne confirmed it.

  ‘When all this calms down, I am going to organise another wee meal in Donegal Oswald, very fresh produce, totally organic, and I mean very fresh indeed. I will make sure you are on the invitation list. I’ll let you know the usual way,’ he said, and killed the call, not waiting to hear if Oswald was interested or not. His fingers worked quickly, switching off the phone and removing the SIM which he tossed into a marble ash tray on his desk and coated in in flame using a mini blow torch from the desk drawer. The SIM warped and puffed, then fully ignited in a fierce, brief orange light, before shrinking into a small shapeless lump of burned black plastic.

  ‘Nelson!’ roared Cecil, waving his hand over the tray to shoo away the smoke. Heavy footfalls knocking the wood floor on the hallway approached his office. The door opened, Nelson sliced in, closed it. He was wearing his thick gold neck chain, a muscle shirt, black jeans and brown shoes. His man was an intelligent dresser, a little natural taste. Nelson nodded, the small gold hoops in his ears dancing briefly as he did so.

  ‘Peelers are coming, any second now,’ said Cecil. Nelson’s eyes widened, his mouth slowly opened. Cecil raised his eyes, sighed.

  ‘Not for you, for me,’ he said. Another nod from Nelson, then a forming question on his face. Cecil held up both hands in a stop and listen gesture, there was not the time.

  ‘It’s being dealt with. Now listen, it’s time to get our friend from the kid Anderson’s video. Should have gone yesterday, but sure…’ Cecil tailed off. He needed to remain on point, get Nelson off side fast, before the whole operation hit a snag and that bastard half breed nephew of his walked. He gave Nelson a street address in Bangor, the place where he would find his nephew. Asked him if he needed it repeated and Nelson shook his head. The sound of screeching tyres from the street below, sounded like they had just rounded the far corner, the one that led into the main road. Then the whining roar of big engine vehicles accelerating hard, getting closer. It was time.

  ‘Nelson, you find him, take him to the lock up and start to work on him. No limits this time, you don’t have to go gently on him like the Anderson boy, this is no punishment beating,’ said Cecil. Another screech of tyres, just below, then the slamming of multiple doors, clipped instructions, the crackle of static radio, footfalls moving fast, probably heading round the back. Let them, the wall was wrapped in barbed wire and upturned broken bottles. Cecil had a hidden doorway, his side exit into the neighbouring house. He owned it too.

  ‘Go out the hole in the wall, and get rid of this,’ said Cecil, throwing Nelson the shell of the burner phone which he caught in one hand. Cecil watched him leave, slicing out as he had come in, the sound of his heels on the laminate. The front door of the boozer rattled on its hinges after being banged hard three time. He had best get down there; those wankers would knock it in if he didn’t. Cecil liked those doors, original features, from a time when working class Prods from Tiger’s Bay could actually get a good job, like joining the RUC. This made him think of his Fenian loving dead brother and he quickly skirted the desk, opened the office door and called Nelson’s name. Nelson was at the top of the stairs. He stopped, turned his face to Cecil and waited.

  ‘Bring two reliables, Benny, and Ivan. I don’t want this ballsed up,’ he said.

  ‘That’s all?’ Nelson asked, still waiting.

  The peelers banged the door again, much harder this time, Cecil fancied he heard the off key scratch of a pane of glass crack. A shout came from bel
ow; the usual open up bollocks. He blotted it out, needed to concentrate; there was a decision to make. His Judas brother had owned a service weapon, but the question was did his half breed nephew have it? He could not see one on the video from the Anderson kid’s phone. Still, better have and not need than be shot in the face.

  BANG, rattle and shouts from below.

  ‘One more thing,’ replied Cecil. ‘Go strapped, just in case,’ he said. Nelson blinked once, turned and disappeared down the stairs, taking them three at a time. BANG rattle, shouts. Cecil growled and stomped back into his office and flung up the sash window, bellowed down at the assembled cunts in uniform under him.

  ‘You fucking bang that door once more and I’ll stick my boot in your hole!’ he shouted. He rammed the window closed and bombed down the stairs, his mental drawbridge pulling up, and portcullis falling in readiness for the rigmarole to follow. He fiddled needlessly with the bolt of the pub doors, longing it out for a few more seconds. Eventually, he released it, opened up, and invited the scum in with a smile. The sound of the bolt releasing stayed in his mind; it reminded him of a bullet loading into the firing chamber of a gun.

  Chapter 14.

  At the Kennedy Centre Christopher purchased two sturdy padlocks, essential to ensure that for John Fryer at least, their attacks on the 12th of July would be a one way journey. Before he drove out of the underground car park, he returned the steel trolley and the white coat and hat where he had found them the day before.

  As Christopher passed the City Airport, Bangor bound, Daddy spoke. Or, more precisely, Christopher heard his voice. It sounded distant, synthetic. More like a poor recording, being played again and again on a loop, getting fainter until it had faded to the sound of the taxi’s wheels on the road.

  Something’s gone rotten here, I can smell it, something’s gone rotten, I can smell it.

  Christopher couldn’t smell anything. He scanned the road on either side, nothing amiss. There was a left turn ahead, Christopher slowed. Both the main road he was on and the left turn would take him to Bangor. The latter was the scenic route round Crawfordsburn Park, it would take longer. It also allowed him to approach his place of residence indirectly, coming at it from the other side of the hill. Christopher flicked his indicator, took the taxi left.

  Daddy remained silent as wooded parkland swished past on either side. He maintained a law abiding 35mph round one sweeping corner after another. A tractor, pulling a flatbed full of hay, approached on the other side of the road, too fast. Christopher slowed and edged the taxi on to the verge, allowing the farmer more than enough space to get past. The road was a travesty, hardly enough room for him, but still, taking this detour was the right thing, he knew it. Christopher called his Daddy’s again and again as he took the taxi through slow meanders. He wanted to know what had gone rotten. He got only silence and the sounds of the road.

  If Daddy knew he was not letting on.

  Chapter 15.

  Aoife pulled into Ladas Drive twenty five minutes after she had got off the phone to Irwin. Irwin said he would give her half an hour before putting the team on the road. He was, at least, good to his word. In the large car park adjacent to the station, she could see four fortified Land Rovers parked in a line. Uniformed officers dressed in black Teflon stood in groups of three and four near the open rear doors. Semi-automatics strapped to their chests or in their arms, their utility belts hung heavily with pouches and canisters. They were all men, not one woman in the vicinity apart from her.

  A tremor of exhilaration in her legs; this was it, her collar, the Something Big against her name. She was going to catch a killer. Irwin emerged from the side door of the station and bowled down the stone steps. He was wearing a thick black fleece jacket, a beanie hat rolled up on his head, it reminded her of a rolled up balaclava mask.

  ‘Get a vest on DC McCusker, you too Sheen,’ he hollered, by way of greeting. The small smile he gave them told her that he shared her sense of impending triumph, her curtness and unprofessional words from a few hours before forgotten, for the time being at least. ‘And hurry up,’ he said. Aoife and Sheen headed for the station. It had been a long time since she had worn a vest, not since she was on the streets in uniform, and for the most part, even then, it had been a stab vest.

  Irwin’s voice raised, from behind them, his words only partly audible. She turned, Sheen did too. The uniformed sergeant was face to face with Irwin, red beard flecked with white, eyes fixed and angry; a hard gaze from what looked like a hard man. She caught a few final words from Irwin, it sounded like he was arguing for all three of them to tag along, clearly against the sergeant’s wishes. DCI Kirkcaldy was not, strictly speaking, needed on the operation, same for her and Sheen. She knew Irwin enjoyed being at the business end, but he had also just stood up for her. Without her, there would be no raid. No reply from the sergeant, he started shaking his head, in what looked like disgust rather than disagreement. Irwin had won; he turned to her and Sheen.

  ‘You two will ride with me, I will talk you through the plan on route,’ he said, his cheeks a glowing plumb. He looked like he was enjoying himself.

  Chapter 16.

  There was no way of telling where they were from the back of the windowless Land Rover. Probably along the stretch beyond the City Airport, half way to Bangor. Irwin had given them the run down. The address was on a terraced street, rear access would not be easy, so they would station a unit on the parallel road to scoop up anyone who managed to get out the back door and over garden fences. Irwin said it was not likely; they had the element of surprise, and they would go in fast and hard. It should be straightforward.

  Aoife asked about their credible evidence. The E-Fit, the DNA from the hair in the bath, the boot prints, ultimately doubt could be cast on these things in court.

  ‘We also have the explosives used at the substation bomb, and enough circumstantial evidence to suggest John Fryer and Christopher Moore are in cahoots. If we find them with guns and explosives there is a bigger case to answer for. That’s how I got the search warrant issued,’ said Irwin.

  ‘Oswald told us to back off John Fryer, said the Dissident line is off limits,’ said Sheen.

  ‘So it is. But, you see, the information I have been able to get is that John Fryer is not, and never was a Dissident republican, technically he is still in the IRA, and officially they’re out of action. And whatever else Christopher Moore might think he is, he’s not a Dissident. Technically, we are not going against Oswald on this,’ said Irwin. Aoife watched as Sheen’s face darkened at Irwin’s mention of John Fryer.

  ‘We have to catch them. There’s more to this than what has happened over the last two days. It’s bigger,’ said Sheen. Aoife picked up this line, as Sheen went quiet, though part of her was not sure whether they were really sharing the same point or not.

  ‘We believe that what has happened so far is just part of the picture, there is more to come. You can see that, can’t you sir? With the 12th of July, things feel like they are just ramping up, not levelling out,’ said Aoife. She looked at Sheen, wanting his support, it was he who had recognised the ritualistic details in Mrs. Moore’s killing for what they were, he should explain this. But Sheen’s face was dark, brooding, his thoughts were his own.

  ‘With a bit of luck and God’s grace we will catch these dangerous men this afternoon in possession of guns and explosives; we can take our time and question the pair of them about what the heck was going on in their sick minds,’ said Irwin.

  The Land Rover slowed down, and then stopped abruptly.

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Irwin. The armour plated back doors were pulled open, clean light flooded in, as the occupants poured out.

  Chapter 17.

  The jippo was making gurgling noises, thick and watery. The blood was spreading from the three bullets holes Nelson had put in his string vested chest; a dark crescent on the hallway carpet. Nelson could taste it, warm and metallic in the air, mingled with the sharp smell of fresh cordit
e from the rounds he had just used. Nelson’s ears were ringing; his heart was smashing in his chest. How the fuck had he ended up in a house full of jippos?

  The jippo coughed once, a bright red jet of blood spurted up from his mouth, then he was still. The woman, who Benny was holding by the hair in the living room doorway, started to scream and struggle. Nelson pistol whipped her on the front of the forehead, and her legs turned to cold spaghetti. Benny kept a hold of her dark mop, then let go. She fell, eyes wide, all whites, her body started to twitch. Fuck’s sake, another one probably nutted. Benny looked over at him, he wanted an answer, but Nelson turned his eyes to the front door, a few metres down the hallway to his left. A sound, maybe the screeching of tyres. Hard to tell, his ears were still ringing. He inserted a little finger in one ear hole and jostled it around. Benny was staring at him, not moving, but Nelson could tell he was shitting it.

  ‘I know,’ said Nelson. Benny nodded, he knew better than to push him. ‘Let me think,’ said Nelson, but that was getting harder to do. The reek of the jippo’s blood was filling up the small hallway at the foot of the stairs, clouding everything. It had been over ten years since Nelson had topped anybody. Even then it had been a spray and run, not up close and real like this.

  He blinked away sweat from his eyes, checked the front door again. They had hit the right house; he had double checked the address that Cecil had given him. Another thought, this one even more frightening than getting the address wrong. What if he was past his best? Ten years away from the front line was a long stretch. A man could get rusty, and fuck knows Nelson had no answer for what was going on right now. From the kitchen, a chorus of crying, kids screeching for the Mammy, Daddy. Jesus Christ.