The Enemy Inside

by Scott Hunter

  ‘It’s my arm,’ Joe hissed through a grimace of pain. ‘Bastards shot me.’

  ‘All right, let’s take a look.’

  ‘Over here.’ Moran’s soldier was gesticulating. ‘I need help, here!’

  Moran bit his lip, looked away.

  ‘Is he…?’ Joe asked.

  ‘She, and yes, she’s gone,’ Moran confirmed.

  ‘My God. What about…’ Joe nodded towards the wreck of the ambushed vehicle where three other paramedics were conversing with the gathered checkpoint military.

  ‘It’s a mess,’ Moran said. ‘A bloody mess. I don’t even want to look.’

  The paramedic probed Joe’s arm and Joe flinched. ‘Aaaa! Go easy, would you?’ His face was the colour of clotted cream.

  ‘It’s gone through the fleshy part underneath your forearm. You’re lucky.’ The paramedic cut a length of bandage.

  ‘Lucky?’

  ‘Compared to them over there, yes, I’d say so.’ The paramedic jabbed a thumb at the bullet-riddled car.

  Moran sat on the wet ground, bowed his head.

  ‘You’re Gardaí, right?’

  Moran looked up. The soldier was standing over him. ‘Yes. I’m sorry about your friend.’

  The blue eyes bored into Moran’s. ‘Not just a friend.’ His voice caught and he looked away.

  Moran looked up sharply. ‘God. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘How did they know?’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘When to come? How did they know they’d be passing through at this time, just on changeover?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’

  ‘They’re police. In the car. RUC.’ The soldier pointed with his Armalite. ‘Senior policemen.’

  Moran struggled to his feet. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.’

  The soldier put his face close to Moran’s. ‘The name’s Doherty. Private Liam Doherty.’

  Moran’s brain was fogged. The noise, the sirens, the smoke rising from the broken car. And now this soldier, aggressive, accusing…

  ‘This happens, almost bang on six. And here you are. Gardaí. In plain clothes, just behind. Watching.’ Doherty stuck his chin out.

  ‘Now wait a minute.’ Moran raised his hands. ‘You’re upset, I understand…’

  ‘Upset? Upset?’

  ‘Private Doherty.’

  A new voice, keen-edged, Sandhurst-sharp, cut through the hubbub. The transformation was instant. Doherty snapped to attention, straightened his back like a ramrod. ‘Sir.’

  ‘Any more casualties?’ The newcomer was an older man in his mid-thirties, clearly the senior officer.

  ‘Just this one, sir. He’s not hurt badly.’ Doherty pointed to Joe who, aided by a paramedic, was trying to stand up.

  ‘All right, Doherty. Stand easy.’ The officer spoke kindly. ‘I’ve asked the medics to give you something to help.’ He put his hand on Doherty’s shoulder. ‘We’ll find out who’s responsible. Rest assured.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Doherty looked pointedly at Moran as his superior went to meet the arriving ambulances. ‘We bloody will.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Moran peered through the hall window and stepped back in surprise. Samantha Grant was on his doorstep, hands jammed into the deep pockets of a fawn raincoat. He took another look just as she reached for the bell a second time.

  Are you in, Brendan? That’s the question…

  Sam Grant, a woman he had been careful to avoid since her brutal riverside assessment of his emotional state.

  Moran hesitated, Archie’s insistent barking making it hard to think clearly.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see Sam. On the contrary, he still felt a powerful attraction for the glamorous woman he’d met at a neighbour’s party a month or two back. It had been Sam’s decision to discontinue their friendship in its early stages, not his. And yet, here she was.

  He caught a glimpse of himself in the hall mirror, looking like an intruder in his own house.

  This is daft, Brendan. Answer the damn door…

  Maybe she’d gone. He risked a peep. No, still there. She looked a bit agitated, though. Just the way she was standing – nothing too obvious, but Moran’s eye had had a lot of practice over the years. Perhaps she’d been psyching herself up to call. In which case, he shouldn’t keep her waiting.

  Should he?

  Before he knew it his hand had undone the chain, slid the bolt, and the door was open.

  ‘Samantha.’

  Too late, he read her unspoken warning, the expression in her eyes. He caught a furtive movement in his peripheral vision as Samantha was propelled into the hall by some unseen force. She caught him off-balance, sent them both crashing against the narrow hall table, which splintered under their combined weight and collapsed. As Moran sprawled on the floor he heard the front door slam.

  Dazed, he raised himself up on an elbow. There were watery drops of blood on the parquet. His head felt muzzy and when he checked with his hand his fingers came away red and sticky. Archie was raising the roof from his kitchen prison and getting louder by the second.

  Samantha was first on her feet. ‘I’m sorry, Brendan, I’m so sorry…’

  ‘Shut it.’ That voice…

  ‘Please… let me just–’ Samantha extended her hand to help Moran up.

  The intruder came forward, shoved her hard against the wall. ‘I said shut it. Now.’

  The London accent was instantly recognisable. Moran didn’t even have to look up. ‘Doherty.’ He shook his head, trying to clear it.

  ‘Get up.’

  Moran rose unsteadily to his feet. Doherty had Sam in a vicelike grip, was standing behind her. ‘Get in there.’ He nodded in the direction of Moran’s lounge. ‘You first.’

  Moran did as he was bidden. No point going in hard with this one – he’d come off worse. And there was another reason Moran elected for compliance; the revolver Doherty was holding, which right now was jammed into Sam’s ear.

  Doherty pushed Sam roughly onto the settee, nodded towards Moran and the armchair. ‘Sit down.’

  Moran sat. His head was clearing slowly.

  Doherty was dressed in a black sweatshirt and faded jeans. His movements were sure, his expression determined, but his eyes told a different story. Within those blue orbs Moran detected the telltale spark of obsession. He knew what this was about. What, for Doherty, had started as a theory had somehow blossomed into an obsessive quest for conclusive proof, and presumably, some kind of self-applied justice. Precisely what sort of justice would doubtless soon become clear.

  ‘I didn’t know, Brendan. He said he was a friend of yours. I–’

  ‘If you don’t keep quiet, I will make you keep quiet. Do you understand?’

  Samantha lapsed into shocked silence.

  ‘Will you shut that dog up, or do I have to do it?’

  ‘He’s a dog,’ Moran said. ‘He knows something’s going on. He’ll calm down in a minute.’

  Doherty tapped the revolver barrel. ‘He’d better.’

  Samantha’s hand was over her mouth. Reassurance was required, but what reassurance could Moran provide? If in doubt, open the proceedings. Talk to the guy. That’s the way forward.

  ‘Will you not take a seat yourself, and tell me what it is you’d like me to do for you?’

  ‘You’re unbelievable, you are,’ Doherty sneered. ‘As if you didn’t know.’

  Moran spread his hands. ‘You’ll recall that I tried to save her life. I did all I could.’

  ‘You did a hell of a lot more than that, Moran. And that’s what we’re going to prove. Right here, right now.’

  ‘Can somebody tell me what this is about?’ Samantha had regained some measure of control. Her hands were clasped on her lap, the knuckles white.

  ‘It was a long time ago–’ Moran began.

  ‘–It might be for you, but I relive that moment every bloody day.’

  ‘Yes. I’m sure.’ Moran looked down at his fe
et. His vision was a little blurry. Hopefully not a reoccurrence of the turn he’d taken at Charnford. A close call, his doctor had summarised. A mini-stroke.

  He blinked. Just a bang on the head, that’s all. He became aware that Doherty was talking.

  ‘Are you even listening to a word I’m saying?’

  Moran looked up, caught Samantha’s eye. He gave her what he could – a tight, ‘trust me’ kind of smile.

  ‘Yes, I’m listening. And I remember. I did everything I could. My conscience is clear.’

  ‘Oh, but is it, Brendan, is it?’ Doherty sat down, crossed one leg over the other. ‘Let’s talk about that now, shall we? Let’s go back together and see how clear your conscience really is, eh?’

  Samantha was looking at Moran, but quizzically now, as if something certain had unexpectedly become a matter of doubt.

  ‘Fine. If that’s what you want.’

  ‘Back to what?’ Samantha asked. The question was directed at both men, but it was Moran who answered.

  ‘Where else? Back to the checkpoint.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘Captain James Armitage.’

  The handshake was firm. In spite of the turmoil going on outside the checkpoint office Portakabin, Armitage was calm, in control.

  ‘You’re the policeman? Moran? Ah, thanks.’ Armitage took and examined Moran’s ID.

  ‘Who was in the car?’ Moran was sitting on a hard chair by Armitage’s makeshift desk. He felt stunned, a slight sense of unreality. Joe had been whisked off to Casualty. The Cortina was bullet-scarred, the windscreen gone. Front tyres shredded.

  Armitage glanced up. ‘Confidential, for the time being.’

  ‘Your man told me they were police.’

  ‘Maybe.’ The officer returned the ID card and Moran took it.

  ‘It’ll be in the news tonight, in any case,’ Moran said. ‘The more so if it’s police.’

  ‘True.’ Armitage said. ‘They’ll be more interested in that than a dead soldier.’

  ‘I didn’t mean–’

  ‘I’m sure you didn’t.’ Armitage fired back.

  Moran spread his hands. ‘Look, I’m really sorry for your loss. I don’t know what to say. I can’t believe what just happened.’

  ‘An ambush? Not that unusual in this area – as you should know. Odd choice, though, so close to a checkpoint. That’s the bit that’s unusual. You don’t see much of this kind of thing, I suppose, being from the south?’

  Moran tried to work out if there was a subtle accusation in the question, but he was too confused, too shocked perhaps, to think it through. Joe was alive. Hurt, but being attended to. He himself was miraculously uninjured. It was time to go home, put some distance between himself and what had just taken place. The Troubles… somehow the term seemed inadequate.

  ‘Am I free to leave?’

  ‘Presently,’ Armitage said. ‘We’ll need to hang onto your car, the contents and so on. But I’ll get onto the local Gardaí – they’ll sort you out.’

  Moran nodded.

  There was a knock on the Portakabin door.

  ‘Come.’

  Private Doherty strode in, saluted. ‘Car contents impounded, sir.’ He glared in Moran’s direction.

  ‘Thank you, Doherty.’

  ‘Will there be anything else, sir?’

  ‘Look here, Doherty,’ Armitage said kindly. ‘You’re signed off, OK? Get Campbell to take you back to barracks.’

  ‘Barracks, sir? Rather keep busy, if that’s all right with you.’

  Armitage sighed. ‘Very well. If you can arrange for Garda Moran to get a lift to the local station, I’d be obliged.’

  ‘Sir.’ Another glare and Doherty was gone.

  ‘He’s lost a close colleague. And he wants to stay on duty.’ Armitage shook his head.

  ‘They were an item?’

  ‘They were,’ Armitage replied. ‘A less than ideal situation in many ways, but Private Harwood was a good soldier. She served abroad, always gave a hundred percent. It’s a damn shame. This country…’ He trailed off and for a moment looked as though his composure might falter.

  The phone rang. Armitage seized it. ‘Armitage. Ah, hello sir. Yes. That’s correct.’

  Moran waited, numb, as Armitage’s call continued, let his eyes roam around the temporary checkpoint office. A battered veneer desk, a noticeboard pinned with shift rotas, a small plastic table with a kettle and a couple of cracked mugs. The bulletproof window was semi-covered by a black blind. A tall cupboard, locked. Spare arms, probably.

  His hands began to tremble, and he sat on them before Armitage noticed. He remembered the bullets whistling past his head, the sound the guns made as the occupants of the car were shot in cold blood, like fish in a barrel. Private Harwood’s blood on his jacket, his fingers.

  And then Keelan’s bar came starkly to mind, the man with the unruly black hair.

  Blood everywhere.

  Blood on his hands.

  ‘So, time to fess up, Brendan. Or are you still aiming to point the finger?’

  Moran took a mental deep breath. Archie’s barking had subsided to the occasional whine. Samantha was looking at him expectantly. Doherty was comfortable too, by the look of him, the revolver cradled in the crook of his arm. He had the air of a man who had spent a long time planning something important, and was now enjoying the first fruits of its fulfilment. He seemed to be in no hurry, to all intents and purposes in command of the situation. Which was a good thing, because it gave Moran time to think and come up with a plan of his own. One thing, however, was now clear.

  ‘You’ve been following me.’

  Doherty gave a humourless laugh. ‘That’s a great piece of detective work.’

  ‘And that business at the car park. What was all that about? You had no intention of jumping. It was all an act, wasn’t it? I’m curious. Why?’

  Doherty leaned forward. ‘I wanted to see you up close, Brendan. To suss out what kind of a man you’ve become. To see what forty years has done to you.’

  ‘You don’t know me from Adam,’ Moran said. ‘So I’m not sure how you’d measure that.’

  ‘A man’s character can be understood by what he does,’ Doherty replied. ‘By his actions.’

  ‘I rest my case.’ Moran shrugged. ‘You’ve no idea what I’ve been doing, who I’ve been doing it with, or why.’

  ‘Leopards don’t change their spots, though, do they? Let’s ask the young lady her opinion, shall we? Tell me, Samantha, have you read Kipling?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Forget it.’ Doherty waved his hand dismissively. ‘At the end of the day, it’s all about facing up to your responsibilities.’

  Samantha shot Moran a look. For the second time he detected uncertainty, a lack of assurance that Moran was the man she’d thought he was. That wouldn’t do. It was time to explore Doherty’s intentions, dig up what was really going on in his head.

  ‘So what are you after exactly, Doherty? Forty years on, and now you come to me for some kind of confession? What took you so long?’

  Doherty’s lips compressed into a hard line. ‘Use your imagination, Brendan.’

  Moran nodded. ‘All right.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘So,’ he began, ‘you stayed with the army for a while, maybe a few years, then left. Or maybe were asked to leave? Found yourself at a loose end, fell in with the wrong crowd. Made some bad decisions. Got yourself in trouble. Got caught. How am I doing?’

  ‘Not bad. Go on.’

  ‘Spent some time inside. Came out, couldn’t settle. History repeated itself. Got into more trouble – bigger trouble. They put you away again – for much longer this time. And I know what happens inside. The endless routine, the boredom. You start brooding. You start thinking about how it’s all gone wrong, and who’s to blame. You start getting things out of perspective, making inappropriate wish-lists, telling yourself you’ll fix everything when you get out.’

  Doherty began to chuckle softly. ‘Nice, Bren
dan, very nice. I love how you did that.’ He brought the revolver up to his chin, tickled his nose with the barrel. His finger was on the trigger. A small, nervous tic was agitating the skin at the tip of his right eyebrow.

  Moran recalled PC Furness’ assessment.

  Borderline schizo…

  Moran looked into the blue eyes. They were cloudier than he remembered that first time, the day of their first encounter. However, the impression of instability remained. There was something misaligned behind those eyes, something unnatural.

  Doherty lowered the revolver and angled the barrel towards him. Moran could feel Samantha’s anxiety as something almost palpable, a heaviness in the room’s atmosphere. From the kitchen, Archie let out another whimper, a half-hearted bark which seemed to say, ‘I know something’s going on, but what can I do?’

  The gun rotated gently to point in Samantha’s direction. In Doherty’s eyes, Moran now read an unspoken question.

  Shall I squeeze the trigger, Brendan, just to show you I’m serious?

  The revolver tracked back towards Moran.

  Moran didn’t blink. It wasn’t the first time Doherty had pointed a firearm in his direction.

  ‘I’m on your side.’ Garda Moran held up his hands. ‘Be obliged if you’d point that somewhere else.’

  They were outside the Portakabin. It was raining hard, water bouncing off the road surface like machine-gun fire.

  The Armalite stayed where it was, pointing directly at Moran’s torso.

  The soldier, Doherty, spoke from somewhere behind the stock. ‘I’ve just remembered something.’

  ‘Namely?’

  ‘I got an eyeball on one of those bastards as they drove off. You were talking to one of them at that bar down the road.’

  ‘You got that wrong. My friend gave a guy some cigarettes, that’s all.’

  Silence. Then: ‘You’re a liar.’

  ‘Problem, Doherty?’

  Armitage was striding towards them, and he didn’t look happy. ‘Lower your weapon, Private Doherty. We’re not in the business of threatening Gardaí officers. This isn’t the wild west.’