by Chris Simms
Further along, he recognised the boulder his mother and her sisters had been sitting on in the photo on the bedside table. Time, he thought. Our lives, with all their highs and lows, play out over a few short decades. And then we die. But this boulder – this landscape – endures.
The beach ended at a headland. When he reached its far side, the sea was noisier: waves surging against the splintered rock of the shoreline. He looked down at seaweed beds far beneath the surface. The tendrils gently shifted and an image of his mother’s face formed in his mind. He shook his head and surveyed the craggy coast, suddenly wondering where the Concepción been lured to the shore. In view of where he was now?
He found a smooth rock, sat down and stretched his bad leg out before him. What the hell happens now? How do I tell Mum that I know? He considered for a second pretending that he didn’t, then dismissed the thought. She was prepared to build my life on a lie, but I won’t carry it on. And Alan? He’s my dad, he raised me like I was his son. But he’s also part of the deceit. He’s been lying just as much as her.
He gazed across the bay. The clouds on the horizon had cleared to reveal the Twelve Bens, each one now a spotless white. Before him, the sea sucked and slapped at the rocks, unable to leave the land alone.
Bernard Reilly’s eyes were closed as he listened to the recording coming from Siobhain’s phone. He heard Gerrard state that someone was passing information to the English policeman. Then Devlan announced he had Cuchullain safe.
Bernard’s head came up. ‘Sounds like they’re planning to set the dog on – ’
‘Shush!’ Siobhain hissed. ‘Just listen – it gets worse.’
Bernard’s mouth closed and he focused on the little device as Gerrard said, ‘We find this person – get the tapes back – then set the dog on him. Once Cuch’ has finished, we chuck what’s left in the macerator.’
The solicitor’s eyes widened.
‘Like that shyster who tried to cheat you that time?’ Devlan’s voice.
‘Hammell.’ Gerrard again. ‘Just like him.’
Looking stunned, Bernard sat up and was about to speak when Siobhain waved a hand. ‘Listen!’
The background voice, fainter than the first two. ‘Do you really mean to kill him? An English policeman?’
‘That’s Darragh,’ Siobhain whispered, staring fearfully at her uncle.
Devlan again: ‘He’s made us look like cunts for too long, isn’t that right Da?’
‘It is. He has to be dealt with, Darragh.’
There was a pause before Darragh spoke again. ‘If you’re going to do him, let’s try and make it to our advantage.’
Gerrard: ‘What have you in mind, son?’
Now Darragh’s voice was much closer, words perfectly clear. ‘Take him to the farm and have your fun with Cuchullain. But don’t put him in the mincers. When he shows up as missing, they’ll turn our premises upside down. Forensics can get DNA from anything nowadays, you know that.’
Siobhain pressed stop. ‘See, Bernard? They’re going to hunt him down. It’s all my fault!’
The solicitor’s breathing had quickened. ‘We’ve got Gerrard de Avila admitting to Hammell, Siobhain – ’
‘They’re going to kill him! Set that enormous thing on him, torture him…’ She leaned over the arm of her chair. ‘God!’ she gasped. ‘Oh God!’
‘We can alert the Guards,’ Bernard stated, placing a hand on her back. ‘Siobhain – they’re talking about Golden Fields. I call with an anonymous tip, saying Jon is being held there.’
‘What if they find him and take him somewhere else?’ Siobhain moaned. ‘They’ve enough places to choose from.’
Bernard narrowed his eyes at the mobile. ‘Is there anything more on that thing?’
‘I don’t know. I couldn’t bear to listen any longer.’
‘Play it, Siobhain, for God’s sake.’
Reluctantly, she reached over and pressed a button.
Darragh continued to speak. ‘Make it look like a paramilitary hit instead – hammer out his teeth, smash his knees, whatever they do. Sean’ll know. Then we take his body up to bandit country. South Armagh. Somewhere on the border, anyway. Dump him there.’
Devlan: ‘Surely everyone will know it was us?’
‘No they won’t,’ Darragh replied. ‘There were people in town for this fight from all over. Campbell’s crew from Belfast? They were asking me in the club about the English peeler who was meant to be in town. Wanting to know if it was true. Word’s been spreading. Christ, the guy’s been pinning up bloody posters all over the place with his phone number on. The unionists will blame the republicans and the republicans will say nothing because they don’t know their arses from their elbows nowadays. Think about that British soldier. No one has a clue who killed him. We dump Spicer’s body in bandit country and the unionists will point the finger at Sinn Féin and the IRA. Off they go at each other all over again.’
Devlan: ‘Just like when we did Francis Collins.’
‘Just like when we did Francis Collins,’ Gerrard echoed. ‘And while they’re busy killing each other, we get stronger.’
Bernard stood, mouth gaping as his glass thudded to the floor. ‘He just said…’ He sat back down, eyes locked on Siobhain’s mobile.
Gerrard continued. ‘He’s good. The boy is good!’
Movement, then Devlan’s voice: ‘Aye, the brain on him! It’s just too fucking big, is what it is!’
The recording cut and Siobhain stared at her uncle, white-faced.
‘Again,’ he said. ‘I want to hear it again.’
When it had finished for a second time, Bernard retrieved his glass and tried to fill it. Splashes of liquid landed on his desk. He took a mouthful, swallowed, took another and breathed out. ‘Siobhain, do you know what this means?’
She turned her head slowly from side to side.
‘If I get this to someone in Sinn Féin – and I have names and contact numbers – then it’s all over.’
Fingers shaking, Siobhain put another cigarette in her mouth, mumbling as she lit it. ‘What do you mean?’
‘There’ll be no court case, none of that. Francis Collins was on the IRA’s army council. If they find out it was the de Avilas…’ He sat forward. ‘It’s written in the Green Book; their rules. An internal security unit will be sent here. People trained to deal with traitors.’
‘How quick?’
‘They won’t hang around. They never do.’
‘Quick enough to save Jon?’
He shrugged.
Siobhain sucked back smoke, looked at her uncle then at her mobile then back at him. ‘Do it.’
Bernard’s feet shifted on the floor. ‘You know what you’re saying?’
She nodded. ‘It’s what they deserve. They killed Mum and Dad, ruined our lives. If we took it to the Guards or a newspaper, what? Years of wrangling – and no guarantees at the end. And before any of that starts, the de Avilas will kill a good man because of me. How soon can you get it to the Shinners? Someone high up in the party. Someone with clout. How long?’
He thought for a moment. ‘By motorbike courier? Four hours.’
‘That’s not quick enough. They’ve got people out looking for him now.’
‘There’s no other way.’
‘Christ!’ She brushed a strand of hair back. ‘Do it.’
‘You’ll have to leave Clifden. Now, today – never to return.’
‘That’s what I’ve been dreaming about for years.’ She took another drag, stubbed the cigarette out and stood. ‘I have to get back. They’ll be wondering where I am.’
‘I said you should leave now.’
She nodded. ‘I will. I’ll nip back, get my things and be off.’
‘Too risky. Just keep going from here – keep going north.’
‘Bernard, I’ve got money stashed away in Clifden. And my clothes. It’ll be OK.’
He put his glass down and picked up her mobile, cradling it like a thing of wonder. ‘Just
be quick.’
‘I will.’
‘And don’t worry about the policeman. I’ll make the call – say that I saw him being dragged out of a van at the farm.’ He held his arms out and they clung to each other for a few seconds. ‘Sure about this?’ he whispered in her ear.
‘About what?’ she answered, gripping him tight.
‘Sending your phone to the Shinners?’
Her smile was lopsided with nerves. ‘Yes.’
‘Da? I’m here. Denis says the solicitor went in about quarter of an hour ago. A light’s on in his office. They’re up there together. Shall we go in and start breaking knees?’
‘No,’ Gerrard replied. ‘We need this done quietly – no big scene. Let me think. Is it just the two of them in there?’
Devlan turned in the passenger seat to address the other man. ‘Anyone else inside?’
Denis shook his head.
‘Just them, Da…hang on. She’s coming out! She’s getting into the car.’
‘Where’s the solicitor?’
‘Inside still.’
‘What’s she doing?’
‘Turning the car round. Hang on…she’s…she’s just driven past us, heading back to you, I reckon.’
‘Let her come. We’ll deal with her when we’re good and ready. I want you to find out what she’s been telling that solicitor.’
Devlan grinned. ‘Got you.’ He ended the call and turned to Denis, opening the car door as he did so. ‘Wait here.’
‘What are you doing?’
Devlan climbed out, held both arms to the sky and stretched. ‘Enjoying myself, Denis. That’s what I’m doing.’
As he made his way back to the beach, Jon’s view was dominated by Errisbeg Hill. He found himself studying its craggy rough peak. High up there, he thought, would be so peaceful, so detached from the world.
The trail forked – one path curving off towards the graveyard and car park, the other continuing directly inland towards Errisbeg. Jon hesitated. The looming hill and promise of quiet solitude at the top seemed to pull at him. He reflected on how often, when faced with turmoil or upheaval in his life, he sought out the comfort of such places. Malachy used to go up and down it how many times each day? Four? He tested his knee; it felt numb but well supported by the tight bandaging. It can’t take too long, surely.
The path traversed several fields; narrow gaps allowed him to squeeze sideways through the dry-stone walls separating them. Apart from the sodden earth, the gentle lower slopes were relatively easy to negotiate.
After quarter of an hour, he looked up; his guess at an hour’s climb had been optimistic. He found himself trying to judge distances with his good eye, stepping onto hummocks of grass or low-lying patches of heather in an attempt to keep his feet dry. It was no use. The water that found its way into his shoes was icy and black.
As the incline grew steeper, he used his hands to clamber up sections of rock. All around him was the hard clatter of water hitting stone. Little streams tumbling in a wild downward rush as if fleeing a threat from higher up. Mosses and lichens clung in crevices and cracks, some with stalks beaded by a honey-like liquid at their top.
Rock now formed a continuous layer underfoot and he was able to move more swiftly, limping from slab to slab, aware he was rapidly gaining height. The wind grew steadily in strength. From the beach, he thought, it looked as still as anything up here. Straightening his back, he saw he was now about a hundred metres from the summit. With every step, the speed of the wind increased. By the time he was at the stone cairn at the top, his clothes were pressed into his back.
He looked down at the beach: the car park and his Peugeot were completely hidden from view. The relentless wind had started to rob his fingers of their feeling, so he moved round the cairn to try and escape it. Now he was overlooking the vast bog. Sunlight was catching on the mass of lakes, turning their jagged shapes silver against the dark land. A colossal jigsaw, Jon thought, every piece narrowly separated from its neighbours. And somewhere, threading its way through the shimmering labyrinth, was the single-track road to Clifden.
He sank into a sitting position. All my life, they’ve lied to me. Every time I called Alan Dad, they knew it wasn’t true. Did it set off a little pang when they heard me say that word? Occasions, like my birthday or at Christmas, presents to open on the carpet, me looking up. He heard his childhood self speaking. Thanks, Dad. It’s brilliant. You’re the best, Dad. Did they share small glances of guilt?
He ran his fingers across the hard stone. Cold, unforgiving. Who was he? Who was my real father? Did mum know him? Were they a couple, or was it something else? Was she raped? If she was, would Malachy and Orla have forbidden her to have an abortion? Were abortions even legal back then? What had Malachy said in the bedroom? That man who made her pregnant. Made her pregnant. Did his words hint at coercion? Like she had no choice in the process. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. You’re reading too much into his comment, he told himself. He could have meant anything.
Looking to his right, he saw down on to the little village. There was the high street, and the harbour pier. His eyes travelled inland, trying to make out his grandad’s bungalow. A white car with markings was now parked in front of the property. The speeding air was making his eyes water, so Jon cupped one hand to the side of his face. He watched as two antlike officers emerged from the bungalow and walked back to their car. What the fuck were they doing? More spies for the de Avila family? If I stood up now and waved my arms, they may well see me. He kept still as the car turned round and drove back towards the high street. The vehicle disappeared from view, re-emerging on the coast road. Jon peered round the cairn as it passed the turn-off for Gorteen Bay and continued towards Clifden.
What the hell did they want? Alarm sparked in his head. Oh my God, if they know I was there, do the de Avilas, too? I have to get back.
Chapter 45
Devlan eased open the door to the solicitor’s office and looked in. The bloke was on his feet, facing away from him as he fiddled with something on the desk. Next to him was a bottle of whiskey, an inch or so left. Brown gaffer tape rasped as the man pulled at a roll.
The door shut with a click and the solicitor stiffened.
‘Bit whiffy in here,’ Devlan stated. ‘Though we won’t be opening a window.’
The solicitor seemed to shrink slightly before glancing over his shoulder. ‘Can I help you?’
As he turned round, Devlan saw him try to slide a newspaper over whatever it was he’d been busy with. He nodded at the shiny length of tape hanging from the other man’s fingers. ‘You carry on there. Don’t mind me, like.’
Casually, the solicitor scrunched it up. ‘Bundling up old paperwork for the tip. It’s amazing how fast it builds up.’ There was a flush of red in his cheeks as he smiled. ‘Sorry, do you have an appointment?’
‘Do I need one?’
‘Well, it’s a Sunday. I’m not really open for business. Tomorrow, I could see you then.’
‘But you saw that lass just now. I know her as Hazel, you might call her something different.’
The skin round his mouth and eyes slipped. ‘She…she didn’t give a name.’
Devlan shrugged. ‘Now, I dare say we could carry on like this for a fair while. You being a solicitor – even the drunken old cunt of one that you are – would probably run rings round me. I’m not so good at the talk, you know?’ He crossed the room and picked up the bottle of whiskey. ‘Do you mind?’
Bernard Reilly backed round to his chair and sat down. ‘What do you want?’
Keeping his eyes on the other man, Devlan tilted the bottle to his lips and drained it. ‘Aah,’ he licked his lips. ‘Good stuff that, thanks.’ He sat on the corner of the desk, the empty bottle swinging between his knees. ‘What’s she been saying to you?’
Bernard placed a hand over each arm of his chair, the skin of his face now pale and clammy. ‘Go to hell, Devlan.’
‘Devlan?’ He spoke softly. ‘So
you know who I am. Good, we’re dropping the crap. That’s good. What’s she been telling you?’
‘Fuck you.’
‘Fuck me?’ As Devlan began to look down, his arm shot out and the bottle connected with Bernard’s face. Glass flew in all directions and his head jerked to the side. Instants later an intricate pattern of dots and lines sprang up across his forehead, nose and cheeks. The redness swelled for a second then the entire side of his face was slick with blood. He began to topple forward, chin touching his chest.
Moving quickly, Devlan shoved him back, grabbed the roll of tape and passed it round and round the armrests of the chair, fastening the solicitor’s wrists to the wood. He started to groan. Devlan tore another length of tape free and stuck it over the man’s eyes. Retaking his position on the edge of the desk, he picked up the broken bottle neck and waited.
The other man’s head lifted.
‘There he is again,’ Devlan cheerfully announced, watching the solicitor try to lift a hand. Both arms began to strain at the tape. ‘Now, what’s she been telling you?’
He raised his chin and spoke at a point just to Devlan’s side. ‘Fuck you.’
Devlan reached across the desk, using the broken bottle to flip the newspaper off the object the solicitor had tried to conceal. It was a padded brown envelope. Devlan scanned the large black lettering across its front. ‘Rory Durran of Sinn Féin? I’ve seen him on the telly. Know the man, do you?’
The solicitor’s head didn’t move, breath passing rapidly in and out of his nostrils. The front of his shirt was now soaked with blood.
Devlan reached into the envelope. ‘What’s so urgent that you’re sending it to his nice big offices in Stormont by courier?’ His eyebrows lowered. ‘Hazel’s phone. What are you pair of fucks up to?’
The solicitor began thrashing about in his chair, legs kicking wildly. ‘Bastard! You bloody bastard, you bloody – ’
Devlan raised a foot and stamped down into the other man’s groin.
Bernard doubled over in his chair, coughing and choking. One thought stayed clear in his head. I didn’t ring the Guards. Didn’t warn them Spicer is at the de Avila’s farm.