A small child had peered down at him, at the blood which he could feel running from his own wounds, which he could see puddling around him. Most ridiculous of all, there had been an empty cigarette packet lying in the gutter beside him, and all Doyle could seem to focus on were the words: SMOKING CAN SERIOUSLY DAMAGE YOUR HEALTH. But not as much as gelignite, he said to himself, and that had been his last thought before passing out.
He’d woken three days later in hospital (in an army hospital, he’d later teamed) and he’d suffered as much pain then as he’d ever thought imaginable.
One lung had been punctured by a piece of sharp metal; fragments of it, still lodged in his back, were waiting to be removed. His left kidney had been badly damaged, perhaps irreparably, the doctors had thought at the time. Another piece of burning steel had hamstrung him. Another-had tom away most of the flesh on his left quadricep and also shattered his femur in two places.
Eight ribs had been broken, two smashed beyond saving. A portion of one had been taken from inside the punctured lung. He remembered someone telling him he’d lost over thirty pints of blood. The right scapula, the left clavicle, the ulna and radius of his left arm had all been broken.
Apart from a hairline fracture of his right sphenoid bone and the gash on the left hand side of his face, his head was unmarked.
A doctor told him he’d been lucky.
With most of the bones in his body broken and more pain than he’d thought it possible to endure, Doyle had been somewhat at odds with that particular diagnosis. Let someone blow the fuck out of you, then see if you feel lucky, he’d thought, gazing up at the doctor through eyes clouded with pain and morphine.
Still, he’d been told, he was out of action, out of danger now. All he had to do was get well. It was a miracle he’d survived. Somebody up there liked him. They’d rolled out the clichés for him.
Somebody liked him, did they? Well, if it was God, he had one hell of a sense of humour.
Doyle took one last look at his ravaged body in the bathroom mirror and stepped into the shower, enjoying the feel of the water on his skin.
From the sitting room the music thundered on, but beneath the stinging jets of water Doyle couldn’t hear it.
He didn’t hear it when the phone rang either.
Thirteen
When he finally stepped from the shower he stood, head lowered, on the towel he’d spread on the bathroom floor. It was like some kind of meditative act. Eyes closed he stood there, water running in rivulets from him, some of it coursing down the deep scars like a stream through rock. He sucked in several deep breaths and finally reached for the bath towel nearby and began drying himself. From inside the sitting room he could still hear music. Wrapping the towel around himself he headed for the source of the sound, picking up the glass of milk as he did. Water was dripping from his long hair and Doyle wiped it away as it trickled down his back.
He crossed to the stereo and eased the volume down slightly. Then he reached for the phone and jabbed out some digits.
It was picked up almost immediately. Doyle smiled as he recognized the voice.
‘Yeah, who is it?’
‘Ron, it’s Sean.’
‘Doyle, what the fuck do you want?’ Ronald Wyatt wanted to know. ‘I hear on the grapevine you’ve been a naughty boy.’ He chuckled. ‘Old Austin was spitting blood about that mick you blew away.’
‘Fuck him,’ snapped Doyle. ‘It’s the others I’m interested in. I want to know where they took them; Austin wouldn’t tell me.’
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘Why the hell do you think I want to know? I want to talk to them.’ Doyle wiped some droplets of water from his face.
‘About what?’
‘Come on, Ron, what is this? Twenty fucking questions? Just tell me where they took them,’ Doyle demanded.
‘Shepherd’s Bush Road police station.’
Doyle smiled.
‘Thanks,’ he said.
‘By the way, if anyone asks how you found out, remember ...’
‘I know, a little bird told me,’ Doyle chuckled.
‘A little blonde bird with big tits.’ Wyatt erupted into a spasm of laughter. Doyle held the phone away from his ear for a moment.
‘Cheers again, Ron,’ he said and was about to replace the receiver when Wyatt spoke again. There was a sudden unexpected sobriety in his tone.
‘Sean, what the fuck is going on?’ he asked. ‘I mean with the IRA. You know that they were as keen on a peace plan as anyone. Now, first we’ve got that bloody massacre at Stormont and then piles of Semtex here in London. It doesn’t make any sense.’
‘Since when did any of this shit in Ireland make sense, Ron?’
‘Right,’ Wyatt murmured wistfully.
‘I’ll talk to you soon,’ said Doyle. This time he did put down the receiver.
Shepherd’s Bush, eh? It made sense. It was the closest police station to the scene. Doyle should have realized.
He turned and headed back towards the bedroom where he quickly dried himself. He took clean jeans and a clean T-shirt from his wardrobe, pulled them on and dragged on a pair of cowboy boots. He glanced briefly at his reflection in the mirror and wandered back into the sitting room. There he took the .44 from its holster and flipped open the cylinder, emptying the weapon. He gathered up the rounds and crossed to a cabinet next to the stereo which was still roaring out music.
‘... Let me keep on sleeping, forget that I’m alone ...’
Doyle opened a drawer and pulled out a box which he carried back to the sofa. Then, squatting on the arm of the settee, he slid the box open to reveal the shells inside.
‘... One day of faceless living is twenty four hours too long...’
The copper casings reflected the light, glinting as Doyle removed six of them. He glanced at the bullets admiringly for a moment and slowly pushed one into each chamber of the .44.
These were his pride and joy.
Number twelve shot suspended in liquid Teflon in a copper casing.
Beautiful.
Twice the explosive power of any dum-dum bullet. These didn’t need to strike bone first; they exploded immediately they entered their target. One was always enough.
He pushed the final shell into the cylinder and snapped it shut, jamming the weapon into the waistband of his jeans. He pulled on his leather jacket, turned off the stereo and headed for the door, car keys already in his hand.
He was half-way down the stairs when his phone rang but he hesitated only a second, knowing that the answering machine would pick up the call.
After two rings, however, there was silence.
For the second time that night the caller had chosen not to leave a message.
What had to be said should be said to Doyle himself. For now it could wait.
Fourteen
BRITTANY, FRANCE:
It was hideous.
Channing had no idea what it was but the creature was repulsive. Despite its vile appearance he looked at it more closely, marvelling not so much at the grotesqueness of the creation but at the skill which had gone into its construction.
He had guessed that the stained glass window must be at least five hundred years old but the workmanship was remarkable. Now, as he dipped the piece of rag in surgical spirit and began working carefully on one portion of the glass, he began to see the colours more clearly.
Lit only by the glow of the hurricane lamp, the image appeared from beneath the grime with infinite slowness as Channing worked intensely to remove the dirt that obscured it. Outside the sun was sinking low behind the hills, bleeding its colour across the sky. Channing could see none of this. All he was aware of was the window before him.
And of the face which was becoming clearer by the second.
This was not right, Channing thought. He had seen enough stained glass in his time to realize that the artefact before him was not the product of a God-fearing mind. No man of God would create an image so repulsive.
Ninety per cent of it was still covered by dust and dirt, much of it so thick that not even the surgical spirit would remove it.
Catherine would know how to reveal the other panels, he thought. She would know. Once the entire window could be viewed he might be able to find some answers.
Encased in stone, as it had been when he’d first found it, the window had looked as if it had been hidden. As if whoever had constructed it had secreted it away within the church at Machecoul. As if only certain eyes were meant to gaze on it.
From what he uncovered so far he couldn’t think of many who would want to.
The face was becoming clearer.
The dirt of ages, the filth of neglect was thick on the rag he was using. Channing tore off another piece, discarded the first and continued with the cleaning process.
More of the face now became visible and he moved back slightly, trying to see exactly what he had discovered.
The hurricane lamp flickered and Channing looked at it warily for a moment until the full glow was restored.
The face within the panel glared back at him.
It was shaped like that of a man but the head seemed to broaden, to swell at the temples, and across the forehead there were several protuberances. Horns, perhaps?
The hurricane lamp flickered again.
Charing moved closer to the window, staring at the face more intently.
A large mouth yawned open, long teeth prominent in both upper and lower jaws. From inside that mouth a thick barbed tongue flickered, but there was nothing else reptilian about the appearance of the monstrosity. The most striking thing about it were its eyes.
As Channing held the hurricane lamp close to the window the glass eyes seemed to glow. Both had been formed from single chips of red glass and now, with the light on them, they seemed to burn as if lit from within, shining with a lustre that must have been quite awe-inspiring when they were first created.
Channing shuddered, aware that the hairs on the back of his neck were rising.
Even his rudimentary knowledge of stained glass told him that the windows were originally constructed as learning aids as much as offerings to God. Peasants, unable to read, would be taught by monks or priests using the panels of the windows as a kind of storyboard. But the depictions were usually Biblical or philosophical. Charing shook his head slowly as he gazed at the creature depicted in the part of the panel he had uncovered.
What kind of story would feature a beast like this?
And what kind of man had invented such a monstrosity?
Again the hurricane lamp flickered.
Channing reached out and gently touched the glass, running the tip of one index finger around the perimeter of a red eye.
The glass felt ice-cold.
He felt the goose-pimples rise on his flesh immediately.
He traced the outline of the face with his finger, finally touching the gaping mouth, running his hand over the grimy glass.
The mouth opened.
As if the glass itself had suddenly become animated, the mouth seemed to collapse in on itself.
In that second Channing felt his hand slipping through.
Through the glass.
Between those painted lips and teeth.
He jumped back in panic, his heart hammering uncontrollably in his chest, but as he moved his hand remained inside the mouth. His eyes bulged in their sockets as he tried to pull himself free.
Then he felt mounting pressure on his wrist.
As if something was biting him.
The pieces of glass that formed the lips of the mouth seemed to be closing around his arm, chafing skin.
They snapped together with a loud crack.
And finally Channing was free of the grip.
Free because his hand had been severed.
He fell back onto the floor of the church screaming, the torn arm held before him like a bizarre trophy, blood spouting madly from the stump of the wrist.
The thick crimson fluid was pouring down the front of the window too, smeared copiously around the mouth of the creature depicted there.
The mouth was now closed.
Channing gaped at his shattered wrist and at the pieces of pulverized bone and the tendril-like lengths of vein and artery still spurting scarlet.
And he screamed again.
He was still screaming when he woke up.
Dragged from the dream by his own bellowing, he sat up, his body sheathed in sweat, his hands shaking madly.
He held them both out as if to check that he still possessed two. The residue of the nightmare was still strong in his mind.
He tried to control his breathing, realizing now that it had been a dream. Gradually he felt his heart slowing, the rushing of blood in his ears diminishing. He was aware that he was in his bedroom at the inn and not inside the church of Machecoul. Channing heard movement outside his room, a gentle tapping on the door followed by some urgent enquires about his well-being from the lady who owned the place. His screams must have awoken her, he reasoned. He called back that he was fine. It was just a nightmare.
Just a nightmare. Jesus Christ!
Channing finally slumped back onto pillows which were drenched with sweat. He ran both hands over his face, closing his eyes momentarily, relieved when he saw no more of the vision he’d witnessed in his dream.
He sucked in a deep breath, held it for a moment and let it out slowly, aware that his heart had ceased its frantic pounding. He began to relax.
Sleep came to him again, but slowly. He accepted its embrace almost unwillingly, wondering what else he might find inside his mind once the peaceful oblivion settled upon him.
He was just drifting off when the phone brought him hurtling back to consciousness.
The ringing continued for a moment or two as Channing tried to re-orientate himself. Then he reached for the receiver.
The hands on his watch showed 2.14 a.m.
Fifteen
LONDON:
The desk sergeant at Shepherd’s Bush Road police station didn’t look up as he heard the footsteps approaching his counter. He continued sipping at his tea and filling in names on a form he had laid out in front of him.
Only when the newcomer coughed theatrically did Sergeant Raymond Nyles deign to glance up.
His first impression was one of surprise. The man facing him was in his early thirties, he guessed, dressed in a leather jacket, T-shirt and jeans. As he took a step back, Nyles peered over the counter and saw that he wore cowboy boots, too.
What a bloody sight, the Duty Sergeant thought.
‘Can I help you?’ he said wearily.
‘Some men were brought in earlier tonight,’ Doyle told him, as if imparting some information Nyles wasn’t aware of ‘Four of them. Irish.’
Nyles was non-committal. He merely frowned slightly, pulled at the end of his nose and continued looking appraisingly at Doyle.
‘If they were, what do you want to know for?’ he asked.
Doyle dug inside his jacket and pulled out some I. D.
‘Don’t play games with me,’ he said, tossing the slim leather wallet in front of Nyles. ‘I need to see them.’
Nyles inspected the I.D., checking the photo inside against the face of the man who stood before him as if he doubted the validity of the picture.
‘C.T.U.,’ he muttered, his frown deepening. ‘The Flying Squad are already here, they were the ones who brought them in. No one told me the Counter-Terrorist Unit were involved too.’
‘Perhaps they forgot,’ said Doyle, gathering up the leather wallet. ‘Now can you just tell me where the men are being held?’ Irritation was creeping more noticeably into his tone. Nyles regarded him a moment longer, then reached for the phone on his desk and flicked a switch. Doyle leant against the counter and lit up a cigarette, ignoring the NO SMOKING sign emblazoned on the far wall.
Nyles spoke into the phone and, a moment later, a uniformed constable
appeared. He looked at the sergeant and then at Doyle.
‘Take this ... gentleman through to the cells,’ said Nyles, glancing once more at the counter terrorist before returning to his form. ‘Stay with him.’
‘There’s no need for that,’ Doyle said, nodding for the constable to lead on.
They walked along a wide corridor with rooms on each side, finally pausing at a heavy iron door set in the far end. The constable unlocked it and led Doyle through.
‘Are you Flying Squad?’ asked the uniformed man.
Doyle grunted indignantly.
‘No. Why?’
‘It’s just that there are two or three of them here already. I thought you ...!’
‘No. Not me,’ Doyle interrupted.
The constable paused at a door, knocked and opened it when he heard the order from inside to enter. He held the door for Doyle.
The room smelt of cigarettes and strong coffee. There were two men inside, one of whom he recognized immediately.
‘What are you doing here?’ asked Chief Inspector Austin. ‘I told you to keep out of this.’
The other man in the room glanced at Doyle, then returned his attention to the two-way mirror which looked into a small room beyond. It was about half the size of the one in which the men stood, about six feet by six, containing only a table and two chairs.
Seated in the room was a man in his early forties, greying at the temples. Red in the face, he was constantly looking round the room as if expecting a hole to open up in the wall and allow him to escape. He chewed on his thumbnail constantly.
‘Who is he?’ said Doyle, pouring himself a cup of coffee.
‘His name is Sheehan,’ said Austin. ‘Thomas Sheehan. Known member of the IRA. Served three years in Long Kesh in the late seventies for possession of explosives.’
‘What about the others that were brought in?’
‘Same. All known IRA.’
‘Has anyone spoken to any of them yet?’ Doyle asked, sipping his coffee, never taking his eyes from the man in the room beyond.
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