Renegades

by Hutson, Shaun;

  McCormick returned from the kitchen.

  The carving knife he carried was over ten inches long, broad-bladed and wickedly sharp.

  Maria took a step backwards towards the picture of Mary Magdalene.

  ‘You said you weren’t going to hurt me,’ she blubbered, tears filling her eyes.

  ‘We’re not,’ Peters reassured her, stepping closer.

  He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her close to him, one hand going across her mouth to stifle the scream she tried to release. He gripped her hard, one arm bent up her back.

  McCormick advanced towards her, the knife levelled.

  It was as he was reaching for her that they heard the key turn in the front door.

  Fifty-Eight

  Frank Dolan shrugged off his jacket and closed the front door behind him without looking up.

  ‘Mr Dolan.’

  The voice made him jump and he looked up, frozen by the tableau before him.

  Two men held his daughter, one of them with a knife close to her face, the other holding a gun. A gun that was pointing at him.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Frank Dolan said, his voice a mixture of fear and outrage. How dare these men come into his house? And what were they doing to his daughter? Anger began to filter into his emotions but it was beaten down rapidly by the fear. The barrel of the .22 was unwaveringly pointed at his chest.

  ‘Sit down,’ Peters told him, moving away from Maria, leaving McCormick to hold her.

  Dolan did as he was told.

  He was in his late forties, his face thin and pale, the skin looking as though it had been pulled taut over his high cheek-bones. His nose had been broken in a fight many years before. Beneath thick eyebrows his eyes were wide and alert, darting to and fro around the sitting room.

  ‘You’re supposed to be at work, aren’t you?’ said Peters conversationally.

  ‘The Union called an unofficial strike,’ Dolan said. ‘Sent us all home.’ He swallowed hard. ‘You know why I’m here; would you mind telling me why you are?’

  Peters smiled thinly.

  ‘Your son, Billy. Where is her.

  ‘How the hell should I know? I haven’t spoken to him for a couple of months now.’ He glanced across at Maria who stood silently, the blade held to her throat. Her cheeks were stained with tears.

  ‘Please let my daughter go,’ he said, looking at Peters.

  ‘We’ve already said we’re not going to hurt her. We’re not,’ the IRA man reassured him. ‘I just want to know about Billy.’ He knelt down in front of Dolan and looked into his face. ‘You know who we are?’

  The older man shook his head.

  ‘You know why we want Billy?’

  Again a shake of the head.

  ‘You know what he’s done?’

  ‘I can’t be doing with your bloody guessing games, for God’s sake. Just tell me who you are and what you want.’ Dolan’s voice was strained, the fear seeping into it.

  ‘You follow the news, don’t you?’ Peters said. ‘You heard about the shootings at Stormont, the murder of Reverend Pithers, the bombing at Windsor Park?’ He looked into Dolan’s eyes. ‘Your Billy was involved in them all. Him and his friends. They used to be our friends.’

  The realization hit Dolan like a hammer.

  ‘IRA,’ he said, flatly.

  ‘Have you seen him lately?’ Peters demanded, the warmth disappearing rapidly from his voice.

  ‘No, I swear it. Not for a couple of months, like I said,’ Dolan said.

  Peters turned briefly and nodded towards McCormick.

  The other IRA men took hold of a hunk of Maria’s hair and, in one swift movement, sliced through it, dropping the dyed mass onto the floor.

  ‘Oh, Christ,’ Dolan murmured.

  Maria couldn’t scream; it was as if her vocal chords were frozen. Even as McCormick carved more of her hair away she stood motionless, tears streaming down her face.

  ‘Where’s Billy?’ Peters asked again, his voice low and even.

  ‘Let her go,’ Dolan protested. ‘Please.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘I don’t know, I’ve told you.’

  McCormick carved away more of Maria’s hair. There was a small pile of it at his feet now.

  ‘Do you know what he’s done, that fucking son of yours?’ said Peters. ‘The damage he’s done? Not just in human lives but in the work he’s destroyed. Work that’s been going on for years.’

  ‘I don’t know where he is,’ Dolan wailed.

  McCormick tugged hard on Maria’s hair and carved away a huge hunk of it, exposing one ear, nicking it accidentally in the process.

  She let out a small whimper of pain but other than that the only sound she made was a low sobbing.

  ‘What about his friends?’ Peters asked, still squatting in front of Dolan, still glaring into his eyes. ‘Did you ever meet any of them?’

  ‘No,’ the older man said, tears forming in his own eyes now. ‘Leave my daughter alone, please. I’m telling you the truth. Please.’

  ‘Do the names James Maguire, Michael Black, Damien Flynn or Paul Maconnell mean anything to you?’ Peters asked, calmly.

  McCormick cut away more of Maria’s hair.

  ‘No,’ shouted Dolan. ‘I don’t fucking know them. Any of them.’

  Peters drew the Pathfinder but kept it low at his side.

  ‘You’ve almost convinced me,’ he said, thumbing back the hammer.

  Dolan was so intent on seeing that no harm came to his daughter he hardly noticed the gun.

  ‘Do you do much walking in your job, Frankie?’ Peters asked.

  Dolan looked puzzled.

  Peters smiled.

  ‘Because if you do you’d better learn how to use crutches,’ he said.

  The last word had barely left his lips when he raised the .22, pressed it against Frank Dolan’s left knee and fired once.

  The retort of the weapon was almost as loud as the sickening crack as Dolan’s patella was shattered by the bullet. The knee splintered as the bullet tore through his leg, ripping its way from the back, severing the cruciate ligaments. Blood began to soak through Dolan’s trousers as he shouted in pain and clutched at the pulverized joint, crimson running through his fingers.

  As she saw her father crippled by the bullet, Maria at last found the breath to scream.

  McCormick didn’t try to stop her as she ran to him, her stomach somersaulting as she saw the blood running down his leg and staining the carpet.

  Peters stepped back, pushing the pistol into his belt, and motioned for his companion to join him. They headed for the front door.

  ‘When you see Billy, tell him we want to talk to him,’ Peters said, as if their departure required some form of etiquette.

  Dolan was groaning in agony. Maria was sobbing as she gaped at the wound.

  ‘I’d call an ambulance,’ Peters advised, opening the door.

  Then they were gone.

  They walked back unhurriedly to the car and climbed in.

  If any of the neighbours had heard the shot or the screams, they weren’t exactly rushing to the Dolans’ assistance. A couple of front doors were open, their occupants peering out into the street.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ said Peters. His companion started the car and drove off.

  ‘Do you think he was telling the truth?’ McCormick asked. ‘About Billy? That he hadn’t really seen him?’

  Peters nodded.

  ‘I wonder where the bastard is.’

  ‘Ireland’s not a very big country, Luke. He can’t run forever. We’ll find him. And Maguire and the others. Count on it.’

  Fifty-Nine

  BRITTANY, FRANCE:

  There was no sound from inside his room.

  Catherine Roberts stood on the landing and listened for movement within but there was none.

  She knocked once and waited.

  Perhaps he was still sleeping. Neither of them had enjoyed a good night’s rest since arriving; they
had both been forced to content themselves with naps here and there. Deep sleep brought the nightmares.

  There was still no sound from inside.

  ‘Mark,’ she called, knocking again.

  This time when he didn’t answer she pushed the door and walked in.

  The bed was made, the room tidy. None of Channing’s personal belongings were on the dressing table. She crossed to the wardrobe and opened it.

  His case was gone.

  Cath frowned and moved over to the window, peering out at where the Renault should be parked below. She was not surprised to find it gone. She hurried out of the room and down the stairs to the reception area, pausing at the desk and banging the little bell.

  The plump woman who owned the inn emerged from a room at the rear wiping her hands on her apron. She smiled broadly of Cath.

  ‘Have you seen Mr Channing?’ Cath asked.

  She was told he had checked out that morning about an hour ago.

  ‘Where did he go?’

  The woman had no idea.

  Cath hesitated a moment. Then, thanking the woman, she dashed back up the stairs. The plump woman watched her, shrugged, and disappeared into the back room.

  Upstairs Cath snatched up the keys to the Peugeot and hurried back down the steps and out into the square. Opening the door she slid behind the wheel and started the engine.

  Where the hell was Channing?

  Why had he left without telling her?

  As she drove through the village she wasn’t even sure where she was going but she felt she must try the obvious place first.

  She swung the Peugeot onto the road to Machecoul.

  As she did, Channing’s words echoed in her mind;

  ‘I won’t let you take the window. I’d rather see it destroyed.’

  He sat cross-legged, staring at the window as if mesmerized.

  Mark Channing had been in that position for the last thirty minutes.

  Staring. Dazzled, awestruck by the designs, the colours and the sheer artistry. It seemed to hold an even more potent spell over him than when he’d first seen it.

  The eyes of the creatures depicted in the window, and the eyes of those who surrounded them, millions of eyes it seemed, all met his gaze, held it and fixed him in their own unblinking stare. He looked at the words, spoke some of them aloud:

  ‘Sacrificium. Cultus. Opes. Immortalis.’

  Even though he whispered, the words still seemed to echo around him.

  Finally he rose, aware of the stiffness in his joints; of the chill in the air. His breath frosted as he exhaled.

  A ray of sunlight struck the window, reflecting its colours even more vividly. The red eyes of the largest creature looked like puddles of boiling blood.

  Channing gripped the piece of wood in his hands. It was heavy, about four feet long and five inches thick. Solid. He gritted his teeth as he raised it above his head and advanced towards the window.

  It was growing colder.

  He stared into the eyes of the glass monstrosity, steadied himself and brought the lump of wood down with incredible force.

  He may as well have struck stone.

  The thick wood slid off, the impetus of his swing causing Channing to overbalance. He went sprawling in the dust on the floor. Even as he rose he looked at the window, his eyes wide with disbelief. He dragged himself upright, raised the wood again and struck with even greater force, yelling loudly, as if the exhortation would give him the added strength needed to shatter the glass.

  The wood connected but seemed to bounce off.

  Channing shook his head and struck again.

  And again.

  Despite the cold inside the church he felt perspiration beading on his forehead from his exertions. He beat at the window relentlessly, unceasingly, until his strength seemed to drain away.

  The window remained intact.

  The eyes of the largest creature still stared at him.’

  Were they mocking him?

  He dropped the wood, picked up a piece of stone and hurled it at the glass.

  It too bounced off.

  Channing was panting now, his chest heaving.

  He stepped towards the window and leaned close to the glass.

  It was unmarked.

  No scratches. No marks. Nothing.

  He picked up the stone and prepared to strike again. But before he could do so, he heard a thin keening wail, building slowly in volume, deepening too, growing louder, to unbelievable proportions.

  He tried to move back from the window, tried to look away.

  He opened his mouth to scream but no sound would come.

  His eyes bulged madly in their sockets; the blood roared in his ears, ears that were already bleeding from the deafening cacophony of sound that filled them.

  And it was the source of that sound which made him shake his head in disbelief.

  On the window, every creature, every severed head, every child had its mouth open. And it was from the window that the wall of sound was coming.

  Channing stood motionless, the rock still held in his hand, waiting for the dream to end, waiting to be catapulted back from the nightmare.

  The roaring continued, the mouths open, screaming, shouting.

  He raised the stone once more then brought it down with incredible ferocity against the window.

  The screams rose in pitch, joined by one other.

  It was Channing’s turn to scream.

  Sixty

  She saw the Renault parked outside the church.

  As Cath guided the Peugeot along the narrow road which led to Machecoul she spotted Channing’s vehicle parked on the gravel surrounding the old building. The bright sunlight reflected off the roof and windows. The car looked as though it was on fire.

  As she drew closer she managed a smile; her hunch had been right. Perhaps Channing just wanted one last look at the window before he left.

  Perhaps.

  She brought the Peugeot to a halt and climbed out, walking briskly across to the other car. She peered through the driver’s side window. His camera was lying on the passenger seat. Cath wondered how long he’d been here. She turned and headed for the door of the church, pushing it hard to gain entry.

  The silence was almost palpable.

  ‘Mark,’ she called, her voice echoing off the walls.

  She walked briskly through the nave towards the door that would take her through into the chancel.

  To the window.

  He had to be there.

  She was about to open the chancel door when she noticed the smell.

  Cath hesitated a second, repelled by the stench. It was a cloying, thick, pungent odour which clogged in her nostrils as surely as the dust which her footsteps had disturbed. She rested her hand on the ornate knob, feeling how cold it was.

  ‘Mark.’ This time she spoke his name, low, under her breath.

  She opened the door.

  The stench rushed to meet her, enveloping her, but she didn’t notice it; the sight before her filled her senses.

  She stood rigid in the doorway, staring into the chancel.

  The window was there.

  Untouched.

  Channing was there, too.

  She stood for interminable seconds, waiting for the nightmare to end, waiting to drag herself upright and free of this dream. But as she felt the cold surrounding her and became aware of the stench once more, she knew there was to be no release from this particular nightmare.

  Mark Channing lay in the middle of the chancel, a few feet from the window.

  At least, that’s where his legs and torso were.

  One arm, she noted with disgust, was lying close to the door.

  A leg, severed just below the knee, was over by the belfry door.

  The whole chancel was covered in blood; the walls, the floor. There was even some on the window.

  Cath put one hand to her mouth. Her breath was coming in short gasps. Her throat felt as if someone had filled it with sand. She co
uldn’t swallow. All she could do was stare dumbly at what remained of Channing’s body.

  It took her a couple of seconds to realize why it was lying at such an unearthly angle, then she gritted her teeth and moved closer.

  The body looked as if it had been twisted in half at the waist, the head and upper torso turned completely around, facing backwards. There were dozens of deep lacerations on Channing’s face, neck and chest. Some of the cuts on his neck were so deep that the head had been almost severed. His clothes were bloody rags; portions of his jacket and trousers had been ripped away and lay scattered around like crimson confetti with other pieces of tissue, which she realized were flaps of skin.

  One eye was missing from the socket.

  It hung by the optic nerve, dangling in the blood and dust on the floor. Channing’s other eye was open, wide and staring. As she approached his corpse, Cath tried to look away from it, disliking the blind stare. She did notice, with renewed revulsion, that his upper eyelid was missing.

  She was careful not to slip in so much blood. It stuck to the soles of her shoes, still uncongealed in many places. Had she been able to manage rational thought she might well have realized that he had not been dead that long but rational thoughts eluded her when faced with the destruction of a human body as comprehensive as this. Cath knelt down a couple of feet from him, looking more closely at the pulverized corpse, cursing that infernal eye which hung from the dripping cord of nerve like a bloodied ping-pong ball. The eye seemed to be staring at her.

  She tried to ignore it, aware again of the overpowering stench.

  Cath felt light-headed, the combined effects of her grisly find and the odour which seemed now to be permeating her pores. She stood up and backed away, turning at last to look at the window.

  Blood had spattered across it in several places, over the figure of the child held in the large demon’s hand and also across the mouth of the demon itself.

  Cath exhaled deeply and shook her head.

  What had happened?

  Channing had been killed (that seemed a reasonably safe assumption, considering the state he was in) but by who? And why?