by Shaun Hutson
past them and bought tickets for The Mummy Returns.
He felt like giving the old sods a prod in the back, telling them that they wouldn't enjoy Hannibal and that Captain Corelli's Mandolin was bullshit. Instead, he too slipped past them and shoved a five-pound note through the small slot beneath the glass of the cashier's position. He collected his change and headed off to the theatre showing X-Men 2.
The girl who tore his ticket smiled at him. She was pretty. Early twenties. He glanced at her gold name badge. Sheree.
He hurried to find a seat. The lights were dimming as he sat down. He was free for another two hours.
COME THE NIGHT
Ward hated the night. It gave him time to think. Thoughts crowded in like unwanted spectres.
He sat in front of the television, the images before him barely registering. But after half a bottle of Jack Daniel's, very little of anything was registering.
Alcoholic anaesthetic.
Apparently every drink killed a thousand brain cells. The first to go were memory cells.
Ward poured himself another drink and murdered a few more recollections.
By the time he'd finished the bottle, the clock on top of his TV showed 1.03 a.m. He struggled to his feet and switched off the late-night film, some Jean-Claude Van Damme shite. It could have been anything.
He slammed the living-room door behind him, set the burglar alarm and wandered upstairs.
It was a humid night and Ward wasn't surprised to hear the first rumblings of thunder in the distance. He undressed in the darkness and stood gazing out over his considerable back garden and up at the cloud-filled sky.
Far away there was a silent fork of lightning. It cut through the clouds like a silver spear and was followed, seconds later, by a loud clap of thunder.
He watched the sky, watched the darkness. Felt his head spinning.
He glanced in the direction of his office, clearly visible from his bedroom window. There was a dull grey glow coming from inside.
Ward blinked hard and sighed. Had he forgotten to turn the monitor off again?
There was another flash of lightning, the silver gleam glinting on the velux windows of the office.
Ward sat on the edge of the bed for a moment then lay down.
The storm grew louder.
It was a long time before he slept.
RESUMING HOSTILITIES
Blank screen. Headache.
Christopher Ward massaged the back of his neck with one hand and exhaled deeply.
It wasn't a hangover. He'd had enough of those over the years to know the difference.
The storm that had raged for most of the night had brought with it only a little rain and the grass had been virtually dry when he'd made his way out to the office that morning.
An hour ago to be precise. A painful, thought-free, tormented hour.
Finally he re-read what he'd written the day before.
Then he rested his fingers on the keys and began to type.
BELFAST, NORTHERN IRELAND, PRESENT DAY:
There were two pounds of explosive beneath the bus seat, wrapped carefully in a black plastic bin liner and secured by gaffer tape. No one but the bombers knew it was there.
Certainly none of the eighteen passengers who were crowded on to the vehicle as it moved through Belfast city centre.
Not the driver who brought the bus to a halt in North Street
. He smiled courteously at every new passenger as they dropped their fare into the small metal dish. Some took the change. Others waved away the few pence he offered as if it were some kind of tip.
The driver smiled, waited until the last of the new batch was safely aboard then hit the button that shut the automatic doors.They closed with a loud hydraulic hiss and the bus pulled out into traffic once more.
As the driver swung into Royal Avenue he peered to one side to catch sight of the spire of St Anne's Cathedral jabbing skyward at the banks of cloud that were scudding over the city.
Most of the seats were already taken. In his rear-view mirror, the driver could see a young woman struggling to puil a baby's bottle from a bag. She offered it to her child and the boy (he assumed it was a boy as it was dressed in blue) sucked hungrily at the teat. Two middle-aged women were chatting animatedly, sometimes glancing back at the feeding child and murmuring happily to it while its mother ran a hand through her tousled hair and tried to stop her shopping bags from tumbling over as the bus rounded a corner.
There was another stop further ahead and two passengers rose, preparing to alight there. The driver could see more than a dozen people waiting to take their places.
He swung the bus in close behind a Datsun that was waiting in the bus lane, hazard lights blinking. He hit his hooter twice and the Datsun moved off.
The bus doors opened to expel the two passengers and welcome the newcomers. As they filed on, the driver looked at his watch. Shift nearly over, thank God.
The beginnings of a headache were gnawing at the base of his skull. He was sure his wife was right and he needed glasses. A combination of that and the concentration needed to guide a bus through Belfast's busy centre usually left him needing to swallow a couple of Nurofen by the end of the day. Perhaps once he got his glasses he wouldn't have that trouble. His appointment with the optician was at nine the following morning. Or was it nine-thirty? He'd check when he got home.
He was about to close the doors when three young children came hurtling towards the bus shouting and
gesturing. They were all wearing grey uniforms with ties askew and buttons undone. Pulled off in one case, he noticed. No more than eleven or twelve years old.
They hurried aboard and dumped their money in the tray. The last of them broke wind as he passed and looked apologetically at the driver who merely waved him away. A chorus of chuckles greeted the boy.
They made their way noisily towards the back, past the young woman feeding her baby. Past the middle-aged women still chatting loudly. Past an old man counting coins in the palm of his hand.
The boys sat down and one reached into his satchel for a bag of pick 'n' mix.
They started chattering, their voices mingling with those of the other passengers.
The driver swung the vehicle into Castle Street
, narrowly avoiding a cyclist. Who in their right mind rode a bloody bike in a city centre? The driver shook his head.
Four seconds later the bomb exploded.
In places blood had sprayed several feet across the road and pavement. It radiated from the gutted remains of the bus, its coppery odour mingling with the stink of petrol, burnt rubber, incinerated metal and, worst of all, the sickly sweet stench of seared flesh.
As well as the remains of the bus chassis, shattered glass from the vehicle and also from nearby shops was spread all over the thoroughfare like crystal confetti. Twisted metal hurled in all directions by the murderous blast was also strewn over a wide area.
Cars caught in the explosion stood abandoned.Those closest were almost as pulverised as the bus itself. Windscreens, smashed by the massive concussion blast, looked as if they'd been staved in by an invisible hammer. A wheel lay in the road. Close by was a scorched air freshener in the shape of a pine tree, and the head of a 'Kenny from South Park' figure, ripped from the foam-filled body by the force of the detonation.
Each one of these pieces of debris had blue-and-white or yellow tape around them. A larger piece of tape had been tied around the entire twenty-yard radius of the bomb-blasted bus. It bore the legend:
POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS.
Uniformed RUC men moved back and forth, some charged merely with keeping ever-curious passers-by from stopping too long to gaze at the scene of carnage.
For every man dressed in the familiar blue serge uniform of the local constabulary, there were plain clothes officers, bomb-squad members and forensics men. The full complement of experts needed in the aftermath of such an event and God alone knew their expertise had been needed often enough in t
he city during the past thirty years.
Several police cars, their blue lights turning silently, were parked at both ends of the street. Further barriers to those who could bear to peer at the devastation.
All of the dead and injured had been ferried away by a fleet of ambulances more than two hours ago. Those that remained within the cordoned-off area had a purpose.
All those outside looked on with a mixture of revulsion and relief.
There but for the grace of God ...
Sean Doyie brought the Orion to a halt close to one of the RUC cars and swung himself out. He dug a hand into the pocket of his leather jacket and retrieved a packet of Rothmans, glancing around as he lit a cigarette, shielding the flame of the Zippo with his hand. He sucked on the cigarette then walked purposefully towards the blue-and-white tape, his long, brown hair blowing in the breeze that had sprung up in the last half hour.
Doyle ducked under the tape and looked impassively at the remains of the bus. There was a huge hole in one side of the chassis and most of the roof was
missing. What remained was blackened and twisted. He stepped over the remnants of a double seat as he advanced through the maelstrom of activity.
'Hey.'
He heard the voice but didn't stop walking. Heavy footsteps behind him.
'You're not allowed in here,' said the same voice close to his ear.
He turned and saw a tall RUC constable looming before him.
Doyle sucked on his cigarette and slipped one hand into the pocket of his jeans. He pulled out a slim leather wallet and flipped it open allowing the policeman to see the ID.
'All right?' said Doyle flatly. He held the man's gaze.
The tall man nodded and watched as the leather-jacketed newcomer made his way among the dozens of personnel, occasionally stopping to speak with one of them or examining a piece of wreckage.
Doyle stopped beside a particular piece of twisted metal and ran an index finger over it. He sniffed at the digit. The oily residue smelt of marzipan.
'Semtex,' he said to a suited man with round glasses who had joined him.
'About three pounds of it,' the man told him, removing his glasses and cleaning the lenses on his tie.
'Remote control or timer?'
The man looked vague.
'How did they detonate the fucking thing?' Doyle snapped.
'Remote control as far as we can tell. There wasn't much to go on as you can see.'
Doyle took a drag on his Rothmans.
'Who are you anyway?' the man wanted to know.
'Sean Doyle. Counter Terrorist Unit.'
The man looked him up and down.
'Where's the boss?' Doyle wanted to know.
The man hooked a thumb over his shoulder. 'He's busy.'
'So am I now', Doyle said, and walked off in search of the man he sought.
Chief Inspector Peter Robinson was a powerfully built man with heavy jowls and sad eyes. He looked older than fifty. An illusion further fostered when he removed his cap to reveal a perfectly bald head.
Doyle wasn't really surprised that the years had taken their toll on the policeman's features. What had been happening in Northern Ireland over the past three decades was enough to give any bastard extra wrinkles. Especially those with the kind of responsibilities that Robinson held.
Doyle saw him standing with two plain clothes men close to the obliterated remains of the bus. The Cl was gesturing this way and that, occasionally pausing to take a call on his mobile phone.
Doyle took a final drag on his cigarette, lit another and ambled towards the little gathering. One of the plain clothes men stepped towards him but Doyle flashed his ID and the man backed off again.
Robinson finished his call and pushed the Nokia back into his overcoat pocket. 'Doyle,' he said. 'When did you get here?'
'About four hours too late looking at this lot,' said
the counter terrorist nodding towards the bus.'What's the SP?'
'Five dead, twenty-six injured. Two on the critical list,' Robinson told him.
'Any ideas?'
'It was a bomb,' said one of the plain clothes men. 'I'd have thought that was fairly obvious.'
'No shit, Sherlock,' Doyle said sardonically. He blew a stream of smoke in the man's direction. 'I meant about who planted it, dickhead.'
The man took a step towards Doyle who remained where he was, his grey eyes holding the man's gaze.
'The bomb squad aren't one hundred per cent sure yet,' Robinson interjected, waving his subordinate back. 'But it looks like the same kind of device that was used in Victoria Street
a month ago.'
'But that was defused,' Doyle reminded him, digging his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket.
Robinson nodded almost imperceptibly.
'Any prints?' the counter terrorist continued.
'Not yet,' Robinson told him. 'Even if there are I doubt they're in the files.'
'Fresh skins?' Doyle mused.
Again Robinson nodded.
'The Provisionals have nothing to gain by this kind of action,' said the Cl. 'It has to be some kind of splinter group. Continuity IRA. The Real IRA.'
'INLA?' Doyle murmured. 'UVF? You're spoilt for choice, aren't you?'
There'd be no reason for a Protestant organisation to start planting bombs in the middle of the city,' offered one of the plain clothes men.
There's been no reason behind most of what's happened here for the last thirty fucking years,' Doyle said dismissively.
'It looks like Continuity IRA,' Robinson said. That would make the most sense.'
Doyle wandered towards the wreckage of the bus and Robinson joined him.
'How close are you, Doyle?' the policeman asked.
To finding who did this? Ask me in a couple of days.'
'I'm asking you now! Robinson stepped in front of Doyle and stood motionless.
The counter terrorist regarded the policeman evenly for a second then shrugged. Two names keep cropping up,' he said. 'Matthew Finan and Declan Leary. They're not in your files. I checked with the guarda and with my lot. No trace of them there either. If they're active, they're new to this game. Never been arrested. Never done time.'
'Fresh skins, like you said.'
Doyle nodded. 'It's difficult getting descriptions,' he continued.'People aren't exactly falling over themselves to talk about the Continuity IRA. You know that. But I'll get them. Finan's got family in Turf Lodge. Word gets around. It's just a matter of time.'
That's something we're a little short of, Doyle.'
The counter terrorist looked around at the remains of the bomb-blasted bus and drew hard on his cigarette.
Tell me about it,' he murmured.
A BLESSING
Sometimes it just happened. He didn't know why but sometimes Ward regained his concentration and his drive and he wrote.
The words and ideas flowed with ease. The way they used to.
He glanced at the plastic carriage clock. 12.16 p.m.
He could go inside the house now and make a sandwich. Lose his train of thought. Lose what he had. What it had taken him so long to find.
He re-read the last two pages he'd written, gazing at them on the screen.
The words began to flow once more.
COUNTY DONEGALJHE REPUBLIC OF IRELAND:
Gravel crunched beneath the Renault's tyres as it turned into the small car park.
The driver glanced around as he brought the vehicle to a halt. His companion also scanned the area behind the Tinker's Dog, squinting into the gloom in an effort to pick out shapes.
There were only half a dozen cars so the pub was obviously quiet.
Declan Leary switched off the engine and sat back in his seat. 'It looks like we're early,' he said, running a hand through his short, brown hair.
'Maybe they're inside,' Matthew Finan speculated.
Both men were in their mid-twenties. Both dressed in jeans. Finan had a thick, black fleece on. Leary sported a denim ja
cket and sweatshirt.
Leary looked in the direction of the pub. 'Maybe,' he murmured.
Finan checked the dashboard clock then pushed open the passenger door and clambered out. He paused for a moment and looked around him.
The pub was surrounded on three sides by trees
that grew thickly from gently sloping ground.The darkness made them appear impenetrable.
Finan moved quickly to the boot of the Renault and opened it. There was a long, slender, black leather bag inside. He took it out, tucked it under his arm and wandered past Leary, nodding as he did.
'Only if you have to, Matty,' said Leary quietly.
Finan nodded again and disappeared towards the trees.
Leary remained behind the wheel, closing his eyes for a moment. The drive had taken longer than he'd thought. He dug in the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a packet of aspirin. He swallowed one dry, wincing at the bitter taste it left in his mouth. He pulled open the glove compartment and found a half-empty bottle of Lucozade. He gulped it down gratefully then stuffed the empty bottle back where he'd found it.
Again he scrutinised the pub. He could go in. See if they were there.
Fuck it Let them come to him.
He peered at the wooded area surrounding the car park but Finan had been swallowed by the darkness.
Leary stepped out of the car and lit a cigarette. As he moved he felt the Glock 9mm automatic in the shoulder holster beneath his left arm.
He could hear the sound of running water nearby and realised that it was the river. The pub in Lifford was built very close to where the dark water of the Foyle divided in two, the fork of the Finn turning away into the Republic while the Mourne cut a-path into the valleys below the Sperrin mountains. The river divided just like the country, thought Leary, smiling at
his philosophical musings. Perhaps that was why they had chosen to call the meeting here. He sucked on his cigarette and waited.
Matthew Finan found a suitable spot about halfway up the slope. He turned and looked back into the dimly lit car park and found that he was able to pick out the shape of the Renault easily.
Moving quickly, he unzipped the black bag and removed the contents.
The Heckler and Koch HK8I rifle felt reassuringly heavy in his hands. He swung it up to his shoulder and peered through the nightscope, easily picking out Leary in its green hue.
