Hybrid

by Shaun Hutson

  Finan slammed in a twenty-round magazine and chambered one of the 7.62mm rounds, then he moved the weapon slowly and evenly until the cross-threads settled on Leary's head.

  Finan lowered it again and released the bipod on the front of the barrel. He propped the twin metal legs against a tree stump and settled himself into position on the damp grass.

  He unwrapped a piece of chewing gum and pushed it into his mouth.

  He waited.

  Leary took a final drag on the cigarette then dropped it and ground it out beneath his foot. He rubbed his hands together and decided that due to the chill in the air he might be better off in the car. After all, he didn't know how much longer he'd have to wait. Leary closed the door and turned the key in the

  ignition. He allowed the heater to blow hot air for a few minutes, warming his hands at the vents, then he switched it off again.

  'Come on,' he muttered, gazing first at his watch then at the dashboard clock. He leant forward to switch on the radio.

  There was a light tapping on the passenger-side window.

  Leary turned quickly. He saw a figure outside the car. Almost unconsciously he allowed one hand to touch the butt of the Glock as he reached to unlock the door.

  'It's open,' he called.

  The figure outside didn't move.

  'I said, it's open,' Leary repeated. 'Get in the front.'

  The door opened and a thin-faced man with thick, black hair slid into the seat.

  For long seconds he and Leary regarded each other indifferently.

  It was the older man who spoke first.

  'You're late,' said James Mulvey.

  'It was a long drive,' Leary told him.'Perhaps if you'd picked somewhere nearer, I'd have got here sooner.'

  Mulvey wasn't slow to pick up the edge in Leary's words. His eyes narrowed slightly.

  'Where's Finan?' he wanted to know.

  'He's around.'

  'Why isn't he with you? He needs to hear what we've got to say too.'

  'So, where's Donnelly?' Leary wanted to know.

  Mulvey hooked a thumb over his shoulder. 'Inside.'

  'Go and tell him to come out here.'

  'It's warmer inside. Come on, I'll buy you a drink. The both of yous.' Mulvey prepared to open the Renault's door.

  'I'm fine here,' Leary told him.'Whatever you've got to say, say it.'

  Mulvey drew in a deep breath. There's no need for this, you know,' he said gently. 'We're not the enemy.'

  'Are you sure about that, Jimmy?' Leary chided.

  Mulvey's face registered anger.

  'You got me here to talk,' the younger man said.'So talk.'

  Matthew Finan readjusted the sight on the HK8I and pressed his eye more firmly to it. He carefully arranged the cross-threads so that Mulvey's head was at their centre.

  Then he gently rested his finger on the trigger and waited.

  James Mulvey shifted in his seat and allowed his gaze to travel from the windscreen to the interior of the car. There were several tapes scattered round the back seat. An old newspaper open at page three. Some sweet wrappers. The car smelt of cigarette smoke.

  'It's like a bloody tip in here,' Mulvey observed.

  'You didn't drag me halfway across Ireland to talk about the state of my fucking car. Jimmy,' Leary snapped. 'Now what do you want?'

  Mulvey pulled at the lobe of one ear and regarded his younger companion.

  'What you've been doing has got to stop,' he said finally.

  Leary met his gaze and held it.'Says who?' he wanted to know.

  'Northern Command. What I'm telling you comes from the top. From the men in charge.'

  'From the men in charge of you,' barked Leary, pointing an accusatory finger at the older man.

  'What you're doing isn't helping the Cause,' Mulvey hissed. 'Fucking bombs here, there and Christ knows where. Those days are over, Declan.'

  'For you, maybe.'

  'We've won. The Brits are prepared to give us what we want. Prisoners are being released every week. Jesus, your own brother comes out in two weeks.They haven't insisted on decommissioning. There's no need to keep fighting.'

  'It's still not our country though, is it? Why did you join the organisation in the first place, Jimmy? Can you remember?'

  Mulvey exhaled deeply. 'I wanted my country back,' he said. 'I wanted the Brits out. I wanted guys like me to have the same kind of chance as any Proddie. I wanted an Ireland ruled by Irishmen. I wanted those six fucking counties over the border to be part of that Ireland.'

  'So why have you given up?' Leary asked. Too old? Too tired? Did you lose your guts in the same jail cell you lost your ideals?'

  Mulvey turned angrily in his seat. 'I was fighting for this country while your mother was still wiping your fucking arse,' he rasped.

  That was your choice. Just like it's my choice now. Ten years ago you'd have been patting me on the back, not telling me to stop.'

  Ten years is a long time. A lot's changed.'

  'How long were you in Long Kesh?'

  'Seven years.'

  'And for what?'

  'For what we've got now. We've got peace on our terms. We're as close to a united Ireland as we've ever been.'

  The six counties are still ruled from London, Jimmy. It doesn't matter what fancy names you give to those bastards who sit at Stormont. They're doing what the

  Brits tell them. In my book that doesn't make a united Ireland.'

  There are Sinn Fein delegates in London this week having talks with the British government. It's a politicians' game now, Declan, not a soldiers'.'

  'So what are you telling me, Jimmy?'

  'I'm telling you to lay off. You, Finan and the rest. You'll destroy everything we've fought for if you don't.'

  'Bullshit. The Brits are never going to give us everything we want.'

  They will in time. But not while you and your boys are running around planting bombs on fucking buses.'

  'You "sixty-niners" are all the same,Jimmy. You think because you started this that it'll end when you want it to.'

  'I'm giving you an order, Declan.'

  'I'm not even in your fucking army, Jimmy. So stick your orders up your arse and tell Donnelly the same.'

  'It could jeopardise your brother's release.'

  'Fuck off.'

  'Vincent could spend the rest of his life in jail because of you. They'll use you against him.'

  That's bollocks and you know it.'

  'Is it? Do you really want to take that chance, Declan?'

  'Don't threaten me,Jimmy, and you can tell Donnelly and Tracey what I've told you. We're not stopping. And there's nothing you can do about it'

  Mulvey regarded the younger man silently for a moment. 'You seem very sure of that, Declan.'

  'What are you going to do?' asked Leary, his right hand sliding into his jacket pocket. 'Shoot me?'

  'Just remember what I've told you,' Mulvey said.

  Leary pulled his hand free of his pocket and the older man heard a familiar sound.

  The swish-click of a flick knife.

  Mulvey looked down quickly at the weapon now resting against his thigh.

  The two men locked stares for interminable seconds.

  'I don't care who I have to kill, Jimmy,' Leary told him.'Understand?'

  Mulvey finally pushed open the passenger door and swung one leg out.

  'Let's hope it doesn't come to that, Declan,' he smiled crookedly.

  He slammed the door behind him and stalked back across the car park towards the welcoming warmth of the pub.

  Leary watched him in the rear-view mirror, seeing him pause for a moment before stepping inside. Only then did he push the flick knife shut and slip it back into his pocket.

  JUST LIKE OLD TIMES

  For two mornings on the trot Ward was in the office by ten. On both days he had sat straight down at his desk, re-read what he'd written the day before and began.

  It felt wonderful.

  Doyle heard f
ootsteps outside the car. He was already awake. He had been for the past half hour. But now, as he slowly turned over, he allowed his eyes to open a fraction.

  There were four of them. Not one any older than ten. They peered in at him with the same puzzled amusement they would view a goldfish in its tank.

  One of them tapped on the glass.The others giggled.

  Doyle sat bolt upright and gestured angrily at the kids. 'Fuck off, you little bastards,' he shouted in a perfectly replicated Irish accent.

  The kids scattered.

  Doyle grinned to himself and stretched his arms before him. He heard the joints pop and crack.

  'Shit,' he murmured.

  His neck ached too. Everything fucking ached these days. Sleeping in the back of the Orion didn't help.

  He pushed open the rear door and swung himself out into the street.

  The counter terrorist reached for his cigarettes and lit one. He pulled on his leather jacket to ward off the early morning chill.

  As he stood there, curious passers-by glanced in

  his direction, wondering who was this long-haired, unshaven man who had been sleeping on the back seat of his car for the past two days.

  Strangers, he had found over the years, were not exactly welcome in the Turf Lodge area of Belfast but this most recent foray had been greeted more with bemusement than suspicion by the locals.

  Mothers walking their children to school regarded him indifferently. Some muttered hushed words to each other.

  An elderly man leading a collie on a long lead even nodded a greeting in his direction.

  Doyle returned the gesture and pulled up the collar of his jacket. He rubbed his stomach as it rumbled and set off down the street towards a newsagent's, hands buried deep in his pockets.

  There were several people inside the shop and Doyle looked at each face, consigning it to his memory.

  He bought a Mars bar, some crisps and a can of Red Bull and got in the short queue behind a young woman dressed in a pair of navy-blue leggings and a puffa jacket. Doyle ran approving eyes over her buttocks while he waited.

  As if aware of his prying gaze, the young woman turned and looked at him. She was barely twenty (half your age, you dirty bastard) and pretty even without make-up.

  'Rough night?' she said smiling.

  He nodded. Thanks to my missus,' he lied.'I've been sleeping on the back seat of the car.'

  'Did she throw you out?' the young woman wanted to know, moving closer to the till.

  'I walked out,' Doyle continued. 'When I found out

  what she'd been doing. I've been looking for her ever since. Now I know where she is. And the bastard who's been fucking her behind my back.' He smiled. 'If you'll excuse my French.'

  The young woman chuckled and put her purchases on the counter. 'So who is he?' she wanted to know.

  'His name's Finan,' said Doyle. 'Matthew fucking Finan. Bastard. I don't know how long it's been going on but I'll catch them at it. I've been parked outside his house for the last two nights.When he comes back I'll ..." He allowed the sentence to trail off.

  The smile had faded from the young woman's face. 'Where's your car?' she wanted to know.

  'Round the corner in Glen Road. Outside number fifteen.'

  'You'll have a long wait if it's Matthew Finan you're after,' said the shopkeeper, pushing the young woman's goods into a carrier bag. 'It's his sister who lives in Glen Road.'

  'Shite,' hissed Doyle. 'Do you know where I could be after finding him?'

  The shopkeeper shook his head.

  The young woman picked up her carrier bag and left without looking back at Doyle.

  So, you do know him.

  Doyle paid for his breakfast then opened the can and took a long swig.

  'What's his sister's name?' he asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

  'I don't know,' the shopkeeper said briskly, suddenly more interested in tidying the newspapers laid out on his counter.

  Doyle bought a Daily Star, jammed it into the back pocket of his jeans and headed for the door. He stopped outside the shop and took a bite of the Mars.

  Finan's sister, eh?

  It was another step closer.

  NOVEMBER 16th, 1993:

  Malcolm Porter knew he'd had too much to drink. He'd been fairly sure of it when he'd left the joyously rowdy atmosphere of the Bull. He'd stumbled twice as he negotiated the steps that led from the public bar of the pub to the pavement.

  Now he was positive he'd drunk too much. He sucked in a deep breath and stood still, propping himself against the wall of a house wishing the world would stop spinning quite so violently.

  But what the hell, if a man couldn't celebrate after a victory such as he'd just tasted then it was a pretty bad show. How many times did anyone experience the exultation of being in a darts team that had just won its regional ieague?

  He glanced down at the trophy he still gripped in his right hand. It was a silver-plated figure holding a dart. Poised, as he had been, to make the winning shot. His name was inscribed on the bottom of the plaque, just above the name of the pub.

  He brandished the small trophy above his head with all the pride of an FA cup-winning captain.

  Porter giggled at his own actions (further proof that he was pissed) and continued the walk home.

  Normally it would have taken him less than ten minutes to reach his house in Hopewell Avenue but the weight of victory and the burden of booze were adding extra time to the trek.

  He chuckled again as he continued on his way.

  Past a wall that bore the six-feet-high letters: NO

  SURRENDER TO THE IRA.

  He glanced at them but they didn't register. He'd seen the same kind of graffiti for as long as he could remember. After a while it all blended into one, and became as much a part of the landscape as the terraced houses that wound through the city like files of troops.

  He stood in front of the wall for a moment and saluted the words.This caused another ripple of giggling.

  Sheila would be angry when he got home, he knew that. She'd go on at him for waking the kids and complain about his being drunk, but it would pass quickly enough. She could never stay mad at him for long and, besides, if a man couldn't enjoy a few drinks when he'd just won such a magnificent trophy then where was the justice in the world?

  He already knew where he was going to place the trophy. There was a spot on the mantelpiece between his wedding photo and those of his two children. It would look suitably imposing there.

  He brandished it before him once more and walked on.

  Nearly home now.

  As the car pulled up beside him he gave it only a cursory glance. He thought for a moment about

  stopping the vehicle and showing the occupants what he'd just won.

  He giggled once more.

  The car stopped and he was aware of the rear door opening.

  Porter turned in the direction of the vehicle. Saw a man coming towards him. A man he didn't recognise.

  He felt strong arms enveloping him, pulling him towards the waiting car.

  He dropped his trophy and saw it land in the gutter.

  For fleeting seconds he did nothing. By the time he attempted to fight back he was sprawled on the back seat next to another man.

  Porter couldn't see faces. It was too dark inside the vehicle. He was about to say something when he saw the gun.

  He almost giggled again. Almost asked if he could have his trophy back.

  Two shots sounded, the muzzle flash and retort muffled, to a degree, by the silencer protruding from the barrel of the .22.

  Both powered into his head.

  The car drove off. As it did, one of the rear wheels crushed the trophy flat.

  Doyle sat in the Orion and finished the rest of his breakfast. He balled up the empty crisp packet and Mars wrapper and dropped them out of the window into the street.Then he sipped at the Red Bull and watched the front door of number 15 Glen Road.

  The cas
sette was on, turned down low.

  '.. .You had time to waste, time to wonder ...'

  Doyle looked down at the back of the paper spread out on the passenger seat.

  '... Time, to become someone else ...'

  He picked it up and re-read the previous night's match report on the Liverpool versus Newcastle game. There was a photo of Liverpool's winning goal and Doyle smiled to himself as he scanned it. Then he dropped the paper and returned his attention to the house.

  He'd already been sitting there for a couple of hours. His right leg was stiff so he massaged the thigh with one hand.

  'Where the fuck are you?' he murmured to himself, eyes never straying from the house.

  As he leant forward he caught sight of his own reflection in the rear-view mirror.

  You look like shit

  His hair needed combing. He needed a shave. Needed a fucking shower.

  Doyle wondered how much of his life had been spent sitting around in cars waiting for people. Watching.

  All part of the job, old son.

  Surveillance. Tailing. Stake-out.

  He preferred the term hunting.

  Doyle ran a hand through his long hair then scratched at one of the scars that were so much a feature of his visage. He couldn't remember where half of them had come from.Those or the ones that couldn't be seen until he took off his clothes.

  Each one was a reminder of pain.

  So much pain.

  All crammed into forty-four years.

  Some of them wasted?

  He sat back in his seat

  '... Might be a good thing, might be a bad thing ...'

  He yawned.

  '... But you can't put your arms around a memory.'

  Doyle jabbed the cassette off as he saw the young woman approaching the door of number 15. Five-three. Early twenties. Dark hair tied back in a pony tail. Carrying three bags of shopping.

  He watched as she fumbled for her key then let herself in.

  Doyle looked at his watch. He'd give her ten minutes.

  Shonagh Finan heard the knocking on the front door and put down her mug of tea.

  She wandered through from the kitchen into the small living room, then out into the hall as another knock echoed through the house.

  'All right, all right, don't knock the door down,' she called, unfastening the lock.