by Shaun Hutson
Doyle nodded a greeting as she opened the door, aware of her appraising gaze.
'Hi, there,' he said, his accent impeccable. 'Shonagh, right?'
She nodded. 'I don't know you,' she told him.
'Matt sent me,' Doyle lied. 'Can I come in?'
She hesitated a moment, hand still on the door knob.
'It's important,' Doyle continued.
She stepped back and ushered him inside.
Step one.
He kept his hands in his pockets and waited in the hall. 'Matt told me to meet him here,' the counter terrorist informed her.'He said he'd ring you. Tell you I was coming.'
'I haven't spoken to him,' she said. 'And I still don't know who you are.'
'Frank McKean,' Doyle lied, pulling his right hand from his pocket and pushing it towards her by way of greeting.
Shonagh looked at the proffered appendage but declined to grasp it.
Doyle, with all the accomplishment of a seasoned actor, waved the hand in the air, embarrassed, then jammed it back into his pocket again. He attempted a smile and shuffled nervously from one foot to the other.
'I'm a friend of Matt's,' he persisted.
'I know most of his friends. I've never heard him talk about you before. Frank . ..'
'McKean.'
'That's not a Belfast accent.'
'Neither is yours.'
She smiled wryly.
Keep going.
'I'm from the South,' he lied.
'Where?'
'A little place called Ennis.'
She nodded.
'Do you know it?' he said, almost hopefully.
Shonagh shook her head.
'Look, I'm sorry to just turn up on your doorstep like this but Matt said that I'd to meet him here,' Doyle continued.'Him and Declan are interested in something I've got.'
Her expression changed slightly. 'You know Declan Leary?' she asked.
Bingo.
Through Matt, yeah,' he told her.
'Perhaps I ought to ring Matt, tell him you're here.'
Doyle nodded.That'd be grand,' he said smiling.'And if Declan answers the phone you can tell him he still owes me some money.'
The card was played now.
That's it Call the bastard. Bring him straight to me.
She hesitated.
'Listen, if I'm intruding, I'm sorry,' said Doyle. 'I was supposed to meet him at my place but he said to come here. I don't want to put you out.'
'It's no trouble, Mr McKean, I ...'
'Frank,' he said softly. 'Please, call me Frank.'
Shonagh smiled.'You might as well have a drink while you're waiting,' she said. 'Come through.'
She ushered him into the kitchen and switched the kettle on.
Doyle looked around the small room then smiled at Shonagh once again. She pointed towards a chair and he sat
'How long have you known Matt?' she asked, standing close to the kettle as it boiled.
Doyle shrugged. 'A few months,' he said.
'Where did you meet him?'
The lie was ready. 'In a pub in Clonard,' he told her.
The water inside the kettle was bubbling now.
'He didn't tell me his sister was so good looking,' Doyle added with a grin.
'Nob off,' she chided, waving a hand at him dismis-sively, her cheeks colouring slightly.
The kettle boiled. She turned to pour the water into the mugs.
Doyle was on his feet in a second.
He caught Shonagh's hair in one strong hand and grabbed the kettle with the other.
She tried to scream but Doyle jerked harder on her hair.
'Keep your fucking mouth shut or I'll break your neck,' he hissed into her ear, all traces of his Irish accent now gone. 'Where's your brother? I want an address.'
'Fuck you,' she panted, struggling against him.
Doyle pushed her against the cupboards.
'An address,' he rasped.
She didn't speak.
He lifted the kettle and held it over her head, tilting it down slightly. She could see steam billowing from the spout.
'Tell me where I can find him or you'll need skin grafts for the rest of your fucking life,' snapped the counter terrorist.
She whimpered.
I'll count to three,' he warned, upending the kettle full of scalding water a little more.
One single drop formed on the spout and fell on to her cheek. Shonagh yelped in pain and struggled more violently against Doyle but he heid her firmly.
'An address,' he reminded her. That's all I need.'
'Fuck off,' she snapped.
'You're very brave for a girl about to lose her looks permanently.'
'Who are you?' she wanted to know.
'Just a guy doing his job. Now give me that address before I melt your fucking face.'
Another drop of red-hot liquid fell on to her cheek.
The counter terrorist could see a small red welt rising where the scalding water touched flesh.
'You can either tell me or the RUC,' Doyle said. 'Your choice.'
'I don't know what you're talking about.'
'Your brother's a member of the Continuity IRA. Maybe you knew that, maybe you didn't. Either way I couldn't give a fuck. All I want to know is where I can find him.'
She stopped struggling so frenziedly for a second but Doyle still held her firmly before him.
That bomb that went off in the city centre a couple
of days ago,' he continued. 'Your brother was involved with that. So was Declan Leary.'
'You can't prove that.'
'I can if I speak to him. He might not even be guilty. Give me an address where I can find him, let me speak to him. He might not be in any trouble.'
Yeah, right
'I don't trust you,' she protested. 'How do I know you're not from some fucking Proddie organisation?'
'You don't. But seeing as I've got a kettle full of boiling water held over your face you're not really in a position to argue, are you?'
She was shaking.
'As it happens I'm with the Counter Terrorist Unit,' Doyle continued. 'Not that that really matters at the moment'
'Are you going to hurt him?'
'It's a possibility,' Doyle said flatly.'But right now I'll hurt you if you don't tell me where I can fucking find him.'
Another moment of silence.
'All right,' Shonagh gasped.
Doyle released his grip on her hair and stepped back a pace.
'Now, your brother or Declan Leary,' he snapped. 'Where are they?'
She put one hand to the cheek where the boiling water had dripped.
'You would have done it, wouldn't you?' she murmured. 'You would have scalded me.'
He nodded. 'If I had to. Give me an address.'
She regarded him venomously. 'You're a real fucking
hard man, aren't you? Threatening a woman. Do you get off on that, you bastard?'
'The address.'
'Fuck you,' she hissed.
Doyle quickly slid one hand inside his leather jacket. It closed over the butt of the Beretta 92F 9mm automatic nestled in the shoulder holster and he pulled the pistol free.
This'll do you more damage than boiling water,' he intoned. 'Now where's your fucking brother?'
'He'll kill you.'
'He'll try. The address?'
There are some flats in Dalton Road,' she said through clenched teeth.'He uses one of them. Number forty-four.'
'You'd better hope that checks out,' said Doyle. 'Because if it doesn't, I'll be back to see you. And if I do have to come back, by the time I've finished, you'll be putting your make-up on with a fucking spoon for the rest of your life. Got it?'
'I hope he fucking kills you,' Shonagh shouted.
Doyle took a step towards her and, moving with incredible speed, he struck her across the temple with the butt of the Beretta.
Shonagh dropped like a stone.
Doyle swept her up in his arms and deposited her o
n one of the kitchen chairs, her head lolling on her chest.
He pulled out several drawers until he found what he wanted.
Cutting several lengths of nylon string he quickly bound Shonagh's wrists and ankles to the, chair.
Satisfied she would remain secure he took one last look at her then strode towards the kitchen door. On his way out, he tore the phone from the wall. It shattered easily.
Doyle glanced at his watch. He might not have much time.
Doyle blasted on the hooter as he drove, clearing any idle pedestrians out of the way.
The mobile was wedged between his shoulder and his ear as he guided the Orion along the streets that led to Dalton Road.
'Yes, I'm sure,' he snapped.'Tell Robinson he'll need a couple of armed units.'
The voice at the other end asked the address again.
'Flat in Dalton Road, number forty-four,' rasped Doyle. 'Got it?'
The voice wanted to know if either Finan or Leary were there.
'How the fuck do I know? It's possible, that's why I think Robinson will want armed units with him. But you tell them not to make a move until I arrive.'
He ended the call and dropped the phone on to the passenger seat.
As he turned left two men stepped into the road. Doyle hit the hooter and narrowly avoided them.
He pressed down harder on the accelerator.
The flats in Dalton Road were of a depressing uniformity. Here and there residents had attempted to
individualise their humble dwellings with a lick of paint on the front doors and window frames but, for the most part, the peeling flesh of neglected council gloss was the only colour visible.
Graffiti on the walls. Lifts that didn't work.The residents were in no position to complain.The council had no inclination to improve their plight.
Some of the windows were boarded up. Some of the flats empty. Most had sustained broken windows at some time and there was still shattered glass on the walkways.
Along with the dog shit, the used condoms and the empty hypodermics.
Number 44 had once sported a blue front door but the paint was now scratched and scabrous. It lay at the top of four flights of precipitous stone steps. Even young men sometimes had to stop and draw breath during the climb.
Men like Matthew Finan and Declan Leary.
A dustcart was collecting rubbish down the street, the workers swarming around it like ants around a queen. One of them dropped a refuse bag as he hauled it up to deposit it in the back of the dustcart. The bag split open, spilling its reeking contents across the pavement. A chorus of jeers, curses and laughter greeted the mishap. Two of the men began scooping up the rubbish in their gloved hands and shoving it back into the torn bag.
Inside the cab another man sat motionless, his eyes fixed on the wing mirror of the vehicle.Through it, he had a perfect view of the entrance to the flats.
Two teenage girls left, both jabbering away into
mobile phones. But apart from that very little moved.
No one, so far, had entered apart from an old woman with a shopping trolley.
PC Adam Sweetman of the Royal Ulster Constabulary kept his gaze fixed firmly on the wing mirror and watched.
And waited.
Doyle brought the Orion to a halt in the street that backed on to the Daiton Road flats.
There were three boys, no older than ten, standing close to the side of the road, kicking a punctured football back and forth, occasionally bouncing it off the other parked vehicles in the street. One was wearing a Manchester United shirt.
Doyle ignored them and reached for his mobile. He punched in a number and waited.
'I want to speak to Chief Inspector Peter Robinson,' he said. Tell him it's Sean Doyle of the Counter Terrorist Unit. It's important.'
There was a buzz of static then Doyle heard Robinson's voice. I've got one unit in position already at the north end of Daiton Road,' the policeman told him. There's another on the way.'
'Anybody know if Finan or Leary are inside?'
'How can they? No one knows what they look like.'
'Have any of your men been up to the flat to check it out?'
'Not yet.'
'Fuck it. Leave it. I'll do it myself.'
'Doyle, if they're in there, use the back-up. Understand?'
'You just be ready to move when I shout.'
'I mean it. Don't try being a bloody hero. If they're in there, use—'
Doyle cut him off. 'Bollocks,' he murmured, swinging himself out of the car.
One of the three kids kicked the ball in his direction. Doyle stopped it with the inside of his left foot then rolled it gently between his heel and toe.
'Manchester United supporter, eh?' said Doyle to the oldest boy.
The boy nodded.
'Great, aren't they?' he beamed.
Doyle flicked the ball up with his toe then volleyed it perfectly, watching as it sailed halfway down the street.
'You'll grow out of it,' he muttered as he watched them chase off after it, the one in the shirt sticking two fingers up at him.
Doyle dug his hands in his jacket pockets and hurried towards the corner of Dalton Road.
Shonagh Finan had no idea how long she'd been unconscious. All she was aware of as she blinked her heavy lidded eyes was the thumping pain inside her skull.
She tried to rise, forgetting that she was still firmly tied to the chair.
She strained against the restraints for a moment, feeling the nylon string cut into her wrists.
'Bastard,' she hissed under her breath.
She could see the phone shattered on the floor in front of her. If she could get free she had a mobile in her handbag upstairs.
Once more she began to strain against her bonds.
A VISIT
Ward had used the girl before. Her name was Jenny. At least that was what it said in the contact magazine where he'd first seen her photo and phone number.
Age: 24. Vital statistics: 32B, 23, 33.
She arrived in a taxi, as she always did, carrying a small, black holdall.
He sat gazing at the television screen until he heard the doorbell ring then he got to his feet and wandered through to the hall.
Jenny was wearing a short, black dress. Balanced on her open-toed high heels she was just under five-two. Her hair was brown, streaked with blond. Her face was round, her lips full. She was wearing too much makeup, some of it to conceal the two spots on her left cheek, but Ward was unconcerned. He ran appraising eyes over her and ushered her in.
She looked around the spacious hallway of the house and smiled professionally.
'Beautiful house,' she told him.
'You always say that,' he reminded her.
'Well, it is.'
She knew who he was. What he did for a living. The
first time she had told him she'd read a couple of his books.
Ward had been unimpressed,
'Do you want a drink first?' he wanted to know,
'Brandy and coke.'
'You go up and get ready, I'll bring it.'
She turned and made her way upstairs.
Ward wandered back into the sitting room, poured her a drink and had another himself, then he switched off the TV and made his way slowly back through the hall, pausing at the bottom of the staircase.
'You can come up,' she called.
He made his way almost wearily up the stairs and across the landing to the main guest room.
Jenny was now naked. She was sitting on the bed with her legs tucked beneath her. On the duvet before her lay two vibrators and a tube of KY jelly.
He nodded approvingly.
'Can we get the money out of the way first?' she said apologetically.
'How much?'
'Same as before.'
He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out two twenties and a ten. He laid the notes on one of the bedside tables and began to undress.
She took the larger of the vibrators and smeared it with lu
bricant, then she began to trail it over her neatly shaved pubic mound. It left several glittering trails on her thighs and belly as well as her vagina.
Ward was already erect. He stood beside the bed, his penis gripped in his right fist, his gaze travelling slowly up and down her body.
She was murmuring quietly now. Little gasps punctuated the increasingly deep breathing.
Ward had to admit it was a reasonably convincing performance.
She pushed the first of the vibrators into her vagina.
He could hear the buzzing of the batteries as she increased the speed.
Then she reached for the other one. Lubricated it and also smeared some of the clear fluid around her puckered anus.
He nodded.
Jenny pushed the thinner of the two sex toys slowly inside herself, wincing slightly as it penetrated her more deeply.
Ward clambered on to the bed beside her, his erection now throbbing in his hand. He pointed his penis in the direction of her face and increased the speed of his hand.
'Open your mouth,' he told her.
She did as she was instructed, closing her eyes as she heard him grunt. Two or three small spurts of oily 'white fluid streaked across her face. She murmured encouragement as he finished his ministrations.
As he stood up, she prepared to wipe the semen from her face. 'Leave it,' he told her. Again she did as she was instructed.
Ten minutes later, she was gone.
DREAMS
Ward awoke in a sweat. He rolled over and looked at the clock. 3.11 a.m.
It was hot. There wasn't a breath of air in the bedroom.
He hauled himself out of bed and crossed to the window, pushing it open. The darkness was almost as total as the silence. He drew in a deep breath of warm air and rubbed a hand through his hair.
As he peered at the garden he heard rustling in the bushes, then the high-pitched yowling of two fighting cats. They continued their noisy combat for a few more seconds then silence descended once again.
Ward looked in the direction of the office. There was a silver-grey light coming from inside.
He exhaled wearily. He'd left earlier that day without switching off the monitor.
For long moments he considered what to do. If he left it on, what was the problem? It wasn't going to blow up or catch fire, was it?
Was it?
He decided to leave it and clambered back into bed, sliding over to avoid the sweat-drenched area he'd been sleeping on previously.
Whenever he woke at night he found it difficult to get back to sleep. He wondered if a drink might help.
