Hybrid

by Shaun Hutson

  Cleaning fucking floors?

  Doyle drew on his cigarette then ground it out in

  the ashtray. He lit another then ordered more coffee. No rush. He had nowhere to go and the pubs didn't open for another half hour.

  BELFAST, NORTHERN IRELAND:

  Daniel Kane drove the white into the triangle of pool balls and watched as they spun off in all directions. The sound reverberated around the inside of the pub for a moment. Seeing he hadn't potted anything Kane took a step away from the table and reached for his drink.

  The Huntsman had only been open for an hour or so and aside from Kane and his three companions, there were just two customers. One was sitting at the bar running a nicotine-stained index finger over a copy of Sporting Life, the other was sitting in one of the booths near the main doors sipping at a pint of Murphy's.

  They're making fools of us,' Kane said, his face set in hard lines.

  'They have been ever since that fucking Good Friday Agreement,' Ivor Best added, walking around the pool table, trying to spot his next shot.

  At thirty-two, Best was four years Kane's junior. A tall, wiry individual with jet-black hair which was receding rather too quickly for a man of his age.

  Kane was shorter but more powerfully built. Apart

  from his cleft chin the most immediately noticeable thing about him was the scar that ran from just below his left earlobe along the line of his bottom jaw. The result of a car accident twenty years earlier. Kane, however, was content to allow those who believed it to be the legacy of a fight to cling to their illusion. In the part of Belfast where he'd grown up reputations were respected and if some of his own was built on hearsay then so be it.

  Like Best he had been active within the Ulster Volunteer Force for the past twelve years. Unlike his other three companions he had yet to serve a prison sentence. Some thought he was just lucky. Kane put it down to his intelligence and organisational abilities. Things that made him valuable in his chosen field.

  He watched as Best took and missed his shot.

  'Five more of those Fenian bastards are released at the end of the week,' Best hissed. 'And they expect us to accept it?'

  'What choice have we got?' The question came from a chair pulled close to the pool table. Jeffrey Kelly picked at fingernails already bitten to the quick and waited for an answer.

  'We might not have a choice but nobody says we have to fucking like it,' Best replied.

  'Which prison are they being released from?' George Mcswain wanted to know, rolling himself a stiletto-thin cigarette.

  'Maghaberry,' Kane said quietly, potting a ball. He walked around the table and chalked the end of his cue.

  'Look, I don't agree with it any more than the rest

  of you,' Kelly said. 'But if it brings peace then what the hell.'

  'You think the fucking IRA will stop just because their men are being released from prison?' Best snapped. 'All the British government is doing is giving them back their best fucking soldiers.'

  'I agree, look what they did to that bus earlier in the week,' Mcswain noted.

  That wasn't the Provos,' Kelly offered. That was the Real IRA.'

  'What fucking difference does it make?' snarled Best. 'People were killed. Our people.'

  'Whose side are you on anyway?' Mcswain wanted to know.

  Kelly glared at him and got to his feet. 'Fuck you,' he roared, his gaze fixed on Mcswain.

  The man seated at the bar turned and glanced briefly in the direction of the raised voices.

  The barman also looked across as he dried glasses.

  They won't stop,' Kane mused, lining up another shot and sinking the ball.

  The ceasefire, giving up their weapons. It's all bollocks. You all know that,' snapped Best. The only ones who can't see it are the fucking politicians.'

  The other men nodded in agreement.

  'Well, I'm not giving in to a bunch of fucking Fenians,' Best continued.

  'Quite right, Ivor,' Kane murmured, surveying the remaining pool balls contemplatively.'What do you think we should do?'

  Best could only shrug. 'What can we do, Danny?' he wanted to know.

  Kane drew back the cue and prepared to take his shot. 'We can hit back at the IRA the only way they understand,' he said.

  He struck the white ball with incredible power. When it slammed into a red, the noise was like a gunshot.

  Kane stood up slowly and looked at his companions one by one. Something unspoken passed between them.

  Kane smiled malevolently.

  LONDON:

  Doyle could barely open his eyes. He groaned and attempted to sit up.

  'Fuck,' he croaked, his throat feeling as if it had been rubbed with sandpaper.

  It felt as if someone was trying to batter their way out of his skull using a pickaxe, and for fleeting seconds he had absolutely no idea where he was. But he didn't really care.

  Only gradually did he realise that he was home. Somehow (Christ alone knew how) he'd made his way back to his flat the previous evening (afternoon, evening, night?) and obviously blacked out in the chair.

  There was a bottle of Jack Daniel's on the floor close to him; some of it had dripped out on to the carpet.

  What a waste.

  Again he tried to open his eyes, this time to slightly better effect.

  The thunderous headache intensified as he got to his feet and blundered towards the kitchen. Only then did he realise he was still wearing his leather jacket and boots.

  Must have crashed out straightaway.

  Doyle tugged off the jacket and dropped it on to the floor then he stumbled into the kitchen and spun the cold tap. As the water gushed into the sink he cupped handfuls of it and splashed his face. It helped a little but he knew what he had to do to help clear this fucking hangover.

  He walked to the bathroom and turned on the shower. Then he undressed quickly, catching a glimpse in the mirror of his heavily scarred back as he pulled off his T-shirt.

  Doyle sucked in a deep breath and stepped beneath the cold water,

  'Fuck,' he hissed, allowing the water to strike every part of his body. His healing wounds stung under the powerful jet. He stood beneath the shower head and tilted his face upwards. Water soaked his long hair and it hung down like a nest of comatose snakes. For interminable minutes he stood beneath the spray, gradually becoming accustomed to the cold water. Eyes still closed he leant forward, his forehead resting against the tiles.

  He had no idea how long he stood under the shower. His muscles were numb by the time he finally stepped from beneath the spray and reached for a towel. He found two Nurofen in the bathroom cabinet and swallowed them dry as he wiped himself.

  Doyle wrapped a towel around his waist and padded back into the kitchen where he filled the kettle and spooned Nescafe into a mug while he waited for the water to boil.

  In the street outside a car hooter blared loudly.The

  sound seemed to penetrate his very soul. He wondered how the hell he'd driven home. If, indeed, he had. He had been drunk before, many times, but he couldn't remember ever having been so completely wrecked.

  Supposedly one drink destroyed a thousand brain cells. If that was the case he'd done some real damage last night.

  Doyle poured water on to the coffee and stirred it, sipping at the black fluid, ignoring the fact that it was so hot it burnt his lips and tongue.

  Better get dressed.

  Why?

  He drank more of his coffee.

  It's not as if you've got anywhere to go, is it?

  Doyle carried his mug into the living room and set it down next to the television. He switched the set on and flicked channels.

  Kids' programmes. Some chat show.A quiz. He found the news.

  The usual shit.

  Train delays. Problems on the roads. A famine somewhere. A couple of murders.

  Doyle switched it off and sat in the silence.

  HMP MAGHABERRY, NORTHERN IRELAND:

  The early morning wi
nd was cold and Vincent Leary shivered slightly as he stepped into the breeze.

  The T-shirt he wore beneath his denim jacket offered little protection against the chill but he was more than happy to suffer the minor discomfort. It wouldn't have bothered him if there'd been six feet of snow. He was free again and that was all that mattered.

  As he and the four others released with him made their way slowly towards the main gates of the prison, Leary glanced back at the place he had been forced to call home for the past three years. He'd spent his first night in a cell two days after his twenty-seventh birthday.

  Maghaberry prison was unusual because it held both male and female inmates. The latter were housed in Mourne House, well away from the men who were incarcerated in four two-storey cell blocks bearing the names Bann, Erne, Lagan and Foyle. Each block contained one hundred and eight cells.

  Leary had learnt that around four hundred and fifty men were currently serving or awaiting sentence inside

  the complex. Eight hundred and fifty staff ensured that the prison ran smoothly.

  Ten of those officers were stepping briskly along with the prisoners now, one on either side of the men to be released. Leary looked at their faces but found no trace of emotion there.

  The officer at the head of the column brought it to a halt with some curt commands and Leary stood patiently as the doors were opened mechanically.They slid apart to reveal the car park beyond.

  There were a number of vehicles there, including outside-broadcast units from television stations on both sides of the border.

  But it was the large, white, twelve-seater mini-bus parked twenty yards away that caught Leary's eye. This vehicle would take him and his companions back across the border into the Republic.

  Home.

  He smiled to himself and gripped his holdall more tightly.

  The formalities of release papers had already been completed within the complex itself, and the first man clambered up into the waiting mini-bus and took a seat at the rear.

  Leary dug in his pocket and found a roll-up. He lit it and dragged heavily.

  All the men except Leary were now on board.

  'Come on, Leary.'

  The voice came from behind him.

  'Don't you want to go home?'

  The prison officer was looking fixedly at Leary who merely took another drag on his cigarette.

  'Think yourself lucky you're not spending another fifteen years inside like you should be,' the uniformed man told him.

  'Like you will be?' Leary said. 'I mean, you're the one with the life sentence, aren't you? Sure, you go home every night, you're not locked up like I was, but you've spent all your working life inside this place and you'll finish it here too.' He nodded towards the officer's key chain. The length of that chain shows your seniority, doesn't it? It also shows you've spent your whole life keeping men from their freedom. Are you proud of that?'

  The officer leant close to Leary, his voice low.

  'I keep scum like you away from decent folk,' he hissed.

  'Not any more.' Leary smiled and tossed away his cigarette. He clambered on to the bus and slumped into a seat on the right-hand side.

  The driver waited a moment longer then guided the vehicle down the driveway that led away from the prison.

  Leary was aware of the television cameras being turned in their direction. Some of the men near him covered their faces. Leary looked out of the window and smiled at them.

  It would take a couple of hours to reach the border so he decided to get some sleep. He never had a problem dozing off and could snatch a rest anywhere. The low babble of conversation from the other men only served to hasten his oblivion.

  Within ten minutes he was asleep, blissfully unaware of the countryside and ignorant of the towns and

  villages they passed through on the way to the border. The mini-bus bumped over a cattle grid but even that didn't wake Vincent Leary.

  Two of the men on the back seat were playing cards, engrossed in their game. The others were either talking or lost in their own thoughts.

  None of them had noticed the dark-brown Corsa that had been following them for the last fifteen minutes.

  w

  hat the fuck's going on?'

  The shout came from one of the men on the back seat of the mini-bus.

  The vehicle had stopped so suddenly that it had skidded for three or four yards, finally coming to a halt on a road that wound tortuously between high hedges and thickly planted trees. Beyond lay fields.

  It was from one of these fields that the tractor had emerged. Masked by the trees and foliage, the farm vehicle had appeared as if from thin air, thick clods of mud falling from its huge rear tyres.

  The bus driver had reacted quickly, slamming on the brakes as the Massey Ferguson rumbled on to the narrow thoroughfare, blocking the other vehicle's route.

  High up in the cab, the tractor driver drew a deep breath, seemingly as shaken by the near collision as the men on the mini-bus had been.

  Vincent Leary woke from his nap and peered at the tractor.

  One of the men from the back seat of the bus was making his way to the door, gesturing angrily to the driver of the tractor.

  'Tell him to get out of the way,' he hissed to the bus driver.'Stupid bastard could have killed us.'

  Leary looked on impassively as the tractor driver waved an apologetic hand and prepared to guide the farm vehicle off the road.

  He turned the key in the ignition.

  The tractor's engine sputtered and died.

  He tried again. Nothing.

  The Massey Ferguson remained immobile, a large, red barricade to the progress of the mini-bus.

  'Jesus,' murmured one of the other men wearily. 'What's wrong with this fucking idiot?'

  Vincent Leary sat up in his seat, looking first at the tractor then to his left and right. The thick hedges and dense trees made it difficult to see beyond the grassy fringe that ran along both sides of the road.

  The tractor driver was still trying, vainly, to start his yehicle but it remained where it had stopped.

  'Did anyone take a course in mechanics while they were inside?' cailed a voice from the back of the bus. 'It looks like this guy's going to need some help.'

  The other men laughed.

  Leary looked at the tractor driver again, his brow furrowing slightly. The man was looking beyond the mini-bus at the road behind them.

  Looking for what?

  Leary turned in his seat and saw nothing but when he looked back, the man was still staring agitatedly in that same direction.

  Vincent Leary got to his feet and made for the rear of the bus, looking out of the large window. He was the first to see the dark-brown Corsa approaching.

  'We've got company,' he announced.

  The car slowed down then came to a halt about twenty yards behind the mini-bus.

  This bastard will have traffic backed up all the way to Belfast soon,' another voice called.

  Leary looked at the car then the tractor. Its driver waited a moment longer then jumped down from the cab, sprinting off into the gap in the hedge from where he had first emerged.

  Simuitaneously, two men clambered out of the Corsa. Both were wearing woollen masks, only their eyes visible through small slits.

  Both were carrying guns.

  Leary recognised the weapons as Sterling AR- S 80s. Assault rifles with twenty-round magazines. The two men swung the rifles up to their shoulders and aimed them at the bus.

  From the dirt track ahead two other men stepped on to the road. They also wore masks. They were also armed.

  'Get out of the fucking bus,' roared one of the men from the Corsa.

  For interminable seconds those inside the mini-bus froze.

  Leary swallowed hard.

  'What the fuck do we do?' one of the other men asked, his voice cracking slightly.

  'Just what they tell us,' murmured Leary.

  'Get off the bus now,' bellowed the man again, his finge
r now resting on the trigger of the assault rifle.

  One by one, the men did as they were instructed.

  'Line up there,' snapped one of the other men in

  masks and he jabbed the barrel of his weapon towards the bus.

  'Get your fucking hands up,' another hissed, pushing the muzzle of his rifle towards the man nearest him.

  Again the former prisoners did as they were instructed.

  The bus driver hesitated, looking anxiously at each masked face.

  'Get in the line,' one of the men told him.

  Still the driver hesitated.

  The man nearest to him stepped forward and, with incredible speed and power, drove the butt of his rifle into the driver's face. His nose burst under the impact and he dropped to his knees with blood spurting on to his shirt. He remained kneeling for a second longer then fell forward motionless.

  Vincent Leary regarded each of the men before him, his gaze occasionally straying to the four automatic rifles now aimed at himself and his four companions.

  'All right, you Fenian bastards,' snarled one of the masked men. 'Turn around and face the bus.'

  'What's wrong?' Leary said.'Haven't you got the guts to look us in the eye when you pull the trigger?'

  The first burst of fire hit Leary, slamming him up against the side of the mini-bus. Within seconds all four weapons were spewing their lethal loads into the newly released men.

  The peaceful silence of the country road was ripped apart by the staccato rattle of automatic fire.

  When the first magazines were empty, the masked men reloaded and emptied more heavy-grain shells into

  the five bloodied and torn figures before them. From such close range the damage was enormous. Bones were pulverised by the high-powered bullets, internal organs were blasted to pieces.

  Blood covered the side of the bus and spread seven or eight feet around the tangle of corpses. Empty shell cases rolled around, steam rising from them.

  The hooded men ran back to the Corsa and clambered inside.The driver started the engine, turned the car swiftly on the road and headed back the way he'd come.

  He pulled his mask off and threw it in the back, wiping sweat from his face. The others followed his example.

  Daniel Kane glanced at his watch. In less than five minutes they would dump the Corsa and change cars.