by Shaun Hutson
It had all gone as smoothly as he'd planned.
A REFLECTION
Ward sat and watched as the paper spilled from the printer. What a joyous sight. He might have found it even more joyous had he been able to remember writing what was on those pages.
But, what the hell, it was appearing before him perfectly typed and, as he glanced at it, well written.
The printer continued with its mechanical litany.
Ward turned and looked out of the window. He saw his reflection in the glass staring back. For long seconds he stared at his own face then he blinked hard, as if to dismiss the image.
When Ward looked again the reflection, obviously, was still there. But its expression hadn't changed to match Ward's. It wore a stern, almost reproachful look.
Ward moved back slightly.
The reflection of his face remained immobile, as if it had been painted on to the glass. It was almost as if a face were staring in at him. Unblinking. Unmoving. Perched on one of the branches that tapped gently against his first-floor office window.
Ward closed his eyes tightly then looked again.
The face was still there.A severed head impaled on sharpened wood. Stuck there like a Halloween Jack-o-lantern.
He shook his head.
His reflection didn't move.
He looked more closely at the eyes. They were fixed on the printer, watching the pages churning out.
Ward raised a hand and moved it slowly back and forth before the vision of his own features. There was no change. The face remained. Immobile.
Ward swallowed hard and hauled himself out of his seat. As he did, the mouth of his reflection opened wide as if in a soundless scream.
There was a single tooth missing from the upper jaw.
Ward ran down the stairs and out of the office, turned the corner and looked up into the tree.
He didn't know what he thought he'd see, but there was nothing there. Just leaves stirred by the night breeze.
Ward stood gazing up for a moment longer then wandered back into the office.
The reflection was gone from the window. The printer had finished its work.The office was silent again.
LONDON:
The room smelt of gun oil. Doyle took each of the weapons in turn and field-stripped them. He cleaned each part carefully and then reassembled the firearms. He checked the slides on the automatics, then he ensured that the cylinder turned smoothly on the revolver.
Why are you doing this? You're not going to need any of these fucking things again, are you?
There was a bottle of Smirnoff on the table in front of him and he stopped periodically to fill his glass. The bottle was already half empty.
The TV was on. Some twat talking about his new novel. Laughing like a fucking idiot as he sat on the sofa opposite the presenters.
The stereo was also on.
The last thing Doyle wanted was silence.
He glanced at the TV screen, but it was the music that dominated.
'Fallen angel, ripped and bruised, think of better days ...'
Doyle finished cleaning the Desert Eagle and sat back in his chair, the barrel pointed at the screen.
'Life is rude, treats you bad, tears your wings away ...'
He worked the slide on the automatic then aimed it at the male presenter of the morning show.
'Take your dreams, broken schemes and sweep the past away ...'
Doyle squeezed the trigger and the hammer slammed down on an empty chamber. 'Bang,' he murmured.
The news was coming up.
Doyle remained where he was in his chair, the Desert Eagle still cradled across his lap as he reached for the Smirnoff once more.
'Fly, lonely angel, high above these streets of fire ...'
Captions came up at the bottom of each news story. Rwanda. Kosovo.
Northern Ireland.
Doyle grabbed for the stereo remote and shut off the music.
The news camera was already panning over a scene of bloodshed in Northern Ireland. A bullet-riddled minibus, spattered with blood. Great puddles of crimson fluid congealing on the country road. He saw RUC men moving around among members of the emergency services.
Doyle pressed the volume button and the sound of the news reporter's voice began to fill the room.
'. . . all five men, granted early release as part of the Good Friday Agreement, had been serving sentences for terrorist-related crimes.
They are thought to have been ambushed on this quiet road and all were pronounced dead at the scene.'
Doyle sat mesmerised.
The men were being transported back to the Republic on what was thought to be a top-secret route. No statement has been made yet by either the RUC or any of the political or military organisations involved in what appears to be the most ruthless sectarian killing for some time.'
Doyle sat a moment longer then jumped to his feet. He crossed to his phone and punched out the numbers.
'Come on.'
When the receiver was picked up, he barely gave the voice at the other end the chance to speak.
'Good morning, this—'
'Listen, I need to speak to Jonathan Parker,' Doyle said.
'I'm afraid that won't be possible, Mr Parker is—'
'I've got clearance.'
'Go ahead.'
'Doyle. Sean Doyle. 23958.'
There was a moment's silence at the other end.
'I have no record of clearance for that name or that code,' the voice told him.
'Let me speak to Parker now.'
'I repeat, there is no clearance for—'
'Just fucking tell him it's Doyle,' snapped the former counter terrorist. 'He'll speak to me.'
'Mr Parker is in a meeting.'
'Bollocks. Get him to call me back. He's got the number.'
'That won't be possible.'
Doyle slammed the receiver down.
'Cunt,' he snarled and headed for the hall where he pulled on his leather jacket. He snatched his car keys
from the small table by the front door and strode out of his flat.
This couldn't wait.
Doyle left the Astra outside the building in Hill Street. He fed a handful of coins to the meter then stalked across to the front door of the CTU headquarters and pressed his thumb on the buzzer.
'Identification, please,' said the voice from inside.
'Doyle,' he said curtly, '23958.'
There was a moment's silence.
'Could you repeat that, please?'
He did.
'Access denied,' the voice said finally.
Doyle sucked in a furious breath and pressed the buzzer again.
'Doyle, 23958. I need to speak to Jonathan Parker now. Open the fucking door'
Silence.
He struck the oak door with one fist.
'Access has been denied,' the voice on the intercom said. 'Please step away from the door.'
Doyle hit the buzzer once more and kept his finger there.
Open the fucking door, you bastards. You can't get rid of me that easily.
The sound of the buzzer reverberated around the
quiet street. An elderly woman passed by on the other side of the thoroughfare and looked over at Doyle.
'Move away from the door,' said the voice from inside the building. 'Access has been denied. If you do not move, I'll call security.'
'Do it,' snarled Doyle.'Call who you fucking like. I'm staying here until Parker speaks to me.' He leant on the buzzer once more.
The door opened and two men stepped out on to the pavement. Both were dressed casually. Both were a good ten years younger than Doyle himself. He assumed they were counter terrorist agents.
As he had once been.
'Just do one will you, Doyle?' said the first.
'Fuck you.'
'We don't want any trouble,' the second assured him.
'Then get out of the way and let me talk to Parker.'
No one moved. The men remained motionles
s, but their eyes travelled up and down him. Watching. Trying to detect the first hint of aggression. Doyle knew they had been trained as meticulously as he had been. He also had no doubt that they were armed.
'Five minutes,' Doyle said. That's all I want.'
The first man shook his head. 'We can't let you in,' he said. 'You don't belong here any more.'
Doyle's expression did not change.
Never let your opponent see what you're thinking. Never let your feelings show on your face. Retain eye contact If you look away, they'll know you're going to make a move on them.
'Let him in.'
Doyle recognised the voice.
Jonathan Parker stood just inside the reception area.
For long moments the two agents blocking Doyle's path remained where they were, then, as Doyle stepped forward, they moved aside and allowed him safe passage.
'You asked for five minutes,' said Parker.'That's what you've got.'
Make it quick, Doyle,' Parker said, closing his office door behind him. 'This could cost me my job, just having you on the premises.'
'Worried in case your fucking politician friend finds out I was here?' Doyle spat.
'Sir Anthony Pressman is no friend of mine, I can assure you. As you know, if I'd have had a choice you'd still be a part of this organisation.'
'You could have told him to fuck himself.'
'No I couldn't, Doyle.'
'Couldn't or wouldn't?'
'If you came here to discuss the merits or otherwise of your removal from this unit then you may as well leave now.'
'I came here to discuss what happened in Northern Ireland this morning. Five newly released IRA men ambushed and slaughtered on their way home.'
'I'm not at liberty to discuss that or any other matter with you, Doyle. Not any longer.'
'Who do you think killed them?'
'I can't discuss it with you.'
'One of the murdered men was Vincent Leary.'
Parker said nothing.
'He was due for release from Maghaberry, I know that. Obviously so did someone else. Someone who wanted him and four of his friends dead. My money's on the UVF.'
Parker crossed to the large window that looked out on to Hill Street, clasped his hands behind his back and stared off into the distance. He could see the green expanse of Berkeley Square from where he stood.
'If it was the UVF then you've got a problem,' Doyle continued.'This so-called peace in Ireland is on a knife edge anyway. If both sides start hitting each other again, then you can kiss the whole fucking lot goodbye.'
'I can't discuss this with you, Doyle,' Parker repeated again.
'I didn't come here for a fucking discussion. I came here to teil you what's going to happen. Declan Leary's brother was one of those IRA men killed. Now if I know Leary he's not going to sit still for that. He's going to go after whoever did it. He's been in hiding ever since that business in Belfast. This'll bring him out, for sure. And when he sticks his head up over the parapet, someone should be there to put a fucking bullet in it.'
'Like you?' Parker said, finally turning to face his former colleague. 'You're not a part of this organisation any more, Doyle.'
'Reinstate me. You know I'm the only one who can get Leary.'
'I can't do that. I wish I could but I can't. I know what you're saying is right. I know that if anyone can find him it's you.' The older man sighed. 'My hands are tied.'
'I'll work without official clearance.'
Parker shook his head. 'You'd be arrested as soon as you set foot in Ireland,' he said.
They've got to find me first,' Doyle assured him.
'I can't allow that, Doyle.'
'I'll find Leary.That's what you want, isn't it? Besides, I owe that bastard. He tried to kill me, remember?'
'He wouldn't be the first.'
That's right. But I want to put him where I've put the others who've tried to kill me. Six feet under.'
A heavy silence descended, finally broken by Doyle.
'He'll go looking for the men who killed his brother. When he does, I'll find him.'
Parker shook his head again. 'I can't give you your job back, Doyle. That's the end of it.'
The former agent regarded the older man evenly. 'Fair enough,' he said, heading towards the door. 'But perhaps there's something else you should consider. That mini-bus was on a route known only to the driver and certain members of the RUC and security forces. Yet the guys who hit it knew exactly where and when to find it. They couldn't have known that without the right information.'
'You think someone tipped them off?'
'What the fuck do you think?' Doyle said quietly. 'You've got an informant somewhere, Parker. You'd better find him too.'
Doyle opened the door.
'Doyle. Wait a minute,' Parker called, stepping from behind his desk. 'What will you do now?'
'Now you've shit on me, you mean? Put me out of fucking work. What does it matter to you?'
Parker reached into his jacket pocket and handed Doyle a plain, white business card. 'Go and see this man,' he said, holding out the card. 'He might be able to help you.'
'I don't need your pity, Parker,' Doyle said
dismissively.
'I'm not giving it. Stop being so pig-headed for once and take some help when it's offered.'
'I don't need any help.'
'No, Doyle, that's exactly what you need. Without this job you'll be sucking the barrel of a .357 within a month. Take the card.'
Doyle hesitated a moment then snatched it from his former colleague's hand and shoved it into the back pocket of his jeans.
'By the way, Parker,' he said standing in the door-way, 'if I do end up with a gun in my mouth, just remember, you were the one who put it there.'
He slammed the door behind him.
AN OVERACTIVE IMAGINATION
Thirty pages. Ward counted them again. Thirty pages. No mistake. More than he'd written in the last five days.
He numbered the pages and placed them with the rest of his manuscript, wondering why his hands were shaking.
He re-read the words on the screen. He remembered none of them.
Had he been that drunk that he'd managed to write thirty pages without even remembering?
Ward rubbed his chin thoughtfully. His head was spinning. A combination of tiredness and the effect of so much alcohol was beginning to close in on him. He tried to rise but couldn't. He sat down again and breathed deeply.
Finally he shut off the computer. As the screen went black the office was plunged into darkness.
Ward tried again to get to his feet and this time he managed it. He negotiated the stairs with great care. He had little worth living for but he still didn't fancy slipping and breaking his neck.
He locked the office and stumbled towards the house. As he went he heard sounds of movement in the bushes.
He wondered if it was the same cat that he'd frightened off the other night.
He grabbed a stone and hurled it in the direction of the sound. He heard the missile strike the wooden fence beyond but nothing else.
Then it came again. Closer this time. Near to the office door.
In the blackness of night it was impossible to see anything.
Ward took a step forward.
A shape passed close to the door of the office. Low to the ground. On all fours. Sleek, with a very large head.
Ward reached for another stone and prepared to throw it.
Was it a dog he'd glimpsed?
He shook his head.
It was . . . too big?
No. It was the wrong shape.
It moved too awkwardly, as if all its weight was on its front legs. It moved more like an ape.
Ward kept his eyes fixed on the door of the office and stepped backwards towards his house.
Drink. Tiredness. Depression. A powerful combination and one likely to stimulate an overactive imagination. Or hallucinations?
He smiled to himself.
T
he shape by the office had gone. At least, he couldn't see it any more.
Ward went inside the house, locked and bolted the back door and peered out through the glass.
He could see nothing. No shapes. No imaginary figures. No hallucinations.
He turned away from the window and made his way up the stairs. Had he looked back he might have noticed that there was a silver-grey light coming from inside his office.
As if the monitor were once again switched on.
IDLE HANDS
Ward slept without interruption that night. A sleep aided by half a bottle of Glenfiddich.
He didn't dream. Or if he did he didn't remember them.
He woke at ten the following morning, showered, dressed and, for the first time in several days, shaved. Then he wandered out to the office.
The printer was whirring away as he opened the door. He recognised the sound immediately and hurried up the stairs.
He stood motionless and watched as the machine printed off thirty more pages.
BALLYKNOCKAN, COUNTY WICKLOW, THE REPUBLIC OF IRELAND:
Declan Leary was surprised at how many people turned out for the funeral of his brother. Sure enough.Vincent had been a popular man but Leary was pleasantly surprised at the amount of souls prepared to pay their respects to his dead sibling.
He stood on the hillside overlooking the cemetery, sheltering beneath some trees from the rain that had been falling steadily for the last two hours.
He'd stood like some silent sentinel, watching while the priest intoned words he knew only too well. Aware that his mother was shaking as she fought in vain to hold back her tears as she watched her eldest child being lowered into the grave.
Leary could see one of his aunts with her arm around the frail old woman. On her other side stood Leary's younger sisters. Patricia was twenty. Angela eighteen months older. They were also crying.
How he longed to stand beside them. To comfort his family. To toss a handful of wet earth on to the
coffin.To say a final farewell to the brother he had loved so much.
To swear that he would find and kill those who had taken his life.
The village, like so many in rural Ireland, was a close-knit place. Almost an anachronism in an age of self-betterment and disregard for others. Within it, stili flowed the kind of community spirit that saw neighbours genuinely caring for one another. Hence the large number of people prepared to brave the elements to bid a last farewell to Vincent Leary.
