by Shaun Hutson
Bang on eight
Ivor Best cruised slowly down the road, turned the vehicle at the far end then guided it back up towards the corner of the street opposite where Leary hid.
There was someone else in the car with him.
If you're going to do this, you're going to have to do it quickly.
The car was slowing down. Leary could see Best and his companion peering to the left and right, the second man gesticulating.
Leary leaned on the phone-box door and it opened slightly. The car was less than ten yards from him. He eased the Glock from the shoulder holster and took a step out on to the pavement.
Best brought the car to a stop and revved the engine once.
Leary ran across to the vehicle and tapped on the passenger-side window.
Jeffrey Kelly looked around at him.
Ivor Best smiled and nodded. 'Get in the back,' he called, motioning to the rear door.
Leary did as he was instructed.
'Nice to see you again, Mr Best,' said Leary smiling.
'How the fuck do you know my name?' Best began. Then he saw the gun.
Leary pressed it to the back of Kelly's skull. 'Just
drive or I'll blow his fucking head off,' he hissed.
'He's bluffing,' Best said, seeing the look of horror on his companion's face.
'Am I?' Leary challenged, thumbing back the hammer of the 9mm.
'Who are you?' Best wanted to know.
'Drive. I'll introduce myself,' Leary snapped.
So, who the fuck are you?' Ivor Best glanced into the rear-view mirror and caught sight of Leary again. The young Irishman was still sitting with the Glock pressed to the base of Jeffrey Kelly's skull.
'RUC?' Best murmured. 'SAS?'
'What the fuck would the SAS want with you, you Proddie bastard?'
'What do you want?' Kelly asked, trying to keep his voice even.
'Information,' Leary said.
'About what?'
'Why did you pick me up last night after I left that pub?' Leary wanted to know.
Best regarded him in the mirror again but said nothing.
'Why were you there again tonight? You knew I'd show up, didn't you?' Leary continued.
'I was interested in what you had to say,' Best replied.
'About the UVF? Why?'
Another heavy silence filled the car.
'Why were you so fucking interested in what I had to say about the UVF?' Leary repeated.
Best watched the road ahead. There was a junction coming up. Perhaps if he turned the car sharply enough he could cause his new passenger to overbalance.Then he could reach over and grab the gun.
Maybe.
'How did you know my name?' Best wanted to know.
'Research,' Leary grinned.
'You're not RUC, are you?' Best said. 'You wouldn't have to use plain clothes.'
'So if I'm not RUC and I'm not with the fucking SAS, you work it out.'
'Fenian,' said Best and it was more a statement than a question.
'Maybe. Now I want to know what you know about the UVF.'
Another silence.
'I'm going to count to five,' Leary said, 'then, I'm going to spread your friend's brains all over that fucking windscreen. Understand? One . . .'
Kelly tried to turn his head slightly.
Two,' Leary continued.
Best saw a set of traffic lights up ahead. They were on amber.
Three.'
Hit the brakes hard.
'Four.'
'All right,' said Best irritably.
'What do you know about the UVF?' Leary said. 'And I mean you.'
'We know as much about them as the next man,' said Kelly, swallowing hard. He could feel the barrel of the automatic against his flesh.
'You know who they are, don't you?' snapped Leary. 'Every Proddie in this city knows who belongs with them.'
'Like every Catholic knows who's in the fucking IRA,' grunted Best.
'You know them, don't you?' Leary insisted. 'You know the men I'm looking for.'
'I don't know what the fuck you're talking about,' Best sneered dismissiveiy.
Leary fired once.The noise inside the car was incredible. For fleeting seconds, Best and Leary both felt as if someone had ignited a charge inside their ears. The sound filled the space.
The bullet exploded from the barrel of the Glock, tore its way through the base of Kelly's skull then travelled upwards. It ripped through the soft tissue of his brain and erupted from his forehead just above his left eye, carrying a reeking flux of pulverised bone, blood and macerated tissue with it. Most of it spattered the windscreen, some splashed Best. The bullet left an exit wound large enough for a man to push his fist through.
What was left of Kelly's head slumped back against the seat.
The air was filled with the stench of cordite, blood and excrement as his body voided itself.
Best almost lost control of the car but he gripped the wheel and guided the vehicle on, his hands now shaking. His ears were throbbing from the massive roar. His retinas seared by the muzzle flash that had filled the car like the flame from a welder's torch.
'Has that helped your memory?' Leary rasped. 'I want to know what you know about the UVF. Now.'
Best was breathing heavily. Sucking in the stench. It was like a mobile charnel house.
'Have you ever been approached by the UVF?' Leary continued.'Do you know anyone in the UVF?'
Best nodded.
Then fucking tell me,' Leary snarled, pressing the barrel of the Glock to the driver's head. 'And do it before you end up like your friend.'
You hear things,' said Best, his voice cracking slightly. 'You know how it is.'
Tell me.'
'People mouthing off. Rumours. You never know if they're true or not. Someone says they know someone who knows someone who's in the movement.That kind of thing.'
'Was he in the UVF?' Leary asked, nodding towards the corpse.
The coppery odour of Kelly's blood was growing stronger.
Best nodded.
'What about you?' Leary continued. 'You are too, aren't you?'
No answer.
'You wouldn't have followed me last night otherwise. You thought you had a new recruit on your hands, didn't you? That was why you wanted to meet me again tonight. To see if what I said yesterday was bullshit.' He smiled. 'Well, now you know it is.'
Best continued driving, occasionally glancing at the glove compartment. Wondering if there was any way he would be able to reach the .38 Smith and Wesson
revolver that was hidden in there.
'So, what are you?' he said finally. 'Fucking IRA or what?'
'Does it matter?'
'Not really. You're all the same. Murdering Fenian bastards.'
'Murderers is it? What was done to those five IRA men last week, doesn't that count as murder? You know the ones I mean?'
Best nodded almost imperceptibly.
'Did you know anything about that?' Leary wanted to know.
Best shook his head.
'Lying bastard,' snapped Leary. 'Who killed them?'
'Do you know what every member of your organisation is up to twenty-four hours a fucking day?'
'I just want to know if it was the UVF that killed them.'
'And what? If I tell you, you'll let me go?'
'Was it the UVF?'
'Yes it was, and I'm glad it was.'
'How did they know where that mini-bus was going to be? There were a dozen different routes it could have taken from Maghaberry to the border. Who had access to that kind of information?'
'It's fuck-all to do with me.'
'Just a soldier then, are you? Just do what you're told?'
No answer.
'Who told you to ambush that fucking mini-bus and kill all the men on it?' Leary snapped.
Best gritted his teeth.
'Who's your section commander?' Leary persisted,
pressing the gun harder against Best's cheek.
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'If you kill me, the car'll crash. We'll both die,' Best said.
'Stop the car. Now.'
Best continued driving.
'You heard me,' hissed Leary. 'Stop the fucking car' He smacked the barrel of the Glock into Best's temple. Powerfully enough to hurt him but not so violently as to make him lose control.
He stepped on the brake and looked round at Leary.
'How many men took part in the ambush?' the younger man demanded.
'Four.'
'Including you and him?' said Leary, nodding in the direction of the bullet-blasted body of Kelly.
Best nodded.
'Give me the names of the other two.'
'Fuck you,' Best snarled.
Leary struck him hard across the face with the Glock. The impact loosened two of his front teeth and burst his bottom lip. Blood ran down his chin.
Leary reached across the front seat and grabbed Best by the hair, hauiing him upright. He pulled the flick knife from his pocket and freed the blade.
With surprising gentleness, he pressed the needle-sharp point against Best's left lower eyelid.
The names of the other two men,' he hissed. 'Or I'll take your fucking eyes out, one by one.'
Best was breathing heavily now, his tongue occasionally flicking across his split lip to lick at the red stream flowing from the cut.
Their names,' Leary snarled, pressing harder with
the knife point. 'You think either of them would give a fuck about saving you if they were in this position?'
'I can't tell you. They—'
Leary pushed the knife forward. The point sliced through the soft flesh of Best's eyelid with ease then parted muscle and punctured the base of the eyeball itself. Blood and vitreous fluid spurted from the socket.
Best shrieked in agony and tried to escape the probing steel.
Leary held the weapon with remarkable dexterity and expertise.
As yet less than an inch of the blade had penetrated the lower part of the socket.
Tell me,' Leary said more loudly.'Another two inches and your fucking eye is out.'
'No,' screamed Best.
'Their names.'
'George Mcswain and Daniel Kane,' Best shouted frantically. 'For God's sake—'
Leary struck swiftly.
He drove the knife deep into the left eye, putting all his force behind it. Tore it free and did the same with the right orb.
Both blows penetrated to the brain.
Best's head slammed back against the side window with each impact, the shrieks of agony dying in his throat.
Leary pressed the Glock to the man's temple and fired once.
He waited a moment then clambered out of the car, checking that none of the blood and pieces of brain matter had sprayed his clothes.
They hadn't.
He slid the Glock back into its shoulder holster then wiped the blade of the flick knife on his handkerchief, closed it and dropped it back into his jacket pocket. He turned and headed back down the street.
It was beginning to rain.
LONDON:
This is bullshit.' Doyle stared angrily at Melissa Blake.
'It's the job,' she told him sternly.
He sucked in a deep breath.
'Prince Hassim has requested that you guard his room tonight,' Mel continued.
'He's doing this on purpose, the little bastard.'
'It doesn't matter why he's doing it, Doyle. If that's what he wants, that's what he gets. Like I said, it's the job. If you don't like it you know what you can do.'
Thanks.'
She could only shrug.
'Where's the little prick now?' Doyle wanted to know.
'He's upstairs in his room.'
'Hendry said the little shit was testing me,' Doyle mused. 'It looks like he was right.'
'Perhaps he just likes having you around,' Mel smiled.
'Yeah, Mr Popularity, that's me. Is there anybody with him?'
'One of the servants.'
Doyle glanced at his watch. 8.30 p.m.
He made his way towards the flight of stairs that led to the first floor.
'I'll bring you some food and drink about ten,' Mel told him.
'I'll look forward to it,' Doyle called without turning round.
He turned left at the top of the stairs and made his way past several oak-panelled doors until he reached the one he sought. A single wooden chair had already been placed outside it. One of the Sheikh's servants was standing opposite the door. He regarded Doyle warily as he approached.
'You stay here tonight,' said the Arab.'Guard Prince.'
Doyle nodded. 'Why can't you do it?' the former agent wanted to know.
'Prince ask for you.'
The door opened and Doyle saw the boy standing there. He looked Doyle up and down. 'You will bow in my presence,' he said quietly.
Doyle glared at the boy.
Don't push it, you little bastard. I might need a job but not that fucking bad.
'Bow,' Hassim repeated.
Doyle nodded his head swiftly.
'Come inside,' the boy said in his perfect English accent.
Doyle hesitated for a second then stepped into the boy's bedroom. It was vast and high ceilinged.The floor was covered in plush carpet. Doyle saw a stack system and a DVD player. Every electrical appliance imaginable. The television was on in the corner of the room,
so too was the computer, its screen flickering. There was a large bed, several upholstered chairs and a chaise longue.
'These are only some of the things I have,' Hassim told him.
'Great,' said Doyle uninterestedly.
'My father is a very rich man.'
'I gathered that.'
'He is very powerful. I will be even more powerful when I am older. I have power already. The servants in this house must do whatever I wish.'
Doyle merely held the boy's gaze.
'You must do whatever I wish,' Hassim continued.
'That's not strictly true. Your father owns the servants. He doesn't own me. He just employs me. If I want to walk away I can.'
'You would not dare.'
'Wouldn't I?'
There was a moment's silence, broken by Hassim. 'I will show you how much power I have,' said the boy. He called something in Arabic. The words sounded harsh.
The servant who had been outside stepped into the room and bowed in the direction of the Prince. The boy snapped something else and the man stood in the middle of the room, arms at his sides.
Doyle looked on silently as Hassim crossed to his bedside table and slid open one of the drawers.
'Do you know what real power is?' Hassim said, his back to Doyle.
The former counter terrorist said nothing.
'I will show you,' said the boy.
Doyle could see that he had something gripped in one hand.
Only as he drew closer could he see that it was a Stanley knife.
PROGRESS
Twenty-two pages. Ward counted them, numbered them and placed them with the rest of the manuscript. He moved like a man in a trance, touching the pages almost warily, carefully scanning the words on each one.
Then he sat and gazed at the blank screen. And the keyboard. And the box of white Conqueror paper that fed the printer.
The top sheet was slightly discoloured. Crinkled at the bottom, like parchment. Ward picked it up and rubbed it gently between his thumb and forefinger. He gently folded it then dropped it into the waste bin beside his desk.
The bin needed emptying.There were pieces of paper, sweet wrappers and other discarded items spilling over the sides. Some of the rubbish even lay on the carpet around the bin. He looked down at the mess, realising that he should clear it up.
The waste bin near the sink was in the same state. Tidiness was not one of Ward's strong points.
Neither, it seemed, was memory. He could not recall having come to the office the previous night. Could not remember sitting and writing another twenty-two
Drink destroyed memory cells. Depression also interfered with the brain's recollective processes.
He looked at the manuscript, now swollen to almost three hundred pages. Was it possible he could have forgotten so much? If not, what was happening?
He ran a hand over cheeks that needed the attentions of a razor blade and gazed once again at the screen and the keyboard.
As he looked down at the squares and their letters and symbols he shook his head gently. He touched one of the keys and held it down.
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
Ward ran his fingertips over several others, feeling the outline of the symbols as if he were working on some kind of braille machine.
He sat back in his chair and exhaled deeply. He closed his eyes.
The phone rang.
Ward jumped in his seat and looked at the device as if it were some kind of venomous reptile, then he shot out a hand and picked it up.
'Hello,' he said.
Silence at the other end.
'Hello,' Ward repeated.
Still nothing.
'You must have got the wrong number,' he said and hung up.
He sat at the desk a moment longer then got to his feet, switched off the monitor and made his way out of
the office. As he paused to lock the door he looked down.
There were several deep furrows in the wood both at the bottom and around the handle.
They looked like scratch marks.
SEEKING OBLIVION
Ward slumped in the armchair with the bottle of Jack Daniel's in one hand and a crystal tumbler in the other. He poured himself a large measure and drank it in one fierce swallow.
Another followed. Then a third.
He switched on the television and gazed blankly at the screen.
It was another hour before he dragged himself to his feet and wandered out to the hall. He picked up the phone and jabbed out a number. It rang and rang until an answerphone clicked on.
Ward pressed down on the cradle and searched the small notepad beside the phone for another number. He dialled that and waited.
When the robotic voice at the other end informed him he had reached the voicemail of that particular mobile phone he almost hung up again but, despite himself, he hung on. 'Martin, it's Chris Ward. Call me when you get the chance. It doesn't matter what time it is.'
