Knife Edge

by Shaun Hutson

  Knife Edge

  Shaun Hutson

  Knife Edge

  Shaun Hutson

  7.03 A.M.

  It was like being struck in the face by a handful of razor blades.

  Sean Doyle stood motionless beside the dark blue Datsun for a moment, eyes narrowed against the biting wind. He zipped up his leather jacket, the wind whipping his shoulder-length brown hair around his face.

  He brushed it away and glanced up at the sky.

  Fuck. Not even light yet.

  Great swollen banks of grey cloud were scudding across the blackened heavens, propelled by the powerful gusts of wind.

  Doyle felt a spot of rain against his cheek and brushed it away. He wondered how long it would be until the threatened downpour arrived.

  Reaching into his pocket he pulled out a packet of cigarettes and jammed one between his lips.

  The raging wind made it almost impossible to light the Marlboro, the flame of the lighter sputtering even when Doyle cupped a hand around it. He sucked hard when the cigarette ignited, the tip glowing.

  Doyle spat out a small piece of tobacco and drew deeply on the Marlboro, allowing the smoke to fill his lungs.

  Christ, it was cold.

  He leaned on the roof of the Datsun and glanced around.

  The houses in London Road were unremarkable and relatively uniform in appearance. A number had been converted into flats, as had many like them in this area of Brent.

  From where he stood, Doyle could see the twin towers of Wembley Stadium less than a mile away, barely visible in the early morning gloom.

  Half a mile behind him lay Wembley Central station. He could hear the intermittent rumble of trains passing through, the sound carried on the icy wind.

  Early morning commuters travelling to work.

  Some of the occupants of these dwellings in London Road would be joining that mass exodus to the centre of the capital soon. Some already had passed him, glancing around curiously at the cars parked in the road.

  Some glanced across it.

  Doyle continued to draw on his cigarette, his dark grey eyes scanning the street, the houses.

  So quiet.

  So ordinary.

  Lights were on in some windows as the neighbourhood readied itself for the daily routine. A routine that remained the same for the duration of these people's working lives.

  Get up, go to work, come home, go to bed.

  There was a reassuring, if soul-crushing, regularity to the whole thing; a little bit of security in the midst of the insanity that was day-to-day living.

  Doyle hated routine. Always had. He hated the regimentation work brought with it, the discipline that was constantly expected. The realisation that he was merely a cog in a different type of wheel did little to lighten his mood.

  He watched a young woman scurrying down the road towards a bus stop, waiting patiently with her coat pulled tightly around her.

  A car passed by, the driver yawning, rubbing his eyes with one hand.

  He cast Doyle a cursory glance, wondering perhaps who this long-haired, leather-jacketed individual was.

  For his own part, Doyle watched as the car disappeared around a comer, brake lights flaring briefly in the gloom.

  He took one last drag on his cigarette then dropped it, grinding it out beneath the sole of his boot.

  Behind him another train rumbled past. It moved slowly, seeming to reflect the lethargy of its passengers, as if their indifference was somehow seeping into its metal innards.

  Doyle felt more rain against his cheek and brushed it away, his fingers tracing the long scar that ran from the corner of his left eye down to the point of his jaw.

  There were many more scars not immediately visible.

  Both physical and emotional.

  Pain.

  The one constant in his life. The one ever reliable, ever present fucking companion.

  So much pain.

  Doyle glanced at his watch and clambered back inside the Datsun.

  As he did, the Beretta 92F burst-fire automatic in a holster beneath his left arm bumped against his side.

  CONCILIATION

  Dromoland Castle, County Clare, The Republic of Ireland

  They were the last three in the dining room.

  The waiter watched as the trio of men, all immaculately dressed, ages ranging from thirty to forty, sat around a table close to the window of the oak-panelled room.

  The curtains were open, offering a view of the man-made lake and part of the golf course beyond.

  The sun was setting, reflecting on the still surface of the water like fire on glass.

  In these winter months the darkness came early but the death of daylight was no less spectacular.

  Apart from the three men there had been only two other tables to serve that evening. The hotel was quiet. The tourists wouldn't begin to descend for another month or two. For now the natural serenity of the ancient building was intensified by the lack of guests frequenting its magnificently appointed corridors and halls. All too soon the swarms of Americans would arrive, all of whom were convinced they had Irish ancestors in this or some part of the country.

  The waiter smiled to himself as he tidied one of the other recently vacated tables.

  A couple in their late twenties had sat there and the waiter had been particularly struck by how good looking the young woman was. He'd cast an envious eye in the direction of her companion as they'd left the dining room.

  Now he glanced across to the three men and noticed that they had finished their desserts. He wandered over to collect the plates.

  'Did you enjoy your meals, gentlemen?' he asked.

  'Superb,' said Patrick Macarthy, wiping some crumbs from his beard.

  His companions echoed his sentiments.

  'Could you bring us three brandies, please?' Macarthy asked as the waiter gathered the plates.

  'What's this, Patrick?' Liam Black said, smiling. A celebration?'

  Macarthy sat back in his seat, glancing up as the waiter propped the last of the plates on his arm and retreated from view.

  'I think we've every cause for celebration,' he said, clasping his fingers together before him on the table. 'We've won. This peace is on our terms and I'm glad it's over.'

  Macarthy had been a member of Sinn Fein for the last eight years and, prior to that, he'd spent six years in Long Keshfor possession of firearms. Now, just three days away from his fortieth birthday, he still had the lean and hungry look of a fighting man which not even the flecks of grey in his beard could diminish.

  His companions were younger, both members of the coiste seasta, a standing committee which ratified major Sinn Fein decisions.

  Liam Black was a tall, powerfully built man with thick brown hair.

  Eamonn Brady was thinner. Pale and narrow-featured with sad eyes.

  'Are you sure it is over?' Brady asked, pulling agitatedly at the corner of his napkin. 'If the Prods have anything to do with it…' He let the sentence trail off.

  'It's just a matter of time now,' Macarthy told the younger man. 'Tying up loose ends. We'll see a united Ireland before the beginning of the next century.'

  The waiter returned with the brandies and set down the crystal balloons before disappearing once again.

  Black warmed the liquor in the glass, cupping one large hand around the base.

  'That was all I ever wanted for my kids,' Macarthy continued. 'That was what I fought for when I was a soldier, what I campaigned for when I got out of the Maze.' He took a sip of his brandy, brushing his lips with his thumb and forefinger as he replaced the glass.

  'How are the kids?' Brady asked.

  'They're grand,' Macarthy said, wistfully. 'My daughter started school three weeks ago and my son's just been picked to
play for his school's hurling team.'

  'He must get his athletic prowess from his mother then,' Black chuckled.

  'You cheeky bugger,' said Macarthy, patting his stomach. 'Look at that, still flat as a washboard. Pure muscle.'

  'Pure bullshit,' Brady retorted.

  Macarthy raised his glass and sipped once more at the brandy.

  The blast was deafening.

  A thundercrack which seemed to reverberate not just around the dining room but also over the lake, echoing away like wiling thunder.

  The window behind Macarthy shattered, the first bullet striking him in the back of the head, at the base of the skull.

  It exploded from his mouth, blasting two teeth free, smashing the brandy glass.

  A thick gout of blood spouted from the wound, tiny pieces of pulverised bone spinning through the air like bloodied confetti.

  The impact drove him forward, slamming his shattered face into the table which immediately upended, sending more glasses flying into the air.

  Three more shots followed in rapid succession.

  One caught Black in the chest, staving in his sternum before exploding from his back just below his shoulder blade. He remained motionless for what seemed like an eternity then dropped to his knees, hands clapped to his chest as if trying to hold in the blood.

  Brady threw himself down as two more bullets sent glass flying into the dining room. He looked across at Black who was on his knees, head bowed as if in prayer, blood pouring down his chest and stomach.

  Macarthy lay face down a foot or so from him, eyes open.

  Brady felt his stomach somersault as he looked at the back of his companion's head.

  Where the bullet had entered there was something thick, swollen and pinkish-white bulging from the hole.

  He realised it was brain.

  Brady vomited.

  Outside, the thunderous echo of the firing died away on the cold air.

  The sound of an engine drifted across the lake as a car sped away into the enveloping gloom.

  7.10 A.M.

  The noise from the Datsun's heater was irritating him.

  It needed fixing.

  The constant rattling pissed him off.

  The weather pissed him off.

  Being stuck in the car at this time in the morning pissed him off.

  There wasn't much that didn't piss him off if he was honest.

  Sean Doyle leaned forward and pushed a cassette into the car stereo, twisting the volume knob. Music filled the car, loud and threatening.

  'Almost called it today…'

  Doyle slid down in his seat, one foot propped against the dashboard. He flicked some mud from the side of one cowboy boot trying to remember how long ago it had been since he'd cleaned the boots.

  'Turned my face to the void, along with the suffering…'

  The trail of people passing by on either side of the road, heading for work, or wherever, was still little more than a trickle. It wouldn't become a stream for another hour or so. Some looked in at him, others seemed more intent on trying to walk down London Road while glancing back over their shoulders in the direction of number ten.

  From where he sat, Doyle had a clear view of the house.

  ‘And the question, why ami?…'

  It was a simple red-brick dwelling with a white porch and white-framed windows. There were no lights on inside. The sodium glare of street lights reflected in the glass like a candle flame in blind eyes.

  Doyle flipped open the glove compartment, pulled out a packet of hard-boiled sweets and popped one into his mouth.

  There were more cassettes in there, tape cases, a crushed box which had once held a McDonald's fruit pie, a few balled-up pieces of paper with scribbles on them.

  And a box of 9mm shells.

  Just the usual shit.

  'So many times I've tried and failed, to gather my courage, reach again for that nail…'

  Doyle reached for the box of ammo and slid it open. He reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a spare magazine for the Beretta. Slowly, he began to feed shells into it.

  'Life's been like dragging feet through sand, and never finding a Promised Land…'

  Each of the bullets was hollow-tipped.

  Doyle also wore a holster around his left ankle, hidden by his jeans and boot. In it nestled a. 45 PD Star. The pistol was less than four inches long but Doyle had its six-shot magazine loaded with hollow tips too.

  It would take the back of a man's head off from twenty yards.

  He knew it would because he'd seen it do just such a job.

  How many times?

  A dozen? Two dozen?

  He'd lost count.

  Who fucking cared?

  Doyle certainly didn't and if he didn't, it was for sure no other bastard was going to.

  He had no idea how many men he'd killed over the years. With guns, with knives. With his bare hands. He knew some of their names, others were just faces.

  He'd been close enough to some of them to smell them, to look in their eyes. To see that combination of fear and pain.

  Pain.

  The constant companion.

  Death was part of his job.

  As a member of the Counter Terrorist Unit, Doyle had seen it in more guises than he cared to remember for more years than he could be bothered to recall.

  How long?

  Five years? Ten?

  A hundred?

  He smiled to himself.

  For every death he'd dispensed, he'd seen one. A colleague, innocent men and women, sometimes children.

  And her.

  The only one he'd ever really cared for.

  Georgie.

  He pushed the last shell into the magazine and dropped it into his pocket.

  Fuck it.

  He closed his eyes momentarily and she was there.

  She was always there, especially in quiet moments. He hated the nights more than ever now. Thoughts of her came to him in the lonely stillness and even though he fought to keep those thoughts at bay they battered against his consciousness.

  She'd been dead more than eight years now.

  Hadn't she?

  You should know. You held her that night, you looked into her eyes. You felt her blood on your hands. You smelled her.

  'Fuck it,' Doyle hissed under his breath and reached for another cassette, jamming it into the stereo, turning the sound even louder.

  'I hope the end is less painful than my life…'

  Doyle saw movement in his rear-view mirror and turned in his seat.

  The paper boy was about twelve, maybe younger. A tall lanky lad who was standing looking towards number ten London Road.

  He could see figures moving about on the path in front of the house.

  Uniformed figures.

  Doyle swung himself out of the car and the boy looked at him with an expression coloured by fear.

  Doyle ran a hand through his long hair, sweeping it back from his forehead. The cold wind sent it lashing back around his face.

  'You got any spare papers in there?' he asked, nodding towards the boy's bag.

  The paper boy looked at him blankly

  'I want a paper,' Doyle told him.

  I need something to pass the fucking time.

  The boy shook his head.

  'Do you deliver to number ten?'

  The boy nodded.

  Doyle held out a hand. 'I'll have theirs. They won't be needing it today.'

  The paper boy hesitated a moment then reached into his bag and handed the Mirror to the counter terrorist who took it and slid back behind the wheel.

  He turned to the sports pages and began reading.

  The paper boy stood motionless for a moment longer then tapped on Doyle's window. 'What's going on?'

  'Nothing for you to worry about,' Doyle said. 'You'd better deliver the rest of those papers.'

  'Are you sure number ten don't want theirs?' the boy persisted.

  'Trust me,' Doyle said, watching as
the boy nodded and rode off.

  The counter terrorist glanced first at his watch then at number ten London Road.

  The house was still in darkness.

  Doyle sighed irritably.

  How much longer?

  MEDIATION

  Broadcasting House, Belfast

  As the lift descended, William Hatcher looked across at the young woman standing opposite him.

  She was in her early twenties he guessed, perhaps younger.

  The same age as his own eldest daughter, he mused.

  The young woman had a clipboard clasped firmly to her chest and, as the lift descended slowly, she never took her gaze from the line of numbers above the door, each one lighting in turn as the lift fell from floor to floor on its even journey.

  Hatcher coughed, cupping one hand over his mouth.

  The young woman still didn't look at him.

  'Thank you for coming in,' she said finally, still staring fixedly at the row of numbers. 'I know you must be busy at the moment.'

  'You could say that,' Hatcher said, a small smile on his lips.

  'Have you done many interviews before?'

  He raised his eyebrows.

  He'd been a Unionist MP for the past six years, he'd done his share.

  'Did I sound like a novice?' he chuckled.

  The woman's cheeks coloured but still she didn't even glance his way.

  'No, I meant, well, you know… with the peace settlement coming off and that…' She was struggling for the words but Hatcher intervened to help as she stumbled.

  ‘I've done two already today,' he informed her. 'I've another four to go.'

  'All in Belfast?'

  He shook his head, realising then that she wouldn't notice the gesture as she was still gazing at the numbers above the lift door.

  'All over,' he told her.

  The lift finally bumped to a halt at the ground floor and only then did the young woman look at him, glancing at him sheepishly and smiling. She ushered him from the lift and together they walked along a short corridor towards reception.

  'How long have you been doing this job?' he asked her.

  'This is my third day,' she told him. 'I just take guests in and out, get tea and coffee for people, that kind of thing. Nothing important.'