by Finn Óg
And then she was below, and soon there was the smell of rashers cooking and he was relieved he hadn’t told her they were actually crossing the North Channel.
Libby’s superior never paid visits, yet she found him sitting in her chair in her secure quarters on the edge of the DET’s area of the base.
“Oh,” she gasped. Nobody but her occupied that wing of the building, built as it had been for more of her type during busier times.
He looked up from her handwritten notes, evidently enraged. “You gave the police something?”
“Yes, I kind of had to. Is there a problem?” Her voice began to croak a little.
“There is a problem,” he said softly, which was even more disconcerting.
“We had to offer them something insignificant to explain why we were in Ballycastle.”
“So, in your wisdom, you handed them the safe house?”
“We handed them an old-timer – largely removed from the whole thing.”
“And how would you know how removed she is?”
Libby remained quiet for a moment. She hadn’t really considered Deirdre Rushe to be key to this at all. Her file had ended almost a decade previously, and so handing her over hadn’t seemed a problem. “Well, I looked her up and there were no updates on record, so I assumed she was old vintage?”
“Old vintage is often the most valuable.”
“She’s an asset?”
“She’s not a person I want lying in a police cell with her emphysemic husband sucking on an oxygen mask and her imbecile son crying like a child about going back to jail!”
The superior’s outburst was enough to quell the questions rocketing around Libby’s head. “Sorry,” she said sincerely. “The police liaison pair were coming and it seemed like a quick way to deviate their interest.”
“Stall, Libby. Never act in haste. You should have put them off, not spun some reactive scheme. You need to be playing the pieces – not the plods.”
“Understood. Of course. Sorry. How can we fix this?”
“What do they have on us?”
“To place us there?”
“In Ballycastle, yes.”
“Very little. One of the ops approached the photographer and disposed of his camera cards.”
“On the day itself?”
“Immediately after the explosion.”
“So he could pass as an angered citizen?”
“They seem pretty convinced he was ours.”
“And you handed them Deirdre Rushe on the strength of that? That they seem ‘pretty convinced’?”
“Now you say it like that, I can see what a mistake it was.”
“You cannot imagine what a mistake it was, Libby, but what’s done is done. Now we must wait for Rushe to be released, and then give her some peace. If you tag her, or are requested to by the police, make it exceptionally loose. I do not want that woman upset any further.”
Libby couldn’t help but be curious at her superior’s turn of phrase, but she knew better than to open her mouth again.
“Ok, it’s pretty good,” Sinead said as she finished the seafood platter she’d shared with Isla.
“It’s really nice. I luff it,” Isla chipped in.
Sam chugged a rum and felt as content as he had in a long while. He looked at his little girl, completely at ease, and put up his hand to request a refill from the bar. Sinead poured another glass of wine.
“Can I go to the toilet?”
“Course.”
Sinead waited until Isla had opened the door, then the warmth of the alcohol and the rustic surroundings gave her enough confidence to pose the question. “So you gonna tell me where you were last night?”
Sam deliberated a little, then thought – what the hell, I didn’t kill anyone. “I went to the scene.”
“Oh,” she replied, genuinely surprised and then instantly guilty. “Oh, Sam, I’m sorry.”
“Why?”
“Well, I just assumed you were, you know, working or something.”
He thought for a moment. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for.”
“I can … understand, I guess, why going there was important. I’d forgotten you hadn’t been there at the time.”
“You saw it in the aftermath. That must have been rough.”
“I was scared, for Isla. The rest of it just kinda went by in a frenzy.”
“Thank you for what you did. It was …”
“Don’t be daft. But how was it – for you – seeing it?”
“Fine.” Sam shrugged. “It’s done now.”
“You’re tired,” she said.
“Good tired,” he replied. “In good company.”
And she realised that was about as much as she could hope for just now.
“What’s the plan tomorrow?”
“You want to see the gardens? Apparently they’re beautiful.”
“Yeah. Not really your thing, though, I’d imagine.”
“I might go for a swim. It’s pretty clear up round here – the water, like.”
After three courses they headed down the single pontoon and Sam poured two powerful nightcaps as Isla got ready for bed. And then they were back where they’d been a few weeks before, sitting in the saloon, drinking strong rum, loosening their tongues.
“That unit you worked in.”
“Uh-huh,” Sam said, unsure as to why that should feature in Sinead’s thinking.
“Is it still going now? I mean, is it supposed to operate in peace time?”
“It wasn’t really supposed to operate back then. At least not the way it did, I reckon.”
“But intelligence gathering was official, wasn’t it?”
“Ah, yeah, but there was some blurring of the edges.”
“So is it still going?”
“I’d say so, but it’ll be even further under the radar now.”
“And have you any friends left in it?”
“I don’t know,” said Sam honestly. “Why?”
“Just wondering, you know, they might be, like … helpful.”
Sam looked at her for a long while but didn’t feel the need to clarify what she meant, opting to take her comment as a kind of endorsement.
“The DET isn’t the type of organisation you could find out about. If someone was still in it – or back in it, which is more likely cos the secondments were mostly time-limited, there wouldn’t be any way to find out. That’s if it is actually still working at all.”
“But you said it was?”
“I said it probably was. I can’t see them giving up that sort of gathering capability.”
“Gathering?”
“Information, movements, intel. The stuff we could do back then would make your skin crawl. I’d say the stuff they can do now with digital tech would probably blow both our minds.”
“Probably should zip it then.” Sinead slurred a little as she smiled but closed her lips to run a finger and thumb across them.
Still, it was comforting to know she had worked him out and wasn’t cross about it.
Deirdre Rushe lay in her cell; an old woman crouching to her hands and knees to lie on a rubber mat, worried for her husband, terrified for her son.
The old man on oxygen was taken to a private room at Causeway Hospital where a police officer sat outside as he sucked on his bottle and watched his telly. The son was visibly upset at being back in a cell but was just about smart enough to remember to keep quiet.
And then the questioning stopped and without explanation they were released. The cops even ordered them taxis.
The opso handed Libby a tablet. “Demand from the police. Note the tone.”
She looked at the call sheet: direct close observation of Deirdre Rushe and her son.
The opso’s eyebrows knitted together. “They don’t direct us, Libby, they request.”
“We’ll just need to wear this for a while. And we also need to make the watch more relaxed than usual – Deirdre Rushe is not a threat.”
“How
do you know that?”
Libby tilted her head a little. “You know better than to ask me that.”
It did nothing to improve the opso’s mood. “We’re just the oily rags, Libby. We’re here at your command,” he said and walked off.
Sam had plenty of time to think as they crossed the North Channel. Plied with coffee and grub he was joined at the helm, on occasion, by Sinead. They didn’t say much, but the sea wasn’t uncomfortable and the sun went down in a blaze of red, promising a good dawn. The instruments blinked from white light to red, and he showed her how to read the radar.
“So when we get back, you’ve got a day to relax. You might need it if you stay up all night.”
“I’ll go to bed soon, but I’d like to see the sunrise.”
“I’ll give you a call. It won’t seem like long, though.”
“Do you ever sleep?”
Sam ignored the question and posed one of his own. “How would you feel if I went to the scene again – when we get back.”
“I’m sure I’m not supposed to ask why.”
Sam shrugged in the dusk, but he didn’t know whether she’d seen it.
“Fine,” she said, but not in a it’s-fine-but-it-isn’t-really-fine-at-all sort of way.
“Thanks, Sinead.”
The boat sliced on and Sinead eventually got up to go below. “You’ll wake me – before sunrise?”
“I might even make the coffee.”
Only one hack had been tipped off about the release. She called for comment but received none as the old woman and her half-daft son scuttled into the house, heads down. The curtains remained drawn from the night they’d been picked up. Shortly afterwards an ambulance pulled up and the husband was aided to the front door by a paramedic.
Deirdre wondered how she would even manage to get a pint of milk if the journalist stayed outside. She had no friends in the town and she couldn’t expect anything better than hostility from here on in. She had no doubt they would have to move house, yet again. That made her think of the man who had asked her to put the rangy youth up in her home. And she hated him.
Her husband looked badly shaken. She sat him down, slipped his feet into his slippers and made black tea. With wet eyes she stroked his wizened cheek, smoothing it with her thumb, sorry for all she had put him through over her fifty years as an activist. He bubbled and sucked as she went upstairs to turn on their electric blanket. She found a man sitting on the bed. Dressed oddly in black.
“Say nothing, step inside, close the door.”
The opso stared at the screen and sighed.
“Right, pull back.”
“Received,” came over the net.
He turned to Libby. “We should at least have put a rip in the house.”
Libby just shrugged. She couldn’t disagree. It would have been standard to listen to what was being said in the home of someone arrested for involvement in a bombing. But her superior had been clear: loose watch, and only if requested by the police. She may never know for sure but everything indicated that Deirdre Rushe was more than an ageing old activist.
The old woman froze, yet evidently saw little point in screaming or running outside into the hands of a hostile reporter. She managed to get a hold of her emotions and gradually became calmer than he could have hoped for – taking him in, running him down from shaven head to wide shoulders, rubber suited head to foot.
“How long have you been here?” she said.
“Not long,” he replied, curious as to why she hadn’t first asked who he was.
“You lot said we’d be out sooner.”
At which point the mist cleared a little and something told Sam he’d misunderstood.
“So what now?” she said.
“Sit down.” Sam stalled, motioning to the bed, rationalising what was going on.
“You want to what – debrief me?” she nearly snarled.
Sam thought that was as good a proposal as any given that this was not going as he’d anticipated.
“Talk me through it,” he hedged.
“I wanted rid of him.” She shrugged. “So I went to Coleraine and called Grim and told him – get this kid out of my house.”
“Why?” Sam was confused as to why she was talking so freely. Who did she think he was?
“He was a sulky little twerp, scratching at the walls, and I couldn’t trust him. I caught him one night – looking out.”
“Looking at what?”
“He saw me going to the car to talk to your lot.”
Sam trod softly lest he messed up this unexpected opportunity. “Go on,” he ventured, offering nothing, hoping for everything.
“Grim flew off the handle and sent that sleeked little shit in his place.”
Bingo, thought Sam, and took a risk. “The manager?”
“Useless git. He just told me to hang on. I thought he was here to take the kid away. I’d changed my mind – I do not need this shit any more. I have a dying husband to look after – and you lot promised you’d get him the best of care and I am yet to see it.”
She’s an informer, thought Sam. Someone turned her.
“Then what?”
“Then I threw the lad out, and, sure, you know the rest. He’s dead, God rest him.”
“Tell me anyway. I need the details.”
“Well, I don’t know the rest, do I?” she rounded on him. “He obviously went to a car at the harbour and managed to trigger a device!”
She was angry now. Sam thought this stone-cold killer might cry.
“So what was the target?”
Her eyes sharpened and her head took a tiny move to the right, suspicion falling over her face like a shroud.
“Did you know what he was here to do?” Sam gave it a last gasp, knowing he’d lost her.
“Who are you?” She got up suddenly, reaching for the door.
“Who do you think I am?” He rose and slammed the door shut, conscious it would lead to interest from below.
She wrestled a bit but he caught her and manoeuvred her face down onto the bed, taking her arm behind her.
“That’s your son downstairs,” he growled in her ear.
“You leave him be,” she managed to wheeze. “He’s not wise and he’s no threat to anyone.”
“He’s a dead man if you don’t answer the next set of questions quickly and honestly.”
She panted heavily and Sam could feel how brittle the old woman was in his gloved hands.
“What was the plan?” he barked.
“I don’t know – you’d need to ask Grim or Hagan.”
“Where can I find this Grim?”
“Who are you?” she asked again, defiant.
“You wanna keep your son and husband breathing, you tell me what I need to know right now.”
“Creaghan,” she spluttered as he twisted her wrist.
“Crayon?” he repeated, angry and conscious of noise and time.
“It’s an estate.”
“Derry?”
“Craigavon.”
“Number?”
“Don’t know,” she gasped as the door opened behind them, a pause, then the son rushed in.
Sam let go of the tiny wrist and used the momentum of his turn to uppercut the approaching man who was unconscious before he hit the floor. His slippered feet actually caught air as he rose with the punch, his head smashing against a small desk on the way down.
“Leave him alone!” Rushe cried.
“Where was the bomb for?”
“What?” she sobbed.
“What was the target?”
“I wouldn’t know that. I was just putting the boy up!” She stared at her son.
“Who made it? Who made the bomb?”
“Have you—”
“He’s not dead – not yet. Who made the bomb?”
“You’d need to ask Grim.”
Sam heard a door open downstairs, followed by a pant and a shuffle.
“Deirdre?” came a hoarse whisper, barely audible th
rough the open door.
“You mention this visit to anyone, I’ll come back and finish him,” he pointed to the prostate son on the floor, “and the oul fella will choke to death without his bottle.”
“Just get out,” she growled, pushing past him to kneel at her son. “Get out!”
“Deirdre?” The voice at the foot of the stairs was weakening.
Sam rolled a balaclava down his face. The old woman rose to speak to her husband, but as she did so her ankle gave way and she stumbled round the door frame and plummeted down the stairs.
“Fuck,” Sam said quietly, and went down after her.
The old man had one blue-veined hand wrapped around a medical-issue banister, the other clutching his mask as he heaved air into him and stared at his wife, bundled at his feet. His eyes opened in amazement as Sam, all in black, came down after her.
“You … killed her,” the old guy heaved, stunned.
Sam looked at her and had to agree that she did look rather dead, twisted upon herself, but he didn’t have time to give it thought. He reached down and popped the tube off the old man’s bottle and lifted the gas from its wheels. The convulsions followed quickly as Sam made his way back the way he’d come in, cylinder under his arm. He’d wait for four o’clock, dead hour, to extract past his former friends and the curiously loose surveillance he’d watched them put in place.
18
“What the fuck is going on?”
Two visits in one week. Not good. Libby looked at her superior and opted for honesty. “I … thought maybe you were here to tell me?”
“What?”
“Well, you said withdraw, loose watch, nothing intrusive, so I thought—”
“You thought we did this?”
“No, no,” she stumbled, meaning, yes, of course that’s what I thought. She could see he was seething.
“Just how loose a watch was it that you couldn’t see someone enter a house in a lit street with nobody else around?” he shouted.
“I don’t know,” she stammered. She’d never heard him raise his voice before.
