Now and in the Hour of Our Death

by Patrick Taylor

  But if he did grass, how would he be able to live with himself? It wasn’t called turning for nothing. You had to leave everything behind. Friends of a lifetime. Erin. He’d have nothing—except the fear of discovery. He picked his nose, and his captive hand dragged over his chin.

  Maybe—maybe he could pretend to cooperate with the peeler, get out of this hellhole, and go straight back home and make a clean breast to Cal. It would be like being an altar boy after confession. Sins absolved, ready for a fresh start.

  But Cal O’Byrne wasn’t a priest. Cal would report to Provo command, and Sammy knew that, even if he did tell everything, he’d never allay the suspicions of the senior men. They couldn’t afford to take risks that anyone on the inside might be working for the British. The greatest threat to Irish revolutionaries had always come from within their own ranks. Once he’d opened the door to their thinking that they couldn’t trust him, they’d want him out of the Provos—and there was only one way out. Sammy rocked in his chair. A keening sound slipped past his lips.

  Could he run from the peelers and the Provos? Not a fucking chance. Where’d he go? He’d no money, didn’t even have a passport. That only left England, and England …

  He remembered something the big man had said, something about the Witness Protection Programme. Maybe there was a way, but if he took it he’d be no better than Art O’Hanlon or Mollie MacDacker. And he’d have to live with that—forever. It wouldn’t matter to his friends whether or not he’d believed in the Cause, had taken risks for Ireland. All that would count would be that he’d been the lowest slimy shite in the world as far as they were concerned. A man had to have a crumb of pride.

  Sammy started to pace, but in the dark, he blundered into the wall. His nose bled, and the blood and his tears made runnels down his lips on their way to join the vomit on his shirt front.

  He groped back to the chair and sat, elbows on the table, head propped in manacled hands that spread like the supplicant hands of a pietà.

  He was hardly aware that the lights had gone on and the door had opened and closed. He looked up and saw, blurred through his tears, a man standing across the table. Sammy sniffed, wiped each eye. It was not his previous tormentor. The newcomer had an open face and green eyes. There was something wrong with his left eye, a brown triangle in the green of the iris.

  “Jesus, Sammy,” he said softly, “you look a right mess. Did my mate belt you one?”

  Sammy shook his head.

  “You’d better clean yourself up. Gimme your hands.”

  Sammy obeyed and felt the handcuffs loosen and slip away. He chafed his wrists.

  “There’s a basin in the corner.”

  Sammy went to the basin, splashed cold water on his face. He hoped to God the cold would bring down the swelling under his eyes.

  “Use the towel.”

  Sammy dried his face. The towel was blood-streaked when he hung it on a rail under the sink.

  “Come and sit down.”

  Sammy sat. He felt like a spaniel obeying its master’s every command.

  “Let’s have a look at you.”

  Sammy felt a hand under his chin, stared into the green eyes with the brown triangle.

  “You’ll live.” The new man sat. “Fancy a smoke?”

  Sammy nodded.

  “Here.” He gave Sammy a Gallaher’s Green.

  The smoke burned Sammy’s throat, which had been rasped raw when he threw up. He coughed harsh, tearing hacks.

  “Take it easy,” the man said. “You’ll strangle yourself.” He sounded concerned.

  Sammy looked up and saw a broad smile and, despite himself, responded.

  “That’s better, Sunshine.”

  “The name’s Samuel.”

  The man laughed. “I know that. My mate … the one who was in here before … told me.”

  Sammy’s smile fled.

  “Bit rough on you, was he?”

  Sam nodded.

  “He can be like that. Pay no heed. He’ll not be back.”

  “Thank fuck for that.”

  “So”—the man lay back in his chair—“did you get a chance to think over what he talked to you about?”

  “About grassing?”

  “About helping us.”

  “Aye?”

  “And?”

  “I dunno.” Sammy picked his nose, clasped his hands, and stared at the wall, the floor, then the policeman. “Look. Tell me about that witness-protection thing.”

  “Sure. We’ve been running it for a while. When you get into it, we take you to England, give you a new identity, a whole new life … after you’ve done a few wee jobs for us.”

  Sammy hesitated.

  “We’d look after you. We’d not throw you to the dogs, Sammy.”

  “Your mate said he would.”

  “Yes”—the word was drawn out—“but only if you don’t cooperate. If you do, I’ll look after you. Be your friend.”

  Sammy closed his eyes. God, he needed a friend, but not like the lads he went smuggling with or the Donegal men who helped them. They were all right to sit down with, have a pint, a cigarette, a few laughs, but they weren’t real friends. Not like Cal or Erin O’Byrne—he would have to abandon her. He’d miss them both. A man couldn’t live without other people he could trust and who could trust him in return. Friends. The kind who would leap into a swollen river if he was in it drowning. The kind who would jump over the fence of a bull pen and distract the animal when he’d fallen in the mud and the beast was set to gore him. The kind of friend a man only made in childhood—but kept all his life. He’d miss—but then, if the peelers carried out their threat, he’d miss them all anyway. Forever.

  And he had to choose. One or the other.

  He took a very deep breath, opened his eyes, and whispered, “All right.”

  “Great.” The man put one hand on Sammy’s shoulder and offered the other. Sammy accepted the handshake and was warmed by the contact.

  “Now,” the man said, “I’ll tell you how it’s going to work.”

  Sammy listened.

  It took an hour to explain about dead-letter drops, safe meeting places, cover stories, the use of public telephones, how to spot a tail, how to listen for a bug on home telephones—all the hole-in-the-corner details of informing.

  They’d both need code names. The peeler laughed. “Why not what I just called you? Sunshine for you and … Spud for me?”

  “Spud? You’re not a Murphy, are you? You know as well as I do that every Murphy in Ireland’s nicknamed Spud.”

  “Do you think I’d pick a code name that would give anyone a lead to my real name?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Bloody right. Now, do you understand all that I’ve told you, Sunshine?”

  Sammy nodded.

  “Come on, then,” Spud said, rising, “let’s get you out of here. You’ll not have been in long enough for your friends to suspect a thing. You just tell them we had you in, ‘to help us with our enquiries.’ And do you know what?”

  “What?”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “The truth?”

  “Sure. That’s exactly what you’ll be doing. Helping us.” Spud opened the door. “Let’s get your clothes back.”

  Sammy scuttled to the open door, as anxious to leave the cell as a contrite sinner is to leave the confessional.

  “Oh, and Sunshine?”

  “What?”

  “Just in case you think of changing your mind, don’t forget about the wee present my mate said he’d put in your house. I think we’ll leave it there. If you don’t keep your promise and sing for me … my lot’ll have to sing about you.”

  Oh, Christ.

  “Don’t worry, Sammy. I’ll see you through the tough bits.”

  * * *

  Sammy felt the heat as his Park Drive almost burned his fingers. He stubbed it out to keep company with a heap of butts in an old jam-jar lid. Just as easily as the Provos could have snuffed him out. B
ut he had got away with the debriefing after he was released from jail. The senior Provos had accepted his story that the peelers had too much on their hands to be bothered with a pub brawl.

  He had got away with his double life until now, but how long would it be until his mates twigged? The only hope for his future would be to get out, but Spud had made it a condition that Sammy give him something really big before he’d keep his promise about England.

  And Spud would keep his word. As the months passed, Sammy had become attached to the peeler. He’d had to. Who else could he trust? Spud would keep his promise. He always did.

  But Sammy knew he needed something more important to give. Something bigger than the word about the arms delivery that Sammy had been sure was going to be his ticket out. “That’s great, Sam. We’ll get you over to England now.” But it hadn’t happened, and he hadn’t had a chance to explain that if the arms pickup was intercepted, the other members of the Provo cell would start to wonder how the Security Forces had found out.

  Only a few people knew about the shipment. He was one of them. Had he cooked his own goose? He’d promised to tell the peeler when the arms shipment was to be collected. Would that be enough? It might.

  He wished to God he knew more about Erin’s slip of the tongue about Eamon not being in the Kesh much longer. If a jailbreak was planned and Sammy could tell Spud, surely to God that would do the trick. Wouldn’t it? Wouldn’t it?

  He lit another cigarette. The whiskey warmed him, soothed him. Maybe it would work out—the whiskey fueled his imagination—if the police could stop the jailbreak, Eamon would be stuck in there forever and just maybe Erin would get tired of waiting for him and Sammy could—he shook his head. He’d not have time for that before he was out of this fucking country for good and for all. That was what really mattered and, by Christ, Sammy was going to do whatever the hell it took to make it happen. He had to have a way out.

  CHAPTER 13

  TYRONE. WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 21, 1983

  “Hey on out, Tess,” Erin shouted to her border collie, and gave a hand signal.

  Tess, crouching low to the ground, scurried to the far side of the herd, snapping at the heels of a Dexter cow that was trying to stray back to the field they had just left.

  “Hey on. Hey on.” Erin turned, closed the five-bar gate behind her, and glanced down to where the sun’s rays made the surface of the Strule River shine like molten copper.

  Across the Strule Valley, the colours changed from the greens of the water meadows to the russets of bracken-strewn hillsides studded with yellow blooms of gorse and deepened to the purple, heather-clad slopes of Slieveard, where the mountain bulked against the eastern sky. Overhead, she heard the calling of a homeward-bound flock of green plover, their “pee-wit, pee-wit” a descant above the lowing of the herd.

  Perhaps her brother and sisters were happy in their new countries, glad to be away from the Troubles, but they’d not have the chance to see the Strule, the Sperrin Mountains a craggy line to the north, hear the plover. They had all been a part of Erin’s home for as long as she could remember. No wonder Da had loved this country. No wonder that she did.

  “Push them in.”

  The dog obeyed, chivvying the milk-laden animals into the byre, the big beasts, rolling their liquid brown eyes in fear of the little dog, being driven where their tormentor ordered.

  Just like, she thought, the way the mighty British Empire had been driven out of most of Ireland by the constant worrying of a small group of patriots nipping at their flanks. It only remained to chase England from the last six counties, here in the northeast. And she and those like her fully intended to see them gone, back to their home byre in the island across Saint George’s Channel.

  The weapons cache that Sammy had brought in on Saturday would be part of that, and Erin wanted the arms safely out of the churchyard before Eamon and the others made their break. Once that happened, the Security Forces would be so tied up, so single-mindedly focused on recapturing the escapees, that their guard would be down. She had an idea for taking advantage of that. And they’d need the rifles and the Semtex.

  But that would have to wait for a little longer. She was still a farmer, and the work on the farm never stopped. Someone had to see to the cows, bring them in from the pasture, milk them.

  The Dexter was a good breed. It had originated in the west of Ireland. The beasts were hardy enough to be driven outdoors year-round and equally prized for their beef and their milk. Da had built up the herd. He wanted Irish cattle on the O’Byrnes’ place, none of the foreign English Friesians or Scottish Ayrshires for him.

  Erin went into the byre, where the beasts, unbidden, had gone into their stalls and stood docilely, udders full of warm milk, contentedly chewing the cud, smelling of sweet clover and cow farts.

  She hooked up the electrical milking machines as she’d done every day for years, grateful for the animals’ doe-eyed patience—all except that bitch, Margaret. As usual, she kicked the side of the stall, bellowed as the cold steel nozzles were slipped onto her teats.

  Being a cow must be pretty humdrum, Erin thought, as she walked from the last stall and switched on the power. Once in a while she’d not mind a bit of humdrum herself, but that would come—once the Brits were gone.

  As the machinery hummed and the milk sloshed into the vat, she busied herself hanging up some loose pieces of equipment that should have been put back in their proper places. That brother of hers. She grunted as she lifted a heavy coupling for the mower; if he ever got through the pearly gates, Saint Peter would have to assign one angel full-time to keep reminding Cal to preen his wings and polish his halo.

  Erin heard Margaret bellow. She always did that when her udders were empty. Erin switched off and moved along the stalls, unhooking the beasts. All she had to do now was wash the lines and nozzles.

  When she was finished, she called to Tess, and together they walked across the barnyard. Erin carried a jug of fresh milk. She stopped and stared up at an outbuilding—that bloody roof. The slates were ebony black from the recent rain, overgrown with the moss of the years. Two—no three—were loose, and they were letting the rain through and onto the tractor in the outbuilding. The old rusting, red Massey-Harris had sounded as if it had bronchitis when she’d driven it yesterday. She’d have to chase up Cal to fix it. Or Sammy. He was a damn good mechanic.

  She walked on to the farmhouse.

  “Go to bed, Tess.”

  The collie looked up with porcelain-blue eyes and obeyed, slipping into her kennel.

  Erin hauled off her muddy Wellington boots and tried to open the farmhouse door. As usual, it stuck, and, as usual, she swore at it, but she smiled as she swore. There was a comfort in familiar things, like milking the cows and the turn of the farmer’s seasons—and an old sticking door that her big brother was too idle to mend.

  She yelled across the barnyard. “Fiach. Supper.”

  The kitchen door jerked open. After the damp of the byre, the kitchen was turf-fire cosy. The smell of peat mingled with the aroma of roast ham.

  She set the milk jug on the table.

  “All done?” Cal turned from the range. Sammy sat at the kitchen table.

  “Aye. Margaret acted up. That’s your modern cow for you. No respect.”

  “Ah, Jesus, Erin, you’ve a quare soft hand under a duck, so you have. You could milk a rhinoceros with rabies.”

  “Bollocks,” she said, grinning. “Get your hands washed, the pair of you.” She moved to the range, slipped on oven mitts, and pulled the ham from the oven. “It’s done to a treat.” She set the roasting pan on the counter and lifted the ham onto a pewter plate, fashioned in the shape of a pig. “I’ll carve.”

  Cal and Sammy washed in the kitchen sink and sat at the table.

  Fiach came in, red-haired, broad-shouldered like his brother, his left eye closed and surrounded by a bruise that had started to turn yellow.

  “It’s a grand thing, that hurling of yours, Fiach,”
she said. “A real sport for gentlemen.”

  “The eye? Sure it’s all in a day’s work on the field. You should have seen me on Saturday. The fella that gave me this.” Fiach pointed to the bruise under his eye. “I marmalized him, near killed him.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t,” Erin said. “They’d have chucked you in jail for murder, and Eamon in the Kesh is enough for us to worry about.” She noticed Sammy swing toward her when she mentioned the Kesh. Was he still smarting because he hadn’t been let in on the secret? Bugger him if he was. He’d live.

  “Get washed,” she said to Fiach, and as he passed her she tousled his hair.

  “Here.” Erin put a plate of ham on the red-and-white checked tablecloth and a tureen close by it.

  She watched Cal help himself to colcannon. Nothing like it—creamed spuds and cabbage. He poured himself a glass of milk, waited for Erin and Fiach to take their places, closed his eyes, and bowed his head. Why was he saying grace to a God who had forsaken Ireland, a God that Erin had stopped believing in on the night of the failed ambush of a UDR man?

  The bugger had seen them and fired first. That was the night when she and young Terry O’Rourke had stumbled off into the darkness, and she’d held the boy, lung shot, red froth on his lips, bleeding to death in a ditch as he cried to Mother Mary, whimpered for his own mother.

  Her pray to God? Habit. Nothing more.

  “Amen.” Cal raised his head.

  “Och, aye. God save Ireland,” Erin said. “Pass the milk.”

  “You mentioned Eamon there, Erin. How is he?” Sammy asked, not meeting her eyes as he spoke.

  So he was still smarting that something might be going on that he didn’t know about. She wished she’d kept her mouth shut the other night. Or was he angry? Was there something else behind the question?

  “He’s fine, Sam. It’s visiting day tomorrow. Will I tell him you were asking for him?”