Now and in the Hour of Our Death

by Patrick Taylor

  “Cal had had word that a platoon of Green Howards…”

  “Green whats?”

  “Howards. They’re a British regiment.”

  “Green, by God. Are you sure they weren’t Irish?” Fiach chuckled.

  “Jesus, Fiach. Do you want to hear this or don’t you?”

  “I’m sorry. Go on.”

  “We went out as snipers. Just over the border.”

  “So the Brits couldn’t shoot back?”

  “That’s right. They’re not allowed to fire into the Republic.”

  “Seems daft to me. If someone was shooting at me, I’d bloody well shoot back.”

  “They couldn’t. They still can’t and that suits us fine. Anyway, there we were, me and Eamon hidden behind a wall. Just like clockwork, along comes the patrol. In the dusk.”

  She could still feel the weight of the rifle, the cold of the butt against her cheek, see the chevrons on the British corporal’s sleeve as the crosshairs of the Bausch & Lomb telescopic sight moved across his arm to the centre of his chest.

  “Twelve of the bastards, all spaced out, holding their rifles. Eamon had told me to take the wireless operator…”

  “And did you?”

  “No. I asked him home for a cup of tea.”

  “Away off. You never did.”

  “No, I didn’t, but if you don’t stop interrupting, I’ll never get this story told.”

  She’d remember to her dying day the thump of the rifle’s recoil into her shoulder, the man in khaki going down in a heap, and his mates scattering like scared rabbits.

  “I got my man, and Eamon killed a second one who was trying to hide behind a whin bush.”

  Fiach whistled. “Good for you. I’d like to have a go at that.”

  “Well, you can’t. They’ve stopped patrolling on foot now. It’s too dangerous for them. They go everywhere by helicopter.”

  “I know,” Fiach said. “Did you hear the racket last night? I wonder what they were up to?”

  “Just patrolling. I’d not worry about it.”

  Fiach stood, walked up and down, and then asked, “How did you feel after? Were you not scared?”

  Erin thought about the question and decided she’d not tell Fiach all the truth. He was too young to understand. “I was a bit,” she said. “A couple of the soldiers ignored their rules and fired at where they thought we were. Ricochets going over your head make a hell of a row.”

  “Phweeeee.” Fiach imitated the noises they’d both heard in the sound tracks of Western movies. “Like that?”

  “More or less.” Dear God. Sixteen and he was still only a wee boy at heart.

  “I’ll bet you kept your heads down.”

  “We had to stay behind the wall until it was dark enough to make a run for it.” And that was all she was going to tell Fiach. He didn’t need to know how, adrenaline running, all her senses honed to razor’s edge, she and Eamon had slipped away after nightfall. They had found a dry hollow, and she’d gone at him, ripping the fly of his pants open, taking him in her mouth, hearing his cry as she had bitten too hard on the stiffness of him, the turf and bracken springy under her as he entered her, hot, determined, thrusting, the weight of him on her. And somewhere in the sky, clear and liquid, the song of a nightingale borne as Erin was borne, higher and higher on the rays of the rising moon.

  She rose and looked through the window.

  “Lord,” she said, “is that moon never going to set tonight?”

  The moon that she could see hanging above the barn roof would be fuller in two nights’ time, when Eamon got here. Once he and his mates were safely ensconced in the old grave, she knew she’d still have to wait until the hue and cry had died down, but then she was going to hear the nightingale sing again.

  Right, girl, she told herself, that’s going to be then, but there’s business to attend to now, and while a moon may be wonderful for lovers, it was a pain in the arse for anyone who wanted to move undetected at night.

  Fiach stood beside her. “Is it not time yet?”

  She thought he sounded like a six-year-old on Christmas morning. “Has Father Christmas come yet? Has he? Has he?”

  “Just bide, Fiach. Look”—she pointed through the window—“see that big cloud bank?”

  “Aye.”

  “We’ll need to wait until the moon’s behind it. That’ll give you better cover.”

  “But I could get started now. The moon’ll make it easier for me to see going across the fields.”

  “And what would you tell a Brit patrol if they stopped you? The O’Byrnes always spread slurry by moonlight?”

  Fiach grinned. “There won’t be any Brits out tonight. With all the sniping you and Eamon did, they’d be too scared.”

  Erin shook her head. “I’d not be too sure. Some of those bastards are hard to scare, I’ll grant them that. But”—she crossed her fingers—“you’re probably right. Now,” she said, “be a good lad and sit down. I’ll tell you when.”

  “All right.”

  She looked at him. His head seemed to be bigger because of the rolled-up balaclava perched on top of his head. “Jesus Christ, Fiach, you’ve a face on you like a Lurgan spade. Cheer up. It’ll not be long now.”

  She wondered if she and Cal had been wrong to turn down Sammy’s offer to go with Fiach. Cal thought the boy should go alone, said it would be his blooding, like the daubing of the face of a youngster out on his first hunt after the hounds had torn the fox to pieces. Decent of Sammy to volunteer, but she had seen the look of relief on the little man’s face when his offer had been refused. Was Sammy losing his nerve? He’d have known that an arms pickup in the early hours of the morning would be simple, wouldn’t it? Unless the Brits had got wind of something. And how could they?

  The room darkened as the moon disappeared.

  “Now?” Fiach leapt to his feet and rolled the woolen helmet over his face so that only his eyes and mouth showed. He headed for the door.

  “Come here.”

  “What?”

  “Give me a hug.”

  He turned and grabbed her. She felt the young strength of him as he squeezed.

  “Jesus, I said a hug, not a crush.” She kissed his woolly cheek. “Take care of yourself, boy.”

  “Don’t you worry your head about me … Mammy.”

  “I’m not your mammy.”

  “You might as well have been.”

  And she knew the truth of it. She’d reared him when he’d been wee, dried his tears, wiped his snotty nose, put Elastoplast on his skinned knees, loved him.

  “I’m off.” He bolted for the door, opening both halves at once with a shove from his shoulder. “I’ll be back in about an hour.”

  Erin heard the lower half of the door scratch along the tiles of the floor. The boy had been in such a hurry he’d not even bothered to close the upper half. She walked to the door and heard the clattering of the tractor’s engine, watched the black outline of the tractor and the cart it was towing bounce down the farm lane, Fiach’s silhouette dark against the skyline. He disappeared into the dip in the road.

  She looked up at the stars, bright against the sky above the edge of the cloudbank. There was the handle of the Plough and its two far stars pointing to Polaris above the Sperrin Mountains.

  She heard a questioning whimper from just outside the door, looked down, and saw Tessie.

  Damnation. She’d told him to take the dog to scout for him. She should have made sure that he had. He’d been so damn impatient. It was too late now. The noise of the tractor’s engine was nearly inaudible. Fiach was well on his way to the Ballydornan churchyard.

  “Go to bed, Tessie,” she said, and hugged herself. The night air was cold. Her breath hung misty and silvered. She crossed herself and whispered, “Holy Mary, Mother of God, watch out for my Fiach.”

  * * *

  Another bloody wild-goose chase. Sergeant Buchan eased his cramped muscles and looked at the luminous dial of his watch. Three in the mor
ning. “The brass think the gen’s reliable.” That’s what the captain had said. How could anyone rely on information from a man who would inform? How did the tout’s handler know that the Provos hadn’t suspected, beaten the bejesus out of the snitch, and turned him into a double agent who’d feed nothing but a pack of lies to his E4A man? The Provos had done that before, and had themselves set up an ambush for their would-be ambushers. He’d lost a good mate like that south of here in Armagh.

  The darkness since the moon had gone was like a shroud wrapping the graveyard. He scanned the target area through a monocular infrared telescope. Nothing but the grey-green outlines of the great cross, gravestones, the wall and gate at the far side. He stiffened, straining to hear. Yes. Yes. That was the engine of a tractor somewhere out beyond the wall. He waited. It was coming closer.

  He squinted through the nightscope and saw the trooper farther up the ditch shift into firing position. So he’d heard it, too. The torch taped to the barrel of the man’s ArmaLite was pointed directly at the sarcophagus.

  The engine noises were much louder now, and the sergeant could smell the exhaust fumes. The engine stopped. The driver would be walking to the graveyard. Would he be alone?

  Sergeant Buchan held his HK 53 ready and hoped to God his men would remember their orders. Bring ’em back alive. This was the first stakeout for the corporal and the trooper in the church. The soldier in the ditch was on his second tour in Ulster. He should know the ropes, and the rules of engagement. Every soldier in Ulster was issued with a Yellow Card, which said in no uncertain terms that, “opening fire is correct only if the person is committing or about to commit an act likely to endanger life.” Firing first was “likely to endanger life.” So, in the sergeant’s opinion, was pointing a gun.

  He heard a metallic screeching to his front and focused the nightscope. A figure had opened the iron gate in the far wall, passed through, and was walking toward the sarcophagus. No sign of anyone else. Once the bugger opened the lid of the old grave and actually picked up a weapon and put his fingerprints on it, they’d have him cold—and the arms cache.

  The sergeant heard the faint, metallic click as the trooper slipped off the safety catch of his weapon. The shadowy figure ahead paused, lifted his head as if scenting the air for danger, waited, then knelt beside the grave. Stone rasped on stone. He was shifting the lid. The sergeant heard the man grunt as he reached inside the sarcophagus. He straightened, a rifle held in both hands.

  “Now.”

  The beam from the trooper’s torch slashed across the graveyard.

  “Drop it. Get your hands behind…” But the figure slammed the rifle against his shoulder and swung to aim along the beam of the torch. A glance up the ditch reassured the sergeant that his man was not in any danger, hidden as he was behind the lip of the ditch.

  “Hold your fi…”

  A sound like ripping calico tore from the church doorway. Muzzle flashes rent the darkness. The Provo was slammed across the open grave, his weapon clattering as it hit the stone.

  “Shit,” Sergeant Buchan grunted, rising from his bramble patch and loping forward. “Keep that torch on him.”

  The Provo clutched his belly and whimpered.

  Sergeant Buchan bent over the man and ripped a balaclava off his head. “Oh, Christ,” the sergeant said, as he looked into eyes already milky with coming death. “It’s only a kid.”

  “With a fucking ArmaLite,” the corporal said from behind Buchan’s shoulder. “And he fired first.”

  Sergeant Buchan lifted the ArmaLite. He sniffed the muzzle. Clean. The weapon had not been fired. He opened the breech. Empty. There was going to be hell to pay. Unless—

  “Give me a round.” He held his hand out to the corporal. The ArmaLite and the army-issue rifles were the same .223 calibre. He slipped the bullet into the open breech, closed it, pointed the weapon at the ground, and fired. “You’re right, Corporal,” Buchan said. “The bugger did fire first.” He held the rifle for the corporal to smell the muzzle. “There’s your evidence.”

  “What about your prints, Sarge? They’ll be all over the bloody thing now?”

  “Careless of me, wasn’t it, to break procedure and pick up the weapon.”

  “Yes it was, Sarge.”

  Buchan heard the corporal snigger. He knew he could trust his men to back up his story. He knelt and felt under the angle of the boy’s chin. No pulse. They’d get no HUMINT out of this one. He was dead. Dead as mutton. Pity about that.

  CHAPTER 17

  TYRONE. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 24, 1983

  It was a pity that Erin hadn’t made sure Fiach’d taken Tess. Should she have sent Sammy along with the lad? What the hell was keeping Fiach, anyway? Was the consignment heavier than he’d anticipated and was it taking more time to unload in the neolithic grave? But if he had gone there, surely she would have heard the tractor go by as he passed the farmyard. But Fiach would be all right. Of course he would.

  Erin yawned. Her eyes were gritty, lids drooping, but there’d be no bed for her until Fiach was safely home. She stared through the window.

  The greys of the false dawn had yielded to a pink glow that tinted the eastern hills like rouge on the face of a courtesan. The edge of the rising sun sliced into the sky above Slieveard. It was light enough to see that nobody was driving across the fields at the back of the farmhouse. He must be at the grave. Or had the bloody tractor broken down?

  She heard the hall door open behind her and turned to see Cal, hair tousled, shirt undone at the neck, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

  “Is he not home yet?”

  “No.”

  “He’s taking a brave while.”

  “I’m worried, Cal.”

  “Och, he’ll be grand.” Cal turned to the range. “Tea on?”

  “The kettle’s boiled, but…”

  “I’ll make my own, have a cup, and if he’s not home by the time I’ve drunk it, I’ll take a wee run-race down to the tumulus. If he’s not there, I’ll head on over to Ballydornan.”

  “I’ll come with…” Erin stiffened. “What’s that?” She strained to hear. It sounded like an engine. She ran to the back door. It must be Fiach. It had to be. She threw open the upper door half and heard the noises of an engine—more than one engine—coming down the farm lane from the main road. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”

  The sounds of the vehicles were drowned by the roaring of a helicopter appearing over the crest of the hills. It swooped toward her and hovered overhead. She could see the British soldiers in the aircraft’s open side doors, flak-jacketed, helmeted. They were pointing machine guns down at the house.

  She spun to Cal. “Fiach’s been lifted.” Please, God, let that be all.

  Cal moved toward her and put his arm round her shoulders. “We don’t know that.”

  She watched a grey-painted Land Rover and a Saracen armoured car drive into the farmyard. Both halted. Tessie raced at them, barking as she did when any strangers came.

  “Get in here, Tess.” One of those trigger-happy bastards might shoot the dog.

  Tessie obeyed, teeth bared, tail low, glancing over her shoulder at the intruders.

  “Go to bed.”

  The collie slunk into her kennel. Erin could hear the dog’s throaty growling.

  Soldiers leapt from the open tailgate of the Saracen and took up positions surrounding the wall of the farmyard. Some knelt, covering the approaches to the farm with their self-loading rifles. Three faced her, SLRs at the high port.

  A bottle-green-uniformed police inspector accompanied by a constable left the Land Rover. Both were flak-jacketed. Both were armed. The inspector who was carrying a beige envelope in one hand wore a holstered revolver. The constable carried a Sten gun.

  She heard Cal whisper, “Don’t tell them anything.”

  She peered inside the vehicle to where a man in plain clothes sat beside the uniformed driver. She knew that the ones in green were regular Criminal Investigation Department, CID, officers
. The plainclothes man would be Special Branch, the antiterrorist wing of the police force. She could see part of his face. There was something wrong with his left eye. A triangle of brown in the green iris. She’d remember that.

  The inspector and constable stopped outside the door. “Mr. O’Byrne?” the inspector asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I’d like to have a word.”

  “What about?”

  “Can we come inside?”

  “Have you a warrant?” Cal moved to block the door.

  “No.”

  “You can stay where you are then.”

  “We can do this back at the barracks, you know.”

  Erin knew under the Prevention of Terrorism Act the police could arrest anyone on suspicion—and refusing entry would be regarded as suspicious.

  “You’d better come in,” she said. “Just you. Leave that man outside. And tell him to point that gun somewhere else.”

  “Wait here, Constable.”

  “Sir.”

  The inspector looked down at his muddy boots.

  “Use that.” Erin pointed to a boot scraper beside the front step and waited while the policeman cleaned off most of the mud.

  Why were they here? Was it just another routine raid? They knew about her and Eamon. Any associates, never mind girlfriends of known Provos, were kept under routine surveillance. But they’d never proved anything about the O’Byrnes. Never would.

  Or was it about Fiach? She had to find out, right now.

  “That’ll do,” she snapped at the inspector. “They’re clean enough. Come in.”

  Cal wrenched the door open and stood aside. Erin preceded the inspector into the kitchen. Cal followed and stood beside her. She didn’t offer the man a chair.

  “What’s all this about?” Cal asked.

  “I’d prefer to speak to you alone, Mr. O’Byrne.”

  “I’m not leaving.” Erin stared at the man until he looked away and said, “Suit yourself, Miss O’Byrne, but you may not want to hear this.”