Now and in the Hour of Our Death

by Patrick Taylor

  Jesus Christ Almighty. They must have lifted Fiach.

  “Mr. O’Byrne, a man was shot this morning. Resisting arrest.”

  In spite of herself, Erin gasped.

  The inspector swung to her.

  “Are you worried about that, Miss O’Byrne?”

  She steeled herself. “I am not. But I hate to hear of anyone getting shot. There’s far too much of that round here.”

  “I agree.” The policeman turned back to Cal. “We have reason to believe that the man in question was your brother, Fiach O’Byrne.”

  No. No. No. Erin screwed her eyes shut. She waited as the officer pulled a photograph from the envelope he carried. He showed it to Cal. “Can you identify this person?”

  She couldn’t bear to look. If it was Fiach, maybe—maybe—he was only wounded. She screwed her eyes more tightly and held her breath until she heard Cal say, “That’s our Fiach.” Cal’s voice was leaden. “Is he…?”

  “I’m afraid so.” The inspector shoved the photograph back into its envelope.

  Erin opened her eyes. “You mean Fiach’s dead?”

  “I’m sorry, Miss O’Byrne.”

  Sorry? Sorry? You bastard. Standing there, mouthing platitudes, when it had to have been the Security Forces who’d murdered Fiach.

  “What happened?” Her voice was level.

  “I’m not at liberty…”

  “What fucking well happened?” Something outside scared pigeons from the roof of the barn. She could hear their wings clattering as they took flight, rattling like a burst of automatic fire. She softened her voice. “Please. He’s my wee brother. He’s only sixteen. He plays hurley. He’s not in the Provos.” Erin knew she should have said, “He was my wee brother” but couldn’t bear to. Not yet. She glanced at Cal. “None of us O’Byrnes is in the Provos.”

  The inspector coughed.

  “Please.” She leaned against Cal. “Och, please. What happened?”

  “All that I can tell you is that one of our routine patrols”—

  So they hadn’t been lying in wait for him.

  —“Saw a man acting suspiciously.”

  Jesus, why hadn’t the young fool taken Tessie to scout for him? Why hadn’t she made damn sure that he’d taken the dog? Why? Why? And yet, she tried to comfort herself, if the inspector was telling the truth, Tessie wouldn’t have been much use. Granted, she could have sniffed out men lying concealed, but by the time she would have barked at a moving patrol, they would have had Fiach surrounded anyway.

  “He fired at them. Our men returned fire.”

  Erin’s eyes narrowed. “He couldn’t have fired at them. The only gun Fiach ever used was a shotgun when he went wildfowling. Civilians aren’t allowed to have rifles in Northern Ireland—you know that as well as I do. I don’t believe he fired. You murdered him. Just because he’s a Catholic.”

  “Miss O’Byrne, despite what Republican propaganda may say, the Security Forces do not indulge in reprisal killings. Not, may I say, like the Provos.”

  “Our Fiach wasn’t a bloody Provo.” That was technically true. Fiach had not made the declaration and been accepted as a volunteer. “He never fired that gun.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss O’Byrne. Ballistics have shown that the rifle he was carrying had been recently used.”

  “Liar.”

  The inspector pursed his lips, drew his shoulders together. “I can understand that you are upset, Miss O’Byrne…”

  “Upset? Jesus Christ.” She felt Cal’s arms around her and looked up into his face, saw the frown and the almost imperceptible shake of his head that said, “Don’t antagonize this man. They’re bound to suspect us, too.” Erin hung her head. “I’m sorry. I am upset.” She hoped the bloody peeler couldn’t see the fire that blazed in her eyes. Liar. Murderer. British bastard.

  “I understand.” The inspector turned to Cal. “Mr. O’Byrne?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you come to the mort … to Strabane Police Station to identify the body?”

  She felt Cal’s arms loosen. She clung to him and wailed, loudly, painfully, “Don’t go, Cal. Don’t leave me alone.” She hoped that Cal knew she was playacting. She and her brother would need time to talk. Get their story straight before Cal went off to the bloody barracks.

  His grip tightened. “Could it not wait for a wee while? Can you not see that she’s all nerves? I’ll need to stay with her for a bit.”

  “Well, I suppose…”

  Erin keened, then begged. “Please don’t leave me, Cal.”

  “Look,” Cal said, “I’ll come over this afternoon. All right?”

  The inspector hesitated.

  Erin thought about howling again but decided not to overplay her hand.

  “All right. We’ll expect you, and”—the inspector’s voice hardened—“we may have a few more questions for you, Mr. O’Byrne.”

  “About what?” She heard the edge in her brother’s voice.

  “To try to clear up this regrettable business. We don’t understand what your brother was doing out at night opening up a grave where we found arms and explosives.”

  Holy Mary. They’d found the shipment.

  “Nor me,” said Cal. “He may have heard something around. Went to have a look. Just curiosity, maybe? I dunno. I’ll try to help.” He put one hand on Erin’s head. “But later.”

  “Fine. Then we’ll be running along.” The inspector turned to go. “I really am sorry, Miss O’Byrne.”

  “Bastard,” she hissed at his departing back. She pulled away from her brother. “Shut the door.” As Cal did she heard the engines starting, gears grinding as the two security vehicles pulled away. Overhead, the sound of helicopter rotors intensified and then faded into the distance.

  “Look at that.” She pointed to a set of muddy boot prints on the kitchen floor—just like the time, years ago, when the big RUC man had spat on the tiles. “The bloody British leave nothing but shite behind them.”

  “Do you reckon Fiach did try to shoot at them?” Cal asked.

  “Not at all. You heard what I told the peeler. Fiach wouldn’t have had a clue. One of their lot probably fired the ArmaLite after they’d shot him. They’d not want another enquiry, another ‘regrettable civilian death’ on their hands. Cal, they killed him. They murdered Fiach.” She went to stand by the table. Her eyes were dry, her fists clenched. “Do you think it was a routine patrol, like your man said, or has someone grassed?”

  “Who could have? Not you nor me. Sammy?” Cal snorted. “He’d be too bloody scared to. These things can just happen.”

  “‘These things’? ‘These things’? These bloody things are that Fiach’s dead. Has that not sunk into that thick head of yours?” Erin glared at her brother. She saw his eyes shine, a tear run down his cheek. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Come and sit down.”

  Cal walked slowly to the table and slumped into a chair.

  Erin stood back as Cal rested his elbows on the tabletop and buried his head in his hands. She stroked his hair and watched her big brother’s shoulders heave. “Och, Fiach,” he whispered. “Why?”

  Erin felt some of her anger subsiding, but not all. Not all. She’d give Cal time to pull himself together, and then the pair of them had to talk about what he’d tell the peelers this afternoon. Had to. But it could wait for a while. “Would you like that cup of tea?” she asked.

  Cal lifted his head, shook it, sniffed, and dashed the back of his hand across his eyes. “How can you be so matter-of-fact? Are you not hurting, too?”

  “Hurting? Of course I’m bloody well hurting. Fiach was my wee boy after Ma died. I reared him … but I reared him the way Da would have wanted. I brought Fiach up to love Ireland. The way the pair of us do.” She felt a lump in her throat and whispered, “Fiach died for Ireland. Don’t you forget that.” She sat beside her big brother, put a hand on his arm, and said, “And he’d want us to keep on fighting.”

  “Not now, Erin. He’s hardly cold ye
t.”

  “I know that, but never mind cold. The heat’s going to be on us now. The Brits have always suspected the O’Byrnes…”

  “They’ve never proved nothing.”

  “And they’re not going to neither. You’re going to see to that.”

  “How?”

  Erin thought hard, then said, “They’ll want to know two things. What was he doing out on the tractor last night, and why would he have gone to Ballydornan.”

  “I dunno.”

  Jesus Christ. Cal O’Byrne, acting head of their Active Service Unit, sitting there like a lump of cold porridge, paralyzed with grief, unable to think straight. Erin knew she’d have to do the thinking for both of them. And she would have to do it fast. She couldn’t give way to her own feelings. Not yet. She’d cry for Fiach all right. She’d cry rivers—later. “I have it,” she said, “Fiach was sixteen.”

  “I know that.”

  “You need to be eighteen to get a driver’s licence. But sixteen-year-olds can drive tractors over the fields. Tell them he’d gone off on it to a dance. That he must have been on his way home.”

  “What dance?”

  “There’s one every Friday night in the Parish Hall at Sion Mills. That’s just a wee way past Ballydornan. He’d’ve had to pass the churchyard on his way back here.”

  “The peelers’ll ask other folks who were at the dance if they saw him there.”

  Erin snorted. “And good luck to them. Tyrone Catholics wouldn’t give the police the time of day, never mind information like that. Not about Fiach. They’d swear on a stack of Bibles he was at the dance. Even Father O’Driscoll would.”

  “I should have thought of that.”

  Yes, you should, she thought, before saying, “Now. What was he doing in the graveyard?”

  “You just said that Tyrone folks don’t talk to the police.”

  “You’ve lost me.”

  “They don’t talk to the police … but they do talk to each other, even though we’re supposed to keep things close to our chests … and the peelers know that bloody well. I’ll tell them what I told the inspector—that Fiach must have heard something. He was only sixteen. Sixteen-year-olds are curious. He was just looking.”

  Erin let her hand fall onto Cal’s shoulder. “Good idea. The only one who could tell them different would be Fiach … and he won’t…” She choked on the next words. The enormity of what she was saying hit her like a rogue wave battering a rock. She shuddered but fought back her tears. No tears yet. Not yet. “Anyway,” she said, “that should satisfy them for a while.” She sat beside Cal. “And I’ll tell you something else. I think the police and the army half-believe something like that already.”

  “Why?”

  “That inspector was very quick off the mark to tell us that they’ve proof that Fiach fired first. I still don’t believe he did, but they don’t want an enquiry. You tell them what they want to hear, and they’ll believe you.”

  “I think you’re right.”

  “I’d better be because we’ve more work to do.”

  “What work?”

  “Have you forgotten that Eamon and his mates are getting out tomorrow?”

  “Of course not. Haven’t I been breaking my back getting their hidey-hole ready?”

  “And is it?”

  “We’ll need to put in some sleeping bags. You’ve to get the grub ready.”

  “I’ll see to that.” She hesitated. “And there’s something else you and me and Sammy should be getting ready for when Eamon’s out.”

  “What?”

  She stood, took two paces from the table, spun, and paced back. “I want us to hit the Brits. I want them to die. For what they did to Fiach.”

  Cal stared up at her. “You’re out of your mind, Erin. When the lads break out, the whole of Northern Ireland’ll be buzzing like an overturned beehive. The Security Forces will be all over the bloody place.”

  “Yes,” she said slowly, “they will, and the last thing they’ll expect will be an attack right on their own doorstep, and I’ve a notion how to do it.”

  “Do what?”

  Erin ignored her brother’s question. “You take a good look round Strabane Police Barracks when you’re in there today.”

  “You want us to go after…?” She saw Cal’s tear-reddened eyes widen.

  “That’s right,” she said with ice in her voice. “And since the bastards lifted the Semtex we were counting on, we’ll need Sammy to make the explosives.”

  Cal rose and grabbed both her arms. “You’ve taken the head-staggers. It’s Fiach, isn’t it? You’ve come unhinged because of him, haven’t you?”

  She lifted his hands from her upper arms and stepped away a pace. “Unhinged? I’ve never been more serious in my life.” She paid no attention to the gormless expression on Cal’s big ruddy face. “I told you we’d need Sammy, so you make sure you get him here tonight or tomorrow morning. I want to have a word with that wee man.”

  CHAPTER 18

  THE KESH. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 24, 1983

  “I want to have a wee word, Eamon.” Davy caught up with his friend as he trudged round the exercise yard. “Have you a minute?”

  “For you, Father Davy? All the time in the world.”

  “Not here.” Davy led Eamon to a corner of the yard that he knew was out of earshot of the other men.

  “Well?” Eamon raised one eyebrow and grinned through the gap in his front teeth.

  “A while back you asked me if I wanted in.”

  “And you said no.”

  “I’ve changed my mind.”

  Eamon whistled. “Jesus, you’ve left it a bit late.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I. I’d’ve loved for you to be coming, but…”

  “I understand.” Davy turned but felt Eamon’s hand on his sleeve.

  “I never said it can’t be done, but we’re just about set to go.” He lowered his voice until Davy had to strain to hear. “It’s tomorrow.”

  Davy faced his friend. “And?”

  “Look. I can ask Bic McFarlane. We all still owe you one for that wee thing you got for us…”

  Davy glanced at his left hand, where a dirty strip of Elastoplast covered the healing wound.

  “Bobby Storey’s in charge of the … you know. I’ll have to clear it with him, too.”

  “Would you?”

  “Is the pope Catholic? Aye, certainly, but my ould da used to say, ‘Never make a promise if you can’t be sure of keeping it.’ I’ll not promise that I can do much.”

  “But you’ll try?”

  “Aye.”

  “I can ask no more.”

  “There’s one wee thing.” Eamon frowned. “It’s only those who’re going to fight on that’s in on this. Are you ready to come back to us?”

  Davy shook his head. “I’m done with the Cause, Eamon.”

  “Christ, you don’t expect me to tell Bic that, do you?”

  “You just said you all owe me.”

  “Aye, but…”

  “You mind last week when you asked me for a wee favour and you said, ‘Do it for me and Erin?’ I’m asking you to do this for me … and Fiona.”

  “Fiona?” Eamon cocked his head to one side. “Fiona? Is she the one in the photo you got from Canada?”

  “Aye. I never told you about her before.”

  “And if you got out you’d want to go to her?”

  “She’s in Vancouver.”

  “Have you been keeping in touch with her?”

  Davy shook his head. “All I knew was that she’d gone to Canada, but wee Jimmy, my mate from the old days, met her in a restaurant. He sent me her snap … and her phone number.”

  “She must mean one hell of a lot to you.”

  “She does.”

  Then Eamon laughed.

  “It’s not funny, son.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m not laughing at you. I’m just thinking about what you’d need to get to Canada. It won’t be easy.”
/>
  “What’ll I need?”

  “You remember when you tried to talk me out of the thing? You told me that even if we got beyond the wall…”

  Davy noticed a man’s shadow approaching. “Wheest.”

  The uniformed figure stood close, rapping his truncheon against the palm of one hand. “What are you two up to? Planning to bust out? Ha. Ha.” His laugh was forced and grating.

  “Right enough, sir.” Eamon gave the man a beaming smile. “The pair of us is off to the French Riviera for our holidays.”

  “Less of your lip, Maguire.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “Move along. You’re meant to be getting your exercise, not standing round blethering like a pair of ould fishwives. Go on. Move it.”

  “Right, sir. Come on, Davy.” Eamon started to walk to the track that encircled the yard, dusty, rutted from the countless paces taken by the countless feet during the immeasurable hours that the inmates had trudged round and round, like so many hamsters on treadmills. Davy fell into step beside him, glancing back to make sure that the screw wasn’t following.

  “That shite,” said Eamon. “Thinks he’s the fucking warden, so he does.”

  “Pay no heed to that one.” Davy leaned his head closer to Eamon’s. “What would I need?”

  Eamon smiled with his eyes at a couple of inmates in the circuit behind Davy and Eamon. The men were loudly discussing Celtic’s 2-0 loss to Linfield earlier in the day. Eamon’s whisper was deadly serious. “Somewhere to hide, papers…”

  “Papers?”

  “Passport, driver’s licence.”

  “Jesus. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “And you’ll need money.”

  Davy silently walked on, head lowered. He hadn’t thought about those things. Face it, he told himself, it was only a pipe dream anyway, but—his hand strayed to the inside of his jacket, where he’d tucked her picture. He could feel the gloss of the photographic paper, like the gloss of her hair. “… And the night is on her hair.” His “Lagan Love.”

  “Fuck it.” He glared at Eamon. “I’ll think of something.” He watched as Eamon’s brow wrinkled.

  “No…”

  “What do you mean, no?”

  “I’ve thought of something already.”

  Voices behind ranted on. “… That fucking goalie couldn’t stop a bus at a bus stop…”