Now and in the Hour of Our Death

by Patrick Taylor

  He grabbed the towel and began to dry himself, his hair, his face, chest, and belly, and as he dragged the terry cloth across his back, the chafing began to warm him. He closed his eyes, toweled harder, and reveled in the feeling.

  He inhaled the vapours from the soup pot. “Jesus, Eamon, that smells good.”

  “Right enough,” Eamon said, “but I’m sorry it’s not the wee hot half-un we were thinking about.”

  Davy laughed.

  “Come on, Father,” Eamon said, “get you one of the blankets like Brendan.”

  Davy hesitated. He didn’t want to do anything like McGuinness and realized that he was being childish. He glanced at the two men. Both were intent on their own business, Eamon stirring the soup, McGuinness rubbing his palms together over the heater. Davy slipped the .25 out of his soggy pants’ pocket, wrapped it in his towel, and walked to a bed in the alcove opposite to the one from which McGuinness had taken his blanket. He might have to share the accommodation with the man, but he’d be damned if he’d sleep next to him.

  He slipped the revolver under the bedclothes, wondering why he hadn’t simply given it to Eamon. Davy had no intention of using it. And yet—

  He pulled off a blanket to wrap round himself and noticed an alcove ahead. In it he saw ArmaLites and Lee-Enfields. He’d wear a blanket like McGuinness, but if the bugger had any notions of Davy using one of those rifles, he had another think coming. Davy walked to the table and hung his trousers over the back of a chair.

  “Fuck it, McCutcheon, you look like one of the blanket men back at the Kesh,” McGuinness said.

  Davy spun on his heel, one big fist tightly clenched, but relaxed when he saw that McGuinness was smiling. Good God, he’d been making a joke.

  “Right enough,” Davy said, “but don’t you worry, I’m not going to smear my shite all over the walls.”

  He was surprised to hear McGuinness chuckle, a dry, harsh sound. If it was a sign that he wanted to call a truce, that was all right with Davy; he’d play along. Maybe he’d not needed to hold onto the .25, but he still couldn’t bring himself to trust the man.

  Davy heard noise coming from the tunnel. He glanced to where he had left the little gun, then to Eamon, who was staring at the entrance.

  A young woman with chestnut hair scrambled to her feet, her green eyes fixed on Eamon’s face. By the narrowness of her lips, Davy could tell that she was angry.

  “Erin,” Eamon whispered. “Dear God. Erin.” He grinned like a moon calf.

  She took two paces across the floor and stared at him. “What kept you?” she demanded. “What the hell kept you? I was up all last night, worried sick. You were meant to be here then, damnit. I nearly went daft with the worry.”

  Davy saw a single tear spill from one of her green eyes and heard Eamon say softly, “It’s all right now, love. It’s all right,” as he moved to take her in his arms.

  To Davy’s amazement—they’d been apart for three years, after all—she stepped back, put a hand on her hip, dashed the tear away with the other hand, forced a smile at Eamon, and said, “Don’t you come near me in those filthy, soaking clothes. Jesus, and the stink of you.” She wrinkled her nose.

  “You’ve not changed,” Eamon said. “Have you?”

  “No,” she said, “but the sooner you change your clothes, the better.”

  “I will,” he said, “but I’d like you to meet a couple of friends of mine first. Erin O’Byrne, Brendan McGuinness and Davy McCutcheon.”

  She smiled at them, and Davy felt welcomed by it. “Miss O’Byrne,” he said.

  “Pleased to meet you.” Her smile faded. “We were expecting four of you. I … I heard about Sean Donovan.”

  “Aye,” said Eamon. “That was bad luck.”

  “There’s been a bit more bad luck,” she said, quietly.

  “What?” Eamon frowned. “Tell me.”

  She shook her head. “It’ll keep.” She turned to Davy. “Look, I’m very sorry, but it wouldn’t be safe for all three of you to come up to the house. Tyrone’s up to its ears in peelers and soldiers. We had a patrol here earlier tonight.”

  “Looking for me?” Eamon asked.

  Davy heard the soup bubbling on the little stove and moved to take the pot off the ring.

  “Aye, and your mates.” She smiled. “I don’t think the peelers’ll be back tonight, but I’d rather be safe than sorry, so I want you to come up to the house by yourself. You can have a bath. Your mates’ll have to stay here. I’m sorry.”

  Davy would have killed to have a bath, but he could smell the soup and feel the warmth of the blanket and the heater. That would satisfy him for now. He glanced at what would be his cot and ached to crawl into it. “Never you worry about that, Miss O’Byrne,” he said.

  “Thanks, and it’s Erin, Davy.” She smiled at him again, and behind her eyes he saw Fiona’s smile. She turned to Eamon. “When we get up to the house, Cal and me have things to talk to you about, and”—she moved close to him and took his hand—“I want to get you out of those stinking clothes.”

  Davy heard more in her words than the simple statement, and by the way Eamon was grinning, he’d certainly got the not-too-subtle message, too.

  CHAPTER 35

  TYRONE. MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 26, 1983

  At last her wishes had come true. Eamon was here on the farm in Tyrone. His shirt, vest, and socks were in the dryer, along with the other men’s clothes. Erin listened as shirt buttons rattled on the dryer’s drum. Eamon’s jacket and the trousers she’d sponged clean hung steaming on a clotheshorse in front of the range. They kept company with another pair of pants and a jacket that she’d bundled up before she and Eamon had left the grave and walked to the farmhouse. She hadn’t bothered to see to the trousers Davy had given her. They were far too big for him. Some of Cal’s should fit. When she’d asked him, he’d told her to take her pick. She’d take a pair of them down for Davy with the rest of the men’s dry clothes. Cal wouldn’t be needing them much longer anyway.

  He’d been waiting for them, but after he’d greeted Eamon, had made an excuse to go out. She’d not thought that Cal could be so understanding. She knew bloody well that the milking machine didn’t need mending at this hour of the night.

  Eamon was upstairs having a bath. He’d said, eyes twinkling, that she should come up and scrub his back, but she’d told him she’d other things to do.

  She lifted the lid of the range and shoved in more peat. The flames from the opening made her flinch. She was warm enough, and it wasn’t from the heat in the kitchen; it was having him home. She’d thought he wasn’t coming. She’d seen him dead, recaptured, a dozen times over. As if she hadn’t had enough to worry about in the last few days.

  She heard the hall door open and turned to see Eamon, barefooted, wrapped in Cal’s dressing gown, hair wet and shining and slicked back.

  “That,” said Eamon, tipping his head to one side and poking at his ear with one finger, “that was great.” He moved closer to her. “I had a shave, too. Feel.” He took her hand in his and rubbed her fingers along his cheek.

  Erin held back. Dear God, she wanted him, but they’d hardly spoken since leaving the grave, and she must tell him about Fiach—and about her plans. That was why she’d let him bathe alone. To have seen him naked would have distracted her. Even now, the very thought that he was wearing nothing under the dressing gown made her shiver. She ignored his puzzled look and said what she knew she must. “Eamon, look, I’m sorry I snapped at you back there, but I have been worried sick about you…”

  “Well, you needn’t worry now.” He moved nearer.

  She could feel his breath. No. Not yet. “There’re some things, very important things, I have to tell you…”

  “Sssh,” he said, and bent and kissed her, pulling her to him.

  She felt the strength in his arms holding her, his body warm and hard, his tongue on her tongue, and she slipped her hands inside his dressing gown, put her arms around him, her hands on his back,
her nails raking gently. She tried to tell herself not yet, not now, but his hand had found her breast. She gasped. Telling him about Fiach’s death and about the raid would have to wait.

  “God, I’ve missed you,” she murmured, and bit his lower lip. “I do love you, you daft bugger.”

  “I want you,” he said, voice husky, hands fumbling with the buttons of her shirt. “Now.”

  “Yes.” She helped him with the buttons, pulled the shirt apart, her breasts burning where his tongue flicked over her nipple. “Yes, but…” She held his head between her hands and forced him away. “Not here. Cal might…” But his hand was under her skirt, under her panties, and she remembered telling him, the day she’d given him the gun, that she’d not be wearing any when he came home. His fingers probed, and she opened for him and stood gasping, wanting.

  Her own hand groped inside the dressing gown and she held his penis, felt him fierce and stiff. She knelt and took him in her mouth, gently biting, tasting him, hearing his groan. She slipped her hands behind his buttocks and pulled him into her. His hands went behind her head, holding her on him as she tried to rock back and forth.

  She felt his hands entwine in her hair, pulling her head back.

  She stared up along his flat belly, along the line of hair to his navel, past his muscled chest to his thrown-back head, mouth wide—he was wearing his dental plate—eyes closed.

  She rose and kissed him, followed as he led her to the kitchen table, bent over it, hands behind her lifting her skirt. She thrust against him as he entered her as a stallion mounts a mare, her thoughts of Cal and Fiach and raids and the Cause gone to oblivion as if they had never existed.

  She whimpered, bit the back of her forearm as he drove himself deeper. She heard him groan, felt his hand on her breast and the weight of him as he fell forward on her back.

  Her breath left her in one, long gasp, and her body convulsed as if struck by an earthquake and—“O sweet Mother of Jes-uh-us…”—its aftershocks. Her curled fingers clutched at the edge of the table as each tremor passed.

  She felt Eamon push her hair aside and kiss the nape of her neck. “Christ Almighty,” he said softly, “it’s been a long time.”

  She tried to turn to kiss him, but his weight held her down. For a moment all she wanted to do was lie there, held by him, until he was ready to take her again, but Cal could walk in at any minute.

  Erin looked round the old, familiar kitchen that she loved, the one she must leave, along with the farm, along with Ireland if he asked her to run with him. But at that moment, she was spent and at peace and old, half-forgotten words came to her, “whither thou goest, I will go.”

  She noticed the tiled floor and saw the cracks where so many years ago peelers had stamped their booted feet and Ma had scrubbed her hands red-raw. The memories brought Erin back to the real world, where love and passion would have to take their turns with the killing that must be done. But Eamon’s loving had been so sure, so familiar, so powerful, yet so comfortable that she wished the dying and the Troubles would go away forever. But they wouldn’t, and there were things Eamon must be told.

  “You’re crushing me,” she said, trying to push herself up.

  “Right,” Eamon said, and she felt his weight and his warmth leave her, and her eyes grew moist because she wanted him back. She straightened, half-turned, and smoothed her skirt.

  Eamon stood looking at her. “I love you,” he said, and stretched out one hand to her breast.

  She pulled her shirt closed and began to button the front, tucking the tails into her waistband as soon as the first buttons were closed. She tried to ignore his disappointed look and continued buttoning.

  “Aaw,” he said, but she could hear the chuckle in his voice.

  She glanced down to where his dressing gown still hung open and saw how shrunken he was. She smiled at him, pointed at his limp penis, and said, “You’re like the cow in the kids’ poem, “The House That Jack Built.”

  “You mean I’ve got a ‘crumpled horn’?” Eamon laughed. “I’ve not heard you say that for three years.” He pulled his dressing gown shut and belted it. “After that long, I can make the wee bugger stand to attention anytime you like.”

  She smiled and kissed him. “I’d like it well enough right now.”

  “Well…?” He tried to hold her, but she stepped back.

  “We can’t, Eamon. I’ve things to tell you.”

  “Like what?”

  “Come and sit down,” she said, rearranging her hair as she sat at the table.

  Eamon sat opposite. “Like what?”

  “The Brits murdered Fiach early on Saturday morning.” Her tone was flat, matter-of-fact, and she was surprised by how easily the words came.

  “They what?” Eamon’s voice rose. “They what? Fiach? They killed your wee brother? The shites.” He stared at her. “I can’t believe it.”

  “It’s true. I sent him to pick up an arms delivery and bring it back here.” She looked at him to see if he were blaming her for sending a youngster out, but there was no anger in his eyes, only sadness. “An army patrol shot him.”

  “Jesus Christ. The poor wee lad.” Eamon rose. “You must be hurting like hell.”

  She knew he was going to come to her, to hold her, to comfort her, and she loved him for his compassion.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “I’m fine. Honestly. And just sit you where you are. There’s more.”

  Eamon sat slowly, never letting his gaze leave her eyes.

  “Cal and I have been thinking about what to do.”

  “What the hell can you do? You can’t bring Fiach back.” He sounded puzzled.

  “Hit the bastards. Hard.”

  Eamon sat back. “Are you serious? Attack the Brits?” He shook his head. “I just don’t see it. Right now? The place is crawling with the buggers.” He rose and walked across the floor, arms folded, head bowed.

  She waited. Give him time. Eamon was clever enough to work out the rightness of what she was suggesting.

  He turned and stared at her. “You think they’ll not be expecting an attack?”

  “They’ll be vulnerable,” she said quietly.

  She saw his eyes narrow. “I’m not so sure. I’d have to think on it.” He moved to her and cupped her face in his hands. “I’d other plans,” he said.

  “Like leaving the North?” No matter what she’d thought about that, moments ago, it was still hard to face. She swallowed. “I knew you’d have to.” She stepped back.

  “It’s not just me. Brendan has to get to Dublin. To Army Council. Davy wants to go to Canada.” She wondered why Eamon’s eyes had a faraway look. “Davy has a girl called Fiona there. He hasn’t seen her in nine years.”

  Erin knew how much she had pined for Eamon, and that had only been for three years. Nine? Davy McCutcheon must love the woman very much. Did she still love him? Erin remembered the day she’d nearly thrown up in a ditch because she’d been bound and determined to leave Eamon in the Kesh. “Nine years is a long time,” she said.

  “I know, but Davy’s going … and I promised to help him.”

  “You promised?”

  Eamon nodded. “I’ve got to know him well. He’s a sound man. He did us a favour in the Kesh, and if it hadn’t been for him opening the last gate, I’d not be here now.”

  Not here? She couldn’t bear the thought. Not after what had just been. And if Eamon felt he owed Davy McCutcheon and had promised him something, to Eamon a promise was never made lightly. “I understand,” she said. “What help does he need?”

  “Papers. Money. Out of here and down to the Republic. Airline tickets.”

  She moved to him, put her arms round his waist, and looked up into his eyes. “So will we.”

  “We?”

  She smiled. “You said you’ve got to run. You’re not going without me.”

  “Do you mean that? You’d leave Ireland?”

  She kissed him, then said, “You left me once for
three years. I’m not letting go of you again.” And she squeezed him more tightly.

  “I love you, Erin.”

  “I know,” she said, “and I’m not going to play silly games like, ‘well, if you really loved me, you’d help with the attack Cal and I’ve planned.’”

  Eamon sighed. “You’ve your mind set on it, haven’t you?”

  “Cal’s is half made up, but”—she knew she had to be honest with him—“but he says he’ll only do it if you agree.”

  “I can’t agree…”

  “Why not?” Erin knew there was anger in her voice.

  “Because,” Eamon said levelly, “I never agree to anything until I know the details.” He sat at the table. “I think,” he said, “you’d better sit down and tell me all about it.”

  Erin heard his curiosity. She knew he was as committed to the Cause as she was. Eamon was like a trout rising to a fly, suspicious but hungry, and if she let the bait dangle a little longer, he’d take it and she’d have him hooked. She sat, looked him in the eye, and said, “Strabane Barracks.”

  He whistled on the intake of breath. “The police station?”

  “Yes.”

  Eamon ran a hand over his head and frowned. She knew he always did that when he was concentrating. He looked at her. “When?”

  “As soon as we’re ready.”

  “And when’ll that be?”

  “There’s a few things to do first.”

  “Like what?”

  “Get papers for your Davy and the rest of us. That’ll take a few days.”

  “Will we use the forger from Newtownstewart?”

  “Aye.” Although Eamon hadn’t said so directly, Erin sensed that he was already beginning to sound like a man who was ready to take part. “Cal’ll have a word with him.”

  “Right.”

  “Sammy’s working as fast as he can making ammonal. Stealing a car and a tractor.”

  “Sammy McCandless? He’s still here? I’d not mind seeing the wee fellah again.” He laughed. “Even if he does fancy my girl.”

  “Pay no heed to Sammy,” she said, and smiled. “He’s harmless, and he’s a bloody good armourer.” Her smile faded. “And we need him. The Brits got our new supplies when they killed Fiach.”