“Shite,” he muttered, but wandered over to stand behind Eamon, who sat beside Erin. Davy noticed how they held hands under the table, out of sight of Cal and McGuinness at the other side. “Take a look at what?” He craned forward.
“Erin’s sketch map of Strabane.” It was marked on the back of a sheet of drawer-lining paper held flat by four empty jam jars, one at each corner. “Her and Cal and me’s gone over how we can make this work, but I want everybody’s opinion and that includes yours, Father.”
“I’ll not have much to say, except maybe to try to talk you out of it.”
“You won’t,” McGuinness snarled. “So save your breath.” He put one finger on the corner of the map. “Go on, Eamon.”
Davy looked at the map as Eamon used a pencil to point out the features.
“That there road runs down a hill into the town, and the square at the bottom of the hill’s the barracks,” Eamon said. “It’s a big, three-storey building sitting about twenty-five yards on all sides behind a weak wire fence. Cal’ll drive the tractor along the road to the top of the hill. Erin and Brendan and me will be in another car just behind. Brendan’ll drive it.”
“It’s not how we do it in Belfast,” McGuinness said. “We should have a car in front and one behind the tractor so if there’s peelers anywhere, the leading or trailing car can fuck them up while the rest get away. That way you don’t lose as many men. Why not get McCutcheon to drive the van through Strabane and get across the border there to wait for us?”
“No,” said Eamon. “We’ve asked enough of Davy already.”
Bloody right you have, Davy thought.
“Cal’ll park the tractor at the top of the hill for a wee while. We’ll drive past the barracks a couple of times, make sure there’s no extra police outside or any soldiers.”
“Why the hell would there be soldiers?” McGuinness demanded.
“No good reason, but with them all over the North looking for us and the rest of the lads, there might just be a patrol in Strabane.”
“And it’s better to be safe nor sorry,” McGuinness agreed.
So did Davy. He straightened for a moment. The angle he was leaning at had given him a crick in his back. He massaged it with one hand.
“A bit stiff, Father? Jesus, but old age and decrepitude are terrible things, so they are.” The others laughed, and Davy knew there was affection in Eamon’s teasing. You’ll not get round me that easy, Davy thought. He said nothing, didn’t smile, but bent forward. In spite of his resolve, he was becoming interested.
“Right,” said Eamon, “now look at this. See those streets and that there lane in front of the police station?”
Davy studied the map.
The square depicting the barracks and its enclosure lay at the foot of the hill road. It branched immediately in front of the centre of the building into a T-junction that ran to right and left. Two streets met the crosspiece of the T at right angles. Those road junctions faced the police station compound at its corners. A lane ran between the hill road and the right-hand street.
Eamon said, “Once we’re happy the coast’s clear, Brendan’ll drop me at the corner of the left-hand street there.” He pointed with his pencil. “Erin, you’ll get out at the foot of the hill, and Brendan’ll take the car to the corner of the right-hand street. We’ll all have ArmaLites under our coats. They have collapsible stocks. Folded up, they’re only two feet long, so we can keep them hidden until we need them. Is that clear?”
Davy heard the murmur of assent.
“Good. Now, Brendan’ll park the car close by the right-hand corner, stay in it, and keep the engine running. If you see we need backup, get out, get cover at the corner, and use your rifle.”
“Right.”
“When Erin sees I’m in position and the road between the tractor and the barracks is clear, she’ll take out her hanky and blow her nose. That’s the signal for Cal to set the fuses and get the tractor moving down the hill and through the wire.”
Davy noticed how Erin looked at her big brother. He saw all the concern of a sister in her eyes. He could imagine the tractor charging down the hill and battering through the fence surrounding the barracks. Before the explosion, Cal would have to leave the cab and make a run for it. Until he reached cover, he’d be vulnerable. Was she picturing the same scene, perhaps having second thoughts? She was going to bury one brother on Thursday. How in the name of all that was holy could she even consider losing another?
“You keep your head well tucked in, Cal, when you jump out of the cab and run to me,” Erin said.
“She’s right,” Eamon said. “But with two ArmaLites to lay down covering fire, no peeler in his right mind’ll risk exposing himself to take a shot at you.”
Davy saw Erin nod in agreement. She’s trying to reassure herself, Davy thought.
“So? What do you think so far?” Eamon asked but looked directly at Davy.
Davy reckoned it was a good plan. The trouble with plans, and he knew from bitter experience, was that they didn’t always run smoothly. He decided to keep his counsel, save his breath as McGuinness had said.
“What about the getaway?” McGuinness asked.
Davy noticed Erin letting go of Eamon’s hand and how intently they all leaned forward, especially McGuinness. Killing for their cause was one thing, but none of them really wanted to die for it, despite all their bravado about the nobility of sacrificing oneself for Kathleen ni Houlihan. Davy wondered why he felt compassion for them all, even McGuinness.
“We’ll have the charges on a timer,” Eamon said. “So we’ll have five minutes before the ammonal blows. Erin thinks we should take cover until it does and then kill any peelers who survive the blast and come outside.” He glanced at her before saying, “I’m not so sure.”
“If we’re going to go to all this bother, we might as well go the whole hog.” Erin looked straight at Eamon. She did not smile.
Davy waited, sensing the tension between the two. He had no doubt that Erin very much had a mind of her own and wouldn’t take kindly to Eamon overruling her.
“If we wait like Erin wants, or if we run for it before the explosion, we still have to get to Lifford in the Republic. That’s where you’ll be, Davy.”
“Huh.” Davy stared at the map.
Eamon carried on. “Lifford’s close, I know, and the crossing’s not well defended, but the longer it takes us to get to the bridge, the more time the Brits have to send in reinforcements.”
“From Derry or Omagh?” Erin asked. “Sure they’re both twenty-odd miles away. The soldiers’d take forever.”
“By chopper? No more than ten minutes after the alarm’s raised. Now when the peelers see the tractor crash through the fence, they’ll be surprised. They’ll likely take a minute or two to wake up and try to phone. They might even wait until it goes off, but you can bet that unless the blast wrecks every telephone, they’ll be yelling blue murder for help by then.”
“Before or after they’ve changed their underpants?” Cal’s first contribution made Eamon and McGuinness laugh.
Davy saw Erin smile. He didn’t. He could imagine the aftermath of the blast: smoke, debris, bodies, men with blood streaming, limbs missing, screaming, staggering out of the doors. He’d been right earlier today. Delivering the assault team wasn’t any different from delivering a bomb. If there was any comfort to be had, he could tell himself that, unlike the many devices he’d made in the past, he hadn’t put the squad together, he wasn’t the one sending them out; but it was small comfort, and he knew it.
The others could laugh at Cal’s poor joke. Davy couldn’t. If one of the peelers had been so terrified he’d shit himself, who could blame him? God help any civilians in the area. “I’ve a question,” he said, in spite of his intention to keep his mouth shut.
Eamon looked up. “Go ahead, Davy.”
“How much ammonal are you using?”
“Five hundred pounds.”
“Holy Christ. With that much,
there’ll be a huge blast radius. You folks at the street junctions could get yourselves killed. Never mind about giving British reinforcements more time. If I was you, I’d leg it as soon as Cal gets to one of those corners.”
“You would beat it, McCutcheon,” McGuinness sneered. “You were always the one for running … even with the buggered-up leg of yours.”
Davy stared into McGuinness’s one pale eye until the man lowered his gaze. You wanted a truce, you bastard? You’d let bygones be bygones? The fuck you would.
“Are you sure about the size of the blast, Father?” Eamon frowned.
“Of course I’m bloody well sure. I was an armourer before you were born. I’ve seen what explosives can do.” And seen too often. “And there’s another thing. If there’s any civilians on those streets, a lot of them’s going to get killed or hurt.”
“Collateral damage can’t be helped, McCutcheon. You should know that.” McGuinness glowered at Davy, who refused to look away, but the room suddenly seemed to be stifling him. Davy looked to Eamon.
“We can only hope if there are folks about, they’ll have enough wit to run like hell when they see the tractor bust in through the fence or hear the first shots.”
“If I was you,” Davy said, knowing he was being dragged further into the thing, trying to persuade himself that he was only giving advice in the hope that civilian lives could be spared, “I’d get your armourer to set the timer for ten minutes. It’ll take a few minutes to drive down the hill and through the wire.”
“That’s right,” said Erin, glancing at Cal. “So in the time left after the tractor’s inside the police compound, even if the police try to run for it, they’ll get caught in the explosion.”
“Right,” Eamon agreed. “Will you get Sammy to see to the timer, Erin?”
“I will. He’ll be here tomorrow.” Davy saw her smile. “I’m glad you’re here, Davy. None of us had thought of … what did you call it? Blast radius. We’re always too far away to see any of the culvert bombs we’ve set when they go off.”
“I’ve been close enough,” he said quietly, thinking of a little girl behind a car window.
“We’ve only killed soldiers or peelers.” Erin frowned. “I don’t like the notion of civilians getting hurt.”
And that’s the way it always should have been, Davy thought. Like the old days before the Provos decided to create havoc, to try to make the province ungovernable.
McGuinness said coldly, “Quit worrying about a few civilians. If a few other folks get killed … tough titty.” There was no emotion in the man’s voice, but a trace of a smile lingered on his lips.
Davy knew he’d been right in his assessment of the man. Biblical words learned as a child danced in Davy’s head, words more powerful than any he’d found in all the books he’d read in the Kesh. McGuinness “had made a covenant with death, and with hell was he in agreement.” Davy turned his back and walked away from the table.
He heard Eamon say, “So, I’m sorry, Erin, but there’ll be no hanging about. There’ll be no need to shoot the men who survive the explosion. From what Davy says, there won’t be any survivors.”
The poor bastards, Davy thought, and wondered how many of the country policemen stationed in Strabane thought they were fighting some kind of holy war, and how many were like Mr. Smiley back in the Kesh, simply doing their jobs and providing for their families?
“I can see that, Eamon,” Erin said, and smiled at him.
“Good.” Eamon smiled back. “Cal, as soon as you get to Erin, the pair of you nip up the hill”—he pointed at the map—“to that there lane. It runs onto the right-hand side of the T, where Brendan’ll have the car. Brendan, when you see them start to run, drive up to where the lane meets the right-hand street, get them in the car, and drive away to there.” He pointed to the map. “Turn right on that road.”
“What about you?” Erin asked. Davy saw her worried look.
Eamon laughed. “As soon as you and Cal start to run, I’ll be off like a whippet up the left-hand street. When Brendan’s turned right, he’ll be on a road that runs to where I’ll be. It leads straight to the bridge across to Lifford. There’s a customs post with a swing-up barrier and a bloody great hump in the tarmac to make cars slow down for inspection.”
“Have I to slow down?” McGuinness asked.
“Just a bit, just enough to get over the hump, and then smash the car through the barrier. The British Security Forces aren’t allowed to pursue us into the Republic. But some bugger’ll give the registration number to the Gardai, and that’s why we need you, Davy.”
“In the van?”
“Aye.”
Davy pursed his lips and folded his arms. “Go ahead.”
“Once you get to Lifford, take the road that leads to the bridge to Strabane. Just before the bridge, there’s a street to the left. C’mere. Look at the map. There.” Eamon pointed. “See that?”
“Aye.”
“Park the van there. If you walk to the corner, you can see the Gardai post at the bridge, but none of them can see round the corner to where the van’ll be. Don’t worry about going to take a look. Stay with the van and get the back door open. As soon as we arrive, we’ll dump our car and get in the back. You drive us to Castlefinn in Donegal, where Sean’s people’ll be waiting.”
“Right.”
“One wee thing, Davy.”
“What?”
“Don’t be late.”
In spite of himself, Davy smiled. “Right enough,” he said. “We’d enough trouble with late lorries on Sunday.”
“Anybody any questions?” Eamon asked.
No one spoke.
“All right, I want us to go over the last details again on Friday night, but until then, get as much rest as possible.”
“I appreciate what you’re doing for us,” Erin said as she rose and walked to his side and planted a kiss on his cheek. “You’re a darling man, so you are, Davy McCutcheon.”
Davy felt himself blush.
“Good man, m’da.” Cal rose and offered his hand. Davy shook it, and in the handshake and his acceptance by Erin, Davy felt a faint sense of returning to the only family he’d known for the last thirty years, even if it was the Provos. But it was a family for whom he felt no loyalty, no filial love.
“I think,” said Cal, “we could all go a wee half.” He went to the dresser and produced five glasses and a bottle of Paddy. He poured and passed the glasses round. “Sláinthe.”
Davy sipped and savoured the taste of the Irish whiskey, peaty as the aroma in the kitchen, and the heat in the spirits warmed him.
“Sláinte mHaith,” McGuinness said quietly, looking from Erin to Cal and then Eamon but avoiding even glancing at Davy, before adding, “You folks here’ve done good. It’s a grand plan, so it is, as long as the timing’s spot on.”
Davy felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. Even if he’d made a feeble joke about it moments ago, it was exactly what someone had said in the Kesh not long before the food lorry turned up late.
CHAPTER 40
TYRONE. WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 28, 1983
Everything on the farm was running late, but the work had to go on if Erin was to leave everything ready for Sammy to take over on Saturday. On Saturday, she’d have more important things to do than muck out cow stalls. She left the barn, her wheelbarrow piled high with steaming cow clap and her Wellington boots manure to the ankles.
Eamon and his friends were in the tumulus, Cal and Tessie wouldn’t be back until after they’d driven the cows to the pasture, and she wasn’t sure when Sammy would show up.
Fine drizzle hid the distant hills. Erin ignored it and the stink from the barrow. She’d been out in the rain often enough and been raised among farm smells. She’d rather live with them than the reek of exhausts, the miasma of decaying rubbish that poisoned the air in big cities like Belfast and, no doubt, Boston, Massachusetts, where Eamon had told her they were going to head after they’d reached sanctuary w
ith the Provos headquartered in Dublin.
She imagined Boston was all skyscrapers, no decent view, no open spaces. It was sure to be filled with crowds and bustle. Still, there’d be no British Security Forces. According to Eamon, who’d been in touch with a friend living out there, there was a large, sympathetic, Irish-American community, and they’d help her adapt to life in Massachusetts. The friend had even mentioned a Celtic pub there, the Róisín Dubh—the Black Rosebud. Eamon’d promised to take her there once the pair of them got settled in. He said the music and the craic were grand. As long as she was willing to accept the inevitable strangeness, it could all be so new and exciting—not like dunging out cow stalls.
She upended the barrow at the dunghill, listened as its contents splattered onto the heap, and trundled it back across the farmyard. She planned to spend the rest of the morning bringing the books and accounts up to date so they’d be ready for Sammy, if wee Sammy could understand them. Cal usually made a bollocks of the accounts and was quite happy to let her handle the business management.
She left the barrow in its usual spot and tutted as she noticed the damage to the side of Margaret’s stall. That bitch of a cow. If she wasn’t such a good milk producer, Erin would have sent her off to the slaughterhouse months ago. Sammy could fix it when he came back to work, and surely to God he must have finished his preparations by now?
“’Bout ye, Erin.” Sammy appeared in the open doorway.
“‘Talk of the devil and he’s sure to turn up,’” she said. She’d not heard him crossing the yard. She watched as he shook the moisture from his raincoat.
“Damp day,” he said. “It’s likely the rain that’s doing it.” He nodded solemnly as if in agreement with himself.
She smiled. He didn’t know he was being funny. “How are you, Sam, and how are you getting on with your work?”
“I’m rightly, so I am, and all the jobs’s done. The ammonal’s loaded in the tractor bucket.” Sammy rubbed one shoulder. “And I finished respraying the car yesterday.”
“What about plates?”
“I picked them up in Newtownstewart a couple of days ago. They’re changed.”
Now and in the Hour of Our Death Page 37
