She smiled again. “You’ve done well, Sammy. I’m proud of you.”
He glowed. “Aye, well.”
“I don’t know what we’d do without you. You’ve worked fast.”
“Everything’s in the big shed at my place.”
She saw how he puffed out his skinny chest. She moved to him and planted a kiss on his stubbly cheek. “Good man, m’da. I always knew we could trust you,” she said, even if it wasn’t entirely true. He deserved credit for a job well done, and she knew that praise coming from her would please him and, more importantly, keep him willing to work. He was as easy to bring to heel as Tessie. She’d sit up and beg for a pat on the head, and so would Sammy.
“Aye, well.” He hung his head, and she was sure he was blushing. “You said you wanted everything in a hurry.”
“I did. Now Eamon’s here with his mates, the only thing holding us up was waiting for you to finish.”
“Eamon made it?”
“Aye. They’re in the old grave.” No harm in telling Sammy that. He’d already have guessed.
“You’ll be glad to have him back.”
“You don’t know the half of it.” She could feel herself bent over the kitchen table, the weight of Eamon on her, his hard-on in her, his breath hot on the back of her neck. “And now he’s here, we’re just about ready to go.”
“Erin, look”—he pulled off his damp duncher and held it between both of his hands—“it’s not my place, but…” He looked as forlorn as a man at the races who’d put his last pounds on a horse—and lost. “I wish you’d not.” His hands tugged at the tweed, and he stammered slightly as he said, “You might get killed.”
Good Lord, the man was scared for her. “Don’t you worry your head about it, Sam. It’ll be over before the Brits know what’s hit them.”
“Aye, so you say, but we’ve never done nothing like this before. It’s not a night ambush or leaving a booby trap somewhere. Erin…” He tried to grab her arm and stared into her eyes. “You could get shot.”
She shrugged. There had always been a risk from the day she’d made the Provo Declaration, but she’d never seriously entertained the possibility that it could happen to her. Other people, perhaps; Terry O’Rourke, shot in the lungs, had died the night she’d gone out on an ambush with him, and Fiach, alone in Ballydornan. Da’d come close to dying years ago, on the night when he’d been shot, but he’d gone on fighting. Eamon had been forced to surrender his freedom. But—Sammy was right. “I could get killed on Saturday, Sammy,” she said quietly. “But so could the rest. So can anyone who’s in the fight. I have to chance it.”
“Och, don’t say that.” Sammy stood footering with his cap and studying the toes of his boots.
“You’re sweet, Sam, but don’t you worry your head about me. Everything’s going to be fine.” She lowered her voice. “Then it’s ‘over the hills and far away.’”
“What are you talking about?”
“The lot of us are leaving Northern Ireland.” She glanced at the misty hills, feeling her own eyes mist, but she tossed her head and said, “No more barrows full of cow clap.” She forced a smile.
“Leaving?” Sammy’s brows wrinkled. “Me, too? You never said nothing about it to me.” Poor wee Sammy. He never could digest sudden surprises. “I … I’d not mind getting out,” he said, and she heard longing in his voice. He was going to be disappointed.
“Not you, Sam. We want you to stay here and look after the place until we can get one of the overseas O’Byrnes to come home and take it over.”
“But … but…” One hand released the peak of his cap. His hand flew up and a finger guddled in his nostril. She wished he wouldn’t do that. “If you and the rest are for getting out, will the Brits not come after me if I stay?”
“Not the way we’re going to arrange things. You’ll be safe as houses, safer than a bunch of peelers.” She laughed.
“There’s no need to make fun of me, so there’s not.” He sounded hurt.
“I’m not, Sam. The Brits won’t be looking for you because you’re not going.”
“Not what?”
“Not going on the raid. We can manage without you. If you go down to Ballybofey the night before, make sure you’ve a few jars there with your mates and go back to the pub with them the next day. The Brits can suspect what the hell they like. You’ll have an alibi. Cal’ll give you a few quid to pay for a room.”
Erin waited for Sammy to smile in relief. Maybe he’d been genuine in his concern for her when he’d asked her not to go, but she knew he’d been asking on his own behalf, too. He didn’t want to take any risks. Whatever else Sammy McCandless believed in, dying for Ireland was not one of his aspirations. But he didn’t smile, didn’t rush to agree with her plan. “I thought you’d be pleased,” she said.
“I need to think on that,” he said slowly, frowning and scuffing one boot toe in the earth. He was like a kid who’d been promised a treat, and the promise had been broken.
“What’s there to think about? We’re letting you out. You’ll not be taking any risks, Sam. And the boys and me will be fine, too.”
“I hope you’re right. I still wish…”
“I’m going, Sammy. I owe it to Fiach, and I want to have one more go at the bastards before I run off. Eamon can’t stay here no matter what, and when he goes, I’m going with him.” She softened her voice. “I’ll miss you,” she said, although she knew she’d not miss him the way he’d want her to. She’d yearn for the farm and for Ireland. Like them, Sammy had always been part of her life, but all she’d really feel for him would be a small sense of loss of the familiar. She didn’t want him to see that, so she took his hand and squeezed.
Sammy looked as if he could burst into tears and blurted, “You don’t have to go on the attack.”
“Och, I do, Sam.”
He shook his head forcibly. “You do not. Not … not if I go instead of you.”
Good God. She stared into Sammy’s eyes and saw the resolve. “You are sweet, Sammy, you really are.”
“I would, you know,” he said. “You could go down to Ballybofey and have an alibi. You could look after the farm until your family come back, maybe … maybe go to Eamon in a month or two.”
She saw pride on his face, and he’d every right to be proud. It must have cost every ounce of his tiny courage to make the offer. What a hell of a thing for him to do. “I suppose I could, Sammy, but I’m the one who’s planned this attack. I’m the one who has to see it through. You’re for Ballybofey.”
“Why’ve I to go to the Republic?”
“For your alibi, silly. You cross the border and our customs and the Gardai’ll have records. Nobody can challenge that.”
Sammy managed a small smile.
“Good,” she said. “Now listen…” Telling him the dates now would pose no risk. He had earned the right to be told. “You get yourself over the border on Friday night and don’t come back until Saturday evening.”
“All right,” he said. “Have it your own way.”
For a man who’d been so easily offended a few days ago when she’d deliberately withheld the information, he didn’t seem very interested now.
“I know you, Erin O’Byrne, when you’ve your mind made up. Just you … just you take care of yourself, now, whatever you’re attacking.”
“Strabane,” she said, “Strabane Police Barracks.”
Sammy grinned and danced a few jig steps. “Jesus,” he said, “Strabane? I’d never’ve guessed. Not in a month of Sundays. That’ll really give the Brits a quare poke in the eye, so it will.”
“Well, now you know, Sammy. You keep it to yourself.”
“Of course I will.” There was a more serious note to his voice now. “I’ve just had a wee notion. If I’m not going, who’ll fuse the bomb?”
“You’ll have to teach Cal how to set the timer.”
“That’s wee buns, so it is. I’ll just need to take a run-race over to my place and get my stuff. I’ve e
verything I need in a knapsack hid under the coal in the coal shed.”
“Are you still using fulminate?”
“Aye.”
Erin chuckled. “You’d need to make sure you didn’t pick some up by mistake and shovel it on the fire.”
“I’d not be that daft,” Sammy said seriously. He started to trot over to the door. “I’ll get it right now, so I will.”
“Hang about, Sam,” she called, and saw his look of disappointment. “Take your hurry in your hand. There’s work to do here first.”
“Oh.”
“C’mere here,” she said, and walked along to Margaret’s stall. “I want you to fix that. She’s kicked the bejesus out of it.”
“Right.”
“And I want you to stay here tonight. You’d be a bit of company for me and Cal, and you’ll have to see to the cattle in the morning because…” She felt moisture in her eyes. She’d tried to put the whole business out of her mind. “We’re burying Fiach tomorrow.”
* * *
The rain had stopped earlier in the afternoon, when Sammy came into the barn to fix the stall. He nailed the last board, stood, and surveyed his handiwork. He’d taken care of the job, and it wasn’t the only thing he was going to take care of, just like he’d promised Erin.
She didn’t know it, and she’d never know it, but she’d given him all he needed for him to keep her safe, and at no risk to himself. If she would have let him, he would have kissed her when she’d told him he’d not have to go on the raid. What the hell had possessed him to offer to go in her place? Was it her saying she’d miss him? The touch of her hand?
As he walked the length of the barn, he congratulated himself on his performance this morning. He’d let her think he wasn’t really interested in the day or the target. When she’d told him, he’d wanted to scream, “Hallelujah.” He smiled to himself. Putting on an act like that would have given the Ballymena film actor Liam Neeson a bit of competition.
Sammy wandered over to the barn door and chucked his hammer on the workbench. For a second, his eyes lit on a Black & Decker drill. That was the one the men from Derry had taken to the young drug dealer. Nobody was going to use it on Sammy McCandless. The senior Provos would have no reason to suspect him, because the plans he’d been trying to make last night had fallen into place like the tumblers in a well-oiled lock. The attack could go ahead without any interference from the Security Forces. There’d be no suspicion that someone had given them away if they weren’t ambushed. And they weren’t going to be, not the way Sammy had things worked out now.
He knew the day. His guess about Strabane had been confirmed, and all he had to do was phone Spud and tell him, but—and this was the brilliant part—he’d tell Spud it was going to be on Saturday week. Any plans the man might be making, because Sammy had told Spud to expect the attack soon, would have to wait. The Security Forces couldn’t risk trying to remain concealed for more than a week in Strabane. The Special Branch man would be fully aware that the locals would notice something in a rural town, and the word would get back to the O’Byrnes.
Once Sammy fed his handler the wrong information, there’d be no ambush this Saturday, and Erin and the rest could attack to their hearts’ content. And, Sammy relished the thought, with a bit of luck, that big shite of a policeman who’d interrogated him in the Strabane Barracks, softened him up for recruitment by Spud, would be in the barracks. Sammy hoped he’d roast in hell.
Spud would be furious that he’d not been given the correct details, but the E4A man would have all the confirmation he wanted that Sammy had been right about the target.
When the barracks were blown up this Saturday, Sammy would have his alibi that he’d been down in Ballybofey, and that should convince Spud that the O’Byrnes had lied. It wouldn’t be Sammy’s fault if they’d fed him a story. If Spud was mad enough, there’d be no trip to England, but why would he need to go anyway?
He’d not been making it up when he’d told the peeler that once the O’Byrnes were gone, there’d be no more information from Sunshine. The police would leave him alone. They couldn’t even take their revenge by blowing the whistle to the senior Provos and letting them deal with him. If they did, word would get out that the police had fucked one of their own informers. They’d not recruit another tout in Tyrone or Counties Armagh or Londonderry either—not until apples grew on cherry trees.
It was a bugger that he hadn’t been able to persuade Erin to let him go back to his cottage to get the detonators. He could have made his phone call on the way, got the whole thing over with, but it could keep until tomorrow after Fiach’s funeral.
Now that he was going to put the rest right, Fiach’s death was all he would have on his conscience. Tonight, when they sat round the range, he’d tell Erin not to worry. Sammy would make sure for as long as he lived in Ireland there’d be fresh flowers on Fiach’s grave. She’d like that. Maybe she’d kiss him again or give him a hug.
He was smiling to himself as he saw Cal and Tessie bringing the cows in for milking. He’d have to take them out tomorrow morning and see to some of the chores while Cal and Erin were at the funeral. And while they were out, he’d use their phone. You’re brilliant, Sammy McCandless, he told himself as he gave Cal a hand to herd the cattle into their stalls.
“Thanks, Sammy,” Cal said when they’d finished. “When you take them out tomorrow, keep an eye on that Margaret. She’s a vicious hoor of a beast.”
CHAPTER 41
VANCOUVER. WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 28, 1983
Fiona allowed herself a slightly vicious thought. Dimitris Papodopolous’s name should be changed to kalo pedi. Those words had been the mother’s sole contribution to the four-way discussion. The boy’s father had done most of the talking, and they had brought a cousin as their translator, a gangly, olive-skinned, heavily moustachioed man. Her three visitors sat in front of her desk.
“Eno kalo pedi.” Mrs. Papodopolous dabbed at her eyes with a lace-fringed handkerchief.
“Mr. Giorgiou, please tell Mrs. Papodopolous that I do know her son is a good boy, but he is still having difficulties.”
Fiona had already decided that, since neither she nor the school advisor seemed to be able to succeed with the lad, it was time for Dimitris, who was in class, to be given specialized professional counseling. She knew the suggestion would be taken as a deep insult by his parents. They would regard as shameful the least hint that a family member might need a psychologist’s help. How was she going to raise the subject tactfully?
Despite the padding of the swivel chair, her backside felt numb. She listened to rapid-fire Greek as the cousin translated and Mr. Papodopolous, brows furrowed, replied. Words flew back and forth between the two men. She waited for the conversation to end. Now it seemed Mrs. Papodopolous was finally taking her turn. It looked as though the family debate might take some time.
The dying gale tossed bursts of rain against the windows of her office, and, distracted, she looked out and saw dead leaves whirled and tossed through the air and tumbled across the grass. Bare branches of trees thrashed and seemed to rake the low, grey clouds the way McCusker sharpened his claws on her furniture.
She felt as buffeted by the events of the last two days as those branches and told herself to stop thinking about it and concentrate on the job at hand. She’d made her decision and was determined to stick to it. Jimmy’s revelations about Davy had helped. Siobhan’s abrupt admission about how she still yearned for her dead love had surprised Fiona. She could try to pretend to herself she’d made her decision about Davy because she’d carefully weighed all the available information, added up the pros and cons. The simple truth was that her mind had been made up from the moment she’d learned that Davy might be coming.
Everything else had been attempts to justify her decision to herself and, damnit, there was no need for justification. She was still in love with Davy McCutcheon, and that was all that mattered.
Accepting him, knowing, knowing without the slighte
st doubt, that she would wait for him, meant she must tell Tim, hurt Tim, and the prospect had kept her awake for hours last night.
She rubbed her eyes and leaned forward to hear what the cousin was saying.
“He say”—the cousin seemed to be searching for the right words—“he say, the family do all things you tell them to do. Dimitris washes dishes, gives dog his meals.”
“Good. It’s certainly an excellent start.”
“Kalo pedi.”
Fiona smiled at Mrs. Papodopolous to show she understood. “Unfortunately…” Saying baldly their son was a disruptive little hellion who, in her nonprofessional opinion, needed his backside warmed would hardly do. Back in Belfast, it was precisely what would have happened. She half-consciously rubbed the palm of her hand across her knuckles, remembering the stinging whacks she’d had there from rulers wielded by the nuns of her Catholic school.
Dealing with disruptive kids was much more scientifically based here in Canada. And a good thing, too. That’s why she was here today, to try to bring all she’d learned to bear on Dimitris’s problem.
“Unfortunately,” she said, “and I’m not being judgmental, it’s not having the positive outcome on his negative behaviours I’d hoped for.” She coughed and scolded herself for trotting out the educational jargon. She knew what it meant, but to expect even English-speaking parents to understand would be unreasonable. No wonder there was a puzzled look on the cousin’s face.
“I mean, I don’t think we’ve succeeded as well as I’d hoped.”
Mr. Papodopolous turned to his cousin, rattled off an explosive sentence, and turned to Fiona. Was he angry or questioning?
Almost as rapidly, the cousin translated. “He say, in Greece, bad boy is punished. He now punishing Dimitris. He say, perhaps things different in Canada?”
“Yes. Yes they are.” Fiona wondered if those differences might be at the root of the boy’s difficulties. At his age, he’d be like a little sponge, soaking up the local way of doing things, yet at home, he’d have to fit in with the mores his parents had brought from their homeland. “Very different.” It had taken her years to shed much of the cultural baggage she’d brought from Belfast and adapt to the Canadian way of doing things. “It can be very difficult for immigrants, I know.”
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