The Dark Place

by Sam Millar

  “Crumlin Road … I remember you now. You were on the news after that big search in the Crum a few days ago. That was your daughter? I’m really sorry to hear that, but how would I be able to help?”

  “The cops claimed to have searched every inch of the prison in a three-day extensive search. They even reopened all of the old covered-in escape tunnels, just to make sure.”

  “From what you’ve said, there’s very little they didn’t do. What help would I be?”

  “You more than anyone are an expert when it comes to the structure of the jail. You have an extensive experience of working underground, so to speak. You know every nook and cranny in there – and I mean every. It’s well known that you were the master tunnelling engineer in there. Someone told me you were behind every escape tunnel ever dug, in Crumlin Road Jail.”

  “Don’t believe everything you hear, Mister Kane – especially from your cop friends.”

  “It’s a fact, and a plea. If anyone knows the secrets of that nightmarish place, I believe it’s you, Mister Burns.”

  “You’ve done your homework, it would seem. But let me shock you with a little bit of information. I’ve done my homework, as well. You’re the brother-in-law of Mark Wilson. Correct?”

  Karl hesitated before replying. “Was. Past tense.”

  “Well, Wilson and I have a lot of past between us – a hell of a lot. I don’t think he would look too kindly on you asking for my help.”

  “You mean the fact that you shot him in the face, scarring him for life, almost killing him?”

  A ghost of a smile appeared on Burns’s face. “Looks like you were pretty thorough in your homework after all.”

  “Let me be up front with you, Mister Burns. I don’t care what little war you and my ex-brother-in-law fought years ago, your ideals, or your political beliefs. In all honesty, I would go to the devil himself if I knew his address, to help find my daughter. Perhaps that doesn’t mean a lot to you, but it means everything to me. Now, will you help me or not?”

  Brendan Burns seemed to be staring at Karl as if weighing him up. It was a few seconds before he spoke. “How well did you know Wilson’s right-hand man, a psychopath by the name of Duncan Bulldog McKenzie?”

  Immediately blood rushed from Karl’s head. He felt dizzy.

  “Why … why do you ask?” said Karl, finally getting his tongue to move.

  “You’re aware he was shot dead a few months ago?”

  Karl nodded. His neck felt weak.

  Burns’s face darkened. His lips drew back in a snarl, almost canine. “I celebrated for almost a week when I heard it. Does that shock you?”

  Karl remained silent.

  “I had a little girl, like your Katie, Mister Kane,” continued Burns. “Patricia was her name. Eight years of age. Lovely little thing. One day she was there, then the next she was gone, for ever.”

  “I’m sorry to –”

  “I was on the run. Wilson and his crew came to arrest me. They’d been tipped off by one of their many lowlife informers in the area. They came to my house, guns blazing, caring not an iota for anyone in my home. I was shot four times. My wife, Claire, three. They shot Patricia once. Just the once, Mister Kane. My wife and I both survived, but one bullet was enough to kill Patricia. Figure that out if you can.”

  “I …” Karl could find no words, his face suddenly turning grim.

  “It was McKenzie. He fired the fatal shot. I will never forget the smirk on his face.”

  “There’s … there’s nothing I can say, Brendan; nothing at all that will help take away your pain. I should have dug a little deeper before blundering into your place looking for you. I can understand Cormac’s reaction now. He’s a true friend.”

  Nodding, Brendan Burns said, “At least now you know why I tried to kill Wilson. My only regret was not being the one who shot McKenzie. I would give anything to shake the hand of the man who killed Bulldog, thank him from the bottom of my heart.”

  Karl’s face reddened. “Now, at least, I understand why you don’t want to help me, Brendan. I’m too close to Wilson for you. I probably wouldn’t want to help either if I were you.”

  “Goodbye, Mister Kane,” said Brendan Burns, standing, before leaving as quickly as he had arrived.

  It was almost a minute later when Naomi looked in at Karl.

  “You okay?”

  “Fine.”

  “I’m not going to ask you.”

  “You don’t have to. The way your body is shaped like a question mark says it all. He was a man from a long time ago, a man who – justifiably – can’t help looking back in anger instead of forward with hope.”

  “Is … is there anything I can do?”

  Forcing a smile, Karl patted his knee. “Just sit beside me for a few minutes. Help me not to become that man.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  “For hope grew round me, like the twining vine, And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine.”

  Samuel Taylor Coleridge, “Dejection: an Ode”

  It was the very next day, lunchtime, when Karl received a very unexpected phone call.

  “Karl? Phone call, line two,” said Naomi.

  “Who?”

  “Wouldn’t give his name. Says it’s important.”

  “Hello?” asked Karl, quickly placing the phone against his ear.

  “There’s a very good chance that this will get messy – very messy. Are you prepared for that?” asked Brendan Burns, at the other end.

  “I’m prepared for anything. I just want Katie back.”

  “Okay, but don’t say you weren’t warned.”

  “What made you change your mind?” asked Karl, sheer relief washing over him.

  Seconds of hesitancy stretched at the other end before Brendan said, “With some reluctance, I spoke to Claire last night. She said that if it were Patricia out there, held by some monster, she would want someone to help her.”

  “Please … please thank Claire for me, Brendan. I appreciate how she may have influenced your thinking. I know how hard this must have been – for you both.”

  “You understand that it’s going to be difficult finding a way into the Crum without attracting any attention? The Antrim Road part is watched by the local police station. We’ll have to find a way in the back. It’s going to be very tricky.”

  “I already have the way. A good friend.”

  “Can this so-called good friend be trusted?”

  “I trust him.”

  “Okay, but he doesn’t need to know anything about me. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  “There’s one other thing which needs saying, no matter how callous it sounds.”

  “What’s that?” asked Karl.

  “If Katie is in there, she may no longer be alive.”

  Silence suddenly filled the line.

  “You understand that?” persisted Brendan.

  “Where will we meet?” asked Karl, sidestepping the ominous question.

  “Park your car on the bottom of the Antrim Road, close to Carlisle Circus. There’s a little café called T 4 2, not too far from the Ulster Bank, on the corner. I’ll see you inside the café at eight, tomorrow night. Don’t be early and don’t be late.”

  “Brendan?”

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you.”

  “Keep the thanks in cold storage. I haven’t done anything yet.”

  “You’ve given me hope again. I’ll never forget that, regardless of the outcome.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  “Down, down to hell; and say I sent thee thither.”

  William Shakespeare, Henry VI

  Despite being the middle of summer, a weird, autumnal darkness had suddenly taken over Belfast’s night sky as the trio proceeded up the Crumlin Road toward their intended target. The night’s skin was a mixture of copper and dark purples, like some huge Rorschach inkblot. Karl thought the copper resembled a dead man’s eyes.

  “Strange sky,” said Willie, as if
reading Karl’s thoughts.

  Karl nodded in acknowledgement, but did not speak.

  Brendan said nothing either, his mind seemingly preoccupied with things other than shifting weather. His broad back carried a battered, navy-blue rucksack.

  The night’s darkness, to Karl, had a sickly thickness to it, like black porridge spilling over the side of a bowl. It made him feel shuddery, as if trapped in some Gothic painting left unfinished by a dying hand. The diseased and derelict buildings on either side of the Crumlin Road weren’t helping the feeling.

  “Looks like rain,” continued Willie, sounding slightly anxious. “Hasn’t rained in almost six weeks, but tonight looks like we’re in for a good soaking. I suppose it’ll keep nosey-parkers indoors.”

  No response from Karl or Brendan.

  “What’s in the rucksack, big fella?” continued Willie, indicating with a nod towards Brendan.

  “Provisions,” Brendan icily responded.

  “Remember what I said, Willie?” said Karl. “No questions.”

  Before Willie could answer, the heavens suddenly erupted, forcing the threesome to quicken their pace.

  Less than five minutes later, they stood hidden in the shadows of the intimidating Victorian jail, rain pooling on the roof of a decrepit watchman’s hut, coming off in waterfall fashion on to their uncovered heads.

  “We’re here, lads,” whispered Willie, and suddenly all three craned their necks upwards, as if sketching the massive building with their eyes.

  On 31 March 1996, the Governor of Belfast’s Crumlin Road Jail walked out of the fortified prison, the heavy air-lock gates slamming directly behind him, shutting for their final time. That sound ended a 150-year history of incarceration, conflict and executions. For most people in Belfast – and throughout the country – Crumlin Road Jail was a ghastly monument to man’s inhumanity to man. An estimated 25,000 people were imprisoned there during its turbulent history, whether as a result of internment or on remand as political prisoners.

  The first official use of the jail began in March 1846 when 106 prisoners – men, women and children – were force-marched from Carrickfergus Jail. The youngest person to be hung in the prison was a boy of ten, Patrick Magee, imprisoned for the horrendous crime of stealing a shirt. Famous inmates have included the Irish president Éamon de Valera and Ian Paisley, another potential Irish president.

  For almost five minutes, the trio stood, eerily silent in contemplation, as if at the gates of Hades itself, waiting for some godless ordination.

  An elderly woman across the street at number eighteen watched the scene from a bedroom window of her home. Her denture-less face caved inwards as she mumbled something to herself before eventually slithering out of view.

  “Nosey old bag,” hissed Willie. “Bloody nothing better to do than to poke her nose into other people’s business. I hate people like her.”

  “This jail looks like something from Charles Dickens,” said Karl.

  “Not a place for the fainthearted, I can tell you,” volunteered Willie. “This old bastard was built in 1846, and believe it or not, was one of the most advanced prisons of its day. Seventeen prisoners were executed inside its walls. They say their ghosts can be heard, crying at night looking for freedom. Inside there are four wings, each four stories high. There are six hundred and forty cells.”

  “You seem to know a great deal about the place, if you don’t mind me saying?” commented Brendan.

  “I did nine months in this hellhole, years ago,” boasted Willie. “I know its history, inside out.”

  “Nine months? That must have been terrible,” responded Brendan.

  “You can say that again. Not a place for the weak-kneed. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.”

  “If someone had ever told me that one day I’d be breaking into the Crum …” said Brendan to Karl, while watching Willie work his magic on the medieval lock studded into the jail’s side gate.

  Karl said nothing, his eyes nervously glancing up and down the eerily deserted street, watching for patrolling police cars.

  The rain began thundering down so heavily, visibility was becoming almost impossible.

  “I can hardy see the damn lock,” complained Willie, working the needle-thin tool into the lock’s cavity, filthy rainwater bombarding his hands. “Can’t we just use a torchlight, for a minute?”

  “No. The cops would be like moths to it,” said Brendan. “If they come, we won’t have to worry about breaking in. They’ll give us a personal invite.”

  “Just take your time, Willie,” encouraged Karl, finally breaking his own silence. “You’ve worked under more stressful conditions than this.”

  “Tell me about it. I remember the time I was asked by a client to do this wee break-in job, right beside a police station. Ha! Those were the days when –”

  “We can reminisce once we get inside,” said Brendan impatiently.

  “Keep your knickers on,” retorted Willie. “I don’t know what your role is, big fella, and I don’t want to know. But without me, we aren’t going anywhere. Understand?”

  “Everyone here is important,” cut in Karl, quickly trying to defuse the rapidly deteriorating situation. “But I need both of you to stay focused … please … for Katie’s sake.”

  There was an embarrassing silence before Willie’s contrite voice said, “You’re right, Karl. We’re like school kids at a pissing contest. Sorry.”

  “Just stay focused,” reiterated Karl.

  “Got it!” exclaimed Willie, triumphantly. “Got the bastard.”

  “Good man, Willie. Good man,” encouraged Karl, immediate relief sweeping over his face.

  Seconds later, the three men stepped inside, quickly closing the door behind them.

  Silence greeted them. A peculiar, almost sickly silence. Neglected, one-time security lights had burned out so the only light on the narrow path between the yard and the far wings came from street lamps at the back of the prison, silhouetting the threesome like grey ghosts against the bars of the gate. Lattices of razor wire curled above the ramparts.

  Karl could hear his heart thump thump thumping in his ears, as if underwater in some murky lake. Time to strap on your balls, Karl me bucko, thought Karl, suddenly feeling apprehensive.

  “Not a soul,” said Willie.

  “The place is no longer guarded as such, because there’s nothing left to steal. All the wings have been gutted, supposedly to make room for a five-star hotel. Only one wing remains intact,” responded Brendan.

  “Which one would that be?” asked Willie.

  “That would be A Wing. That’s the one the cops conducted their three-day search on. A Wing is where they kept republican prisoners, I believe,” supplied Brendan. “If I’m not mistaken, loyalists prisoners were housed in C Wing. And the notorious Basement was the place they housed the rats.”

  “They housed rats?” asked Karl.

  “The worse. The most treacherous. The two-legged kind.”

  “You’ve got that right,” agreed Willie. “I had a couple of good friends put into C Wing because of the rats in the Basement. You still haven’t told me how you know all this.”

  “Let’s move, Willie,” said Karl, trying to prevent Willie from digging further with his questioning. “We’re wasting precious time.”

  “Okay. This way,” instructed Willie, heading for the open yard, followed closely behind by Karl and Brendan. “That large door ahead should lead to the Circle. The wings all stem from there. Once inside, A Wing should be directly ahead, if my memory serves me well.”

  The modern door leading into the Circle held little resistance for Willie. Three minutes later, it opened. “We’ll take the stairs over beside the –”

  “Hold on a second, Willie,” said Karl. “This is as far as you go.”

  “What?” Willie looked perplexed. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Things are probably going to get very hairy from here on in. You’ve already taken to
o many chances helping us. Besides, we need you to stay outside with this walkie-talkie,” said Karl, offering the device to Willie. “We need to know if anyone approaches the place. It’s vitally important that we get a warning.”

  “You’re not serious? How the hell are you two going to find your way about in there without me? Eh? Answer me that, Bamber Gascoigne?”

  “I can answer that, Willie,” supplied Brendan.

  “You? How the hell would you know?” said Willie disdainfully.

  “I was a … guest here, for almost twelve years.”

  Willie’s left eyebrow curved into a hairy question mark. “You? Twelve years? You’re pulling my leg. He is pulling my leg, Karl. Right?”

  “No … no, Willie. Brendan’s telling the truth.”

  Shaking his head with disbelief, Willie mumbled, “And there’s me blabbering about doing nine months. I feel a right old fool.”

  “Don’t,” cut in Brendan. “Nine weeks, nine months, nine years – it’s all the same when time has been stolen from you.”

  “I suppose you don’t wish to tell me what you were in for?”

  “Willie, I told you, no questions,” said Karl quickly, seeing Brendan’s face tighten. “Now, just do as I ask. Take the walkie-talkie, and –”

  “Shoplifting,” said Brendan.

  “Shoplifting … and they gave you twelve years?” said Willie suspiciously. “Must’ve been a pretty expensive bit of shoplifting?”

  “I lifted it twenty feet in the air.”

  “What?”

  “Explosives.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh indeed,” cut in Karl. “Now, will you watch our backs or not?”

  Nodding, Willie took the walkie-talkie before walking toward the front gate, whispering under his breath, “Twelve years …”

  Inside, Karl and Brendan were greeted with almost pitch black. Dim papillary lights, each the size of a baby’s toe, lined the walls, giving an eerie bluish hue to the darkness.

  “Grim place,” said Karl, feeling his stomach do its familiar trapdoor movement.

  “What did you expect?”