The next morning, feeling poorly, they faced a company of British soldiers who’d got wind of their approach. The British were seriously outnumbered, but so far untroubled by irradiated guts.
Senior staff from each side met in the middle to parley.
The Irish commander felt every bit as bad as he looked, but tried to put a brave face on it. “We are a little anxious,” he said, “that you may have misunderstood the reasons for our presence here in the North.”
“We were feeling a little anxious ourselves,” said the British commander.
“We never came to do anything other than help,” said the Irishman.
“Help yourselves to a little extra territory, you mean,” muttered someone on the British side.
The British commander turned his head slightly in that direction and scowled. There were no further sotto voce contributions. “Your colleagues in Londonderry aren’t being terribly helpful at the moment,” he said.
The Irishman shifted in his seat uncomfortably. “As I said, the situation in Derry is probably due to a misunderstanding.”
“A misunderstanding?” said the Englishman. “The siege of Derry,” he said, pronouncing the name with exaggerated care, “is happening all over again.”
The Irishman cleared his throat a little too vigorously and tasted blood at the back of his tongue. “Colonel Murphy is a bit of a maverick -” he began.
“You’re claiming he’s disobeying orders?” said the Englishman.
“I’m saying he, ah, does have a knack of getting the wrong end of the stick,” said the Irishman, “and he’s well known for carrying out his orders a little too - enthusiastically, shall we say.”
“It’ll have to stop,” said the Englishman in a deceptively mild voice. “He’ll have to withdraw.”
“I can arrange that,” said the Irishman, “but my men and I must be guaranteed safe passage across County Armagh and back into the Republic. We can’t go back the way we came.”
The Englishman considered this. “You’ll have to surrender all your weapons,” he said.
The Irishman raised his eyebrows and said nothing.
The Englishman chuckled self-deprecatingly. “It was worth a try. Very well, then. I’ll want your word that nothing will be ‘accidentally’ left behind. We will shortly be turning our attention to certain troublemakers, as I’m sure you’ve guessed. We expect to be taking radical action against them, and we don’t want them to receive any sort of assistance from you.”
The Irishman was poker-faced. “They’ll not get so much as a bullet from us,” he said.
“Good.” The Englishman relaxed. “This will be in your interest, too, you know. The political situation is very volatile - not just here, but everywhere. The hot-heads are right; an all-Ireland state could be very close. If it does come about, you’ll hardly want that rabble to be a part of it -”
“Or you either,” said the Irishman.
The Englishman frowned. He had a brief vision of himself and his company growing old, cooped up in their barracks like monks in a monastery, the very last Englishmen, unable ever to return home because apart from the Shetlands and the Channel Islands, Ireland was the only part of the British Isles that wasn’t slowly cooking its inhabitants. “We’ll be staying here just as long as we’re needed,” he said, “not a minute longer; and when our tour of duty is over, we’ll go home.”
The Irishman was ready to say you hope, but stopped himself; there was no point in antagonising his counterpart any further. Besides, he had sounded more as if he was trying to convince himself than anyone else.
*****
The first contingent of refugees to arrive from mainland Britain did not look like the refugees Tony Bannister had often seen on television: ragged and dirty, carrying their most prized possessions in hastily wrapped bundles, perhaps towing them along on makeshift wagons that made go-carts look like Porsches by comparison. These people were as well-dressed as any who stepped off the ferry at Larne. There were little signs that gave them away, however. They had more bags and cases than travellers usually had, for instance. Mostly, though, it was the look in their eyes that told how someone in the family had had enough foresight to get them all out of the way of the approaching disaster, but not enough to plan any further ahead: they stood on the pavement outside the ferry terminal, huddled together, watching a succession of taxis departing to somewhere and elsewhere, obviously thinking: Well, here we are - now what are we supposed to do?
Tony’s eye fell on one such group, a couple in their late thirties with a girl and a boy both under ten. They looked as if they’d never dealt with a bigger crisis than an unexpectedly large telephone bill; they had rube written all over them. Tony approached them and gave them his warmest smile.
“Excuse me,” he said. “You look rather lost.”
“We’ve just come in on the ferry,” said the man unnecessarily. “We don’t really know Larne at all. We were expecting to arrive at Belfast, but -” he shrugged.
Tony nodded sagely. “I see. So this boat has come in from Liverpool, not Stranraer?”
“That’s right,” said the man. His face became animated; here was someone to whom he could tell his story. “Actually, we’re from Manchester, but we were able to get out before - before -”
“My brother’s in the Army, you see,” chipped in his wife. “He hears things, so we were able to get packed and on the road before everyone else.”
Tony felt an unexpected pang of regret. No more Manchester United football matches, then. That really was too bad. “Manchester’s gone, then?” he asked, sounding suitably appalled.
“Yes,” said the man. “At least, we think so. We spoke to someone on the boat who left after we did.”
“He said it was a near thing,” said his wife.
“Well,” said Tony after a moment or two, “I suppose this leaves you in a bit of a pickle, eh?”
The man chuckled humourlessly. “You could say that. We don’t want to book into some big hotel, since we don’t know how our situation will develop, and we don’t want to throw money away needlessly -”
Tony laughed. “Big hotels in Larne! There are no big hotels here. The best this town can offer you is bed and breakfast, and all the B&Bs have probably been snapped up by now.”
The man looked almost comically dismayed; his wife looked close to tears. “Mummy, I’m cold,” said one of the children.
“Look,” said the man desperately, “isn’t there anywhere we could stop for the night?” He swallowed and added, “We’ll pay anything reasonable.”
“Won’t they let you back into the terminal?” asked Tony, knowing very well what the answer would be.
“No,” said the man.
Tony looked at them helplessly for a few more moments - just long enough to let the true desperation of their situation sink in - then said, with the air of someone who’s just had an idea, “Look, I think I might know someone. He’s quite well off - he lives in a big house on his own - I think I could persuade him to put you up for a short while.”
Hope blossomed on the faces of his victims. “Really?”
“Yeah. He’s a bit of a grouch, but he’s a decent sort really.” Tony glanced at the children and hesitated as if he’d become doubtful again. “Thing is, though, he doesn’t really like kids.”
The children looked stricken, as if they thought they would have to be left at the ferry terminal.
“But they’re really well-behaved,” protested the man.
“You wouldn’t know they were there sometimes,” added his wife.
Tony patted the air, shushing them with his hands. “I think I can talk him around. Um... I’ll tell you what. If you can give him, say, a month’s rent in advance, that might be enough to sweeten him.”
“How much would that be?”
“Oh, not much. Three hundred.”
“Three hundred?” cried the woman. “Jack, we can’t afford that -”
“Hush, Chrissie. If we have to pa
y, we have to pay.” To Tony he said: “I think we can manage that.”
“Great. I’ll get us a taxi.” He looked at the kids again. “Uh - on second thoughts -”
“What? What is it?”
Tony sighed. “I think negotiations might go more smoothly if the children weren’t present. How about me going and talking to this man first, then if it’s all okay, I’ll come back here and bring you there?”
“Why don’t you ring him?” said Chrissie.
“The network’s down,” said Tony, which was perfectly true.
Chrissie and Jack looked at each other. “All right,” said Jack. “How long will you be away?”
“Not long,” said Tony. “Can you let me have the cash? I’ll need it to wave under his nose. As soon as he sees it the deal will be wrapped up.”
Jack fished his wallet from an inside pocket. “Jack,” whispered Chrissie, “I’m really not sure this is a good idea.”
“Chrissie,” said Jack impatiently, “will you trust my judgment for once? This is an ordinary decent man who’s trying to help us.” He handed Tony three hundred; it didn’t seem to leave much in the wallet.
“Right,” said Tony, waving down a taxi, “I’ll go and get things organised.”
“Wait!” said Chrissie, stopping him as he was closing the taxi door. “We don’t know your name.”
He smiled at them all. “Phil,” he said. He leaned past Chrissie and nodded to Jack. “See you soon.”
The taxi rolled away. Suckers, thought Tony as he mentally totted up his profits so far. Twelve hundred; not bad.
*****
“I can’t help wondering what’s happened to him,” said Aidan.
“Will you shut up?” snapped Ciaran. “I know you wonder what’s happened to him. I could hardly help but know, seeing as this is about the nine millionth time you’ve mentioned it.” He pushed his chair back from the kitchen table and got up. “This tea’s freezing. I’m going to make more. Do you want another cup?”
“Aye, I suppose so.” Aidan sighed theatrically. “I suppose it’s my conscience. I just feel bad about us chickening out at the last minute.”
Ciaran bristled. “Speak for yourself! I didn’t chicken out. The whole thing was so badly planned we might as well have handed ourselves in at the nearest Police station once it was all over. As far as I’m concerned we made a sensible decision not to waste valuable resources on a stupid escapade that was bound to get us caught. See if all this other stuff hadn’t happened? Dermot would be standing in front of some judge right now. They’d have locked all of us up and thrown away the key. Then where would The Cause be?”
“I suppose you’re right.” After a moment, Aidan said: “Ciaran?”
“What?”
“If Dermot has survived... you and me had better watch our backs.”
Ciaran thought about this for a moment. “I don’t think he has. If he was in Belfast when-” He shook his head. “I can’t see it. Besides, the Peelers have got better things to do just now than sit listening to some supergrass. I’ve heard rumours... there’ll be things happening all over the North just now that’ll keep them busy.” He glanced at the television above the breakfast bar to his right and swore mildly. All they’d been able to get from it was a poor signal from a Scottish transmitter. It pixellated and crashed as they talked. “I wish the TV or the radio or something was working. I’d love to know what’s going on out there.”
“I didn’t mean that, Ciaran,” said Aidan. “I meant, if he’s alive, he’s going to come after us.”
Ciaran smiled grimly. “We’ll be ready for him.” He nodded towards the front door of the little terraced house where they were staying and said, “Anybody that sets foot through that door uninvited won’t know what hit them.”
With a bang that made them both jump, the front doorjamb split around the lock. The two men watched, frozen, as the door crashed open under the impact of a second sledgehammer blow, then scrambled for their guns as a squad of Policemen tumbled in through the gap.
Ciaran managed one shot; it went wildly awry, punching a hole high up on the wall opposite. The two Peelers who were foremost responded with three or four shots each; Ciaran did a quick boogaloo and collapsed over the table, smashing it to matchwood.
Aidan, meanwhile, had thrown his gun down almost as soon as he had lifted it, and dived to the carpet after it, screaming: “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”
There was a tense abeyance of the action while the intruders checked the rest of the flat for signs of any other human presence; then Aidan raised his eyes, almost smiling with relief. I’m not dead, he kept telling himself. I’m not dead.
He found he was lying in the middle of a circle of five heavily armed Policemen who all had their weapons trained on him. “That one’s dead,” said a sixth as he joined them.
“Oh, my,” said someone. “I’m so sad about that.”
Aidan glanced through their legs at Ciaran and swore at the men surrounding him. “You didn’t give us any opportunity to surrender,” he said angrily. “I’m going to see there’s a real stink kicked up about this.”
“You’re not going to see anything except my baton at close range,” said one of the Peelers.
“I want a lawyer now,” said Aidan.
The peelers laughed. “Son,” said the most senior, “you’ve got the wrong idea entirely. This wee courtesy call is strictly extra-curricular.”
Aidan suddenly needed to relieve himself very badly. “I should have known better than to expect fair play from you lot,” he said bitterly.
“Fair play?” hooted the cop. “Fair play? We’ll give you fair play - the same sort you’ve been giving us this past while back.”
Aidan closed his eyes as the first blows fell. They were vicious enough that, in between the waves of pain, he was able to console himself with the thought that it must all be over soon.
*****
They were the sheep. They were the ones who wanted comfort. They needed guidance; someone to tell them what they should do next. Even after the passage of days since the “normal” phase of their lives ended, they still refused to let go of the hope that all of this was a mere interruption in the usual course of things; presently someone in authority would get a grip on the situation and the status quo would be restored: their homes would be rebuilt, their employment resumed... they were, after all, in a civilised country. They could hardly fail to make a better job of things than those pathetic, disaster-prone nations in Africa and all those other places they kept hearing about on the news year after year.
Yet reality perversely continued to thwart their expectations; so the traditional course of action at such a moment seemed to be called for.
Along with the real believers, they made their way in steady streams towards church buildings, feeling only slightly discomfited by the silent, hostile faces many of them passed on the way in. Their mood was not one of repentance or abasement; rather, they were hoping for some sort of morale booster, a reminder that God was on their side and that they would come through eventually. (On the question of whether the reminder was for them or for God, their thinking was fairly vague.)
*****
Almost every seat was taken. A low hum of conversation faded into a reverent silence as a thin man with silver hair and a solemn expression stood up before the rows of people. He was not the preacher - that gentleman had progressed to Better Things on the morning of the disaster - but he was a Pillar Of The Church.
Just at that moment, someone outside began shouting in a hate-filled voice that seemed to be on the verge of turning into a scream. Heads turned towards the doors behind the congregation. It was difficult to make out what he was saying, but one word kept recurring: “Lemmings!”
A steely-nerved woman in the choir caught their attention again by standing and striking up a well-known hymn; they stood up with her and joined in for the few verses they knew by heart.
When they were seated again, the man at the front cleared
his throat nervously and tried to begin: “Ladies and Gentlemen, I -”
The rest of the crowd outside suddenly began yelling, and this time no-one could conquer the impulse to turn and look apprehensively towards the porch.
A stone crashed through one of the few windowpanes not damaged by the disaster, and a young girl screamed as she was showered with glass; then bedlam broke out as the mob burst in through the doorway, armed with sticks, stones, broken bottles and whatever else they could get their hands on, and began smashing everything before them, heedless of whether it was wood, glass or flesh.
The silver-haired man went down under the feet of first the panic-stricken congregation, and then the mob, protesting that this was not one of the Lemming churches, this was Anglican; but of course even if they had been able to hear him, they would not have cared. Lemmings, Anglicans, Christian Democrats - they were all the same. It was because of them that Lewis McDonald, the one man who could have prevented all of this, was as good as dead.
Outside, the ringleader stayed just long enough to make sure the action was well underway, then made himself scarce.
*****
“MARTYRS - people who believe in something so vociferously that the rest of us are forced to kill them off in order to get some peace and quiet again. The most obnoxious thing about them is often the company they keep; people who afterwards aren’t so much characterised by their celebration of their friend’s death for what he believed in, as their tendency to insist that YOU have to die for what he believed in.”
- from “Instant Wisdom” by G.C. Campbell.
*****
Sadie Parker, who had been clubbed on the head and left for dead, was the last person to leave the church. She struggled to her feet, whimpering, wiping semi-congealed dollops of blood from her eyes with the cleanest part of her right sleeve; the other had been torn off. She staggered out into the nearest aisle and headed for the back door. Glass crunched under her feet as she walked.
Fanatics: Zero Tolerance Page 10
