Start Reading
About Silence
About Anthony J. Quinn
Reviews
About the Inspector Celcius Daly Series
Table of Contents
www.headofzeus.com
To Monsignor Denis Faul, my former headmaster and teacher, whose dogged search for the truth inspired this book
Prologue
South Armagh, 1974
The afternoon light shuddered and all the black treachery of the winter sky, the rain clouds hurrying from west to east, condensed into the shape of a perfect downpour, a vertical altar of water cascading over the figures of the policemen bent to their grim task in the river. Dressed in waterproof blue overalls, the four officers had settled into such a rhythm of immersion and interrogation that they barely noticed the fizz of the raindrops on the river’s surface, the rods of water drilling upon their backs.
Like brethren performing a difficult baptism, they heaved together once again, and hauled the body from the water. It was a young man with lank black hair sticking to his face. The greyness of his skin, the defeated grimace on his face and the way in which his arms hung limply at his sides suggested he had already drowned; however, when one of the policemen yanked back the youth’s hair, the grimace writhed into life, spattering water from his mouth and nostrils.
‘The river’s much deeper today, Daniel,’ said the officer gripping him by the hair. ‘We almost lost hold of you there.’
Gulping for air, Daniel twisted his head round and peered into the driving rain.
‘Get to the point,’ he said thickly. Water gleamed everywhere, churning his vision of the river and their overalls into splinters.
‘Headquarters want you to work for us now.’
‘Yesterday I was a murder suspect. Things change very quickly with you people.’
‘Oh, things have changed. That’s definitely the case.’
The policeman plunged Daniel’s head back into the river so quickly that bubbles streamed from his nostrils and the water boiled around him. The first immersion had been the longest. A way to get the interrogation going, to ensure he listened to their questions. With each dunking, he had felt his body grow heavier and colder. The policemen tightened their hold and his face slid back to the surface.
‘Have you read today’s newspapers?’ The officer’s eyes blinked white in the rain.
‘Not this morning. Missed them.’ The face Daniel wore was a blank, borrowed from the stones at the bottom of the river. ‘What did they say?’
‘A van of workmen were killed yesterday evening by a bomb. The paramilitaries are on a war footing. Things are getting out of hand.’
With weary tenacity, they pushed Daniel’s head underwater, and this time he welcomed the immersion. His thoughts descended into secret chambers of coldness, guided by the hands of his interrogators. Normally when he lied, some facial tic betrayed him, but now the freezing temperature of the river jarred his body, overwhelming the delicate signals even a trained liar could not control.
When he re-emerged, he felt detached and disorientated. The rain chipped the surface of the river, filling his low vision with flint-like drops. Along the banks, the shapes of blackthorn trees seemed to float as light as bubbles against the darkness. In keeping with his blurred view, the voices of the policemen sounded garbled, broken into echoes by the roar of the river.
‘We have questions.’
‘Fire ahead.’ He was unable to control his shivering.
‘How many more innocent people have to die?’
‘Why should it matter to you?’
‘Trust us on this. It matters.’
Daniel knew that more killings were going to happen, tit for tat, an eye for an eye. Mass killings will happen, he wanted to tell his interrogators. Great numbers of dead will mount up, he wanted to blurt out through his trembling lips. It was only a question of time. Ruthless men were waiting in the wings, the shootings so far just the tentative rehearsals for widespread terror. It was the only way out of this stalemate, all this political weakness and confusion.
‘We have a message from Major Hannon.’ The officer’s eyes were empty but his voice was intense. ‘He wants your secrets, Daniel. The things that run through your mind before you fall asleep.’
‘You can tell him I haven’t slept in weeks.’
He shut his eyes and held his breath as they pushed him under. He was getting used to their rhythm. This time they dipped him so close to the riverbed he could feel the sharp edges of its rocks against his face.
When he returned to the surface, the human wall huddled closer.
‘Tell us what you know while you can still speak. Who are the IRA targeting next? Where are they hiding their weapons?’
‘Don’t know.’ His panting chest lifted his body up and down in their arms. He was so numb he could barely spit out the words.
‘Then tell us their names.’
‘Can’t.’
‘Shane Mulligan, who owns the fertilizer business on the border. We know he’s a key operator.’
‘Don’t know who you’re talking about.’
He almost passed out so long was the subsequent immersion. The river was flowing at full tilt and his shoulders buckled under the weight of its current.
He was frantic for air when he re-emerged. He gulped and retched, but before he could fill his lungs, they forced him under again. When he resurfaced, he spluttered with anger and desperation.
‘You made a mistake,’ he told them when he had recovered. ‘You didn’t ask me a question. You pushed me in again. You’re meant to ask a question first.’
They shrugged and laughed. He could hear them whispering together, and then a gun prodded him, nuzzling the back of his neck. He tried not to register its presence. They had stopped speaking. The press of the gun was their new form of communication, the solitary signal that they were still deliberating what to do with him. The gun nudged against his sodden hair and swung into view. He stared up at its point-blank eye. He felt weightless, held up by their arms in the rushing water. He was out of his depth completely, he realized.
‘We’re asking you now, Daniel. It’s time to talk. This is your last chance.’
The gun gaped before him, and his heart almost stopped. Everything slowed down with the clarity of approaching death: the toiling of the river, the jolts of raindrops crashing on its surface, the bulging eyes of his interrogators, their bodies anchored against the buckling currents, and beyond, the unfathomable darkness of the blackthorn trees.
Slowly, the hand pulled the trigger. Daniel clenched his teeth, but the mechanism did not fire. The only thing still afflicting him was the fierceness of the rain. Even their eyes had turned away. The rush of fear slowly passed. He stared at the fast-flowing river, feeling a sudden appreciation for its chastening beauty.
The policemen retreated, dragging his body on to the muddy bank. They left him there and stepped back, resting a while under the shelter of the overhanging trees. Their shadowy figures quivered in the downpour and then they were gone. Daniel listened above the gasping of his chest and the drumming of the rain. He heard the sound of their Land Rover starting up, the whine of its engine, the swish of its tyres along a flooded road.
He felt stronger when he realized he had survived their interrogation. Soaking wet and triumphant, he pushed his way through the thicket towards the road.
He wheeled around when he heard a voice call him through the thorns. A clamour of caws broke from the overhead branches and then all was quiet. He waited, listening intently. The rain had stopped but the ground still sizzled with drops falling from the canopy of branches. Several moments passed. The cold was setting in and he felt dazed. He stumbled on, clearing a path with his arms.
A branch cracked nearby
and the voice spoke again.
‘You were lucky today, Daniel Hegarty.’
The voice seemed to emanate from deep within the thorns.
‘Who are you?’
The voice did not answer. He pushed towards it on groggy legs, feeling a secret force tugging him. The voice had a power, an edge to it. A man’s body drifted alongside him through a screen of branches and disappeared.
The voice sank deeper into the thicket.
‘The policemen will be here for you tomorrow and the day after that,’ it warned. ‘They’re taking their time to practise their aim, their choice of questions, their interrogation skills. Some day, they’ll shoot you out of impatience, if they don’t drown you first.’
The blackthorn tips seemed to ooze a deeper coldness than the river, leaving him dizzied and frozen to the spot. Instinctively, his hands clawed at the branches, searching for a way out, but then he stopped. Somehow, he found room in his head for the thought that the voice wanted to help him out of his predicament. He held his breath, waiting for it to continue.
‘You have to tell me who you are.’
A gust of wind shook a silver pattern of raindrops from the branches. Daniel stood still, his ear hunting the trail of the voice, waiting for it to begin talking again in its secret way. Waiting was part of its game, he realized. It wanted him to dangle in its silence.
‘I’m the recruiting agent for a special intelligence service.’
This time the voice spoke from behind him. Daniel had the impression that it had been circling him, trying to make him lose his bearings. He scanned his surroundings, the river coiling in its shadows, the trees tossing darkly, the patches of sky full of travelling cloud.
‘My name is Major George Hannon.’
‘What do you want from me?’
‘I want to give you the opportunity to remedy your failures.’
‘What do you mean my failures?’
‘Your failure to stop your brother’s murder. Your failure to die alongside him. Your failure to heal your parents’ grief.’
A wave of pain and anger welled within him. The immersion in the river had felt like a numbing relief to his grief, but this was something else. His mind was stunned and sharpened by the major’s words. He hadn’t realized his appetite for revenge was so strong.
‘You are in great danger, Daniel. There’s nowhere else for you to go. The police are arresting all your friends, throwing them in jail, without trial. And they’re the lucky ones. Have you visited the local cemetery recently?’
‘I was there on Sunday. If the grave is good enough for my brother it’s good enough for me.’
‘What about your poor mother and father? Who will look after them?’
‘If that’s the way it is, so be it.’
‘It doesn’t have to be like that.’
‘What other choice do I have?’
A pair of eyes appeared through the web of thorns and raindrops. A pair of eyes that gave nothing away. The rest of the man’s face was camouflaged in shadow.
‘You’re freezing,’ he said.
Daniel nodded, and an upright military-looking man stepped out of the undergrowth. Removing his leather gloves, the man took a cigarette from a packet in his pocket. He handed it to Daniel, stilling his shaking hand so that he might light it.
The young man’s mind slowly recovered from the cold, the deep drowsiness of the river. He took several drags.
‘Listen to me,’ said the man. ‘This country of ours is all about gangs. Everyone belongs to one. Some join gangs that do bad things. Steal cars, smuggle weapons, plant bombs, terrify the wits out of innocent people. But some of us manage to drag ourselves up to the light and join a different sort of gang.’ His voice altered. ‘I want to make you, Daniel Hegarty, a member of the most effective, well-resourced gang this fucked-up country has ever seen.’
Daniel felt as though he had been plunged into a more suffocating pool, immersed in the man’s warmth and charm, his aura of power, the sweetness of the tobacco smoke. He clasped his hand as it held the cigarette to his chest, trying to stop his arm from shaking. He felt the intensity of a pinpoint gaze, the man’s eyes adjusting to all his little movements, steady as the magnetic needle of a compass, centring in on the flaw, the tic he had managed to conceal from his riverside interrogators.
‘I’m not for sale.’ He raised the cigarette to his lips, fingers clenched tight. ‘All I need is this smoke.’
The voice sighed.
‘Everyone has a price, Daniel. That’s a fundamental truth.’
Water collected on the tips of thorns, glinting like tiny claws. The wind picked up and the thorns swiped at it.
‘Why are you interested in me?’
‘We’ve nobody on the ground in border country. We want you to work for us. You’ll be operating alongside people just like you. People who have lost family members. People who feel compelled to action, who want to stop terrorism in all its forms, all these senseless murders.’
‘“Stop terrorism in all its forms.” Is that your way of convincing me I won’t be a traitor?’ However, something tight swelled in Daniel’s throat – not fear, but a dark hope, the thought that he might have his revenge for his brother’s murder after all.
‘We’ll pay you well, look after your parents. You won’t have to worry about their security.’
The mention of money sparked his interest further. He knew he couldn’t go on living the way he had been, sleepless, jobless, practically penniless, relying on the small income his parents made from their farm. A twilight existence, dominated by fear and humiliation.
‘I sense you’re interested in my offer.’
‘I’ll think about it.’
‘That’s good, Daniel. We all have to do our bit. Get this country back to law and order.’
Daniel snorted.
‘Some law and order. Your policemen almost drowned me.’
‘They took the wrong approach entirely. I can see that now.’
‘No more fucking around with water, then?’
‘You have my word.’
‘And will you leave me alone?’
‘I can’t promise you that.’ The major smiled. ‘Go home and think about what I have said. I promise you that our training is first-class. We’ve been running this unit for decades in far more dangerous parts of the world. We’ll train you in man-to-man surveillance techniques and how to shake off paramilitary scrutiny of your movements. Remember, our war is directed at Loyalists as well as Republicans.’
He handed Daniel the rest of the packet of cigarettes.
‘A boom is on its way, Daniel. A boom in killing. Tons of illegal weapons are coming into the country. From South Africa, Libya, the Lebanon. The intelligence services are predicting a surge in violence.’
Daniel nodded. It was the solemn truth. He flicked open the packet of cigarettes. Inside was a calling card with a number and a contact name and next to it a wad of ten-pound notes. He looked up, but the major had gone.
*
He scrambled back to the road feeling tired and cold. His car was parked next to where the police officers had set up their checkpoint. He turned on the heater and the windscreen wipers. The empty road seemed more unreal than the thicket of thorns and the fast-flowing river. He started up the engine, and drove his usual route home. That was the thing about living in border country, he told himself, you had to acclimatize yourself to intimidation, develop a regular routine, get used to the uncertainty of living each day suspended between fear and suspicion, life and death, somehow surviving these impromptu checkpoints and interrogations.
He drove on, delving deeper into the maze of introverted little lanes that criss-crossed the border. He wasn’t ready to go home, not yet. The roads had the dull, soothing quality of loneliness, their broken white lines glimmering in the rain. Dripping trees slashed backward and forwards. He listened to the hiss of water sliding along the wipers, coiling from the tyres. He drove as if still caught in a whirling curre
nt, trees flickering by, the windscreen a river of ghostly reflections, the twisting lines of the border roads luring him deeper into their darkness.
He already felt like an outcast in this country. A condemned man. The landscape and weather hated him. The freezing rivers, the blinding rain, the tattered hole of the sky through which the sun infrequently shone, the roads that threatened to empty him every time he pressed his foot to the accelerator pedal. No wonder his neighbours and friends were leaving in their droves, those who weren’t dead or in prison, emigrating to England and America, never to return. They left in silence, without uttering a word or fighting with anyone. Many of them had been in the middle of building new homes, like his brother. Their half-finished houses dotted the countryside, building sites overgrown with briars and nettles, wastes of muddy puddles. He did not want to go to England or America but he did not want to be left behind either, amid their abandoned dreams.
He knew with certainty that in the weeks ahead, there would be more interrogations at checkpoints, more smiling men like Major Hannon, more pestering, more harassment and insinuation, more whispering about failure and revenge, and the dire consequences of his inaction. He began to think there must be some other way to leave behind these hills and their sprawling thickets of thorns, this warren of roads disappearing into tunnels in the dark.
The rain intensified. He switched off the wipers. It was cosy in the driver’s seat as he moved up through the gears. He peered through the web of raindrops densely crowding the windscreen. He came quickly upon a blind corner and pressed the accelerator pedal as hard as he could. The car skidded as he took the bend. He had the impression of blurred branches sailing close to the car, a few seconds of flight, and then the crunch of gravel as the wheels bit into the verge, and the car corrected itself.
He drove off again, foot pressed flat against the accelerator. He took the next corner at even greater speed. Again, the car teetered. The engine whined and the wheels locked into a spin. He was no longer in control, the speed of the car dragging him on. He shut his eyes, waiting for the brute force of the impact, but instead of noise, everything went silent. He felt the darkness beyond the thin shield of the windscreen erupt in upon him, and then an overwhelming force lifted him out of his seat. For a moment, fragments of broken glass and thorns rose with him. He felt so pure and free that he grinned with delight. He forgot about the cold business of the river and its trees dripping darkness and betrayal. He willed himself up towards the tranquillity of the night sky, up and up, but then he butted against the stubbornness of his flesh and blood. He felt himself dragged back to the crashed car and the lonely black mass of anger that was his heart.
Silence Page 1
