The Hanging Shed

by Gordon, Ferris,

  THIRTY-NINE

  The main road cut through Enniskillen. The town was thronged with traffic, much of it horse and cart. People were smartly dressed for a provincial town in the Wild West. Then the bells reminded me; it was a Sunday. I began to feel more and more conscious of the big Riley and its Scottish plates. I felt the crowd scrutinise me as I edged through. This close to Lisnaskea there was just the chance of running into one of the Slattery men and being recognised. I put my hat on and pulled it down on my forehead.

  The faces outside were familiar, but not because I knew any of them; I’d seen those generic, whey-skinned, undistinguished features – like oatmeal biscuits – a hundred times a day growing up in the West of Scotland. The accents drifting though my sidelight window were as impenetrable as the best of the Gorbals.

  I threaded my way out of town and turned due south towards Lisnaskea. I waited till I found a farm track and pulled off. I cut the engine and let the silence sweep in, or at least what passed for silence in the country. The birds were singing for their lives all around me as I stepped out of the car and opened the boot. The smell of grass and hot earth seduced my brain and made me think of walking hand in hand with Fiona long ago by the Kilmarnock Water.

  But I had other business this day. I unwrapped the cloth next to my coat and tossed the gutting knife up and down to get the feel of the balancing point. I chose a tree about ten feet away. I flung the knife. It clattered handle first off the trunk. I adjusted my grip and tried again. It flew straight and true and sunk into the soft wood. I repeated the throw until I was satisfied I had the measure of the blade. I moved back another few feet and repeated the move. I cleaned the knife and slipped it down the side of my sock, point first. The metal chilled my leg and the sharp blade pressed sideways against the ankle bone as I moved.

  I tore open a cartridge box and lifted out the Dickson. I broke the gun and slotted two shells in the chambers and clicked it closed. I put it up to my shoulder and aimed along its length at some circling crows. It was tempting to test its accuracy, or, to be honest, just feel the recoil and smell the cordite; it had been a while since I last held such a weapon. I tracked a pigeon for a while and went bang bang at it. It seemed unmoved by my play. I placed the beautiful piece down in the boot. I filled my left jacket pocket with shotgun cartridges, my right with. 455 bullets.

  I cracked open the Webley and checked each of the six chambers was filled with the heavy shells. I spun the chamber once for luck and snapped it shut. I took both weapons round to the open driver’s door. I placed the shotgun on the floor under the bench front seat. With a slight lean forward I could reach it and swing it up fast if I needed to. The revolver went into the open storage compartment under my steering wheel, its vulcanised stock reassuringly close to my right hand. I got back in the car and went off to find the OK Corral.

  *

  Lisnaskea was the second town in County Fermanagh after Enniskillen. Its population was about two or three thousand, mostly land workers or quarrymen hewing the grey sandstone and limestone to build houses all over the North.

  I had decided on sheer brass neck being the best way of finding Planner Farm. I drove straight into Lisnaskea and along a High Street that bent suddenly 90 degrees for no obvious reason. Maybe the surveyor got drunk or perhaps they just got bored with a long straight road. In the town centre where it widened out briefly stood a market hall in good sandstone. In front of it was a tall stone cross that looked borrowed from another age. I rolled to a halt and stuck my head out the window as two old wifies staggered by, Sunday-best black coats on, Sunday hats perched on their grey heads, gloved hands clutching hymnals.

  ‘Excuse me, missus. Can you help me? I need some directions.’

  They smiled and came over, pressing forward so they could see who and what was in the car. The guns were too low for them to spot.

  ‘And where is it you’re looking for, young fella?’

  If I hadn’t asked the question I wouldn’t have understood her wild accent.

  ‘It’s a farm. It’s called Planner Farm.’

  They stepped back as though I’d just exposed myself. And clearly, in their eyes, I had, in some way.

  ‘And who are you after exactly, did you say?’

  ‘Dermot Slattery.’

  Their two heads turned and looked at each other knowingly.

  ‘And what would you be wanting to see this fella Slattery for exactly?’

  ‘I’m delivering this car to him. He bought it in Glasgow and asked me to bring it over to him.’

  This lie seemed to satisfy them.

  ‘Straight ahead and out of the town. About two miles outside. On the right. You’ll see a sign.’

  It was only mid morning and I would have much preferred to be doing this by moonlight. But if I thought it was an unsuitable time to be storming this castle, presumably so would the Slatterys. I was gambling on them thinking that they were already in a fortress, rural Ireland itself – and wouldn’t be expecting a cold-eyed Scotsman to arrive, guns blazing, in their midst. On the other hand, with Sam as the trap, that might be exactly what they were hoping.

  I watched the cog of the milometer slowly turn round. One mile, then just after the two mark I saw a sign and a driveway up ahead. There was no guard at the wooden barred gate, or at least none I could see. I gingerly slowed down and cruised past at twenty miles an hour. No one in sight down a long straight drive. I caught a glimpse of a slate roof and a whitewashed low building. There were trees behind and to its left. Then I was past.

  About a mile further on was another wood. I drove towards it and saw what I was looking for: a grassy path cutting into the trees for forestry work. I bumped the car over the rough ground until I was well hidden from the road. I drove on and pulled into a small glade. My heart was hammering. I sat back and closed my eyes and let the picture crystallise as best I could. In the Seaforths we were trained to observe targets in the blink of an eye, like taking a snap with a fast-reaction camera that we’d then process. A straight drive, about 150 yards from the road to a square horseshoe-shaped building. The arms of the horseshoe reached forward towards the drive. Sheltering between the wings was a black car. There might have been a figure standing to the right of the car, but I wasn’t sure. That was the best I could manage.

  I couldn’t see the plate from the road but it looked like the big Austin from Arran. It could take four, maybe five in comfort. Let’s assume that it had brought Dermot and Gerrit, Dermot’s wife and a bodyguard or two. The boot was big enough for a trussed-up prisoner. Or a body.

  I got out of the car, tucked the revolver into its pocket inside my jacket and slung the shotgun over my right arm, its barrels pointing to the ground. I hooked the water bottle over my other shoulder and began walking back to the road. Depending on what I found at the farm, I would go in now. Hard. Or if there were vigilant guards all round the building I could at least get the lie of the land and make my attack this evening. What I feared were dogs. Bloody animals. A slight noise or a whiff of a stranger and they’d be barking their heads off till teatime. Not to mention taking a lump out of my backside.

  FORTY

  I emerged from the wood and scampered across the road. There was little or no traffic round here but it would be stupid to be caught sauntering along this country road with a shotgun under my arm looking like a refugee from a private shoot. The wood continued on the other side of the road, the side the farm was on, and I melted into the cool arbour and started to track my way back to the farm and parallel to the road.

  I soon ran out of trees. Ahead was open ground bounded by waist-high, dry stone dikes. I made sure the safety catch was on both guns and clambered over the first. I made steady but cautious progress until after a sweaty half hour I’d reached another wood. By my reckoning, these trees bordered the Planner Farm. If I was guarding the place, this would be the most likely direction I’d expect an assault to come from. So I slipped into the first line of trees and headed north to come round
the back of the farmhouse, still in the treeline. The air was still and I reasoned that if there were dogs they’d hear me before they smelt me.

  I kept glancing to my right. Here and there the woods thinned; they were only about a hundred yards deep. Occasionally I caught a glimpse of whitewash or grey slate. There was no sound other than the birds, and even they weren’t putting their hearts into it. It was midday and unseasonably hot. A time to doze.

  I heard a thunk from the direction of the farm and saw something move at the limit of my vision. I froze and waited. Movement again. Someone had come out, slammed the door and was walking away from the house. I heard voices, and then another figure appeared heading back to the house. The door slammed behind him. Changing of the guard? I started walking again. I did a dogleg and came back at the house from its rear. I was still in good shade. I shuttled from tree to tree, and finally got on my belly and crawled. This was where the hardy tweed came into its own. All I needed was some boot polish on my face and some twigs in my helmet and I was back at the training unit we shared with the Commandos at Spean Bridge in the Highlands.

  Finally I stopped and made myself comfortable. I laid my shotgun out and placed the pistol alongside it. I flipped off the safeties on both. I had a clear view of the house and the clearing in which it sat. It was single storey, with white-painted stone walls and a slate roof. There was a back door on the left and windows either side of it. All were closed. Gravel surrounded the whole house to a width of about ten feet. About twenty yards closer to me, was a square stone shed; no windows this side and a sloping corrugated roof.

  Just then I heard footsteps crunching on the gravel of the house from the right. I ducked down and then peered cautiously through the brambles and grass. My old pal Fergie strolled round the corner and halted about halfway across the back. He was carrying a shotgun in one hand, but the barrels had been cut just past the action. Easier to hide about the body and great in a packed room, but useless if you were trying to hit someone with lethal intent beyond ten yards. The shot would simply scatter and spray out in a fast-widening funnel. It would still hurt though. Fergie looked around casually before lighting a fag. He looked bored. He was in shirtsleeves and braces and should have completed the picture with a knotted hankie on his head to keep the sun off.

  He left after ten minutes and returned about twenty minutes later. The routine continued until after an hour he was replaced by his pal who’d helped throw me over the rail on the good ship Jeanie Deans. I watched this pattern unfold through the afternoon.

  Then about five o’clock things changed.

  I heard a sodding dog bark, and voices from the front of the house. Gravel crunched and Dermot Slattery appeared towed by a rough-looking hound on a lead. I couldn’t make out the breed but it wouldn’t win any medals at Crufts. Somewhere between an Alsatian and a lurcher, but big, toothy and mad-eyed. Dermot had a stick and he bent down, unclipped the lead and set the dog dancing and barking around him. He flung the stick directly towards me and the bloody animal bounded after it, straight at me. Fortunately he didn’t have much of a throwing arm. The stick barely made it halfway to my hiding place.

  The two bodyguards appeared and the three of them took turns to throw the stick until the dog was foaming and wild-eyed like an advert for rabies. Now I knew my odds: four to one if you assumed Gerrit was inside with a good book. Five to one if you counted Fido.

  Dermot seemed to get bored. He turned and banged on a window. A few minutes later a white-haired woman hove into sight with a tray bearing three dark bottles and three glasses. I wondered if this was lady Slattery. She put the tray down on the table and left them to pour their own. I watched as they slurped back the dark liquor. I was thirsty as hell and hungry. I sipped from my water bottle and envied them their beer. I’d known many times like this; waiting for the off. This time was no different except that this time it was personal.

  By twilight things had quietened down. Dermot and the Hound of the Slatterys had gone back inside and even the guards seemed to have disappeared. Did they think no one would attack after dark?

  I got to my feet and moved back far enough so that I could do some stretching exercises. My body was numb from lying still. Carefully I checked the guns again. I moved forward and to the left where the shed was, keeping to the line of the trees. With the shed between me and the house I ran over the grass and stood against the shed rear wall. I inched round the corner, saw nothing, heard nothing and crunched across the ten feet of gravel to the back door.

  My heart was pounding, waiting for someone to shout out or just blast me with the sawn-off. He wouldn’t miss from this range. I could hear voices from inside, his and hers, probably in the kitchen to tell by the crashing of dishes. Should I try the door handle and burst in? I put the 12-bore in my left hand and was just reaching out with my right towards the handle when I saw a shadow fall long across the grass from the side of the house. He was walking silently on the soft turf instead of the gravel.

  The extended silhouette of a man crept along the ground and then the man himself appeared. He was looking ahead but immediately turned towards me. It was Fergie’s mate. His face was a picture as he saw me. His jaw opened and he began to turn towards me lifting his shotgun to take aim. I had had an extra two seconds to prepare. I hoped I’d made the right choice of weapon. Hoped, too, I hadn’t lost the art.

  My arm was already raised behind my head, my knife held tightly by the point. I flung it with all my force and watched it race towards his chest even as he pointed the gun at me. The knife had twenty feet to travel. His gun barrel only had an arc of two feet to rise to be level with my guts. The knife hit with a dull thunk, slap in the middle of his throat just above his rib cage. His eyes opened wide with the shock. He stumbled backwards, dropping the sawn-off as he fell, so that he could clutch at the blade that grew from his neck.

  He coughed and tried to shout but it came out like a grunt. I’d been running towards him even as my knife was in the air. I got to him as he collapsed. I kicked the shotgun away and bent down at his side. The colour was already leaving him, except on his shirt where red was spreading fast. He looked up at my face in bewilderment. I thought he was about to shout for help, so I stuffed my hand over his mouth and ripped out the knife. I stabbed it down again, into his chest. I felt the blade grate against his ribs. He moaned under my hand and I felt his last gasps, then a spasm, as his body tried to sit up before falling back. His head sank gently into the grass and he stared up at the sky unseeing.

  I wrenched out the knife. More blood pooled and ran down both sides of his shirt and into the earth. I wiped the sticky blade on the grass and then on his trousers before sliding it back into my sock. I picked up my own shotgun and stuffed the sawn-off in my belt at the back of my waist. It would come in handy at close quarters. I had a second to wonder at my coldness, at taking the life of a man with such clinical efficiency and with nary a qualm. It didn’t seem to be troubling me. And that troubled me. But that was for later. Three to one not counting the dog. The odds were improving.

  FORTY-ONE

  I took a tip from the dead man and ran silently down the grass at the side of the house until I was level with the end of one of the wings of the house. I stepped on to the gravel and tiptoed across it and round to the corner. I peeped round. No one, but the front door was ajar.

  I drew back and picked up a handful of stones. I flung my arm round the corner and let go. There was a satisfying clatter as a rain of pebbles fell against the door and walls and the window. I heard a shout from inside and the dog started barking.

  ‘What the fuck you playing at out there?’

  The door crashed properly open and someone strode out on to the gravel. I waited and waited.

  ‘Martin! Where the fuck are you? Stop playing silly buggers!’

  Then I heard the deep growl of a dog about to attack and I knew I needed to face this, fast. I darted into the open and dropped to my knee with the Dickson raised and pointed. Fergie
was standing twenty feet from me in front of the door. He held another of their trademark sawn-offs in one hand. Dermot was in the doorframe holding the hound by the collar.

  Dermot reacted first. ‘It’s fucking Brodie! Shoot him!’ At the same time he let slip the dog of war, which sprang past Fergie heading straight for my face.

  Its jaws were already snapping in anticipation of fastening on my throat. The beast bounded forward, all muscle and snarl, and took off about six feet from me. Not the normal clay pigeon shot. I pulled the trigger. The blast caught it full in the chest. It turned in mid air and landed in a sprawling writhing heap next to me. I was already diving to the side just as Fergie fired. I felt a rush of pellets shred the air around me. Then, lying on my side, I gave him the second barrel. I didn’t miss.

  He was flung backwards on to the gravel. His shotgun went up in the air and clattered beside him. I dropped my empty Dickson and ran forward, pulling my pistol out of my waistband. I fired at Dermot but missed. He dived back in the house and crashed the door shut. I heard locks fall and knew he’d barricaded himself in. I heard him shouting and the woman screaming at him. But there was no other voice; still no sign of Gerrit. Fergie was writing on the ground clutching his stomach. He was screaming in a choked, panting way. It was a painful way to die. I didn’t pause to put him out of his misery.