‘Grand time of it, though,’ said Gerry. ‘Singing the auld rebel songs and all.’
Peter spoke for the first time. ‘Is this some kind of fucking cabaret?’
‘Cabaret, right,’ said Gerry.
‘Cabaret,’ repeated Kevin, raising his bottle in a toast.
Francis turned to Peter. ‘We’ll deal with this quietly, shall we, Peter? Big day tomorrow.’
‘Today, you mean,’ said Gerry.
‘We have to abort now, surely?’ asked Peter.
‘Abort, abort, abort!’ said Kevin, laughing.
‘We’ll talk about that in a while. We’ll clear this up first.’
Kevin vomited profusely on the arm of the sofa.
‘And that,’ said Francis. ‘Get the others up, will you?’
Peter opened his mouth but said nothing.
By the time the others had gathered in the living room Gerry had stood up and Kevin had scraped the sick off the sofa arm into a plastic carrier bag using the lid from one of the takeaway cartons. Both looked chastened, but not abashed. The old man remained comatose in the middle of the room.
For a moment no one said anything.
Karl spoke first. ‘I thought you lot were supposed to be highly disciplined. Fucking amateur hour, this is.’
Francis gave him what he hoped was a suitably withering look. He had a point, though. ‘We’ll sort that later,’ he said softly. ‘Meanwhile we need to sort this.’ He pointed at the man, who had begun to moan. Peter nudged him and gestured to the corridor. When they were there he closed the door and whispered, ‘The old boy.’
‘Yes?’ said Francis.
‘We can’t just let him go.’
‘So what do you suggest?’
‘We either abort or …’
‘Or bump off some old Irish boy? For being in the wrong place at the wrong time? No. Let the poor old bastard piss off and sleep it off. He’ll never remember anything.’
‘But –’
‘This whole thing’s been a fucking abortion, Peter. We’re too far in. We can’t cry off now, we’d get it in the neck back home.’
They returned to the living room. ‘You three, get rid of him somewhere,’ said Francis. ‘I’ll look after Tweedledum and Tweedledee here.’
‘Where, Francis?’ asked Antony.
‘I don’t know. Somewhere.’
‘Just throw him out the front door,’ said Gerry. ‘Fecking old eejit.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Francis. ‘Few miles away. Other side of town. Anywhere. Do it.’
Peter and Karl lifted him to his feet. ‘Come on, pal,’ said Karl. Antony opened the doors for them.
When they were gone, Francis said, ‘Well, then, boys. Do youse feel up for it today?’
‘Up for anything,’ said Gerry.
‘Good,’ said Francis slowly, and slapped him across the face, hard. His hand stung and left a red mark on Gerry’s face. ‘Now then,’ he continued, ‘let’s not make a big thing of this. Just need to be clear on a couple of things. We’ll sort all this out once this is over and we’re back home. And don’t even think of pulling out now. Youse boys are too deep into it. You fuck off anywhere, you put one step out of line, you’re dead. Literally. The boys will come for you wherever you might be. Clear?’
‘Yes, Francis,’ they said in unison.
‘You’re not stealing diggers any more. You’re with the big boys. You be all right to drive?’ He looked at Kevin.
‘For sure. Just need a kip and some breakfast. Line me stomach.’
‘Well, get off and use my bed, then. I’ll wake you when it’s time.’
Once Kevin had gone Francis stood in the middle of the room not, for the moment, knowing what to do. He shook his head as if to empty it of all the fog and scratched near the bald patch that had begun to form. Gerry watched him.
‘Now then, Gerry.’
Gerry flinched. ‘Sorry, Francis. We just sneaked out for last orders. Then the lock-in started. Things got a bit out of hand. You won’t be telling them back home, will you now, Francis?’
‘I won’t be telling no one nothing for the time being,’ said Francis. ‘It depends on how we go. If it goes to shite there’s nothing I can do. Not that I would anyway. So if you don’t want anything made of it you make sure this bloody works.’
‘Right, Francis.’
‘Otherwise I might just tear you limb from fucking limb before you have a chance to get back home. Best behaviour. Right?’
‘Right.’
‘Get some sleep. You might as well use Antony’s bed.’
Francis made himself a cup of tea, switched off the light and looked out on the dawning twilight as he waited for Peter, Karl and Antony to return. Perhaps Peter was right and the whole shooting match should be pulled, regardless of the scorn that would cause back home. The day had already started, before he wanted it to.
14
When Peter, Karl and Antony returned to the flat Francis made another pot of tea. They murmured as they drank it and Francis issued instructions.
‘Youse two get a bit of sleep,’ he said, indicating Peter and Karl. ‘Get those other two up at eight. We need to be moving soon after. Make sure this place is clear and drop off the keys so we don’t have to do it later.’
The others listened in silence and shortly he was left in the room with Antony.
‘What time is it, Antony?’
‘It’s a quarter before five, Francis.’
Francis sighed. ‘Well, it’s a bit early but never mind. There’s no point trying to get any sleep or hanging round. We’ll wash up and make a move.’
It was five thirty by the time they reached the truck stop. They found a van selling food and bought fried egg and bacon sandwiches and coffee. Weaving between the hulking lorries, they eventually found the red cab with its distinctive yellow logo and the flatbed trailer covered in a black tarpaulin that declared nothing of its freight.
Francis took out his mobile phone. They could hear it ringing inside the cab and it was some seconds before Francis heard Jonjo’s sleepy voice. ‘Yeah?’
‘All good with you?’
‘Yeah.’
‘We’re outside.’
Francis terminated the call. The curtain of the cab was tugged aside and he could see Jonjo in his vest, frowning with sleepiness, peering out. The locks clicked and Francis and Antony climbed up into the driver’s and passenger’s seats.
‘Sleep?’ asked Francis.
‘A bit. Not too bad.’
‘More than we did, then.’
‘Why? What happened?’
‘You don’t want to know. Long story. It’s all right now, though.’
‘You sure?’
‘Well, it’s got to be, hasn’t it?’
Jonjo looked questioningly from the rear of the cab.
‘Anyway,’ said Francis, ‘we’d better get a move on.’ He held up the bags containing the sandwiches. ‘Brown sauce or ketchup?’
When they had finished and Jonjo had washed and shaved inside the toilet block, Francis instructed Antony to patrol outside the truck. ‘Don’t look obvious,’ he said.
‘Where could we dump this lot if we decided to abort?’ he asked Jonjo.
‘You serious?’
‘Kind of. Not really. Hypothetical. But with Fred Karno’s Army here who knows what might go wrong?’
‘In theory, anywhere, so long as you haven’t set the bastard. Some service station, I suppose. It’d not be noticed for a few hours with a bit of luck. But you’d have to call it in. Can’t risk some civilian setting it off. Be a mess, though, whatever. You’d have to be well clear if you didn’t want to be picked up. Never been involved in a job that was called off this late.’
‘Me neither. Like I said, it was hypothetical. I hope. We’ll all be safe and sound at home by tonight, watching it on TV.’
Jonjo flung his sleeping bag and rucksack into the front of the cab and shifted the mattress so that he could gain access to the p
anel below. He unscrewed the fixings and pulled the panel off. Francis twisted his body in the front seat to get a better view. Jonjo attached a clip-on torch to the headlining and knelt in the confined space, his knees spread wide so that he could reach down into the space below. Francis could see a nest of wires, wildly deranged it seemed to him. Jonjo knew what he was doing.
‘It’s a normal fit-up,’ said Jonjo. ‘The boys have wired her all up through the chassis of the flatbed. Did a load of welding. Should be undetectable. She’s all wired through to here. All I have to do is connect it up. We tested the circuits the day before yesterday. She’s sound as a pound. Now the next bit is mine. Best if I concentrate on me own. You just sit there and listen to the radio or something. I’ll give you a shout when I’m ready.’
He stripped down to his vest again and pulled the curtain shut. Francis could hear the click of the torch behind him. He switched on the radio and tuned in to Radio 4 as the Today programme began.
It was seven thirty when Jonjo put his head round the curtain again.
‘Right. I’m done.’
Antony, dozing in the passenger seat, jolted awake.
Francis looked at his watch. ‘You made good time. Right then, Antony, do you want to get rid of all this crap while Jonjo shows me the necessary? Then we’ll be making a move.’ He handed Antony the empty Styrofoam beakers and the greasy paper bags. ‘On you go,’ he said.
‘Now then, Jonjo.’
‘I’d rather stay the distance, Francis, if it’s all right with you.’
‘No need, Jonjo. Like I said, too many cooks. We can’t go three up in this rig.’
‘Let me do it, then.’
‘No. I have to be on board as we deliver this. That’s my job. Anyways, you said it. It’s a standard fit-out. Just remind me of what to do and it’ll all come flooding back to me.’
‘But …’
‘I won’t fuck it up, Jonjo. I don’t fuck things up. If I thought I might, you’d be there. Now, what is there to do?’
Jonjo shone the torch into the compartment where he had been working. ‘It’s simple enough. You’ve practised it. You see this switch I’ve screwed into the bodywork here?’
He shone the torch into the hole and Francis knelt on the driver’s seat to look back in.
‘Yeah.’
‘That’s it. That’s the final connection. Flick it and she’s live. She’ll detonate at whatever time the timer’s set for.’
‘Right. And the timer?’
‘Already done. Set for twelve thirty, like you said.’
‘If I need to change it, where is she?’
‘Under here.’ Jonjo reached below the rim of the compartment and gently withdrew a digital timer, connected to the innards of the vehicle by two wires. ‘Now, you’ll have to be careful here so’s you don’t break the connection. And you know how to set it?’
‘I should hope so.’
‘If you need to change the time you have to do it before making the connection.’
‘Yes, yes, I know right enough. I won’t need to. But just so’s I know.’
‘Right. It’s a new battery on the timer so you won’t need to check whether it’s going.’
‘And then?’
‘Once you’ve set her you need to screw the plate back on top of the compartment. You see these contacts here?’ He pointed to some soldering on the cover of the compartment.
‘Yeah.’
‘When you screw the plate down tight that makes contact with these little buggers here …’ He pointed at two small soldered points in the frame of the compartment on top of which the plate would fit, from which wires led down into the dark. ‘And once that’s done she’s well and truly trapped. Almost impossible to defuse. But for Christ’s sake don’t screw the plate down before you press the switch. Because you’re fucked then. You can’t open her up to have another try. You do that and the whole fucker goes sky high.’
‘Got it.’
‘You all right with this, Francis? I’d much rather do it meself.’
‘Course I am,’ said Francis, though he felt sweat trickle at the back of his neck.
After Jonjo had changed clothes in the toilets at the truck stop, Francis drove them in the car to the nearby railway station.
‘You boys need to be on the next flight back to Dublin,’ he said. ‘I want you gone before she goes up. You’ve enough cash?’
‘Sure,’ said Jonjo.
‘Francis,’ said Antony, ‘can I stay? I want to be in on this.’
‘No. There’s too many of us as it is.’
‘You could send Peter back. Or one of the others.’
‘No, Antony. You’ll get your chance sure enough. Now just be on your way. I’m on a double yellow here.’
He watched them into the station and got back into the car.
Before he turned the ignition key, he paused. This was his moment, if he was to have one. Shortly he would be back with the shambolic cabal that was his team and there would not be another chance before he set foot in Ireland again. If he set foot there again. So it had to be now.
He’d made preparations, collected the pile of one-pound coins that he was fingering in his jacket pocket. He’d rehearsed what he’d say. If he truly felt it was all shot he could go to a public telephone and call that Mercer boy. The number he had remembered since Singapore.
The RA was his family. A bloodline that reached through the centuries to him, an inheritance of passion for freedom and loathing for the English yoke. He’d been nurtured in the cause, educated in the ways and necessities of the fight by his cruel begetter, Joe Geraghty.
Families feuded. Brothers betrayed you. Your kin could be cruel to you, to the point where you doubted. You doubted their desire to look after you, you doubted your sanity.
But no, he was not about to become a traitor to this family. Unlike Liam, he was not a tout. He did not have that in him. He was straight and true. He would follow this through, those were his orders, whatever the consequences for him.
He drove to the flat and announced to the others, ‘Let’s get this fucking thing done.’
They made good time to the M1. Francis sat next to Kevin in the cab of the Scania truck. The others were in the car, periodically speeding ahead to scout the route before dropping back behind the truck to scan for the police.
Kevin’s bravado had worn off. His hands gripped the wheel and his eyes were fixed in a stare on the motorway in front of him.
‘You all right, son?’ said Francis.
‘Yeah. Sound. Just want to make sure this goes right.’
‘You’re doing fine. Not too fast, not too slow. Drive neat so’s you don’t attract attention.’
‘This fucker’s not going to go up with us in it, is it?’
‘You think I’d be sitting here if I thought so? Jonjo knows what he’s doing. She’s good as gold.’
‘If you say so.’
‘I do. Now where have the others got to?’
‘I can see them in the mirror. Here they come.’
The Vauxhall overtook them at a steady pace. Francis watched intently. There was no sign of the signal they had agreed on in the event of problems: a quick flash of the hazard lights. The car accelerated away as it began to rain.
‘Shame, that,’ said Francis. ‘Such a lovely day.’
They left the M1 at the junction with the M25, travelling east.
‘This is nonsense, man,’ said Kevin. ‘It’s quicker straight down the M1, then on the North Circular.’
‘This is our route,’ said Francis. ‘We stop at the services and wait.’
At South Mimms they parked as far away from the other vehicles as they could. There were no trucks here, only coaches. It was just after eleven. Kevin was muttering, nervously looking all around. ‘Soon be over,’ said Francis gently. The car with the others in would be somewhere ahead, conducting a final sweep of the target in preparation for Francis and Kevin’s arrival there in about twenty minutes’ time. Before that,
they would make a mobile telephone call to confirm all was clear and that the traffic en route was reasonable. Not until they arrived at the electricity substation in Wembley would Francis prime the device. When they had finished and by the time they were well on their way back to Ireland millions of Londoners would be without power. Rail services in much of the capital, as well as large tranches of the Underground network, would be closed down. There might be some dead at the substation but that was just unavoidable. Collateral damage. Omelettes and eggs. Francis’s bosses had calculated that London could be crippled for weeks. That was the theory.
‘You need the toilet?’ said Francis.
‘No. I’m all right,’ replied Kevin.
‘Well, I do. I’m fecking bursting. Be back in a moment.’
He could see the look of dismay on Kevin’s face as he left the cab.
Standing at the urinal, he still had that feeling there was something wrong. Most obviously with this operation, but with the whole thing too, with Joe and the RA altogether. Something was unsettling everything. A frisson of fear spread a juddering frost down his spine. His sweat turned cold on his back as panic took hold of him. He had been thinking so hard that he had become oblivious to everything around him. Run! The word echoed in his head.
It lasted only a split second. As he turned everything was normal. Just blokes having a piss and queuing at the washbasins. He went to wash his hands.
‘’Scuse me,’ a voice behind him said in one of those whining English accents.
‘Yes?’
‘You using that, or what?’
An elderly man wearing a flat cap looked at him impatiently, staring him down.
‘Ah, yeah,’ said Francis. ‘No. Sorry.’ He took his hands from the dryer, which had already stopped, he now realized, and walked out to join the mass of bodies shifting one way and the other between the food outlets and the shops. The usual service station commotion of ignorant people exclusively intent on getting wherever they needed to go.
Another fucking wobble. Get a grip, man. It’s all right. It’s all right. He was mouthing the words. Fuck you all, you bastards, he thought as he gathered speed. We’re going to do this and it’ll be on you all.
He was running by the time he reached the truck, which was still standing on its own at the edge of the parking area. He’d found purpose again, the clouds had lifted. He climbed on to the running board, but to his surprise the door was locked. He was about to shout to Kevin when he was gripped firmly from behind and forced to the ground, his arms pinned painfully behind his back and his face ground into the asphalt.
A Traitor in the Family Page 19
