Seeds of Evil

by Robert Kitchen

  Choosing to live in a village on the outskirts of Derry City was the worst option the Farrels could have taken. The setting was idyllic sure but the house may as well be situated on the moon. Gina Farrel had become used to living alone with only the company of their five children between herself and insanity. When her husband was locked away in Long Kesh prison, she enjoyed regular visits from friends who would drive out two or three times a week to see her. Her sisters called as often as was convenient and she had the solace of her garden, which she tended with love and professionalism. Things were different now that Liam was back in the bosom of the family. He was full of love and promises during her visits that became less frequent with the passage of time. There was no doubting her devotion to him in their youth. In truth she had once worshipped the ground that he walked upon. Rumour of his being a member of the IRA. was an undeniable magnet to an adolescent girl and Gina had been hopelessly drawn, as had many other neighbourhood girls. Most of the unattached females vied for his attention. He only had to smile and they were his for the taking but he had chosen Gina. Life had been wonderful then, full of hope and aspirations. But a mere three months after their wedding, Ceiron their eldest, first drew breath. Gina smiled at the memory. Liam the big hard man trembling as the midwife handed him the screaming bundle. He was filled with pride that day and would have given her the earth. The second child was another boy whom they called David, after her father. Then came the three girls. ‘Christ,’ she hissed bitterly, recalling how her poor body had expanded on a yearly basis. Gina stood semi-naked abhorring the frump glaring back at her. A fat distorted bump, defaced by stretch marks that furrowed and puckered the skin of her once flat abdomen and hips, made her lips purse with distaste. Purplish rivulets patterned her once beautiful body like tributaries of the Nile. ‘Fuck I hate full length mirrors,’ she mumbled. She took one last despairing glance before turning to cast a venomous eye upon her spouse. Her vagina still ached from his bullish efforts of the previous evening. There was no billing and cooing now; instead, he rutted at her like a boar that smelled food. ‘Bastard,’ she whispered at the reclining figure before leaving the room. She was still mumbling when the phone’s shrill warbling interrupted her. ‘God now who can that be?’ she grumbled. ‘Fuck it, let yon lazy pig get up and answer it, I need a shower,’ she growled, thrusting open the bathroom door. She slipped off her pants and with distaste studied the interior. Residue of their coupling soiled the fabric of the underwear. With disgust she hurled the offensive item into the wash basket. ‘Suppose the fucker’s knocked me up again,’ she said dejectedly, before turning toward the shower. Grimacing she fiddled with the shower mixing unit. ‘Gina, Ginaaah are ye gonna answer that fuckin phone?’ came a growl from the bedroom.

  ‘Fuck you,’ she murmured, casting a scornful glance in the direction of the bedroom before entering the shower. God but it felt wonderful. The warmth of the shower’s jets pampered her body, revitalising her sinking spirit. Gina adored the shower, especially in the morning, often spending fifteen or twenty minutes letting the needles of hot spray work a therapeutic miracle. ‘Oh what a feeling,’ she hummed as she roughly towelled herself dry. A fresher rosier reflection smiled back at her. ‘Much better,’ she proclaimed, ‘Ye may have a body like a bag of shite but yer face is as pretty as ever. Wonder if yon lazy bugger has answered the phone yet?’ Making as much noise as was humanly possible she clumped across the bedroom floor and clattered open the wardrobe but it was, as she knew it would be, a futile exercise. From somewhere beneath the, thirteen point five tog duvet came an unmistakable grunt, betraying the presence of her snoring spouse. Reluctantly admitting defeat, Gina sighed, finished dressing and traipsed downstairs to prepare breakfast for her brood.

  An air of anticipation filled both camps after the respective hierarchy had studied the amateur detective’s reports. On the nationalist side, Tullen was greeted by the beaming face of Peter Daley. ‘Well now Sherlock, it looks like you’ve been wastin yer time all these years. I can just picture ye in yer uniform. Chief inspector Tullen. Naw, it doesn’t have the right ring te it. Ye would never make it past constable. Sure they’d never let ye inte the masons we a fenian name like yours,’ teased Daley.

  ‘Ach I don’t know about that, necessity is the mother of detention,’ retorted Connor.

  ‘Great work Con, you and yer wee Proddie mate make a formidable team eh.’

  ‘He has his moments, as a matter of fact I quite like the wee bugger. Fancies himself as a bit of a ladies man but other than that he’s sound.’ Tullen told him.

  ‘Don’t be lettin yer guard down Con, he’s still yer enemy and familiarity breeds sloppiness,’ warned his superior.

  ‘If I’m in any danger it was you who put me there,’ retorted Con. ‘No need te worry about me Mr. Daley,’ he added losing patience.

  ‘Take it easy Con, ye know as well as the next man, how things are. Yer caught between a rock and a hard place. Workin that close te someone it’s hard not te grow fond of him. Christ do ye think I don’t know that? Give me some credit. Shit I realise it’s an awful situation but security must remain yer top priority, that’s all I’m tryin te say.’

  ‘Aye yer right, sorry Peter. I’m a bit tense these days but I’m disappointed that ye think

  I need remindin where my obligations are,’ replied Connor tiredly.

  ‘It’s only te be expected, say no more Con. Well now, the wee barman has turned out te be a walkin gold mine,’ said Daley, referring to Peter the barman. ‘What de ye think we should do about him?’

  ‘What do ye mean, do about him?’

  ‘Come on son, he’s had a real good look at ye. He’s become a bit of a liability, if ye know what I mean.’

  ‘Don’t even think about it Peter. The boy is just that, an innocent kid afraid of his own shadow. I swear to ye Peter, if anythin happens to him I’m out,’ snarled Tullen, his face set in stone.

  ‘Yer gettin a wee bit soft Con, or is it soft in the head? What if he talks and word gets through te the branch? ‘He had a long time te memorise yer face ye know. The boy if he was questioned could give a real good description of ye. He could pick ye out of a parade Con, use yer loaf for fuck sake,’ snapped Daley.

  ‘I’ll take me chances,’ argued Tullen.

  ‘Have it your way for now but in the mean time we’ll be keepin an eye on yer man. You can get back te yer new buddy and we can do a bit of sniffin around from our end. With what ye have told us we may be able te pick up a fresh trail on the madman. ‘I suppose that’s about it then, on ye go and remember what I said about yer sidekick Con.’

  Without reply Tullen banged open the door and rushed into the street. Connor was beginning to see his old comrades in a new light and was disgusted with his observations. In a bid to calm his anger and frustration he inhaled deeply. The cool air had settled him down a little but a seed had been planted. Feeling somewhat better and glad to be away from the stale atmosphere of the club, he set of at a good pace down the Falls Road, in the direction of the city centre. In dismay he eyed the dilapidated structures as he progressed. ‘What a fuckin dump,’ he mumbled. ‘It’s no wonder the Brits. think we’re thick, killin each other for nearly thirty years over this heap of shite. And what will we have te show for it? Callous murderin bastards like Daley in the drivin seat, some fuckin future.’ Whilst walking down the road that afternoon, Tullen came to a momentous decision. Once the Preacher was dealt with he and Moira would leave Ireland for good. He wanted no part of the Peter Daleys of this world. No more involvement and definitely no more killing. His conscience was already brim full with remorse, there was room for no more.

  That evening Clements and Tullen spent their time studying the video of the young barman’s interview. They played it countless times. Totally engrossed, each man attempted to pick a snippet from it’s content that would point them in the Preacher’s direction. Finally Connor hit the but-


  ton killing the power to the recorder. ‘What do ye think Billy?’

  ‘I think yer man, the Preacher, has a likin for wee boys.’

  ‘Christ Billy get with the program, we know he’s a fuckin arse bandit,’ grumbled Tullen.

  ‘I know that but that’s not what I meant. What I’m sayin is he likes young men as opposed to men, if ye know what I mean.’

  ‘Okay but how does that help us?’

  ‘If I’m right in what I’m thinkin, it’s probably a good bet that yer man lost someone over here, someone very special. A brother maybe or hopefully a boyfriend. Clements could not bring himself to utter the word lover, when discussing a relationship between men. He found the idea of men making love utterly repulsive. ‘Go on Billy, what’s yer point?’ asked Tullen, beginning to show interest.

  ‘My point is, if he did lose someone close, the chances are, he was in the army.’

  ‘And,’ interrupted Connor, ‘If he was in the army, it’s a fair bet that he was killed not long before the bold Maurice Scott. Is that what yer sayin?’

  ‘I think so,’ replied Billy uncertainly.

  ‘Right our next step is to get hold of the records for last year, say six months before Scott was murdered to see how many young blokes were killed,’ said Tullen elated. ‘Billy yer a wee star.’ Clements was looking pensive, not sharing in Tullen’s jubilation. ‘What’s wrong Billy?’ he asked warily.

  ‘Murdered is the correct word,’ replied Clements.

  ‘What?’ said the other, confused.

  ‘You said killed, when ye were referrin to soldiers. They weren’t killed, they were murdered,’ he spat.

  ‘Let’s not get into a political debate here Billy, okay?’ said Tullen evenly.

  ‘Aye yer right Con. Auld prejudices die hard. We can’t do much until we get a list of deceased to work with,’ said Billy.

  Their request for the required information was relayed to their respective contacts. They were informed that it would take a day or two to compile. It was no easy task for sympathisers within the government to lay their hands on such information at a moments notice. Dane was also contacted and requested to research all relevant stories pertaining to the deaths of security members prior to the death of Maurice Scott. The net was finally shrinking on the maniac known as The Preacher.

  Unaware of the joint venture formed to ensnare him, Black began his most daring undertaking. For an Englishman to set foot in Derry, was highly dangerous. To achieve what Nathan intended, was nothing short of madness. Any stranger found snooping around was immediately treated with suspicion. If the stranger happened to be an Englishman, he was automatically assumed to be a member of the security forces. He would be ostracised and if he did not take the warning, would disappear without a trace. Needless to say few unaccompanied Englishmen ever set foot in the Maiden City. Black decided that the risk was worth taking. In his youth he was quite keen on amateur dramatics boasting a remarkable art for mimicry. He wagered that his passable American accent would see him through for a few days. His intention was to enter the city in the guise of a tourist. But there were certain preparations to be finalised before setting foot in Derry.

  His first port of call was the USA. where he vacationed for the best part of a month. New York cab drivers are a breed apart. Natural scavengers who delight in conversation and the chance to earn easy money. Black assumed correctly that if he befriended one and threw a few dollars in his direction it was a fair bet that he could inveigle a little help from him. Nathan tipped well and made a point of asking for Mick Martinez, a likely candidate who had dropped Nathan at the hotel after his first evening in New York. The depot was happy to comply with the Limey’s wishes, after all who gives a shit which cabby does the job. Using his considerable charm with a few dollars thrown in for good measure, Nathan soon won the driver’s confidence.

  Within a week they were on first name terms. As ever Black erred on the side of caution. He was not about to have his plans put at risk by making basic errors. Using his judgement of human nature he probed at Martinez, in an attempt to see how far the cabby would be willing to bend the law. He was not disappointed, Martinez was a petty hustler of long standing. ‘No problem Steve, for that was Black’s alias Stateside, ‘Ya know how it is over here. This is a capitalist society, free trade’s the name of the game. How can I help ya?’

  ‘Actually Mick, I need a passport, social security number and a driving licence. Is that too much to ask?’ ‘Hell no but it’ll take time. A week or ten days and that shit don’t come cheap,’ responded Martinez with a sly grin.

  ‘Exactly how much will it cost me Mick?’

  ‘Could be five big ones and then there’s my commission of course.’

  ‘Five big ones,’ repeated Nathan, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘Yeah man, five grand, thousand, K, ya get me?’

  ‘Yes I follow your drift but five thousand is a little too steep I’m afraid. Tell you what, I’ll give you two big ones tomorrow and another two in one week upon receipt of the documents, okay?’

  ‘Shit man, you’re killing me, I don’t think my contact will go for it,’ argued Mick, in apparent disappointment.

  ‘Ah well, don’t trouble your friend. What do you say we forget that I ever mentioned it? Let’s have a drink for old time’s sake. I’m sure I can find help somewhere else in a metropolis such as New York,’ purred Nathan.

  ‘Shit man why ya want to talk like that, I’m your buddy Steve and what good is a buddy if he doesn’t come through. I’ll talk to him. I’m sure he’ll see reason but he wont like it. I’ll be in Den’s at noon with your answer, Adios,’ said Martinez, concluding the conversation. Casting Nathan a black stare, he turned on his heels and headed for the bar’s exit. His snarl was quickly replaced by a grin as he stepped out into the night. Old Smokie would knock up a set of papers for twelve hundred, fifteen max. The podgy figure disappeared into the throng of New York’s nocturnal humanity.

  They met as arranged the following day. Black was already seated at the bar when Martinez arrived. His lip was curled as he seated himself beside the Englishman. ‘Fuck but you Limeys drive a hard bargain. It took ages for me to barter my contact down. It had in fact taken ten minutes and no bargaining was involved. Smokie was a refugee from an eastern bloc country and an expert at forgery. Martinez had told him the Englishman’s requirements and the old man had quoted eighteen hundred dollars. The taxi driver bitched that the price had risen. The forger shrugged and said, ‘Inflation, take it or leave it.’ Martinez knew when he was beaten; he had seen the determined look in the old guy’s eyes many times before. ‘Okay you old crook but I want them in one week. ‘No problem,’ smiled Smokie, he had been prepared to drop his price by a hundred or so. What a smuck, he thought. Mick left him, in the same frame of mind.

  ‘He requires ten passport sized photographs,’ Mick informed Nathan. Black nodded opening an attaché case. With a flourish he withdrew an envelope containing several sets of the snapshots, taken from a machine at central station. He removed three from the package and handed them to Martinez. ‘Two extra for good measure,’ he informed the cab driver. ‘How long?’

  ‘One week but that will cost ya an extra five.’ snapped Martinez.

  ‘Done, here is the two thousand as promised. You will have the rest plus five hundred same time next week, see you then.’ Black did not wait for a reply but was gone before the other could comment.