Seeds of Evil

by Robert Kitchen

  As soon as Horan and his surrogate daughter were settled, Dane was given permission to begin phase one of the plan which would hopefully ensnare the murderer. The Belfast Telegraph printed a front-page spread, which was taken up by the British media. Television coverage soon followed. Dane’s chosen headline was, ‘Dying Assassin Confesses to Murders Of Seven,’ The article went on to tell of how an ageing terrorist dying from cancer wanted to go to his maker with a clear conscience. He, Seamus Horan, was making a public apology for his crimes. A list of seven names was printed, the first name on the list was Jason T. Leonard. Dane went on to say that the IRA. man deeply regretted his actions and prayed that the families and friends of his victims could search their hearts and seek for the grace of the almighty to forgive him. If asking for forgiveness was demanding the impossible then he fully understood. As the old warrior prepares for death he is fully aware that the acts of violence he indulged in, although unforgivable to most humans, would be forgiven by the divine Lord. On a personal note, I Walter Dane feel that the man should be given the chance to atone for his crimes. Horan’s wife, for the immediate future will be staying with her sister, who has suffered a recent bereavement with the loss

  of her own husband. His daughter has decided to stand in her mother’s stead until Mrs. Horan can return to her dying husband’s side. In conclusion the reporter quoted from the New Testament, ‘Let He Who Is Without Sin Cast The First Stone.’

  A cross between a snigger and a grimace distorted the features of Nathan Black’s handsome face. He drew in air through gritted teeth in a kind of reverse whistle. Rereading the article for the third time enabling it’s content to be totally absorbed, he slowly paced the room like a caged animal. He savoured every detail, consuming the text ultra slowly, as one would the final morsel of a favourite repast. ‘Really Walter, what a load of utter bollocks,’ he muttered, crumpling the newspaper between his manicured hands. ‘Still I cannot possibly ignore it,’ he carped. Eagerly he smoothed out the crumpled sheet seeking a segment relating to the fact that Dane was the only living soul, apart from the terrorists daughter, who knew the location of Horan’s hideaway. The man was in danger from two fronts. His old comrades would be seeking him out in order to beat the disease to the punch. They could not risk his revelations becoming common knowledge. Secondly the RUC. would want to place the bastard into custody to stand trial for his crimes. No matter how sorry he purports to be for his actions, he still had to answer for them in a court of law. Dane admitted to the authorities that he had recorded Horan’s confession but under no circumstances would he reveal the whereabouts of the dying man. Black sensed a trap. His instincts told him that his pursuers, whoever they may be, have discovered his true identity. His ruse to send them off his trail had not worked, ergo he the Preacher, was very much alive. He smirked at the title bestowed upon him. ‘Preacher,’ he chuckled, ‘Sure there’s not a religious bone in me body,’ said he, in a parody the Ulster brogue. Tossing and turning, he could not sleep, the words of Dane’s article circled in his head, driving the maniac to distraction. Adrenaline was coursing through his veins. It became apparent to him that sleep was an impossibility until he had resolved his dilemma. His reason for living, the object of his hatred was being laid before him on a plate. How could he ignore the challenge? Whether or not someone had hatched an elaborate trap to ensnare him, he had to know for sure if the old man was telling the truth. He had to look the bastard in the eye, feel that scrawny neck in his grasp. Perhaps a snack would help the grey matter to churn out a solution. His feet came into contact with the bedroom floor and it was at that moment that the first glimmer of a plan manifested itself in his demented brain. ‘Dane,’ he uttered, ‘Is it possible that you have betrayed me? I have been longing to meet you in the flesh for a very long time. I

  believe that the moment of our first encounter is close at hand.’

  Walter Dane’s personal life was as familiar to Nathan as it was to himself. Black had followed the little man on several occasions. He had passed the reporter’s front door at least a half dozen times. Dane’s wife Elizabeth was even more diminutive than her husband. Unlike Walter she had kept herself in peak condition. She was elegantly trim; her sylph-like figure was the envy of her friends. An almost boyish body was topped by short strawberry hair, bobbed in an old Mia Farrow style that she had never deviated from for years. To cap it all she had the most striking violet eyes, the most noticeable feature on her elfin face. The Dane’s had one daughter, a carbon copy of her mother. Being their only child the girl was held in adoration by both her parents. She had become even more precious because the doctors had warned them that Elizabeth would be put in extreme danger by a second confinement. Dane had gone immediately to a private hospital to set in motion the plans for his vasectomy. Ten years had passed since his operation and the reporter had never lost a wink of sleep over his decision. One thing was certain, Walter Dane was devoted to his family. Black had found his Achilles Heel. The journalist may not volunteer the information under personal threat by The IRA or legal action from the authorities but the merest hint of danger to his family will render him powerless. Nathan determined that the journalist would tell him the truth when confronted with his worst nightmare. Simple really, he wondered why the solution had not came to him sooner. When Dane was at the work place, he Black would snatch the two things that the reporter valued above all else, his women. Smiling contentedly Nathan retraced his steps to the bedroom. His pulse was no longer racing. Drowsiness had banished his excitement to a new day. The madman lay on his bed and fell into an uninterrupted slumber.

  Wednesday morning is the worst beginning of any day. Already it seems like a lifetime has passed and yet one is not halfway through the week. Dane’s sleep was terminated by the incessant clanging of an ancient alarm clock, given to him on his first day at work, by his paternal grandfather. More than twenty years had passed and the thing still managed to irritate him. Bleary eyed and practically falling out of bed, he started the day with the usual ritual. Dane was a creature of habit and five times a week, barring sickness or holidays, he greeted the day in similar fashion. Toilet, shower, shave and then he would climb into the clothes that Elizabeth had devotedly chosen for him on the previous evening. Finally he would brush his lips across his darling wife’s brow before gently inviting her into the land of the living. She smiled, as he knew she would, stretched and repeated the same two words, ‘Morning Darling,’ as she had done throughout their married life. He returned her smile as always before moving across the room to the doorway. ‘I’m off to the shop,’ he called over his shoulder.’

  ‘Breakfast in half an hour,’ she reminded his rapidly disappearing back. As was the custom on schooldays, he tapped upon his daughter’s door and awaited her sleepy reply. He was not disappointed, ‘Morning daddy.’ With a contented sigh he set off to fetch the morning dailies. Dane looked forward to his morning walk. In the shop he collected the tabloids and a carton of fresh orange for Melanie, her favourite morning beverage. As he returned to his home, he completed his daily ritual by thanking the Lord for his benevolence and uttered the same silent prayer, ‘Please keep them safe for me oh Lord I beseech you.’

  Three weeks had passed with no further news from the mainland regarding the investigation of Nathan Black’s alleged murder. Fanatics of all persuasions were rounded up for questioning. Members of the National front, known racists and thugs with a record of physical abuse toward homosexuals, were dragged off the streets. Every last one could account for his movements on the night of the crime. Two arsonists with no particular axe to grind were also interrogated, only to be released without charge. The police had drawn a blank.

  Four people with the strongest motives to hate one another were beginning to feel the strain of their self imposed incarceration. Moira had made her feelings toward both Horan and Clements apparent on the first day. Refusing to acknowledge either man, she demonstrated that their very existence was
an insult to her. They were beneath her contempt, as were the scum that they purported to represent. No conversation would be entertained with either but in the spirit of the agreement, she dutifully cooked and cleaned up after them and would do so until the mission had run it’s course. Horan for his part, ignored her with dignified indifference. His scorn was the soul possession of Clements, whom he would gladly terminate at a moment’s notice. He was suspicious of Tullen’s friendship with the UDA. man and therefore deemed it unwise to trust either man. Tensions were mounting and it would not be long before there was a major eruption.

  Wednesdays were not a bother to Melanie. Wednesday to her was the best day of the school-week, because swimming practice was held on Wednesday. Melanie loved to swim. She would never aspire to membership of the British Olympic squad but she was a very strong swimmer. The best part though was when practice was finished, they did not have to go back to school. After swimming was a free period and she and her friend Sarah could play in the pool for another hour. Mrs. Dane was always waiting to collect Melanie at the leisure centre exit and today was no exception. They had intended driving into the city centre but it had started spitting and aimlessly wandering from shop to shop in the pouring rain, could hardly be classed as a pleasurable way to while away the hours awaiting the bread winner’s return. They settled instead for a coffee in the Leisure centre cafeteria, before rushing home to prepare a special meal for the man in their lives. Walter was looking a tad jaded of late and they hoped that his favourite meal would help to brighten his mood.

  Elation quickly turned to terror, mere minutes after entering their suburban home. Melanie hurried to her bedroom to change out of her school uniform. Haphazardly she selected a pair of faded jeans and a loose fitting top. Ideal kit for the task of culinary assistant. She had frowned before donning the top. Her classmates were getting tits, where the hell were hers? Inspecting the fully attired item in the mirror she shrugged, ‘Aw well, perhaps next year,’ she sighed, before bounding down the stairs two at a time. The shock was akin to being slapped in the face. Open mouthed she stared as the colour drained from her cheeks. A strange man was holding her mother tightly. Her feet were dangling in mid air and he had one hand clamped firmly over her mouth. In the other hand he wielded a huge knife. Now she had something new to worry about for the man was calling her by name. God he was a giant, like some ogre from a fairy tale. But this was no fairy tale for this intruder was very real. How does he know our names? Why was he speaking as if he had known us for years? Melanie was confused and frightened as the questions whirled around in her head. She studied his face but there was nothing remotely familiar about this person who was holding her mother so very tightly. His accent was strange, English she reasoned but they did not have any English acquaintances, at least she didn’t think so. ‘Please put my mammy down mister,’ she said.

  ‘That Melanie is a very good idea. My arm is beginning to ache,’ and with that he simply released Elizabeth causing her to drop with a clatter and almost fall over. ‘What do you want from us. We have very little money but it’s yours if you just leave.’

  ‘I did not come here to rob you Elizabeth,’ he told her, retaining his gaze on her daughter.

  ‘If you don’t want to rob us then what is it you require.’ Her question was answered by a leer. ‘Please don’t hurt us,’ she pleaded, as a new fear took hold. This bastard is a pervert, one of those horrible beasts one reads about in the Sunday newspapers. Oh please God no, she beseeched in silent prayer. ‘I know what you want,’ she whispered cunningly. ‘My little girl is only eleven. I can give you all you need. I’ll do anything you ask.’ Her pleas were greeted with a terrible guffaw from their assailant. He laughed heartily for what seemed like ages, tears streaming down his monstrous face. Finally he composed himself. ‘My dear lady, I am flattered by your offer, truly I am, but I can assure you that my tastes by far exceed anything you or your pretty daughter has to offer. I prefer the company of the masculine gender, if you catch my drift. If I gave you the wrong impression, then I am really very sorry. My intentions are strictly honourable, please believe me.’

  ‘Then what in name of all that’s holy, do you want?’ screamed Mrs. Dane, as the floodgates opened, spilling a torrent of tears.

  ‘Please don’t cry mammy, I’m sure it will be alright,’ said the girl, rushing to her weeping mother’s side.

  ‘Take your daughter’s advice Elizabeth. I really do not intend either of you harm. If you listen to my demands, everything should turn out fine. Now Elizabeth, if we are going to become friends and I sincerely hope that we are, you must learn to control your temper. I detest a woman screaming for whatever reason, Do I make myself clear,’ he said, showing a degree of menace for the first time. ‘Please take Melanie over to the settee and sit down. Only then shall I explain to you both what this little charade is all about. Elizabeth took her child by the hand and together they complied with his request.

  Contempt for Horan was written on Moira’s face like a neon sign. Her nose lifted as if she had experienced a bad smell when their paths crossed in the kitchen. Despite himself the old man bristled at her display of open hostility. ‘Why are ye doin this?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Doin what?’ she spat back at him.

  ‘Puttin yer life on the line for people ye obviously have no time for?’

  ‘Is that what ye think? Christ you people are unbelievable. Ye think the whole of the Catholic nation should be grateful that you, and the likes of ye, have taken it upon yerselves te murder on their behalf.’ Moira was speaking calmly without hint of emotion.

  ‘Murder is it? I volunteered te free this province from repression, te give it’s people a little respect, girlie. Christ they have earned it. I had no idea that it would come te this. None of us had. I was nineteen when I decided that some-thin had to be done. Nineteen girlie and sharin a bedroom we five brothers. Me sisters had te make do we the livin room floor. When all the while not half a mile away, people we no kids at all, were given priority on the council housing list, just because they kicked we the right foot. Ye hear what I’m sayin?’

  ‘Yours wasn’t the only family te suffer discrimination, I could name ye hundreds,’ she retorted.

  ‘Aye yer right there, ninety nine percent accepted all the shite that the government flung at them.’

  ‘And the other one percent decided te murder on their behalf, very noble,’ she scoffed.

  ‘Ach it wasn’t like that. Not at first, not by a long chalk.’ The old warrior’s eyes misted, giving his face a vacant expression, as if he was trying to drag a distant memory from the deepest recess of his subconscious. ‘My involvement began long before the so-called civil rights movement was ever thought of. Sure in those days we had our fair share of hotheads advocating violence. The only way forward is te take the law in te our own hands, they’d cry. But I swear te ye girl, few if any believed that killin was an option.’

  ‘How can ye stand there and spout such a load of barefaced lies?’ she spat. ‘Okay just say for the sake of argument that yer tellin the truth. What in God’s name went wrong, te bring about so much murder and destruction?’

  ‘Te tell ye the truth girlie I don’t know. One minute we were talkin and arguing the toss at meetins, the next thing we knew a man was dead. Then the other side decided that we should be punished for darin to question their authority. Get away down south where ye belong, if ye want a republic go and live down there. No surrender, Ulster is British and te emphasise the point, they started te burn down our hovels. That was their first big mistake, for instead of makin us cower like we always did in the past, we banded together and fought back. Jesus they were glorious times,’ cackled the old man.

  ‘This is ancient history Seamus,’ she said softly, using his given name for the first time.

  ‘No doubt about that,’ he replied sadly. ‘Anyway the next thing was,’ he continued, ignoring her inte
rruption, ‘We began te argue amongst ourselves. The auld guard said that violence was never the answer and as it turns out, they were probably right. The provos begged te differ. One thing led to another and the arguin turned te fightin until one night we murdered one of our own. The squabble became a war and it escalated out of control, like some gigantic snowball rollin down a hill. Evil buggers had got the taste for blood and most of us were just swallowed up in the maelstrom. I’m not makin an excuse for my wrongdoin girlie, ye understand. I’m just tellin how it was. Oh it’s all different nowadays of course. There’s a rotten element festerin away at the core today. Young fellas ye know, they think that bein a volunteer is an excuse for murder. They don’t know what it’s all about. They’re not in it for the cause, not really. Terrorisin and extortin money from they’re own kind, people that can’t afford it, that’s their game. I hear it’s the same amongst the prods. No moral fibre left in our society. I think that we have gone so far that there is no turnin back. I’m sorry te say that there’s no light at the end of our particular tunnel. Pride and distrust will keep us apart forever girlie. Someone once said, that we are the lost tribe of Israel, he was probably correct. Nobody wants us, not even ourselves.’ She watched as his rheumy eyes moistened. His shoulders drooped and he turned his back on her, disappearing through the doorway without another word. She gazed at his back as he exited the kitchen, seeing Seamus Horan in a new light. He was just an old man trying desperately to atone for his wrongdoing. What right had she to judge him? After all had she not just upped and left. If she had stayed, would Connor have become involved or could she have saved him from himself? The answer to the problem lies with the ordinary man in the street. They hold the solution, not a band of misguided youths who believe that if a problem exists, eliminate it. Compromise in Ulster is as extinct as the dodo.