Reaper

by Hurley, Graham

  “There’s one name,” he said, “might be useful. Bloke called Scullen.”

  Ingle stared at him. “Scullen?” he said. “This kosher? Or a piss-take?”

  “I don’t know,” Connolly said, “but that’s his name. Or he says it is.”

  There was a long silence. Then Ingle shrugged and wrote the name on his pad.

  “So what does he tell you?” he said. “This Scullen?”

  “He doesn’t tell me anything. It doesn’t happen that way. You listen. You deduce. You work one or two things out. And then,” he shrugged, fingering the window again, “I give you a ring.”

  “And?”

  Connolly looked across at him. “There was an incident recently,” he said, “a bomb scare. Something to do with the Prime Minister.”

  “Qualitech,” Ingle said quickly. “They mention that? Factory place? Basingstoke?”

  “That’s it.” He paused. “Someone found a bomb there.”

  Ingle nodded. “That’s right,” he said, “someone did.”

  Connolly glanced across at him. “Do you know who?”

  “Yes. As it happens.”

  “Who was it?”

  Ingle didn’t answer. The pen was back in his hand. He was looking at Connolly. He wasn’t smiling.

  “Don’t fuck around,” he said. “Just tell me what you want to tell me. Someone knew about the Qualitech bomb. One of your lot–” he corrected himself – “their lot.”

  Connolly smiled. “Yes,” he said, “their lot.”

  “So?”

  There was a long silence. “It wasn’t a Provo bomb,” Connolly said at last, “someone else put it there.”

  “INLA,” Ingle said quickly, naming a Republican splinter group, even wilder than the Provos.

  “No.”

  “Who then?”

  Connolly smiled again. Ingle was watching him carefully now. “Who?” he said again.

  Connolly hesitated a moment, then nodded at Ingle’s notepad.

  “My impression,” he said, “is that whoever found it, knew where to look.”

  “So?” Ingle frowned, his irritation beginning to show. “Someone touted. It’s fucking obvious.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “No?”

  “No.” Connolly paused. “Whoever knew where to look may also have planted the bomb in the first place.” He smiled. “That make any sense to you?”

  Ingle gazed at him for a long time and Connolly knew at once that he wanted to believe him. Maybe the seed had been planted way back. Maybe he knew all about it already. Either way, Connolly was bringing him good news. The biro had disappeared now, back into Ingle’s pocket. Ingle was studying the pad. The single name. Scullen.

  “So tell me,” he said, “how come they’re so fucking open with you around?”

  Connolly shrugged. “I’ve joined the movement,” he said. “Like you told me to.”

  “And they trust you?”

  “Who knows?”

  “But they think you’re for real?”

  “Yes.”

  Ingle reached forward, wiping the windscreen with his big hands. Then he stopped and looked at Connolly again.

  “Are you?” he said. “For real?”

  Connolly opened the door. There was a blast of cold air from the car park. “Dunno,” he said vaguely. “What do you think?”

  Connolly got back to Mairead’s at seven. The kids were in the living room. They’d eaten already, and Mairead was in the kitchen, cheering up the remains of the shepherd’s pie with a thin coating of grated cheese. The worst of her haircut had grown out now. It was longer, and already curly. Connolly kissed her at the kitchen door and sat down at the tiny table. He could tell at once that something had happened. Mairead had been talking to somebody. Or, more likely, somebody had been talking to her.

  She bent low over the oven and lit the gas. Connolly had told her nothing of his contacts with Scullen, and she’d not asked. The way they were playing it – no questions, no answers – reminded him of Danny again, that same pattern, except that Mairead had known from the start that he’d joined the movement, taken the big step, pledged his Oath of Allegiance. The rest, though, had been silence. A conspiracy of which she was – however tacitly – a part.

  She slid the remains of the shepherd’s pie into the oven and closed the door. Then she sat down opposite him, the dishcloth folded neatly in front of her.

  “You never told me,” she said carefully, “that your wee dead friend was sick.”

  Connolly blinked. “You never asked me.”

  She laughed, a short, curt laugh. Then she fell silent.

  “Are you sick?” she said at last.

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” Connolly returned her look, unblinking.

  “This sickness …” she said slowly, “what do you have to do to get it? From other men? It’d be best if you told me.”

  Connolly shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said, “no one knows. It’s a mystery.”

  “Do you have to sleep with …” she frowned, “another man?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  “Did you ever sleep with your friend?”

  Connolly looked at her. There was a long silence. Then he nodded.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I …” he shrugged again, “I just did.”

  “Do you sleep with all your friends? Your man friends?”

  “No.” He paused, looking at her. “He was the only one.”

  “Why?” she said again. “I don’t understand.”

  Connolly reached forward, detecting the tone in her voice, distress and bewilderment. She moved back from the table, not wanting him near, not now, not during this conversation.

  “Well?” she said at last.

  Connolly said nothing for a moment. He could hear the gas roaring in the oven.

  “It’s difficult,” he said at last. “He was an older man. He was a bully. He knew what he wanted –” he shrugged – “and he got it.”

  “Did you like him?”

  “Not much. Not at first.”

  “When was first?”

  “At University.”

  “Dear God. How old were you then?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “And you didn’t know any better?”

  “I didn’t know anything. Except that I was frightened of him. It was fear more than anything else. Fear and a kind of …” he shrugged, “I dunno. Politeness, I suppose.”

  “Politeness?” Mairead shook her head. “Did you say please? Thank you?” She paused. “Did you enjoy it?”

  “No.”

  “Ever?”

  “No.”

  “Truly?”

  “Yes.”

  She looked at him. “You’re very mixed up,” she said, “aren’t you?”

  Connolly nodded, back on safer territory. “Yes,” he said, “I was. Then.”

  There was another long silence. The dog began to scuff at the door. Connolly leaned back, letting him in. He shuffled across the kitchen and sat down beside Mairead. Mairead reached down for him, patting him, not taking her eyes off Connolly.

  “Should I have told you?” he said.

  She thought about the question. Then shook her head.

  “No,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because we wouldn’t have been sitting here. Like this. Now.”

  Connolly nodded. He wanted to agree, to confirm it, to get close to her again, physically, to tell her everything. But there was another question first, and he knew he had to ask it.

  “So how did you know?” he said. “How did you find out?”

  Mairead got up and checked the shepherd’s pie. Then she sat down again.

  “You want the truth?” she said.

  “Please.”

  She nodded. “OK.” She frowned for a moment, collecting her thoughts. Then she looked up again. “You remembe
r Danny’s friends?” she said. “The first time? When they came calling?”

  “Yes.”

  “It scared me. You know that. I told you.”

  “You did.”

  “I was frightened. Dear God. Liam. The kids. You. I could see it all happening again.” She paused, studying her hands. “So …” she shrugged, “I did what we all do round here. I took myself off.”

  “Where to? The priest?”

  “No,” she smiled. “The doctor.”

  “What for? Aspirin?”

  “Advice. Depression.” She shrugged again. “They give you stuff sometimes. Special tablets.”

  “And?”

  “He told me I needed help.”

  “What sort of help?”

  “Counselling.”

  Connolly nodded. “So what happened?”

  “I went off to find a counsellor. Like the doctor said.”

  “Who did you see?”

  “The doctor gave me a name. Young guy. Up from the south. He had a degree in psychology or something. He was very sympathetic. He had a room and everything. I believed in him …”

  “And?”

  “I told him everything. That’s the way they do it. You tell them everything. Every last detail. Then they say they’ll help you.” She paused. “His name’s Charlie. At least that’s what he says he’s called.”

  “And did he? Help you?”

  Mairead looked at him for a long time. “Hardly,” she said at last.

  “Why not?”

  “He works for the Brits. He’s a soldier or some bloody thing.” She shrugged. “I dunno.”

  Connolly nodded slowly, beginning to understand.

  “And you told him about me?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Danny’s friends?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Leeson?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see.” He paused. “And now he’s told you the rest? Leeson? Me? This …” He shrugged. “This sickness?”

  “Yes …” She hesitated. “He had a name for it. He called it gay plague. He said it comes from America.”

  Connolly nodded, saying nothing. Then he frowned. “So why,” he said, “why did he tell you all this? Why did he bother?”

  There was another long silence. “Because he wants me to tout for him. He wants me to find out about you. What you’re up to. Where you go. Who you see. He thinks you tell me. He doesn’t believe it when I say you don’t.”

  “So he told you I was sick?”

  “He said you could be.”

  “To let you know what kind of man I really was?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you’d do a proper job for him? Winkle it out of me?”

  “Yes.”

  Connolly nodded, and pushed his chair slowly back from the table. Mairead bent to the dog. The dog could smell the food in the oven. Finally Mairead looked up.

  “So what do we do?” she said.

  Connolly looked at her for a long time, speculative.

  “I don’t know,” he said, “I’ll take advice.”

  Buddy and Jude left Hampshire for Dublin the following morning. A private ambulance arrived at nine fifteen, and two men lifted Jude’s wheelchair carefully into the back. They secured the wheelchair to the floor, and folded down a small jump seat for Buddy. The last thing Jude saw before the back doors closed was Duke, tethered in the stable yard, his nose in a bucket of feed.

  Two hours later, they arrived at Gatwick Airport, a bright sunny day, the first real warmth of spring. The ambulance drove round the big South Terminal, and they stopped for Immigration and the ticketing procedures at a gate manned by two armed policemen. The tickets were handled by a plump, friendly Dan Air official with a broken nose and a fresh spray of carnations. He clambered into the back of the ambulance, gave the flowers to Jude, and took the tickets from Buddy.

  “How are you travelling?” he said. “Which class?”

  Jude smiled up at him. “Cargo,” she said drily.

  The flight over was uneventful. The airline had stripped out the first row of seats, and Jude, strapped in her wheelchair, was anchored to the floor by the window. As the plane lifted off, she gazed down at the patchwork of fields and farms. Her hair was newly washed, Buddy had taken greater care than usual with her make-up, and as they headed north, climbing through a thin layer of cloud, she wondered whether she wasn’t beginning to enjoy it all.

  An hour later, the engines throttled back and the plane dipped its nose for the long descent into Dublin Airport. Jude gazed out at the twin arms of Dublin Bay, the docks at Dun Laoghaire beneath them, the low swell of Howth to the north. The aircraft slipped in over the city, and touched down five minutes early. The Catholics aboard crossed themselves as the tyres hit the tarmac. Buddy did the same.

  The aircraft taxied to a halt at one of the terminal piers. Jude was first off, the wheelchair in the hands of a porter, Buddy walking behind. He was carrying two bags, one for each of them. A single night, the woman from Ireland had assured him on the telephone, then you’ll have her home again.

  They wheeled through the Immigration and Customs procedures, at the head of every queue. Outside the terminal building, there was another private ambulance. It looked brand new, smoked glass in the windows, an electric lift at the rear door. They paused for a moment on the pavement while Buddy tipped the porter, then the front door of the ambulance opened, and a man in an anorak got out. He nodded at Buddy. His accent was harsher than Buddy had heard before.

  “Hello,” he said, “welcome to Ireland.”

  The passenger door opened, and another man stepped round the bonnet. He was wearing a long white coat. He might have been a doctor. He held out his hand.

  “Mr Little?”

  Buddy nodded, and introduced Jude. The two men wheeled her round to the back of the ambulance and tapped on the door. The door opened. A third man, younger, leather jacket, jeans. He, too, smiled.

  “You’re early,” he said.

  From the airport, they turned right, towards the city. A mile or so down the road, they turned right again, cutting west, across miles of bleak, grey suburbs. There were three of them in the back. Buddy, Jude, and the man in the leather jacket. The man in the leather jacket said his name was Joe.

  They made small talk for a while, desultory, the weather, the rain they’d had all winter, the prospects for the coming summer. After a time, through the window, the suburbs thinned, and disappeared, and they were out on a main road, still heading west, through a succession of small, ugly villages. Buddy watched the countryside roll by, wondering how far the place could be. Mary O’Hara, on the phone, had never been specific, but somehow he’d assumed that the hospital she’d mentioned would be in Dublin itself. It had sounded like an institution of some kind, a place you’d find in a big city. Not here. Out in the sticks.

  Once, he asked the man Joe. Joe smiled at him, a slow country smile, and said it wasn’t far. An hour later, they were still on the move, smaller roads, rocky verges, wild, bare country, the driver taking care on the bends. By now, Buddy was bemused. He sensed something wasn’t quite right, the ambulance too new, the journey too long, Joe too unforthcoming.

  Finally, the ambulance slowed. The driver indicated left, and pulled carefully onto a stony track that led towards a fold in the hills. They bumped slowly along the track. Soon, looking back through the rear windows, Buddy had lost sight of the road. Then quite suddenly, there were trees, pine trees, a forest of some kind. The ambulance stopped. Buddy peered out. There was a low stone hut beside the track. The hut had a wooden door and a corrugated iron roof. There were two cars parked beside it, an old Mercedes, and something modern, a Ford.

  Buddy frowned. The scene, the destination, made no sense. They’d come to find a hospital, not some logging hut in the middle of nowhere. He turned back into the ambulance to ask the obvious questions – where are we? what the fuck’s going on? – but as he did so, he realized that the questions were academ
ic. Joe was still sitting beside Jude. He was watching Buddy carefully. And the small black object in his right hand was a gun.

  “Welcome to Ireland,” he said again. “Tiocfaidh Ar La.”

  SEVENTEEN

  At about the same time, late morning, a shift leader at the Government’s listening post at GCHQ in Cheltenham lifted the telephone and asked for a secure line to his counterpart in the National Security Agency, at Fort Meade, in Washington.

  For the last three hours, he’d been studying the mass of material that had been chattering in over the transatlantic telex lines. The bulk of it came from listening posts in southern Chile, raw intercepts from Argentinian radio traffic. The sheer volume of the stuff had taken him by surprise. He’d been monitoring the South Atlantic for a year, but he could never remember a period quite so busy. Now, waiting for the line to be established, he leafed back through the logs, a simple quantum comparison, making sure he had his facts right. A month back, comparable signals activity had been down by a factor of four. A month before that, barely anything had happened. He shut the log book, and turned again to the morning’s intercepts. No doubt about it. Something was up.

  The line finally cleared and he found himself talking to Fort Meade. He recognized the voice at once, a woman he’d spoken to a number of times over the past week. She was cheerful and businesslike and never wasted a moment of the Agency’s time. As ever, she beat him to the punch.

  “Pretty dramatic stuff, huh?”

  The GCHQ man smiled. “You’re right,” he said. “Are we sure it’s all naval?”

  “Most of it,” she said. “There’s a bunch of intercepts in there from the Aerea Fuerza boys, but most of it’s seagoing. Boats out of Porto Belgrano and that place down south.”

  “Ushuaia.”

  “Right.”

  “So,” the GCHQ man glanced at the growing pile of intercepts, “what are we saying?”

  The woman laughed. “I guess we’re saying they got boats out there. Lots of boats.”

  “They’ll call it exercises.”

  “Sure. And when the shit hits the fan they’ll call it something else.”

  “Surprise me,” he said.

  “Hey,” the woman chuckled, “I don’t get paid for thinking. I’m just the humble clerk. Have a nice day, now. And … er …”