The Fire

by Robert White

  I knew what he was thinking. I too was fearful what condition Lauren may be in when we got there too. Would she be alive?

  God help McGinnis and crew if she wasn't.

  Lauren North's Story:

  What I'd thought to be a barn was no more than a hay store. It had no glass in the windows and the roof was holed in one corner. That said, the door was open and I fell inside grateful to be out of the freezing cold.

  I didn't have enough strength to move any bales, so I climbed up as high as I could, squeezed between two stacks, tucked my knees up to my chin and shivered.

  Thankfully the wind had eased and the snow was all but gone. The sky was now clear and through the hole in the roof I could see a blanket of stars. Had things been different, I would have marvelled at their beauty.

  After ten minutes I pulled at the hay around me and used clumps of it to rub my hair and body in an attempt to remove frozen snow from my head and clothing.

  I was still bitterly cold, but being out of the elements gave me a chance. Within ten minutes I felt better. I inched further and further into the bales to reduce the area around me and utilise my natural body heat. Ten more minutes went by. I desperately wanted to sleep, but I dared not. I pulled myself out of my hiding place, dropped down to floor level and had a quick search of the store.

  Leaning against one wall was a pitchfork. I grabbed it, and climbed back into my hiding place with the three metal spikes pointing forward of my position.

  I felt better, closed my eyes, and eventually, dreams came.

  Time and space once again passed me by. I'd been physically tired as I lay down in my hay bales, but it had been the mental tiredness that had overcome me. I awoke with a jolt and it took me a few seconds to realise where I was. I had no idea what I'd been dreaming about but my heart pounded in my chest and I felt the need to swallow hard several times before I could get myself together.

  I looked to the hole in the roof and could see a lightening sky. Dawn was close so it was maybe six o'clock. During my dream state, the snow had stopped, but the wind had returned and it howled and whistled through the broken windowpanes.

  My clothes were still wet and I was cold and uncomfortable, but I could reason and feel my extremities, so I could function.

  Stretching my stiff legs I was about to shuffle out of my hiding place when my stomach flipped with fear as I heard a vehicle approaching.

  It was unmistakeably a diesel engine and from the sound of the crunching snow, something with big fat tyres. Doors opened and slammed and there were male and female muffled voices. I wriggled as far back into my hiding place as I could and gripped the shaft of the pitchfork with both hands.

  I was instantly warm from the flush of adrenalin. The unmistakable sound of footsteps on snow grew closer; more than one set...two...three? My mind raced as fast as my heart.

  Then I heard a clearer voice.

  I didn't recognise it; male, cultured southern English. The gusting wind and the thickness of the walls of the store made it impossible to hear his exact words, but he wasn't pleased and was shouting instructions to someone. Then I heard the car doors open again and the unmistakable sound of dogs.

  Despite the near freezing conditions my hands were sweating as they gripped the rough wooden handle of the pitchfork, my only weapon.

  I knew I could gleefully bury it in Dougie McGinnis or his cronies, but a dog? Could I kill a dog? I remembered Rick killing an Alsatian outside Joel Davies's house, just before World War Three erupted inside and how I threw up all over the front step. It didn't bode well.

  I could hear my heartbeat as I tucked my legs under my body in order to position myself to attack anyone or anything that came to my hiding place. It was simply needs must.

  The door handle rattled as someone attempted to get it open. At least two dogs whined on the other side. As the door was finally pushed open, I felt the icy chill of the wind rush into the store. The dogs padded inside and I held my breath.

  As I'd expected, they came straight beneath my position, but couldn't climb the bales to actually get at me. I could hear them snorting, clearing their airways to get a better scent.

  Through a tiny gap in the bales I could see a pair of booted, snow covered feet standing by the door. Seconds later, the feet spoke...they belonged to none other than Kristy McDonald.

  "Go on, Bruno, find the bitch," she snapped. "Come on, Teddy....where is she? Come on, quick now, it's fuckin' freezin'!"

  I caught a glimpse of one of the hounds, and that's what they were, hounds, the kind of dogs you saw on fox hunting pictures in a country pub. This made me feel slightly better as they weren't Dobermans or Rottweilers. I felt they would indicate my presence, but they weren't attack dogs, just sniffers, so all I had to deal with was the human element of the search party.

  I kept stock still as one of the dogs sat just below my position started to bark. Even I knew that this was an indication that the animal had found what it was looking for.

  So did Kristy.

  She pulled the door open further. "Mr Clarke! Mr Clarke!" she shouted to the outside world. "I think we got somethin'."

  This little snippet really sent my mind into overdrive. Could that possibly be Joseph Clarke, the guy who'd set the whole Irish job in motion, the guy from the Firm? If so what the hell was he doing here with Kristy?

  He stepped into the doorway and he too shouted over his shoulder. "Seamus! Seamus! Come get the dogs away whilst we have a look, eh, old chap?"

  I heard heavy footsteps and another pair of boots that belonged to Patrick O'Donnell's son strode into view. The dogs obviously belonged to the twin, and whimpered and barked as he drew close. He peered up toward my position, but I knew he wouldn't be able to see me without climbing the bales. I held onto the pitchfork so tightly, the muscles in my forearms started to cramp.

  Seamus spoke slowly and had a strange accent, a mixture of southern English and northern Irish.

  "Maybe she's here," he said. "But someone needs to climb up to be sure."

  Clarke's voice dripped sarcasm. "Obviously, sunshine; just take the mutts away and let Kristy here have a look-see."

  There was more whimpering and the dogs were led out of the store. I heard the car door open and close as they were put back inside.

  Seconds later, he was back inside the store. I felt sweat drip down my spine; I'd clenched my jaw so tightly that it ached, but I had no desire to release the pressure.

  Five feet below me, one of the three racked a weapon.

  "Go on, Kristy," said Clarke. "Up you go."

  Rick Fuller's Story:

  It was just after 0600hrs and the stars were losing their battle with the rising sun. Ahead, a charcoal hawk swooped for unseen prey against the grey snow-filled sky. The bitter wind cut into our team, chilling our bones and burning our faces. My throat complained as I greedily gulped the freezing Irish air in order to claim enough oxygen to persuade my aching legs to cover the last half mile to the farm. The tab had been as hard as anything I'd ever done in Crossmaglen. Just like the bad old days, the hawthorn had sliced through our clothes and torn our skin. Our feet were in shit order and even with good boots they were nothing more than blocks of unfeeling ice.

  I felt every day of my forty-five years.

  We stopped in a farmer's gully for a breather and to sort our kit. I couldn't help but notice several sets of recent footprints and dog tracks running along the bottom leading away from the farm and east of our location.

  Had they something to do with Lauren. Had she escaped?

  If that was indeed the case, and the Irish had dogs, no one, no matter how fit, would get away.

  I put the feelings of foreboding to the back of my mind, pulled out a set of binoculars and scanned our target premises. J.J. used his Leupold Ultra M3A sight from his M24 sniper rifle to do the same. Des smoked his fucking pipe.

  Even from a half mile away and in low light I could easily see the security at the farm. A ten foot chain-link fence, top
ped with razor wire, surrounded the main property. The adjoining land, which ran to more than a dozen acres, was protected by simple post and rail. We'd seen the pictures Cartwright had provided, but they hadn't prepared us for the sheer scale of the place. This was no ordinary working farm; this was a racehorse stable and stud worth millions even without the livestock. The main house wouldn't have looked out of place in any Country Life magazine spread. In addition there were four separate courtyards, stables and other outbuilding. I counted three Toyota 4 x 4's, a Land Rover Defender, two VW vans a 911 turbo and a Ferrari 599 GTB Fiorano. I was impressed with the Ferrari, a model I'd considered myself. The 620bhp beast had a four year waiting list and I'd ordered one in red with coffee leather interior and matching luggage. A month before delivery I was offered half a million pounds for the car by a Saudi pimp and took it. I'd often wondered if I'd made a mistake; that said, the model nestled in the snow at the farm was in yellow which was a poor choice.

  Massive electric gates stood between the road and the driveway to the house. I spotted two guys dressed in black wearing heavy puffer jackets patrolling just inside the perimeter and counted four more around the main house. All looked switched on and although I couldn't see any weapons, it was a pound to a pinch of shit they were all carrying.

  Within fifteen minutes we'd seen eleven separate security guys and I was beginning to see the reason for so many cars. With all the shit that had gone on before, I started to wonder if, once again, we were expected.

  To add to our woes, there was no sign of the three Irish, the O'Donnell twins or Joseph Clarke, the man from the Ministry I so wanted to talk to.

  I pushed the binoculars into my coveralls and turned to Des.

  "This is a gang-fuck, pal."

  Des ditched his pipe, pulled his Sig from its holster, slid back the action and checked the safety.

  "Could have kissed us first, eh, pal?"

  Lauren North's Story:

  If Kristy had been born with any sense, she would have emptied a clip up into the hay bales, killed me and dragged my dead body out of that hole. That said, not only was she lacking in the brains department, but I had the feeling that her male compatriots had other plans and shooting me was not an option.

  I was kneeling down, sweating buckets, ready to power forward like a sprinter in the hundred meters. The difference being, Linford Christie didn't hold a six foot fork when he ran at Crystal Palace.

  I could hear her struggling to climb up the bales. Kristy was a big girl with huge breasts that would probably have brought her some admirers, but they were a definite disadvantage when it came to physical activities outside the bedroom.

  I could hear her struggling and cursing the slippery hay as she climbed the short distance to my hiding place.

  I fell into a very dark place. If these bastards wanted to kill me, then I could accept it, but they were not going to rape me, torture me, and make me beg for my own death in some kind of revenge kick.

  Patrick O'Donnell had been an evil bastard, a murderer, a drug dealer and woman hater. Maybe he didn't deserve to have his head blown off.

  I think he did.

  I remember suddenly smelling the hay surrounding me. First, Kristy's hair appeared over the ridge of bales, then her forehead, then her eyes.

  Those same cold blue eyes that danced with delight when I was singled out by Siobhan. Findley had already told me her plan was to pump me full of heroin, and take her turn with me before I was murdered.

  Nice girl.

  Either she didn't see me immediately or those eyes didn't adjust to the darkness of my hiding place quickly enough. Kristy huffed and puffed as she managed to get her palms flat on the final bale and hoist her top heavy frame upward.

  I waited until half her torso was visible, and then powered forward. I don't know if I cried out like some Greek warrior or remained silent.

  The three prongs of the fork entered her body just below her breast bone and either side of her ribcage. The natural curvature of the tool pushed each eighteen inch long spike upward; the centre spine piercing her heart and the other two, each side of her chest cavity simultaneously.

  Blood spurted from her open mouth as her lungs were instantly filled with the hot coppery liquid. She didn't cry out; maybe her throat was too full of her own claret. I don't recall the final look in those eyes. All I remembered was the way she'd treated me as I shook uncontrollably in that stinking cage in Levenshulme.

  Good fuckin' riddance.

  As she fell backwards, her body weight ripped the handle of the fork from my hands and she dropped like a stone, hitting the floor of the store with a sickening slap.

  I stood at the opening of my hiding place, breathing hard and watched her die.

  Seamus O'Donnell cried out in shock, seemingly unable to take his eyes off Kristy's body as she bucked and kicked, drowning in her own blood, the pitchfork dancing in her chest. "Fuck!" shouted Seamus. "Fuck! What the..."

  Clarke, however, was a different matter. He stood stock still, feet shoulder width apart, knees slightly bent and a G36 assault rifle tucked expertly into his shoulder. The laser sight fitted to the top of the standard police issue weapon etched its path through the dust-filled air directly toward my chest.

  He smiled to reveal perfect white teeth.

  We locked eyes, yet he addressed Seamus.

  "Shut up, Seamus! The bitch was always disposable just like that freak Findley, now get a fucking grip! After all, you and Declan finally have what you desire."

  His smile faded.

  "Hasn't he, Miss North?"

  I stood at the edge of the bales, my breathing returning to normal. Clarke was tall, lithe and very handsome, almost too handsome for a man. His blond hair shone and he obviously stuck rigidly to a skincare regime that I could only dream of.

  The G36 never wavered from my heart. That said, I was fairly confident he wouldn't shoot me. If that was all that the O'Donnell's had wanted, it could have been done simply and easily back in Manchester. They wanted, no, needed revenge and that meant torture and abuse followed by a big splash in the newspapers when my body was found. Once again the terrorists could show what happens when you cross the latest threat to Northern Ireland's peace process, the New IRA; that, and of course the O'Donnell family.

  No, this had to turn into a physical contest.

  Looking at Seamus, who had the natural bull strength build of his father, and the athleticism of Clarke, I was in deep shit. The only advantage I had was the fact that I was six feet or so above them and they had to come and get me.

  I smiled.

  "Well, well, Joseph Clarke...the man from the Ministry. I'll bet the good old chaps in Canary Wharf are pleased with you, eh? If I were a betting kind of girl, I'd say you were an Oxford blue, listening to that accent of yours; one of their own, a gentleman who has taken the Queen's shilling and flushed it down the toilet. That's treason in my book; still a hanging offence, isn't it? What possible motive could you have for betraying your Queen and country?"

  Clarke's face turned to an evil sneer.

  "Shut up! Just climb down, bitch, before I take your head off."

  I kept up my grin. Surprisingly it wasn't that hard. I nodded toward Kristy's dead body that had become silhouetted by a thick pool of rapidly congealing blood.

  "This isn't going to plan now, is it, Joseph? This wasn't in the script."

  Clarke was doing his best not to flick the G36 on to full auto and tear me to pieces, but he couldn't, he knew it and I knew it. He was holding the weapon so tight his knuckles were white; definitely not in the training manual.

  "If it had been up to me," he spat. "I would have shot you in the street like a rabid dog the minute you returned from Helsinki."

  He shot his opposite number a look.

  "I would have used professionals, but no, it had to be the 'Irish way' didn't it, Seamus? We had to use those fucking drug-addled sexual deviants of yours to do the job. Still...I delivered what I promised to you and to Max
i...so we all make money."

  Seamus had recovered from the initial shock of seeing Kristy die in front of him. He had many of his father's attributes, including the steel grey eyes that had so disconcerted me in his Bentley that fateful night.

  "Shut up, Clarke. Just because you are my brother's lover, don't think you are in control here. I am the leader of the New Irish Republican Army. Fuller and his cronies are dead and now I will have my revenge on the bitch the way I see fit."

  This information tore at my heart, but until I saw Rick's body, I had hope. I kept up my hard face.

  "Are you sure of that, Seamus? Have you seen their bodies? They were alive when I left Manchester," I sneered at the Irishman. "You'd better pray that you are right...or they will find you... and you are as good as dead already."

  At that he decided to be a brave boy. He jumped up at the bales and powered his way upward.

  I took a step back, timed my move forward to perfection, and penalty-kicked him in the head, catching him full in the face. He fell backwards, joining Kristy on the cold concrete.

  Seamus rolled about clutching his ruined nose, blood pouring down his jacket.

  "Fucking bitch! Fucking English bitch!"

  By the time he rose unsteadily to his feet, he'd lost the plot and tore the pitch fork from Kristy's chest. He looked up at me, eyes wild, drew back the tool and threw it with all his considerable strength toward me.

  I stepped sharply to my left and the fork buried itself harmlessly into a bale. I now had my weapon back.

  I drew it from the hay and smiled again.

  "Thank you, Seamus....want to come and get it?"

  I heard Clarke click the safety off his G36. A split second later, he fired.

  Des Cogan's Story:

  We leaned against the snow-covered sides of the gully for an hour and watched the activity around the farm as the sun rose in a crystal sky. It was crisp and cold in our ditch, but at least we were sheltered from that bloody wind.