Shadows of Good Friday (Alex King Book 3)

by A P Bateman

  Neeson led the way through the barn to a small room at the end of the vast building. It had been constructed quickly and haphazardly, consisting merely of a space divided off by plywood partitions, with three single beds and a small portable colour television set on top of a rickety-looking table which also had a kettle and a pile of dirty cups and empty biscuit packets.

  “There are some clothes and toiletries on your bed,” he paused, pointing at the bed in the furthest corner. “You do not attempt to contact anyone. From this day forward, you are simply missing. You will stick to both Ross and Sean like shit to a wee baby’s blanket. They are hard at work, so I will expect you to give them a hand. Meals will be served in the farmhouse, but you are not to go there without either Ross or Sean accompanying you. Those are the rules; do you understand them?” Jason Porter nodded, starting to feel somewhat overwhelmed. Neeson patted him on the back and grinned. “Just a week, that’s all. After that, I will arrange for you to leave the country, go down to Spain for a bit. You can buy a nice place down there, fly your missus out.” He reached into his jacket pocket and took out another envelope then noticed the man’s expression and smiled. “No, nothing like that…” He reassured him “We are partners now and partners look out for one another,” he paused, and handed over the envelope. “Call it a little bonus. Non-deductible from our agreed sum.”

  Porter ripped open the envelope and let the bundle of fifty-pound notes drop into the palm of his hand. He grinned gleefully, too enthralled by his new wealth to notice that the Irishman had left the room.

  16

  “It’s no bloody good, I’m damned near starving!” Patrick stood up abruptly and walked to the door. “I’m going to go and get us some food. That idle bastard Neeson must be trying to wind us up or something. Anyone coming with me?”

  “Aye, right enough,” Liam said, then slowly rose to his feet. “I could do with a bit of a walk.” He looked across at McCormick and raised an eyebrow expectantly.

  “That’s all right, isn’t it Matt?”

  McCormick glanced at his watch, then shrugged. “Not exactly given much choice, are we?” he paused. “Just find a shop, then get yourselves straight back here. No trouble, no quick pints in a pub, and no fucking about. All right?”

  “Aye, mother, as if we would.” Patrick smiled and picked up his leather jacket, which was draped over the arm of the chair. He looked back towards McCormick, his expression suddenly serious. “You don’t think that anything has gone wrong, do you Matt?” He looked at his watch and frowned. “I mean, Danny was meant to have this place stocked up for our stay, and he was going to meet us first thing. It’s past lunchtime now.”

  “Will yer ever think about anything but yer gut, big man?” McCormick said, his Belfast accent so much stronger than the others. He grinned. “No, I’m sure everything’s fine. Danny’s just fucking us around, yer know what he’s like. Go get us some food and don’t eat it all on yer bloody way back, all right? Me and Dugan are hungry as well.”

  “Yes, mother.” Liam ginned. “If we promise to be good, can we buy some sweets for the way home?”

  “Feck off!” McCormick laughed, then picked up a nearby cushion and threw it across the room at him. “Someone has to keep you lads in line!”

  ***

  “Hello Control, this is X-ray Delta One, message, over.”

  “Control, send, over.”

  “X-ray Delta One, two of the targets are mobile, over.”

  “Control, state which targets, over.”

  “X-ray Delta One, appears to be Red Two and Red Four, over.”

  “Control, Roger that, Red Two and Red Four, stay advised, wait-out.”

  ***

  Patrick reached the bottom of the concrete steps, then looked each way down the quiet street. He jovially slapped his companion on the shoulder, then nodded for him to follow. The two men walked casually, doing their best to look as if they knew the way. Neither man had no idea that a team of a dozen MI5 watchers were observing them from both static locations and passing vehicles. They were well past the two men posing as council workers outside their safe-house. Between the four Irishmen arriving and the first observation post being set up, a series or vehicles had been parked at various points under various guises. A post office van, a courier vehicle, two plain-looking cars and a motorcyclist checking his tyres. The watchers from MI5 were among the best in the world. When the two men came back, number plates would be swapped, positions changed – even the clothes and appearance of the surveillance officers would change drastically.

  Patrick looked up as he walked then pulled a disdainful face before looking back at Liam. “Ah, shit!” he cursed loudly, then pointed. “Bloody charity worker. Cross over the road. Quickly!”

  “You don’t have to give anything, you big lug! Just ignore the bitch,” Liam said with amusement. “Besides, what’s wrong with charity workers anyway?”

  “Bloody charity! Don’t get me started about bloody charity…” the big Irishman paused. “Get off your arses and work for it, that’s what I say about fucking charity!”

  “Ah, so you do,” Liam paused, his mouth cracking into a wry smirk. “Have you never tossed your loose change into a bucket for the cause then?”

  “That’s bloody different!” Patrick brushed past the old woman, ignoring the collection tin, then glared at his companion. “You’re trying to wind me up right enough!”

  “Calm down big man, just having myself a laugh.”

  ***

  “Hello Control, this is Papa Whiskey Three, sit-rep, over.”

  “Control, send, over.”

  “Papa Whiskey Three, targets are heading towards Green Two, over.”

  “Control. Roger that, Green Two, wait-out.”

  “Papa Whiskey Three, Wilco, out.” The old woman with the charity tin covered the tiny button transmitter with her head scarf, then crossed over the road and continued on her way, swinging the charity tin as she went. For today, and this operation, her task was complete.

  ***

  Patrick stopped walking outside a corner shop, just a few paces short of a pedestrian crossing. He tapped Liam on the shoulder and nodded towards the shop door. “This’ll do, we only need a bit of snack food and some coffee. Wait here while I stock up.” He opened the door, which activated a loud bell as he walked into the cramped shop.

  The shop was three times too small for the stock that it held, and was cluttered from floor to ceiling with a haphazard array of shelves and racks. Patrick nodded an acknowledgement to the Indian shopkeeper and picked up a wire convenience basket. The shopkeeper ignored the silent greeting and continued to cover the Irishman with a beady-eyed stare, blatantly studying him as he walked through the narrow aisles.

  Patrick paused at the upright refrigerator unit, conscious that he was the sole subject of much attentive scrutiny. He opened the glass door, selected half a dozen packets of processed sandwiches and dropped them into the wire basket. He looked back at the shopkeeper and glared. “You got a problem, pal?” The shopkeeper said nothing, but maintained his blank stare. Patrick threw a few more random items into the basket and walked towards the counter. He placed the basket on top, then walked back to the refrigerator and picked up a carton of milk. He looked back at the silent shopkeeper, who had been joined by a middle-aged Indian woman, and pointed to the shelf behind them. “Give us two packets of Marlborough and a box of matches,” he said as the shopkeeper totalled up the items and put them in a thin carrier bag. He waited for the man to reach his total then picked up a handful of Mars Bars, and smirked at him. “And those, if it’s not too much trouble?” He turned his back on the man, then reached up to the top shelf of the magazine rack and caught hold of a copy of Men Only.

  The shopkeeper watched as his customer turned the magazine to its centre pages and started to ogle at the contents. He raised his hand and coughed politely, then pointed to the magazine. “Will you be buying that as well?”

  Patrick kept his eyes on the tw
o naked women spread-eagled across the centre-fold. “No, I’ve seen the best bits now,” he paused, turning the pages slowly and admiring the sights. “Not a bad pair of jugs on that one. What do you think?” He turned the page towards the startled woman and grinned. “Not many of those to the pound, hey?”

  “Kindly put the magazine down if you do not intend to buy it!” The man raged. “How dare you show such filth to my wife?”

  The Irishman snapped. “It’s okay for you to sell it though!” He dropped the magazine on a pile of children’s comics and stepped back to the counter, where the shopkeeper was holding out his hand for the money. “How much then?” he asked. “I’m not bloody psychic!”

  The shopkeeper simply glanced down at the digital display on top of the till and remained silent, as he continued to hold out his hand for the money.

  The big Irishman pulled a large handful of change out of his trouser pocket and slapped it down onto the counter where most of it rolled onto the floor at the shopkeeper’s feet. “Here, pick the fucking pieces out of that!” He picked up his purchases, turned and marched towards the door, sounding a bell as he opened it, then slammed it violently behind him.

  Liam, who was leaning casually against the shop window as he smoked a cigarette, looked up in surprise as he felt the window shake. “All right, big man?”

  “No I’m bloody not!” He thrust the bag into his companion’s hand then fumbled with one of the packets of cigarettes. “Surly bastard watched me like I was going to rip him off,” he paused as he slipped a cigarette into his mouth. “Then he gets in a mood when I have a quick look at a fanny mag. Probably had his wife entered in the reader’s wives section, and didn’t want her to see!”

  “Did you rip him off?” Liam asked, all too knowingly.

  “Of course, teach the bastard a lesson!” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small packet of mints somewhat triumphantly. “Serves the bugger right.”

  Liam laughed out loud. “Was that the best you could do, you daft sod?”

  “It’s the principle,” Patrick paused, shaking his head dejectedly. “Never did trust them.”

  “Who?”

  “The bloody Indians,” he paused thoughtfully. “Not after what they did to General Custer at Little Bighorn…”

  17

  “That bloody boy is out there playing football again! I already told him about it this morning,” he paused and looked over at her. “He is not going to get anywhere in life, until he learns some much-needed discipline.”

  She tensed as she placed the clean dish onto the draining board. It was all she could do to force the smile. The same smile she forced every single day. She looked at him, hoping that just this once, the conversation would not go the way of all the others.

  “Please Keith, he is only ten years old.”

  He stared back at her, his eyes blazing. “What the hell do you think his father was doing at ten years of age? No discipline instilled there!” he paused and smiled wryly. “That’s why he ended up in prison, a low-level criminal, and I became a successful businessman. Discipline, plain and simple.”

  Lisa dried her hands on the hand towel and stared meekly at the floor. “Please Keith, I was just saying, David is only ten-years old. There’s plenty of time for discipline, he should be allowed to play football in his free time.”

  “Oh yes plenty of time,” he replied sardonically. “My father instilled discipline into me at an early age, and I turned out all right, didn’t I?”

  She should have agreed instantly. Just as a woman should always reply with an instant yes, when a man asks if he is big enough for her, or better in bed than her last lover. Or just as a man should instantly reply with an emphatic no, when asked by a woman if she looks fat in a new dress. She should have simply bit her lip and nodded at the very least, but something inside stopped her. It was the same something which had made her stop loving him, if she ever truly had, and was now making her life so unbearable. She turned back to the sink and plunged her hands into the soapy water, thankful for the distraction.

  “Didn’t I?” The man fumed, his tone so frighteningly familiar. “Damn you, woman, answer me!”

  She flinched at his sudden rage but continued to work in the sink, keeping her back to him to hide the tears. “Yes. You turned out just fine.” She couldn’t help her tone, although she regretted it more than he would ever know.

  He stood up quickly, tipping his chair to the floor. “Mocking me now, are you?” He walked towards her and reached out, gripping her ponytail. He pulled savagely, wrenching her head around until their eyes met. “Because if you are...” The threat hung in the air, teasing her resolve.

  “No! No I wasn’t! I promise I wasn’t mocking you! Please Keith, you’re hurting me!” She closed her eyes, then opened them tearfully. “Please Keith, just forget it.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his tone suddenly softer. He spun her around gently, then reached out and smoothed his hand down the side of her soft cheek. She shivered involuntarily, yet all too visibly. Nowadays his mere touch repulsed her to the very pit of her stomach, filling her throat with bile.

  He glared at her reaction, gripped her firmly by the shoulders and started to shake her violently. “Bitch! You fucking, ungrateful bitch!” He stopped shaking her and moved his hands towards her throat, where they rested, as if at the ready to wring her delicate neck. “I take you on, take on another man’s child, and you can’t so much as tolerate me touching you! What’s wrong? You used to like me touching you! I’ve apologised for what I did that night. You said that you weren’t in the mood, and I should have respected that, but I was drunk, I just couldn’t stop myself. I had to have you. You can’t keep punishing me for it, I said I was sorry!” He pulled her close and moved his hands gently up her neck, where he rested them delicately upon her flushed cheeks. “This has got to stop, Lisa. Why don’t we go upstairs and make a fresh start? Come on, you want me to make love to you, don’t you?”

  Make love to me, she thought, not with me. He would dominate her, make her feel vulnerable, worthless. No mutual tenderness, or togetherness. Simply force himself inside her and take pleasure in watching the pain rise on her face. She stared tearfully over his shoulder, her blank stare fixed on the wall. Simply staring into blankness, wishing that she were far away, anywhere but here.

  He pushed her away from him and looked at her with an almost kindly expression, which instantly turned to rage when he noticed the tears in her eyes. “Crying! Why in God’s name are you crying?” He shook his head in bewilderment then stared coldly into her frightened eyes. “If you want to cry, I’ll give you something worth crying about!” He lashed out suddenly, catching her in the right eye with loosely held fingertips. They whipped her eyeball and she reeled backwards and fell against the sink. She brought her hand tentatively to her eye, cupped the socket. She was screaming a mixture of pain and surprise at the vicious attack. She looked up at her attacker, choking back her tears as she readied herself for more to come. “Please, Keith…”

  Her plea had no effect, he was feeding on the adrenalin, he was enjoying himself. He walked purposefully towards her, looked down at her and laughed. “You are pathetic!” He raged. “You always make it come to this. I give you everything, what more do you want from me?”

  She pushed herself off the kitchen counter where she had slumped. “Love,” she replied indignantly. “All I ever wanted, was for you to show me love,” she paused. “Not material things, just love.” She regretted her words. He had a habit of twisting things.

  Keith had not always been like this. He was her first love. They had dated for a year before she had left him for Simon Grant. Keith had been her first love, but Simon and been her true love. At her lowest point, when bills could not be paid and life with her husband in prison had taken her to her lowest ebb, Keith had come back into her life. A drink, a meal… it had been innocent enough at first on her part, but loneliness and alcohol had done their parts and all too soon she
had crossed the line. Enraged that Simon had gone back to crime, left her alone with a child to raise, she had taken another path. Sex with Keith was something she had done before, before she had even met Simon, so hadn’t felt overly wrong on the moral scale. However, for Keith there was an underlying hatred of being second best, of being dumped for Simon Grant, and these feelings had manifested themselves in violence. He saw her years with Simon, her lawfully married years to which she had conceived, birthed and raised their child, as a long-term affair. That every moment with Simon had been insidious. That David was a bastard born from an affair. Keith could not break the thread. That it was his second chance with her, a fresh start. And that he had finally secured what he had always wanted.

  Keith laughed at her comment, regarded her with little more than a sneer. “Well, if it’s love you want...” He reached down and unfastened his leather belt. “Then, it’s love you’re going to get!” He stepped forwards, hastily pulling at his trousers.

  “No Keith, please!” She stared up at him, as he towered over her. All six-foot-four of him, his trousers now down around his knees.

  He caught hold of her by her neck and pushed her down onto the floor. He forced her legs apart and pulled frantically at her short skirt, ripping the seams. He hooked his fingers around her satin pants and yanked hard, snapping the elastic and ripping enough of the material away. Lisa struggled, but he was too strong, too big to fight against. He was close now, fumbling. She could feel his hardness on her thigh. She kept her eyes clenched tightly shut, as she felt his weight on her, and his clumsy fumble to get himself into position. Then came the pain of his savage thrust, and the humiliation of him riding her dry, using her body like a worthless whore. Still she kept her eyes closed; that was her only refuge. Dry and dispassionate, every thrust stabbed deeply into her, searing her most tender parts. His hands smoothed themselves gently over her cheek, and his breath crept into her ear, stale, vulgar.