Blood Will Be Born

by Donnelly, Gary

  ‘Shut those filthy wee fuckers up!’ barked Nelson. He heard Ivan screaming at them, telling them he would shoot them unless they kept quiet. He meant it.

  ‘Do you want me to call Campbell, boss?’ It was Benny who had spoken. Campbell? It took Nelson two or more seconds to register what the younger man was talking about, before it clicked. Campbell was parked a street away. Their plan had been simple, beautiful. Get to the address through the back gardens, find the Fenian Christopher, text Campbell saying dinner was ready and walk out the front with him. They had agreed to call only if there was trouble. The three of them, Benny, Ivan and himself, should have been able to take him, and take him alive.

  Now he had two dead rice crispies and the fucker they wanted was nowhere to be seen. If Benny called Campbell now it would mean defeat, proof that he had lost his edge, not just the target. Thirty seconds, maybe forty since three bangs had put down the string vested big bastard who had come at him from the stairs with an axe in his fist. Hard to tell, though. What was certain, was that time was ticking away, and he was out of answers. Fuck it.

  ‘Phone him,’ he said to Benny. He exhaled, feeling better already, that was the right decision. They were in the shit, it was time to get out, regroup, rethink and go after their man again. Benny nodded, relief etched on his face. The children had started up again, louder now, followed by a dull slap and scream, then Ivan’s voice, full of threats. Nelson tried to cancel it out. That front door had drawn his attention again. His ears were slightly clearer now. He turned his body and raised the gun up in the same motion. Movement, from behind the clouded glass; someone was on the front doorstep. Benny had the call to Campbell bleating on loud speaker, no matter. He crouched down on one knee, his gun still pointed up at the shifting shadows beyond the front door, his heart a Lambeg drum pounding in his chest.

  ‘Campbell,’ said Benny. Nelson did not take his eyes off the door, heard the panic and fear in the younger man’s voice as he explained there was a problem. A problem, why of course, this was Murphy’s law after all. Lady luck was squatting over them, a filthy fat shit hanging from her arse, ready to drop any second. Nelson blew a ball of sweat off the end of his nose and gave Benny the last order he would ever issue.

  ‘Tell Campbell run for it,’ he said. More movement, Benny looked down the hall. The kids were fucking wailing.

  ‘What’s happening?’ said Benny.

  A second later the door came in.

  Chapter 18.

  Christopher parked up on a corner a few streets away from the house that he and John Fryer had shared for the last two days. Now he could see what was rotten; a white PSNI Land Rover was parked halfway down the road to his right. This street ran parallel to the one Christopher had grown up on, and by his estimate, the Land Rover was positioned exactly where the back garden of his very own childhood home would meet that of its parallel neighbour.

  Rotten indeed, but things were perhaps not entirely spoiled. He snapped his head round; three subdued claps, like firecrackers exploding under a blanket. Christopher pulled down the driver’s window, froze, and listened. The PSNI Land Rover gunned to life, its headlights flashed on and it surged forwards, headed for him. Christopher nudged the idling taxi into first, rid the clutch, ready. He could see its occupants; the driver’s eyes were fixed only on the road. The passenger was speaking into a radio attached to his chest. Neither the driver nor his wing man looked at him. He took his foot off the clutch, and killed the engine.

  The Land Rover screeched around the corner, screamed past, took a hard right, disappeared into Christopher’s childhood street. The sound of the engine dimmed, he heard a screech of tyres. Christopher glanced down the now empty street to his right and quickly estimated the time and distance travelled. He nodded; the Land Rover had stopped outside his childhood home.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the multiple snaps of many guns fired at once, thirty seconds of frenzy, followed by total silence, not even a bird song in the sunshine. A metallic blue Range Rover pulled very slowly out of his childhood street where the action had happened. He had seen this vehicle before, a flash of recognition, but no more. The Range Rover picked up speed, burned past him, the taxi rocked on its springs. He caught a glimpse of the driver through tinted windows, and made him. He was one of Uncle Cecil’s boys; both he and the Range Rover were from Tiger’s Bay, it was where he had seen it before, parked outside the Bad Bet. All the pieces fell into place; Cecil’s men had come to visit him, and so had the PSNI, both at the same time. But he had not been home. He started to laugh, jagged and wild, and continued to do so, long after the moment of hilarity had passed.

  Chapter 19.

  Aoife blinked and squinted into the sunlight and watched as the uniformed men swarmed fluidly from the back of their Land Rovers across the street and into Christopher Moore’s front garden, taking position under the front bay window, and crouched in the sheltered alcove of the main entrance. Irwin was ensconced in their midst. He looked erratic, a grazing farm animal in a pack of wolves.

  Another member of the raiding team pushed past her, almost sent her flying like a standing pin in the bowling alley. The man was big, like a rugby prop forward, but one who played less and coached more. His shoulders and neck were one piece of meat, his triceps enormous red thighs suspended under the tight clasp of fabric from his black tee shirt. He was carrying a red steel battering ram in his right fist. As he tabbed up the narrow drive, Aoife could see that the words SKELETON KEY had been painted in white letters on the red cylindrical side of the metal ram.

  She watched the men on the steps silently part for ram man, who paused on the edge of the alcove, a clear run up to the door now in front of him. He turned to Irwin who nodded back but his expression held a question rather than an answer. He was unsure if it was time to go, and for the first time Aoife wondered whether Irwin had done anything as heavy as this before. But there was no time to ponder, not for her, not for Irwin. Three shots barked out from inside the house.

  Aoife flinched and raised her hands to her head in an instinctive gesture of protection. She saw the same spasm move through the body of men, as though jolted simultaneously by an electric shock. Ram man had crouched but stood his ground, ready. The sergeant glared at Irwin from his vantage point across the steps. The muffled sound of a woman screaming, from inside the house, than it stopped, a plug pulled. Irwin had his head cocked towards the door; he was panting, face full of high colour. The ram man was moving from foot to foot, ready to go, glancing from the front door to Irwin. A child’s cry from inside the house; piercing and frantic, it filled up the void, before stopping as abruptly as the woman’s scream.

  Irwin’s eyes widened, he mouthed, ‘Go, go!’

  Ram man exploded forwards, swinging the steel from his side as he moved. It whacked thunderously into the door, hitting squarely on the lower hinges. The second and third hits were equally powerful; the rattling booms of their impacts delivered with incredible speed, hitting the Yale lock, the upper hinges. She heard the crack of splintering wood. The door collapsed inwards, hanging on by the screw of one hinge, a loose tooth no longer part of the mouth. Multiple voices shouting, ‘Armed police,’ the men surged forward in one movement, taking Irwin with them. From first impact to men inside, three seconds.

  Sharp cracks in quick succession, too many to count, handfuls of firecrackers lit and tossed simultaneously, then silence. Aoife moved, racing on legs that felt too heavy, her feet in dream treacle, not on the road. She reached the bottom step, could smell the sharpness of spent rounds, heard cries of ‘Clear!’ from inside and then, ‘Officer down!’ Aoife paused on the steps, her Lundy legs betraying her, Sheen shoved past her, went inside, crouched down. Please, God, don’t be Irwin. She forced herself to step inside, could smell the sickly blanket of coppery blood in the air, and could feel the uneven texture of spent shells and broken glass under her feet.

  Children crying, from just beyond the hallway, piercing and filled with fear, but t
o Aoife they were peripheral. Her attention was locked on the heap of bodies, sprawled together at the foot of the stairs beyond Sheen. A man and a woman, he was on his back, big, his island chest filled her line of vision. There was a hatchet next to his outstretched arm, full black beard, probably in his forties. Not their E-Fit, not Christopher Moore. The woman was slumped against a door frame. Her face was slick with fresh blood; eyes half open, white, glazed, tongue peeking out her slack mouth.

  A uniform hunkered over the man, placed his fingers under his chin, and then an ear to his mouth, called out ‘Dead’, and then turned, to the woman. Aoife shifted her eyes away from this, looked down at Sheen who was crouched over the head of a body that lay side on to her, legs poking out of the front room. Brown shoes, leather soles scuffed and scratched. Had Irwin been wearing brown shoes?

  ‘Irwin!’ she shouted. Sheen had the man’s black tee shirt balled in his fist, face to face, but it was not Irwin, this was Nelson, Cecil Moore’s man. Sheen was shouting, shaking his limp body, his hands painted red where he had grabbed the tee shirt.

  ‘How’d Cecil know?!’ continued Sheen. Nelson’s head wobbled loosely with each shake of Sheen’s clenched fists, his fat gold hoops dancing their own jig. His face was yellow, eyes cold and blank. Another violent tug and shove from Sheen, a trickle of dark blood ran from the corner of Nelson’s mouth. He was dead.

  ‘Speak to me, you bastard, was it Jamie Anderson, you hurt that kid, didn’t you, you hurt him?’ he said, still shaking. Nelson’s mute head rocked in macabre agreement. Aoife rested a hand on Sheen’s shoulder; he shrugged her away, then turned, saw her and relaxed. She shook her head.

  ‘He’s dead Sheen,’ she said. Sheen shoved Nelson’s chest to the floor, letting go of his shirt. Aoife stepped back, away from the horror of Nelson’s dummy like body, but mostly away from Sheen. From beyond the room, the same cry as before ‘Officer down!’

  They ran into the dining area, greeted by a chorus of wailing from three children in pyjamas held back by one man in uniform. Two men were face down in the small kitchen, arms outstretched and secured, guns trained on them. They were alive. She turned and saw another body spread eagled on the floor, overturned wooden chairs on either side. The sergeant was on his knees, both hands pumping the man’s chest, Aoife saw the thick black fleece jacket, she moved in another step, a younger officer was pressing blood soaked gauze to a wound under his chin, trying to stem the flow of blood that was pumping through his fingers.

  ‘Irwin!’ she screamed. Sheen pushed by her, went to his knees and joined the sergeant on the floor, who fell back, panting. Sheen took over the CPR, maintained the gruelling tempo, did not stop to give Irwin the kiss of life. The sirens grew louder, and the house quieter, the children carried away, and still Sheen pressed and pumped, until the blood from Irwin’s neck wound just oozed like sap. The officer pressing the fabric to Irwin’s neck could see the truth, even if Sheen was blind.

  He let go of the gauze, slumped to a sitting position on the dining room floor, stared at his blood red hand which he held in front of his face. She heard the screech of tyres from outside, the march of approaching feet, coming to help. Too late.

  ‘Sheen,’ she said, but he did not stop, maybe he did not even hear. He continued to work, and Irwin continued to dance with him as he pumped and pressed the dead man’s chest.

  ‘Sheen!’ she shouted, and this time he did stop. ‘That’s enough. Leave him. He’s dead, Sheen, Irwin’s dead,’ she said, voice clotted with tears. And it was her fault. Maybe Jamie Anderson had given them something, but Cecil had the SecuriTel recording, had it before them. He must have recognised the voice of his nephew; it was why Nelson got to Christopher’s house ahead of them. Aoife had known about it but said nothing, and now, Irwin was dead.

  Chapter 20.

  Christopher re-ran the facts in his head, still listening and watching from where he was parked at the corner of the street. He could see it all, as though in one of those real life police camera shows following the action from above. Shots had been fired, police radioed for help, and then one of Uncle Cecil’s men had managed to slink away, unseen. But what of wily old Cecil, had he been in the back of that Range Rover? No, the sly old fox would not leave his den and face the risk of being shot, or stopped in a car with armed men.

  So his plan for Cecil tomorrow on the 12th of July was not entirely scuppered, it just needed a bit of bailing out. Trying to get Cecil at the Cenotaph at Belfast City Hall, a place he could always be relied upon to make an appearance, was now out. Cecil would be on the lookout, too risky to try to get in close, leave a bag and walk away. So what he needed was a little inside info. What was Uncle Cecil’s plan for the day? If he knew where he would be at a certain point, Christopher could plant a bag bomb, and get away undetected before Cecil had a chance to spot him. He asked Daddy for some help, waited for over a minute in silence, but heard nothing.

  Christopher started the engine, pulled the taxi out slowly, and coasted across the entrance of his childhood street, one quick glance. Police vehicles, parked on the road and pavement half way down. Cops in black riot gear everywhere, bristling with weapons; but the majority was definitely at his house. Then the taxi passed the corner and they were gone. Christopher cruised, thinking. He and John had not been compromised, but they could no longer stay in the house he had rented for them. It was just a few streets away from this action. Police rapped on doors, and probably sooner rather than later, they would rap on the right one.

  He stopped outside the rented house he and John Fryer shared, got out and noticed there was a helicopter circling, low and close. He gave John Fryer a wee wave. He could not be sure, but by this time he would be awake and if he heard the gunfire John would be watching. Good, he needed him ready. Time for a shave and a haircut, they would take what they needed to make tomorrow a success and hide out. John’s lock up on the outskirts of west Belfast would be perfect tonight. When Christopher had gone there and broken off the lock on the door to collect John’s taxi, it was obvious the place had been untouched for many years. All they needed was one more night. Later bonfires would burn across the city and if last night was anything to go on, the streets would be on fire too. But more was needed.

  Tomorrow they would bring the refiner’s fire; to Dempsey’s men, to Uncle Cecil, to the whole maggot eaten city. It would be enough to melt away the impurities of this place. And as Belfast collapsed, he would take to the hills, find the loot and move on. Maybe someplace hot, like Brazil. Somewhere he could make a new plan. This mission would be over, but he’d acquired a taste for the work, no, the art.

  ‘Suffer the little children who must come unto me,’ whispered Christopher, turning a cold smile to the warmth of the afternoon sun.

  Chapter 21.

  Sheen and Aoife had finally returned to Ladas Drive after the bloodbath in Bangor as daylight faded on the 11th of July. Paddy Laverty had now assumed temporary command of the investigation and was sitting in Irwin’s padded leather chair in his office. Despite the upholstery Sheen thought he looked decidedly uncomfortable. Sheen knew his type, the heavily moustached detective was a door rapper, and a hound dog; not a manager. The pen went to his mouth, down again.

  He tapped it on the desk and looked from Sheen to Aoife, his eyes were hard. Sheen had just finished telling him their theory, the short version. The carnage was not over yet; Christopher Moore and John Fryer were on a mission to bring chaos to the country, and their crimes had so far played on past events.

  ‘You’re telling me that Irwin bought all of this?’ asked Paddy. Sheen hesitated. He had to be careful.

  ‘Not at first,’ he replied.

  ‘But he believed in it enough to sanction a raid on Christopher Moore’s home address,’ said Aoife.

  ‘And what a great idea that was,’ said Paddy. Aoife did not respond. Sheen kept going.

  ‘If we had have found them together, in possession of weapons, explosives, it would have been enough, it still can b
e,’ said Sheen.

  ‘And Cecil Moore’s men obviously agreed. They went looking, too. It’s not over Paddy,’ she said.

  ‘Let me acquaint you with some new facts. About an hour ago, uniform were knocking the doors near the raid house where Irwin was killed, got no reply. They got in, place was empty but it’s where they were; we found their bomb making equipment, explosives and timers and the like, evidence that they had cut their hair from shavings on the bathroom floor. Fact one, our boys have flown the coop, and we were too late,’ he said heavily.

  ‘Yes, meaning we’re a step behind them, close enough to spook them into running. It makes them even more dangerous. They might bring their plans forward,’ said Sheen. Paddy waited, and then continued to speak, without acknowledging Sheen’s point at all.

  ‘Fact two. A man was attacked in his grocery shop off the Falls Road earlier today. Had his face cut clean in two, money was taken. I happen to believe there was a lot of money taken, though he said a few grand. He’s a player, money manager for the Ra, or used to be anyway. Seeing the connection?’ said Paddy. Sheen glanced at Aoife. This was news, and so far he could not see what Paddy was trying to paint for them. Aoife returned his look with a tight shake of her heard; no idea. Paddy kept talking.

  ‘He told us that the man who attacked him and stole the money was none other than John Fryer. Said that Fryer had more or less confessed to Dempsey’s killing, was off his mind, said he was owed money, his IRA pension. Dempsey told him so, but men who are about to die make up their own truths,’ said Paddy. Sheen could see where Paddy was taking this, logical, but completely wrong.

  ‘You think this is about money?’ asked Sheen. Paddy blinked, taking Sheen in with his tired looking watery eyes.