He exhaled slowly, tasting the booze from his sinuses. It had turned into a good night of it after he torched the bonfire on the Shankill. Drinks a plenty round the fire; back to a house party; rum and coke well into the wee hours; then just straight rum shots; finally, just coke. He chuckled dryly at that joke, and then abruptly stopped, a moan escaped him. Jesus fucking Christ his head was pounding. His heart was bunny kicking intermittingly, and his stomach felt the size of a snooker ball, and as hard. No point attempting breakfast, not yet, it would never stay down, and he was just about to put on his Boss suit.
He hesitated, popped free two paracetamol from another foil sheet in his open drawer. Swallowed them dry. His gut protested, but it stayed firm, soon enough this would take the edge off things. By the time he got up to the protest camp at Twaddle he would have had a feed and be ready for a drink. And there would be one waiting for him up there, oh yes, they had already texted him their thanks for what he had said in front of the cameras last night.
Cecil reached once more into his drawer and took out eye drops, put his head back and let the cold droplets fall into first one open eye and then the other. He blinked away the crocodile tears before standing up to face his reflection in the dresser mirror. Not great, but soon he’d look well. He reached for the hanger next to where his Boss was waiting and carefully inspected the Orange sash hanging there. The bright orange was bordered with purple silk, gold tassels draped along the edge of its outer V. On one lapel was the number of his Loyal Orange Lodge (LOL) in Tiger’s Bay and on the other a purple patch with ‘Sons of the Reformation’ embroidered in orange letters. Literally, this was the sash his father wore and his before him. Cecil had believed he would never have the privilege of passing it on in the same way, but the way things were moving these days, sure you never knew. Some traditions would always be sacred, the rest, like so much in this world, were open to negotiation. Or, more precisely subject to manipulation, in Cecil’s experience.
He swished open his bedroom curtains and dull light filled the room, the drum in his head produced a massive wallop at this intrusion. He gritted his teeth, took the pain. He could hear the sounds of gradual awakening from the other rooms; his boys from Glasgow. A flushing toilet, chests being cleared loudly, mumbled mornings. Cecil was always the first man to rise, and you could put your money on it that he would be the last man standing. No tout had ever lived long enough to put Cecil Moore away, no Fenian had ever bested him, no peeler or spook had ever owned him.
Movement on the street below, Cecil squinted, trying to see. The black cat he had seen slip under the parked car yesterday was tapping at a carton of double cream the milk man had left. It rocked on its base, and then steadied. Cecil smiled. He thought about the Turk’s man, Jackie Coyle, found hanged in his cell, and he turned his mind to what was in store for the very headstrong DC Aoife McCusker. The cat clawed the top of the cream, sending the plastic lid flying and the carton rolled on its side across the pavement, its contents spewing, thick and white as paint. Cecil started to laugh, watching him get the cream. Despite his Mother, the news about Nelson, and that Fenian nephew of his, who was still out there; sometimes, you just had to have a laugh.
Chapter 3.
Sheen rose early on Monday 12th of July and spent half an hour in his hotel room, watching the news. It was all bad; fierce rioting across Northern Ireland throughout the night, some of it still carrying on. A Catholic pensioner attacked in her home in Londonderry, her throat cut; a copycat of Esther Moore in Belfast, but this time they robbed the woman. Police stretched to capacity, talk of bringing in the Army as a support, outcry from politicians, but as usual, no answers.
By the time he went down to the hotel lobby the breakfast buffet was set up in the darkened bar, its beer pumps turned inward. Sheen ordered a full cooked breakfast but the now predictable fayre of the Ulster Fry turned his stomach, and he settled for a black coffee. Outside a slow stream of men and women, some wearing Orange sashes passed by. Families too; Sheen shuddered at the sight of the children. Paddy’s reluctance to listen to reason was putting innocent people at risk. Even with a co-ordinated police effort, finding Christopher and Fryer would be difficult. As it stood, it was down to him and Aoife, two on two.
His phone buzzed, Aoife, a message:
Outside, you ready?
Sheen exited the breakfast room and pulled open the thick glass door. The chilly air instantly wrapped him in an unwelcome embrace. The sky that was a uniform, gunship grey, a cold rain half-heartedly spitting. Headlights flashed him, to his right. Sheen walked over and climbed into the passenger seat and slammed the door against the buffering wind.
‘Morning,’ she said. Her hair was pinned back off her face, revealing the arc of her nose, her high, proud cheekbones. She was dressed in a black waterproof jacket, dark blue jeans.
‘You still ok with what we discussed last night?’ he asked.
‘Our jobs, which will be the least of our concerns if the shooting starts. But yeah, I’m ready,’ she said and started to drive, heading west where she would drop Sheen off as close to Dempsey’s funeral as she could. Aoife would return to the city centre and find Cecil Moore.
The Orange Order from the nine districts of Belfast was scheduled to assemble at 10am at the Grand Orange Hall, near Carlisle Circus, to the north west of the city. The Order would march to Belfast City Hall, pay their respects at the Cenotaph and carry on to an open space in the south of the city for a day of festivities. Aoife would join the main parade at City Hall and look for Cecil Moore and his men. Find Cecil, and she would find Christopher. There would be thousands of people on the streets, and she would need to be lucky, but it was a starting point.
If the main parade drew a blank, they at least knew that Cecil had promised on television to join the Orange protesters in north Belfast near Twaddle Avenue, banned from walking their traditional route. That was where she would go next. Her timing needed to be good, and she needed to be careful. There was no easy way to hide in plain view like in the city centre, she’d have to hold back until she had eyes on Christopher Moore. Her window to act would be small, and it would be dangerous; pulling a gun on Christopher with Cecil Moore close by could mean a fire fight on two fronts. One shot, clean and true, as soon as she saw Christopher and deemed him to be a threat to life.
‘You remember what we agreed, Sheen? If you spot Fryer you make the call, wait for backup. You are probably the only unarmed copper in Belfast, and you will definitely be one of the few people at that funeral who are not packing. Most of the stewards will have legally held firearms, and believe me, they have experience using them. And Fryer won’t turn up to a gunfight with a knife,’ she said.
‘I’ll make the call,’ said Sheen. He resisted the urge to wind down the window or look away, sure she would see the rage in his eyes, the same way the nurse had read him so easily in Jamie Anderson’s hospital room.
‘And?’ she asked.
‘Then I’ll duck and cover until the action is over,’ he said.
‘Good man, the Historical Offences Team will need you fit and well next week,’ she said. She had pulled up on the Glen Road in west Belfast. Sheen judged it to be less than half a mile from the Holy Spirit Church where Dempsey’s funeral Mass would take place, based on the online map he had studied the night before. The pavements were clogged with people, all headed up the hill, same as him. ‘Best that I drop you here, I don’t want to get stuck in traffic going back into town,’ she said.
‘Listen Aoife, the same goes for you, be careful I mean. If you see him, and you think there is danger, don’t hesitate. Take the shot,’ he said, opening his door.
‘I can’t just shoot Cecil Moore,’ she said, then stopped abruptly, started to chew her bottom lip. Sheen shook his head, unsure how they had arrived at this place. Aoife’s neck and face, he noticed, had flushed a deep scarlet.
‘You mean Christopher Moore?’ he said. She nodded with a smile fixed on her face. She reached inside her jacke
t pocket and took out her phone, then quickly replaced it without checking it. It was an involuntary movement, the same thing that she had been doing on and off most of the previous day, with one exception. The phone she was constantly checking yesterday was the Nokia. It was the sort of model that he had seen used in London as a throw away or burner; impossible to trace and good for secrecy. And the last name on her lips had been Cecil Moore.
‘Aoife, has Cecil got something,’ but before he could ask her what he had on her, she interrupted him, smile gone.
‘You just make sure you make the call and keep your head down,’ she countered. ‘If you play it right, Fryer can be taken alive, questioned properly. He will answer for everything he has done. That’s what you want, right?’ she said.
Sheen held her gaze, and then broke it. He felt his stomach heat like a griddle. So she knew, it should not have been a surprise really. But did she know that he had willed for his dad to die in the end, so his bond would be broken and he could come here, all for the bloody lust for revenge?
‘I want to catch these maniacs, bring them to justice, before they have a chance to murder again,’ said Sheen quietly. He was staring at his hands, balled into fists on his lap. She opened the glove compartment and withdrew something fixed on a thin silver chain.
‘Take this Sheen. I am not much of a believer these days, but any port of call today. Plus, I can’t give you a gun,’ she said. It was a matchbox sized rectangle of worn leather, a cross printed on one side, and an incantation on the other: “Be gone infernal powers of darkness…” She dropped it into his now open palm.
‘It’s the Brief of St. Anthony, patron of lost things,’ she said.
‘You calling me a lost cause?’ said Sheen.
‘Aye, now off you go,’ she replied, her mouth close enough to kiss. She touched his other hand and his fist relaxed. Sheen shifted the small talisman from his left to his right so he could open the door, taking care not to drop the icon as he stepped out into the wind.
Chapter 4.
Christopher awoke with a start from a dream in which he was drowning in the cold sea off Bangor pier. Bad Daddy, or John Fryer, or perhaps both had been there, they laughed and did not help him. Daddy had a noose round his neck, called his name:
CHRISSSSSSSSSTOPHER
‘Christopher. Hey boy! You hear me?’ It was John Fryer’s voice. Christopher looked around; he was in the back of the black taxi, limbs stiff with cold. John had an unlit roll up between his lips. It fluttered like the tail of a mouse in a snake’s mouth. Weak light had seeped in, from beyond the lock up’s still closed door. The day, their day, had arrived. A momentary pang of regret followed on the heels of his excitement. This was soon to be all over. And after their bombs exploded today, who would know the truth, especially about the Culturlann? Only Daddy and he knew that secret, and Daddy had gone very quiet indeed. People may manage to work out the rest, but that last, glorious event might never be truly appreciated. Some might even wrongly assume that it was all John Fryer’s doing. Christopher eased himself out of the seat, pins and needles buzzed in his right foot.
‘About time, it’s well past nine,’ said Fryer. He jerked his head and walked to the front of the taxi, Christopher followed.
‘The backpacks are primed kid, set to blow for two pm, but those timers, they were never the best and now they are a lot older,’ said Fryer. Christopher nodded, but his mind was elsewhere, his mind was on the keys for the padlocks he had bought. He had planned to get up a bit earlier; get to them, pocket one.
‘Need to relieve myself John,’ he said, and walked to the bucket in the corner.
He scanned the open boot of the taxi, spotted the two fat padlocks. They both had a set of three silver keys, two of which were on a thin wire hoop and the third inserted into the lock itself. Christopher plucked the keys from one of the padlocks and as he made his morning water, he slid one of the keys round the circumference of its wire hoop, popped it free. This would be the way out. He pushed it deep into the small pocket at the front of his jeans. He finished at the bucket and returned the remaining keys on the hoop to its padlock. John Fryer looked round the back of the taxi just as he did so, took the now smouldering butt from his lips and made a thick rattling cough, and spat on the concrete floor.
‘Come on you,’ he said. A pause, as John’s eyes searched his face.
‘Just getting these,’ he said, holding up the padlocks. His voice was calm, but his heart was not.
‘Aye hurry up,’ growled Fryer. Christopher scooped up the locks and made his way round to the front of the taxi. John slipped on one of the back packs. They were heavy with nails and bolts. John had the bag on his chest, so the straps were slung over his back and shoulders. The best way for them to carry the bombs; John Fryer was going to drive, and Christopher would be seated in the wheelchair after John dropped him off. The information on Uncle Cecil’s plan for the 12th had come straight from the man himself, courtesy of a news bulletin the night before. Cecil’s plan for a show of solidarity at the protest camp at Twaddle was the answer; they knew where he would be and when he was due to arrive. The wheelchair and the Union flag would be a perfect cover as he waited. With the padlock key in his pocket, he would be able to free himself and leave the bomb. Now it was time to make sure that John Fryer could not.
Christopher pocketed the padlock that would be opened by the spare key, kept hold of the second and went behind John and pulled the straps together over the hillock of John’s shoulders. He fed it through a thick plastic hoop secured with nylon stitching, and then did the same for the second. He snapped the U latch closed, pulled the keys from the lock. The straps were fully extended, and stretched tightly into the holding point of the lock the centre of Fryer’s back. No wriggle room, no way he would be able to squeeze his head out, should he want to.
Christopher removed the second padlock from his pocket, and put both sets of keys on the roof of the taxi. One set had three silver keys, one set had just two. He placed the padlock beside them and gingerly lifted his pack, slowly manoeuvred it over his chest, bag facing front. He nodded to John Fryer and turned. This was it, the moment when he would discover if his plan would work. Christopher took a giant breath of air and held it; the better to create a little more slack between the secured bag and his body. It should be enough to allow him to reach round and get to the padlock when the time came. He felt the straps pull and tighten over the front of his shoulders and John Fryer’s breath on the back of his neck. He heard him lift the padlock off the roof of the taxi, then felt him feed it through. There was one last pull on the straps and the click of the hasp being locked. Christopher let his lungs deflate very slowly. From the corner of his eye he could still see the keys bunched on the roof of the taxi. Fryer was silent, Christopher waited; Fryer’s hand would slowly pick up the keys and he would ask him, quietly, full of knowing slyness, where’s the third key?
`That’s you kid,’ he said, and Christopher felt a sharp tug as he pulled the lock. Christopher winced as the primed bomb rocked on his chest. He turned round and took both sets of keys off the roof of the taxi in one quick movement. John Fryer did not suspect a thing. He walked back to the slops bucket turned and made sure John was looking and chucked the keys into it with a splash.
‘Won’t need these, John,’ he said. He felt the padlock against his back, lower than where he had placed Fryer’s. It would be easy to use the spare key.
John Fryer pulled on his track suit top. It covered the padlock at his back, but of course he could not zip it up. The bag looked a bit out of place hanging on his chest, but not really suspicious. There were enough tourists on the streets of Belfast these days looking a heck of a lot worse. Christopher could see it now, John Fryer getting himself up close to where Dempsey’s coffin approached the grave, maybe as it was being lowered into the red clay of Milltown cemetery. Then John Fryer would start shooting. Oh yes, they would chase him, but if he got his timing right, they would chase him to Hell, let a hundre
d people set upon him; when that pack exploded they would all be blown away. Welcome to ground zero Belfast, part one.
Fryer walked over and pulled open the steel door. Christopher shielded his eyes, as pale white light filled the garage. John Fryer got into the taxi, started the engine. Blue oily smoke churned from its rattling exhaust.
‘I’ll drop you on the Crumlin Road, kid, there’s an industrial estate about two hundred metres down from the corner at Twaddle Avenue. With a bit of luck someone will take pity on you and wheel you right inside. I’d take your time, arrive too early, questions will be asked. Arrive too late,’ Fryer shrugged, and for the first time since Christopher had met him John Fryer laughed, a dry chuckle, but not without some warmth. Christopher smiled, laughed with him, not one of his fits. Reminded Christopher of the first real joke he had shared with his Daddy. The one about the man with a dog, someone asks him if they are Jack Russell’s? No, says the man, the dogs are mine. How his Daddy had laughed, a real laugh, not faking it. It had felt exactly like this. Christopher looked at Fryer, so soon to expire. Surely, there could be no harm in telling him about the Culturlann, not at this stage with a bomb on his chest? He was prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice, no qualms. Plus, if Christopher didn’t talk to Fryer, there would be no one else he could ever tell. He mentally called for his Daddy, asked him if he should. There was no response. Christopher stood his ground, waited until John Fryer leaned on the horn. He walked over and got in the passenger seat.
Blood Will Be Born Page 28
