by Scott Hunter
He tapped his nail on the rim of the empty glass. A song fragment came to him: Those who are dead are not dead; they’re living in my head …
Moran shuddered.
That’s about right, for sure.
He switched on the table lamp, returned to the kitchen and found a new bottle in the fridge, retrieved a fresh glass, clean as a whistle from the dishwasher. That was important. The glass had to be sparkling clean. He poured, angling the glass with easy expertise. The stout rose to a perfect head and Moran held it up to the light, enjoying the colours as the bubbles rose to the surface.
Five fifty-seven.
Three minutes before six.
Moran waited, tense, in the driver’s seat as Joe was frisked and checked over. The soldier wasn’t aggressive, but he was thorough. If Joe kept his mouth shut they’d be fine. Joe was a good lad, but way too gobby. One day, Moran had often said in company, his blarney’ll get him into hot water. You wait and see.
But this time, to Moran’s surprise and relief, the car door opened, Joe sat down heavily in the passenger seat, turned to Moran, and winked. ‘No bother, Brendan. I was as good as gold. Sure, the two of us are best buddies now.’ He waved at the soldier through the windscreen.
The soldier glowered, gestured them through.
Moran ground the car into second and passed through the concrete alley to the far side of the checkpoint. The car which had preceded them was just ahead, engine idling. A few hundred metres ahead lay the T-junction which fed onto the main artery, the N52, leading south.
‘Almost six already,’ Joe said. ‘And not a child in the house washed. What’s more, I’m to be home for tea by eight. Ma’ll have my favourites all lined up.’
Moran opened his mouth to respond, but then it happened.
A confusion, Moran thought later. A confusion of events which seemed incongruous, somehow, with the gentle pace and harmony of their journey. The car ahead was close to the junction when, from the cover of a minor road to their left – a country track, really, half obscured by hawthorn and a line of untrimmed hedgerow – a dark green van emerged and cannoned into its passenger side. The noise reached them as a dull reverberation, a muted thump of crumpling metal. The soldiers, to a man, dropped into crouching positions, Armalites snapping to shoulders in a co-ordinated reflex of practised drill.
Moran froze. This was no drill. Everything began to run in slow motion. From the rear of the van five men, hooded and armed, spilled onto the road. A chattering staccato began as they opened covering fire on the checkpoint. The soldiers were pinned to whatever cover the small military installation and its surrounds could afford: bollards, Moran’s car, the concrete and glass sentry-box, anything solid. Moran felt bullets strike the Cortina’s bodywork but he himself was paralysed, dumbfounded by the speed of the attack. He felt Joe’s hand on his jacket. The passenger door was open, his friend half-in, half-out. Another cluster of bullets whined against the concrete beside them.
‘Brendan, will you get out of the bloody car?’
Joe’s hissed command broke the spell. Moran fumbled for the door lever, hesitated. He risked a quick look through the windscreen. Masked shapes moved around the stranded vehicle in front of them. There were human beings inside, being shot in cold blood. More gunfire, engines revving. Shouts nearby – orders given and received. Soldiers moved forward, crouching low.
Somehow he found himself squatting behind the Cortina, Joe beside him. ‘I’ll not see them murdered, Joe,’ he yelled. His hand was bleeding where he’d caught it on the rough edge of a bollard.
‘Stay put, Brendan, for God’s sake. Leave it to them,’ Joe spat, pointing at the soldiers. ‘They can handle it, all right.’ Joe craned his neck around the Cortina’s wing.
‘They’re not though, are they?’
More gunfire. Crack crack crack… Joe was still peering at the action ahead of them.
‘Keep your damn silly head down.’ Moran hauled on Joe’s shirt tails.
Crack crack…
A soldier was hit in the withering crossfire. Moran saw him tumble.
That was the catalyst, his cue to action.
With no specific plan in mind he broke cover, ignoring Joe’s shouts of protest. He reached the soldier, crouched beside him, turned his head gently. A clutch of bullets fizzed past his head; he felt the wind of their passage, hunched his head, as if he could retract it beneath his shoulders like a tortoise.
The soldier had been hit in the neck. Blood was pumping from a gaping neck wound. Moran jammed his fingers in to staunch the bleeding. The face under the helmet was softer than he’d expected, but there was a reason for that. The casualty wasn’t a him.
It was a her.
CHAPTER FIVE
A walk. That’s what was needed. No good hanging around here, with half-formed memories tormenting him.
Moran clattered his empty glass decisively into the enamel sink. ‘Come on, Archie.’ He retrieved the spaniel’s harness and lead from the wall hook by the kitchen door. Archie presented himself instantly, tail wagging with excitement at the prospect of outdoor activity.
‘If only my life was as simple as yours, eh?’ Moran smiled as he led the dog out into the gloomy streets. It was raining lightly and there was a fine mist hanging in the air, as usual so close to the river during these dreary winter months. Moran struck out for the water meadow, hoping that the weather would deter other walkers, thus guaranteeing his solitude and peace.
Solitude, perhaps, but peace?
The checkpoint. Something he’d shut away in the dark closet of his soul, never to be unlocked. But here it was, rattling its chains in triumph, like an escaped prisoner taunting the warden from a safe distance.
Moran pushed through the stile and let Archie off his lead. His mind shrank from picking up the thread he’d begun to unravel in his kitchen. Instead, he allowed his memory to retreat further into the past, a month or two before that fateful drive. He lengthened his stride and shivered as the wind picked up, probing the gaps between the buttons of his overcoat. Archie was a distant speck, running hither and thither along the river bank, startling moorhens and sniffing the water by the canoe ramp. Moran clenched his teeth and continued along the meadow, defying the wind to do its worst.
‘And how is Garda Moran this fine evening?’
Moran took off his jacket before sitting down. It gave him a chance to feast his eyes on the beauty before him, to wonder again at his good fortune. Janice wasn’t a conventional beauty in purely traditional terms, but she was a stunner nonetheless, with her striking red hair, lithe figure, slim, well-balanced face and bright, grey-green eyes. Not for the first time he found himself not quite believing that she was his, and he hers. Engaged. To each other. His forever girl.
‘All the better for beholding the beauty before me.’ He grinned and sat down.
‘A masterpiece of alliterative eloquence.’ She laughed softly. ‘Flattery won’t get you anywhere, y’know, but it might stretch to a drink.’
‘Well, in that case, and as I’ve just finished my shift–’
‘Guinness, pint of?’
‘How well you know me.’
Janice found her purse and went off to the bar. He watched her with pleasure, enjoying the languid, easy movement of her hips, the way she carried herself. He sat back in the chair, glowing with contentment. The day had gone well, if a little mundanely. He’d followed up a break-in by interviewing the owner, an elderly lady known to the Hannigans, Moran’s adopted family. Mrs Maguire was more interested in the company he provided than discussing the burglary – an amateurish effort confined to the breaking of a conservatory window pane, local youths and boredom the likely culprits and cause. He’d extricated himself eventually, awash with tea and tales of days gone by, and, back at the station, had completed the shift rotas and finished his outstanding paperwork. Then it was a quick change at home, before heading down to Keelan’s Bar to meet Janice as arranged.
The bar was busy, but then it was Fr
iday evening. Pay packets had been distributed and the local workers knew what to do with the cash. Moran caught occasional glimpses of familiar faces in and around the bar area, heard Janice’s peal of laughter as someone made a crack. It was a small community and most folk knew most other folk.
As he waited and watched, he found himself mulling over the ghost of the idea he’d had the previous week. Sure, it was comfortable and familiar where he was, but what about his career? Moran was ambitious. He wanted to do well. It was something that’d always been in him, the desire to be the best he could. And, truth be told, he wasn’t convinced he could achieve that within the cosseted confines of the familiar.
His eyes had strayed to the situations vacant columns of the United Kingdom’s press, after which the idea had taken root, become something more tangible. Tonight was the night he wanted to float the idea-which-was-now-something-more-tangible past Janice, to see if she agreed. He was confident. Janice was wise, supportive, intelligent. If he was wrong, she’d tell him, and explain why. And he’d probably end up agreeing. So he was relaxed, content here in his chair, watching, waiting, anticipating not only his pint, but the delight of sharing more time with the love of his life.
So it was all the more shocking when he looked up to find that the chair opposite was occupied once more, but not by Janice.
‘Hello, Brendan.’
The man was in his forties, clean-shaven, with unruly black hair shot with grey which fell to just above his shoulders. He was wearing a dark red Che Guevara sweatshirt and jeans.
‘Sorry to interrupt your wee love nest.’ He drew on his cigarette and blew smoke. ‘But this won’t take long.’
‘I don’t think we’ve met.’ Despite the calmness of his voice, Moran felt a flutter of fear run up and down his spine. He knew what this guy was about. No need to ask. He had an air about him which Moran had seen and felt before, albeit from a distance. It was the air of danger, of death.
‘No, we haven’t. That’s true.’ The man drew on his cigarette again and inhaled deeply, exhaling a stream of blue smoke through his nostrils. ‘But I wanted to ask you something.’
‘Oh yes?’ Moran glanced over to the bar but Janice was still awaiting her turn.
‘We’d like a wee bit of help, Brendan, you see. And we think you’re best placed for what we have in mind.’
‘I’m not interested.’
‘No?’
‘No.’
The man shook his head slowly. ‘Well now, that’s a shame, it really is.’
‘I’ve nothing more to say to you. I–’
‘–A real shame.’ The man interrupted. ‘What with you getting yourself engaged to a fine young lady, and all.’ He turned his head to look at the crowded bar. ‘And a crackin’ looking lass she is, too. You’ve got taste, Brendan, I’ll give you that.’
The fear which Moran had held in check now turned to anger. His fists bunched at his sides. ‘If you so much as touch her, so help me God, I’ll–’
‘–You’ll do nothing of the sort, Brendan. It won’t come to that. Because you’re going to be a good wee garda and do as you’re told, aren’t you?’
The man carried on talking while Moran listened in a silent storm of internal panic.
‘Got that?’
Moran nodded.
The man leaned in close. ‘I said, have youse got that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Be seein’ you, then, Brendan.’
Moran remained in his seat in a kind of shocked paralysis. Minutes passed. When he looked up again, Janice was standing over him. She was holding a wooden tray, bearing a pint of Guinness and a Cherry B for herself, and a packet of salted nuts, because she knew he liked them.
‘Oh my, that took a while. Sorry.’ She placed the tray on the table, saw his expression. ‘What’s up? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
A ghost. Well now, that would have been easier to deal with, right enough. Moran came to a halt about half a mile along the meadow. The wind was ruffling the trees more gently now, and the earlier rain had vanished. The moon showed itself for a brief few seconds before the clouds clothed it again in a gauze-like grey. Archie padded up, panting.
‘You’re soaking wet, boy. Can’t resist the water, eh?’ He reached down and ruffled the wet fur. The spaniel shook himself vigorously and Moran backed off as water droplets flew in all directions. ‘Hey! I’m wet enough, thanking you very much.’
The lights of the houses on the opposite bank winked at him through the darkness, like a row of attentive eyes bidding him to continue his story.
No, it hadn’t been a ghost. But he’d simply turned to Janice and made an excuse, something feeble along the lines of, ‘I just came over a wee bit tired, that’s all. Busy day.’
And she’d smiled, believing him.
How many times since had he asked himself the question: ‘Why didn’t I just tell her?’
CHAPTER SIX
Moran let himself into the house, shrugged off his coat, and unclipped Archie’s harness. The dog headed straight for his food bowl and looked up expectantly.
‘Yes, yes, hang on a minute.’
He went to the cupboard, selected a tin, rummaged for a tin opener. Somehow, in the twisting of the lid his hand slipped, his finger riding briefly along the edge. Blood squirted and he yelled, dropped the tin, automatically brought his finger to his mouth. The metallic taste coated his tongue.
He withdrew it, inspected the damage. Quite a deep one, dammit. Blood oozed, dripped from the end of his finger onto the floor. Archie stepped forward and sniffed suspiciously, began to lick the small red droplets.
He felt his pulse throb as he tried to staunch the flow. His head filled with random images, rattling over the reels of his memory like an old cine film.
Blood, there had been so much blood.
So much …
He pulled his shirt free of his trousers, tore frantically at the shirt tail, felt it rip, rammed the fabric into the gaping wound in her neck. Her eyes were wide, fixed on his.
‘It’s all right. You’re going to be fine.’ The lie came easily.
Crack … crack … crack…
Joe was at his side. ‘Brendan, come away, will you–’
Moran glanced up. From behind the van door a balaclava-clad head and shoulders appeared.
‘Leave him, get to cover!’ Joe’s voice, yelling in his ear. ‘For God’s sake, move!’
He heard his friend somewhere behind him, scrabbling on hands and knees.
It’s not a him, he wanted to shout, it’s a her.
She was breathing too fast, her chest heaving. Someone was running towards them. Moran saw camouflage trousers, boots pounding on the tarmac.
The staccato reports continued… Crack… crack…
Another movement from the van door. Crack…
He heard a cry of pain, glanced over his shoulder. Joe…
A soldier skidded to a halt, hit the ground hard beside him, dropped his rifle, held the girl’s face. ‘Alice. God! Alice!’
An engine, revving hard.
Someone shouting. ‘They’re pulling out!’
More shots, running.
‘Form up.’ The tramp of heavy boots, drumming on the hard surface …
Somewhere in the distance, sirens.
‘Alice, please. Alice, look at me. Stay with me.’
The soldier glanced up, his startlingly bright, clear blue eyes meeting Moran’s. The girl’s complexion was waxy, her breathing shallow, becoming erratic.
‘Defib! Over here! Now!’ The soldier turned, looking desperately for the medical help that wasn’t there, that would arrive far too late. The other soldiers were swarming around the ambushed car; one pulled the riddled driver’s door open. The van was gone.
Moran’s soldier was shaking the girl by the shoulders. ‘Alice. Alice!’
Moran held her hand. He felt the life go out of her.
The soldier began chest compressions, kneeling over her prostrate body.
Moran let him continue for a while before placing a hand gently on his shoulder. A second passed. Another. The soldier stopped, tilted his head back, let out a howl of anguish that chilled Moran to the core.
A few yards behind he could hear Joe, cursing and moaning. ‘My arm. The bastards shot my arm.’
Moran stood, walked unsteadily back to help his friend.
The air stank of cordite, petrol.
It began to rain.
Moran scraped dog food into the bowl, mashed it up. ‘Here you go, fella.’
Archie attacked the food with gusto while Moran briefly considered himself. He wasn’t hungry. Not even the walk had stimulated his appetite.
He filled a fresh glass, went into the lounge. He’d always known that the unfinished business of 1978 would come back to haunt him some time. That time, it seemed, was now.
The front door bell startled him enough to slosh beer over the carpet. Archie’s reactive barks filled the house.
God, Brendan, you’re a bag of nerves, right enough…
He looked at his watch. It was after eleven. Frowning, he went into the hall. ‘All right, all right, Archie. It’s not the postman, not at this time. Hush. Hush, will you?’
But the spaniel was clearly agitated. He rushed at the woodwork of Moran’s front door, snarling, biting the frame.
‘Hey – hey! I said that’s enough! Kitchen!’
He hauled the dog into the kitchen by his collar, shouted over his shoulder into the hall. ‘Hold on, hold on. I’ll be right with you.’
‘Hold on, hold on…’
The soldier, Alice, was beyond help, but blue-eyes hadn’t given up. Astride her inert body, he continued to pound her chest in a rhythm of despair.
Moran closed his ears to the soldier’s desperate pleading. The ambulance sirens’ ululations drowned him out. They’d been quick, but not quick enough. Two paramedics appeared.
