The Massey Ferguson remained immobile, a large, red barricade to the progress of the minibus.
‘Jesus,’ murmured one of the other men wearily. ‘What’s wrong with this fucking idiot?’
Vincent Leary sat up in his seat, looking first at the tractor then to his left and right. The thick hedges and dense trees made it difficult to see beyond the grassy fringe that ran along both sides of the road.
The tractor driver was still trying, vainly, to start his yehicle but it remained where it had stopped.
‘Did anyone take a course in mechanics while they were inside?’ cailed a voice from the back of the bus. ‘It looks like this guy’s going to need some help.’
The other men laughed.
Leary looked at the tractor driver again, his brow furrowing slightly. The man was looking beyond the minibus at the road behind them.
Looking for what?
Leary turned in his seat and saw nothing but when he looked back, the man was still staring agitatedly in that same direction.
Vincent Leary got to his feet and made for the rear of the bus, looking out of the large window. He was the first to see the dark-brown Corsa approaching.
‘We’ve got company,’ he announced.
The car slowed down then came to a halt about twenty yards behind the minibus.
This bastard will have traffic backed up all the way to Belfast soon,’ another voice called.
Leary looked at the car then the tractor. Its driver waited a moment longer then jumped down from the cab, sprinting off into the gap in the hedge from where he had first emerged.
Simuitaneously, two men clambered out of the Corsa. Both were wearing woollen masks, only their eyes visible through small slits.
Both were carrying guns.
Leary recognised the weapons as Sterling AR-S 80s. Assault rifles with twenty-round magazines. The two men swung the rifles up to their shoulders and aimed them at the bus.
From the dirt track ahead two other men stepped on to the road. They also wore masks. They were also armed.
‘Get out of the fucking bus,’ roared one of the men from the Corsa.
For interminable seconds those inside the minibus froze.
Leary swallowed hard.
‘What the fuck do we do?’ one of the other men asked, his voice cracking slightly.
‘Just what they tell us,’ murmured Leary.
‘Get off the bus now,’ bellowed the man again, his finger now resting on the trigger of the assault rifle.
One by one, the men did as they were instructed.
‘Line up there,’ snapped one of the other men in masks and he jabbed the barrel of his weapon towards the bus.
‘Get your fucking hands up,’ another hissed, pushing the muzzle of his rifle towards the man nearest him.
Again the former prisoners did as they were instructed.
The bus driver hesitated, looking anxiously at each masked face.
‘Get in the line,’ one of the men told him.
Still the driver hesitated.
The man nearest to him stepped forward and, with incredible speed and power, drove the butt of his rifle into the driver’s face. His nose burst under the impact and he dropped to his knees with blood spurting on to his shirt. He remained kneeling for a second longer then fell forward motionless.
Vincent Leary regarded each of the men before him, his gaze occasionally straying to the four automatic rifles now aimed at himself and his four companions.
‘All right, you Fenian bastards,’ snarled one of the masked men. ‘Turn around and face the bus.’
‘What’s wrong?’ Leary said.‘Haven’t you got the guts to look us in the eye when you pull the trigger?’
The first burst of fire hit Leary, slamming him up against the side of the minibus. Within seconds all four weapons were spewing their lethal loads into the newly released men.
The peaceful silence of the country road was ripped apart by the staccato rattle of automatic fire.
When the first magazines were empty, the masked men reloaded and emptied more heavy-grain shells into
the five bloodied and torn figures before them. From such close range the damage was enormous. Bones were pulverised by the high-powered bullets, internal organs were blasted to pieces.
Blood covered the side of the bus and spread seven or eight feet around the tangle of corpses. Empty shell cases rolled around, steam rising from them.
The hooded men ran back to the Corsa and clambered inside.The driver started the engine, turned the car swiftly on the road and headed back the way he’d
come.
He pulled his mask off and threw it in the back, wiping sweat from his face.
The others followed his example.
Daniel Kane glanced at his watch. In less than five minutes they would dump the Corsa and change cars.
It had all gone as smoothly as he’d planned.
A REFLECTION
Ward sat and watched as the paper spilled from the printer. What a joyous sight. He might have found it even more joyous had he been able to remember writing what was on those pages.
But, what the hell, it was appearing before him perfectly typed and, as he glanced at it, well written.
The printer continued with its mechanical litany.
Ward turned and looked out of the window. He saw his reflection in the glass staring back. For long seconds he stared at his own face then he blinked hard, as if to dismiss the image.
When Ward looked again the reflection, obviously, was still there. But its expression hadn’t changed to match Ward’s. It wore a stern, almost reproachful look.
Ward moved back slightly.
The reflection of his face remained immobile, as if it had been painted on to the glass. It was almost as if a face were staring in at him. Unblinking.
Unmoving. Perched on one of the branches that tapped gently against his first-floor office window.
Ward closed his eyes tightly then looked again.
The face was still there.A severed head impaled on sharpened wood. Stuck there like a Halloween Jack-o-lantern.
He shook his head.
His reflection didn’t move.
He looked more closely at the eyes. They were fixed on the printer, watching the pages churning out.
Ward raised a hand and moved it slowly back and forth before the vision of his own features. There was no change. The face remained. Immobile.
Ward swallowed hard and hauled himself out of his seat. As he did, the mouth of his reflection opened wide as if in a soundless scream.
There was a single tooth missing from the upper jaw.
Ward ran down the stairs and out of the office, turned the corner and looked up into the tree.
He didn’t know what he thought he’d see, but there was nothing there. Just leaves stirred by the night breeze.
Ward stood gazing up for a moment longer then wandered back into the office.
The reflection was gone from the window. The printer had finished its work.The office was silent again.
LONDON:
The room smelt of gun oil. Doyle took each of the weapons in turn and field-stripped them. He cleaned each part carefully and then reassembled the firearms. He checked the slides on the automatics, then he ensured that the cylinder turned smoothly on the revolver.
Why are you doing this? You’re not going to need any of these fucking things again, are you?
There was a bottle of Smirnoff on the table in front of him and he stopped periodically to fill his glass. The bottle was already half empty.
The TV was on. Some twat talking about his new novel. Laughing like a fucking idiot as he sat on the sofa opposite the presenters.
The stereo was also on.
The last thing Doyle wanted was silence.
He glanced at the TV screen, but it was the music that dominated.
‘Fallen angel, ripped and bruised, think of better days …’
Doyle finished cleaning the Desert Eagle and sat back in his chair, the barrel pointed at the screen.