Leary walked on. Past boarded-up shops. Past a cat that was clawing at a bulging, black rubbish bag, pulling the rubbish out and scattering it across the pavement.
Past a giant mural on the side of a house with the caption beneath that read: William III crossing the
BOYNE.
Orange bastard.
There was more graffiti: no surrender. It was faded. As though someone had tried to wash it off.
Leary wondered how far it was to the next pub. He was still wondering when the car pulled up beside him. He slid one hand into his jacket pocket, his fingers closing around the flick knife.
There was one man in the car. He leaned over and pushed the passenger door open, gesturing to Leary. ‘Get in,’ he said.
“Why?” Leary wanted to know.
‘I heard what you were saying back there. I hear you’ve been saying the same thing all over Belfast. Word gets around. I want to talk to you.’
‘About what?’
‘Just get in,’ the driver insisted.
‘Fuck off.’
Leary saw the gun pointing at him.
‘I won’t say it again,’ rasped Ivor Best.
Leary looked at the gaping barrel of the .38 for a second longer then took a step towards the car. Thoughts tumbled through his mind.
Who was this bastard?
Had his rant inside the last pub brought this newcomer to him?
‘Listen,’ Leary said, his voice more even.‘What I said back there—’
‘Get in the fucking car,’ Ivor Best snapped, waving the revolver towards the passenger seat.
What if he’s one of your own? There’d be an irony, wouldn’t there? Looking for Proddies to kill and ending up shot by one of your own.
Leary moved closer to the car.
He’s not going to shoot you in the street is he?
Leary touched the flick knife once more then slid into the passenger seat and shut the door behind him.
Best slid the gun into his pocket and guided the car away from the kerb.
Leary relaxed slightly and looked at the older man.
‘Keep your eyes ahead,’ Best told him as he drove. ‘Just listen to me.’
The car smelt of fast food. Leary saw a McDonald’s wrapper on the floor.
‘What you were saying back there in the pub about those IRA men being killed, did you mean it?’ Best asked.
Careful.
‘A man’s entitled to an opinion, isn’t he?’ Leary said.
‘He is that. But some opinions are best kept to yourself.’
They drove in silence for a moment.
Leary had no idea where he was or where he was being taken.
Just be ready when he stops the car. You can use the knife before he reaches the gun if you have to.
‘What’s your name?’ Best asked.
The lie was ready. ‘Keith Levine,’ Leary told him. ‘What about you?’
‘My name’s not important now. I want to know if you meant what you said back there in the pub. About the UVF. Being happy that they killed five of the IRA.’
‘I meant it. As far as I’m concerned there’s still a war going on.’
Best smiled. ‘A man after me own heart,’ he said, glancing at Leary.
The younger man studied his companion’s features.
You’re a fucking Proddie all right.
‘People are scared to say what they think any more,’ Best continued.‘Even more afraid to do anything about it.’ Again he looked at Leary. ‘Are you prepared to do something, Keith? To back up your opinions?’
Leary regarded him warily. ‘What kind of thing?’ he asked.
‘You tell me. How far would you go to support your opinions? Or are you just all mouth like so many of the others? They say what they’d do but when the time comes, they haven’t got the balls.’
Leary shrugged. ‘What kind of thing are you talking about?’ he persisted. Best stopped the car. ‘Get out,’ he said.
Leary looked puzzled.
‘Get out,’ Best snapped, more forcefully. He watched as the younger man pushed open the door and clambered out on to the pavement.
‘If you want to find out more then be here tomorrow night at eight,’ said Best. ‘If you’re not here then I’ll know you’re all talk.’
He reached across, slammed the passenger door shut and drove off.
Leary squinted in the gloom and picked out the registration number of the car.
‘Oh, I’ll see you again,’ he whispered as he watched the car disappear around a corner. ‘Count on that.’
SEEING IS BELIEVING
Ward wondered, briefly, if he might still be drunk Perhaps in some alcohol-induced haze he had imagined watching the finished pages fall from the printer. Maybe he had dreamt the entire bizarre episode.
Failing that, there had to be an electrical fault of some description with the machine. But, if that were the case, why were the pages pouring from the printer filled with words? Lucid, perfectly formed prose the like of which he would have typed himself.
What the hell was happening?
He stood frozen until the printer had finished, then advanced slowly towards the desk, scanning the pages that had been vomited forth with such frenzy.
Ward sat down and picked them up carefully, scanning each one.
No spelling errors. Everything in context. These, surely, were not the fumblings of some alcohol-fuelled episode.
So, what were they? Where had they come from?
He had no answers to his perplexing questions.
Ward numbered the pages and added them to the rest of the manuscript. He was breathing heavily as he did so, squinting myopically at the numbers. On more than one occasion, his vision blurred and he was forced to stop. The beginning of a headache was gnawing at the base of his skull.
He looked at the blank screen almost fearfully. Very slowly, he rested his fingers on the keyboard. And began to type.
LONDON:
Doyle watched the knife as it whipped back and forth with dizzying speed.The cuts were uniform.
One of the three chefs who cooked for Sheikh Karim El Roustam was aware of his gaze but acknowledged it with only an indifferent glance.
‘Mind your fingers,’ said Doyle quietly.
The man looked at him again and returned to chopping shallots.
Doyle wandered out of the kitchen and ‘towards one of the sumptuous reception rooms on the first floor. It smelt of air freshener and polish. The whole house smelt the same. As if the moment anyone touched anything, one of the hordes of cleaners descended to remove any trace of human contact.
He stood looking at one of the paintings that hung above the ornate marble fireplace then crossed to the window that looked out over Upper Brook Street.
Down below Joe Hendry was running a doth over the windscreen of the Daimler, wiping away some of the rain that had fallen during the night, ensuring that he didn’t get his navy suit wet.
Hendry was thirty-seven. A tall, broad-shouldered man with close-cropped dark hair and bags beneath his eyes.
Over the years Doyle had convinced himself that he could perceive a person’s character within thirty seconds of meeting them. Instinct, he maintained, was as important as his ability with weapons.Those instincts had rarely been wrong.
With men he looked for the strength of their handshakes. Whether they held his gaze when they spoke to him.
Hendry had met both these criteria. He also had a good sense of humour and, another plus in Doyle’s book, he didn’t talk too much.
‘Nothing better to do?’
The voice caused him to turn.
Melissa Blake was standing in the doorway of the reception room dressed in another of the dark suits she seemed to favour.
‘Sorry, was I neglecting my newly found duties?’ Doyle asked.
‘Prince Hassim is ready for school,’ Mel smiled.
Doyle nodded and followed her down the stairs to the hall where the boy stood obediently, flanked by two servants. Both were big men with swarthy features.