The British army doesn't want it to stop, either. The province is a fantastic testing ground for equipment and training ground for troops and, as with the RUC, it means the army gets a bigger slice of the cake. Every year the army has to justify its budget, and it's up against the navy, which is asking for more funds for Trident submarines, and the air force, which is banging on about needing to buy the Eurofighter 2000.
With Northern Ireland on the agenda, the army can talk about a "now" commitment, an operational imperative and no body's going to argue against the need for funds to fight terrorism.
British industry stood to lose substantially from a cease fire, too. Major defense manufacturers design equipment specifically for internal security and make fortunes out of the operational conditions. Equipment that was battle-proven in Northern Ireland was eagerly sought after by foreign buyers.
No wonder the conflict had made Britain one of the top three arms exporters in the world, with beneficial effects on the UK balance of payments.
I knew now why McCann, Farrell, and Savage had had to die. Enniskillen. The backlash against PIRA. People signing books of condolence. Irish Americans stopping their donations. Dialogue and reconciliation must have looked a real prospect. Simmonds and his mates couldn't have that. They had to create martyrs to keep the pot boiling.
Me? I was probably just a very small glitch in a well-oiled machine. Come to that. Northern Ireland was probably only one item among many in their company accounts. For all I knew, these guys also provoked killings and riots in Hebron, stirred up Croats against Serbs, and even got Kennedy killed because he wanted to stop the Vietnam War. As Simmonds had said, it was business. There was nothing I could do to stop them. But I wasn't worried about that. What was the point?
The only thing I had achieved--perhaps--was revenge for Kev's and Pat's deaths. That would have to be enough.
I got off the freeway and onto the secondary highway to Abergavenny. The rain had stopped, but it was a stretch of road notorious for repair works. Euan's house was about ten miles on the other side of the town, on the road toward Brecon.
I weaved in and out of traffic, the other drivers hooting and waving their fists. Then, in the distance, I saw the red of brake lights. The morning rush hour had started. I slowed with the volume of traffic heading into the town and eventually came to a complete standstill. The jam was caused by resurfacing work; it looked as though there was a mile-long backup.
I drove onto the shoulder. As I sped past them on the inside, stationary motorists honked angrily. The noise alerted the workers laying the asphalt up ahead. They ran and shouted, trying to wave me down, gesticulating at the roadwork sign. I didn't even acknowledge them. I only hoped I didn't get caught by the police. I dropped a gear, picked up speed, and shifted back up.
I got to Abergavenny and stayed on the ring road. The traffic slowed at a long set of stoplights so I had to bump up onto the curb and edge my way to the front of the line.
Once I was on the other side of the town I was in the sticks and the road narrowed to a single lane in each direction. I put my foot down and bombed along at seventy to eighty, using the whole road as if it were my own. Seeing a left-hand bend, I moved over to the far right-hand side. I could hear the hedgerow screech against the side of the car. From this position I could see more of the dead ground around the bend.
Not bothering with brakes, I banged down through the gears to second just before turning. Once on the bend I put my foot down and made use of rubber on asphalt. Out of the bend, I shifted into fourth and stayed there.
After a mile, a slow-moving truck was taking up most of the road. Its large trailer of sheep on two levels had a sticker asking me if I thought the driving was OK--if not, to call the head office. I had plenty of time to read it, laboring behind the fucker at twenty miles an hour.
The road twisted and turned; the trucker could see me in his mirrors, but there was no way he was going to pull over for me to pass. The speedo dropped to fifteen mph. and I looked at my watch. It was 9:05; I'd been on the road for just under three hours.
I kept pulling out, looking and tucking back in again. Even the sheep were staring at me now. The truck driver was enjoying himself; we had eye-to-eye in his side mirror, and I could see he was laughing. I knew this road, and I knew that unless he let me pass I was doomed to several miles of driving at his pace. By now the road had a two-foot mud bank on each side, then trees and hedges. It was wet and slippery, with small streams running along each side. I'd have to take a chance, just hope that nothing was coming. On this road, all corners were blind.
Preparing for the next bend, the truck driver shifted slowly down through the gears, and I accelerated past him on the wrong side of the road. If there was anything coming around the bend, we'd both be killed. He flashed his lights and honked, probably doing his best to distract me and force me off the road. For the first time today, I was in luck. The road was clear; I'd soon left the truck far behind.
Fifteen minutes later I was at the turnoff for Euan's valley. I hung a left, and within a hundred yards the road petered out into a single lane. If I came up behind a tractor or farm machinery, there would be few passing places, but luck stayed with me and there was nothing ahead. Another twenty minutes and I got to the valley.
As I approached the brow of the hill I could already see the spiral of smoke. The walls were still intact but most of the roof had collapsed, and there were smoke and scorch marks around the window frames. Two fire engines were there, and the firemen were still damping down. They looked wet, tired, and stressed. On the other side of the house was an ambulance.
A handful of people had gathered, locals in their slickers and boots, who'd driven from the other side of the valley to rubberneck.
I drove on and stopped by the gate. A couple of firemen turned around, but they didn't say anything; they were too busy doing their work.
I got out of the car and ran across the road to the small copse about fifty yards away, hollering and shouting like a madman.
"Kelly! Kelly!"
Nothing.
"It's me it's Nick! You can come out now!"
But she wasn't there. Deep down, I'd probably known all along that she wouldn't be. She'd been dead from the moment she'd picked up the phone.
I turned away and walked slowly up the track toward the throng of spectators. They gave me the once-over, obviously not liking the look of my damaged face, then turned back, more interested in the remains of the house.
"Was there anyone in there?" I asked nobody in particular.
A woman spoke.
"His lights were on last night. The ambulance crew has been inside already. Oh, it's such a shame. He was such a nice young man."
I walked beyond the group and a fireman came toward me, lifting a gloved hand.
"Excuse me, sir, if you could stay well back. We haven't made the area safe yet."
"Radio Wales," I said.
"Can you tell me what happened?"
I looked over his shoulder. Other firefighters were dragging out charred remains of Euan's house and placing them on a pile that was being damped down. I could now smell the burning.
I looked back at the fireman. He said, "It looks as if there was a fire and then the gas bottles blew up. If you could move back, sir."
"Was anyone killed or injured?"
As I asked, something one of them threw on the pile caught my eye. It was Jenny or Ricky, one or the other I never could tell which was which. Not that it mattered now.
Whichever one it was, it was now burned black with only half an arm left.
"It will take some time before we'll know for sure. But no one could have survived that blast."
He was right. In any other circumstances, it would have been an explosion to be proud of.