He closed the curtains and made his way to the bedroom, his decision almost made.
That night he dreamed of his grandmother.
Three days later Donny Fitzpatrick’s alarm went off at three in % the morning.
He slipped out of bed, leaving his wife still asleep, then dressed in the dark, not bothering about a wash or shave. She barely stirred when he kissed her goodbye and went downstairs, feeling his way in the darkness.
Closing the back door behind him, he crossed the garden and scaled the rear fence. He walked the two blocks of the residential estate with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched against the chill, the hood of his windcheater covering his head.
The car was waiting where expected with its lights off. He climbed into the back seat; without a word, the driver started the engine, switched on his headlamps and began the journey south.
There were to be two vehicle switches on the way to the pub on the outskirts of Dublin. Unlike the Garda in general, there were some elements of Irish Special Branch who were dedicated to eradicating the movement. Driven by frustration at the lack of political will by their masters, some had attempted to take the law into their own hands on occasion. Although Fitzpatrick knew the identity of most of them, he was nonetheless obliged to take elaborate precautions for his own safety. Then, of course, there was also the danger that the Brits would mount a deniable operation of their own against him…
The upstairs room had been booked the day before in the name of the All Ireland Philately Society. Fitzpatrick was the last to arrive, the door being opened by one of the Dubliners.
The man reholstered his pistol. ‘It’s promising news, Chief.’
‘Good, I could do with some.’
He nodded to the motley gathering around the trestle table, which included the Quartermaster General, Maedoc Mallally and a retired priest known as Father McCabe.
The old man was anxious to tell the Provisional’ Chief of Staff what he had heard. ‘The bishop sent a letter to me yesterday by safe hand. He reports that the talks are in increasing disarray. He has been talking to the representatives from the Dublin government and the SDLP people from the north, persuading them to strengthen their position and their demands in these Independent Ulster proposals. Now he believes that the Democratic Unionists are on the verge of walking out.’
Fitzpatrick smiled gently. ‘So much for the demolition. What about the constructive side?’
‘He’s had several private sessions now with Abe Powers. He believes he’s winning the senator round. In fact Bishop McLaverty says the American has made several calls to the White House to try and win support for the idea.’
Mallally, known as Q, was dismissive. ‘We know the Brits will never wear it. Don’t get your hopes up.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ Fitzpatrick said. ‘We know the government is still smarting after the failure of their last initiative and they’ve been getting an increasingly negative press over it.’
‘I don’t know why they ever thought it would work,’ commented one of the Dubliners.
‘The point is they did — and it didn’t,’ Fitzpatrick replied irritably. ‘They’ve now tried everything else, so maybe they’d be tempted. They’ll have seen the latest opinion polls — that the majority of the British public want their troops out of Ireland.’
‘Maybe they’ll wait until Labour wins the next election,’ Q suggested, ‘and let them do the dirty work.’
‘If they win,’ Fitzpatrick replied. ‘On the other hand, maybe the — current government will see some mileage in solving the problem once and for all. Backtracking on ideals doesn’t seem to worry politicians nowadays, and most of the English regard the Proddie bigots as no better than ourselves.’
‘You could have phrased that better,’ Q pointed out.
‘We must keep up the pressure,’ one Dubliner said.
‘True,’ agreed another. ‘Let AID AN off the leash again. Concentrate their minds.’
‘We can’t do that,’ Q said. ‘We can’t be seen to be using violence now we’re at the talks. That would be counterproductive. We need something a mite more subtle.’
It was then that Fitzpatrick remembered the signal from McGirl. The flying column had found a way of reaching Major Harrison and he wanted permission to follow it up. Clearly he had in mind assassination, but. there was another way…
He could visualise the news arriving at Number Ten: Prime Minister, I regret to tell you that the IRA is holding a senior British Army officer hostage. In fact this officer has become something of a national hero in the press and on television… The Provisional say they will keep his abduction under wraps and eventually release him if you accede to current American and growing UN demands for a United Ireland…
If not, they will reveal to the international media how a British hero was sacrificed to political intransigence in defiance of popular world opinion.
McGirl couldn’t sleep.
He’d woken in the early hours after a nightmare, his body slick with cold sweat. A crazy dream. He was walking down a long dark forest track; ahead was a tunnel of light where he could see the distant shadow of a gallows. Behind him he could hear the muted thunder of horses’ hooves and knew the riders were gaining on him. Yet he could not run…
For an hour he’d twisted and turned, but his mind just kept spinning. He knew what the problem was. Everything had been put on hold. There had been no activity now for several days, since the announcement that Bishop McLaverty was joining the talks.
And with nothing to do, his mind began to dwell on those nagging inner fears. What were the police doing, how close were they? He had no illusions that the full might of the British security apparatus was ranged against them. The police, Special Branch and MI5. Out there somewhere in the darkness, never sleeping, never resting. Insidious, creeping, edging ever closer to him.
The bombings had been a humiliation for the British Government, the newspapers and television headlines screaming capitulation to terrorism, and the politicians, he knew, would be baying for blood at any price. His blood, his and Clodagh Dougan’s.
He left the bed, pulled on his jeans and stood by the window of the cottage. Outside, the road was deserted, dimly lit by a nearby street light. Beyond, the outline of the trees was growing more distinct against a lightening sky.
Dawn would not be long.
He lit a cigarette and looked back at the bed. Subconsciously Clodagh Dougan seemed to sense him watching, her naked body suddenly restless beneath the sheet, twitching and moving as she slept. It was like that between them now, and he would never have believed it.
The Blackwall Tunnel bomb had changed everything. Was it the excitement, the adrenalin? The sense of power and achievement, the sharing of danger?
He didn’t know, and it didn’t matter.
What mattered was that when the team split up after the attack, each member returning to a separate safe house, Clodagh had asked him to go back with her. At first he had assumed it was the loneliness she felt now without her father there. The need for protection, a guardian who knew his place. But he soon realised it was more than that. Suddenly there was some unspoken bond between them.
Without a word she had led him into the front room and poured two drinks. Then, as he stood beside the cold stone fireplace, she had knelt at his feet. It took him by surprise, feeling her hands on his thighs, moving over his crotch. Then her fingers plucking at his zipper, the abrupt indraught of cool air and the delicate moisture of her mouth as she took his penis between her teeth. Not once did she speak; not once did she allow her eyes to meet his. She was alone down there, mistress in her own world, oblivious of him.