Her eyes widened, not quite sure that she believed what she was hearing. ‘The same man?’
He nodded. ‘Small world.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’ she asked, but was sure she knew the answer. It was clear in his eyes which occasionally lingered on her body when he thought she wasn’t looking. Irritated with herself, she stood suddenly and, picking up her sweater from the bed, slipped it over her head.
McGirl was saying: ‘It occurred to me we could do something about it.’
‘Like what? We’d never be able to get anywhere near him.’
Slowly, tantalisingly, he said: ‘Would you be interested if I said I think I know a way?’
She had picked up the automatic pistol from the bedside table and was checking the magazine. One eyebrow arched as she looked directly at him. ‘Interested in what exactly?’
‘Interested in doing something about it,’ he said.
Interested in letting me get inside your knickers, he thought. Then realised suddenly that she knew he was deliberately trying to get close to her, draw her into a conspiracy. He could see the knowing, disdainful look in her eyes.
She said: ‘You know damn well I’m interested if I can get even with the bastard. What do you know about him?’
‘Enough. And he’d be a legitimate target.’
She slipped the pistol into her waistband, pulled a short leather jacket over her shoulders. ‘Let’s talk about it tomorrow. Right now we’ve got work to do.’
He nodded his agreement, quietly satisfied at his progress.
‘Just one thing, McGirl. You’re married, right?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘With a child?’
He didn’t answer; there was no need. She’d made her point.
The matter wasn’t raised again before they drove back to the barn. Muldoon and Doran were waiting, the two motorcycles checked and loaded aboard the red Transit, the sides liveried with cheap plastic signs for a genuine motorcycle retailer in London. They all pored over the map for one last time, confirming the routes and synchronising watches.
Clodagh and McGirl opened the barn doors then and watched the van go. The next thirty minutes dragged by, then they climbed up into the high cab of the dumper truck. As the enormous engine thundered into life, the entire building trembled.
This would be a night London would never forget.
15
They took the seven thirty British Midland flight to Belfast.
Casey fretted over the wisdom of leaving Candy to look after herself in the house, even though a girlfriend was staying with her, and wished she’d been able to see Harrison before she left. At least he’d shown no sign of bitterness when they had spoken on the telephone and she loved him for that. The short flight was halfway over before it began to dawn on her exactly what she was trying to do; then the apprehension began to set in.
Eddie Mercs offered no comfort. A bad flyer at the best of times, he’d forgotten that it was a No Smoking flight and had become increasingly irritable, attempting to calm his nerves by emptying a row of miniature plastic whisky bottles.
‘Not my fault I was a breast-fed baby,’ he complained bitterly when Casey chided him about his alcoholic intake. “They should make allowances for those of us who need oral satisfaction.’
The vision of a fully grown Mercs suckling blissfully at his mother’s bosom brought only a momentary light relief from her fears of what lay ahead. That dread word. Ulster. That dark and evil place she knew only through television news and press reports. An endless round of bombs and shootings. She was entering an urban war zone for which she was totally unprepared. But it was also Tom Harrison’s world and that, somehow, gave her a small measure of confidence.
They touched down at Aldergrove in failing daylight beneath a cloudy, rain-filled sky.
She had been expecting the terminal to resemble an armed camp, like some tinpot banana republic, and it was with a sense of relief that she saw only one armed policeman talking nonchalantly to some plain-clothes security personnel. No one stopped them, asked them who they were or where they were going.
The car-hire company had sent a small courtesy bus to take them to their vehicle and after a few minutes’ form-filling they were on their way south towards Belfast.
There was one permanent vehicle checkpoint on the airport road, manned by the RUC. The policeman was polite, asked to see Mercs’s driver’s licence, then waved them on.
They continued on through the monotonous flat countryside, the rain becoming gradually more persistent. Within half-an-hour Mercs was negotiating the city-centre streets, taking the bridge across the River Lagan, which divided west from east Belfast, and was heading up Newtownards Road. It was a grey sprawling area of shabby high-street shops with side roads of Victorian terraced houses interspersed with some modern estates.
One brightly and crudely painted gable end, which looked onto the main street, left them in no doubt whose territory they were in. This was Protestant heartland.
‘Not much chance of wandering into the wrong patch in this city,’ Mercs muttered, ‘unless you’re a blind man.’
The Park Avenue Hotel on Holywood Road was large, bland and reasonably modern. The reception staff were friendly and asked conversationally whether they were visiting on business or pleasure. When Mercs replied: ‘A bit of both,’ they didn’t inquire further.
Time was pressing. It was nine forty-five already, so after checking into their respective rooms, Mercs called for a taxi to take them back into the city centre.
This time an army checkpoint of khaki-coloured Land-Rovers had materialised on the bridge and Casey felt a sudden sense of unease at the sight of the young men in full combat webbing and helmets. They looked menacing with their SA 80 Bullpups and serious faces.
A brief inquiry at the cabby’s window, a check on his licence and a quick glance at the passengers in the back. That was all and they were on their way.
‘Don’t you get sick of all these checks?’ Casey ventured to ask the driver.
He chuckled and his accent was so harsh and heavy that she had difficulty in understanding his reply. ‘Sure you get used to it. But sometimes ‘tis a real pain, so it is. Though I think if we ever get real peace here, we might even miss it.’
She wasn’t sure she’d heard right. ‘You actually enjoy all the trouble?’
‘No, love, not at all. But we’re so used to it, we would miss it, kind of. Otherwise Ulster would be a very dull place. The violence gives it an edge, a buzz. But then you’re American, yes? Sure you’d have to live here to understand.’
She glanced sideways at Mercs; he said nothing, just raised his eyes to the heavens.
They had arranged to meet Gerard Keefe at the Front Page public house in Donegall Street. It was Friday night and a favourite haunt of the city’s journalists for celebrating the end of the working week. The taxi dropped them off outside the dark forbidding frontage with its blinking neon sign. Creaking stairs led the way to the upstairs bars. The noise of excited, gabbling voices and too-loud laughter hit them, the room thick with tobacco smoke and the yeasty smell of stout. It was packed, the rough pine bar and floor almost obliterated by the press of bodies, faces smiling and glowing with alcohol, unwinding fast after a frantic day. Above their heads the giant fan struggled to clear the air.
Mercs led the way, weaving through the bodies, treading on feet and mumbling his apologies, peering at groups of men and women as he attempted to find Keefe. Casey trailed behind, finding herself watching individuals, looking at their unconcerned and happy faces. And thinking, this is Belfast. This is the dark soul of Ireland.
Keefe was talking to a rapt audience — two long-haired and pretty girls who looked to be scarcely out of their teens. As he spoke earnestly across the table, decorating his words with a flourish of hand gestures, they appeared to hang on his every sentence.