Now and in the Hour of Our Death (2 page)

No use crying over spilt milk, he told himself, and recognized the lie for what it was. Not a day went by that he didn't think of her and what might have been.

“Time you were up, Father Davy.” Eamon, carrot-red haired with two front teeth missing, grinned and flicked a towel in Davy's direction. “It's not likely the screws'll be bringing you breakfast in bed.”

“Away off and chase yourself, son.” It was good to have Eamon for a friend, the only friend Davy had in the whole bloody place—in the whole bloody world. His best mate from the old days, Jimmy Ferguson, lived in Canada. He did write, but it wasn't the same as the pair of them sitting together over a pint, having a bit of
craic
, the banter so ingrained in the Irish character, Jimmy spouting the lines of his hero, William Butler Yeats:

Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,

It's with O'Leary in the grave.

Aye, or with Davy McCutcheon in the fucking Kesh.

Eamon said something.

“What?”

“I'll shave first. Erin's coming today. I want to get my breakfast early.”

“Fair enough.”

Davy half paid attention as Eamon brushed his teeth, filled the cracked enamel basin, lathered his face, and shaved with a safety razor. Cutthroats were not permitted. He heard the water run out and Eamon refilling the basin.

“There you are. Room service.”

“Piss off,” Davy said, but limped to the basin. He had to stoop to look in the mirror. Whoever had hung it had not made any allowance for a man who stood six feet tall. He shaved carefully, peering at the face that looked back at him, blotched in the places where the silvering had peeled from the back of the glass. He saw a pair of deep blue eyes, crow's-feet at the corners, and it wasn't constant smiling that had put those lines there. His moustache, trimmed over firm lips, showed not a trace of its original black. All silver now like his thinning thatch. He still carried a scar over his left eyebrow, a reminder of the head-butt from a drunken youth in a Republican drinking club.

Eamon said, “Hand me that wee glass.”

Davy lifted a water-filled tumbler from a shelf between the basin and the mirror and gave it to Eamon.

“Ta.” He removed a dental plate from the water, gave it a quick rinse, popped it into his mouth, and grinned at Davy. “That's better. Got to look my best for Erin.” As he left the cell, Davy heard Eamon say in a stage whisper, “She's bringing me a wee present.”

*   *   *

Erin felt the string of her “wee present” rub against the inside of her thigh. Maybe she'd left the cord too long, but how else was she to get the package out? Eamon had told her that other women smuggled things—a miniature camera, messages stuffed in the top halves of ballpoint pens—and for all she knew others might be in the gunrunning business, but, Jesus, Mary, and Jo, why had she let Eamon talk her into this?

She squeezed the steering wheel until her knuckles whitened. The drive from Tyrone to the Kesh seemed to be taking forever. At least she was off the narrow winding roads of County Tyrone and on the M1 Motorway. She just wanted to get to the prison, get this over with, and get home.

She knew that she would be body searched. What would the female prison officer think when she saw that Erin was not wearing panties? She felt the blush start. The embarrassment would be desperate. Then Erin smiled. Typical Catholic girl. Here's me taking the biggest risk of my life, and what I'm really worried about is that my mammy always told me that nice girls would never go out without their undies on.

When it worked out the way Eamon said it would, she'd soon be wearing a lot less than just no knickers. And there'd be something inside her a lot nicer than her wee bag and its cold contents.

*   *   *

Eamon wriggled in his chair in the visiting area. Erin was late. Christ, if the screws had found what she was bringing, it would fuck up two years of planning. And that didn't bear thinking about. He'd been in on it almost from the start because of his expertise with firearms. The Provo Officer Commanding in the Kesh, Bic McFarlane, had approached Eamon last year. Without preamble, he'd asked, “Could you fix one of those wee .25 pistols if it was busted?”

“Aye, certainly.”

“Fix that.” McFarlane threw the components of a small revolver onto the table in Eamon's cell.

“That's a fucking…”

“I know what it is. Fix it.”

It had only taken a minute to reassemble the weapon.

“Keep your mouth shut about it.”

Eamon bristled. “Of course I fucking well will. What do you take me for?”

“A sound man, or I'd not be here.”

“What's up?”

“One day a bunch of us are getting out, and you'll be coming with us, but only a few of the lads know. So not a fucking word. Not to nobody. Right?”

“Fair enough.” Out? Dead on. Eamon hugged the thought.

“Me or Bobby Storey'll be in touch.” McFarlane put the revolver into his pocket.

Eamon, who was in no doubt about the need for security—he couldn't even tell Davy—had been willing to wait, as he waited now, and wished to God Erin would get a move on.

The Provos weren't the only security-conscious lot in this place, but Eamon knew that security's only as good as those who try to make it work, and for two years the Provo inmates had been working at undermining the prison warders. He had gradually learned the intricacies of the planning. He thought back as he waited.

The first step had been to ensure that one H block, H-7, was rid of any Loyalist prisoners. The Provo leadership had deliberately provoked fights with the Protestant bastards. Not one was in H-7 now. Good riddance to bad rubbish.

Then Bic McFarlane and his mates had put pressure on the Northern Ireland Office to let the prisoners work, maybe get back some of the remission time that they'd lost during the blanket protest. For a year, many of the men of H-7 had worked as orderlies. This gave them access to each of the block's eleven electronic gates. The screws had got used to them being there, and close to the guards. That was bloody important. If it were going to work, twenty-six guards would have to be captured before they could raise the alarm. Total surprise would be everything. Surprise, and five other small handguns all brought in the same way that Erin was bringing hers.

Eamon stood up and peered at the window in the entrance door. There she was. About bloody time.

The screw let her in. She sat opposite Eamon.

“What kept you?”

“Body search. The ould bitch noticed a piece of string hanging out of me.”

“She didn't…?”

“Not at all. I told her I was on my monthlies.”

“Good lass. I'll get it from you in a wee minute.” He turned to where another inmate sat several tables away, ignoring the woman opposite, staring at Eamon, who nodded.

The man turned to his visitor, smashed his fist on the tabletop, leapt to his feet, and yelled, “You fucking slut, you've been screwing Sean Molloy.”

“Have not.”

“I'll fuckin' well kill you. I'll kill you dead.” The man rose to his feet, spittle flecking his lips.

Two warders rushed to restrain him.

“Now,” Eamon hissed. “Now.”

Erin passed him the package under the table. It slid through his fingers, clunked on the floor and slithered into plain view. He froze like a rabbit in a car's headlights. Erin slipped off her chair, scooped up the package and thrust it at him. Eamon dropped it down the front of his shirt and tried to control his breathing.

“Jesus, you done good, love.” He had to raise his voice to be heard over the yelling of the decoy.

“Aye,” she said, and ran her tongue over her upper lip. “And I hope you'll do good for me soon.”

What was it about women? Eamon wondered. Was it fear that made Erin horny? “Soon, love.”

“Now would be good,” she said with a grin. “I'm not wearing no knickers.”

He laughed and felt the package slip down under his shirt, the gun hard against his belly. It wasn't as hard as the bulge in his pants.

“I've to go now,” he said. “But it won't be long. You just bide.”

“I will.”

“Right. And, Erin?”

“What?”

“Don't be wearing any panties that day either.” He smiled and blew her a kiss, rose, and walked over to the nearest screw.

“'Scuse me, sir. Permission to go to the lavatory?”

“Go on.”

Eamon headed for the toilet. His smile faded. To get back to his cell, he'd have to pass a body search. He knew there was only one way to do that. Pushing the Vaseline-lubricated package into his own rectum was going to be a real pain in the arse.

 

CHAPTER 2

VANCOUVER. THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 15, 1983

Fiona Kavanagh looked out over Burrard Inlet. White sails and multihued spinnakers studded English Bay, the yachts' hulls tiny among the lines of moored cargo ships. Beyond Point Atkinson, Bowen Island tumbled down to Cowan Point and was etched against a sky as colourful as a Fair Isle sweater. Across the Strait of Georgia, the sun behind the mountains of Vancouver Island slipped into the Pacific Ocean and dyed clouds pink and mauve and scarlet.

The air was redolent of salt and drying seaweed, the sand of Kits Beach warm between her bare toes. Fiona let the evening's peace wash over her. Kits Beach was her “Lake Isle of Innisfree,” where “peace comes dropping slow,” and for her reflected everything about the tranquility of her new country. Vancouver was a far cry from tiny, self-absorbed, war-torn Northern Ireland, where the Troubles, the civil war, had ground on remorselessly since 1969.

She shook her head.

She'd sworn to put Belfast and the senseless slaughter behind her when she'd left that city in 1975 to come to Canada. The shootings, bombings, riots, and maimings were things to be forgotten.

She made it a point to turn off the sound of the newsreader's voice when the images of armoured cars on the streets, yelling youths hurling Molotov cocktails, and police and troops in body armour appeared on the television screen. Canadians always seemed to ask as soon as they found out where she had come from, “What is really going on in Northern Ireland? Is it ever going to end?” She would deflect the question by saying, “It's just the next chapter in a row that's been going on for eight hundred years. I'm from there and
I
don't understand it.” That was a damn sight easier than trying to explain the convolutions of Irish politics, and allowed her to move the conversation away from a subject she preferred not to discuss.

A line of darkness crept up the North Shore Mountains. The west wind strengthened. Fiona bent, slipped on her shoes, and headed for her apartment in the big old house on Whyte Avenue.

Canada had been a new start for her—a new country and a new life. And, she thought, she'd succeeded fairly well in trying to become a Canadian, but, even after eight years, she couldn't completely escape from her heritage.

And why should she?

Ireland, Northern Ireland, was where she'd been born, raised, educated, where she had family and friends. Northern Ireland had formed her, made her what she was today.

Before the Troubles it had been a grand wee spot. A place to be remembered with affection, even if, after eight years, the memories were fading.

Most of the memories. Not all.

She'd fallen in love there in Belfast, not once but several times, and she half-remembered with affection those men. All save one. He still lived somewhere deep in her—but he was there and she was here.

Since coming to Canada, she'd had a number of short romances—but the right man? Perhaps Tim Andersen. She'd been seeing him for eight months, and he was meant to phone tonight. There might be a message waiting for her on the machine. She walked faster.

She nearly bumped into one of the great driftwood logs at the edge of the beach. “Watch where you're going, stupid.” She'd better stop talking to herself. Back home, folks used to say that to do so was the first sign of madness.

Home? Dammit all, Vancouver
was
her home now. She had a good job, vice principal of Lord Carnarvon Elementary School, friends, new and interesting things to do. There was Gastown to visit, Stanley Park. The Gulf Islands were a short ferry ride away. Theatre, and her particular joy, the opera. And she could go where she pleased without being body searched, having always at the back of her mind the nagging worry that at any moment the day could be ripped apart by an explosion.

She crossed Arbutus Street onto Whyte Avenue, fumbling in her pocket for the front-door key. At home, McCusker would be waiting for supper.

She smiled as she thought of the overweight tortoiseshell cat. In her Belfast life, she'd had a ginger McCusker. He'd been kicked to death by a British soldier. Poor McCusker. Why, she wondered, had she given the same name to the stray kitten that'd appeared on her doorstep four years ago? Sentimentality? Had she needed something from her past to hold on to as a frightened child clutches a teddy bear? She opened the front door of the building.

She heard McCusker yowling, hurried down the hall, opened her door, and a spherical tortoiseshell hurled himself at Fiona's shins, the cat's howls changing to a basso rumbling.

Fiona bent and scratched the animal's head.

“Did you miss me?”

“Aaarghow.”

“No, you didn't. You're missing your grub. Come on.” Fiona walked into the kitchen, took out a bag of Tender Vittles, and poured the pellets into a bowl. McCusker attacked the food as if he hadn't eaten for weeks.

“Time you went on a diet.” Fiona glanced down. “Maybe it's time I went on one myself.”

She left the kitchen and entered the small living room, parquet-floored and two-thirds covered with two Persian rugs. They'd cost her a fortune, but apart from McCusker, who had she to spend her money on?