Now and in the Hour of Our Death (26 page)

She stood in a vaulted chamber from which two side rooms extended, and a smaller passage directly ahead made the whole structure cruciform.

She'd read about these monuments to a long-gone culture and knew that the grave had been built between 2,500 and 2,000 years BC, long before Saint Patrick had banished the Druids and brought Christianity to the Celts. Why, she wondered, had neolithic grave builders chosen to lay out their creation in the shape of a cross?

This passage grave was one of nearly three hundred similar structures scattered throughout Ireland. The largest was at Newgrange in County Meath. That one was much bigger, forty-five feet high, with a diameter of eighty-five yards. There were almost one thousand megalithic court graves and Bronze Age wedge graves. Court graves, so-called because of their oval or semi-oval courts from which galleries ran, had been built in the fourth millennium. There was one here, in Tyrone, at Ballywholan. Wedge graves were simpler, and triangular. The most famous was The Hag's Bed in Labbacallee, County Cork. Every one of those ancient burial chambers had been built on high ground, all except this one.

It was in a hollow, which was why it had never been found by the archaeologists who scoured the country for evidence of their forebears.

She looked all around and could still marvel, as she had done the first time Da had taken her here, at the work that had gone into building the place. The walls of the main and side chambers were huge vertically placed stones. In the gaps between these standing rocks, smaller pieces had been packed to provide stability. The vaulted roof was corbeled, the flat overhead stones neatly supported by the walls. Here and there, deep grooves in the walls glistened in the bulbs' light, and the packed-earth floor beneath the runnels was darker than the rest. Moss grew on the stones beside the ever-dribbling water, water that had dripped for centuries.

What had driven the builders to such efforts on behalf of their dead? The Celts must have been making elaborate preparations for an afterlife. They must have believed in it devoutly.

Why, she wondered, couldn't she? Cal had pulled himself together after his initial fit of despondency, and she knew the solace he was taking from his trust in the hereafter.

She couldn't. She'd learned too much science in her years at university. She needed proof of the existence of a supreme being. There was no proof. Only belief, and belief required an act of faith. Her faith was in Ireland; in the land with its little fields and turf bogs, mallard in the bulrushes, snipe in the marshy hollows, brown trout in the streams, salmon in the rivers; in the golden sunsets over the Sperrins and the driving rains that swept down from those mountains; in her people, contentious brawlers who could sing and recite poetry, always on for a bit of
craic,
loyal, laughing in fun, ferocious in anger; in people who, like her, wanted nothing more than to rule their own kingdom, free from outside interference, people who wanted it so much they would die for it—as Fiach had died.

She had no faith, none at all, in a God who, if He had created man in His own image, must have a homicidal streak a mile wide, a God who could stand aside when Fiach was murdered. How could anyone believe that a caring deity, a caring, omnipotent God, could have let the human race slaughter each other for millennia—in His name, for Christ's sake?

The priests and the nuns had neatly dodged that question with their doctrine of free will. Man could choose, they said. Man was responsible for his choices.

Erin thought God, if He existed, was the ultimate lawyer who had written the Ten Commandments, then added the free will escape clause to the contract with humanity to absolve Himself from any responsibility for His creation.

So be it. She was responsible for her own life, and she would make those choices, exercise her free will gladly.

She'd broken the sixth commandment not once but several times, and—she shivered in the chill of the grave—she'd come here to make sure that everything was ready for Eamon and his friends so that they could rest and be safe—before they killed again.

Erin walked through the central chamber, moving to one side to skirt a folding, green-felt-topped card table and four wooden chairs that would make places for four men to eat the simple meals that she had prepared and put in an ice chest that sat beside one wall. It had made sense to put the food and its accompanying gallons of bottled water on the wall opposite the one where a ceramic convection heater and a one-ring electric element were plugged into an overhead light socket. Beside the heater, a box full of plastic plates and steel cutlery kept company with an electric kettle. Half a dozen car batteries that could be used in an emergency if the electrical power failed were lined up beside the kettle.

She paused to look into the side chambers. Two camp beds were crammed into each. All of the beds had sleeping bags and pillows. The accommodations, she thought, weren't exactly like the rooms of Belfast's Grand Central Hotel, but the men who would come here should be warm, dry, and fed.

She stepped into the room that was the extension of the passage beyond the arms of the cross. It held a chemical latrine close to one stone wall. Propped against the other wall were ten ArmaLite rifles, two old Lee-Enfield bolt-action .303s, and boxes of .223 and .303 ammunition, stacked beside the last weapon.

Erin ran her hand along the smooth metal of one gun. She sniffed at her fingers and rubbed her thumb across the pads of four fingers. The smell of gun oil and the smoothness of the film reassured her that the oil had done its work of protecting the weapons from corroding in the dampness of their hiding place.

Some of these automatic rifles had been in here for years, only being brought out for some specific mission like her first with Eamon and subsequent ones with Eamon or Cal and—dammit—there should have been six more and a load of Semtex. There would have been if Fiach hadn't—no more tears, she told herself. There was work to be done, and the arms in here would be more than enough for what she had in mind. As long as Sammy could manufacture the necessary explosives. He'd be arriving at the farm anytime now. And so—the thought pleased her—so would Eamon and, as he had told her, three other men. And they'd be safe in here.

Now she saw the old grave not as an archaeological curiosity but through Da's eyes as a sanctuary that the Security Forces would not suspect existed. A place where Eamon and the men he'd be bringing with him would be safe—and close. A place from which, with care, they could move under cover of darkness to the farmhouse—or farther afield.

Eamon had warned her that he and his mates would only stay in Tyrone until the hue and cry died down, and then they would have to get right out of the country. They'd be more men to add to the swollen ranks of the “Wild Geese,” those who had been forced into exile from Ireland forever.

She understood why Eamon must leave Ireland, but she hated knowing that, although they'd be reunited after those three long years, he'd be taken from her again so soon. He'd said nothing more about his plans, but she could guess where his final destination would be. There were hosts of Irish sympathizers on the eastern seaboard of America in New York, Boston, Baltimore, Philadelphia. Hundreds of thousands of dollars annually flowed from them through NORAID, the Northern Ireland Aid Committee, into the Provisionals' coffers. The Irish-Americans who ran NORAID would keep Eamon safe in the United States and shelter him there, where she knew he'd be able to continue the struggle, raising funds, buying arms, succouring fugitives like himself.

He'd naturally expect her to go with him. Would she? She didn't know. Could she leave Ireland? Leave the farm? She swallowed and screwed her eyes shut. Could she abandon Fiach, cold and lonely in the soil of this land without her here to put flowers on his grave, with only Cal left behind to murmur, “
Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum…?
”

She hefted an ArmaLite, careless of the oil, and raised it to her shoulder, taking pleasure from how steadily her left arm supported the weight of the weapon. If she had to go with Eamon, it wouldn't be for a while, and at least they'd be here long enough to see firsthand that Fiach was not the only one in the ground. There was work to be done with this rifle, and soon.

She put the weapon back with its companions. Eamon had made his plans, and she would find out about them later tonight when he got here—and, by God, he'd find out about hers.

Eamon would fall in with her short-term wishes. He wouldn't have heard yet about Fiach's murder, but Erin had no doubt—none whatsoever—that, no matter what Cal might think about keeping their heads down, Eamon would want to mount an attack. He'd see the rightness of her decision about the timing of the raid. The struggle would only be won by hitting the Brits hard, again and again, until they were gone and Ireland belonged to the Irish, as it had when the Celts had built this grave to house their dead, never suspecting that one day it would hide the living.

She glanced at her watch. Two forty-five. If all had gone as planned, the escape would be well under way. She wished she knew what was happening but accepted that, for a few more hours, she'd have to bide patiently and wait as Irish women had always waited for their rebel men.

She sat on one of the wooden chairs, feeling the slats of the seat cold on her backside, and took one long last look around.

Cal and Fiach had done everything in here she'd asked of them. Fiach had done more. He'd given everything.

The Christ, the nuns had taught her, preached that, “Greater love hath no man than to lay down his life for a friend.” But Jesus hadn't known about the men and women who'd laid down their lives for Ireland: Brian Boruma, Maeve, Macha, Silken Thomas, Pádraic Pearse, Eamon Ceannt, Bobby Sands, and, over the centuries, ordinary, nameless people in their hundreds. The list went on and on. Their love of their country had known no bounds.

Theirs wasn't a love like hers for Eamon, passionate, sensual. It wasn't a love like hers for Cal, comfortable, familiar, everyday. It wasn't a love like hers for poor Fiach—she felt the tears come and let them flow—a mother's love, all-forgiving, protective. Their love for Ireland was deep in the bone, as was her own. And perhaps she
was
going to have to leave the land she loved.

Erin rubbed the tears away with the heel of her hand. She glanced at the tabletop and the small vase of cut flowers that she'd brought with her earlier today. They were, she knew, of no practical value. They were just her way of saying “welcome home.” And when they buried Fiach, she'd bring him flowers, too.

Erin stood and straightened her shoulders. She couldn't think of anything more that would need her attention. She crossed to the passage and turned off the lights. The central chamber was pitch dark with only a dim glow leaking in from the bulbs in the passage. She moved rapidly along the stifling tunnel and stuck her head out into daylight, pausing only to turn off the bulbs.

She passed through the bramble patch and gingerly parted the outermost stems. There was no sign of anybody who might be watching. Erin slipped out, stood, and dusted off her jeans. She looked across the farmyard and saw a solitary figure cycling down the farm road. That would be Sammy, and she and Cal had a lot to discuss with him before—and the thought warmed her—before Eamon arrived tonight under cover of darkness. By now, if all was going well, the men should be outside the walls of the Kesh.

She turned back to the briar patch and plucked a few more berries. She'd been right. This year there was going to be a bumper crop.

 

CHAPTER 23

THE KESH. SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 25, 1983

“Bumper. Bumper.” The words slammed along the corridors of H-7 and ricocheted off concrete walls.

Davy stifled his earlier misgivings, dropped his mop, and tugged at the gun in his pocket.

“Bu-u-u-u-mper.”

The gun's butt slipped in his sweaty hand.

“
Bumper.
”

He tightened his grip, pulled harder, and—it snagged in the pocket's lining.

“What are you up to, Davy?” Mr. Smiley asked. “Can I give you a wee hand?”

Davy gritted his teeth and hauled, feeling the material rip as the revolver tore free. He raised his gun hand, and as he cocked the hammer he saw the cylinder revolve and carry a live cartridge into the breech. A .25 bullet is so small, he thought, and so very lethal.

“Freeze, Mr. Smiley,” Davy said, aiming at the guard's middle jacket button. He noticed that the buttonhole was frayed and wondered why that should seem so important. He looked up and saw Smiley's eyes widen, his mouth fall open. Davy saw a tiny drop of mucus on a bristle in Smiley's left nostril. “Freeze…”

“For God's sake, Davy, don't be daft…”

“Don't make me shoot you.” Davy's finger curled on the trigger. His hand shook. “Just do as you're bid. I don't want…”

Smiley grunted and moved to grab Davy, but he took a step back and shifted the gun's foresight to cover the spot between Smiley's eyes, where the guard's dark eyebrows nearly met. Davy was relieved to see that his hand was now steady.

“Fuck you, McCutcheon.” Smiley pulled his truncheon from its holster. “You haven't the guts to use that thing.”

Davy held his aim. A fraction more pressure on the trigger and the man's brains, his whole life, would be splattered on the wall behind him. Davy tried to squeeze, but his finger refused to obey, and in that second Smiley raised the ebony baton, grunted, and smashed it down on Davy's arm. The blow brought tears to his eyes. His grip on the revolver loosened.

“You Fenian bastard…” Smiley grabbed the gun with one hand and raised his truncheon with the other, aiming a slash at Davy's face.

“Oh shite…” Davy tucked his head into his shoulder and threw up his left arm to protect himself.