They sat facing each other at a table in the American diner next to the hotel, sipping a couple of beers. He’d checked them into separate, adjacent rooms, though he’d been tempted to book a twin. He had a strong urge to protect her and that meant keeping her close and in sight, but concluded that, following their experience earlier that day in the cottage, she could take care of herself when necessary. He also worried that, left alone, she might slip away in the middle of the night, but was certain that if she wanted to disappear, or indeed, wanted him to disappear, she would simply say so. It was really none of his business, until she said it was.
When she’d told him about Louise Harrison, he’d felt physically sick. No matter how much he tried to rationalise it he couldn’t shake off the fear that somehow his message had been the cause. If only he had waited. He’d pretended to be Sineád O’Callaghan, and now Louise was dead. If he hadn’t been so impatient to find the woman he knew as Siobhán, Louise might still be alive. He couldn’t possibly have known he might be putting a journalist in danger, but it didn’t alter the facts. He’d have to confess what he’d done, but she’d have to explain the connection. He watched her across the table, and she looked edgy yet downcast, wholly understandable in the light of today’s events. If she were a normal human being, it was possible she was concealing the shock, and at any time, that could manifest itself in unpredictable ways.
“Caitlín. I need to tell you something.” Her eyes had been scanning the restaurant, just as they had on that first night; ever vigilant, wary of danger. “I retrieved two emails from Louise Harrison on your phone.” Her eyes shifted to him instantly. “The fake one that contained the tracker virus and the second one alerting you and everyone else to it. I assume that’s why you binned the phone?”
She nodded. “It’s not the first time I’ve chucked a phone away. They’re a feckin’ curse so they are, especially if you want to keep your head down, but you can’t do anythin’ without them.”
“I sent Louise an email.”
She looked shocked. “Why?”
“I sent her an email from your phone, purporting to come from you. I wanted to speak to her in case she knew where you were, but you had virtually no contacts and she wasn’t one of them.” He primed himself for the attack, the furious criticism that was bound to come his way. If he really had done something diabolical and over-stepped the mark, she wouldn’t hesitate to tell him. He didn’t know much about her, but he knew her that well at least.
She opened her mouth to say something, but then appeared to think better of it, as if mulling something over, unsure of how to say it, or whether even to say it or not. “She wasn’t a friend. She contacted me a while back. I never had reason to call her myself.” The guilt returned in spades threatening to overwhelm him, but this time it was guilt at the relief; relief he wasn’t to blame for the death of a friend. It simply wasn’t his fault, but it had to be connected and only she knew how.
“But you were, are, visibly upset.” A waitress brought them two plates piled high with high calorie, stodgy, fried food and they picked at it with little enthusiasm. “I thought it was something I had done.”
“You’re right, I am upset. It’s just shock. But it’s not your fault. It’s mine.”
“How come? She contacted you.”
“Aye, but it’s somethin’ involvin’ me and if I’d done things differently this might not have happened.”
She’d given him an opening and he took it. “Well, I can’t help you with that because I have no idea who you are or what you’ve done.”
“You don’t want to know either. Like I said, you should go back to your life and leave me with mine.”
“I haven’t got a life, really. I have a demanding daughter who I love dearly, but no job, no hobbies, no interests and I’ll soon be homeless.”
“Homeless? Why?”
“I’m selling the house and I don’t know where I’m going next or what I’m going to do, other than make Charlie’s every wish come true.” He saw a flicker of a smile and it encouraged him, so he pressed on. “I bumped into a beautiful and enigmatic colleen who needs help of some sort and at this precise moment, she’s my only focus.”
“Spare me the Irish cliché shite.” She was smiling now but he knew it wouldn’t last. “Louise Harrison is not the first journalist to be murdered in Northern Ireland and she won’t be the last. They all know the risks. They can’t report on anythin’ without gettin’ entangled in the tentacles of extremism; criminals who seem to operate with impunity.”
“So how does that affect you, other than you’re being chased by UVF extremists who claim you stole something from them.”
“I do have somethin’ they want but I didn’t steal it and it doesn’t belong to them anyway.”
“And that’s what Louise was reporting on?”
“No. She was reportin’ on somethin’ totally different.”
“You’ve lost me already. I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.”
“You don’t want to know. You don’t know what you’re dealin’ with.”
He affected a laugh. “Ha! Do you know that’s exactly what those two thugs said to me last week?”
“Well, they were right about that, so they were.” She put a triple cooked chip in her mouth, and he stared at her, waiting for more, but she didn’t take the bait, just chewed and stared him out.
“Tell me. Everything.”
***
The sound of the chopper woke Mikey McGee from his stupor, an inevitable consequence of injury and tiredness after his trauma. Declan must have weighed sixteen stone and getting him up and over the lip of the BMW’s boot even for a fit and healthy man would have been a major task, but for someone in his state, it was a monumental effort. He’d then driven for an hour along narrow lanes that criss-crossed barren countryside in the pitch dark until he found the clearing to which he had been directed by the coordinates. He’d been told that once airborne, the chopper would take only twenty minutes to get there.
He dragged himself out of the car and buttoned his jacket, the cold wind whipped up by the chopper blades adding to the chill factor, but it helped clear his head. He opened the farm gate and staggered across the field towards the Bell 412 that was landing in front of him, the RBM livery distinct and unique with its orange and white fuselage embellished by the cross of St George and the purple star on the tail fin.
The machine settled into the soft grass. Four men he knew spilled out and walked towards him: Sean, Conor, Michael and Jerry, the latter two carrying small holdalls, all dressed in black outdoor jackets sporting the RBM logo, Conor carrying a collapsible stretcher under one arm.
“How’s it goin’ Mikey?” shouted Sean above the whine of the engines and the swoop of rotor blades.
“Feckin’ bad, man.”
“Where’s Declan?”
“In the boot.”
He led them to the car and popped the boot and they all peered in to take a look. Declan’s lifeless eyes stared back at them; the blueness of his skin already apparent in the dimness of the interior light.
“Poor fecker,” said Michael. “What the feck happened to him?”
“English fecker shot him, so he did. He and the bitch got away.”
“You took a whack yersel’.”
“Aye. It’s nothin’.”
“Come on,” said Sean. He and Conor lifted the body out and laid it on the stretcher, picking up Declan’s gun which lay on the floor of the boot. He put out a hand towards Mikey, who reluctantly reached inside his jacket and pulled out his own. Michael and Jerry threw their bags in the back of the BMW and got inside. “Come with us Mikey. The boys’ll drive home.”
Mikey staggered back across the field following his two colleagues carrying the stretcher and watched them hoist it onto the floor behind the second row of seats. Conor helped him into the front row and Sean got in behind next to Rowan Maguire. The chopper was warm, but Mikey was still shivering when it lifted off and banked right towards the south west. Maguire sat grim faced behind him, padded jacket, RBM cap and headphones over his ears. He and Sean had a brief conversation which Mikey couldn’t hear, and his boss nodded sombrely. He tapped Mikey on the shoulder and pointed to the headphones dangling on a hook. Mikey dutifully put them on and turned in his seat to face Maguire, grimacing as the throbbing pain resumed in his skull.
“What happened down there Mikey?”
“We had them Mr Maguire, then the English fecker jumped Declan, grabbed his gun and shot him, so he did.”
“And what were you doin’ at the time, Mikey? Gettin’ yer hole with the hoor?”
“No Mr Maguire. She had a feckin’ poker and I was tryin’ to get it off her.”
“Looks like she gave you a whack, Mikey.”
“Sure did Mr Maguire. I got knocked out and they ran off.”
“So this English fecker shot Declan, dropped his gun and ran off without shootin’ you too?” Mikey tried to think of a good reason why that could have happened but before he could open his mouth, Maguire continued. “Why is it then, that Declan’s gun has a full clip, but yours is one bullet missin’.” Mikey opened his mouth to speak but no words came out. “Just tell the truth for God’s sake. I have to tell my wife her brother’s dead and I need to be able to tell her what happened, whatever it is.” Mikey took the opportunity he was being offered.
“It was an accident, so it was,” he babbled, his panic growing as all three men stared at him. “The fuckin’ bitch whacked me with a poker and my gun went off. Hit Declan. It was an accident, swear to God!”
Maguire looked out of the window and down at the blackness below. There were no lights anywhere; they were already halfway home and over the North Atlantic. He put a hand on Mikey’s shoulder.
“See? It’s always better to tell the truth, so it is.”
“Yes Mr Maguire.”
Mikey turned back to the front, suitably chastened. Maguire glanced at Sean and nodded grimly. Sean leaned forward and slipped the leather garotte over Mikey’s head, pulling back with all his strength as his victim’s body twisted and turned, feet kicking the pilot’s seat in front of him, gurgling noises emanating from his strangulated throat. He passed out within thirty seconds.
Conor leaned over and pulled on the sliding door. A gale of cold air flooded the cabin, and he used both feet to push Mikey’s unconscious body towards the opening. A few kicks more was all it took to send Mikey McGee flying out into the black void over the cold dark ocean.
***
She took a swig from the beer bottle and looked him in the eye. “Before I do that, you’d better tell me what you’re plannin’ to do next; whether you’re really ready for this, because if I tell you, it’ll feck with your head, so it will. Once you’re in, you won’t be able to get out. You’ll be just like me; on the run until some jaffa tracks you down and puts a bullet in your head. They can’t do that to me until I tell someone, then I’m wasted. That’s my insurance and while you hang around me, you’re in big danger. What’s Charlie goin’ to do if her daddy gets wasted by jaffas?”
“I can’t answer any of that because I don’t know what you’re going to tell me.”
“Catch 22, so it is.”
“Charlie will be able to look after herself, so don’t worry about that…”
“I’m sure your daughter’s lovely, but she’s not top of my list of priorities.”
“I mean, don’t let that get in the way of sorting out this business, or whatever you want to call it.”
“Aw well that’s alright then.” The sarcasm hurt, but what hurt more was that she continued to keep him at arm’s length. For as long as he remained in the dark, he was impotent; unable to help her. “You need to understand. This is none of your business. Now you can make it your business if you want, but I don’t recommend it. You’ll be duckin’ and divin’ forever. Just like me. That’s what’s in store.”
“Not if we fix the problem.”
“It can’t be fixed.”
“There’s no problem that can’t be solved.”
“You said ‘fixed’.”
“Same thing.”
“No it isn’t. Fixed means put in order, repaired, damage rectified, back to normal. There’s no normal here, the feckin’ genie’s out and no one’s goin’ to get the fecker back in the bottle.” He leaned back, exasperated and intoxicated in equal measure. And it had nothing to do with the beer. She leaned across the table and lowered her voice as if for emphasis. “I didn’t ask for this. I was given a curse and I have to live with it and now two people are dead because of it.”
“I wouldn’t worry about an ugly UVF villain.”
“I’m not talkin’ about him. He doesn’t count. Two good people are dead; there’s goin’ to be more if I don’t give them feckers what they want and even more if I do. Do you want to be one of them?”
“Are you asking me if I’m prepared to take a chance? Take a chance on you?” She waited, never taking her eyes off him, challenging him to put up or shut up. But her eyes glistened, and he knew she was on the edge. It was all a front. The aggression was her only protection and perhaps, in her eyes, his too. All she had to say was ‘help me’ and he would move heaven and earth if he could. Her situation could well be impossible, but he wasn’t convinced. He was only convinced of one thing. He had no doubts. “Tell me.”