Hybrid

Hybrid

Copyright © Shaun Hutson 2002

LIVING DEATH

The fly was caught in the web. He watched it writhe helplessly, tangling itself even more surely in the sticky strands that ensnared it.

The web had been spun across one of the windows of his office and it was the frantic buzzing and struggling of the fly that had first alerted him to its plight.

Now he sat back in his chair and watched.

And waited.

The spider emerged slowly from its hiding place. A bloated, corpulent specimen that barely seemed able to haul itself along the gossamer snare towards its victim.

But it came with lethal intent.

He watched as it stretched out one leg and placed it on the struggling fly.

Then, with surprising speed, it hugged its swollen body to the insect, drew it close and injected venom from its fangs. Clung on tightly as its victim was immobilised.

As living death took over.

Finally it began to weave a silken cocoon around the fly before hauling itself back to its hiding place.

It would feed later. On the still-living fly.

Christopher Ward watched for a moment longer then looked back at his desk.

The screen of his computer was blank. It had been for the last two hours. He hadn’t managed one single, solitary word since he’d wandered out of the house at ten that morning.

The cup of coffee he’d drunk at eleven hadn’t sparked any thoughts. Neither had wandering backwards and forwards in the office.

It was like that some days. Most days.

He stared at the screen. He placed his fingers on the keys and he waited.

And nothing happened. No outpouring of creativity. No flood of story-telling genius.

Just a blank screen. And a blank mind.

It wasn’t writer’s block. He knew how that felt. This was something new. More painful.

This was living death.

He glanced at the fly still suspended in the web. It twitched helplessly every now and then. He wondered if it was aware of its impending doom. He doubted it. Man was alone in being able to contemplate his own end. The only species able to appreciate the finality and inevitability of death.

Christopher Ward was caught in a web of his own.

LIVING IN THE PAST

Ward was in his early forties. Some people told him he looked younger. That on a good day he could pass for thirty-eight or thirty-nine.

But good days had been in short supply for the last two or three months.

Most mornings when he looked in the bathroom mirror the face that looked back at him was tired and pale. There were dark rings beneath his blue-grey eyes.

Hair that had once reached his shoulders had recently been cut to just above his collar. And now there was a little too much grey in those once-lustrous locks.

Twelve years ago it had all been so different. He’d greeted each day with optimism. Life was worth living then. So much happening. So much to look forward to.

And now what? Every day was a battle. It was a struggle to get out of bed. A battle to work. To force himself into his office for each day of a life that had changed so drastically.

Twelve years ago he had known only success. There had been more money than he knew what to do with. Exotic holidays. Parties. Expensive lunches.

Exorbitantly priced dinners.

And women. Lots of them. All eager. Wanting him.

He had seen no end to it. Why should there be an end?

But that end was looming. Waiting over the horizon.

Waiting like a bloated, hungry spider ready to devour him. To suck the life from him. The life he had loved so much. The life he had never really stopped to appreciate.

He’d read that life is like a tram journey and the trouble with most people is that they rarely get off the train to enjoy the sights.

Ward had been one of those people. And he regretted that now.

Regretted it because he knew that those days were gone for ever.

And he knew why. From deep inside he felt a twinge of a welcome and long absent emotion.

Anger. Anger at what he was about to lose. From anger grew hatred. From hatred rose fury.

He would use these feelings.

He glanced at the blank screen of the computer once more.

Ward pressed his finger down on one of the keys and held it there.

At least, he mused, there was something on the screen at last.

He got to his feet and wandered over to the top of the stairs. His office was a converted garage about ten yards from his house. A white door led into the side of the building, and fourteen steps led up to the place where he had worked for the last twelve years. The room was about twenty feet long, half that across.

Within these confines Ward had positioned two black ash desks, one supporting an old manual typewriter and the larger one a computer, several bookcases, a small stereo system and a sofa bed. A second door led to a toilet and shower.

He had a sink in one corner. A kettle stood beside it with tea bags, coffee and a jug of milk. He was self-sufficient inside his little kingdom.

He walked out of the house at ten in the morning and he walked back in at four in the afternoon. Same routine every day.

It was all he knew. All he had ever known. No matter where he had lived.The one-bedroom flat over a billiard hall at the beginning. The two-bedroom terraced-house he’d bought after the success of his first half a dozen novels.

The four-bedroom house with the tiny paved area at the back, sandwiched between a bakery and an old woman who he had known only as Mrs B.

And what he had now. What he’d had for the last twelve years. Financed with his success that seemed a hundred years in the past.

All that mattered now was the present and the future.

If he had one.

MARKET FORCES

Ward opened the back door and walked in. The house was silent.

He crossed to the sink, filled the kettle then plugged it in and waited for it to boil.

Ward wandered into the hall and saw that there was mail lying on the mat.

Bills. Junk mail. The usual.

Instead of returning to the kitchen he took a detour into the study. A huge bookcase lined one wall and in the centre section were his own books. Twenty titles under his name and the same number again under the various pseudonyms he had used over the years.

He looked at them blankly. They all counted for nothing now.

It was these books that had made him his money. Given him the lifestyle so many others could only envy. And it was these books that he still wanted to write but which no one wanted.

No publisher. No agent. They had told him that sales had not been good.

Markets had changed. Same old shit.

Well, fuck them. Fuck them all.

Something different was needed, apparently. Something original but easily pigeon-holed.

Books by celebrities were very popular. Models, second-rate comedians, has-been soap stars (those that weren’t trying to make it in the music business), even footballers were writing books. Any talentless

cunt with enough money to pay a ghost-writer and a good editor was capable of churning out a book and earning shit-loads of cash for it.

And then there were the household names who milked their own brand of repetitious bullshit while fawning publishers knelt at their feet to push ever-larger cheques into their grasping hands.

Add to these the comfortable middle-class writers who lectured on real life from the security of knowing it was a world they would never have to inhabit.

People with millions in the bank who crowed that money wasn’t everything, who complained about invasion of privacy during their six-page interviews, who were proud of how they’d been single mothers or record-shop employees or advertising men before they’d made it big. And who whined about how hard they’d had to work to get published when all it took was a generous publisher and an even more generous publicity department.

Ward despised them all. Even when he’d been successful he’d despised them. The whole fucking business stank. It stank of cowardice. Of duplicity. Of betrayal.

He heard the kettle boiling. Fuck it. He needed something stronger than coffee.

GASPING FOR AIR

Ward poured himself a large measure of Glenfiddich and swallowed it. He felt the amber liquid burn its way to his stomach, waited a moment then poured himself another.

It was cool in the sitting room despite the heat outside. The sun was shining and he could hear the sound of a lawnmower in the distance. One of his neighbours cutting the grass. Or perhaps one of their gardeners.

He smiled to himself.

He’d have one more drink then he’d go back out to the office. See if the break had released some trickle of creative juice.

It took two more drinks before he could bring himself to move.

Ward stood at the back door and peered towards his office. On one side of the building was a huge oak tree whose branches brushed against the windows and stonework like skeletal fingers. The sun glinted on the roof windows and he shielded his eyes. It really was a beautiful day.

He thought about the fly trapped and paralysed in the spider’s web.

A beautiful day.

Ward ran a hand through his hair and set off across the garden towards the office.

As he reached the door he heard the fax machine ringing, and hurried inside and up the stairs in time to see paper oozing from it.

Anything important?

No. It never was. Not any more.

He looked at the blank screen of the computer for a moment then sat down almost reluctantly in his chair.

‘Come on, come on,’ he murmured to himself. He could smell the whisky on his breath when he spoke.

Again he rested his fingers on the keys. Again he pressed one key a little too hard.

jjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj

It wasn’t funny this time.

He got to his feet and crossed to the bookshelf on the far side of the room.

Look at a book. There might be inspiration in there somewhere.

He stared at the titles.

Who Killed Hanratty?

Helter Skelter

Beyond Belief

Cannibalism: The Last Taboo

The Shrine Of Jeffrey Dahmer

The Encyclopaedia Of Serial Killers

Something clicked. Ward frowned. He read a few pages of Hunting Humans then put it down and returned to his desk.

There was a small plastic carriage clock on his desk. It showed 1.36.

He was still staring at it two hours later.

ROUTINE

One of the things that Christopher Ward had discovered during twenty-three years of professional writing was that routine was vital. Treat the whole thing as a job. Nothing more.

Despite what the pretentious bastards on The South Bank Show said, it was a job. End of story.

Every day he set himself a target of three thousand words. Ten pages.

At the beginning, he’d written fifteen, sometimes twenty in a day. That time of fresh enthusiasm and burning ambition, when the desire for success was paramount.

Once that success had been attained, the urgency faltered. He went from writing five novels in a year to just one. Earning that kind of money didn’t require him to burn the candle at both ends.

He had had it all. Big house. Big bank account. Big reputation. He was at the top of the tree.

But from the top there’s only one way to go. And it was the most uncomfortable ride Christopher Ward had ever experienced.

Now he was lucky if he completed five pages a day. But the routine still had to be adhered to. He could not

leave the office without having written something. At least one page before he would allow himself to move from his desk and return to the house. Or to wherever else he went to forget about what he’d just been through in the office.

It was important to keep the job and normal life separate, and never to think about the job when you weren’t behind the desk. Never.

He stared at the blank screen. Then at his notes. Then at his synopsis.

Christopher Ward began to type.

Fresh Skins

by Christopher Ward

PREFACE

JANUARY 23rd, 1991:

The grave was no more than three feet deep but it had taken over an hour to dig using the small shovel they’d given him.

They’d watched him toiling in the frost-hardened earth, and when he’d paused every now and then to catch his breath, they’d urged him on, forcing him to finish the task quickly.They were anxious to be out of the freezing night and back in the warmth. Away from this place.

Despite the cold he was sweating. Not all of it was due to his exertions.

A wreath of condensation clouded around him like a shroud.

Perhaps he would have been able to dig more quickly had one of the bones of his right forearm and several of his fingers not been broken. The cuts and bruises on his face and the cigarette burns on his arms weren’t helping either.

He hurled another shovelful of earth on to the pile before pausing for a second.

He could see them moving about agitatedly in the gloom. One of them visible only by the glowing tip of

his cigarette. The other was pacing back and forth in an attempt to keep warm, stopping every so often to stamp his feet, trying to revive his circulation.

Christ, it was cold.

The sky was cloudless. There’d been snow showers during the last twenty-four hours and a thin powdery layer was still covering the ground, hardened by the frost that dug icy barbs into everything.

The man standing in the grave had not seen the snow fall. The blindfold that had been over his eyes had ensured he saw nothing. It had only been removed an hour or so earlier. Then they had pushed the shovel at him and told him to dig.

One of the men wandered to the edge of the hole and peered down into the

depths. His companion glanced in too. They murmured something about it being deep enough. Three or four feet would do.

One snatched the spade from him. The other told him to stand still.

The man in the grave looked up but couldn’t make out their features in the blackness.

Not that it mattered any more.

He heard the slide on the automatic being worked. A metallic click in the freezing silence. He knew a round had been chambered.

The shot came seconds later. It caught him in the back of the head.

So did the second. And the third. The fourth was hardly necessary. Or the fifth.

The muzzle flashes erupted vividly in the blackness. The boom of the discharges were deafening in the stillness.

They waited until the sound had died on the wind then one reached for the shovel and the other began kicking clods into the freshly dug grave.

It would take a lot less time to fill it in, and for that they were thankful.

It was so cold.

One of them hawked and spat on the body then they continued covering it with earth.The other flicked a spent cigarette butt into the crude resting place.

Three or four feet was enough to hide the smell from carrion creatures. Foxes wouldn’t dig down that deep. And even if one did, who cared?

At least the job of filling in the grave warmed them up a little.

One of them looked at his watch.

Soon be done.

It was a start.

He glanced at the plastic carriage clock, then at his watch. He switched off the power and sat gazing at his own reflection in the blank monitor for a second.

Three pages. Better than nothing.

He got to his feet and headed for the stairs.

ESCAPE

Christopher Ward had found that one of the prerequisites for being a writer was a liking for solitude. He’d never been a very sociable person anyway, preferring his own company to that of others from an early age. Even so, when he wanted he could be as gregarious as the next person and actually appear to be enjoying it. But, deep down, Ward needed time on his own.

Even when he wasn’t working days would pass without him speaking more than ten words. These days a few muttered syllables on the phone was the full extent of his social interaction. And, of course, his visits to the cinema.

He had loved the cinema for as long as he could remember. Ever since his mother first took him to their local fleapit, somewhat inappropriately named The Palace, to see Planet of the Apes.

Like everything else, his cinema-going had changed over the years too. Now his local was one of the sixteen-screen multiplexes that had sprung up in most large towns.

Ward spent a large amount of time in the one that was just ten minutes’ drive from his house. So much

time in fact that many of the staff spoke to him as if he were a friend.

He watched everything. He had endured films like Pearl Harbor, he had tolerated pictures like Shakespeare in Love, and he had marvelled at masterpieces such as Gladiator. They offered an escape for him. A chance to sit in darkness for two or three hours and concentrate on the images before him.

Anything to forget his present predicament.

This particular day was cheap day. It was also pension day and most of the auditoria were populated by pensioners, usually complaining about how loud the sound was or muttering damning comments about the films shown in the trailers.

Ward parked his car in the large car park outside the building and walked in, glad to feel the air-conditioning after the heat of the sunshine. He took the escalator to the first floor where the cinemas were housed.

There were a number of restaurants and coffee bars on the same floor and he glanced over at them as he strode towards the box office.

He saw couples sitting talking. Laughing. Everyone, it seemed, had someone.

Except him.

He ambled into the short queue behind two pensioners and a couple of students and waited, scanning the electronic board behind the cashiers that displayed show times.

The pensioners were having trouble choosing between Captain Corelli’s Mandolin or Hannibal. Both based on bestselling books, Ward noted with annoyance.

They were still deciding when the students slipped past them and bought tickets for The Mummy Returns.

He felt like giving the old sods a prod in the back, telling them that they wouldn’t enjoy Hannibal and that Captain Corelli’s Mandolin was bullshit.

Instead, he too slipped past them and shoved a five-pound note through the small slot beneath the glass of the cashier’s position. He collected his change and headed off to the theatre showing X-Men 2.

The girl who tore his ticket smiled at him. She was pretty. Early twenties. He glanced at her gold name badge. Sheree.

He hurried to find a seat. The lights were dimming as he sat down. He was free for another two hours.

COME THE NIGHT

Ward hated the night. It gave him time to think. Thoughts crowded in like unwanted spectres.

He sat in front of the television, the images before him barely registering.

But after half a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, very little of anything was registering.

Alcoholic anaesthetic.

Apparently every drink killed a thousand brain cells. The first to go were memory cells.

Ward poured himself another drink and murdered a few more recollections.

By the time he’d finished the bottle, the clock on top of his TV showed 1.03

a.m. He struggled to his feet and switched off the late-night film, some Jean-Claude Van Damme shite. It could have been anything.

He slammed the living-room door behind him, set the burglar alarm and wandered upstairs.

It was a humid night and Ward wasn’t surprised to hear the first rumblings of thunder in the distance. He undressed in the darkness and stood gazing out over his considerable back garden and up at the cloud-filled sky.

Far away there was a silent fork of lightning. It cut through the clouds like a silver spear and was followed, seconds later, by a loud clap of thunder.

He watched the sky, watched the darkness. Felt his head spinning.

He glanced in the direction of his office, clearly visible from his bedroom window. There was a dull grey glow coming from inside.

Ward blinked hard and sighed. Had he forgotten to turn the monitor off again?

There was another flash of lightning, the silver gleam glinting on the velux windows of the office.

Ward sat on the edge of the bed for a moment then lay down.

The storm grew louder.

It was a long time before he slept.

RESUMING HOSTILITIES

Blank screen. Headache.

Christopher Ward massaged the back of his neck with one hand and exhaled deeply.

It wasn’t a hangover. He’d had enough of those over the years to know the difference.

The storm that had raged for most of the night had brought with it only a little rain and the grass had been virtually dry when he’d made his way out to the office that morning.

An hour ago to be precise. A painful, thought-free, tormented hour.

Finally he re-read what he’d written the day before.

Then he rested his fingers on the keys and began to type.

BELFAST, NORTHERN IRELAND, PRESENT DAY:

There were two pounds of explosive beneath the bus seat, wrapped carefully in a black plastic bin liner and secured by gaffer tape. No one but the bombers knew it was there.

Certainly none of the eighteen passengers who were crowded on to the vehicle as it moved through Belfast city centre.

Not the driver who brought the bus to a halt in North Street. He smiled courteously at every new passenger as they dropped their fare into the small metal dish. Some took the change. Others waved away the few pence he offered as if it were some kind of tip.

The driver smiled, waited until the last of the new batch was safely aboard then hit the button that shut the automatic doors.They closed with a loud hydraulic hiss and the bus pulled out into traffic once more.

As the driver swung into Royal Avenue he peered to one side to catch sight of the spire of St Anne’s Cathedral jabbing skyward at the banks of cloud that were scudding over the city.

Most of the seats were already taken. In his rear-view mirror, the driver could see a young woman struggling to puil a baby’s bottle from a bag. She offered it to her child and the boy (he assumed it was a boy as it was dressed in blue) sucked hungrily at the teat. Two middle-aged women were chatting animatedly, sometimes glancing back at the feeding child and murmuring happily to it while its mother ran a hand through her tousled hair and tried to stop her shopping bags from tumbling over as the bus rounded a corner.

There was another stop further ahead and two passengers rose, preparing to alight there. The driver could see more than a dozen people waiting to take their places.

He swung the bus in close behind a Datsun that was waiting in the bus lane, hazard lights blinking. He hit his hooter twice and the Datsun moved off.

The bus doors opened to expel the two passengers and welcome the newcomers. As they filed on, the driver looked at his watch. Shift nearly over, thank God.

The beginnings of a headache were gnawing at the base of his skull. He was sure his wife was right and he needed glasses. A combination of that and the concentration needed to guide a bus through Belfast’s busy centre usually left him needing to swallow a couple of Nurofen by the end of the day. Perhaps once he got his glasses he wouldn’t have that trouble. His appointment with the optician was at nine the following morning. Or was it nine-thirty? He’d check when he got home.

He was about to close the doors when three young children came hurtling towards the bus shouting and

gesturing. They were all wearing grey uniforms with ties askew and buttons undone. Pulled off in one case, he noticed. No more than eleven or twelve years old.

They hurried aboard and dumped their money in the tray. The last of them broke wind as he passed and looked apologetically at the driver who merely waved him away. A chorus of chuckles greeted the boy.

They made their way noisily towards the back, past the young woman feeding her baby. Past the middle-aged women still chatting loudly. Past an old man counting coins in the palm of his hand.

The boys sat down and one reached into his satchel for a bag of pick ‘n’ mix.

They started chattering, their voices mingling with those of the other passengers.

The driver swung the vehicle into Castle Street, narrowly avoiding a cyclist.

Who in their right mind rode a bloody bike in a city centre? The driver shook his head.

Four seconds later the bomb exploded.

In places blood had sprayed several feet across the road and pavement. It radiated from the gutted remains of the bus, its coppery odour mingling with the stink of petrol, burnt rubber, incinerated metal and, worst of all, the sickly sweet stench of seared flesh.

As well as the remains of the bus chassis, shattered glass from the vehicle and also from nearby shops was spread all over the thoroughfare like crystal confetti. Twisted metal hurled in all directions by the murderous blast was also strewn over a wide area.

Cars caught in the explosion stood abandoned.Those closest were almost as pulverised as the bus itself. Windscreens, smashed by the massive concussion blast, looked as if they’d been staved in by an invisible hammer. A wheel lay in the road. Close by was a scorched air freshener in the shape of a pine tree, and the head of a ‘Kenny from South Park’ figure, ripped from the foam-filled body by the force of the detonation.

Each one of these pieces of debris had blue-and-white or yellow tape around them. A larger piece of tape had been tied around the entire twenty-yard radius of the bomb-blasted bus. It bore the legend: POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS.

Uniformed RUC men moved back and forth, some charged merely with keeping ever-curious passers-by from stopping too long to gaze at the scene of carnage.

For every man dressed in the familiar blue serge uniform of the local constabulary, there were plain clothes officers, bomb-squad members and forensics men. The full complement of experts needed in the aftermath of such an event and God alone knew their expertise had been needed often enough in the city during the past thirty years.

Several police cars, their blue lights turning silently, were parked at both ends of the street. Further barriers to those who could bear to peer at the devastation.

All of the dead and injured had been ferried away by a fleet of ambulances more than two hours ago. Those that remained within the cordoned-off area had a purpose.

All those outside looked on with a mixture of revulsion and relief.

There but for the grace of God …

Sean Doyie brought the Orion to a halt close to one of the RUC cars and swung himself out. He dug a hand into the pocket of his leather jacket and retrieved a packet of Rothmans, glancing around as he lit a cigarette, shielding the flame of the Zippo with his hand. He sucked on the cigarette then walked purposefully towards the blue-and-white tape, his long, brown hair blowing in the breeze that had sprung up in the last half hour.

Doyle ducked under the tape and looked impassively at the remains of the bus.

There was a huge hole in one side of the chassis and most of the roof was missing. What remained was blackened and twisted. He stepped over the remnants of a double seat as he advanced through the maelstrom of activity.

‘Hey.’

He heard the voice but didn’t stop walking. Heavy footsteps behind him.

‘You’re not allowed in here,’ said the same voice close to his ear.

He turned and saw a tall RUC constable looming before him.

Doyle sucked on his cigarette and slipped one hand into the pocket of his jeans. He pulled out a slim leather wallet and flipped it open allowing the policeman to see the ID.

‘All right?’ said Doyle flatly. He held the man’s gaze.

The tall man nodded and watched as the leather-jacketed newcomer made his way among the dozens of personnel, occasionally stopping to speak with one of them or examining a piece of wreckage.

Doyle stopped beside a particular piece of twisted metal and ran an index finger over it. He sniffed at the digit. The oily residue smelt of marzipan.

‘Semtex,’ he said to a suited man with round glasses who had joined him.

‘About three pounds of it,’ the man told him, removing his glasses and cleaning the lenses on his tie.

‘Remote control or timer?’

The man looked vague.

‘How did they detonate the fucking thing?’ Doyle snapped.

‘Remote control as far as we can tell. There wasn’t much to go on as you can

see.’

Doyle took a drag on his Rothmans.

‘Who are you anyway?’ the man wanted to know.

‘Sean Doyle. Counter Terrorist Unit.’

The man looked him up and down.

‘Where’s the boss?’ Doyle wanted to know.

The man hooked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘He’s busy.’

‘So am I now’, Doyle said, and walked off in search of the man he sought.

Chief Inspector Peter Robinson was a powerfully built man with heavy jowls and sad eyes. He looked older than fifty. An illusion further fostered when he removed his cap to reveal a perfectly bald head.

Doyle wasn’t really surprised that the years had taken their toll on the policeman’s features. What had been happening in Northern Ireland over the past three decades was enough to give any bastard extra wrinkles. Especially those with the kind of responsibilities that Robinson held.

Doyle saw him standing with two plain clothes men close to the obliterated remains of the bus. The Cl was gesturing this way and that, occasionally pausing to take a call on his mobile phone.

Doyle took a final drag on his cigarette, lit another and ambled towards the little gathering. One of the plain clothes men stepped towards him but Doyle flashed his ID and the man backed off again.

Robinson finished his call and pushed the Nokia back into his overcoat pocket.

‘Doyle,’ he said. ‘When did you get here?’

‘About four hours too late looking at this lot,’ said the counter terrorist nodding towards the bus.‘What’s the SP?’

‘Five dead, twenty-six injured. Two on the critical list,’ Robinson told him.

‘Any ideas?’

‘It was a bomb,’ said one of the plain clothes men. ‘I’d have thought that was fairly obvious.’

‘No shit, Sherlock,’ Doyle said sardonically. He blew a stream of smoke in the man’s direction. ‘I meant about who planted it, dickhead.’

The man took a step towards Doyle who remained where he was, his grey eyes holding the man’s gaze.

‘The bomb squad aren’t one hundred per cent sure yet,’ Robinson interjected, waving his subordinate back. ‘But it looks like the same kind of device that was used in Victoria Street a month ago.’

‘But that was defused,’ Doyle reminded him, digging his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket.

Robinson nodded almost imperceptibly.

‘Any prints?’ the counter terrorist continued.

‘Not yet,’ Robinson told him. ‘Even if there are I doubt they’re in the files.’

‘Fresh skins?’ Doyle mused.

Again Robinson nodded.

‘The Provisionals have nothing to gain by this kind of action,’ said the Cl.

‘It has to be some kind of splinter group. Continuity IRA. The Real IRA.’

‘INLA?’ Doyle murmured. ‘UVF? You’re spoilt for choice, aren’t you?’

There’d be no reason for a Protestant organisation to start planting bombs in the middle of the city,’ offered one of the plain clothes men.

There’s been no reason behind most of what’s happened here for the last thirty fucking years,’ Doyle said dismissively.

‘It looks like Continuity IRA,’ Robinson said. That would make the most sense.’

Doyle wandered towards the wreckage of the bus and Robinson joined him.

‘How close are you, Doyle?’ the policeman asked.

To finding who did this? Ask me in a couple of days.’

‘I’m asking you now! Robinson stepped in front of Doyle and stood motionless.

The counter terrorist regarded the policeman evenly for a second then shrugged. Two names keep cropping up,’ he said. ‘Matthew Finan and Declan Leary. They’re not in your files. I checked with the guarda and with my lot.

No trace of them there either. If they’re active, they’re new to this game.

Never been arrested. Never done time.’

‘Fresh skins, like you said.’

Doyle nodded. ‘It’s difficult getting descriptions,’ he continued.‘People aren’t exactly falling over themselves to talk about the Continuity IRA. You know that. But I’ll get them. Finan’s got family in Turf Lodge. Word gets around. It’s just a matter of time.’

That’s something we’re a little short of, Doyle.’

The counter terrorist looked around at the remains of the bomb-blasted bus and drew hard on his cigarette.

Tell me about it,’ he murmured.

A BLESSING

Sometimes it just happened. He didn’t know why but sometimes Ward regained his concentration and his drive and he wrote.

The words and ideas flowed with ease. The way they used to.

He glanced at the plastic carriage clock. 12.16 p.m.

He could go inside the house now and make a sandwich. Lose his train of thought. Lose what he had. What it had taken him so long to find.

He re-read the last two pages he’d written, gazing at them on the screen.

The words began to flow once more.

COUNTY DONEGALJHE REPUBLIC OF IRELAND:

Gravel crunched beneath the Renault’s tyres as it turned into the small car park.

The driver glanced around as he brought the vehicle to a halt. His companion also scanned the area behind the Tinker’s Dog, squinting into the gloom in an effort to pick out shapes.

There were only half a dozen cars so the pub was obviously quiet.

Declan Leary switched off the engine and sat back in his seat. ‘It looks like we’re early,’ he said, running a hand through his short, brown hair.

‘Maybe they’re inside,’ Matthew Finan speculated.

Both men were in their mid-twenties. Both dressed in jeans. Finan had a thick, black fleece on. Leary sported a denim jacket and sweatshirt.

Leary looked in the direction of the pub. ‘Maybe,’ he murmured.

Finan checked the dashboard clock then pushed open the passenger door and clambered out. He paused for a moment and looked around him.

The pub was surrounded on three sides by trees that grew thickly from gently sloping ground.The darkness made them appear impenetrable.

Finan moved quickly to the boot of the Renault and opened it. There was a long, slender, black leather bag inside. He took it out, tucked it under his arm and wandered past Leary, nodding as he did.

‘Only if you have to, Matty,’ said Leary quietly.

Finan nodded again and disappeared towards the trees.

Leary remained behind the wheel, closing his eyes for a moment. The drive had taken longer than he’d thought. He dug in the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a packet of aspirin. He swallowed one dry, wincing at the bitter taste it left in his mouth. He pulled open the glove compartment and found a half-empty bottle of Lucozade. He gulped it down gratefully then stuffed the empty bottle back where he’d found it.

Again he scrutinised the pub. He could go in. See if they were there.

Fuck it Let them come to him.

He peered at the wooded area surrounding the car park but Finan had been swallowed by the darkness.

Leary stepped out of the car and lit a cigarette. As he moved he felt the Glock 9mm automatic in the shoulder holster beneath his left arm.

He could hear the sound of running water nearby and realised that it was the river. The pub in Lifford was built very close to where the dark water of the Foyle divided in two, the fork of the Finn turning away into the Republic while the Mourne cut a-path into the valleys below the Sperrin mountains. The river divided just like the country, thought Leary, smiling at

his philosophical musings. Perhaps that was why they had chosen to call the meeting here. He sucked on his cigarette and waited.

Matthew Finan found a suitable spot about halfway up the slope. He turned and looked back into the dimly lit car park and found that he was able to pick out the shape of the Renault easily.

Moving quickly, he unzipped the black bag and removed the contents.

The Heckler and Koch HK8I rifle felt reassuringly heavy in his hands. He swung it up to his shoulder and peered through the nightscope, easily picking out Leary in its green hue.

Finan slammed in a twenty-round magazine and chambered one of the 7.62mm rounds, then he moved the weapon slowly and evenly until the cross-threads settled on Leary’s head.

Finan lowered it again and released the bipod on the front of the barrel. He propped the twin metal legs against a tree stump and settled himself into position on the damp grass.

He unwrapped a piece of chewing gum and pushed it into his mouth.

He waited.

Leary took a final drag on the cigarette then dropped it and ground it out beneath his foot. He rubbed his hands together and decided that due to the chill in the air he might be better off in the car. After all, he didn’t know how much longer he’d have to wait. Leary closed the door and turned the key in the

ignition. He allowed the heater to blow hot air for a few minutes, warming his hands at the vents, then he switched it off again.

‘Come on,’ he muttered, gazing first at his watch then at the dashboard clock.

He leant forward to switch on the radio.

There was a light tapping on the passenger-side window.

Leary turned quickly. He saw a figure outside the car. Almost unconsciously he allowed one hand to touch the butt of the Glock as he reached to unlock the door.

‘It’s open,’ he called.

The figure outside didn’t move.

‘I said, it’s open,’ Leary repeated. ‘Get in the front.’

The door opened and a thin-faced man with thick, black hair slid into the seat.

For long seconds he and Leary regarded each other indifferently.

It was the older man who spoke first.

‘You’re late,’ said James Mulvey.

‘It was a long drive,’ Leary told him.‘Perhaps if you’d picked somewhere nearer, I’d have got here sooner.’

Mulvey wasn’t slow to pick up the edge in Leary’s words. His eyes narrowed slightly.

‘Where’s Finan?’ he wanted to know.

‘He’s around.’

‘Why isn’t he with you? He needs to hear what we’ve got to say too.’

‘So, where’s Donnelly?’ Leary wanted to know.

Mulvey hooked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Inside.’

‘Go and tell him to come out here.’

‘It’s warmer inside. Come on, I’ll buy you a drink. The both of yous.’ Mulvey prepared to open the Renault’s door.

‘I’m fine here,’ Leary told him.‘Whatever you’ve got to say, say it.’

Mulvey drew in a deep breath. There’s no need for this, you know,’ he said gently. ‘We’re not the enemy.’

‘Are you sure about that, Jimmy?’ Leary chided.

Mulvey’s face registered anger.

‘You got me here to talk,’ the younger man said.‘So talk.’

Matthew Finan readjusted the sight on the HK8I and pressed his eye more firmly to it. He carefully arranged the cross-threads so that Mulvey’s head was at their centre.

Then he gently rested his finger on the trigger and waited.

James Mulvey shifted in his seat and allowed his gaze to travel from the windscreen to the interior of the car. There were several tapes scattered round the back seat. An old newspaper open at page three. Some sweet wrappers.

The car smelt of cigarette smoke.

‘It’s like a bloody tip in here,’ Mulvey observed.

‘You didn’t drag me halfway across Ireland to talk about the state of my fucking car. Jimmy,’ Leary snapped. ‘Now what do you want?’

Mulvey pulled at the lobe of one ear and regarded his younger companion.

‘What you’ve been doing has got to stop,’ he said finally.

Leary met his gaze and held it.‘Says who?’ he wanted to know.

‘Northern Command. What I’m telling you comes from the top. From the men in charge.’

‘From the men in charge of you,’ barked Leary, pointing an accusatory finger at the older man.

‘What you’re doing isn’t helping the Cause,’ Mulvey hissed. ‘Fucking bombs here, there and Christ knows where. Those days are over, Declan.’

‘For you, maybe.’

‘We’ve won. The Brits are prepared to give us what we want. Prisoners are being released every week. Jesus, your own brother comes out in two weeks.They haven’t insisted on decommissioning. There’s no need to keep fighting.’

‘It’s still not our country though, is it? Why did you join the organisation in the first place, Jimmy? Can you remember?’

Mulvey exhaled deeply. ‘I wanted my country back,’ he said. ‘I wanted the Brits out. I wanted guys like me to have the same kind of chance as any Proddie. I wanted an Ireland ruled by Irishmen. I wanted those six fucking counties over the border to be part of that Ireland.’

‘So why have you given up?’ Leary asked. Too old? Too tired? Did you lose your guts in the same jail cell you lost your ideals?’

Mulvey turned angrily in his seat. ‘I was fighting for this country while your mother was still wiping your fucking arse,’ he rasped.

That was your choice. Just like it’s my choice now. Ten years ago you’d have been patting me on the back, not telling me to stop.’

Ten years is a long time. A lot’s changed.’

‘How long were you in Long Kesh?’

‘Seven years.’

‘And for what?’

‘For what we’ve got now. We’ve got peace on our terms. We’re as close to a united Ireland as we’ve ever been.’

The six counties are still ruled from London, Jimmy. It doesn’t matter what fancy names you give to those bastards who sit at Stormont. They’re doing what the

Brits tell them. In my book that doesn’t make a united Ireland.’

There are Sinn Fein delegates in London this week having talks with the British government. It’s a politicians’ game now, Declan, not a soldiers’.’

‘So what are you telling me, Jimmy?’

‘I’m telling you to lay off. You, Finan and the rest. You’ll destroy everything we’ve fought for if you don’t.’

‘Bullshit. The Brits are never going to give us everything we want.’

They will in time. But not while you and your boys are running around planting bombs on fucking buses.’

‘You “sixty-niners” are all the same,Jimmy. You think because you started this that it’ll end when you want it to.’

‘I’m giving you an order, Declan.’

‘I’m not even in your fucking army, Jimmy. So stick your orders up your arse and tell Donnelly the same.’

‘It could jeopardise your brother’s release.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘Vincent could spend the rest of his life in jail because of you. They’ll use you against him.’

That’s bollocks and you know it.’

‘Is it? Do you really want to take that chance, Declan?’

‘Don’t threaten me,Jimmy, and you can tell Donnelly and Tracey what I’ve told you. We’re not stopping. And there’s nothing you can do about it’

Mulvey regarded the younger man silently for a moment. ‘You seem very sure of that, Declan.’

‘What are you going to do?’ asked Leary, his right hand sliding into his jacket pocket. ‘Shoot me?’

‘Just remember what I’ve told you,’ Mulvey said.

Leary pulled his hand free of his pocket and the older man heard a familiar sound.

The swish-click of a flick knife.

Mulvey looked down quickly at the weapon now resting against his thigh.

The two men locked stares for interminable seconds.

‘I don’t care who I have to kill, Jimmy,’ Leary told him.‘Understand?’

Mulvey finally pushed open the passenger door and swung one leg out.

‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, Declan,’ he smiled crookedly.

He slammed the door behind him and stalked back across the car park towards the welcoming warmth of the pub.

Leary watched him in the rear-view mirror, seeing him pause for a moment before stepping inside. Only then did he push the flick knife shut and slip it back into his pocket.

JUST LIKE OLD TIMES

For two mornings on the trot Ward was in the office by ten. On both days he had sat straight down at his desk, re-read what he’d written the day before and began.

It felt wonderful.

Doyle heard footsteps outside the car. He was already awake. He had been for the past half hour. But now, as he slowly turned over, he allowed his eyes to open a fraction.

There were four of them. Not one any older than ten. They peered in at him with the same puzzled amusement they would view a goldfish in its tank.

One of them tapped on the glass.The others giggled.

Doyle sat bolt upright and gestured angrily at the kids. ‘Fuck off, you little bastards,’ he shouted in a perfectly replicated Irish accent.

The kids scattered.

Doyle grinned to himself and stretched his arms before him. He heard the joints pop and crack.

‘Shit,’ he murmured.

His neck ached too. Everything fucking ached these days. Sleeping in the back of the Orion didn’t help.

He pushed open the rear door and swung himself out into the street.

The counter terrorist reached for his cigarettes and lit one. He pulled on his leather jacket to ward off the early morning chill.

As he stood there, curious passers-by glanced in his direction, wondering who was this long-haired, unshaven man who had been sleeping on the back seat of his car for the past two days.

Strangers, he had found over the years, were not exactly welcome in the Turf Lodge area of Belfast but this most recent foray had been greeted more with bemusement than suspicion by the locals.

Mothers walking their children to school regarded him indifferently. Some muttered hushed words to each other.

An elderly man leading a collie on a long lead even nodded a greeting in his direction.

Doyle returned the gesture and pulled up the collar of his jacket. He rubbed his stomach as it rumbled and set off down the street towards a newsagent’s, hands buried deep in his pockets.

There were several people inside the shop and Doyle looked at each face, consigning it to his memory.

He bought a Mars bar, some crisps and a can of Red Bull and got in the short queue behind a young woman dressed in a pair of navy-blue leggings and a puffa

jacket. Doyle ran approving eyes over her buttocks while he waited.

As if aware of his prying gaze, the young woman turned and looked at him. She was barely twenty (half your age, you dirty bastard) and pretty even without make-up.

‘Rough night?’ she said smiling.

He nodded. Thanks to my missus,’ he lied.‘I’ve been sleeping on the back seat of the car.’

‘Did she throw you out?’ the young woman wanted to know, moving closer to the till.

‘I walked out,’ Doyle continued. ‘When I found out what she’d been doing. I’ve been looking for her ever since. Now I know where she is. And the bastard who’s been fucking her behind my back.’ He smiled. ‘If you’ll excuse my French.’

The young woman chuckled and put her purchases on the counter. ‘So who is he?’

she wanted to know.

‘His name’s Finan,’ said Doyle. ‘Matthew fucking Finan. Bastard. I don’t know how long it’s been going on but I’ll catch them at it. I’ve been parked outside his house for the last two nights.When he comes back I’ll …” He allowed the sentence to trail off.

The smile had faded from the young woman’s face. ‘Where’s your car?’ she wanted to know.

‘Round the corner in Glen Road. Outside number fifteen.’

‘You’ll have a long wait if it’s Matthew Finan you’re after,’ said the shopkeeper, pushing the young woman’s goods into a carrier bag. ‘It’s his sister who lives in Glen Road.’

‘Shite,’ hissed Doyle. ‘Do you know where I could be after finding him?’

The shopkeeper shook his head.

The young woman picked up her carrier bag and left without looking back at Doyle.

So, you do know him.

Doyle paid for his breakfast then opened the can and took a long swig.

‘What’s his sister’s name?’ he asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘I don’t know,’ the shopkeeper said briskly, suddenly more interested in tidying the newspapers laid out on his counter.

Doyle bought a Daily Star, jammed it into the back pocket of his jeans and headed for the door. He stopped outside the shop and took a bite of the Mars.

Finan’s sister, eh?

It was another step closer.

NOVEMBER 16th, 1993:

Malcolm Porter knew he’d had too much to drink. He’d been fairly sure of it when he’d left the joyously rowdy atmosphere of the Bull. He’d stumbled twice as he negotiated the steps that led from the public bar of the pub to the pavement.

Now he was positive he’d drunk too much. He sucked in a deep breath and stood still, propping himself against the wall of a house wishing the world would stop spinning quite so violently.

But what the hell, if a man couldn’t celebrate after a victory such as he’d just tasted then it was a pretty bad show. How many times did anyone experience the exultation of being in a darts team that had just won its regional ieague?

He glanced down at the trophy he still gripped in his right hand. It was a silver-plated figure holding a dart. Poised, as he had been, to make the winning shot. His name was inscribed on the bottom of the plaque, just above the name of the pub.

He brandished the small trophy above his head with all the pride of an FA cup-winning captain.

Porter giggled at his own actions (further proof that he was pissed) and continued the walk home.

Normally it would have taken him less than ten minutes to reach his house in

Hopewell Avenue but the weight of victory and the burden of booze were adding extra time to the trek.

He chuckled again as he continued on his way.

Past a wall that bore the six-feet-high letters: NO

SURRENDER TO THE IRA.

He glanced at them but they didn’t register. He’d seen the same kind of graffiti for as long as he could remember. After a while it all blended into one, and became as much a part of the landscape as the terraced houses that wound through the city like files of troops.

He stood in front of the wall for a moment and saluted the words.This caused another ripple of giggling.

Sheila would be angry when he got home, he knew that. She’d go on at him for waking the kids and complain about his being drunk, but it would pass quickly enough. She could never stay mad at him for long and, besides, if a man couldn’t enjoy a few drinks when he’d just won such a magnificent trophy then where was the justice in the world?

He already knew where he was going to place the trophy. There was a spot on the mantelpiece between his wedding photo and those of his two children. It would look suitably imposing there.

He brandished it before him once more and walked on.

Nearly home now.

As the car pulled up beside him he gave it only a cursory glance. He thought for a moment about

stopping the vehicle and showing the occupants what he’d just won.

He giggled once more.

The car stopped and he was aware of the rear door opening.

Porter turned in the direction of the vehicle. Saw a man coming towards him. A man he didn’t recognise.

He felt strong arms enveloping him, pulling him towards the waiting car.

He dropped his trophy and saw it land in the gutter.

For fleeting seconds he did nothing. By the time he attempted to fight back he was sprawled on the back seat next to another man.

Porter couldn’t see faces. It was too dark inside the vehicle. He was about to say something when he saw the gun.

He almost giggled again. Almost asked if he could have his trophy back.

Two shots sounded, the muzzle flash and retort muffled, to a degree, by the silencer protruding from the barrel of the .22.

Both powered into his head.

The car drove off. As it did, one of the rear wheels crushed the trophy flat.

Doyle sat in the Orion and finished the rest of his breakfast. He balled up the empty crisp packet and Mars wrapper and dropped them out of the window into the street.Then he sipped at the Red Bull and watched the front door of number 15 Glen Road.

The cassette was on, turned down low.

‘.. .You had time to waste, time to wonder …’

Doyle looked down at the back of the paper spread out on the passenger seat.

‘… Time, to become someone else …’

He picked it up and re-read the previous night’s match report on the Liverpool versus Newcastle game. There was a photo of Liverpool’s winning goal and Doyle smiled to himself as he scanned it. Then he dropped the paper and returned his attention to the house.

He’d already been sitting there for a couple of hours. His right leg was stiff so he massaged the thigh with one hand.

‘Where the fuck are you?’ he murmured to himself, eyes never straying from the house.

As he leant forward he caught sight of his own reflection in the rear-view mirror.

You look like shit

His hair needed combing. He needed a shave. Needed a fucking shower.

Doyle wondered how much of his life had been spent sitting around in cars

waiting for people. Watching.

All part of the job, old son.

Surveillance. Tailing. Stake-out.

He preferred the term hunting.

Doyle ran a hand through his long hair then scratched at one of the scars that were so much a feature of his visage. He couldn’t remember where half of them had come from.Those or the ones that couldn’t be seen until he took off his clothes.

Each one was a reminder of pain.

So much pain.

All crammed into forty-four years.

Some of them wasted?

He sat back in his seat

‘… Might be a good thing, might be a bad thing …’

He yawned.

‘… But you can’t put your arms around a memory.’

Doyle jabbed the cassette off as he saw the young woman approaching the door of number 15. Five-three. Early twenties. Dark hair tied back in a pony tail.

Carrying three bags of shopping.

He watched as she fumbled for her key then let herself in.

Doyle looked at his watch. He’d give her ten minutes.

Shonagh Finan heard the knocking on the front door and put down her mug of tea.

She wandered through from the kitchen into the small living room, then out into the hall as another knock echoed through the house.

‘All right, all right, don’t knock the door down,’ she called, unfastening the lock.

Doyle nodded a greeting as she opened the door, aware of her appraising gaze.

‘Hi, there,’ he said, his accent impeccable. ‘Shonagh, right?’

She nodded. ‘I don’t know you,’ she told him.

‘Matt sent me,’ Doyle lied. ‘Can I come in?’

She hesitated a moment, hand still on the door knob.

‘It’s important,’ Doyle continued.

She stepped back and ushered him inside.

Step one.

He kept his hands in his pockets and waited in the hall. ‘Matt told me to meet him here,’ the counter terrorist informed her.‘He said he’d ring you. Tell you I was coming.’

‘I haven’t spoken to him,’ she said. ‘And I still don’t know who you are.’

‘Frank McKean,’ Doyle lied, pulling his right hand from his pocket and pushing it towards her by way of greeting.

Shonagh looked at the proffered appendage but declined to grasp it.

Doyle, with all the accomplishment of a seasoned actor, waved the hand in the air, embarrassed, then jammed it back into his pocket again. He attempted a smile and shuffled nervously from one foot to the other.

‘I’m a friend of Matt’s,’ he persisted.

‘I know most of his friends. I’ve never heard him talk about you before. Frank…’

‘McKean.’

‘That’s not a Belfast accent.’

‘Neither is yours.’

She smiled wryly.

Keep going.

‘I’m from the South,’ he lied.

‘Where?’

‘A little place called Ennis.’

She nodded.

‘Do you know it?’ he said, almost hopefully.

Shonagh shook her head.

‘Look, I’m sorry to just turn up on your doorstep like this but Matt said that

I’d to meet him here,’ Doyle continued.‘Him and Declan are interested in something I’ve got.’

Her expression changed slightly. ‘You know Declan Leary?’ she asked.

Bingo.

Through Matt, yeah,’ he told her.

‘Perhaps I ought to ring Matt, tell him you’re here.’

Doyle nodded.That’d be grand,’ he said smiling.‘And if Declan answers the phone you can tell him he still owes me some money.’

The card was played now.

That’s it Call the bastard. Bring him straight to me.

She hesitated.

‘Listen, if I’m intruding, I’m sorry,’ said Doyle. ‘I was supposed to meet him at my place but he said to come here. I don’t want to put you out.’

‘It’s no trouble, Mr McKean, I …’

‘Frank,’ he said softly. ‘Please, call me Frank.’

Shonagh smiled.‘You might as well have a drink while you’re waiting,’ she said. ‘Come through.’

She ushered him into the kitchen and switched the kettle on.

Doyle looked around the small room then smiled at Shonagh once again. She pointed towards a chair and he sat

‘How long have you known Matt?’ she asked, standing close to the kettle as it boiled.

Doyle shrugged. ‘A few months,’ he said.

‘Where did you meet him?’

The lie was ready. ‘In a pub in Clonard,’ he told her.

The water inside the kettle was bubbling now.

‘He didn’t tell me his sister was so good looking,’ Doyle added with a grin.

‘Nob off,’ she chided, waving a hand at him dismissively, her cheeks colouring slightly.

The kettle boiled. She turned to pour the water into the mugs.

Doyle was on his feet in a second.

He caught Shonagh’s hair in one strong hand and grabbed the kettle with the other.

She tried to scream but Doyle jerked harder on her hair.

‘Keep your fucking mouth shut or I’ll break your neck,’ he hissed into her ear, all traces of his Irish accent now gone. ‘Where’s your brother? I want an address.’

‘Fuck you,’ she panted, struggling against him.

Doyle pushed her against the cupboards.

‘An address,’ he rasped.

She didn’t speak.

He lifted the kettle and held it over her head, tilting it down slightly. She could see steam billowing from the spout.

‘Tell me where I can find him or you’ll need skin grafts for the rest of your fucking life,’ snapped the counter terrorist.

She whimpered.

I’ll count to three,’ he warned, upending the kettle full of scalding water a little more.

One single drop formed on the spout and fell on to her cheek. Shonagh yelped in pain and struggled more violently against Doyle but he heid her firmly.

‘An address,’ he reminded her. That’s all I need.’

‘Fuck off,’ she snapped.

‘You’re very brave for a girl about to lose her looks permanently.’

‘Who are you?’ she wanted to know.

‘Just a guy doing his job. Now give me that address before I melt your fucking face.’

Another drop of red-hot liquid fell on to her cheek.

The counter terrorist could see a small red welt rising where the scalding water touched flesh.

‘You can either tell me or the RUC,’ Doyle said. ‘Your choice.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Your brother’s a member of the Continuity IRA. Maybe you knew that, maybe you didn’t. Either way I couldn’t give a fuck. All I want to know is where I can find him.’

She stopped struggling so frenziedly for a second but Doyle still held her firmly before him.

That bomb that went off in the city centre a couple of days ago,’ he continued. ‘Your brother was involved with that. So was Declan Leary.’

‘You can’t prove that.’

‘I can if I speak to him. He might not even be guilty. Give me an address where I can find him, let me speak to him. He might not be in any trouble.’

Yeah, right

‘I don’t trust you,’ she protested. ‘How do I know you’re not from some fucking Proddie organisation?’

‘You don’t. But seeing as I’ve got a kettle full of boiling water held over your face you’re not really in a position to argue, are you?’

She was shaking.

‘As it happens I’m with the Counter Terrorist Unit,’ Doyle continued. ‘Not that that really matters at the moment’

‘Are you going to hurt him?’

‘It’s a possibility,’ Doyle said flatly.‘But right now I’ll hurt you if you don’t tell me where I can fucking find him.’

Another moment of silence.

‘All right,’ Shonagh gasped.

Doyle released his grip on her hair and stepped back a pace.

‘Now, your brother or Declan Leary,’ he snapped. ‘Where are they?’

She put one hand to the cheek where the boiling water had dripped.

‘You would have done it, wouldn’t you?’ she murmured. ‘You would have scalded me.’

He nodded. ‘If I had to. Give me an address.’

She regarded him venomously. ‘You’re a real fucking hard man, aren’t you? Threatening a woman. Do you get off on that, you bastard?’

‘The address.’

‘Fuck you,’ she hissed.

Doyle quickly slid one hand inside his leather jacket. It closed over the butt of the Beretta 92F 9mm automatic nestled in the shoulder holster and he pulled the pistol free.

This’ll do you more damage than boiling water,’ he intoned. ‘Now where’s your fucking brother?’

‘He’ll kill you.’

‘He’ll try. The address?’

There are some flats in Dalton Road,’ she said through clenched teeth.‘He uses one of them. Number forty-four.’

‘You’d better hope that checks out,’ said Doyle. ‘Because if it doesn’t, I’ll be back to see you. And if I do have to come back, by the time I’ve finished, you’ll be putting your make-up on with a fucking spoon for the rest of your life. Got it?’

‘I hope he fucking kills you,’ Shonagh shouted.

Doyle took a step towards her and, moving with incredible speed, he struck her across the temple with the butt of the Beretta.

Shonagh dropped like a stone.

Doyle swept her up in his arms and deposited her on one of the kitchen chairs, her head lolling on her chest.

He pulled out several drawers until he found what he wanted.

Cutting several lengths of nylon string he quickly bound Shonagh’s wrists and ankles to the, chair.

Satisfied she would remain secure he took one last look at her then strode towards the kitchen door. On his way out, he tore the phone from the wall. It

shattered easily.

Doyle glanced at his watch. He might not have much time.

Doyle blasted on the hooter as he drove, clearing any idle pedestrians out of the way.

The mobile was wedged between his shoulder and his ear as he guided the Orion along the streets that led to Dalton Road.

‘Yes, I’m sure,’ he snapped.‘Tell Robinson he’ll need a couple of armed units.’

The voice at the other end asked the address again.

‘Flat in Dalton Road, number forty-four,’ rasped Doyle. ‘Got it?’

The voice wanted to know if either Finan or Leary were there.

‘How the fuck do I know? It’s possible, that’s why I think Robinson will want armed units with him. But you tell them not to make a move until I arrive.’

He ended the call and dropped the phone on to the passenger seat.

As he turned left two men stepped into the road. Doyle hit the hooter and narrowly avoided them.

He pressed down harder on the accelerator.

The flats in Dalton Road were of a depressing uniformity. Here and there residents had attempted to

individualise their humble dwellings with a lick of paint on the front doors and window frames but, for the most part, the peeling flesh of neglected council gloss was the only colour visible.

Graffiti on the walls. Lifts that didn’t work.The residents were in no position to complain.The council had no inclination to improve their plight.

Some of the windows were boarded up. Some of the flats empty. Most had sustained broken windows at some time and there was still shattered glass on the walkways.

Along with the dog shit, the used condoms and the empty hypodermics.

Number 44 had once sported a blue front door but the paint was now scratched and scabrous. It lay at the top of four flights of precipitous stone steps.

Even young men sometimes had to stop and draw breath during the climb.

Men like Matthew Finan and Declan Leary.

A dustcart was collecting rubbish down the street, the workers swarming around it like ants around a queen. One of them dropped a refuse bag as he hauled it up to deposit it in the back of the dustcart. The bag split open, spilling its reeking contents across the pavement. A chorus of jeers, curses and laughter greeted the mishap. Two of the men began scooping up the rubbish in their gloved hands and shoving it back into the torn bag.

Inside the cab another man sat motionless, his eyes fixed on the wing mirror of the vehicle.Through it, he had a perfect view of the entrance to the flats.

Two teenage girls left, both jabbering away into mobile phones. But apart from that very little moved.

No one, so far, had entered apart from an old woman with a shopping trolley.

PC Adam Sweetman of the Royal Ulster Constabulary kept his gaze fixed firmly on the wing mirror and watched.

And waited.

Doyle brought the Orion to a halt in the street that backed on to the Daiton Road flats.

There were three boys, no older than ten, standing close to the side of the road, kicking a punctured football back and forth, occasionally bouncing it off the other parked vehicles in the street. One was wearing a Manchester United shirt.

Doyle ignored them and reached for his mobile. He punched in a number and waited.

‘I want to speak to Chief Inspector Peter Robinson,’ he said. Tell him it’s Sean Doyle of the Counter Terrorist Unit. It’s important.’

There was a buzz of static then Doyle heard Robinson’s voice. I’ve got one unit in position already at the north end of Daiton Road,’ the policeman told him. There’s another on the way.’

‘Anybody know if Finan or Leary are inside?’

‘How can they? No one knows what they look like.’

‘Have any of your men been up to the flat to check it out?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Fuck it. Leave it. I’ll do it myself.’

‘Doyle, if they’re in there, use the back-up. Understand?’

‘You just be ready to move when I shout.’

‘I mean it. Don’t try being a bloody hero. If they’re in there, use—’

Doyle cut him off. ‘Bollocks,’ he murmured, swinging himself out of the car.

One of the three kids kicked the ball in his direction. Doyle stopped it with the inside of his left foot then rolled it gently between his heel and toe.

‘Manchester United supporter, eh?’ said Doyle to the oldest boy.

The boy nodded.

‘Great, aren’t they?’ he beamed.

Doyle flicked the ball up with his toe then volleyed it perfectly, watching as it sailed halfway down the street.

‘You’ll grow out of it,’ he muttered as he watched them chase off after it, the one in the shirt sticking two fingers up at him.

Doyle dug his hands in his jacket pockets and hurried towards the corner of Dalton Road.

Shonagh Finan had no idea how long she’d been unconscious. All she was aware of as she blinked her heavy lidded eyes was the thumping pain inside her skull.

She tried to rise, forgetting that she was still firmly tied to the chair.

She strained against the restraints for a moment, feeling the nylon string cut into her wrists.

‘Bastard,’ she hissed under her breath.

She could see the phone shattered on the floor in front of her. If she could get free she had a mobile in her handbag upstairs.

Once more she began to strain against her bonds.

A VISIT

Ward had used the girl before. Her name was Jenny. At least that was what it said in the contact magazine where he’d first seen her photo and phone number.

Age: 24. Vital statistics: 32B, 23, 33.

She arrived in a taxi, as she always did, carrying a small, black holdall.

He sat gazing at the television screen until he heard the doorbell ring then he got to his feet and wandered through to the hall.

Jenny was wearing a short, black dress. Balanced on her open-toed high heels she was just under five-two. Her hair was brown, streaked with blond. Her face was round, her lips full. She was wearing too much makeup, some of it to conceal the two spots on her left cheek, but Ward was unconcerned. He ran appraising eyes over her and ushered her in.

She looked around the spacious hallway of the house and smiled professionally.

‘Beautiful house,’ she told him.

‘You always say that,’ he reminded her.

‘Well, it is.’

She knew who he was. What he did for a living. The first time she had told him she’d read a couple of his books.

Ward had been unimpressed,

‘Do you want a drink first?’ he wanted to know, ‘Brandy and coke.’

‘You go up and get ready, I’ll bring it.’

She turned and made her way upstairs.

Ward wandered back into the sitting room, poured her a drink and had another himself, then he switched off the TV and made his way slowly back through the hall, pausing at the bottom of the staircase.

‘You can come up,’ she called.

He made his way almost wearily up the stairs and across the landing to the main guest room.

Jenny was now naked. She was sitting on the bed with her legs tucked beneath her. On the duvet before her lay two vibrators and a tube of KY jelly.

He nodded approvingly.

‘Can we get the money out of the way first?’ she said apologetically.

‘How much?’

‘Same as before.’

He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out two twenties and a ten. He laid the notes on one of the bedside tables and began to undress.

She took the larger of the vibrators and smeared it with lubricant, then she began to trail it over her neatly shaved pubic mound. It left several glittering trails on her thighs and belly as well as her vagina.

Ward was already erect. He stood beside the bed, his penis gripped in his right fist, his gaze travelling slowly up and down her body.

She was murmuring quietly now. Little gasps punctuated the increasingly deep breathing.

Ward had to admit it was a reasonably convincing performance.

She pushed the first of the vibrators into her vagina.

He could hear the buzzing of the batteries as she increased the speed.

Then she reached for the other one. Lubricated it and also smeared some of the clear fluid around her puckered anus.

He nodded.

Jenny pushed the thinner of the two sex toys slowly inside herself, wincing slightly as it penetrated her more deeply.

Ward clambered on to the bed beside her, his erection now throbbing in his hand. He pointed his penis in the direction of her face and increased the speed of his hand.

‘Open your mouth,’ he told her.

She did as she was instructed, closing her eyes as she heard him grunt. Two or three small spurts of oily ‘white fluid streaked across her face. She murmured encouragement as he finished his ministrations.

As he stood up, she prepared to wipe the semen from her face. ‘Leave it,’ he told her. Again she did as she was instructed.

Ten minutes later, she was gone.

DREAMS

Ward awoke in a sweat. He rolled over and looked at the clock. 3.11 a.m.

It was hot. There wasn’t a breath of air in the bedroom.

He hauled himself out of bed and crossed to the window, pushing it open. The darkness was almost as total as the silence. He drew in a deep breath of warm air and rubbed a hand through his hair.

As he peered at the garden he heard rustling in the bushes, then the high-pitched yowling of two fighting cats. They continued their noisy combat for a few more seconds then silence descended once again.

Ward looked in the direction of the office. There was a silver-grey light coming from inside.

He exhaled wearily. He’d left earlier that day without switching off the monitor.

For long moments he considered what to do. If he left it on, what was the problem? It wasn’t going to blow up or catch fire, was it?

Was it?

He decided to leave it and clambered back into bed, sliding over to avoid the sweat-drenched area he’d been sleeping on previously.

Whenever he woke at night he found it difficult to get back to sleep. He wondered if a drink might help.

Ward swung himself out of bed again and crossed to the window.

The silver-grey light inside the office had gone. There was only darkness.

He must, he told himself, have been dreaming.

Ward headed towards the stairs.

RAGE

On days when Ward couldn’t think straight he was filled with conflicting emotions. There was the ever-present feeling of desolation. Of wasted time.

And there was the anger. The fury that came from sitting staring into empty air or at a blank screen without finding the will or the strength to write.

For those who didn’t make their living in his business, it was difficult to explain how difficult it was.

From the outside, Ward realised how easy it must appear. Work from home. Sit behind a keyboard all day. Work when you wanted to. All the attendant bullshit that any self-employed person had to endure.

But this was different. Creativity couldn’t be forced.

Self-employed bricklayers could make themselves work. Plumbers could force themselves to fix leaky taps. Decorators could will themselves to complete one more wall.

It was not so with writing.

No matter how hard Ward tried to make himself think, no matter how many times he shouted at himself in frustration, if the words wouldn’t come then that was it.

On the wall in front of his desk there was a quote from Nietzsche: WILL A SELF AND THOU SHALT BECOME A SELF.

Nietzsche, he reminded himself, died insane. The clock was showing 10.49 a.m.

when he began to write.

Doyle jabbed the call button on the lift and muttered irritably to himself when nothing happened. He turned and headed for the stairs taking them two at a time to begin with. When he reached the second landing he slowed his pace, sucking in breath more raggedly.

He paused and lit up a cigarette before negotiating the next two flights.

The counter terrorist emerged on to the fourth-floor landing, walked to the parapet and gazed down into the streetThe dustcart was still in position at one end, the men moving back and forth, emptying rubbish into the back of it.

To his left, Dalton Road was still open.

He drew slowly on the cigarette as he watched a car pull up on the opposite side of the road. A man in his twenties got out and headed towards a house.

Doyle wondered, for fleeting seconds, if Shonagh Finan had given him a false address.

Only one way to find out

He sucked on the cigarette once more then dropped it and strode towards the door of number 44.

He slowed his pace as he drew nearer, allowing his right hand to brush the butt of the Beretta inside his jacket.

There was another pistol strapped to his ankle in a small holster. The Smith and Wesson .38 Bodyguard held five rounds in its cylinder and was only slightly bigger than the palm of Doyle’s hand. Hammerless, it was perfect for concealment and the counter terrorist had personally cut crosses in the tips of each bullet, ensuring they exploded on impact.

The third pistol he carried was in another holster beneath his right arm. A .50 calibre Desert Eagle. An automatic weapon capable of spewing out rounds at a speed in excess of 2,500 feet per second.

Tools of the trade.

Doyle looked at the doors as he walked past them.

Number 40. Boarded up.

Number 41. The window in the front door was cracked.

Number 42. There was a kid’s battered tricycle outside.

He slowed his pace even more.

Number 43. As he reached the green painted door, it opened.

The man who emerged was in his early thirties. He glanced at Doyle then turned his attention back to the occupant of the flat.

The woman was roughly the same age. Auburn hair. Jeans. White T-shirt. She was barefoot.

She looked at Doyle then at the other man who rushed away.

‘You’ve frightened him off now.’ The woman smiled. ‘He might not come back.’

‘Sorry about that,’ Doyle said, switching to his impeccable Irish accent with ease.

She began to close the door.

‘Have you got a minute?’ he wanted to know.

The woman eyed him warily, her smile fading.

‘Maybe. What do you want?’

‘I want to know when you last saw your neighbour,’ he said, nodding in the direction of number 44.

‘Why should I tell you? Who are you anyway?’

I’m a friend of his. He owes me money. I think he’s been trying to avoid me.

If you know what I mean.’

‘i haven’t seen anyone go in or out of there for a couple of days.’

‘Have you been here all the time?’

‘More or less. I work from home.’ She lowered her gaze momentarily.

‘And the guy that just left was the first job of the day, right?’ grinned Doyle.

She looked at him and the smile returned. She nodded.

‘I think my friend’s due back this morning but I don’t want to miss him,’

Doyle lied. ‘He never answers his phone either.’

The counter terrorist held the woman’s gaze with his piercing grey eyes, a slight smile touching his lips. ‘It’s a raw morning to be waiting about,’ he said quietly, rubbing his hands together.

‘Do you want to come in?’

‘How much is it going to cost me?’

‘That depends.’

Doyle grinned and stepped inside.

Matthew Finan saw the dustcart blocking Dalton Road and sighed irritably. He banged his hooter but the driver could only shrug.

Finan realised he’d have to either wait for the vehicle to move or drive around the block and come in from the other direction.

He stuck the Renault in reverse, swung it into the next street and guided it around the rear of the flats. As he drove, he reached for his mobile phone and worked his way through the call index until he found the number he wanted.

It was answered on the second ring.

‘Declan, it’s me,’ he said. ‘I’ll be there in about five minutes. How long will you be?’

‘About a half an hour,’ Declan Leary told him.

‘See you then.’

Finan ended the call and parked the car.

The flat smelt of cheap perfume. The scent grew stronger as Doyle stepped into the small sitting room. There was a low coffee table in the centre with a large ashtray and four plastic coasters. Guests obviously didn’t bother with them because there were several circular marks on the surface of the scratched wood.

The single window was above a radiator shelf which sported several small ornaments, one of which, a ballerina, had an arm missing. Through the window, Doyle could see straight out on to the parapet. The walls were thin, and no one could pass the flat without him hearing.

As long as someone passed, of course.

He sat down on the mustard-coloured sofa, smoothed one hand over a cigarette burn in its arm and looked at his host.

‘So, what do you want to do?’ she asked, brushing her auburn hair behind her ears and moving towards Doyle.

‘What did the last guy do?’ he asked.

The usual.’

‘Which was?’

‘Same thing he always does when he comes here. Empties his balls into a Durex while he’s inside me. What do you think he does? What do you think they all do?’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Whatever you want it to be.’

‘I’m serious.’

‘So am I. You’re paying, I’ll be whoever you like.’

Doyle looked around, his gaze alighting on some photos on a sideboard to his

right. One of them showed the auburn-haired woman and an older couple.

‘Your parents?’ he wondered.

She nodded.

‘They must be very proud.’

‘They’re both dead,’ she snapped.

‘Mine too. Seems like we’ve got something in common.’

‘Listen, if you’re interested in spending some money then fair enough. If not, there are other guys who are.’

Doyle pulled out his wallet and pressed two twenties on to the coffee table.

‘What’ll that buy me?’ he wanted to know.

‘Whatever you want,’ she smiled.

‘Tell me your name.’

‘Karen,’ she said, reaching for the twenties.

Doyle shot out a hand and caught her wrist, pulling her towards him.

‘Just leave them there for now,’ he said. ‘I just want to talk.’

‘Oh, that’s your thing, is it?’ she purred, resting one hand on his thigh.

‘Okay, shall I tell you how I want your cock inside me?’

Doyle shook his head.‘I’m paying for your time, not your fanny,’ he said flatly.

She sat back, withdrawing her hand.

‘Who the fuck are you?’ she snapped. ‘If you’re a fucking copper, this—’

‘I’m not a copper. I’m just a poor cold soul paying for your time, keeping a roof over my head while I wait for a friend. That’s it. If you don’t want the money then fine.’

He reached forward to snatch up the notes.

‘No,’ she blurted. ‘All right, if you want to talk we’ll talk.’

Doyle settled back on the sofa.

His gaze moved occasionally in the direction of the window.

Matthew Finan paused as he reached the staircase and pulled the mobile phone from his pocket. He found the number and as he began to climb pressed call.

The ring tone buzzed in his ear as he made his way up the first flight of steps.

Still ringing.

He wondered if his sister was still out shopping. But he’d spoken to her the previous day and told her he’d pop in and see her towards lunchtime.

He reached the second flight and continued his climb, sucking in deep breaths every so often.

Still no answer.

He wondered if she was okay. He’d always looked out for her ever since they were kids. That was what older brothers were supposed to do for their little sisters his parents had told him. It was a credo he’d always lived by.

He and Shonagh were close. Even when they’d been growing up together, there had been little of the sibling rivalry that normally blights brother-sister relationships.

Perhaps, over the years, he’d been a little over-protective (using a length of lead piping on a man he’d

suspected of getting her pregnant when she was nineteen may have been a touch excessive) but, what the hell, he loved her and he wasn’t about to see any harm come to her.

He knew that one of her neighbours had a key to her house. He could always call her. Get her to check on Shonagh. If he could just remember the bloody number.

He began to climb the third flight of stairs.

Doyle held the mug of tea in both hands and looked again at the window.

‘How long are you going to be?’

Karen Mercer’s voice seemed to echo inside the small flat.

The counter terrorist heard but didn’t look at her.

‘What would you be doing if I wasn’t here?’ he asked.

‘Earning money.’

Doyle pulled another twenty from his wallet and slapped it down on the coffee

table.

She regarded the cash for a moment then sat back in her chair.

‘You’re not waiting for any friend, are you?’ Karen murmured.

‘I told you, he owes me money.’

Doyle sipped at his tea. He heard footsteps on the parapet. Heard them stop outside the flat next door. Heard a key turn in the lock.

About fucking time.

‘Put another sugar in there, will you, Karen?’

He handed her the mug then got to his feet, reaching in his jacket pocket for his mobile.

As she padded off to the kitchen, Doyle pressed the number he wanted.

‘Give me Robinson,’ he snapped before the voice at the other end even finished speaking. ‘It’s Doyle.’

Karen stood watching him from the living-room door.

‘Someone’s just gone inside the flat on Dalton Road,’ said Doyle. ‘Are the rest of your men in position?’

Robinson said that they were.

‘I want to wait until both of them are inside,’ Doyle continued. ‘If we take one of them out we’ll lose the other. Wait for my signal.’

‘You’re a fucking copper,’ Karen said. 1 knew it.’

Doyle finished the call and turned to face her.

‘I’m a guy who’s given you sixty quid to keep your fucking mouth shut. I suggest you do it. I’ll be out of here soon and you can get back to work. For the time being just sit down.’

She held his gaze for a moment then stepped forward into the living room and did as he instructed.

Shonagh Finan gritted her teeth and finally eased her left hand free of the nylon string. It had cut deeply into the flesh of her wrist and she gazed angrily at the red welts that had risen there.

She had no idea how long she’d been straining against the tightly fastened bonds. There was perspiration on her face from her struggles and both her hands felt numb.

She undid the string around her other wrist then freed her ankles.

As she got to her feet, she swayed uncertainly for a second or two, then headed towards the kitchen door and the stairs beyond.

Reaching the landing she saw her handbag lying on the bed. The mobile was in view.

Shonagh snatched it up and began dialling.

Doyle wandered across to the window of Karen Mercer’s flat and peered out on to the parapet. He looked at the flat next door then at his watch.

The counter terrorist didn’t want to move without Leary being present too but how long was Finan going to stay put?

Come on, think.

Karen sat watching him.

Take one of them or possibly risk losing both.

Doyle jammed a cigarette between his lips.

Shit or bust?

Footsteps outside.

Doyle stepped back from the window but kept his gaze firmly fixed on the man who had walked past.

About twenty-six. Five-ten. Light-brown hair, cut short.

Declan Leary?

Time to find out.

He reached for his mobile, and turned to face Karen.

‘When I walk out of here, you stay put, got it?’ he snapped.

She nodded. ‘What about the money?’

‘Keep it.’

‘Doyle,’ said a voice at the other end of the phone.

‘Robinson. I think Leary’s just arrived. Get your men to seal off both ends of the street.’

‘I’ve got snipers in position too. You can leave it to us now.’

‘Not a chance. I found these fuckers. I’m bringing them in.’

‘I’ll send men—’

‘You send nothing. Just be ready to grab them if they get past me.’

‘We need them alive, Doyle.’

‘I’ll do my best.’

He dropped the mobile back into his pocket then headed for the door of the flat.

Thanks for the tea and shelter,’ he said.

She raised one middle finger in his direction.

‘Remember what I said?’ he told her.‘You keep your fucking head down, right?’

He slid a hand inside his jacket and pulled the Beretta from its holster.

‘Otherwise you’re likely to get it blown off.’ He eased open the door. ‘See you around.’ And he stepped outside. Doyle heard her shout something as he went but he wasn’t sure what it was.

Who cared anyway?

No one else was on the walkway.

He glanced across to the buildings opposite wondering if, even now, RUC

snipers were drawing beads on him.

When you shoot, just make sure you shoot the right fucking person.

The dustcart was still at one end of Dalton Road. At the other end there was a large white Transit and a Land Rover.

Doyle peered down at the activity below for a second longer then turned his attention back to the door of flat number 44.

He had the Beretta held down low beside his leg as he edged forward.

How many times in your life have you been in this position?

Wondering if the men on the other side of that door know you’re here. Are they standing there now with weapons waiting for you?

There was no reason why they should be, Doyle reasoned. As far as they were aware, no one knew their whereabouts, least of all the RUC and the Counter Terrorist Unit.

Doyle took a step closer.

The choices now were fairly simple. Kick the door down and go in blasting.

Wait for them to come out and hope they wanted to give up instead of fight.

Your choice.

Something glinted across the street. Sunshine on glass. The rays of the sun on a scope? If Doyle had seen it, perhaps Leary or Finan had too.

No reason to be expecting it.

He was less than a foot from the door now, pressed tight to the brickwork. The snipers would be watching him, relaying his progress to Robinson by two-way.

Go in blasting?

He knew there was no back door and if Finan and Leary were going to get away, they’d have to come straight through him.

He raised the butt of the automatic and prepared to bang on the door.

As he did he heard the high-pitched burr of a mobile phone from inside the flat. There was a moment of silence then some muted voices.

Doyle raised his hand again to hammer with the gun. He was about to strike when part of the door exploded outwards.

It was a shotgun. No mistaking the thunderous roar. Doyle had heard the sound enough times.

He stepped away from the door and pressed himself up against the wall, turning his face slightly as lumps of wood and metal erupted into the air, propelled by the force of two massive impacts. Several shotgun pellets rolled across the walkway and the counter terrorist smelled the all-too-familiar stink of cordite.

He worked the slide on the Beretta, chambering a round, his heart thudding more quickly against his ribs, adrenalin pulsing through his veins like heroin through a junkie.

What was fear to some men was close to exhilaration for Doyle.

He looked around. No cover on the walkway. If the fuckers came out shooting,

it’d be messy.

Further down the walkway a door opened.

‘Stay inside,’ Doyle roared and the door slammed quickly.

There was another massive roar as the shotgun was discharged again. Another piece of the door was obliterated, tiny cinders and splinters spiralling into the air.

For one ridiculous moment he thought about telling them to put down their weapons and come out.

Yeah, right.

What else had they got in there with them? More guns? Explosive?

Come on, think.

One way out. One way in. Snipers across the street. Armed RUC men at both ends of the road.

Step back. Let them rot inside there. They’re going nowhere.

He gripped the Beretta more tightly, aware now of the unearthly silence that had descended after the barrage of gunshots. The only activity was below in Dalton Road itself as plain clothes RUC men did their best to keep the thoroughfare clear of passers-by.

Doyle backed off slightly and dropped to one knee, steadying himself. He raised the Beretta and squinted along the sight.

The advantage was his. Finan and Leary had no idea how many men awaited them.

The counter terrorist wondered how they’d discovered they were under surveillance.

Finan’s fucking sister. Little bitch.

He nodded as if to confirm his own suspicions. She must have warned them.

‘Finan,’ Doyle roared.‘Can you hear me?’

Silence.

‘You and your fucking friend can stay in there as long as you like.You’re covered on all sides.You’re going nowhere.’

Still no reply.

‘Personally, I couldn’t give a flying fuck whether you come out with your hands up or you come out blasting,’

Doyle continued. ‘Either way you’re going down. You either walk out of that flat or they carry you both out in body bags. Got that?’

He moved a little closer to the door, his eyes never leaving the sight of the Beretta.

‘Pity about your sister,’ he called, a slight smile on his face. ‘She’s an accessory now. I know she was the one who tipped you off.You’ll do time and so will she. But before I arrest her there’s something I want to give her. And I’m sure I won’t be the first.’

Doyle heard sounds of movement from inside the flat. Muted voices.

‘Pretty little thing,’ he continued. ‘You should have kept your business to yourself. You made her fair game too. After I’ve put you and Leary in the fucking ground I’ll go back and pay her a visit. She looked like she was gagging for it when I was there this morning.’

‘Fuck you,’ roared a voice from inside the flat.

Bingo.

There were more sounds of movement. Doyle steadied the automatic.

‘Nice arse,’ he called back.‘Something for me to grip on to when I’m fucking her.’

‘You fucking bastard,’ bellowed the same voice.

Doyle smiled. ‘Now, are you coming out while you still carr?’

Silence.

Doyle stepped back slightly.

Across the street the snipers kept their eyes pressed firmly to their scopes.

‘Come out now and I might only fuck her once,’ Doyle shouted.

A small package, no larger than a man’s fist, rolled from inside the flat. It bumped against the parapet then lay still.

Doyle saw the detonator jammed into it.

He knew he had just seconds.

Doyle half ran, half threw himself to one side as he saw the package. It probably weighed less than a pound but he knew the damage a pound of plastic explosive was capable of.

As he spun away he gritted his teeth and hurled himself down, scraping the elbows of his leather jacket on the concrete.

The blast was deafening.

Doyle covered his head, the thunderous explosion tearing away part of the parapet and sending lumps of concrete spiralling into the air. Pieces of debris were flung out into the street and those below ducked or ran for cover as chunks of stone rained down like shrapnel.

A great cloud of smoke engulfed the walkway and Doyle found his lungs clogged by the noxious fumes. He rolled on to his side and squinted in the direction of number 44.

Through the smoke he saw two figures.

The bastards were making a run for it

Doyle swung the Beretta up and squeezed the trigger. The burst-fire mechanism sent three bullets from the barrel milliseconds after each other. Two sang off the stonework, another cut through the fume-filled air.

The smoke was still thick and Doyle waved a hand angrily in front of his face as if to clear it. He fired again into the choking fumes. Shots were returned.

He heard a bullet part the air no more than six inches from his left ear.

Opposite, two of the RUC snipers opened up. Doyle heard the loud crack of the HK81 s. 7.62mm slugs struck the brickwork.

Finan and Leary were already hurtling along the walkway towards the stairs at the far end. It was their only escape route.

Doyle scrambled to his feet and squeezed off four more rounds. Empty shell cases spun into the air and the recoil slammed the butt of the 9mm against the heel of his hand. But he remained steady, pumping the trigger.

One of the bullets caught Finan in the shoulder, blasted through his right scapula and erupted from his chest just above his nipple. Gobbets of flesh, pulverised bone and pieces of clothing spewed into the air, propelled on a gout of blood.

Finan stumbled.

Doyle fired again. His next shot caught the Irishman in the thigh. Moving at close to 1,700 feet a second, the bullet fractured the left femur and sent Finan sprawling.

He dropped his weapon and Doyle saw Leary grab it and swing the Ithaca pump-action shotgun up to his shoulder and work the slide.

Doyle hurled himself to one side as the discharge dug a crater in the concrete close to his left foot.

By this time Leary had reached the stairs.

Doyle paused beside Finan for a moment, pressing two fingers to the jugular vein of the motionless younger man. There was a faint pulse but looking at the amount of blood spouting from the Irishman’s leg wound, Doyle wondered if his bullet had cut Finan’s femoral artery. If it had, he had about two minutes before his life fluid finished jetting from him.

There was already a huge puddle of it around him, and Doyle could hear the liquid spurts, like a conduit firing thick crimson from an unattended garden hose.

Doyle left the man and ran on in pursuit of his other quarry.

One down. One to go.

As he reached the top of the stairs another blast from the shotgun shattered the bevelled safety glass in the double doors.

Doyle saw that the slide on his automatic had shot backwards. He fumbled in his pocket for a fresh clip and slammed it into the butt.

His breath coming in gasps, he put his shoulder to the door and crashed through.

Fragments of shattered glass cut Doyle’s cheeks and chin but the counter terrorist kept going. He stayed low in case Leary decided to let loose another blast.

Doyle could hear footsteps pounding down the concrete steps and he chanced a look over the metal banister. There was a deafening blast, amplified by the stairwell and a portion of the handrail simply disintegrated as the buckshot destroyed it.

He stuck the 9mm over the rail and fired three times. Another wave of sound shredded the eardrums of those on the stairs. Bullets screamed off concrete and the smell of cordite grew more intense.

Doyle dashed down the next flight, taking the stairs two or three at a time.

He hit the landing hard and rolled, hauling himself upright as he charged on after Leary.

He could now hear his quarry breathing. The man couldn’t be more than one flight ahead of him.

As he ran the counter terrorist holstered the Beretta and dragged the Desert Eagle from beneath his right arm. Even in Doyle’s hand the pistol looked huge.

Its triangular barrel was as distinctive as its incredible destructive power.

The breath searing in his lungs, he swung himself round on to the final flight of steps.

Leary was rushing for the main doors to the flats.

Doyle swung the Desert Eagle up and squeezed off two shots. The massive recoil was mostly absorbed by the weapon’s mechanism but Doyle still needed all his strength to control the pistol.

One bullet punched a hole in the door, the second powered into a wall, shattering brickwork and sending a fine cloud of reddish powder into the air.

Leary ran on and out into the street.

Doyle vaulted the last handrail, dropping the twelve feet to the ground. He hit the concrete hard, rolled over and dragged himself up, wincing from a pain in his left ankle.

Might have sprained it Fuck.

But the pain was secondary and he ran on, bursting out into the street.

He looked to the left and right and saw Leary running towards the far end.

There were men spilling from the Land Rover parked there.

Leary raised the shotgun and fired twice at the vehicle. The first blast sent the RUC men scurrying for cover. The second punched several holes in the chassis above the front offside wheel.

‘Stop him,’ roared Doyle, swinging the Desert Eagle up once again.

Leary was already pulling open the driver’s door and clambering behind the wheel of the Land Rover.

Doyle fired. The bullet stove in most of the windscreen and Leary ducked down as fragments of glass showered him.

The driver of the Transit was attempting to manoeuvre into the path of the Land Rover but Leary jammed it into reverse and slammed into the larger vehicle with such force that he cleared a way through for himself.

‘Shoot him, for fuck’s sake,’ Doyle bellowed as he charged at the reversing Land Rover.

‘We can’t open fire on a street,’ one of the armed RUC men shouted back.

‘He’ll get away,’ snarled Doyle.

He squeezed off two more shots from the Desert Eagle.The first of the .50

calibre shells drilled into the spare wheel, tore through the chassis and buried itself in the back of the passenger seat. The second ripped off a wing mirror.

Leary stepped on the accelerator. The back wheels spun madly for a moment then gripped the tarmac and the Land Rover shot forward as if fired from a catapult.

Doyle pulled open the passenger door of the Transit and climbed in.

‘Get out,’ he rasped at the driver.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ asked the startled man.

Doyle pressed the Desert Eagle to his cheek. ‘Get out, now,’ he hissed, practically pushing the man out into the street.

He stuck the Transit in reverse, crashing into two parked cars as he struggled to bring it under control. He spun the wheel and floored the accelerator. The

van sped off after the fleeing Land Rover.

The radio hissed and crackled. ‘Panther Two, come in. Over,’ said a metallic voice.

Doyle kept his eyes on his prey. He knew that if Leary made it to an open stretch of road he’d leave him standing. As long as he was in the narrow, busy streets of the city, it was a more even contest.

Doyle wondered if he could level it even more.

‘Panther Two, come in,’ the radio crackled again. ‘What is your position and your situation? Over.’

Doyle grabbed for the two-way. ‘Block all the fucking roads within a two-mile radius of Dalton Road,’ snarled the counter terrorist. ‘Do it now.’

‘Panther Two, identify yourself,’ the voice on the radio demanded.

‘I’m the man who’s doing your fucking job for you,’ snarled Doyle and hurled the radio down.

Up ahead the Land Rover turned right, narrowly avoiding a Fiat.

Doyle caught the Fiat on its nearside wing and sent it skidding into a parked car at the roadside. He gripped the wheel more tightly as if urging extra speed from the Transit.

The traffic up ahead was fairly light.

If Leary gets a dear stretch of road he’ll leave you standing.

The Land Rover was weaving in and out of the cars, overtaking and undertaking as Leary tried desperately to put distance between himself and his pursuer.

Doyle had already forced the accelerator to the floor. The needle of the speedo touched sixty-five.

There was a junction ahead.The Land Rover hurtled across it. Doyle followed, narrowly missing another car that came from his right, and striking the hooter hard.

Those cars that didn’t heed his warning were simply shunted out of his way.

‘Fucking move,’ he roared as he drove.

The Land Rover shot between two cars, paint scraping from both wings. Doyle followed, ramming one vehicle aside. It careened up on to the pavement, the driver stunned by the impact. Broken glass was spread across the road.

Doyle saw two women preparing to cross the street. The first was pushing a pram.

If Leary saw them, he made no attempt to slow down, and the Land Rover roared on doing over sixty.

Doyle gripped the wheel of the Transit with one hand. With the other he fired the Desert Eagle straight at his own windscreen.The noise was deafening.

The heavy-grain slug blasted a hole in the glass the size of man’s fist.

Shards of crystal sprayed in all directions.

Doyle fired again, struggling to control the recoil of the weapon. This shot hit the rear of the fleeing Land Rover.

Shoot the tyres out

For fleeting seconds he thought about it.

And what if the car goes out of control and swerves up on to the pavement?

He aimed higher.

The two women preparing to cross leapt back from the kerb, one of them screaming in terror as the two vehicles roared past.

Traffic lights ahead. They were on amber but Doyle wondered if they’d hold.

Fifty yards. The traffic seemed to be more dense now.

Forty yards. Leary guided the Land Rover around a Renault.

Thirty yards.Traffic further ahead was slowing down.

Twenty yards. The lights flickered. Leary put his foot down.

Ten yards. Doyle imitated his action.

Red light.

The Land Rover hurtled across the junction. Doyle followed, steadying the Desert Eagle once more.

A metallic voice was whining from the radio but the counter terrorist had no idea what it was saying.

On the right there was a garage. Doyle could see several cars filling up.

And a motorbike.

Leary suddenly wrenched the wheel of the Land Rover to the right and the car shot across the forecourt of the garage. He slammed on the brakes and clambered from the driver’s seat, the Ithaca still gripped in his fist.

Doyle followed, ducking low behind the wheel as he saw Leary raise the shotgun to his shoulder. He fired twice.

Both discharges thudded into the radiator grille of the Transit. Doyle saw steam rise from the ruptured bodywork. He struggled with the wheel for a moment then stepped hard on the brake.

The Transit skidded, kept sliding and slammed into several cars parked outside a glass-fronted showroom. The vehicles were shunted into the huge expanse of crystal and the jangling sound of smashing glass filled the air for long seconds.

Doyle gritted his teeth and slid from the cab, glass crunching beneath his feet.

Leary was already running towards the motorbike.

The rider stared at him then backed away from this madman with a shotgun. He raised the weapon, pointed it at the motorcyclist and squeezed the trigger.

The hammer slammed down on an empty chamber.

The Irishman hurled the empty shotgun aside then swung his leg over the seat of the Honda 600 and revved the engine.

Doyle sighted the Desert Eagle.

If you shoot you’d better hit the bastard.

He hesitated.

Even if he did hit Leary, from such close range the bullet would go straight through him.

Strike a petrol pump?

Doyle holstered the weapon and ran towards the motorbike. The front wheel left the ground as Leary gunned the throttle.

Doyle launched himself at his quarry. He slammed into Leary and both of them crashed to the ground. There were several small puddles of petrol on the forecourt and its smell was strong in their nostrils.

Doyle fixed his hands around Leary’s throat and smashed his head down sharply on the concrete.

The counter terrorist was aware of Leary reaching for something. Seconds later he felt a cold punch in his side, then his thigh and left buttock.

Doyle grunted in pain as the knife was driven into him. He felt blood burst from the lacerations and released his grip on Leary’s throat, trying to grab the man’s wrist to prevent him stabbing again.

Leary brought his head up hard into Doyle’s face and managed to roll from beneath him, his clothes spattered with petrol and Doyle’s blood.

Doyle fumbled for the Desert Eagle. Saw Leary clamber on to the motorbike and work the throttle. The bike roared out of the garage into the street.

Doyle fired once but the bullet tore through the air six feet from its target.

The counter terrorist tried to rise, aware of the burning pain from his wounds. He put one hand to the deep puncture in his side and saw blood running freely through his fingers.

‘Call the police,’ he rasped at several onlookers.

Someone already had.

Doyle heard sirens approaching, and hoped one was an ambulance.

The counter terrorist tried to rise again but his leg buckled beneath him.

Leary had driven the blade deep.

Cunt.

Doyle sat with his back against a petrol pump, the Desert Eagle still gripped in one fist. With his free hand he pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his jeans and applied pressure to each wound in turn. The one in his buttock hurt the most.

More pain.

He felt dizzy. A combination of the petrol fumes and the stab wounds, he told himself. He closed his eyes so tightly that white stars danced behind the

lids.

Don’t pass out

He could hear the motorbike receding into the distance. Leary was away.

For the time being.

‘Bastard,’ he hissed under his breath.

The first of the police cars screeched to a halt on the forecourt.

EXHAUSTION

Ward slumped back in his chair, eyes closed. 4.06 p.m. He took out the disk and switched off the computer. That was it for the day.

Enough was enough.

As he got to his feet he felt something he had not experienced for a long, long time. It was a sense of pride.

He set the alarm in the office, locked up then stepped on to the back lawn and stood with his hands on his hips taking deep breaths of the still air. His head was spinning.

In one of the gardens nearby, a dog was barking. He could hear kids playing noisily.

Ward waited a moment longer then wandered back to the house. As soon as he stepped inside the phone began to ring. He wondered about answering it then decided to leave the call to be collected by the answerphone.

He walked into the sitting room, heading for the drinks cabinet. Holding his glass of Jack Daniel’s, he sat down in one of his armchairs.

Within minutes, he was asleep.

RUNNING ON EMPTY

The glass fell to the floor and bounced once on the carpet.

Ward woke with a start, staring around the darkened room. At first he could see nothing.

Not a hand in front of him.

For one second of madness he thought he’d gone blind. Then he realised that night had descended. How long had he been asleep in the chair?

He sat up, looking down at the dropped glass as he slowly became accustomed to the gloom. He rubbed his eyes and squinted at his watch. 8.56 p.m.

Ward hauled himself out of the armchair and stumbled backwards and forwards turning on lamps. Their welcome glow spread through the darkness, banishing the blackness like an unwanted dream. He finally switched on the television, not caring which channel he found, wanting only the familiar sight and sound.

He drew the curtains and shook his head.

There was a gnawing pain in the pit of his stomach and he realised how hungry he was. He hadn’t eaten since lunchtime, over seven hours ago.

He picked up the glass he’d dropped, thankful that it had been empty, and made his way to the kitchen,

switching on lights in his wake. The fluorescents buzzed like somnolent bluebottles and he winced as their brilliant, white light seemed to sear his eyes. He crossed to the fridge and took out a bottle of milk, drinking straight from the bottle in an attempt to quench his raging thirst. Then he studied the contents of the fridge.

Some tomatoes, a cucumber, lettuce that was beginning to turn brown, cheese and a couple of yogurts.

He exhaled wearily.

There was a frozen meal in the freezer, he remembered. It took less than ten minutes in the microwave. That would do.

He stuck the meal in the oven and made his way back into the sitting room where he poured himself a drink and waited for his dinner to cook.

He noticed there were three messages on his answerphone. He chose to ignore them for the time being. He would eat first and they couldn’t be that important anyway. Not much was these days.

He watched a little of the news while he waited. A plane crash in India. An earthquake in Mexico.

He flicked channels. There was some American sitcom on Channel 4. A programme about World War II on BBC1. He watched that until his meal was ready.

And he drank.

ELECTRICAL PROBLEMS

Ward woke again at 12.15. He rubbed his eyes and moved quickly around the room switching off lights and electrical appliances, then he made his way up the stairs to bed.

As he set the alarm he glanced again at the answerphone and decided to check his messages the following morning. He was too tired now.

Undressing quickly, he climbed into bed without brushing his teeth. He hoped that he would fall asleep quickly. He didn’t.

He tossed and turned for over an hour before dragging himself irritably to his feet.

The moon, despite the abundance of cloud, was bright and cast a cold, white glow over everything. Ward stood looking out into the night. He opened the window and sucked in several deep breaths.

His head was throbbing. A combination of drink and insomnia. He decided his prolonged naps during the day and evening must have caused his inability to sleep.

Ward looked at his office and saw the now familiar silvery grey light. He must have forgotten to switch off the monitor again.

One part of him said leave it, the other that he was up, he was awake, why not switch it off?

He pulled on a pair of jogging bottoms and a sweatshirt and headed for the stairs. He pressed the four-digit number to neutralise the alarm then passed through the kitchen to the back door.

The moon emerged from behind a bank of dark cloud just as he stepped out into the garden so he didn’t bother switching on the outside light.

He made his way quickly towards the office and let himself in. He climbed the stairs and stood in front of the monitor. It was, indeed, still on.

Ward switched it off, muttering to himself, then turned and wandered back down the stairs and out into the garden. As he did so the moon retreated behind the clouds, plunging him into darkness.

Ward hesitated as he heard rustling sounds. One of the many cats that infested the neighbourhood, he told himself. He bent down, picked up a small stone and threw it in the general direction of the noise.

There was a loud yowl and Ward smiled. That might keep some of the cat shit off his lawn, he thought as he opened the back door.

He looked back at the office. Everything was in darkness. As it should be.

THE SLEEP OF THE DEAD

It was almost daylight by the time Ward finally drifted off to sleep.

He didn’t hear the alarm clock when it rang three hours later. He slept on.

MAKING AN EFFORT

Ward woke at 11.30 that morning. He showered, dressed and wandered out to the office, not hopeful of being able to write but anxious to make an effort.

There was a dead bird on the lawn. Probably killed by the cat he’d thrown a stone at the previous night. He made a mental note to move it when he’d finished for the day.

As he entered the office he shivered. But it was always cool at the bottom of the stairs, no matter what the time of year.

He climbed the stairs to the office.

The monitor was switched on.

A MYSTERY

He knew he’d turned it off. He would have sworn on a Bible if he’d had one handy.

He sat before the blank screen, gazing at it. Some kind of electrical fault, perhaps? A power surge in the night?

That had to be the answer. Either that or his memory was worse than he thought.

Had he dreamt coming out to the office the previous night? It was possible.

He rested his fingers on the keys, sucked in a deep breath and began to type.

Doyle hated the smell of hospitals.The cloying,antiseptic odour made him feel

nauseous.

He wondered why. He’d been inside enough of the fucking places in his life. He should be immune to it by now. And the Royal Victoria Hospital in Belfast smelt the same as all the others.

He blinked hard, trying to clear his vision. He couldn’t remember if he’d passed out in the ambulance or if his drowsiness was the result of anaesthetic.

He tried to move and felt pain in his side and left leg. ‘Shit,’ the counter terrorist murmured and pushed the sheets down.

All the old, familiar scars were there. The ones that criss-crossed his body like a street map. The result of bullet wounds, explosions. Whatever the weapon, Doyle bore a scar as testament to an encounter with it.

He looked down at his heavily bandaged torso and leg.

More to add to the collection.

A doctor had once told him that with the amount of injuries he’d received, he had no right to be alive. That he should be grateful. He looked down again at the scars on his body and shook his head.

Grateful?

He almost laughed.

The door of his room opened and a nurse entered.

‘Mr Doyle,’ she said. ‘How are we feeling?’

‘We’ve felt better,’ he answered.

‘I’m not surprised,’ she told him, crossing to his bed and feeling for his pulse, checking it against the watch fastened to her tunic.‘They had to put thirty stitches in you. And you lost a lot of blood. Half an inch to the left and that knife would have cut a major artery in your leg.’

She let go of his wrist and scribbled something on his chart.

‘When can I leave?’ he wanted to know.

‘When the doctor gives you the all-clear’ She took his temperature and wrote something else on the clipboard.

‘Your records indicate multiple injuries over the years,’ she said. ‘Any residual effects?’

He shook his head.

‘Do you get pain from any of these?’ she wanted to know, running appraising eyes over his scars.

‘Some stiffness every now and then but nothing to shout about,’ he told her.

‘That’s probably my age, not the scars.’

‘You’re in good shape,’ she smiled, pulling the sheet up around his chest.

Doyle met her gaze, watching as her cheeks reddened slightly.

‘I’ll be back with your lunch,’ she told him, heading for the door.

‘Stick a packet of fags on the side, will you?’

She paused.

‘You’ve a visitor. Shall I send him in?’

Doyle nodded.

He heard voices outside then a familiar figure strode into the room.

Chief Inspector Peter Robinson removed his cap and ran a hand across his bald pate.

‘What the hell happened, Doyle?’ he said angrily.

‘Nice to see you too. Pull up a chair. Or, better still, fuck off and leave me in peace. What do you mean, “what happened”? It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?

Leary got away.’

‘Because you didn’t follow procedure.’

‘Because your men fucked up. You had snipers covering that flat, why didn’t one of the dozy twats shoot him when he came out?’

‘We didn’t have positive ID.’

‘Jesus Christ, some cunt comes rushing out into the street with a fucking shotgun in his hand and starts shooting at a police vehicle. I’d have thought that would have narrowed it down a bit!

Robinson drew in a deep breath and met Doyle’s furious gaze.

‘What about Finan?’ the counter terrorist wanted to know.

‘He died before we could get him to hospital. You killed one of our main leads.’

‘Shit happens,’ Doyle said flatly. ‘Any word on where Leary’s gone?’

‘Probably back into the Republic. We’ve more than likely lost him for good now.’

‘He’ll turn up. Trust me.’ Doyle ran a hand through his hair. ‘What did you find inside the flat?’

‘Fifteen pounds of Semtex. Detonators. Weapons and ammunition.’

‘What kind of weapons?’

‘Mainly handguns. There were half a dozen automatics and revolvers. Four AK47s and a couple of Ingram Mach 10s.’

‘Any other fingerprints apart from Finan and Leary?’

‘If there are we haven’t found them yet. It looks as if they were operating alone.’

Doyle nodded and silence descended on the room. It was finally broken by Robinson.

‘You’re lucky Leary didn’t kill you,’ the policeman offered.

‘Yeah, so people keep telling me. Well, I’m telling you now, next time I run into him, he won’t be so lucky. I’ll kill him: ‘You’ve got to find him first. You’re not going to do that lying in here are you?’

‘I’ll be out by tomorrow.’

‘Have the doctors told you that?’

‘I’ve decided.’

‘And then what?’

I’ll take care of Leary once and for all.’

DOWNING STREET, LONDON:

Cigarette smoke had gathered beneath the high ceiling of the room and it hung there like a man-made rain cloud. Every now and then the air-conditioning would send ripples through the grey curtain and it would shimmer like a spectre in a fading dream.

Only one of the men in the room was smoking.

Bernard Wolfe was forty-eight years old and he’d been on twenty a day since he was thirteen. The Irishman enjoyed a cigarette, and the feeble intrusions of political correctness were of no interest to him. Neither were the occasional, exaggerated coughs of the men who sat opposite him.

Neville Howe was a year his senior. A tall man with pinched features, he had unusually lustrous brown hair for someone approaching their half century.

There wasn’t so much as a trace of grey at his temples, leading some people to wonder if he was immune to the onset of age or knew a very capable barber.

Howe stared alternately at Wolfe and the papers spread before him on the large, polished oak table at which they sat. He had held the post of Secretary of

State for Northern Ireland for less than three months. This was his first meeting with anyone from Sinn Fein or any of the other parties embroiled in the mess that was Northern Ireland politics.

He wore a perfectly tailored charcoal-grey Armani suit, which he brushed constantly with one hand as if to remove some flecks of dust.

Beside him sat Sir Anthony Pressman. He was three years older than Howe, bespectacled, white-haired and had the kind of ruddy cheeks that suggested joviality. But if the Home Secretary was familiar with levity, then it was nothing more than a passing acquaintance. His heavily lined forehead was the legacy of six years in the job.

Pressman was no stranger to meetings such as these, whether the venue was London, Belfast or Dublin. Certainly since the Good Friday Agreement, he had been at more of these summits (as the press liked to call them) than he cared to remember.

Present at most of the meetings were Wolfe and his colleague Peter Hagen.

At forty-two Hagen was the youngest man in the room. He was also one of the youngest men ever to have been appointed to Sinn Fein’s ruling body. It was

rumoured that prior to this position, he had spent five years in an active IRA cell, operating everywhere from Londonderry to Birmingham. Amiable but occasionally short-tempered, he was as adept at the negotiating table as he had, allegedly, been with an Armalite.

Hagen reached for a jug of water and refilled his glass.

Bernard Wolfe was speaking.‘We feel that the action taken in Belfast was,’ Wolfe paused as if searching for the word, ‘excessive.’

‘Certainly excessive force was used,’ Hagen concurred, sipping his drink.

The incident was regrettable, I agree,’ Pressman offered. ‘But you must see it from our point of view. Finan and Leary were both considered dangerous.

Something proved during the incident, I hasten to add. Having said that, I agree that the measures taken against them were somewhat extreme.’

Wolfe blew a stream of smoke into the air. The fact is that neither Finan nor Leary were affiliated to our organisation,’ he observed.

‘Our concern is for the people of what we all want to regard as a united Ireland,’ said Hagen. ‘Innocent bystanders’ lives were put at risk. Catholic and Protestant. Put at risk by a member of your security forces.’

‘If the reaction of the security forces was extreme,’ Howe interjected, ‘it was because the situation they found themselves in was extreme.’

‘Steps had already been taken by our organisation to prevent any further activity by Finan and Leary,’ Wolfe continued. ‘We view the activities of the Continuity IRA and the Real IRA with as much disapproval as you, Mr Howe.’

The Secretary of State nodded sagely and smiled a practised smile. ‘We understand that, but the fact remains that neither Sinn Fein nor the military wing of your organisation has been able to control the activities of men like Finan and Leary. Also, most members of the Continuity and Real IRA are known to have been members of your organisation at one time.’

That’s open to question,’ snapped Wolfe, grinding out his cigarette.

‘But steps were taken to communicate with them,’ Hagen said, sharply.‘We realise such men pose a threat to the peace process. We’re as anxious to see peace in our country as you are.’

‘A great many compromises have been made to hasten a complete end to the situation in Northern Ireland,’ Howe said. ‘Most of them, I might add, by this government.’

‘Are you implying that your government are more anxious for peace than we are?’ snapped Hagen.

‘My colleague was implying nothing of the kind,’ Pressman offered, raising a hand as if in supplication. ‘We are committed to finding a peaceful solution to the problems in Northern Ireland. I find what happened in Belfast as shocking as you.’

‘How can you guarantee it won’t happen again?’ Wolfe wanted to know.

‘With the greatest of respect, Mr Wolfe,’ said Howe almost apologetically, ‘how can you?’

‘Certain measures will be undertaken,’ Pressman assured the men seated opposite him. This government will continue to support and encourage a peaceful settlement that is acceptable to all parties concerned. You have my word on that.’

‘It’s a matter of trust,’ Howe echoed.

‘So, what do you intend to do?’ enquired Wolfe.

Pressman sipped from his glass and cleared his throat. ‘I feel an example must be made,’ he began.

For the first time during the meeting he smiled.

SEPTEMBER 5th, 1994:

The headstone was black marble. The rain that had been falling for most of the day trickled down it like tears as if imitating those that had been shed at the graveside earlier.

In the damp, night air the smell of flowers was still strong. They lay in their cellophane-wrapped bundles around the graveside, the falling rain beating a tattoo on the clear covering.

The smell of freshly turned earth mingled with the sickly sweet aroma and,

through the stillness of the night, the scraping of metal on wood sounded.

A spade had connected with the wood of the coffin.

One of the two men standing inside the hole pulled a torch from his jacket pocket and aimed it at the top of the box. The light reflected off the brass nameplate.

The man sought out the six screws that held the coffin lid in place and bent to the closest of them. His companion, still sweating from his exertions, nudged him and shook his head.

No need to open the fucking thing.

There was more movement from the graveside.

Something heavy was being dragged across the wet earth. Two of the bouquets were crushed beneath it.

The body was wrapped in plastic bin liners, wound around with gaffer tape. It resembled the cocoon of some huge, malevolent butterfly. But there would be no hatching from this plastic pupa.

The heavy form was tumbled into the grave and it landed with a dull thud on top of the coffin. It took less than half an hour to refill the gaping hole.

The bouquets were placed back on top of the mound. The men prepared to make their way back to the car which awaited them just beyond the low stone wall that marked the perimeter of the cemetery.

One of them paused a moment longer and glanced once more at the headstone.

DOUGLAS WALSH

BELOVED HUSBAND AND FATHER

ASLEEP IN THE ARMS OF GOD

He nodded, almost reverentially. Now Douglas Walsh had someone to share eternity with him. The man looked up at the clouds and lit another cigarette.

The rain continued to fall.

BELFAST:

Mr Doyle, I cannot stress strongly enough my disapproval at what you’re about to do.’

Doctor Simon Bellamy watched in exasperation as Doyle hauled himself out of the hospital bed and carefully put his weight on his bandaged leg. The counter terrorist winced at the first contact then seemed to become accustomed to the pain.

The wounds are not sufficiently healed,’ Bellamy stressed.

‘They’re fine, doc,’ Doyle told him, searching in the bedside table for his clothes. He was relieved to find they’d been washed.Although walking (or hobbling) out of the hospital with bloodstained gear wouldn’t have bothered him.

He began to dress.

‘You need at least three more days under observation,’ Bellamy insisted.‘What the hell are you trying to prove?’

‘I’m not trying to prove anything. Now, if there’s some piece of paper you want me to sign, clearing you of responsibility, then great, give me the bloody thing.

But I’m not staying in here a day longer.’ He pulled on his T-shirt, feeling the tear where Leary’s blade had sliced it.

‘What’s your hurry?’

I’ve got work to do.’

‘You’re not going to be in a fit state to do anything if you leave here like this.’

Doyle eased his jeans carefully up his bandaged leg and fastened them. Then he pulled on his socks and stepped into the worn cowboy boots he’d also pulled from the locker.

He put more weight on his injured leg and gritted his teeth.

More pain.

‘What’s the worst that can happen, doc?’ he asked, conversationally.

‘Your stitches could open.’

Doyle shrugged, pulled on a denim shirt and tucked it into his jeans. ‘I’ll see my own quack when I get the chance,’ he said, as if that was meant to make

Bellamy feel better.

‘Mr Doyle—’

‘There are people who need these beds more than I do,’ Doyle snapped, cutting him short. ‘I’m doing you a favour and some other poor sod. Look at it that way if it makes you feel better.’

‘Right now, you need to be in that bed,’ Bellamy answered.

Doyle pulled on his leather jacket and dug in the pockets for his cigarettes.

He was out.

‘No good asking you for a fag is it, doc?’ he smiled.

Bellamy shook his head resignedly.

Doyle’s phone rang. He looked at the doctor, the only sound in the room the shrill tone of the mobile.

Bellamy held up his hands as if in surrender and stepped out of the room.

Doyle answered the call.

‘How are you feeling?’ said the voice.

He recognised it immediately. Well spoken, calm, measured tones.

‘Not bad,’ he said.

‘I had a full report on what happened.’

‘Yeah, I bet you did. Listen, I had Leary. He—’

‘Then why are you the one in hospital?’

There was a moment’s silence then the voice continued, ‘I understand the injuries you received were severe.’

‘A knife’s better than a car bomb,’ Doyle replied.

‘I’m glad you’re okay, Doyle.’

‘Am I supposed to say thanks for the call?’

‘You’re not supposed to say anything, just listen to me. I want you to take the first flight out of Aldergrove back to London.’

‘What for? I got Finan but Leary’s still on the fucking loose. What’s the point in me flying back to London now? The business is here.’

‘It wasn’t a request, Doyle. I’m giving you an order. I want you out of Belfast as quickly as possible. Do you understand? I want to see you in my office the day after tomorrow at ten o’clock.’

‘Are you sending someone else after Leary?’ Doyle snapped.

‘Leary isn’t your concern any longer. Just get on that bloody plane.’

‘You know I’m the only one who can find him.’

‘My office. Ten o’clock, the day after next.’

Doyle was about to say something else but Jonathan Parker, Director of the Counter Terrorist Unit in London, ended the call.

‘Shit,’ Doyle hissed.

He gazed at his mobile for a few seconds more then switched it off.

He looked into his locker again and saw a plastic bag, sealed at the top with Sellotape.

The counter terrorist smiled as he lifted it.

His guns felt comfortingly heavy.

CALLING CARDS

Ward sat back in his chair and stared at the screen. He re-read what was there, changed the odd word then rested his fingers on the keys once more.

He waited.

Nothing came. Nothing clicked into place. No further sparks of inspiration.

He muttered to himself and got to his feet.

He looked out of the window into the garden. The sun was shining and the sky was cloudless.

Ward looked back to the screen then got up and made his way down the stairs to the office door. He stepped out into the garden, breathing deeply.

Some ants were busying themselves around the cracks in the stonework beneath his feet. Ward watched them for a moment then walked slowly on to the lawn. It needed cutting and the grass almost reached his ankles. Daisies and buttercups sprouted abundantly and bees moved lazily from flower to flower.

Everyone was busy except him it seemed.

He could hear the sound of children’s voices away to his left. He wondered why

the little bastards weren’t at school. A little further away, a dog barked.

Ward crossed to the large, rambling hedge that formed one boundary of his garden and looked at the blackberries growing there.

There was a sticky mound of glutinous matter close to his left foot. At first he thought it was half-eaten fruit, then he knelt to inspect it more closely.

The stench made him recoil. It was excrement.

Fucking cats must have been in the garden again. He made a mental note to put some pepper down or, better still, slide three or four razor blades into the dirt around the holes in the fence where he knew they entered. Perhaps they wouldn’t feel so much like shitting in his garden with their paws cut to shreds.

Ward smiled at his ingenious sadism, then the smile faded.

He looked again at the lumps of excrement, covering his face with a handkerchief to protect his nostrils from the foul odour.

This wasn’t cat shit. It was too big. The stools too large.

Something glistened in the second pile. Ward reached for a twig to disturb the faecal mess. He prodded it carefully and managed to dig out the gleaming object.

He almost overbalanced when he saw it.

Another hallucination?

Were his eyes going?

The gleaming object he had prised from the excrement looked like a human tooth. He flicked at it with the stick but caught it too hard and the fragment flew into the hedge.

Ward cursed and tried to find it but it was useless. He got to his feet.

Perhaps he’d look again later. Perhaps he’d forget about it.

He headed back towards the office.

UPHILL STRUGGLE

The words came slowly. Almost painfully. Ward tried to force himself to concentrate but it was difficult.

He got up and looked out of the window again, gazing in the direction of the mounds of excrement he’d found earlier. Dried by the sun they had turned to dust.

Ward frowned. How was that possible? And what about the tooth?

He shook his head. It made no sense. But, then again, not much m his life did any more.

He sat down at his desk again.

LONDON:

The flat was cold. Doyle shivered as he walked in and closed the front door behind him.

How long since he’d been home? Three weeks? A month? Longer?Time didn’t seem to matter much these days.

Come to that, what did?

There were some envelopes scattered across the mat and Doyle bent stiffly and picked them up, scanning the postmarks. Most of it was junk. Loan offers.

Reader’s Digest bullshit. Credit card promises. Doyle dumped them in the nearest bin.

He wandered through to the sitting room and switched on the TV and the stereo.

Wondering why he was bothering, he looked at the answerphone. No messages.

Doyle didn’t like silence and music soon filled the flat.

There was some shit Aussie soap opera on the TV but thankfully the music drowned it out.

‘Lost in your dreams, nothing’s what it seems …’

There would be no complaints from neighbours living in the flats above and below him.They were out at work from seven until five every day and Doyle hardly saw them. He’d lived in this part of Islington for over ten years now, shared this building with half a dozen other souls and yet he was no closer to them than he had been when he’d first moved in. A nod of acknowledgement was the extent of his community spirit.

‘Searching my head, for the words that you said …’

He made his way into the kitchen and switched on the central heating, hearing the radiators bump into life. Then he spun the cold tap and let it run for a while.

His leg ached. More from hours of sitting than the wounds themselves, he told himself. First the plane then the taxi from Heathrow. He’d normally have taken the Tube but, much as he hated to admit it, his injured leg was giving him more pain than he’d anticipated. The doctor had given him some painkillers and he fumbled in his pocket for them, washing down two with a handful of cold water.

Getting old?

He drew a deep breath and filled the kettle, blowing the dust from a mug on the draining board.

Of course there was no milk in the fridge.

Shit

He’d nip out later and get some.The counter terrorist had been relieved to see his car parked outside. Delighted, too, that it still had all its windows.The odd extra scratch here and there was hardly a problem. And the likelihood of theft was small.Who, he reasoned, would want to nick a seven-year-old Astra?

As well as milk he needed food. His cupboards were never exactly well stocked but then, as Doyle reasoned, why bother when he was hardly ever at home.

Fuck it. There was a K.FC round the corner.

He left the kettle to boil and headed into the bedroom where he changed into a sweatshirt and a pair of jogging bottoms.

The bandages around his leg and side would need changing. He made a mental note to pick up some fresh ones from the chemist’s at the bottom of the street when he went out for the milk.

He knew how to re-dress the wounds. He should do after all these years. He’d had enough of them.

Doyle went back into the kitchen and poured boiling water on to the tea bag.

As he stood stirring it he wondered why Jonathan Parker wanted to see him.

What could be so fucking important that his boss had pulled him off a case like Leary’s?

Wait and see.

He fished the tea bag from the mug with a spoon, dropped it in the sink then drank.

The painkillers should start to take effect soon.

The music was still thumping away in the living room.

‘My body aches from mistakes, betrayed by lust …’

He’d finish his tea and have a sit down before he went out.

We fed to each other so much, now in nothing we trust’

There was a more important job he had to do before it got dark.

No matter what the season, Norwood cemetery always seemed cold to Doyle.

Now, as he made the long walk from his car to the grave he sought, the wind whipped across the vast necropolis, blowing his long, brown hair around his face and making him pull up the collar of his jacket.

The trek took longer than usual because he was unable to maintain his usual brisk stride. Despite the painkillers, he was slowed down by the stiffness.

Muttering under his breath, he forged on.

The drive had taken less than an hour. He’d been relieved that his car had eventually started, and that driving was less uncomfortable than he’d anticipated.

There were other people visiting the cemetery. Doyle saw two older women wandering back along one of the many gravel paths that criss-crossed the huge resting place like arteries. One of them nodded at him as he passed.

He returned the cursory greeting and gripped his bunch of carnations more tightly. As usual they were red.

Like blood?

It had been her favourite colour. He always brought red flowers.

There was a slight rise ahead and Doyle gritted his teeth as he walked up the incline, the wind cutting into him as he reached the top.

The grave lay to his right at the base of the reverse slope.

He swallowed hard and dug in his jacket pocket as he approached the headstone.

The plinth was dirty. There were dead leaves and withered petals lying on it.

Some bird shit on the stone itself. Doyle pulled the cloth from his pocket to clean the headstone.

Before he began he stood motionless by the grave and read the inscription: GEORGINA WILLIS AT PEACE

She had been just twenty-eight when she died.

He closed his eyes for fleeting seconds and her image danced before him.

The blond hair. The finely chiselled features.

Was it really more than ten years since her death?

So much pain.

Had time passed so quickly? So meaninglessly?

What was it people said? That you should let go of the past? Fuck that. Why let go of the past when there was nothing in the future?

He ran a hand through his hair and looked again at the stone.

‘Hello, babe,’ he murmured.

Doyle knelt and began cleaning, spitting on the cloth. He did the same with the metal vase that stood on the plinth, and then he placed the carnations carefully inside and set it back in position. He balled up the cellophane and stuffed it into his pocket.

For what seemed an eternity, the counter terrorist stood beside the grave, the cold wind gusting around him. His eyes were fixed on the stone and its gold letters.

You should be in there with her.

‘I’ve got to go,’ he said finally.

You should be the one who’s dead. Not her.

He kissed his index finger and touched it to the headstone.

‘I’ll see you soon.’

Doyle turned and headed back up the gently sloping path.

He didn’t look back.

The building in Hill Street was a magnificent edifice. A three-storey monument with a walled garden to the rear. It had once been the town house of millionaire John Paul Getty.

Doyle drove past the dark, brick structure once, searching for a parking space. There were half a dozen large, black cars already nestled around the building like huge, black beetles around carrion. He could see chauffeurs seated inside. Two of the uniformed men were outside their vehicles, chatting in the warm early morning sunlight.

Doyle reversed then spotted an empty space right in front of the imposing oak doors of the building.

Fuck the double yellow lines.

He guided the Astra into the gap then fumbled in his glove compartment for the orange disabled sticker. He pressed it to the windscreen and swung himself out of the car, still clutching the remains of an Egg McMuffin in one hand. He quickly swallowed the last mouthful.

Doyle walked up to the door and pressed the buzzer beside it. The intercom hissed.

‘Can I help you?’ said a metallic-sounding female voice.

‘Doyle, 23958,’ he said into the grille. ‘I’ve got an appointment with Parker at ten.’

There was a loud buzz and the door opened.

Doyle stepped inside, his footsteps immediately muffled by the thick carpet that covered the reception area of the London headquarters of the Counter Terrorist Unit.

The woman who’d buzzed him in was in her late twenties. Short, dark hair. Of slight build. She was wearing a dark-blue two-piece and a white blouse and looked the epitome of efficiency. Probably hand-picked by Parker, Doyle thought. He liked his staff to be immaculate at all times. The counter terrorist glanced down at his own battered leather jacket and worn jeans and

smiled to himself.

A large reproduction of Pietro Annigoni’s portrait of the Queen hung on the wall behind the receptionist. It regarded Doyle balefully.

‘Can you tell Parker I’m here, please,’ Doyle said, reaching for a cigarette and lighting it.

‘It’s a no-smoking building,’ the receptionist told him reproachfully.

‘I’ll try to remember that,’ Doyle smiled.

He looked around the reception area and saw three men seated at various places around it.AH were dressed in dark suits and all three never allowed their gaze to leave him the entire time he remained at the reception desk.

Doyle took a long drag on his cigarette.

Security?

The portrait of the Queen was giving nothing away.

‘Mr Doyle is here,’ he heard the receptionist say.

‘Send him in,’ Jonathan Parker instructed.

Doyle hesitated a moment, still inspecting the three besuited individuals seated nearby.

‘If you go up the stairs, Mr Parker’s office—’

Doyle cut her short.‘l know where it is,’ he informed her, and she watched him as he headed for the staircase at the rear of the reception area. He occasionally winced as he felt the stiffness in his left leg.

The counter terrorist reached the landing and headed for the second door on his right.

Two more of the suited men were standing outside. They weren’t CTU, he was sure of that. One took a step towards him as he approached the door. . ‘I’ve got business in there,’ Doyle said, fixing the man in an unblinking stare. ‘If I was you I’d move.’

The man hesitated a second then backed off.

Doyle knocked on the door once then walked in. He recognised Jonathan Parker immediately.

The Commander of the Counter Terrorist Unit was seated behind his antique desk sipping from a bone-china tea cup. Only his eyes moved in Doyle’s direction as the younger man entered the room.

‘Have a seat, Doyle,’ said Parker, setting down his cup.

Doyle did as he was instructed, his attention now drawn to the other individual in the room who was sitting on a large, leather sofa to the right of Parker’s desk. He was holding a manilla file on his knee.

There was something familiar about him.

Parker nodded in the other man’s direction.

‘Doyle, I’d like you to meet Sir Anthony Pressman, the Home Secretary.’

That’s what the pricks in the suits were here for.

Pressman ran appraising eyes over the counter terrorist but his expression remained indifferent.

‘Do you want to tell me what’s going on?’ Doyle said to his superior.

Parker took a deep breath.

It’s about what happened in Belfast,’ Parker said quietly.

‘Which is where I should be now, not here discussing it,’ snapped Doyle.

‘I know how good you are at your job, Doyle. That’s why I’ve overlooked certain aspects of your behaviour over the years. You’re the best we’ve got and I don’t mind saying it.’

Doyle waved a hand in front of him. ‘Did you pull me off a fucking case to give me a testimonial?’ he said, ‘Because if you did, thanks a lot but put it in writing and let me get back to work.’

‘What you did in Belfast was unacceptable.’

Doyle turned slightly in his seat. The words had come from Pressman who was flicking through the file before him.

‘What I did in Belfast was unavoidable,’ the counter terrorist said sharply.

‘Have you any idea the damage you caused? The cost of your actions?’ Pressman continued.

Doyle smiled humourlessiy and shook his head. ‘I couldn’t give a fuck about

the cost,’ he said.‘l was trying to neutralise two known terrorists, in case you hadn’t

noticed, they’ve already killed ten people in the past three months.’

‘“Neutralise”,’ Pressman mused.‘What a quaint term. The problem is, Mr Doyle, that your actions caused more than a million pounds’ worth of damage to property and endangered countless innocent lives, not including those of the men you were attempting to “neutralise”. One of whom, I hasten to add, is now dead. Killed by you.’

‘They both would have been if I’d had my way,’ hissed Doyle.

‘The peace process between Great Britain and Ireland is continuing as we would wish. Action such as yours will only jeopardise an already unstable situation.’

Doyle got to his feet. This is bullshit,’ he said dismissively. ‘What am I supposed to do? Slap them on the wrists and tell them not to be such naughty boys?’

‘Sit down, Doyle,’ Parker told him.

The counter terrorist hesitated a moment then slumped back into the chair.

‘It isn’t as if this is an isolated incident, is it, Mr Doyle?’ Pressman said.

‘Your record with this organisation is littered with insubordination, disobedience and a complete disregard for the nature of your position.’

The nature of my fucking position is that I get paid for tracking down and removing terrorists,’ Doyle rasped. ‘People who are a threat to this country.’

‘Do you see yourself as a patriot, Mr Doyle?’

‘I’ve never thought about it. I’m just doing a job.’

‘How many people have you killed during the course of your duties?’

‘What the fuck has that got to do with anything?’

‘Your record,’ Pressman held up the file. ‘Includes your psychiatric report.

I’m not an expert, Mr Doyle, but from what I’ve read, some of your behaviour has bordered on the psychotic’

‘You’re right. You’re not a fucking expert. You know nothing about me or the way I work.’

‘Sean Doyle,’ Pressman read. ‘Only son of Irish parents. Both dead. You live alone. Never married. Borderline alcoholic. Sociopathic tendencies. You have a problem with authority. You’ve been injured on numerous occasions, two of them almost fatal. After both you were offered retirement but refused. May I ask why?’

‘Is it important?’

‘I’m curious. I can’t understand why a man would want to continue in a line of work that guarantees his being put at risk on a regular basis. Is there so little in your life, Mr Doyle, that you’re prepared to jeopardise it so easily?’

‘Someone once said to me that a man with nothing to live for has no fear of death,’ Doyle observed.

‘Very profound. Where is that man now?’

‘I shot him.’

A silence descended, finally broken by Pressman. It says in your file that you were involved in the death of a fellow counter terrorist agent some years ago,’ the Home Secretary noted. ‘Georgina Willis.’

Doyle glared at the politician. ‘We were working together when she was killed,’ he said.

‘In the Republic of Ireland.’

‘Spot on.’

Another long silence.

‘You may or may not be aware, Mr Doyle, that my government is presently engaged in talks with Sinn Fein with a view to ending the violence in Northern Ireland once and for all,’ said Pressman.‘Incidents such as those precipitated by you in Belfast recently are hardly conducive to the fulfilment of such a peace.’

‘You’re not negotiating with the IRA,’ Doyle said disdainfully.‘You’re surrendering to them.What have they contributed to this so-called peace?

Nothing. What about decommissioning?’

That will come,’ Pressman interjected.

‘Bollocks,’ snapped Doyle. ‘How many of the fuckers have you released from prison?’

‘That is a necessary step agreed to by both sides.’

‘Five more of them are released at the end of the week, aren’t they?’

That is the plan.’

This fight isn’t with the guys you’re talking to. The men I was after in Belfast are a new breed. They couldn’t give a fuck about your talks and your promises. They couldn’t even give a fuck about Sinn Fein.’

‘I assume you mean the so-called Real IRA?’

That’s exactly who I mean.’

‘Real IRA. Continuity IRA.They’re a very small fringe operation.’

Doyle shook his head.‘In three years they’ve already been responsible for twenty-eight bombs in Ireland and five over here. If decommissioning does ever happen, there’ll be plenty more of the Provos wanting to join them. This problem isn’t going to go away.’

‘Well,’ said Pressman, closing the file. ‘Whatever happens, it won’t concern you any longer, Mr Doyle.’

The counter terrorist shot Parker a look.

‘If it’s any consolation, Doyle, I’m against this,’ said the older man.

‘Against what?’ Doyle snapped.

The Home Secretary pressed his fingertips together and regarded Doyle evenly.

‘You’re being removed from the Counter Terrorist Unit,’ he said.

Removed!’ Doyle rasped. ‘Your methods are unsuitable,’ Pressman continued.

‘And, quite frankly, so are you. Your behaviour in Belfast proved that beyond question.’

‘I was doing a fucking job. For this country.’

‘A job you are now considered unfit for,’ Pressman observed.

Doyle looked at Parker.

‘I had nothing to do with this, Doyle,’ said the older man.

‘Mr Parker fought for your position,’ said the Home Secretary. ‘He doesn’t want you removed. However, government policy dictates that we cannot tolerate a repetition of what happened in Belfast and your record seems to suggest that there’s a strong possibility of that.’

‘You gutless bastard,’ hissed Doyle, glaring at the politician.‘You’re giving in to them, aren’t you? The IRA. This is another concession you’re making.’

There are certain criteria—’

Doyle cut him short.‘Fuck your criteria,’ he snapped. ‘You’ve got your head so far up Sinn Fein’s arse you’ll be cleaning shit out of your ears for months.Why don’t

you just wave your white flag now and get it over with.’

‘The matter is closed,’ Pressman stated.‘Your career with the Counter Terrorist Unit is over, Doyle.’

‘And you’re going to sit still for this?’ Doyle asked Parker.

‘Mr Parker has little choice, I’m afraid,’ Pressman said, a slight smile on his face. The CTU receives more than ten million pounds a year in government subsidies. The organisation couldn’t operate without that money.’

‘You sold me out to a bunch of fucking politicians,’ Doyle said angrily.

‘I haven’t sold you out to anybody, Doyle,’ Parker replied.‘An example had to be made. Sinn Fein wanted proof of our good faith.’

‘More proof? What are you going to give them next? The names of every agent working undercover in Ireland? You fucking prick.’

‘People are tired of this conflict, Doyle,’ said Pressman. ‘They want an end to it, one way or the other.’

‘What the fuck do you know about people, you’re a politician,’ snapped the counter terrorist.

‘I need your ID and your guns, Doyle,’ Parker said quietly.

Doyle hesitated for a moment then got to his feet. He dug in his pocket for the small leather wallet that contained his ID. For long seconds he held it in

the air then threw it down on Parker’s desk.

‘And your guns,’ the commander said.

‘Forget it,’ Doyle told him. ‘Those are mine.’

‘In case you’d forgotten,’ Pressman cut in, ‘it is now a criminal offence to own a handgun of any calibre larger than .22.’

‘You want the guns then you come and take them,’ Doyle snarled.

He slid his hand inside his jacket and pulled the Beretta from its holster. He worked the slide, chambered a round, then levelled it at the Home Secretary.

‘Come on,’ he said quietly. Take it.’

Pressman paled, his eyes fixed on the barrel of the automatic. He looked as if all the blood had suddenly been drained from his body.

‘I have bodyguards outside,’ he said breathlessly, his eyes widening.

‘Big deal. I’ll empty this magazine into you before they can get that fucking door open.’

‘Doyle, put it down,’ Parker said wearily.

Pressman sat motionless. ‘It’s all you know, isn’t it? Violence.Threats,’ he said, his voice cracking.The country will be better off without men like you, Doyle.’

Doyle took a step towards the politician.

‘You make men like me,’ he growled.

Pressman dropped the file he’d been holding and tried to push himself further back into the chair.

Doyle finally eased the hammer of the automatic down and holstered the weapon.

‘As of now you are officially dismissed from the Counter Terrorist Unit,’

Parker told him.

Doyle looked at him briefly.

‘Stick it,’ he snarled. ‘Stick the whole fucking lot up your arse.’

He moved towards the door then turned and looked at Pressman.

Tell your friends in Sinn Fein you did what they wanted,’ he said. ‘I hope they appreciate it.’

Doyle slammed the door behind him.

‘The man’s psychotic,’ said Pressman, his hands shaking as he reached for his glass of water. ‘I’d go as far as to say he’s insane.’

‘Well, that doesn’t matter any more does it?’ Parker said, looking at Doyle’s discarded ID wallet.

Pressman thought about getting to his feet but his legs were still shaking too much.

‘Fighting the Provos, the Real IRA, Continuity IRA, whatever they call themselves,’ Parker continued. ‘We needed men like Doyle. He was dangerous.

That’s what made him the best.’

That time has passed. His time has passed.’

Parker looked down at the ID once again.

‘I hope to Christ you’re right,’ he said quietly.

THE PHONE CALL

Ward usually unplugged the phone while he was working so that it wouldn’t disturb him. Wouldn’t break his train of thought. It took very little to break his concentration and this meant one less distraction.

However, as very few people rang him these days, he had taken to leaving the contraption alone. So it was a shock when the strident ringing cut through the stillness of the office.

He finished the sentence he was typing then reached for the receiver.

‘Hello,’ he said.

‘Chris, it’s me.’

He recognised the voice immediately. Martin Connelly had been his agent for the past five years. A born-and-bred Londoner, Martin was sometimes abrupt, sometimes brusque. There were those who called him rude but he had always done his best for Ward and the two men had a good working relationship.

‘How are you?’ asked Connelly.

T feel like shit. What the hell do you expect?’

There was a moment’s silence.

‘Look, Chris, I won’t beat about the bush. It’s not good news.’

Ward kept his eyes on the screen. On the words he’d just written.

‘They don’t want to know,’ Connelly continued. ‘I’ve tried five publishers and none of them are interested. But that’s not to say that someone—’

‘Fuck them,’ Ward interrupted. ‘Fuck them all.’

‘I can speak to a couple of other people and—’

‘Forget it, Martin,’ Ward said, cutting him short again. ‘It’s over. I know that. I’m going to put the house on the market.’

‘You don’t have to do that.’

‘Don’t I? Then tell me what the fuck I am supposed to do? I’m a writer who no one wants to publish. I write books that no one wants to read. This is all I know. It’s all I’ve ever done. I can’t just say, “Oh, okay then, I’ll pack up writing full time and go back to the day job.” There isn’t a fucking day job.

This is it. This is all there is. And now you’re telling me it’s gone.’

‘There are other things …’

‘No there aren’t. There’s nothing else you can do. Just admit it, Martin.

We’re both fucked. The only difference is you’ve got other clients. You can still collect your twenty per cent from half a dozen other people. I’ve got nothing else.’

Again there was a silence.

‘What did they say?’ Ward finally wanted to know.

‘That sales on the last few books haven’t been good,’ Connelly told him. ‘That their production costs are too high. That they can’t afford to pay you what you want.’

‘Bastards. If they’d given me some fucking support they might have got their money back. Where was the advertising? Where was the fucking publicity?’

‘They say they did all they could.’

‘Well, they’re fucking liars,’ roared Ward furiously.

‘Listen, I know this must be a blow. I’ll call you back in a day or two and we’ll talk about what we can do—’

‘Don’t bother, Martin,’ Ward said coldly. ‘Don’t call me back. There’s nothing more to say’ He hung up.

Ward stood up and walked out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

DESOLATION

The drive to the local shops took less than five minutes.

Ward found the off-licence and bought two bottles of Jack Daniel’s, a bottle of Smirnoff and a bottle of Glenfiddich. Then he drove home.

He carried the bottles into the sitting room, sat down in one of his armchairs and set about the first bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Less than thirty minutes later, it was empty. Another hour and Ward was unconscious.

REALITY

Clinical depression sometimes causes the sufferer to sleep for abnormally long periods of time. The desire to escape from the cause of that depression is overwhelming and the best way to escape is in the oblivion of sleep. Combined with alcohol or some other form of drug, this state of mind can be dangerous.

Christopher Ward was in danger. He woke briefly at around 11.30 p.m. but immediately fell back into a deep, almost comatose sleep.

THE END

Ward sat in front of the blank screen. His head was throbbing, his mouth was sour. He hawked and spat on the carpet beside him.

If he had been in a position to appreciate it, the irony of the situation might have amused him.

The character he was writing about had lost his job. Ward himself had lost his job.

He rested his fingers on the keys.

Ha, ha. Very funny.

Ha ha.

He began to hit the two letters with increasing force.

hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha

hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha hahahahahahahahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh hhhhhhhhh He slumped forward on to the keyboard.

THE BEGINNING

It was dark inside the office. Ward lifted his head slowly from the desk and blinked in an effort to clear his blurred vision. The only light was the silvery-grey glow coming from the computer screen.

Ward looked at the clock on his desk. 3.11 a.m.

He groaned, his gaze drawn to the screen. The print icon was showing: Print 1

to 30.

Ward pressed the return key and the printer whirred into life.

Pages began to spew from the machine.

Doyle watched as the steam rose slowly from his coffee.

The cafe in Dorset Street was barely large enough to accommodate ten people but, at present, only the former counter terrorist and two members of staff were inside.

Doyle looked down at the scratched surface of the table where he sat.

Obviously no one from the Environmental Health Department had put this place on the list for a visit lately.

A heavily built woman emerged from the kitchen carrying a bucket of soapy water and proceeded to wash the tiled floor with a mop.

The cafe now smelt of soap suds and frying bacon.

The former counter terrorist looked around for any No Smoking signs, saw none and lit up.

So that’s itYou’re finished.

He drew heavily on the cigarette.

Out of work. Discarded. Unwanted. Sacked.

It didn’t matter which description you used, it amounted to the same thing.

Game over.

He glanced at his watch, wishing the pubs were open. Wishing he could walk into one, sit himself at a bar and drink until the world disappeared in a haze.

Why not just drive home? There’s booze there.

The initial feeling of fury he’d felt upon leaving CTU headquarters had subsided into something he’d experienced only once or twice before in his life. A feeling of utter helplessness.

He knew that no matter what he did or said, there was nothing he could do to change his fate. It was over. Everything he had ever known. Everything he’d trained, suffered and sweated for had been taken away from him at the whim of some fucking politician.

Had all the pain and loss over the years been for this? To be told he could no longer do the job he loved. The job he was made for?

The only job he could do?

He took another drag on his cigarette, the knot of muscles at the side of his jaw pulsing angrily.

The woman mopping the floor moved to his table. She reached for the small disposable ashtray but Doyle shook his head and she moved away.

No one had ever beaten him in his life. Every man or woman he’d ever set out to hunt down, he’d caught. All those who’d tried to kill him he’d killed first.

He’d survived bomb blasts, bullet wounds, knife cuts and God alone knew what else. But what weapons could not achieve, a few words had.They had destroyed him more completely than a bullet in the head.

Where do you go from here?

He looked at the woman with the mop.

Cleaning fucking floors?

Doyle drew on his cigarette then ground it out in the ashtray. He lit another then ordered more coffee. No rush. He had nowhere

to go and the pubs didn’t open for another half hour.

BELFAST, NORTHERN IRELAND:

Daniel Kane drove the white into the triangle of pool balls and watched as they spun off in all directions. The sound reverberated around the inside of the pub for a moment. Seeing he hadn’t potted anything Kane took a step away from the table and reached for his drink.

The Huntsman had only been open for an hour or so and aside from Kane and his three companions, there were just two customers. One was sitting at the bar running a nicotine-stained index finger over a copy of Sporting Life, the other was sitting in one of the booths near the main doors sipping at a pint of Murphy’s.

They’re making fools of us,’ Kane said, his face set in hard lines.

‘They have been ever since that fucking Good Friday Agreement,’ Ivor Best added, walking around the pool table, trying to spot his next shot.

At thirty-two, Best was four years Kane’s junior. A tall, wiry individual with jet-black hair which was receding rather too quickly for a man of his age.

Kane was shorter but more powerfully built. Apart from his cleft chin the most immediately noticeable thing about him was the scar that ran from just below his left earlobe along the line of his bottom jaw. The result of a car accident twenty years earlier. Kane, however, was content to allow those who believed it to be the legacy of a fight to cling to their illusion. In the part of Belfast where he’d grown up reputations were respected and if some of his own was built on hearsay then so be it.

Like Best he had been active within the Ulster Volunteer Force for the past twelve years. Unlike his other three companions he had yet to serve a prison sentence. Some thought he was just lucky. Kane put it down to his intelligence and organisational abilities. Things that made him valuable in his chosen field.

He watched as Best took and missed his shot.

‘Five more of those Fenian bastards are released at the end of the week,’ Best hissed. ‘And they expect us to accept it?’

‘What choice have we got?’ The question came from a chair pulled close to the pool table. Jeffrey Kelly picked at fingernails already bitten to the quick and waited for an answer.

‘We might not have a choice but nobody says we have to fucking like it,’ Best replied.

‘Which prison are they being released from?’ George Mcswain wanted to know, rolling himself a stiletto-thin cigarette.

‘Maghaberry,’ Kane said quietly, potting a ball. He walked around the table and chalked the end of his cue.

‘Look, I don’t agree with it any more than the rest of you,’ Kelly said. ‘But if it brings peace then what the hell.’

‘You think the fucking IRA will stop just because their men are being released from prison?’ Best snapped. ‘All the British government is doing is giving them back their best fucking soldiers.’

‘I agree, look what they did to that bus earlier in the week,’ Mcswain noted.

That wasn’t the Provos,’ Kelly offered. That was the Real IRA.’

‘What fucking difference does it make?’ snarled Best. ‘People were killed. Our people.’

‘Whose side are you on anyway?’ Mcswain wanted to know.

Kelly glared at him and got to his feet. ‘Fuck you,’ he roared, his gaze fixed on Mcswain.

The man seated at the bar turned and glanced briefly in the direction of the raised voices.

The barman also looked across as he dried glasses.

They won’t stop,’ Kane mused, lining up another shot and sinking the ball.

The ceasefire, giving up their weapons. It’s all bollocks. You all know that,’

snapped Best. The only ones who can’t see it are the fucking politicians.’

The other men nodded in agreement.

‘Well, I’m not giving in to a bunch of fucking Fenians,’ Best continued.

‘Quite right, Ivor,’ Kane murmured, surveying the remaining pool balls contemplatively.‘What do you think we should do?’

Best could only shrug. ‘What can we do, Danny?’ he wanted to know.

Kane drew back the cue and prepared to take his shot. ‘We can hit back at the IRA the only way they understand,’ he said.

He struck the white ball with incredible power. When it slammed into a red, the noise was like a gunshot.

Kane stood up slowly and looked at his companions one by one. Something unspoken passed between them.

Kane smiled malevolently.

LONDON:

Doyle could barely open his eyes. He groaned and attempted to sit up.

‘Fuck,’ he croaked, his throat feeling as if it had been rubbed with sandpaper.

It felt as if someone was trying to batter their way out of his skull using a pickaxe, and for fleeting seconds he had absolutely no idea where he was. But he didn’t really care.

Only gradually did he realise that he was home. Somehow (Christ alone knew how) he’d made his way back to his flat the previous evening (afternoon, evening, night?) and obviously blacked out in the chair.

There was a bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the floor close to him; some of it had dripped out on to the carpet.

What a waste.

Again he tried to open his eyes, this time to slightly better effect.

The thunderous headache intensified as he got to his feet and blundered towards the kitchen. Only then did he realise he was still wearing his leather jacket and boots.

Must have crashed out straightaway.

Doyle tugged off the jacket and dropped it on to the floor then he stumbled into the kitchen and spun the cold tap. As the water gushed into the sink he cupped handfuls of it and splashed his face. It helped a little but he knew what he had to do to help clear this fucking hangover.

He walked to the bathroom and turned on the shower. Then he undressed quickly, catching a glimpse in the mirror of his heavily scarred back as he pulled off his T-shirt.

Doyle sucked in a deep breath and stepped beneath the cold water, ‘Fuck,’ he hissed, allowing the water to strike every part of his body. His healing wounds stung under the powerful jet. He stood beneath the shower head and tilted his face upwards. Water soaked his long hair and it hung down like a nest of comatose snakes. For interminable minutes he stood beneath the spray, gradually becoming accustomed to the cold water. Eyes still closed he leant forward, his forehead resting against the tiles.

He had no idea how long he stood under the shower. His muscles were numb by the time he finally stepped from beneath the spray and reached for a towel. He found two Nurofen in the bathroom cabinet and swallowed them dry as he wiped himself.

Doyle wrapped a towel around his waist and padded back into the kitchen where he filled the kettle and spooned Nescafe into a mug while he waited for the water to boil.

In the street outside a car hooter blared loudly.The sound seemed to penetrate his very soul. He wondered how the hell he’d driven home. If, indeed, he had. He had been drunk before, many times, but he couldn’t remember ever having been so completely wrecked.

Supposedly one drink destroyed a thousand brain cells. If that was the case he’d done some real damage last night.

Doyle poured water on to the coffee and stirred it, sipping at the black fluid, ignoring the fact that it was so hot it burnt his lips and tongue.

Better get dressed.

Why?

He drank more of his coffee.

It’s not as if you’ve got anywhere to go, is it?

Doyle carried his mug into the living room and set it down next to the television. He switched the set on and flicked channels.

Kids’ programmes. Some chat show.A quiz. He found the news.

The usual shit.

Train delays. Problems on the roads. A famine somewhere. A couple of murders.

Doyle switched it off and sat in the silence.

HMP MAGHABERRY, NORTHERN IRELAND:

The early morning wind was cold and Vincent Leary shivered slightly as he stepped into the breeze.

The T-shirt he wore beneath his denim jacket offered little protection against the chill but he was more than happy to suffer the minor discomfort. It wouldn’t have bothered him if there’d been six feet of snow. He was free again and that was all that mattered.

As he and the four others released with him made their way slowly towards the main gates of the prison, Leary glanced back at the place he had been forced to call home for the past three years. He’d spent his first night in a cell two days after his twenty-seventh birthday.

Maghaberry prison was unusual because it held both male and female inmates.

The latter were housed in Mourne House, well away from the men who were incarcerated in four two-storey cell blocks bearing the names Bann, Erne, Lagan and Foyle. Each block contained one hundred and eight cells.

Leary had learnt that around four hundred and fifty men were currently serving or awaiting sentence inside

the complex. Eight hundred and fifty staff ensured that the prison ran smoothly.

Ten of those officers were stepping briskly along with the prisoners now, one on either side of the men to be released. Leary looked at their faces but found no trace of emotion there.

The officer at the head of the column brought it to a halt with some curt commands and Leary stood patiently as the doors were opened mechanically.They slid apart to reveal the car park beyond.

There were a number of vehicles there, including outside-broadcast units from television stations on both sides of the border.

But it was the large, white, twelve-seater minibus parked twenty yards away that caught Leary’s eye. This vehicle would take him and his companions back across the border into the Republic.

Home.

He smiled to himself and gripped his holdall more tightly.

The formalities of release papers had already been completed within the complex itself, and the first man clambered up into the waiting minibus and took a seat at the rear.

Leary dug in his pocket and found a roll-up. He lit it and dragged heavily.

All the men except Leary were now on board.

‘Come on, Leary.’

The voice came from behind him.

‘Don’t you want to go home?’

The prison officer was looking fixedly at Leary who merely took another drag on his cigarette.

‘Think yourself lucky you’re not spending another fifteen years inside like you should be,’ the uniformed man told him.

‘Like you will be?’ Leary said. ‘I mean, you’re the one with the life sentence, aren’t you? Sure, you go home every night, you’re not locked up like I was, but you’ve spent all your working life inside this place and you’ll finish it here too.’ He nodded towards the officer’s key chain. The length of that chain shows your seniority, doesn’t it? It also shows you’ve spent your whole life keeping men from their freedom. Are you proud of that?’

The officer leant close to Leary, his voice low.

‘I keep scum like you away from decent folk,’ he hissed.

‘Not any more.’ Leary smiled and tossed away his cigarette. He clambered on to

the bus and slumped into a seat on the right-hand side.

The driver waited a moment longer then guided the vehicle down the driveway that led away from the prison.

Leary was aware of the television cameras being turned in their direction.

Some of the men near him covered their faces. Leary looked out of the window and smiled at them.

It would take a couple of hours to reach the border so he decided to get some sleep. He never had a problem dozing off and could snatch a rest anywhere. The low babble of conversation from the other men only served to hasten his oblivion.

Within ten minutes he was asleep, blissfully unaware of the countryside and ignorant of the towns and

villages they passed through on the way to the border. The minibus bumped over a cattle grid but even that didn’t wake Vincent Leary.

Two of the men on the back seat were playing cards, engrossed in their game.

The others were either talking or lost in their own thoughts.

None of them had noticed the dark-brown Corsa that had been following them for the last fifteen minutes.

w

hat the fuck’s going on?’

The shout came from one of the men on the back seat of the minibus.

The vehicle had stopped so suddenly that it had skidded for three or four yards, finally coming to a halt on a road that wound tortuously between high hedges and thickly planted trees. Beyond lay fields.

It was from one of these fields that the tractor had emerged. Masked by the trees and foliage, the farm vehicle had appeared as if from thin air, thick clods of mud falling from its huge rear tyres.

The bus driver had reacted quickly, slamming on the brakes as the Massey Ferguson rumbled on to the narrow thoroughfare, blocking the other vehicle’s route.

High up in the cab, the tractor driver drew a deep breath, seemingly as shaken by the near collision as the men on the minibus had been.

Vincent Leary woke from his nap and peered at the tractor.

One of the men from the back seat of the bus was making his way to the door, gesturing angrily to the driver of the tractor.

‘Tell him to get out of the way,’ he hissed to the bus driver.‘Stupid bastard could have killed us.’

Leary looked on impassively as the tractor driver waved an apologetic hand and prepared to guide the farm vehicle off the road.

He turned the key in the ignition.

The tractor’s engine sputtered and died.

He tried again. Nothing.

The Massey Ferguson remained immobile, a large, red barricade to the progress of the minibus.

‘Jesus,’ murmured one of the other men wearily. ‘What’s wrong with this fucking idiot?’

Vincent Leary sat up in his seat, looking first at the tractor then to his left and right. The thick hedges and dense trees made it difficult to see beyond the grassy fringe that ran along both sides of the road.

The tractor driver was still trying, vainly, to start his yehicle but it remained where it had stopped.

‘Did anyone take a course in mechanics while they were inside?’ cailed a voice from the back of the bus. ‘It looks like this guy’s going to need some help.’

The other men laughed.

Leary looked at the tractor driver again, his brow furrowing slightly. The man was looking beyond the minibus at the road behind them.

Looking for what?

Leary turned in his seat and saw nothing but when he looked back, the man was still staring agitatedly in that same direction.

Vincent Leary got to his feet and made for the rear of the bus, looking out of the large window. He was the first to see the dark-brown Corsa approaching.

‘We’ve got company,’ he announced.

The car slowed down then came to a halt about twenty yards behind the minibus.

This bastard will have traffic backed up all the way to Belfast soon,’ another voice called.

Leary looked at the car then the tractor. Its driver waited a moment longer then jumped down from the cab, sprinting off into the gap in the hedge from where he had first emerged.

Simuitaneously, two men clambered out of the Corsa. Both were wearing woollen masks, only their eyes visible through small slits.

Both were carrying guns.

Leary recognised the weapons as Sterling AR-S 80s. Assault rifles with twenty-round magazines. The two men swung the rifles up to their shoulders and aimed them at the bus.

From the dirt track ahead two other men stepped on to the road. They also wore masks. They were also armed.

‘Get out of the fucking bus,’ roared one of the men from the Corsa.

For interminable seconds those inside the minibus froze.

Leary swallowed hard.

‘What the fuck do we do?’ one of the other men asked, his voice cracking slightly.

‘Just what they tell us,’ murmured Leary.

‘Get off the bus now,’ bellowed the man again, his finger now resting on the trigger of the assault rifle.

One by one, the men did as they were instructed.

‘Line up there,’ snapped one of the other men in masks and he jabbed the barrel of his weapon towards the bus.

‘Get your fucking hands up,’ another hissed, pushing the muzzle of his rifle towards the man nearest him.

Again the former prisoners did as they were instructed.

The bus driver hesitated, looking anxiously at each masked face.

‘Get in the line,’ one of the men told him.

Still the driver hesitated.

The man nearest to him stepped forward and, with incredible speed and power, drove the butt of his rifle into the driver’s face. His nose burst under the impact and he dropped to his knees with blood spurting on to his shirt. He remained kneeling for a second longer then fell forward motionless.

Vincent Leary regarded each of the men before him, his gaze occasionally straying to the four automatic rifles now aimed at himself and his four companions.

‘All right, you Fenian bastards,’ snarled one of the masked men. ‘Turn around and face the bus.’

‘What’s wrong?’ Leary said.‘Haven’t you got the guts to look us in the eye when you pull the trigger?’

The first burst of fire hit Leary, slamming him up against the side of the minibus. Within seconds all four weapons were spewing their lethal loads into the newly released men.

The peaceful silence of the country road was ripped apart by the staccato rattle of automatic fire.

When the first magazines were empty, the masked men reloaded and emptied more heavy-grain shells into

the five bloodied and torn figures before them. From such close range the damage was enormous. Bones were pulverised by the high-powered bullets, internal organs were blasted to pieces.

Blood covered the side of the bus and spread seven or eight feet around the tangle of corpses. Empty shell cases rolled around, steam rising from them.

The hooded men ran back to the Corsa and clambered inside.The driver started the engine, turned the car swiftly on the road and headed back the way he’d

come.

He pulled his mask off and threw it in the back, wiping sweat from his face.

The others followed his example.

Daniel Kane glanced at his watch. In less than five minutes they would dump the Corsa and change cars.

It had all gone as smoothly as he’d planned.

A REFLECTION

Ward sat and watched as the paper spilled from the printer. What a joyous sight. He might have found it even more joyous had he been able to remember writing what was on those pages.

But, what the hell, it was appearing before him perfectly typed and, as he glanced at it, well written.

The printer continued with its mechanical litany.

Ward turned and looked out of the window. He saw his reflection in the glass staring back. For long seconds he stared at his own face then he blinked hard, as if to dismiss the image.

When Ward looked again the reflection, obviously, was still there. But its expression hadn’t changed to match Ward’s. It wore a stern, almost reproachful look.

Ward moved back slightly.

The reflection of his face remained immobile, as if it had been painted on to the glass. It was almost as if a face were staring in at him. Unblinking.

Unmoving. Perched on one of the branches that tapped gently against his first-floor office window.

Ward closed his eyes tightly then looked again.

The face was still there.A severed head impaled on sharpened wood. Stuck there like a Halloween Jack-o-lantern.

He shook his head.

His reflection didn’t move.

He looked more closely at the eyes. They were fixed on the printer, watching the pages churning out.

Ward raised a hand and moved it slowly back and forth before the vision of his own features. There was no change. The face remained. Immobile.

Ward swallowed hard and hauled himself out of his seat. As he did, the mouth of his reflection opened wide as if in a soundless scream.

There was a single tooth missing from the upper jaw.

Ward ran down the stairs and out of the office, turned the corner and looked up into the tree.

He didn’t know what he thought he’d see, but there was nothing there. Just leaves stirred by the night breeze.

Ward stood gazing up for a moment longer then wandered back into the office.

The reflection was gone from the window. The printer had finished its work.The office was silent again.

LONDON:

The room smelt of gun oil. Doyle took each of the weapons in turn and field-stripped them. He cleaned each part carefully and then reassembled the firearms. He checked the slides on the automatics, then he ensured that the cylinder turned smoothly on the revolver.

Why are you doing this? You’re not going to need any of these fucking things again, are you?

There was a bottle of Smirnoff on the table in front of him and he stopped periodically to fill his glass. The bottle was already half empty.

The TV was on. Some twat talking about his new novel. Laughing like a fucking idiot as he sat on the sofa opposite the presenters.

The stereo was also on.

The last thing Doyle wanted was silence.

He glanced at the TV screen, but it was the music that dominated.

‘Fallen angel, ripped and bruised, think of better days …’

Doyle finished cleaning the Desert Eagle and sat back in his chair, the barrel pointed at the screen.

‘Life is rude, treats you bad, tears your wings away …’

He worked the slide on the automatic then aimed it at the male presenter of the morning show.

‘Take your dreams, broken schemes and sweep the past away …’

Doyle squeezed the trigger and the hammer slammed down on an empty chamber.

‘Bang,’ he murmured.

The news was coming up.

Doyle remained where he was in his chair, the Desert Eagle still cradled across his lap as he reached for the Smirnoff once more.

‘Fly, lonely angel, high above these streets of fire …’

Captions came up at the bottom of each news story. Rwanda. Kosovo.

Northern Ireland.

Doyle grabbed for the stereo remote and shut off the music.