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.