‘You’re going to protect me, are you? How touching.’
‘Only until you’re not needed any more. Until you become irrelevant again.’
Doyle drew the Beretta 9mm from his shoulder holster and aimed it at Leary’s head. ‘And when that happens, we’ll talk. Just you and me.’
‘I remember you,’ Leary breathed, his gaze moving from the barrel of the automatic to Doyle and back again.
‘You should.’
‘How’s the leg?’ sneered the Irishman.
Doyle lashed out with the pistol and caught Leary across the face with it. The impact sent him toppling from his chair. He hit the ground hard, blood running from his split bottom lip.
‘You bastard,’ he spat, wiping the crimson fluid away with the back of his hand.
Doyle nodded. ‘Spot on. But you can call me Doyle.’
Mel guessed that the dirt track leading to the house was close to a hundred yards long. On either side of it towered high hedges. Beyond those lay fields.
The road at the bottom of the muddy thoroughfare was barely wide enough to allow the passage of two vehicles moving in opposite directions.
Positioned more than twenty-five miles from Belfast, the safe house was perfect. It was a white painted building with a slate roof, although many of the slates were missing. There was a small garden to the rear, again protected from the fields by tall hedges. To the front of the building was a rutted, mud-slicked area.
It was here that Joe Hendry had parked the car. He’d thought about leaving it in the garage but hadn’t been 100 per cent sure that the rickety construction wouldn’t come crashing down on the car. In the end he’d decided to leave the vehicle out in the open.
Mel could see it now, the rain bouncing on its chassis. She was standing in the sitting room of the sparsely furnished house looking out at the countryside.
Doyle was in the kitchen finishing his breakfast. Hendry was upstairs sleeping.
‘You never told me your name.’
The words came from behind her and she turned slowly to look at Declan Leary.
He was tied to a chair in one corner of the room.
‘Is it important?’ she wanted to know.
‘It might be. You never know how long we might be together here. I know his name.’ Leary jerked his head in the direction of the kitchen. ‘But not yours.’
‘My name’s Blake.’
‘You got a first name or couldn’t your parents afford one?’
‘Mel.’
‘What’s that short for?”
‘Melissa.’
‘Very nice. What is it between you and Doyle? Is he fucking you?’ Leary grinned.
Mel took a step towards the Irishman. ‘What do you think?’ she said quietly.
‘I think if he is then he’s a lucky man. You’re a grand-looking woman.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’
That’s how it was meant.’ Again he smiled.
‘Why don’t you shut the fuck up.’
Mel turned as she heard Doyle’s voice from the kitchen.The counter terrorist wandered into the room and glanced contemptuously at Leary.
‘He has a way about him, doesn’t he?’ said the Irishman, looking at Mel.‘You’re a real charmer, Doyle.’
‘And you talk too much.’
‘l was just making conversation with the lady. Sorry if you object to me talking to your girlfriend.’
Doyle smiled humourlessly. ‘You make the most of it,’ he murmured. ‘It might not be so easy to talk with
a gun barrel stuck down your throat.’
‘Is that what you’ve got planned for me?’
‘I didn’t mean me. I meant whoever the Provos send after you.Your little revelations aren’t going to go down too well with them.’
‘It must be a pain for you, Doyle. Having to protect a man who nearly killed you.’
Mel looked quizzically at Doyle.
‘It’s part of the job,’ the counter terrorist told his captive. That’s all you are, Leary. A job. Nothing more.’
He hooked a thumb in the direction of the kitchen. There’s some breakfast if you want it, Mel,’ Doyle said. ‘I’ll watch this prick for a while.’
Mel nodded and wandered into the other room.
Doyle crossed to the window and looked out at the muddy yard and the track that stretched away from the house. In the sky, rain clouds were gathering menacingly. Doyie lit up a cigarette and sucked hard on it.
‘Have you got one of those to spare?’ Leary asked.
Doyle looked at him for a moment. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t give you the steam off my shit.’ He took another drag on the cigarette and blew the smoke in Leary’s direction. ‘So, what made you bottle it, Leary? Why the deal? Was it just for a lighter sentence?’
‘What the fuck do you care?’
‘I don’t, I’m just curious.’
‘I haven’t got anything to be ashamed of.’
‘You’re selling out your own people.’
‘And they’re selling out their own country. Sinn Fein couldn’t give a fuck about what’s happening here. This is my country. I don’t want it run by Proddies and Brits.’
Things change.’
‘Not if I can help it. At least I can say I tried. I didn’t surrender my principles.’
‘Very philosophical. Is that what you’re going to say to the Provo hitmen who bag you?’
‘It’s your job to make sure they don’t’
Doyle nodded and blew out more smoke. Then you’d better hope I’m good at my job,’ he said.‘Or you’re going to end up in the same kind of grave as you’re supposed to show us.’
DEADLOCK
W:
ard couldn’t work. He had sat at his desk for over three hours staring at the screen, the keyboard and the plastic carriage clock.
Nothing came. No words flowed.
At 1.16 p.m. he gave up and retreated inside the house. There were two
messages on the answerphone but he didn’t bother to listen to them. Instead he made his way into the sitting room and poured himself a large measure of Glenfiddich. Then another.
He wanted to get drunk. Wanted to fall asleep but it seemed no matter how hard he tried, he could not drink himself into the oblivion he sought so badly.
His mind was spinning. Events of the past few weeks. What was going on in his life?
He smiled wanly.‘Your life,’ he told himself,‘is collapsing around your fucking ears. And so is your sanity.’ He laughed humourlessly.
He didn’t want to be in the house surrounded by his thoughts. He knew he needed to escape, albeit fleetingly.
He wandered out into the hall and scooped his car keys out of the small dish beside the front door. It took him fifteen minutes to drive to the cinema. All the way
over, the cassette-player blasted loudly and Ward sang along occasionally, joining in the words that ripped from the speakers.
He parked and sat motionless behind the wheel for a moment.
‘When you get home, your novel might be finished,’ he said to himself. He laughed loudly. A little too loudly. There was desperation in the sound, not joy.
A WELCOME DARKNESS
Ward stood looking at the electronic board that carried the titles and times of the films showing at the multiplex. The newest comedy from the Farrelly Brothers, an adaptation of a bestselling novel (there was always one of those), some mindless Steven Seagal action picture.
Not much choice and he’d seen most of them already.
Then he noticed with delight that there was a special one-day presentation of La Reine Margot. He’d seen it before, he owned it on video, but it was a welcome alternative to the other dross on display.