‘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.