‘Not really,’ the IRA man replied, carefully readjusting his position against the bar. ‘Slightly lubricated, nothing more.’
‘So, what the hell are you doing here?’ Palmer asked.
‘I might as well ask the same of you,’ Durkan replied. ‘Indeed, I think I already did.’
‘You should have got out of here when you had the chance.’
Durkan threw back his head and downed a double measure of Powers. ‘Don’t you worry about me,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m doing fine.’
‘You were doing fine,’ Palmer corrected him, ‘but now the situation has changed rather.’
‘Oh? How so?’ Durkan watched the barman silently refill his glass and lifted it to his lips, waiting for an answer.
Tilting his head, Palmer gestured towards the door. ‘There are fifty TPG outside, just itching to come inside and beat the living shit out of everyone.’
Durkan’s eyes narrowed as he took a modest nip of his whiskey.
‘They gave me five minutes to try and talk you into coming quietly.’
‘Ha!’
‘Otherwise, you might not get out of here at all.’
Rose started to say something but Durkan held up a hand, cutting her off.
‘They’re taking bets,’ Palmer explained, ‘on whether you’ll be shot resisting arrest.’
‘And what are the odds?’ Durkan grinned.
‘Evens, last I heard; six-to-four that there’s a fatal shooting.’
Momentarily lost in thought, Durkan stuck out his lower lip. Then he downed the last of his drink. ‘Not great odds.’
‘No.’
Rummaging around in the pocket of his jeans, the IRA man pulled out a crumpled banknote and slapped it down on the bar. ‘Put a fiver on for me, will you? I bet I’ll walk away unscathed.’
‘The book’s closed, Gerry.’ Palmer gestured towards the door. ‘Shall we go?’
Leaning forward, Durkan gestured towards Palmer’s sweat-stained shirt. ‘Are you wearing a wire?’ he whispered into the spook’s ear.
‘Hardly,’ Palmer snorted. ‘They tried to make me, but I refused. I don’t want those bastards hearing what we’re saying any more than you do.’
‘Good.’ Durkan nodded, resuming his pose against the bar. ‘Maybe you’re not that stupid after all.’
Pointedly glancing at his watch, Palmer let the barb slide.
Placing his glass on the bar, Durkan recovered the fiver and handed it to the barman.
‘Keep the change.’
‘Thanks, Gerry.’
‘No trouble.’ Slowly, Durkan turned his attention back to Palmer. ‘If you think I’m going out with you,’ he laughed, ‘you’re crazy.’ Leaning forward, he planted a gentle kiss on Rose’s forehead. ‘See you later, sweetheart. Sorry for leaving you in a mess like this.’ Without waiting for a reply, he grabbed Palmer by the arm and began marching him towards the back of the room. ‘Come with me. Your five minutes are almost up.’
Blocking the entrance to the gentlemen’s bogs, Palmer waited patiently while Gerry Durkan stepped up to the nearest of the two urinals and took a long piss. Unperturbed that the pissoirs were blocked with a collection of paper towels, fag ends, chewing gum and God knows what, Durkan watched his urine trickle over the edge of the porcelain and form a pool on the greasy floor.
Expecting the door to be kicked in at any moment, Palmer looked nervously behind him. ‘Gerry-’
‘OK,’ said Durkan, half-looking over his shoulder as he gave himself a shake. ‘Here’s the plan. I’m going to walk out the back of here and through the building next door.’ Zipping himself up, he told Palmer, ‘When the stormtroopers arrive, you’re gonna say that I thumped you and did a runner.’
‘But you haven’t hit me,’ Palmer frowned.
‘I have now.’ Spinning round, Durkan took two steps towards the spy, slamming a fist into his gut.
‘Oopfff!’ Palmer doubled up in pain, grabbing his stomach as his eyes filled with tears. Adjusting his stance, Durkan elbowed him in the face and expertly raked a boot down the back of his calf.
‘You are one fucking soft bastard,’ Durkan grunted as he watched Palmer slip to the floor. Taking a step backwards, he gave him a final swift kick in the ribs.
‘Urgh.’
‘C’mon, get up.’ Durkan grabbed Palmer’s collar and hauled him to his feet. ‘We don’t have time for this. Remember your lines. You don’t know where I went.’
Wiping his nose, Palmer felt a faint flicker of defiance stirring in his breast. ‘Why should I let you go?’ he choked out.
‘Because I know that you raped and killed Hilda Blair.’ Pulling a photograph from the back pocket of his jeans, Durkan shoved it in front of Palmer’s face. ‘If things were different, I’d bloody kill you for it.’
Pushing back his head, Palmer focused on the image of himself standing outside number 179 Nelson Avenue. How the hell did you get that? He tried to organise the jumble of thoughts flying through his brain into something that offered the vaguest approximation of a plan. ‘I visited the house. So what? I, like the rest of the world, was looking for you at the time.’ He pushed the picture away with a dismissive hand. ‘That proves nothing.’
‘Maybe not,’ Durkan replied, letting the photo fall to the floor as he took a step backwards. ‘But I also have these. .’
‘Ah.’ Palmer gazed at the dead woman’s knickers, which Durkan was holding up, a crooked smile on his face like a courtroom prosecutor presenting his ace to a jury.
‘. . covered in your jizz, no doubt, you fat pervert.’ Stuffing the underwear back into his jacket pocket, Durkan pushed Palmer aside and grabbed the door. ‘So stick to your lines, or I’ll make sure that you’re done for.’ Without waiting for a reply, he slipped out into the corridor and disappeared.
Waiting for his hands to stop shaking, Palmer leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. For a few moments, he simply concentrated on breathing. In. . out. He was exhaling for the third time, when a large commotion started outside. The sounds of splintering wood and breaking glass, followed by a succession of screams, meant only one thing: the TPG had arrived. As the shouts got closer, Palmer dropped to one knee and retrieved the photo from the floor. Crumpling it into a ball, he stepped into the nearest cubicle, dropped it into the toilet bowl and flushed.
‘Want to buy a copy of Workers Hammer?’
‘Huh?’ Carlyle took a step sideways to avoid the swaying woman. Her eyes were glassy and she stank of booze.
‘It’s only 15p,’ the woman slurred, ‘I’ve got to sell my quota.’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Wanker!’ the woman hissed, shuffling off towards the bar. Carlyle watched as she stumbled straight into one of the last remaining TPG guys and was promptly arrested. The woman started sobbing as her precious newspapers were thrown on the floor. Then she was cuffed and frogmarched out of the pub. Looking round, Carlyle realised that the place was now largely empty. The MI5 guy had long since slunk off back to Gower Street, a stream of abuse from Commander Craven ringing in his ears. Despite their best efforts, Gerry Durkan was still in the wind. All in all, the operation had been a right old cock-up.
At a nearby table, Jamie Donaldson sat slumped in a chair, savouring the delights of a Silk Cut while playing with a patch of peeling skin on his chin.
‘We’d better get going, Sarge.’
‘I’m in no rush to get back to the station.’ Taking another drag on his cigarette, Donaldson gestured towards the door. ‘All that’s going to happen is that we spend hours processing those wankers. By the time they’re all locked up, their fucking bleeding-heart liberal bastard-stroke-bitch lawyers will have arrived and we’ll have to let the cunts out again. Which means more fucking paperwork. .’
Carlyle made a sympathetic grunt. ‘Fair point.’ He gestured towards a sign for the men’s bogs. ‘I’m going for a leak.’
*
Confronted by a row of stinking, blocked urinals, the constable retreated into the nearest stall, unzipped himself and let fly.
‘Aaahhh!’ Looking down, he contemplated the steady stream of dark yellow urine filling the bowl. Dehydrated after an afternoon in the back of a police van, he clearly needed some fluids. A small square of crumpled white paper floated on the surface of the water and he amused himself for a couple of moments by aiming at it before his flow began to slow.