Now and in the Hour of Our Death (16 page)

“What?”

“It's the truth.”

“The truth?”

“Sure. That's exactly what you'll be doing. Helping us.” Spud opened the door. “Let's get your clothes back.”

Sammy scuttled to the open door, as anxious to leave the cell as a contrite sinner is to leave the confessional.

“Oh, and Sunshine?”

“What?”

“Just in case you think of changing your mind, don't forget about the wee present my mate said he'd put in your house. I think we'll leave it there. If you don't keep your promise and sing for me … my lot'll have to sing about you.”

Oh, Christ.

“Don't worry, Sammy. I'll see you through the tough bits.”

*   *   *

Sammy felt the heat as his Park Drive almost burned his fingers. He stubbed it out to keep company with a heap of butts in an old jam-jar lid. Just as easily as the Provos could have snuffed him out. But he had got away with the debriefing after he was released from jail. The senior Provos had accepted his story that the peelers had too much on their hands to be bothered with a pub brawl.

He had got away with his double life until now, but how long would it be until his mates twigged? The only hope for his future would be to get out, but Spud had made it a condition that Sammy give him something really big before he'd keep his promise about England.

And Spud would keep his word. As the months passed, Sammy had become attached to the peeler. He'd had to. Who else could he trust? Spud
would
keep his promise. He always did.

But Sammy knew he needed something more important to give. Something bigger than the word about the arms delivery that Sammy had been sure was going to be his ticket out. “That's great, Sam. We'll get you over to England now.” But it hadn't happened, and he hadn't had a chance to explain that if the arms pickup
was
intercepted, the other members of the Provo cell would start to wonder how the Security Forces had found out.

Only a few people knew about the shipment. He was one of them. Had he cooked his own goose? He'd promised to tell the peeler when the arms shipment was to be collected. Would that be enough? It might.

He wished to God he knew more about Erin's slip of the tongue about Eamon not being in the Kesh much longer. If a jailbreak was planned and Sammy could tell Spud, surely to God that would do the trick. Wouldn't it? Wouldn't it?

He lit another cigarette. The whiskey warmed him, soothed him. Maybe it would work out—the whiskey fueled his imagination—if the police could stop the jailbreak, Eamon would be stuck in there forever and just maybe Erin would get tired of waiting for him and Sammy could—he shook his head. He'd not have time for that before he was out of this fucking country for good and for all. That was what really mattered and, by Christ, Sammy was going to do whatever the hell it took to make it happen. He had to have a way out.

 

CHAPTER 13

TYRONE. WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 21, 1983

“Hey on out, Tess,” Erin shouted to her border collie, and gave a hand signal.

Tess, crouching low to the ground, scurried to the far side of the herd, snapping at the heels of a Dexter cow that was trying to stray back to the field they had just left.

“Hey on. Hey on.” Erin turned, closed the five-bar gate behind her, and glanced down to where the sun's rays made the surface of the Strule River shine like molten copper.

Across the Strule Valley, the colours changed from the greens of the water meadows to the russets of bracken-strewn hillsides studded with yellow blooms of gorse and deepened to the purple, heather-clad slopes of Slieveard, where the mountain bulked against the eastern sky. Overhead, she heard the calling of a homeward-bound flock of green plover, their “pee-wit, pee-wit” a descant above the lowing of the herd.

Perhaps her brother and sisters were happy in their new countries, glad to be away from the Troubles, but they'd not have the chance to see the Strule, the Sperrin Mountains a craggy line to the north, hear the plover. They had all been a part of Erin's home for as long as she could remember. No wonder Da had loved this country. No wonder that she did.

“Push them in.”

The dog obeyed, chivvying the milk-laden animals into the byre, the big beasts, rolling their liquid brown eyes in fear of the little dog, being driven where their tormentor ordered.

Just like, she thought, the way the mighty British Empire had been driven out of most of Ireland by the constant worrying of a small group of patriots nipping at their flanks. It only remained to chase England from the last six counties, here in the northeast. And she and those like her fully intended to see them gone, back to their home byre in the island across Saint George's Channel.

The weapons cache that Sammy had brought in on Saturday would be part of that, and Erin wanted the arms safely out of the churchyard before Eamon and the others made their break. Once that happened, the Security Forces would be so tied up, so single-mindedly focused on recapturing the escapees, that their guard would be down. She had an idea for taking advantage of that. And they'd need the rifles and the Semtex.

But that would have to wait for a little longer. She was still a farmer, and the work on the farm never stopped. Someone had to see to the cows, bring them in from the pasture, milk them.

The Dexter was a good breed. It had originated in the west of Ireland. The beasts were hardy enough to be driven outdoors year-round and equally prized for their beef and their milk. Da had built up the herd. He wanted Irish cattle on the O'Byrnes' place, none of the foreign English Friesians or Scottish Ayrshires for him.

Erin went into the byre, where the beasts, unbidden, had gone into their stalls and stood docilely, udders full of warm milk, contentedly chewing the cud, smelling of sweet clover and cow farts.

She hooked up the electrical milking machines as she'd done every day for years, grateful for the animals' doe-eyed patience—all except that bitch, Margaret. As usual, she kicked the side of the stall, bellowed as the cold steel nozzles were slipped onto her teats.

Being a cow must be pretty humdrum, Erin thought, as she walked from the last stall and switched on the power. Once in a while she'd not mind a bit of humdrum herself, but that would come—once the Brits were gone.

As the machinery hummed and the milk sloshed into the vat, she busied herself hanging up some loose pieces of equipment that should have been put back in their proper places. That brother of hers. She grunted as she lifted a heavy coupling for the mower; if he ever got through the pearly gates, Saint Peter would have to assign one angel full-time to keep reminding Cal to preen his wings and polish his halo.

Erin heard Margaret bellow. She always did that when her udders were empty. Erin switched off and moved along the stalls, unhooking the beasts. All she had to do now was wash the lines and nozzles.

When she was finished, she called to Tess, and together they walked across the barnyard. Erin carried a jug of fresh milk. She stopped and stared up at an outbuilding—that bloody roof. The slates were ebony black from the recent rain, overgrown with the moss of the years. Two—no three—were loose, and they were letting the rain through and onto the tractor in the outbuilding. The old rusting, red Massey-Harris had sounded as if it had bronchitis when she'd driven it yesterday. She'd have to chase up Cal to fix it. Or Sammy. He was a damn good mechanic.

She walked on to the farmhouse.

“Go to bed, Tess.”

The collie looked up with porcelain-blue eyes and obeyed, slipping into her kennel.

Erin hauled off her muddy Wellington boots and tried to open the farmhouse door. As usual, it stuck, and, as usual, she swore at it, but she smiled as she swore. There
was
a comfort in familiar things, like milking the cows and the turn of the farmer's seasons—and an old sticking door that her big brother was too idle to mend.

She yelled across the barnyard. “Fiach. Supper.”

The kitchen door jerked open. After the damp of the byre, the kitchen was turf-fire cosy. The smell of peat mingled with the aroma of roast ham.

She set the milk jug on the table.

“All done?” Cal turned from the range. Sammy sat at the kitchen table.

“Aye. Margaret acted up. That's your modern cow for you. No respect.”

“Ah, Jesus, Erin, you've a quare soft hand under a duck, so you have. You could milk a rhinoceros with rabies.”

“Bollocks,” she said, grinning. “Get your hands washed, the pair of you.” She moved to the range, slipped on oven mitts, and pulled the ham from the oven. “It's done to a treat.” She set the roasting pan on the counter and lifted the ham onto a pewter plate, fashioned in the shape of a pig. “I'll carve.”

Cal and Sammy washed in the kitchen sink and sat at the table.

Fiach came in, red-haired, broad-shouldered like his brother, his left eye closed and surrounded by a bruise that had started to turn yellow.

“It's a grand thing, that hurling of yours, Fiach,” she said. “A real sport for gentlemen.”

“The eye? Sure it's all in a day's work on the field. You should have seen me on Saturday. The fella that gave me this.” Fiach pointed to the bruise under his eye. “I marmalized him, near killed him.”

“I'm glad you didn't,” Erin said. “They'd have chucked you in jail for murder, and Eamon in the Kesh is enough for us to worry about.” She noticed Sammy swing toward her when she mentioned the Kesh. Was he still smarting because he hadn't been let in on the secret? Bugger him if he was. He'd live.

“Get washed,” she said to Fiach, and as he passed her she tousled his hair.

“Here.” Erin put a plate of ham on the red-and-white checked tablecloth and a tureen close by it.

She watched Cal help himself to colcannon. Nothing like it—creamed spuds and cabbage. He poured himself a glass of milk, waited for Erin and Fiach to take their places, closed his eyes, and bowed his head. Why was he saying grace to a God who had forsaken Ireland, a God that Erin had stopped believing in on the night of the failed ambush of a UDR man?

The bugger had seen them and fired first. That was the night when she and young Terry O'Rourke had stumbled off into the darkness, and she'd held the boy, lung shot, red froth on his lips, bleeding to death in a ditch as he cried to Mother Mary, whimpered for his own mother.

Her pray to God? Habit. Nothing more.

“Amen.” Cal raised his head.

“Och, aye. God save Ireland,” Erin said. “Pass the milk.”

“You mentioned Eamon there, Erin. How is he?” Sammy asked, not meeting her eyes as he spoke.

So he
was
still smarting that something might be going on that he didn't know about. She wished she'd kept her mouth shut the other night. Or was he angry? Was there something else behind the question?

“He's fine, Sam. It's visiting day tomorrow. Will I tell him you were asking for him?”

Sammy nodded.

Conversation lapsed. Why, she wondered, shouldn't we tell Sammy about the impending break? They might need his help. But the peelers had lifted him. Could they have turned him? She glanced at the little man. He was picking his nose.

“Jesus, Sammy would you stop that. It's disgusting.”

“Sorry.” He blushed.

She knew he had a habit of doing that if he was nervous, but what had he to be worried about? Unless he thought that he was going to be asked to pick up the arms in the churchyard. Although he made a point of seeming to be courageous, she knew that inside he could be frightened of his own shadow. Sammy needn't be worried. She had other plans.

The ham was sweet and the milk warm. Erin ate silently. It seemed that after her telling Sammy to mind his manners no one had much to say. All right, she thought, to business.

“Fiach?” He turned to her. “Fiach, you've been agitating for a while now for us to let you help.” She saw his good eye open wide, the half-chewed ham in his open mouth. “We've a wee job for you.”

“Honest to God?”

“Aye.”

“Dead on.” A smile split his freckled face. “What have I to do?”

“There's a wheen of stuff in an old grave in the Ballydornan churchyard. We want you to pick it up for us.”

“Now?” Fiach leapt to his feet.

“No, silly. Sit down and eat up. You've to do it on Friday night.”

Fiach subsided, but his good eye gleamed.

Cal spoke slowly. “It's a one-man job. Use the tractor…”

“You'll have to take a look at the engine,” Erin said.

“I'll do it tomorrow, or maybe Sammy could.”

“I'll do it the night before I go home … Will you be wanting me to go out, too?”

“Not at all. I told you it's a one-man job.”

Sammy was staring at her with a relieved look on his face. Maybe that's what had him worried. Not for himself. For her. The bloody man was besotted with her. Worried about her, was pleased that she'd not be doing the job herself. Why? It would be as routine as—as milking the cows.

“So,” Cal said, “go out after dark…”

“Take Tessie and let her scout about first,” Erin added.

“Sammy, tell Fiach exactly where the consignment is.”

Sammy did, ending his explanation with a wry grin. “In with a poor ould dead Irishman.”

“Aye,” said Cal, “and it'll be going in with a clatter more dead Irishmen, but they've been gone for three thousand years or so.”

“In the neolithic grave Da found?” Fiach asked.

“The very spot,” Erin said. “The old tumulus. Nobody would ever find that place the way it's hidden under a mound, screened by brambles. Bloody good thing Da kept his mouth shut about it.”

“That's great,” said Fiach. “But … and I'm not scared to do the job…” He looked Erin in the eye. “Why move the things at all? Are they not safe enough in Ballydornan?”