Now and in the Hour of Our Death (27 page)

The blow never landed. Sean Donovan nailed Smiley in the small of his back. The gun spun away, but Davy caught it like a hurley player fielding a high ball. He ignored the throbbing in his arm and held the gun on Smiley.

“Mr. Smiley? Freeze … or I'll blow your fucking head off,” and Davy knew that although seconds ago, when things
had
got sweaty, he'd baulked, now he meant every word, and he could tell that Smiley knew, too.

“You'll be sorry for this, McCutcheon,” he muttered, but could not meet Davy's eyes. Davy could see the fight had gone out of the man and sensed that Smiley's life and his pension meant more to him than being a hero.

Davy hadn't realized that he had been holding his breath; he blew it out, relieved that he wasn't going to have to use the gun, but he thanked Christ that Sean Donovan had been as quick as he had.

“Get you into that there cell.” Donovan pushed the man. “Keep him covered, Davy.”

Davy pointed the revolver at Mr. Smiley, seeing the pleading in the man's eyes. Was he thinking about his soccer-crazy sons and worrying about how they'd manage without him? Davy uncurled his finger and laid it along the trigger guard. “Just do as you're bid, Mr. Smiley, and you'll be taking your lads to the match next Saturday,” Davy said quietly. “You've my word on that.” Somehow Smiley managed the tiniest smile. It pleased Davy. “Go you into that cell,” Davy said, and motioned with the gun barrel.

Davy stood aside as Mr. Smiley lowered his head and followed Sean Donovan into the dark little room. Donovan snapped, “Get that uniform off.”

Smiley hesitated, and Davy flinched as Donovan fetched the man a clout across the side of his head. “Get it off.”

The guard glanced at Davy.

Davy let the gun's barrel point down to the concrete floor. “Come on, Mr. Smiley.”

“Get a move on,” Donovan hissed as Smiley slowly unbuttoned his tunic. “You're slower than a hoor in a strip club. Get off your pants, too.” Donovan began stripping the bedclothes from his cot. By the time he had finished, the officer stood in his underwear, shivering, although the air in the cell felt warm to Davy. He watched as Donovan trussed the man like a Christmas turkey.

Donovan stooped and threw Davy the dark-blue serge pants. “Go through his pants, Davy. Get the bugger's keys.”

The material felt rough against Davy's hands. He found a bunch of keys, held them up, and heard Donovan snarl, “Key to the lobby?”

Smiley shook his head.

“Shoot him in the kneecap, Davy.”

Davy brought the revolver's muzzle up. He glanced into Smiley's eyes and saw the terror. Come on, Mr. Smiley, Davy thought, just remember your pension. “You'll never kick a ball again with your boys if I do kneecap you.” Davy knew, only too well, what a permanently buggered leg meant.

“Don't shoot,” Mr. Smiley begged.

“Shoot him, Davy.”

So it
was
going to come to that. The poor, sorry bastard. Davy tightened his finger knowing that this time …

“No,” Smiley yelled, “No. Don't. Please. I'll tell you. I'll tell.”

“Which one is it, you stupid git?” Davy waved the key ring under the guard's nose, hearing the keys jangle, inwardly cursing the man for having nearly got himself shot.

Smiley pointed at one large key. His finger shook.

“That one?”

“Uh-huh.” Smiley's head drooped.

Davy grabbed the key to separate it from the rest. He felt himself start to sweat. Christ, that had been a near thing.

He stood and watched as Sean Donovan used his pillowcase to blindfold and gag the guard. Sean offered Davy his hand. “You done good, Davy,” and Davy knew it for the lie it was, but took the hand, amazed at its dryness. Donovan hadn't worried his head one bit about what they'd nearly had to do.

“Now, Davy, put on his uniform and stick the gun in the pocket. As soon as you're dressed, we'll take him down to the holding area.”

Davy changed and pocketed the .25.

He could hear Mr. Smiley snuffling behind his gag.

Sean said, “Good. Some of the lads that have volunteered to stay behind can mind Smiley. We've to get a move on and get ourselves down to the lobby.”

“Right.” Davy turned to follow Sean, who was hustling Smiley along the corridor, hesitated, then turned back to pull Jimmy's letter and Fiona's picture from his old jacket and shove them into the inside pocket of his guards' tunic.

*   *   *

Inside the Communications Centre, Officer John Adams heard the ruckus outside the Circle. He got to his feet, walked to the bulletproof window, and peered through. “Holy Mother of Jesus…” He turned and tried to race to the master switch. Gerard Kelly, now holding one of the other smuggled .25s, blocked his way.

“Out of my way, Kelly.” He lunged at the prisoner.

Kelly shot Officer Adams in the head, then bent over the console to activate the switches to open the gates in H-7. He thought it had been decent of the Brits to put a label on each one. He stepped over the crumpled form on the floor, slipped out of the control room, and pushed the button on the outside wall to close the steel door behind him.

The other screws inside H-7 heard the shot. They went quietly after that and were bundled into cells, stripped of their uniforms, and trussed up as Mr. Smiley had been. Some of the inmates selected to escape changed into discarded uniforms. Terrified officers were forced at gun- or chisel point to hand over their car keys, give the registration numbers of their vehicles, and the numbers of their places in the guards' car park—outside the perimeter wall.

The screws were handed over to the rear guard—Provo prisoners who had been ordered to stay behind to prevent the hapless warders from raising the alarm until the men going out would be well away.

As far as the staff of the Kesh outside H-7 knew, the only noise from that part of the complex had been the calls of “Bumper.” Inside the H-block, the plan was going like clockwork, its timing down to the minute.

*   *   *

Outside the complex, Hughie Wilson stopped the lorry at the first of two security barriers he had to pass before he could finally deliver the meals to the lodge at H-7. He recognized the guard who was strolling from the gate lodge toward the barriers. Hughie pounded his fist on the outside of the driver's door and stuck his head through the window. “Can you get on with it, for fuck's sake, Archie?”

Archie grinned up at the driver. “Take your hurry in your hand, Hughie. Show me your pass.”

“Here.”

“Fair enough.” Archie grinned. “Going fishing when you're finished?” He swung the first barrier up.

“If I ever get done here.” Hughie forced the lorry to crawl after Archie. “I seen a clatter of cars in the car park outside, lads walking to the Tally Lodge. Some of the new shift coming on duty must be right keen buggers to arrive early for work.”

“Not half as keen as the off-duty lads, me included, to get out.” Archie strained to raise the second barrier. “This fucking thing's always sticking. Give me a hand, will you?”

Hughie jumped from his cab to lend his weight. “Aw, shite,” he said, as he saw two guards leave the Tally Lodge behind him and walk toward the barrier. “I'm going to hit shift change. With them going off still here and them coming on arriving, there'll be more guards in here than fucking prisoners. I'm never going to get out of the place.”

The barrier started to swing up.

“Go ahead,” Archie yelled. “If you get in before they start giving the changeover reports, you'll get your papers signed and get away yet.”

“Right.” Hughie climbed back in and banged the truck into gear. He checked the time, two forty. He might make it, but now he was well and truly late.

*   *   *

In the holding area, the stay-behind volunteers kept watch over the screws. One Provo read from a prewritten document entitled “To All Prison Staff Who Have Been Arrested by Republican POWs on Sun 25th Sept.”:

What has taken place here today was a carefully planned exercise to cause the release of a substantial number of POWs. The block is now under our control. If anyone has been assaulted or injured, it has been as a result of his refusal to cooperate with us. It is not our intention to settle old scores, ill treat or degrade any of you, regardless of your past. Though should anyone try to underestimate us or wish to try to challenge our position, he or they will be severely dealt with.

As the man continued reading, a young, fair-haired guard whose left eye was bruised and swollen shut began to cry. Two of his captors laughed at him. One of them waved a chisel under the youngster's nose. “Just you be a good wee lad now. We don't want anything to fuck up the escape. You just listen to what your man with the paper has to say.”

The man reading the document continued:

Should any member of the prison administration ill treat, victimize, or commit any acts of perjury against Republican POWs in any follow-up enquiries, judicial or otherwise, they will forfeit their lives …

The sobbing of the young guard with the black eye drowned the rest of the text.

*   *   *

Davy was breathing heavily when he and Sean Donovan reached the lobby. Eamon; Bic McFarlane, Provo Officer Commanding; Bobby Storey, the man in charge of the escape; and Brendan McGuinness, once Officer Commanding the 1st Battalion, Belfast Brigade, and Davy's immediate superior, were all waiting. Despite his avowal to distance himself from the Provos, Davy almost saluted.

Eamon grinned at Davy and held up one thumb.

“You got Smiley?” McFarlane asked.

“Aye,” said Davy, “and I have his keys.” He held them up. “I needed a bit of help from Sean.” A bit? If it hadn't been for Sean …

“Screwed things up again, McCutcheon?” Brendan McGuinness sneered.

Davy ignored him. This wasn't the time to settle old scores. The important thing was to get out before the screws in the rest of the Kesh twigged to what was going on.

McFarlane said, “I heard a shot. Was that you, Davy?”

“No.”

“I just hope to God the screws in the other H-blocks or in the guard towers didn't hear it.” McFarlane turned to Bobby Storey. “What do you reckon?”

“If they had heard it, there'd be sirens going off, screws by the dozen running over to H-7, but the place is quiet. I think we're near home and dry.”

Nearly home, Davy thought. He heard McFarlane bark, “Gimme the keys.”

Davy handed over the key ring. “That one there.”

“Right. You lot wait here.” McFarlane picked up his cleaning gear and used the key to let himself out.

Davy waited and looked at the four men round him. They wore civilian clothes, not prisoners' uniforms—the outward sign that the wearer was a common criminal, not a political prisoner. The British government had agreed to let IRA prisoners wear civilian clothes after the hunger strikes. And a bloody good thing, too. It would make it harder for the Security Forces to track down the escapees.

Except—he looked at his dark blue tunic, blue shirt, and blue trousers—except for him and those other men who would be dressed like guards.

“Dead on,” said Eamon. “If the buggers suspected anything, they'd never've let Bic in there.”

Davy watched McFarlane disappear into the guard's office and reappear, heading back to the lobby, the Gate Lodge officer in front. The pair halted, and Davy could see the revolver pressed into the small of the screw's back.

“Right,” said McFarlane, “the rest of you, into the Gate Lodge. I'll get this shite out of his uniform. Gerard Kelly'll be along in a minute. He's going to need it.”

“What've we to do?” Davy asked.

“The ones without uniforms, hide. You sit up like the regular guard. The bugger driving our food lorry'll think you're a new man. He'll not suspect nothing. He has to check in at the H-7 Gate Lodge, and when he does, Brendan and Sean'll see to him.” He turned to Bobby Storey. “Should that fucking lorry not be here by now?”

“It'll be here,” Storey said. “The six of us had better get into the Gate Lodge before it is. Come on.”

Davy followed the other five out of the lobby and into the Gate Lodge. They crouched on the floor. He sat in the guard's chair. Dear God, but he'd sweated like a pig in that tussle with Mr. Smiley and the rush down to the lobby. The arse of his trousers stuck to his backside, and he could feel large damp patches under his armpits. His smell was sour, and the other men stank, too, but at the moment that was the least of their worries. He ignored the stink and peered out through the window of the office. Half a mile away, the perimeter wall loomed, its gun towers manned by British soldiers.

Davy studied the Tally Lodge in the wall, a deep arch, its outer gate hidden from the view of anyone not looking directly inside. There was a gate lodge built into the thick wall beneath the arch, and the screws in there controlled the only gate in the Kesh leading to the outside world. There were other gates to pass, he knew, but the Tally was the last barrier between him and freedom. He saw two uniformed guards pass through and stroll across the open space between the perimeter wall and the H-blocks.

Where were they going? He'd no idea, but it didn't matter anyway, even if they came to H-7, because, according to Eamon, the plan called for another thirty-two of the most senior Provo prisoners to assemble here once their advance party had secured the food lorry. There'd be enough prisoners in the lodge by then to handle a couple of extra screws in H-7.

He just wished the lorry would get there. Davy and the rest would pile into it and be taken to the Tally Lodge. Once its gates had been opened, they'd all be driven away.

One hundred more prisoners would try to break out on foot from here. They'd have to cross open space under the eyes of the soldiers in the watchtowers. Groups of men in their ordinary clothes would be escorted by other inmates in stolen guards' uniforms. The organizers believed the troops would assume that these were more routine work parties. Davy hoped to God for the sake of those men that the leaders of the breakout were right.