Now and in the Hour of Our Death (29 page)

“He broke out of the Kesh about half an hour ago.”

“He what?”

“Him and maybe a hundred other of the lads.”

Sammy's jaw dropped. If only he'd known about the break and had been able to tip off Spud, Sammy would be in England today. They hadn't told him because they didn't trust him completely. Still, Erin hadn't mentioned anything about what had happened to Fiach. She was getting straight to the point of why she'd asked him to come over. The second half hitch of the knot in his stomach slackened.

“Him and a few of the others are heading here.”

“Holy shite!” Sammy pushed his chair back. “He's coming here? That's stupid, so it is. It's the first place they'll look for him, and if they find him, anyone aiding and abetting a fugitive'll be going back to the Kesh with him.”

He saw Erin smile. “He'll be safe as houses.”

And Sammy knew, he just knew, where she'd hide Eamon and his friends. “In the old grave?”

“That's right.”

Did her willingness to tell him mean that he really wasn't under suspicion, or was it simply because she knew that he was in on that secret and could work things out for himself whether she told him or not?

“That's great, Erin,” he said, and saw her smile widen, and he knew what she was thinking. Her and Eamon and—och, Christ. The images made his groin ache, but the pictures he saw inside hurt more. Sammy inhaled and waited as she walked round the table to stand behind him. He could smell the woman of her. He felt her hands on his shoulders and turned to look up into her face, her smile.

“There's more to tell you, Sammy.”

“What?” He felt himself grow tense. She must have noticed. Her hands kneaded his shoulder muscles.

“When Eamon and the boys get here, Cal and me and you and the lads are going after the Brits.”

Sammy glanced at Cal, seeking confirmation. If it was true and he could find out the details … He saw Cal nod. “Where? When?” Sammy held his breath.

“Take your hurry in your hand.” Erin stopped massaging his shoulders. Any other time he'd have been disappointed, but now he was relieved. He had to concentrate. Had to find out. “We need you to do things first.”

If he was going to find out what the target would be, he knew he'd have to seem not to be too interested in it. He exhaled and said, “Like what?”

“Tell him, Cal,” she said, and moved away from Sammy. The scent of her lingered even as she stood behind Cal again.

Sammy faced them.

Cal said, “We want you to steal a car and a tractor with a front-loading bucket.”

“Wee buns. When do you want them?”

“As soon as you can manage,” Erin said, and he heard the urgency in her voice. Show them you're eager, he thought. “I'll get onto it right away.”

“Good. And Sammy…?”

Dammit, she was smiling at him again.

“We need you to make the explosives.”

“Explosives?”

“We'd not be asking you if we had the Semtex.” He saw the smile leave her face, to be replaced by a look of sadness that had come to her as a summer rain squall comes to a sunlit meadow. “But the Brit bastards took it”—he heard the catch in her voice—“when they killed Fiach.”

He saw Cal rise and put an arm round Erin's shoulders, heard her repeat bitterly, “When they killed Fiach.”

Sammy's fingers crushed his cap. Was talking about her brother the sign she was going to start grilling him?

“Easy, Erin,” Cal said softly. “Easy.”

She pushed his arm away and snarled. “I'll not be easy until his murderers have paid for Fiach.”

Sammy had once cornered a wild cat. He could remember how the animal had spat defiance. He watched her collect herself before she said, her voice controlled and level, “That's why we need you to mix up a batch.”

“How much?”

The rain squall had passed, but Erin's returning smile was as feral as the wild cat's snarl as she said, with no more concern than if she'd been asking the village shopkeeper for a pound of nails, “Five hundred pounds.”

Sammy whistled. Jesus wept. That was nearly a quarter ton. This wasn't going to be a wee culvert bomb. Not even a car bomb, and, his eyes widened, that's what they wanted the front-end loader for. To transport the device to wherever it was going. He had to find out what the target was. Dare he ask now? He decided to bide, not appear too curious. But if he didn't seem at least to be interested, that would be suspicious, too. What to do?

“That'll take a wee while,” he said, deciding to wait before asking more. Besides, taking that while would give him breathing space to find out more. Time to get the information to Spud. Time to get the fuck out of Ireland. “I'll need to get the fertilizer from the barn.”

Erin walked over to a wall cupboard and opened the door. Sammy could see a row of white bags of Tate & Lyle granulated sugar. “You'll need this, too. I was going to make blackberry jam…” Sammy wondered why her eyes had started to glisten. “But you'll put it to better use, won't you, Sam?”

“I will.” Sammy rose. “Can I take the tractor, Cal, to carry the fertilizer?”

Cal shook his head. “No. The peelers have it.” He glanced at Erin as if he was unsure about what he was going to say next.

“Fiach was driving it.” Erin let the words hang. “Anyway, they're holding on to it. They say it's ‘material evidence.'”

“Oh.” The mention of the peelers made Sammy start. In just the last wee while, he'd been told about a huge breakout from the Kesh. Every fucking peeler in the country and every bloody soldier would be charging about all over the place looking for the escapees. And Erin wanted to attack something when all that was going on?

He frowned. “Can I ask you a question, Erin?”

He saw her tighten her lips and realized that she thought he was going to ask what the target was. “With the escape and all, the Brits are going to be madder than a bunch of wet hens. They'll be hunting all over hell's high acre for the lads.”

“That's right.”

“Well, no harm to you, but do you think it's a good time to go after something?”

“Couldn't be better. The last thing they'll be expecting is for us to hit back.”

Come on, Erin. Hit back at what?

“And before you go getting your knickers in a knot, we're not going to tell you what we're going after just yet.”

Shite. They'd told him so much already, opened the door to his hopes.

“And, Sam.” She walked round the table to him. Her scent filled him. “It's not that we don't trust you, but”—she let her hand rest on his arm—“you could get lifted trying to steal the car and the tractor.”

He tingled under her touch. “I suppose.”

She squeezed his arm. “I hope to God you don't, but
if
you did, the less you know, the better.”

He knew she was right but couldn't stop himself from saying, “I understand, but you will tell me one day?”

She surprised him by laughing. “Never you worry about that, Sam. You'd be no help hitting a target if you didn't know what it was.”

She wasn't going to tell him now, and he daren't probe more deeply. The door had been slammed in his face. He forced himself to say, “Fair enough. And you'll not be attacking nothing if I don't get my skates on and get started.”

“Good man, m'da,” she said, and pecked his cheek.

He wanted to hold her, but he stepped away, lifted his cap, and headed for the door.

“I'll get the van loaded and come back for the sugar,” he said. “And you want five hundred pounds?”

“Right,” she said.

“It's not a van I'll need. It's a bloody lorry.”

 

CHAPTER 25

THE KESH. SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 25, 1983

Davy watched the lorry approach the Gate Lodge. Jesus, but it looked like a battered old banger, and the engine sounded rough. He didn't give a shite about its appearance as long as its clapped-out motor would keep going long enough to get him away.

It slowed and then stopped at the gate.

“Go,” Bobby Storey hissed as he pushed the uniformed Gerard Kelly. Davy held his breath as Kelly sauntered to the cab, opened the door, and cheerfully said, “How's about ye, mate?” before climbing in.

Davy spared a thought for the driver. The poor bugger would be staring at the barrel of Kelly's gun, and if he'd any sense he'd do exactly as Kelly told him—wait until the men hiding in the Gate Lodge got in the back, then drive the thing to the Tally Lodge. He'd better be sensible. Kelly had shot one guard already.

Davy heard Kelly urgently saying, “Right. Get moving.”

Davy ran to the lorry's rear, opened the doors, and clambered in. Eamon and three other men followed, and together they started hurling out the racks of dinners to make room for the rest.

The thing reeked of boiled cabbage, and as he worked up a sweat shoving the heavy, wheeled racks, Davy could smell himself, too. It was going to be dark and cramped and claustrophobic in here when everyone crushed in. But time was wasting, and the quicker they cleared space, the quicker they could get to the Tally Lodge and the last barrier, through it and well away from the Kesh and out of this lorry. Then, for the first time in nine years, he'd be able to breathe the fresh air untainted by prison smells and—Davy wrinkled his nose—the stink of other men.

Someone kept yelling, “Move it. Fuck it. Move it.”

The last rack hit the ground with a crash, scattering aluminium-wrapped meals. Davy slipped on a pool of spilt gravy and nearly tumbled out. Eamon dragged Davy to his feet.

“You all right?”

“Aye.” Davy's thigh throbbed.

Men piled in.

Bobby Storey roared, “Everyone's here. Shut the back door.”

Davy could see nothing in the darkness, but he heard someone pounding on the metal back of the cab. The lorry backfired once, reversed, and lurched as the driver turned it. Davy would have fallen again but for the press of bodies.

In what seemed to Davy like no time, they stopped. He blinked as the door was opened and light streamed in.

“Lodge party out.” That was Bobby Storey shouting. A group of men had been detailed to take over the Tally Lodge—there should only be four screws inside—and open the outer gates.

Davy was grateful there was more space now that those men had gone. He moved closer to the open rear door. He saw groups of prisoners wearing civilian clothes, men who would be making the attempt to get out on foot, accompanied by what would appear to any observer to be uniformed guards. The parties were crossing the open space between the wire of the H-block compound and the perimeter wall. It was perfectly normal after head count on a Sunday afternoon for escorted work details to be sent out to tidy up the open area.

Davy glanced at the nearest tower, where uniformed soldiers leaned on the parapet. They didn't seem to be remotely interested in the comings and goings below them. They must have seen and ignored the same thing every Sunday.

Could the soldiers see what was happening at the Tally Lodge? Davy didn't think so. The lorry was stopped in the lodge's narrow tunnel in the perimeter wall, blocking the troops' line of sight. He grinned, and, anyway, what Bobby Storey had called the lodge party was in the lodge and out of sight. Any minute now, they'd open the gates and the lorry'd be out of here.

Davy's smile fled when he saw Sean Donovan appear in the lorry's open doorway. There was blood trickling down Sean's face.

“More men, quick,” Sean gasped. “We've hit shift change. The lodge's crawling with the buggers.”

“Christ Almighty,” Davy mouthed as he jumped out. The men behind the escape had no choice but to try to use the lorry to get as far away as possible before the hue and cry was raised. But there was a drawback. Its time of arrival every day was not much before shift-changeover time. The last thing the prisoners wanted was to be faced with twice the usual number of guards. But the thing
had
been late—held up no doubt by some unpredictable fucking checkpoint. Some of the early arrivals of the oncoming shift must have been in the lodge. Too many guards for a small group of prisoners to handle. Enough maybe to sound the alarm.

Davy glanced out through the still-closed outer gate to the guards' car park. Men were running across the grass. They must have suspected something was wrong. He'd no idea what could have tipped them off, but this place would soon be swarming with the buggers like flies round a heifer's arse. And more were coming.

Davy burst into the lodge. Pande-fuckin'-monium. Yells, curses, the crash of breaking glass, men wrestling, one guard on his hands and knees puking his guts up. The smell of vomit stung Davy's nostrils. He could see that the advance party was losing the Donnybrook, and unless he and the other men with him could turn the tide, the whole bloody thing would be over. One fucking gate from freedom.

Davy McCutcheon had never shrunk from a fistfight. He ignored the weight of the .25 in his pocket and waded into the nearest guard, feeling both the crunch of his knuckles on the man's chin and intense satisfaction as the man went down like a sack of spuds.

He looked across the melee and saw two guards trying to reach the control panel. If they made it, they would set off the alarms. Three prisoners stopped them, but more screws were nearing the console. One reached his hand toward a large red switch. Davy guessed it would be the one to activate the sirens and lock the gates. Was the little one beside it the gate-opening control?

Davy was swept forward against the console by a shove from a screw. “Fuck you, you Fenian bastard,” the man screamed.

Davy slammed his knee into the man's crotch. The guard screeched, bowed forward, and clutched himself. Davy smashed both fists on the back of the man's neck and hoped to God he hadn't broken it.