Now and in the Hour of Our Death (45 page)

McGuinness snapped, “You're not the only one that's been stuck inside, but some of us have the guts to go on fighting now we're out. You don't.”

Davy tried to let the accusation that he was a coward pass and made to push by, but McGuinness stood in his way. “Fighting?” Davy said, his voice low, “do you want to fight with me?”

“Fuck it, no.” McGuinness took a pace back. “No. I want you to keep on fighting the Brits.”

“The Brits? In my day, we fought soldiers, the police, not little girls, not railway-ticket collectors. Fighting? Even if your ‘fighting,' as you call it, brings a united Ireland, what the hell kind of a country do you think it's going to be?”

“It'll be ours again.”

“Filled with a legacy of death and bitterness, all the hatred of the centuries fueled by the slaughter of the last fourteen years. Some bloody country.”

“Do you see any other way to get what we want, the freedom Ireland has earned through the blood of her martyrs?”

Oh, Jesus, not the bloody martyrs again. In lieu of mother's milk, Da had fed Davy the stories of the heroes who'd died, and look where that had got him. He shook his head. “No,” he said wearily, “no I don't, but I want no more of killing for it. Ever.” He knew this was a fruitless debate and wondered why McGuinness had brought the subject up in the first place. “Why don't we just drop it?”

He expected McGuinness to start ranting and was surprised when he said, “All right. It wasn't what I wanted to talk to you about anyway.”

Davy frowned. He'd detected a note of—it couldn't be—conciliation in McGuinness's voice. “I'll listen,” he said.

McGuinness shifted his weight from one foot to the other, glanced at the floor, focused his good eye on Davy, and said, “I've no intention of kissing and making up, but the pair of us, and Eamon when he gets back, are stuck in this wee place for three more days. It's like being cell mates back in the Kesh.”

“I don't see what that's got to do with anything.”

“Just listen. I know you don't like me.” I've never liked you, McGuinness, Davy thought as the man continued. “I don't like you either, McCutcheon. I think you've let us down, and I know you're wrong not wanting to fight on.”

Davy shrugged. This was pointless. They were heading off again down the old well-ploughed furrow. He'd not bother to argue.

McGuinness scratched the socket of his glass eye with one finger. “I could have been wrong about something else, too.” He stopped scratching. “I'm trying to say … och, fuck it … I'm trying…”

By the way McGuinness was fidgeting, whatever was on his mind was difficult for him to spit out. “Look, just say your piece and leave me alone. All right?”

“You done good back in the Kesh.”

“What?” Davy jerked back. “What did you say?”

“I said, you done good when you got that chisel for us, and if you hadn't found the right switch in the Tally Lodge, we'd all've been fucked.”

Christ Almighty, it must have cost McGuinness dearly to say that. “Eamon asked me for a favour with the chisel,” Davy said. “And I wanted out as much as everybody in the lodge. I got lucky.”

“Maybe, but…”

“But what?”

“We've to put up with each other in here. We'll have to work together getting to Dublin.”

“So?” Was the man trying to call for a truce, like the one the Provisionals had called with the British back in 1972? It had only lasted for a few months.

“I'll let bygones be bygones if you will.” McGuinness folded his arms across his chest.

Davy was glad the man hadn't offered to shake hands. He wasn't sure he could have returned the shake, but he said, “Fair enough.”

“Good.” McGuinness spun, stared at the tunnel, and whispered, “What the fuck's that?”

Davy heard scrabbling. He glanced at his watch. Four. Eamon wasn't due for two hours. Christ, could the police have found the grave?

His hand slid under his pillow, grabbed the cold metal of the .25, and let it go. If there were a couple of peelers in the tunnel, there'd be a squad of the bastards outside. He couldn't hope to shoot his way out. He slipped off the cot and stood waiting, fists clenched, feeling his pulse quicken.

A man appeared, crawling on his hands and knees, stood, and dusted off his pants. “Hiya, Father. Brendan,” Eamon said through his gap-toothed grin.

“Jesus, Eamon.” Davy's heart rate slowed. “You'd me near petrified.”

“Sorry about that,” Eamon said, peering closely at Davy's face. “My God, Father, I'd hardly recognize you.”

“Aye,” said Davy. “As long as the people in Canada don't, I'll do rightly.”

“Never you worry about that.” Eamon plumped himself down in one of the chairs. “Come over here and sit down, the pair of you. I said I'd explain what I was up to today. I've been sorting things out with Erin and Cal … I've had some bad news.”

“About us getting to the Republic?” Davy thought his heart would stop.

“No. That's still on…”

Davy closed his eyes and muttered a silent thank-you.

“But I haven't had a chance to tell you sooner…”

Davy couldn't decide if Eamon sounded sad or angry.

“The Brits killed Fiach O'Byrne, the youngest brother last week.”

“Och, dear,” Davy said. “I'm sorry, Eamon.” He glanced at McGuinness. See what your fighting gets you? Another useless death.

“Erin and Cal want to do something about it before we get out of Tyrone.”

“I should bloody well hope so,” McGuinness growled. “Count me in whatever it is. British Bastards.”

“Fair enough.”

Davy was making no promises until he understood exactly what Eamon meant. Was he thinking about some kind of reprisal? That would be stupid when freedom was so close. Davy stood and tried to walk away. If Eamon wanted to coerce Davy into being part of whatever he was planning, he'd better think again. Hadn't he just finished telling McGuinness he'd fight no more? Hadn't he just finished convincing himself he was a changed man, a man Fiona could respect, could still love? She'd never forgive him. He'd promised her Ravernet would be his last raid, and by God it would be.

Eamon stood, laid a hand on Davy's arm, and looked him in the eye. “I want to ask you a wee favour, Father.”

“Have you no chisels of your own here?” Davy glanced at McGuinness. He was the one who'd reminded Davy about the last favour he'd done for Eamon. It was because of it Eamon had arranged for Davy to join the escape. Maybe he still owed Eamon for it. “What is it?”

“Can you drive?”

“Aye, certainly.”

“Good. I need you to do a bit of driving for us.”

Davy stuffed his hands into his pockets and said, “My oul' da used to say, ‘never make a promise unless you know you can keep it.' I'll make you no promises until I hear what I've to drive for.”

Eamon said softly, “Erin has a plan to take out Strabane Police Barracks.”

No, damnit, no, a voice screamed in Davy's head.

“Tell us about it.” McGuinness leaned forward. “How? When?”

“In a wee minute, Brendan. I need to hear what Davy thinks.”

“You know bloody well what I think. I told you often enough back in our cell. I'm out. I don't even want to drive you. I'm finished with all that shite.” Davy was hurt that Eamon would ask.

“I'm sorry, Davy, but we need you.” An edge had crept into Eamon's voice.

“You can need away. I'm not doing it.”

“Are you scared, McCutcheon?” He could see McGuinness scowling, him and his blether about letting bygones be bygones. Some truce.

“No. I'm not scared. I'm not killing anyone, that's all. And that's final.” Davy turned his back on the others, strode over to his alcove, and sat on his cot. Christ, would Eamon not leave him alone? The man had followed him and stood in the opening.

“I'm not asking you to kill anyone, Father. Brendan and the O'Byrnes and me'll take care of that.”

“Can you not get it through your head? As far as I'm concerned, I want no part of it.”

Eamon ran one hand through his hair. “Can I tell you how it's going to work? Please?”

“I owe you that much. You got me this far. I'd still be in…”

“That's over and done. You owe me nothing, except to hear me out.”

“Go ahead. I'm listening.”

“Right. I'll give you the bare bones. We've to use the farm van to get the attack team from here to a big shed about four miles away. They'll pick up the explosives there and a tractor and an escape car. We'll go into Strabane. The driver … that's you, Davy, has to get the van back past here, across the border at Clady, and on into Lifford in the Republic, just over from Strabane.”

Davy frowned. He was caught up already in trying to understand the details, and if he let himself get interested, the next thing he knew he'd be agreeing to help. “I don't see why you need me,” he said. “Get somebody else to drive to your shed. Leave the van there.”

Eamon scratched his cheek. “We could, but how would you get down to the Republic? We've only the van on the farm.”

“I've no idea.” The words slipped out. “I thought you were going to take care of that.”

Eamon laughed. “I'm trying to. Look. Once we've hit the barracks, the four of us will take the escape car across the wee bridge between Strabane and Lifford, but we'll have to dump it there. The RUC and the soldiers can't follow us into the Republic, but they're bound to give the description to the Gardai. We'd not get ten miles in it. The idea's for us to ditch it in Lifford and use the van to get to Castlefinn in Donegal. It's only about ten miles from Lifford.”

“Why Castlefinn?”

“Sean Conlon's sending a car there to meet us. It'll take us all to Dublin. I had a yarn with Sean on the phone today. He sends his regards.”

“Is he well?” Davy remembered his old CO with affection. “He's still there with Army Council?”

“He is.”

“I'd not mind seeing Sean again, but why doesn't he send the car to Lifford, then you'd not need the van nor me?”

“He could, I suppose, but the Gardai will have the getaway car's number, and there's an off chance someone could spot us making the transfer from it in Lifford. There'd be an all-points bulletin out for that vehicle all over the Republic. We can't take a chance Sean's car would be spotted like that. It won't matter if the van's seen. We'll be in Castlefinn in five minutes. No one will notice anything there. If the Gardai do get the van's number, by the time they find it in Castlefinn, we'll be well away in Sean's car.”

That made sense to Davy. He put the web of his hand up to stroke his moustache, forgetting he no longer had one. The action pulled the scab free, and he felt a tiny trickle of blood.

Eamon moved closer. “Davy, I'm not asking you to make a bomb. I'm not asking you to carry a gun. All I want you to do is give us a lift, bugger off to the Republic, and pick us up when everything's over.”

It didn't seem much to ask. “Well, maybe…” Davy hesitated because, try as he might, he couldn't see any difference between delivering a lethal weapon, the attack squad, and furnishing the bombs he'd made in the past for others to plant. In both cases, he was distanced from the killing but no less a part of it. “What'll you do if I say no?”

Eamon scratched his chin. “Davy, if you won't drive, we'll have to take the farm van, dump it at the shed, get Sean's people to come to Lifford, and take our chances.”

“I'd rather you did it that way.”

Eamon looked straight into Davy's eyes. “What about you? If we take the van, you'll have no transport. We can't come back for you. How're you going to get to Dublin? You'll not get there on foot.”

“What?” Eamon was right, and Davy'd been so self-righteously concentrating on keeping his hands spotless, he hadn't considered these implications.

Eamon put a hand on Davy's shoulder. “The Republic's no safe haven for Provos on the run. Most of the ordinary people there couldn't give a shite about what goes on in the North, want nothing to do with the likes of us. The government officially cooperates with the Brits. You'll get lifted by the Gardai and stuck in jail while the Brits apply for extradition, unless, of course, you do what I'm asking.”

Jesus Christ Almighty. Davy looked all around. Was he never going to get out of some kind of cell, like the one in the Kesh, this prison of a hiding place, and now the vice Eamon had him in? Carrot and bloody stick. Eamon wanted another favour, and Davy always found it hard to refuse a friend. But surely to God a friend wouldn't use blackmail? That's what it was. Drive the van, and Dublin was within reach; refuse, and Dublin and Canada—and Fiona—were out of the question.

He had to choose. Fiona had said she loved his integrity. What price his precious integrity now? Every man has his price, Davy thought bitterly, and if he wanted her, he was going to have to pay.

He looked Eamon straight in the eye and said, “Fuck you, Eamon, I've no choice, have I?”

“I'm sorry, Davy, I really am.”

No one spoke. Davy felt the ties of friendship breaking. “You've not the right to ask this of me.”

“I know,” Eamon said. “But I have.”

“And you'll do it, McCutcheon.” McGuinness rapped. “You're still a Provo volunteer whether you like it or not, and you'll obey orders.”

Davy spun on the man. “Fuck you.”

McGuinness ignored Davy and spoke directly to Eamon. “You've had your word with McCutcheon. He'll do as he's bid. Now I want to hear the details.”

Eamon looked long and hard at Davy, who could see the sadness in Eamon's eyes. Eamon understood bloody well what he'd done. Davy knew it should have come as no surprise. He shouldn't be feeling betrayed. Those committed to the Cause would sacrifice everything on the altar of their dreams; their lives, their loves, and their friends. Eamon looked away, took a deep breath, and said, “I told you the target. The Police Barracks in Strabane…”