Now and in the Hour of Our Death (49 page)

“All right, I want us to go over the last details again on Friday night, but until then, get as much rest as possible.”

“I appreciate what you're doing for us,” Erin said as she rose and walked to his side and planted a kiss on his cheek. “You're a darling man, so you are, Davy McCutcheon.”

Davy felt himself blush.

“Good man, m'da.” Cal rose and offered his hand. Davy shook it, and in the handshake and his acceptance by Erin, Davy felt a faint sense of returning to the only family he'd known for the last thirty years, even if it was the Provos. But it was a family for whom he felt no loyalty, no filial love.

“I think,” said Cal, “we could all go a wee half.” He went to the dresser and produced five glasses and a bottle of Paddy. He poured and passed the glasses round.
“Sláinthe.”

Davy sipped and savoured the taste of the Irish whiskey, peaty as the aroma in the kitchen, and the heat in the spirits warmed him.

“
Sláinte mHaith,
” McGuinness said quietly, looking from Erin to Cal and then Eamon but avoiding even glancing at Davy, before adding, “You folks here've done good. It's a grand plan, so it is, as long as the timing's spot on.”

Davy felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. Even if he'd made a feeble joke about it moments ago, it was exactly what someone had said in the Kesh not long before the food lorry turned up late.

 

CHAPTER 40

TYRONE. WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 28, 1983

Everything on the farm was running late, but the work had to go on if Erin was to leave everything ready for Sammy to take over on Saturday. On Saturday, she'd have more important things to do than muck out cow stalls. She left the barn, her wheelbarrow piled high with steaming cow clap and her Wellington boots manure to the ankles.

Eamon and his friends were in the tumulus, Cal and Tessie wouldn't be back until after they'd driven the cows to the pasture, and she wasn't sure when Sammy would show up.

Fine drizzle hid the distant hills. Erin ignored it and the stink from the barrow. She'd been out in the rain often enough and been raised among farm smells. She'd rather live with them than the reek of exhausts, the miasma of decaying rubbish that poisoned the air in big cities like Belfast and, no doubt, Boston, Massachusetts, where Eamon had told her they were going to head after they'd reached sanctuary with the Provos headquartered in Dublin.

She imagined Boston was all skyscrapers, no decent view, no open spaces. It was sure to be filled with crowds and bustle. Still, there'd be no British Security Forces. According to Eamon, who'd been in touch with a friend living out there, there was a large, sympathetic, Irish-American community, and they'd help her adapt to life in Massachusetts. The friend had even mentioned a Celtic pub there, the Róisín Dubh—the Black Rosebud. Eamon'd promised to take her there once the pair of them got settled in. He said the music and the
craic
were grand. As long as she was willing to accept the inevitable strangeness, it could all be so new and exciting—not like dunging out cow stalls.

She upended the barrow at the dunghill, listened as its contents splattered onto the heap, and trundled it back across the farmyard. She planned to spend the rest of the morning bringing the books and accounts up to date so they'd be ready for Sammy, if wee Sammy could understand them. Cal usually made a bollocks of the accounts and was quite happy to let her handle the business management.

She left the barrow in its usual spot and tutted as she noticed the damage to the side of Margaret's stall. That bitch of a cow. If she wasn't such a good milk producer, Erin would have sent her off to the slaughterhouse months ago. Sammy could fix it when he came back to work, and surely to God he must have finished his preparations by now?

“'Bout ye, Erin.” Sammy appeared in the open doorway.

“‘Talk of the devil and he's sure to turn up,'” she said. She'd not heard him crossing the yard. She watched as he shook the moisture from his raincoat.

“Damp day,” he said. “It's likely the rain that's doing it.” He nodded solemnly as if in agreement with himself.

She smiled. He didn't know he was being funny. “How are you, Sam, and how are you getting on with your work?”

“I'm rightly, so I am, and all the jobs's done. The ammonal's loaded in the tractor bucket.” Sammy rubbed one shoulder. “And I finished respraying the car yesterday.”

“What about plates?”

“I picked them up in Newtownstewart a couple of days ago. They're changed.”

She smiled again. “You've done well, Sammy. I'm proud of you.”

He glowed. “Aye, well.”

“I don't know what we'd do without you. You've worked fast.”

“Everything's in the big shed at my place.”

She saw how he puffed out his skinny chest. She moved to him and planted a kiss on his stubbly cheek. “Good man, m'da. I always knew we could trust you,” she said, even if it wasn't entirely true. He deserved credit for a job well done, and she knew that praise coming from her would please him and, more importantly, keep him willing to work. He was as easy to bring to heel as Tessie. She'd sit up and beg for a pat on the head, and so would Sammy.

“Aye, well.” He hung his head, and she was sure he was blushing. “You said you wanted everything in a hurry.”

“I did. Now Eamon's here with his mates, the only thing holding us up was waiting for you to finish.”

“Eamon made it?”

“Aye. They're in the old grave.” No harm in telling Sammy that. He'd already have guessed.

“You'll be glad to have him back.”

“You don't know the half of it.” She could feel herself bent over the kitchen table, the weight of Eamon on her, his hard-on in her, his breath hot on the back of her neck. “And now he's here, we're just about ready to go.”

“Erin, look”—he pulled off his damp duncher and held it between both of his hands—“it's not my place, but…” He looked as forlorn as a man at the races who'd put his last pounds on a horse—and lost. “I wish you'd not.” His hands tugged at the tweed, and he stammered slightly as he said, “You might get killed.”

Good Lord, the man was scared for her. “Don't you worry your head about it, Sam. It'll be over before the Brits know what's hit them.”

“Aye, so you say, but we've never done nothing like this before. It's not a night ambush or leaving a booby trap somewhere. Erin…” He tried to grab her arm and stared into her eyes. “You could get shot.”

She shrugged. There had always been a risk from the day she'd made the Provo Declaration, but she'd never seriously entertained the possibility that it could happen to her. Other people, perhaps; Terry O'Rourke, shot in the lungs, had died the night she'd gone out on an ambush with him, and Fiach, alone in Ballydornan. Da'd come close to dying years ago, on the night when he'd been shot, but he'd gone on fighting. Eamon had been forced to surrender his freedom. But—Sammy was right. “I could get killed on Saturday, Sammy,” she said quietly. “But so could the rest. So can anyone who's in the fight. I have to chance it.”

“Och, don't say that.” Sammy stood footering with his cap and studying the toes of his boots.

“You're sweet, Sam, but don't you worry your head about me. Everything's going to be fine.” She lowered her voice. “Then it's ‘over the hills and far away.'”

“What are you talking about?”

“The lot of us are leaving Northern Ireland.” She glanced at the misty hills, feeling her own eyes mist, but she tossed her head and said, “No more barrows full of cow clap.” She forced a smile.

“Leaving?” Sammy's brows wrinkled. “Me, too? You never said nothing about it to me.” Poor wee Sammy. He never could digest sudden surprises. “I … I'd not mind getting out,” he said, and she heard longing in his voice. He was going to be disappointed.

“Not you, Sam. We want you to stay here and look after the place until we can get one of the overseas O'Byrnes to come home and take it over.”

“But … but…” One hand released the peak of his cap. His hand flew up and a finger guddled in his nostril. She wished he wouldn't do that. “If you and the rest are for getting out, will the Brits not come after me if I stay?”

“Not the way we're going to arrange things. You'll be safe as houses, safer than a bunch of peelers.” She laughed.

“There's no need to make fun of me, so there's not.” He sounded hurt.

“I'm not, Sam. The Brits won't be looking for you because you're not going.”

“Not what?”

“Not going on the raid. We can manage without you. If you go down to Ballybofey the night before, make sure you've a few jars there with your mates and go back to the pub with them the next day. The Brits can suspect what the hell they like. You'll have an alibi. Cal'll give you a few quid to pay for a room.”

Erin waited for Sammy to smile in relief. Maybe he'd been genuine in his concern for her when he'd asked her not to go, but she knew he'd been asking on his own behalf, too. He didn't want to take any risks. Whatever else Sammy McCandless believed in, dying for Ireland was not one of his aspirations. But he didn't smile, didn't rush to agree with her plan. “I thought you'd be pleased,” she said.

“I need to think on that,” he said slowly, frowning and scuffing one boot toe in the earth. He was like a kid who'd been promised a treat, and the promise had been broken.

“What's there to think about? We're letting you out. You'll not be taking any risks, Sam. And the boys and me will be fine, too.”

“I hope you're right. I still wish…”

“I'm going, Sammy. I owe it to Fiach, and I want to have one more go at the bastards before I run off. Eamon can't stay here no matter what, and when he goes, I'm going with him.” She softened her voice. “I'll miss you,” she said, although she knew she'd not miss him the way he'd want her to. She'd yearn for the farm and for Ireland. Like them, Sammy had always been part of her life, but all she'd really feel for him would be a small sense of loss of the familiar. She didn't want him to see that, so she took his hand and squeezed.

Sammy looked as if he could burst into tears and blurted, “You don't have to go on the attack.”

“Och, I do, Sam.”

He shook his head forcibly. “You do not. Not … not if I go instead of you.”

Good God. She stared into Sammy's eyes and saw the resolve. “You are sweet, Sammy, you really are.”

“I would, you know,” he said. “You could go down to Ballybofey and have an alibi. You could look after the farm until your family come back, maybe … maybe go to Eamon in a month or two.”

She saw pride on his face, and he'd every right to be proud. It must have cost every ounce of his tiny courage to make the offer. What a hell of a thing for him to do. “I suppose I could, Sammy, but I'm the one who's planned this attack. I'm the one who has to see it through. You're for Ballybofey.”

“Why've I to go to the Republic?”

“For your alibi, silly. You cross the border and our customs and the Gardai'll have records. Nobody can challenge that.”

Sammy managed a small smile.

“Good,” she said. “Now listen…” Telling him the dates now would pose no risk. He had earned the right to be told. “You get yourself over the border on Friday night and don't come back until Saturday evening.”

“All right,” he said. “Have it your own way.”

For a man who'd been so easily offended a few days ago when she'd deliberately withheld the information, he didn't seem very interested now.

“I know you, Erin O'Byrne, when you've your mind made up. Just you … just you take care of yourself, now, whatever you're attacking.”

“Strabane,” she said, “Strabane Police Barracks.”

Sammy grinned and danced a few jig steps. “Jesus,” he said, “Strabane? I'd never've guessed. Not in a month of Sundays. That'll really give the Brits a quare poke in the eye, so it will.”

“Well, now you know, Sammy. You keep it to yourself.”

“Of course I will.” There was a more serious note to his voice now. “I've just had a wee notion. If I'm not going, who'll fuse the bomb?”

“You'll have to teach Cal how to set the timer.”

“That's wee buns, so it is. I'll just need to take a run-race over to my place and get my stuff. I've everything I need in a knapsack hid under the coal in the coal shed.”

“Are you still using fulminate?”

“Aye.”

Erin chuckled. “You'd need to make sure you didn't pick some up by mistake and shovel it on the fire.”

“I'd not be that daft,” Sammy said seriously. He started to trot over to the door. “I'll get it right now, so I will.”

“Hang about, Sam,” she called, and saw his look of disappointment. “Take your hurry in your hand. There's work to do here first.”

“Oh.”

“C'mere here,” she said, and walked along to Margaret's stall. “I want you to fix that. She's kicked the bejesus out of it.”

“Right.”

“And I want you to stay here tonight. You'd be a bit of company for me and Cal, and you'll have to see to the cattle in the morning because…” She felt moisture in her eyes. She'd tried to put the whole business out of her mind. “We're burying Fiach tomorrow.”

*   *   *

The rain had stopped earlier in the afternoon, when Sammy came into the barn to fix the stall. He nailed the last board, stood, and surveyed his handiwork. He'd taken care of the job, and it wasn't the only thing he was going to take care of, just like he'd promised Erin.

She didn't know it, and she'd never know it, but she'd given him all he needed for him to keep her safe, and at no risk to himself. If she would have let him, he would have kissed her when she'd told him he'd not have to go on the raid. What the hell had possessed him to offer to go in her place? Was it her saying she'd miss him? The touch of her hand?