The Chinaman (27 page)

There was an uproar among the refugees and they began to surge forward but a volley of shots rang out and four of the men fell to the deck, screaming in pain. The Thais began searching the men, taking from them their watches, jewellery and any other valuables they had before throwing them down into the hold. Those that put up a fight were killed and thrown over the side. Some of the younger women were grabbed and carried screaming on to the Thai boats where more fishermen were waiting with their arms outstretched to take them. Nguyen watched in horror as the men began tearing the clothes off the women, slapping and hitting them if they struggled too much, before throwing them down on to the deck and raping them. He saw one girl who couldn't have been more than fifteen years old held down by two men while a third climbed on top of her. Her screams chilled him, and then he heard his own daughter, Mai Phoung, screaming for him. Two Thais had her and were taking her to the bow of the boat where more fishermen waited, lust in their eyes.

‘She's only thirteen!' Nguyen cried.

‘The youngest fruit is the sweetest,' said one of the Thais in rough Vietnamese and slammed the butt of his rifle into Nguyen's sternum so that he collapsed to the deck, gasping for breath. Through a red haze he saw Thi Manh dash over to claw at the men in an attempt to save her sister. The men laughed and one of them grabbed her. He seized her shirt and pulled it savagely, the buttons popping off like small gunshots, revealing her small breasts and smooth skin. He was joined by two other men who used large fishing knives to cut away the rest of her clothes. She was screaming hysterically, begging Nguyen to rescue her. He staggered to his feet and pushed his way through the refugees who were still on the deck. Mai Phoung had been thrown across to the Thai boat and was being stripped and beaten by a group of three Thais who were snarling and growling like wild dogs. She too was calling for her father. Nguyen stepped forward towards the men holding Thi Manh but as he moved one of the Thai fishermen appeared in front of him holding a rifle. It was pointed at Nguyen's chest and the man was laughing, his finger tightening on the trigger. Nguyen leapt as the man fired, he felt the blast and a searing stripe of pain across the side of his head and then he was under water, choking and coughing, his head a mass of pain and the taste of blood in his mouth. He surfaced, spitting out salt water and when his eyes cleared he saw the Thais setting fire to the boat and rushing back to their own vessels.

Nguyen trod water, fighting to stay conscious. He would never forget the horrified screams from the hold, and the howls from the women on the Thai boats. He never saw his daughters again. Part of him wished that he could die too, but his survival instincts took over. There were many bodies floating in the waves and Nguyen used his belt to tie two of them together. He clung to the macabre raft for more than fifteen hours before he was picked up by a British freighter on its way to Hong Kong.

He was told that he was lucky to have been spotted, but Nguyen didn't feel lucky. He felt ashamed, he felt that he'd betrayed his daughters, that he should have saved them or died trying. The guilt of that day had lived with him forevermore. He'd reacted instinctively, without thinking, and not a day went by, not an hour, when the events of the last few minutes on board the refugee boat didn't flash through his mind.

He opened his eyes and looked up through the branches above his head. His arms were shaking and his breath was coming in ragged gasps. He wanted his time over again, he wanted to be back on the boat, because he knew this time he would make the right choice, that he would die trying to save his daughters rather than leaping over the side to save his own life.

He would not fail this time.

Mary Hennessy lay with her head on Morrison's shoulder and made small circles on his chest with her index finger. He kissed her on the top of her head and she smiled up at him.

‘It's been a long time, Sean Morrison,' she said.

‘It has that, Mary Hennessy,' he said lazily. He looked at his watch. Eleven o'clock.

‘My time's not up, is it?' she said. She ran her hand slowly down through the hairs on his chest. ‘I bet I could change your mind . . .'

Morrison laughed and reached down and intercepted her wandering hand. ‘Mary, even you can't raise the dead.'

She giggled. ‘Not dead, just resting,' she said, but she put her hand back on his chest. ‘You're not going to throw me out, are you?'

‘I'm waiting for somebody to call me,' he said.

‘A girl?'

‘There's no girl, Mary Hennessy.'

They lay together in silence for a while, enjoying each other's warmth.

‘You shouldn't have left me, Sean,' Mary said eventually, so quietly that at first Morrison thought that she was talking in her sleep. ‘There was no need for you to have gone.'

He sighed. ‘There was every need.'

‘Because of Liam?'

‘Because of us. Because it was wrong.'

She laughed harshly. ‘The way the world is and you worry about the right and wrong of what goes on between a man and a woman. You amaze me sometimes.'

‘And you, Mary Hennessy, are a constant source of wonder to me.'

‘I didn't even know how to get hold of you in New York.'

‘That was the idea,' he said. ‘Out of sight, out of mind.'

She shook her head. ‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder.'

‘You were the one who wouldn't leave her husband,' said Morrison. ‘You were the one who said that an affair was fine but that it couldn't go any further.'

‘I've been married for a long time, Sean. A long time.'

‘I know. I know that.'

She sighed and he felt her warm breath on his chest. ‘If I was free, you know that I'd be with you like a shot. If you wanted me.'

‘If!' he exclaimed.

‘I'm so much older than you, Sean.'

He squeezed her and stroked her hair. ‘It never mattered in the past, and it doesn't matter now.'

‘But it might in the future. It might.'

Morrison closed his eyes. This discussion was a repeat of thousands they'd had before. Sometimes, before he'd left New York, it seemed to him that they'd spent more time discussing the relationship than living it.

‘I wish Liam was more like you,' whispered Mary.

‘What do you mean?'

‘Stronger. Harder.'

He laughed and she slapped his chest. ‘That's not what I meant, idiot. He's changed, he's gone soft. Soft on the Cause. I used to be so proud of him, he had power and he wasn't afraid to use it. Now he'd rather talk, negotiate. He acts like an old man, trying to make his peace with the world.' Her voice was becoming increasingly bitter and she spat out the last few words like an angry cat. Morrison didn't know what to say so he lay in silence and concentrated on smoothing her hair, trying to calm her down physically rather than by talking to her.

‘I've never forgiven him for Gerry, you know,' she said. Her brother had been shot and killed by a Protestant death squad three years earlier. Four men in balaclava masks had forced their way into his house and shot him in front of his wife and three children on Christmas Eve. Mary had been there delivering Christmas presents and she'd been splattered with his blood. Morrison had seen her in the City Hospital several hours later, standing with Liam in the white-tiled corridor with flecks of blood over her dress, a red smear across one cheek, her eyes puffy from crying. That's when he'd fallen in love with her, he realised now.

‘He found out who did it, you know?' she said.

‘Yes. I know.'

‘They killed a farmer on the border a month later and got caught, stupid bastards. I begged Liam to have them killed before they got to court. He said no. They're in Long Kesh now, all four of them, and still he won't do anything. One of them is studying sociology with the Open University, Sean, can you believe that? Gerry's dead and buried and he's getting a fucking degree. And Liam says that justice has been done and that the time for revenge is past, or some such philosophical crap. He's lost his fire, and he lost it when I needed it most.'

Morrison could feel her heart pounding against his chest and he kissed her softly on the top of her head.

‘That's why I'm here, you know. In London. Because he's running away from a bloody Chinaman. One man and he's hiding like a frightened child. And he wants me to hide, too.'

‘What do you mean?' Morrison asked.

Mary sat up. ‘Of course, you don't know. He followed us to the farm. He blew up one of the outbuildings and the car. Jimmy's in hospital.'

‘Is he OK?'

‘I don't know, I left right after he blew up the car. Liam thought it would be safer if I came to London. I didn't argue because I knew it would give me the chance to see you.' She straddled him and kissed him and then rolled off the bed and skipped into the bathroom. He heard the shower kick into life.

The phone rang and Morrison jumped involuntarily. Guilt? Probably. He reached for the receiver. It was Hennessy.

He told him about the car bombing and the attempt to flush The Chinaman out of the woods and how it had ended in disaster. Morrison expressed surprise and asked who had been hurt even though he'd already been told by Mary.

As he talked, Mary came out of the bathroom wearing a towelling robe that was far too big for her. She was rubbing a towel through her hair. Morrison felt a sudden rush of guilt and he turned to one side so that he didn't have to look at her.

‘We're obviously after a man who is used to fighting, some sort of terrorist maybe. Maybe he has jungle warfare experience, you know. Malaysia maybe,' said Morrison. Mary had finished drying her hair and she began to brush it slowly, watching Morrison in the dressing-table mirror.

‘The area around the farm is hardly a jungle,' said Hennessy.

‘It's not a jungle, I agree, but there's acres of woodland and a million and one places to hide. A man who knew what he was doing could stay put for weeks, living off the land, hiding during the day and making a nuisance of himself at night. And the more men you send in looking for him, the more damage he'll do.'

‘That's pretty much what Jim Kavanagh's been telling me. He says we should go back to Belfast. He says it'll be easier to protect me there.'

‘That's true, but at least you know where he is now. If you can deal with him in the countryside you should be able to keep a lid on it. In Belfast it could turn into a blood-bath.' Mary stopped brushing her hair and sat looking at Morrison.

‘You have a suggestion?'

‘Set a thief to catch a thief. We send in one man, a man who's an expert at tracking, and we let him get on with it. No manhunt, just sit tight and let our man winkle him out.'

‘Come on, Sean. Where are we going to find such a man?'

‘What about Micky Geraghty?'

‘Retired,' said Hennessy.

‘Well un-retire him, Liam,' said Morrison, exasperated. ‘He's the perfect choice. He was a gamekeeper as a kid, his father was one of the best in Ireland.' Gamekeeping wasn't the only talent Geraghty had, but his skill as an IRA assassin wasn't the sort of thing to be discussed on an open telephone line. Morrison knew of at least three kills he'd been responsible for, two long distance with a rifle and one close up, a senior RUC officer who'd blinded a young Catholic during a particularly nasty interrogation. The boy had been a second cousin to Geraghty and he'd asked for the assignment. It had been personal, but professional. If he had truly retired, it was one hell of a loss to the Cause. ‘Doesn't he work as a deer tracker or something in Scotland now?'

‘He's retired,' Hennessy repeated. Mary stood up and walked over to where Morrison was sitting on the bed. He looked up at her and smiled and she shrugged off the robe so that she was standing naked in front of him. His mind whirled and he fought to keep his voice steady, certain that Hennessy would be able to sense that something was wrong.

‘The sort of skills he's got you don't forget.' Morrison wasn't just referring to gamekeeping, and Hennessy knew it.

‘I don't mean retired from work, Sean, I mean he retired from the Cause.'

‘Nobody retires from the Cause,' said Morrison. Mary pushed Morrison back on to the bed and pulled his robe apart. He closed his eyes and almost gasped when he felt her take him in her mouth. Her soft hair brushed his groin and as she caressed him with her mouth she ran her hands up and down his chest, gently scratching him. She was making small groaning noises and he was sure Hennessy would be able to hear her.

‘He was a special case,' said Hennessy. ‘His wife died five years ago. Cancer. It was very, very bad. He lost heart after that. He was no more use to us.'

‘So who decided he could retire?'

Hennessy didn't reply, which gave Morrison the answer. ‘It was you, wasn't it, Liam?' Still Hennessy said nothing. ‘If it was you, he owes you a favour. All you have to do is to make it personal. And let's face it, this is as personal as you can get.' Mary began moving her head up and down, running her tongue along the whole length of him. He wanted her to stop but at the same time he didn't, and his confusion was compounded by the overwhelming guilt of it all, talking to Hennessy while his wife knelt naked in front of him.

‘He might agree to help track this man down, but that's all. He wouldn't take it any further.'

‘OK, but that's a start. At least let me talk to him. He might jump at the chance of helping his old friend.' A thought suddenly occurred to Morrison. A solution. ‘In fact, I'll ask him to take me with him. He can find him, I'll do the rest.'