The Killer Read online

  With a ragged breath, Ernesto uttered his last word on earth. ‘Si.’

  When the death stroke wasn’t delivered the very next second, Ernesto experienced a small moment of hope. ‘Butch, what the fuck’s wrong with you man?’ he heard, and then it was over.

  Thomas watched the flashing arc of The Killer and jumped to the side to avoid the trajectory of the dark blood spraying like a fountain from the gaping wound. ‘Fuck me,’ he whispered as he felt the colour drain from his face. Back home he’d witnessed several shootings and God only knew how many beatings, but this was his first throat slashing and he was surprised by how ghastly it was. He stared in fascination as the body twitched in front of him, the neck open almost to the spine. ‘Still, the man is a fucking idiot, expecting to get away with robbing the I.R.A. The boys have long memories.’

  ‘Was,’ corrected Darren.

  ‘What?’ asked Thomas, only then realising that he had spoken his thoughts aloud.

  ‘Was a fucking idiot,’ Darren clarified.

  ‘Oh, aye - er, right,’ Thomas slowly nodded in agreement. Revenge now served, and the latest load of cigarettes paid for earlier, meant one thing. He could go back home and out of this fucking awful heat. He couldn’t wait.

  The men hid the body in bushes at the side of the road. It would eventually be discovered, but they knew it wouldn’t be soon. They were in the middle of nowhere. Their task completed, they drove away in their accustomed silence. Then, for the second time that day, Thomas was the first to speak. ‘What the fuck was wrong with you back there, Butch? You hesitated.’

  ‘Nah,’ Darren assured him. ‘Just wanted to get him into the light for you. Didn’t want you to miss the event.’

  ‘Thanks mate.’ And the silence resumed.

  About half an hour later they sat facing Lupo over the dining table of the Hotel Solana, eating hungrily.

  ‘That was a fucking long day. I’m fucking starving,’ Thomas said through a mouthful.

  ‘We should be fucking well better fucking provisioned next fucking time,’ Darren suggested.

  ‘Shouldn’t be a fucking next time. That bastard’s done and it’ll send a message to any wanker who thinks he can rip off the fucking boys in future, eh?’

  ‘Stupid cunt,’ agreed Darren.

  Lupo looked from one to the other. He knew his English wasn’t great, but he was beginning to think he didn’t understand anything at all. What were those guys talking about? ‘Your job here is finished, no?’ he ventured, hoping he didn’t look as confused as he felt.

  ‘Aye, it’s done,’ confirmed Thomas as he slid the keys to the Rover across the table. ‘Thanks for the car. Hope we haven’t left too much of a mess in the boot.’

  Lupo smiled. He understood that he was getting his car back, so that had to be a good thing. Then his smile broadened to a grin as Darren, whom he found much easier to understand, passed him a second set of keys.

  ‘Keep it. Consider it a bonus for your help,’ he explained.

  ‘Ah yes, Mercedes, it bring good price in Africa. I send tomorrow, thank you very much gentlemen.’

  Lupo left them shortly afterwards and they retired to their rooms for the night.

  It was an early start again the next day but they emerged well rested and strolled through the car park to the waiting Honda. ‘Wish we could have kept the Mercedes,’ Darren mused. Still, the trusty little car came to life and the morning here was warm and pleasant, so no need to bemoan the non-existent heater this time. They set off in the direction of Barcelona.

  From a hotel on the opposite side of the street, two men watched the Honda drive away before walking to their own car. Keeping well back, Alpha-Six-One and his partner also headed to the airport.

  It wasn’t long before Darren pulled up at the terminal and prepared to say goodbye to Thomas. ‘Flight’s due in about two hours,’ he said, checking his watch. ‘You need me to hang around?’

  ‘You want to come in and hold my fucking hand or something?’

  ‘I’m definitely not holding “or something”,’ Darren smiled. ‘So, we’re done then. Nothing more to say.’

  ‘Well I do have one question. Haven’t wanted to stare, mate, but what the fuck happened to your face?’ Thomas asked.

  Darren fingered the scar on his cheek, replying nonchalantly, ‘Oh, this little cut? Nicked it with me razor shaving.’

  ‘Ah,’ Thomas grinned back. They said their goodbyes and, a moment later, he was gone.

  13

  Back on The Road

  Darren prepared for the long ride back home and was surprised to realise that he had missed Rosa and the men. His fingers moved to the scar once more as he remembered the dead Spaniard who had given it to him, although now he had a different dead Spaniard on his mind. He’d glossed over the incident with Thomas, but there was no doubt that he had hesitated before cutting Ernesto’s throat and he didn’t know why. He tried to distract himself with the radio, but every station produced nothing but static. Bollocks. All he had to listen to was the incessant hum of car tyres and the protestations of the little Honda’s engine as it again tackled the winding, hilly roads of northern Spain. The effect was hypnotic and he couldn’t help but dwell on his life and the strange event yesterday.

  ‘Maybe what you need, Darren me lad, is a change of jobs,’ he thought, yet what was it that suddenly made him question his role? He was a killer with a cause and he was good at it. He fought for the boys, and the boys fought for him. Every kill, every victory, was another sweet moment of revenge against the bastards who had taken his mammy’s life. And then it hit him. This last killing hadn’t served his need for revenge. It had been about money, plain and simple. Sure, that money would have bought guns and those guns would have killed Protestants, but it was starting to feel like a stretch. The dead man had been a thief, no doubt, and a stupid thief at that, but he wasn’t British, he wasn’t U.V.F., he wasn’t R.U.C. and he was pretty damn sure he wasn’t Protestant. That looked like some serious Catholic praying he’d been doing just before his death. Basically this man wasn’t his enemy and he suddenly felt he’d been – what? Used? Yes, that was it. He felt used.

  Darren drove on discontentedly. This was an unsettling realisation and he didn’t like it one little bit. Even worse, he didn’t know what the fuck he could do about it. Should he really ask for a new job? How about a bit of smuggling? No, that wouldn’t meet his need and it wouldn’t make him happy again. It was odd to consider that he had been happy until yesterday and, even stranger, to admit to himself that the happiness seemed rooted in a small, Spanish settlement to the north with a wizened old woman and a group of rough, angry men. Could he persuade the bosses that he should be left alone up there to get on with it and that, just maybe, his killing days were over? Mm, it would take some thought. One thing he was sure of, though. Word of his hesitation would soon reach Willy, because he knew his cover story hadn’t fooled Thomas in the slightest. He may be a mate, but he was a soldier first.

  Alpha-Six-One glanced across at the other soldier. ‘Looks like he’s heading back home,’ he noted as the Honda turned off the main road north from Barcelona. He picked up the radio handset and keyed in the code. ‘He’s turned north-west,’ he reported, providing road information from the map in his lap. ‘Yeah, real quiet,’ his partner heard him confirm.

  ‘We gonna get the go any time soon?’ he asked as Alpha-Six-One finished the transmission.

  ‘Yeah, I reckon. Transport’s been waiting, but they need to check position. For now just keep following and keep your fucking distance.’

  ‘That’s not going to be so easy now. At least the main road had some traffic. This road’s too bleedin’ empty.’

  ‘Well that’s gonna come in real handy real soon,’ Alpha-Six-One smiled.

  The tail continued and the driver nearly ground to a halt at one p
oint to avoid catching up to the Honda, which didn’t have the power to overtake a slow moving white Ford Transit van that appeared in front of him on a particularly hilly, windy stretch of road. Thankfully it turned off down a farm track and, at that moment, the radio flashed a red call signal. Alpha-Six-One answered, okayed and ended with ‘Roger that’. ‘At fucking last,’ he breathed. ‘Follow that Transit.’

  The Honda was well ahead and out of sight as the soldiers left the car and headed for a quick debrief. ‘He is to be taken alive - is that fully understood?’ The commanding officer concluded. The soldiers nodded, collected crash helmets and a Norton Commando motorcycle from the body of the Transit, and headed back out on the road. The van followed.

  Darren was so deep in thought that he didn’t notice the large black motorcycle until it started to overtake him. The bike’s loud, growling exhaust noise quickly shook him back to reality. ‘Shit man, get yer fucking head on,’ he snapped, reprimanding himself. He glanced in the rear view mirror, but saw only a Transit van way back in the distance. ‘Wake up you tosser and keep your fucking eyes open.’

  He pulled over a little as the bike passed him and he noticed the pillion passenger’s head turn. Then he saw the short, black pipe protruding from his knee. ‘Shit, a gun, a fucking gun,’ he screamed as he desperately swerved the little Honda across both lanes attempting to get out of the line of fire. But it was too late. A puff of smoke from the gun barrel and his front tyre was blown out. The Honda’s steering wheel took on a life of its own as he desperately tried to control it, but he had no chance. The little car zigzagged wildly across the road before catching the ditch, spinning like a top and hitting a tree with its front corner, producing a savage end over end, theatrical roll. Eventually the Honda slid to a stop, lying upside down on its flattened roof.

  Alpha-Six-One hit the brakes. Tyres screamed in protest as he turned and gunned the Norton back to the side of the battered Honda. He kicked the side stand down and sat for a moment as he inspected the mangled wreckage. ‘Jesus, I’ll bet that fucking woke you up,’ he grinned.

  The Transit arrived on the scene just as Alpha-Six-One was leaning into the wreckage, asking with mock concern, ‘Hey, are you OK in there Paddy?’ Darren, temporarily blinded with blood from a deep gash on his head, could see nothing. He certainly didn’t see the vicious punch as it was delivered, shattering his nose and closing one eye. He blacked out.

  ‘Murdering Paddy bastard,’ Alpha-Six-One snapped as he dragged the bleeding Irishman from the car. The men quickly bound and gagged Darren, throwing him roughly into the back of the Transit. Leaving the bike and the wreckage behind them, the van and its occupants left the scene, heading west.

  Around five minutes later the driver pulled the Transit off the road and parked in a cloud of dust. The stony clearing chosen for the pick up was devoid of trees and the van’s occupants waited until they heard the “whoop, whoop” of a helicopter approaching. It landed and was on the ground for only a few seconds as Darren’s limp body was quickly carried and dumped unceremoniously into the chopper. Alpha-Six-One climbed in after him and took a seat directly above the bleeding, bound, gagged and bruised form of the infamous “Butcher of Belfast”. Not so fucking hard now, are you - fucking murdering bastard,’ he spat.

  Darren’s eyes flickered momentarily as he began to regain consciousness. Looking down at him Alpha-Six-One tutted. ‘No you don’t Paddy. Back to sleep, there’s a good lad,’ he laughed as he delivered a brutal kick to the side of the Butcher’s head. Darren was out cold again.

  14

  The Prison Warden

  Eddie McQuillan was a changed man, and it wasn’t just his appearance. He’d been lucky, apparently. ‘No head trauma. Just one eye gone,’ he’d been informed. Lucky? Just? There was no “just” about it as far as he was concerned. In fact there was nothing just in this whole fucking world if that McCann bastard was still out there while he lay helpless in a hospital bed, blinded by the bandages swathing his face. For three days, with only darkness for a friend, he brooded on his loss and the hatred he felt for the man who had robbed him of his eye. Doctors and nurses visited, his dressings were changed and the darkness continued, invading his soul. Hatred turned to thoughts of vengeance and then to determination. He needed to get back to work and track down that murdering son of a bitch. On the day the bandages were removed he faced his reflection, the gaping eye socket unable to stare back at him. He could feel the anxiety of the doctor who had removed the dressing, clearly fearing an emotional collapse, but none came. He smiled as he was given the patch to cover his disfigurement and the doctor pronounced a remarkable recovery.

  He walked from the hospital the next day and was soon called to see his superior officer, Commander Cavanaugh.

  ‘How are you holding up, Eddie?’

  ‘I’m doing fine, sir,’ he assured him; his voice low and even. ‘I think the look kinda suits me.’

  ‘Indeed it does,’ his commander agreed with relief. He had expected anger from this big, imposing man and wasn’t sure how he would have dealt with it. What he heard was more than acceptance, more than an ability to cope, it was almost like relish and he had to admit that the eye patch only served to enhance the aura of menace. He just hoped the even mood would continue with the news he had to give. ‘Your medical report is good, A1, but it’s been discussed and, well, a return to active service on the force is out of the question.’

  ‘Sir. No way. I’m ready to go back. I need to go back. You can’t retire me,’ McQuillan began, his teeth clenching, the anticipated anger starting to show.

  The officer stalled him with a raised hand. ‘It’s not a pension, Eddie. We don’t reward bravery like yours with the brush off. We have a new job for you; one where we feel your talents would serve us well. There’s an opening at the Maze for a deputy warden and the job’s yours if you want it.’

  McQuillan’s good eye closed slowly, trying to concentrate his mind on the words he was hearing. This was wrong. This wasn’t what had kept him going in hospital. ‘A prison guard? You want me to be a fucking prison guard? A jumped up nanny to some low-life shits,’ he finally managed.

  Profanity to a superior officer was frowned on, but Cavanaugh ignored the offence. ‘It’s a promotion, Eddie, more money. Look at it that way. It could have been worse. I’ve fought to keep you out from behind a desk. At least this way you’ll still be hands on with the punishment.’

  McQuillan took a beat. ‘Hands on, sir? Literally hands on?’

  ‘What happens in the Maze, stays in the Maze,’ Cavanaugh informed him. ‘I can say no more than that.

  He had been Deputy Warden at the prison for about a month, and he loved it. It wasn’t what he had dreamed of in his hospital bed. Oh no, it was much, much better. Many of his colleagues disliked the routine, the daily grind, but Edward “Eddie” McQuillan thrived on the relentless repetition. Each day began with him slowly dressing in his uniform, assessing his appearance in a full-length mirror, adjusting the eye patch to exactly the right angle. He would arrive at the prison immaculately presented, but he’d had to buy several extra uniform shirts. Sometimes the blood just wouldn’t come out.

  His daily routine had developed and the exactness pleased him. He drove to work carefully, meticulously obeying the speed limit, never wanting to attract attention, always checking his surroundings. Out here he must blend in until he arrived at his domain, his private sanctuary. In there, no one questioned him and he had a growing collection of faces in his head, each one twisted in pain as he did his job of trying to extract information from captured I.R.A. terrorists. He smiled to himself. He wasn’t actually that good at his job, though it seemed no one dared call him out on it. He couldn’t think of one useful piece of information he’d extracted, because he simply wasn’t interested in what they had to say. All he wanted was to see those faces, each one of them turning in his mind to the face of the man he ha
ted, the man who had stolen his eye.

  He arrived in the prison and parked in his reserved spot. He was special here. He was somebody. Kenny Allen had arrived for his shift a few moments earlier and already had the kettle on as Eddie entered the small office. He liked this kid. He was quiet but tough and he always knew how to turn a blind eye. ‘Good morning Kenny,’ he offered.

  ‘Oh, it’s a good morning indeed sir,’ Kenny replied. ‘Take a look at the new intake.’

  Eddie scanned the list of the roster board. Three names, two of which meant nothing, but the third, oh the third. The Maze prison would today be taking custody of one Darren McCann.

  Darren came round in a small, dank room and he had no idea what day it was. The last thing he remembered clearly was seeing that gun pointing at him and then there was a hazy recollection of a loud, incessant whirring noise. His head throbbed and he knew he’d taken several beatings, but the taste in his mouth suggested he’d been drugged as well. He tried to assess his surroundings but, though he could detect light, he could see nothing. There was a tight sensation on his mouth, so he knew he was gagged, while the scratchy feel of rough cloth confirmed that he was blindfolded. He tried to move, but his arms and legs were securely bound to something that was holding him in a seated position. He fought to banish the fear that enveloped him, but he was in the shit. Of that there was no doubt.

  ***

  Darren was still unconscious in the small prison cell as Turner walked slowly from his antique shop, the sedate tread belying his thoughts. He fought the impulse to rush, knowing that he must always remain in character, but he needed to travel north as quickly as possible.