The Killer Read online

  ‘How the Hell did that happen?’ he’d snapped down the phone only moments earlier. ‘Deniable operation isn’t supposed to mean complete screw up.’ He’d heard the intake of breath on the other end of the connection and realised he’d surprised the caller with his tone. Everyone knew that he hated bad language and his, though mild, had been unusual for him. He’d calmed himself quickly. It would do no good to let his anger get the better of him. ‘I’m sorry. It will be handled. Make sure that chopper’s ready,’ he’d concluded.

  Finally in the air and heading to Belfast he only hoped he wasn’t too late. So much planning had gone into this operation and he couldn’t see it fail now. McCann was the prize he’d been after. Years of intelligence gathering and assessing the background of potential recruits had brought Turner two successful ‘traitors’, one of whom had given him the information that led him to concentrate all his efforts on the young Darren McCann. Everything he knew told him this was the one – not naturally allied with the opposing force, but trained by them into just the kind of ruthless killing machine he needed. He had thick files of names and dates. He knew all about Collins, though he hadn’t touched the man. He was handy left in place, doing half the job for him. He assumed Collins would know that one of his earlier apprentices had changed sides. If he was successful with a second protégé, McCann, he had a feeling Collins would disappear without any help from him.

  The plan had been good. A mercenary, deniable squad had done their job well, trailing the target until just the right moment and then extracting him. Where it had gone wrong between then and now, Turner didn’t know, but somehow McCann wasn’t where he was supposed to be. It probably came down to some pen pusher doing his job just a little too efficiently. Instead of being off the radar in the secret headquarters of British Intelligence, Darren McCann, Butcher of Belfast, had entered the system as just one more terrorist and now he was in the Maze.

  ***

  Eddie McQuillan stood quietly in the small room, watching the slight movements that indicated his prey was waking up. Good old Kenny would keep everyone off his back and he had as long in here as he needed. This was going to be quite a day. He waited patiently as the man on the chair started to move more noticeably and then to wriggle frantically against his bonds and it was clear that he was fully conscious. Still Eddie stayed silent. He didn’t want to rush this. He had perfected his method and routine over the last month and he was not about to deviate from it now. Indeed the thought of any deviation bothered him. Everything had to be step by step – fear, control, pain – though there might be a few extra specifics to throw into this day’s work.

  ‘I see you’re with us at last,’ he said, finally breaking the silence, and was rewarded with quick, ineffective movements from the man in front of him. A few mumbled sounds came from the bag over his face. Eddie reached out and patted him gently on the head, which responded by jerking violently from side to side. ‘There, there son, no need to worry - not just yet anyhow,’ he whispered menacingly. He paused, savouring the moment, and then slowly removed the patch from his eye socket. In one smooth motion he snatched the bag from the man’s head.

  Darren blinked quickly as he adjusted his eyes to the bright light suddenly assaulting them. A man’s silhouette stood in front of him and slowly formed into a defined shape with recognisable features – too recognisable as he finally focused on the horribly deformed face of the R.U.C. Sergeant, Edward McQuillan, as it moved within inches of his own. Recoiling from the sight, and the reek of foul breath, Darren shrank his head backwards as far as he possibly could but he was restricted by something at his neck and couldn’t escape the stench. He tried to fight his bonds, but he was held fast. Even the chair was bolted to the floor. He had no option but to stare into McQuillan’s face and what he saw there was pure hatred. In that instant he knew he was a dead man.

  ‘Hello McCann, I’ve been looking forward to our reunion,’ McQuillan whispered, his voice barely more than a hiss. ‘Do you know where you are?’

  Darren swallowed but didn’t try to speak, just shook his head slowly from side to side.

  ‘Well, you’re back in Ireland my fine lad, and you’re in my care now,’ McQuillan informed him. As he continued, his voice rose, word by word. ‘You fucking ruined my life and my career in the R.U.C. A job guarding scum like you was the only work I could get - After You Fucking Blinded Me!’ he ended on a scream, saliva drooling down his chin. He jumped back from the chair and spread his arms wide, circling as a maniacal laugh escaped his ruined face. ‘Welcome to Her Majesty’s Prison: Maze, McCann. You’re in Long Kesh. You’re in the fucking H-blocks.’

  Darren reeled in disgust and fear as he stared at the mad man in front of him. His breath came in short, sharp bursts as he tried to assess his situation, to think of anything he could do or say to get himself out of this mess, but he knew he was done for. He could think of many people who had cause to hate him, but they were all dead and could do nothing about it. Now, in front of him, stood a very large, and very much alive, man with complete power over him. Worst of all, Darren knew it with absolute clarity as he looked into the one remaining eye; this man was completely insane. He had no idea what to expect, but McQuillan quickly left him in no doubt.

  ‘The Bible tells us we must take an eye for an eye - and I am a devout man. I obey the word of God absolutely.’ He licked the saliva from his chin before continuing in a voice that seemed to have no regular pattern, rising and falling, changing from laugh to hiss to shrill scream and back again. ‘First I’m going to break both of your hands - every single fucking finger - every single fucking bone. Then I’m going to remove one of your eyes. I think I’ll gouge it out - slowly - with my pen. Would you like to see the pen McCann?’

  It was almost a girlish giggle that came from his mouth now as he slowly removed a fountain pen from his pocket and twirled it in front of his captive’s face. Of all the sounds he’d heard over the last minute or so it was that giggle which terrified Darren the most and finally gave him back the ability to speak. ‘Fuck you, you blind, mad bastard. You’re a fucking head case. I should’ve finished you when I had the chance,’ he screamed at the psychotic ex cop.

  ‘Ah, I may very well be blind McCann, but you see - I’m only blind in one fucking eye - and I’m going to take both of yours.’ He seemed to have regained control of his voice again as he added, ‘but I think I’ll only take one today. Don’t want to get the fun over all in one go, do we?’

  Darren was soaked with sweat and the tremors in his body were impossible to control, but he continued his efforts to loose himself from the bonds. Nothing. He couldn’t move an inch. McQuillan slid behind him and he felt the rubbing on his wrist as one of his hands was freed. He tried to pull it in front of him but his arm was numb and he seemed to have no strength as McQuillan kept a firm, yet strangely gentle, grasp. He examined each of Darren’s fingers in turn, massaging them until the circulation returned.

  Darren stared in fascinated horror as McQuillan continued his ministrations. ‘Which do you think would produce the most pain McCann, breaking your fingers first - or your fucking wrists?’ he asked as he smirked at his panic-stricken captive.

  Though it truly horrified him, Darren couldn’t help but consider the question, and he shuddered at the images in his mind.

  ‘I don’t know what you think McCann, but I’ve a bit of experience here and I’m pretty sure the most painful thing would be to start with your fingers - then work my way up, don’t you agree?’ McQuillan continued in an almost friendly manner, still holding onto the hand.

  Darren watched as his tormentor opened a drawer in the desk to his immediate left. He removed a small leather work bag and, making sure that Darren could see, began pulling out a succession of hand tools; chisels, screwdrivers and a selection of pliers, all the while gaily whistling “Protestant Men”. He examined each tool with exaggerated consideration and finally settled o
n a claw hammer, then smiled at his captor in satisfaction. Darren attempted to return the gaze with defiance, but knew that he was trembling and betraying his fear. He’d felt fear before when facing an enemy, but that had been in a fair fight and had given him an adrenalin rush. Here he had no chance of retaliation and his thoughts went back to the Spanish thief and the similar position in which he had held him.

  As McQuillan pushed his face once more into Darren’s, he spat, ‘Remember laddie, first your fingers, then your wrists - then I might need a rest. Still, that should allow you to prepare for the next part, because then it’ll be time for me to take one of your eyes.’

  He paused a while, just watching McCann staring at him. This mental torture was almost as rewarding as the physical pain he was about to administer and it even made the loss of his eye seem worth it. Well, nearly. ‘You don’t have much to say for yourself, do you laddie?’ he goaded.

  ‘I’m not fucking telling you anything you crazy mad bastard,’ screamed Darren, finally finding his voice.

  ‘Hey, that’s all right McCann. No worries. There’s nothing you could tell me anyway, because there’s nothing I want to know. The only thing I want is to break you, one little bit at a time - until you’re fucking well dead,’ laughed the ex R.U.C. man as he placed the clenched, captive hand on the desk in front of him and firmly prised it open, spreading the fingers.

  It was true; Darren knew it. This wasn’t an interrogation. This was revenge, pure and simple and, strangely, that realisation calmed him. He’d been on borrowed time long enough. The whole exile to Spain and then the hesitation with Ernesto, all of it letting him know his days were numbered. He should have listened to the inner warnings before now and got out while he could, and now it was too late. His end was to come at the hands of a madman and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. Finally the defiance he’d been seeking filled his face and he stared up at the man. He made one last effort to remove his hand from McQuillan’s grasp, but it was useless. Resigned to his fate, he sat and waited for the inevitable.

  McQuillan noticed the change in the man’s demeanour, and it was disappointing. This fear stage was supposed to go on longer – that was the routine. Why was this man suddenly ruining his perfect plan? The next stage was supposed to be savoured as he raised the hammer, slowly, holding it above the hand for long seconds. Instead, anger overtook him and he smashed the hammer down quickly, aiming for the thumb, but the blow glancing off the little finger.

  Darren felt some small bones snap, but he gritted his teeth against the pain and continued to stare without uttering a sound. He saw the tendons rise on McQuillan’s neck, his one eye appearing to turn red with rage. ‘No!’ Eddie finally screamed. ‘It should be the thumb first. It’s always the thumb first. Now I have to go backwards. Don’t you see? You’ve made me go backwards.’

  Darren had no idea what the man was babbling about, but he knew it wasn’t good. He braced himself for another blow of the hammer, pretty sure that the next aim would be more effective, but McQuillan was still shouting out incoherent nonsense. ‘It hasn’t even gone right. See? It’s not gone.’

  What it was that hadn’t gone became clear to Darren just a second later as McQuillan grabbed the little finger and twisted it viciously to complete the job half-started by his hammer. This time Darren could not stay quiet, the sound of grinding bones drowned out by his deep groan of pain. Broken bones were nothing new, but this was a sickening pain and the room spun as unconsciousness threatened for a second. ‘Oh, God help me, I’ll never get through this,’ he thought. Then, as his focus returned, the hammer came down again, smashing across his knuckles as the whole hand collapsed and Darren passed out.

  15

  The Intrusion

  When Darren came round again he wasn’t sure where he was until the pain from his hand brought a fierce reminder. McQuillan was leaning against the wall, grinning and, as his victim came to, he approached again, hammer held high.

  ‘Stop this at once, you bloody animal!’ The loud, commanding voice came through the small grill in the cell door and McQuillan froze, his hammer in mid-air, as he heard the key grating in the lock. The door flew open and a scarlet-faced man entered followed by two unknown guards, battens held across their chests. Kenny Allen was behind them, key in hand, the look on his face showing quite clearly that he had no idea what he was supposed to do next. The young officer’s glance flew to McQuillan, then at the red faced man and finally at the key, as if it bore all the responsibility for the position in which he had been placed. He attempted to make himself invisible.

  ‘Put that hammer down!’ was the next, barked order from the red-faced man.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ demanded McQuillan at the top of his voice, the hammer waving wildly in his hand. ‘I gave strict orders no-one was to disturb me during this interrogation.’ He glared at his fellow guard then, and Kenny shrank back against the wall.

  ‘My name is Turner - and here is my I.D. Look at it man. Go on, look I said. And this so-called interrogation of yours is finished. It is terminated - do you bloody well hear me?’

  McQuillan snatched the I.D. and examined it in anger before throwing it to the floor. He raised the hammer once more, but a well-aimed batten knocked it from his grasp.

  ‘Go on, get out of here I said, and get out now man,’ Turner ordered, his voice now more authoritarian than angry, a natural colour slowly returning to his face.

  McQuillan looked around him wildly. This was his domain, his prisoner, his fucking revenge and he wasn’t going anywhere.

  ‘Eddie,’ came the quiet voice from the shadows. ‘There’ll be another day, mate.’

  Then Kenny Allen’s hand was on his arm and he felt himself being led from the room as he gave one last, crazed look in the direction of Darren McCann. ‘Cunt,’ he whispered under his breath. ‘I’ll have you yet.’

  Turner swallowed hard as he watched them leave. ‘That intolerable little man,’ he tutted. He loathed physical violence. He absolutely abhorred it and considered for the umpteenth time that he really was in the wrong job. Trouble was, he was good at it.

  He made his way to the prisoner in the chair. This man had said nothing since his arrival and he just looked at him blankly now, offering no resistance as he examined the damaged hand. ‘Get the doctor,’ he ordered one of the guards behind him, before turning his attention back to the prisoner. ‘I must say old man; this behaviour should never be tolerated in any of Her Majesty’s Prisons. It’s simply not on. I really do apologise.’

  Darren stared back and said nothing. He was struggling to form his thoughts through the intense pain of his hand.

  ‘Look old chap, I’ll have a medic take care of that, give you some pain-killers, then we can have a little chat. Now how would that be?’ He fished around in his pocket for a moment and produced his trusty old Swiss Army penknife. He bent low, hacking away with the short blade as he cut the sticky gaffer tape holding the prisoner down.

  Darren stretched out his uninjured limbs, circling them to encourage the blood flow, but he remained silent. Turner seemed content with that for the moment and leaned against the wall, watching. The guard came back with the doctor who strapped the hand, administered pills and departed with such speed and efficiency, it was clearly a well-practiced routine. At a glance from their boss, the guards went out into the corridor and closed the door leaving the two men alone in the tiny cell.

  Darren bit down on his good hand, trying to take some pain away from the other. He hoped those pills would kick in quickly. The strapping had helped but the throbbing continued and he didn’t want to be distracted. His position had changed, though he doubted it was for the better. One thing was clear, this man was…‘English,’ he said, finally breaking the silence.

  ‘What gave me away, old boy?’ Turner smiled at him. When Darren didn’t reply, he continued. ‘Yes, English. Apologies fo
r the awfully bad form. I really should introduce myself. The name is Turner, Anthony Turner and I work for the British Government as a - well that’s not important now. And you are Darren, I believe, or do you prefer Butch? How about Mr. Butcher? Which is it to be?’

  Darren slowly lifted his head and stared at the man. ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘Well, if we’re to have a chat, we ought to be on civil terms, don’t you think?’

  ‘I’ve nothing to say to you, Englishman.’

  ‘But I’m only here to help, you know. Seems I’ve helped already, wouldn’t you say?’ offered Turner, the smile still on his lips.

  Darren’s voice remained low as he spat, ‘If you really want to help me, get the fuck out of my country. Leave Ireland for the Irish - you fucking British bastard.’

  ‘Tut, tut, tut, there really is no need for that sort of language old chap,’ replied Turner. ‘I genuinely am here to help you know.’

  ‘So, what the fuck do you want from me? You want me to grass - and inform on the boys do you?’ mocked Darren.

  ‘Actually - yes old boy, I do - that’s exactly what I want to start with,’ sighed Turner, ignoring the mocking tone.

  The matter-of-fact reply caught him off guard and Darren heard himself laugh before controlling his voice once more. ‘Well piss on you. Go and fuck yourself. Leave me alone you fucking British bastard.’

  Turner closed his eyes and shook his head slowly before looking back at him benignly. ‘Okay, for now I’m going to ignore the bad language. I used a little myself when I arrived, for which I apologise, and I know you’ve had a bad few days, Mr. Butcher.’

  ‘Darren.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I prefer Darren.’

  ‘Ah, yes, Darren it is then,’ Turner agreed. ‘Much better, I must admit. Butcher has all sorts of nasty connotations, doesn’t it? Look here old chap, to ask the British to leave Northern Ireland is simply unrealistic. It’ll never happen you see.’