THERE WAS ONLY the rain now and the groans of the injured. Pat said wildly, We did what you told us to do. Why this?
Oh, no, Keogh said. I told you to frighten the girl a little and then Id come and save her. He found a cigarette one-handed and lit it. And what were we into? Gang rape.
Shes a dirty little Prod. Who cares?
I do, Keogh told him. And Im a Catholic. You give us a bad name.
Pat rushed him. Keogh swayed to one side, tripping him with his right foot, and dropped one knee down hard in his back. Pat lay there sobbing in the rain.
Keogh said, You need a lesson, son.
He jammed the muzzle of the Walther against the youths thigh and pulled the trigger. There was a muted report and Pat cried out.
Keogh stood up. Only a flesh wound. It could have been your kneecap.
Pat was sobbing now. Damn you!
Taken care of a long time ago. Keogh took an envelope from his pocket and dropped it down. Five hundred quid, that was the price. Now get yourself to the Royal Victoria Casualty Department. Best in the world for gunshot wounds, but then they get a lot of experience.
He walked away, whistling the same eerie little tune, and left them there in the rain.
WHEN HE REACHED the cafe, there were no longer any customers, but he could see Kathleen Ryan and the woman Mary standing behind the counter. The girl was on the telephone. Keogh tried the door, but it was locked. Kathleen Ryan turned as the door rattled and nodded to Mary, who came from behind the counter and unlocked it.
As Keogh entered, Mary said, She told me what you did for her. God bless you.
Keogh sat on the edge of a table and lit a cigarette. The girl was still talking. No, Ill be fine now. Ill be at the Drum in twenty minutes. Dont fret. She put the phone down and turned, her face calm. My uncle Michael. He worries about me.
And why not? Keogh said. Desperate times.
You dont take prisoners, do you?
I could never see the point.
And youre carrying. A Walther from what I saw.
Very knowledgeable for one so young.
Oh, I know guns, mister, I was raised on them. What did you do after I left?
I sent them on their way.
Home was it with a pat on the head?
No, the nearest casualty department. They needed a lesson. They got one. The one who seemed to be in charge will be on sticks for a while if thats a comfort to you.
She frowned, her eyes dark. Whats your game?
No game. I didnt like what was going on, thats all. He stood up and stubbed out his cigarette. Still, you seem fine now so Ill be on my way.
He got the door open. She said quickly, No, hang on. He turned and she added, You can walk me to my uncles pub. Thats the Orange Drum on Connors Wharf. Its about a quarter of a mile. My name is Kathleen Ryan. Whats yours?
Martin Keogh.
Wait for me outside.
He did as he was told and saw her go to the phone again. Probably speaking to her uncle, he thought. A few moments later, she joined him, this time carrying a large umbrella.
As she put it up against the driving rain, he said, And wouldnt a taxi be safer?
I like the city at night, she told him. I like the rain. Ive a right to go my own way and to hell with those Fenian bastards.
A point of view, he replied as they started to walk.
Here, get under this, she said, pulling him under the umbrella and took his arm. A sailor, you said?
Just for the past couple of years.
A sailor from Belfast raised in London who carries a Walther.
There was a question in her voice. A dangerous place this old town as you saw tonight.
Dangerous for you, you mean, and thats why youre carrying. She frowned. Youre not a Fenian or you wouldnt have done what you did to that lot.
Im not anybodys, girl dear. He paused to light a cigarette.
She said, Give me one.
I will not, you with your green years ahead of you. God, but youre one for the questions, Kate.
She turned to glance at him. Why do you call me that? No one else does.
Oh, it seems to suit.
They were walking along the waterfront now, container ships anchored at the quay and further out, the red and green lights of a freighter moving out to sea.
Kathleen Ryan said, So, the gun? Why are you carrying?
Jesus, its the persistent one you are. A long time ago I was a soldier. Did three tours of duty in this very town, and theres always the chance of someone with a long memory and a grudge to work off.
What regiment?
One Para.
Dont tell me you were at Bloody Sunday in Londonderry?
Thats right. Like I said, a long time ago.
Her hand tightened on his arm. God, but you lads gave those Fenians a roasting that day. How many did you kill? Thirteen, wasnt it?
The lights of the pub were plain across a cobbled quay now. Keogh said, How old are you?
Sixteen.
So young and so full of hate.
I told you. The IRA killed my father, my mother, and my wee sister. That only leaves Uncle Michael.
The sign said The Orange Drum and one was painted on the brick wall beside it with the legend Our Country Too. The girl put the umbrella down, opened the door, and led the way in.
THE INTERIOR WAS a typical Belfast pub with several booths, a few tables and chairs, and a long mahogany bar. Bottles of every kind of drink were ranged on shelves against a mirrored wall. There were only half a dozen customers, all old men, four of them playing cards by an open fire, two others talking softly to each other. A hard-looking young man with one arm sat behind the bar reading the Belfast Telegraph.
He glanced up and put the paper down. Are you okay, Kathleen? Michael told me what happened.
Im fine, Ivor. Thanks to Mr. Keogh here. Is Uncle Michael in the back?
At that moment a door opened and a man walked through. Keogh knew him at once from the photos Barry had supplied at his briefing in Dublin. Michael Ryan, aged fifty-five, a Loyalist of the first order who had served in the UVF and Red Hand of Ulster, the most extreme Protestant group of all, a man who had killed for his beliefs many times. He was of medium height, hair graying slightly at the temples, eyes very blue, and there was an energy to him.
This is Martin Keogh, the girl said.
Ryan came round the bar and held out his hand. You did me a good turn tonight. I shant forget.
Lucky I was there.
Thats as may be. I owe you a drink, anyway.
Bushmills whiskey would be fine, Keogh told him.
Over here. Ryan indicated a booth in the corner.
The girl took off her raincoat and beret and eased behind the table. Her uncle sat beside her and Keogh was opposite. Ivor brought a bottle of Bushmills and two glasses.
Can I get you anything, Kathleen?
No, Im okay, Ivor.
He plainly worshiped her but nodded and walked away. Ryan said, Ive checked with a contact at the Royal Victoria. They just received three very damaged young men. One with a bullet in the thigh.
Is that a fact? Keogh said.
Kathleen Ryan stared at him. You didnt tell me.
No need.
Lets see what youre carrying, Ryan asked. No need to worry. All friends here.
Keogh shrugged, took the Walther from his pocket, and passed it across. Ryan examined it expertly. Carswell silencer, the new job. Very nice. He took a Browning from his pocket and passed it over. Still my personal favorite.
Preferred weapon of the SAS, Keogh said, lifting the Browning in one hand. And the Parachute Regiment.
He served with One Para, the girl said. Bloody Sunday.
Is that a fact? Michael Ryan said.
A long time ago. Lately Ive been at sea.
Belfast, but raised in London, Kathleen tells me?
My mother died in childbirth. My father went to London in search of work. Hes dead now.
Ryan had ejected the magazine from the butt of the Walther. And a good Prod. You must be because of what you did for Kathleen.
To be honest with you religion doesnt mean a thing to me, Keogh told him. But lets say I know which side Im on.
At that moment, the door was flung open and a man in a cloth cap and raincoat rushed in, a revolver in one hand.
Michael Ryan, you bastard, Ive got you now, he cried and raised the revolver.
Ryan was caught, the magazine from the Walther on the table beside it. Keogh said, What do I do, shoot him? All right. Bang, youre dead. He picked up the Browning and fired once. The man dropped the hand holding the revolver to one side. Keogh said, Blanks, Mr. Ryan, I could tell by the weight. What kind of a game are we playing here?
Ryan was laughing now. Go on, Joseph, and get yourself a drink at the bar.
The supposed gunman turned away. The old men by the fire continued their card game as if nothing had happened.
Michael Ryan stood up. Just a test, my old son, in a manner of speaking. Lets adjourn to the parlour and talk some more.
THERE WAS A fire in the grate of the small parlour, curtains drawn as rain drummed against the window. It was warm and comfortable and Ryan and Keogh sat opposite each other. The girl came in from the kitchen with a teapot, milk, and cups on a tray.
Ryan said, If youre a seaman, youll have your papers.
Of course, Keogh said.
Ryan held out his hand and Keogh shrugged, opened his reefer, and took a wallet from his inside pocket.
There you go. Ships papers, union card, the lot.
The girl poured tea and Ryan examined everything closely. Paid off the Ventura two weeks ago. Deck hand and diver. Whats all that?
The Venturas a supply ship in the North Sea oilfields. Besides general ships duties I did some diving. Not the really deep stuff. Just underwater maintenance, welding when necessary. That sort of thing.
Interesting. A man of parts. Any special skills from the Parachute Regiment?
Just how to kill people. The usual weaponry skills. A considerable knowledge of explosives. Keogh lit a cigarette. But wheres all this leading?
Ryan persisted. Can you ride a motorcycle?
Since I was sixteen, and thats a long time ago. So what?
Ryan leaned back, took out a pipe, and filled it from an old pouch. Visiting relatives, are you?
Not that I know of, Keogh said. A few cousins scattered here and there. I came back on a whim. Nostalgia, if you like. A bad idea really, but I can always go back and get another berth.
I could offer you a job, Ryan said, and the girl brought a taper from the fire to light his pipe.
What, here in Belfast?
No, in England.
Doing what?
Why, the kind of thing you did tonight. The kind of thing youre good at.
It was very quiet. Keogh was aware of the girl watching him eagerly. Do I smell politics here?
Since nineteen sixty-nine Ive worked for the Loyalist cause, Ryan said. Served six years in the Maze prison. I hate Fenians. I hate the bloody Sinn Fein, because if they win theyll drive us all out, every Protestant in the country. Ethnic cleansing to the hilt. Now if things get that bad Ill take as many of them to hell with me as I can.