Long Keshfor possession of firearms. Now, just three days away from his fortieth birthday, he still had the lean and hungry look of a fighting man which not even the flecks of grey in his beard could diminish.
His companions were younger, both members of the coiste seasta, a standing committee which ratified major Sinn Fein decisions.
Liam Black was a tall, powerfully built man with thick brown hair.
Eamonn Brady was thinner. Pale and narrow-featured with sad eyes.
'Are you sure it is over?' Brady asked, pulling agitatedly at the corner of his napkin. 'If the Prods have anything to do with it…' He let the sentence trail off.
'It's just a matter of time now,' Macarthy told the younger man. 'Tying up loose ends. We'll see a united Ireland before the beginning of the next century.'
The waiter returned with the brandies and set down the crystal balloons before disappearing once again.
Black warmed the liquor in the glass, cupping one large hand around the base.
'That was all I ever wanted for my kids,' Macarthy continued. 'That was what I fought for when I was a soldier, what I campaigned for when I got out of the Maze.' He took a sip of his brandy, brushing his lips with his thumb and forefinger as he replaced the glass.
'How are the kids?' Brady asked.
'They're grand,' Macarthy said, wistfully. 'My daughter started school three weeks ago and my son's just been picked to play for his school's hurling team.'
'He must get his athletic prowess from his mother then,' Black chuckled.
'You cheeky bugger,' said Macarthy, patting his stomach. 'Look at that, still flat as a washboard. Pure muscle.'
'Pure bullshit,' Brady retorted.
Macarthy raised his glass and sipped once more at the brandy.
The blast was deafening.
A thundercrack which seemed to reverberate not just around the dining room but also over the lake, echoing away like wiling thunder.
The window behind Macarthy shattered, the first bullet striking him in the back of the head, at the base of the skull.
It exploded from his mouth, blasting two teeth free, smashing the brandy glass.
A thick gout of blood spouted from the wound, tiny pieces of pulverised bone spinning through the air like bloodied confetti.
The impact drove him forward, slamming his shattered face into the table which immediately upended, sending more glasses flying into the air.
Three more shots followed in rapid succession.
One caught Black in the chest, staving in his sternum before exploding from his back just below his shoulder blade. He remained motionless for what seemed like an eternity then dropped to his knees, hands clapped to his chest as if trying to hold in the blood.
Brady threw himself down as two more bullets sent glass flying into the dining room. He looked across at Black who was on his knees, head bowed as if in prayer, blood pouring down his chest and stomach.
Macarthy lay face down a foot or so from him, eyes open.
Brady felt his stomach somersault as he looked at the back of his companion's head.
Where the bullet had entered there was something thick, swollen and pinkish-white bulging from the hole.
He realised it was brain.
Brady vomited.
Outside, the thunderous echo of the firing died away on the cold air.
The sound of an engine drifted across the lake as a car sped away into the enveloping gloom.
7.10 A.M.
The noise from the Datsun's heater was irritating him.
It needed fixing.
The constant rattling pissed him off.
The weather pissed him off.
Being stuck in the car at this time in the morning pissed him off.
There wasn't much that didn't piss him off if he was honest.
Sean Doyle leaned forward and pushed a cassette into the car stereo, twisting the volume knob. Music filled the car, loud and threatening.
'Almost called it today…'
Doyle slid down in his seat, one foot propped against the dashboard. He flicked some mud from the side of one cowboy boot trying to remember how long ago it had been since he'd cleaned the boots.
'Turned my face to the void, along with the suffering…'
The trail of people passing by on either side of the road, heading for work, or wherever, was still little more than a trickle. It wouldn't become a stream for another hour or so. Some looked in at him, others seemed more intent on trying to walk down London Road while glancing back over their shoulders in the direction of number ten.
From where he sat, Doyle had a clear view of the house.
‘And the question, why ami?…'
It was a simple red-brick dwelling with a white porch and white-framed windows. There were no lights on inside. The sodium glare of street lights reflected in the glass like a candle flame in blind eyes.
Doyle flipped open the glove compartment, pulled out a packet of hard-boiled sweets and popped one into his mouth.
There were more cassettes in there, tape cases, a crushed box which had once held a McDonald's fruit pie, a few balled-up pieces of paper with scribbles on them.
And a box of 9mm shells.
Just the usual shit.
'So many times I've tried and failed, to gather my courage, reach again for that nail…'
Doyle reached for the box of ammo and slid it open. He reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a spare magazine for the Beretta. Slowly, he began to feed shells into it.
'Life's been like dragging feet through sand, and never finding a Promised Land…'
Each of the bullets was hollow-tipped.
Doyle also wore a holster around his left ankle, hidden by his jeans and boot. In it nestled a. 45 PD Star. The pistol was less than four inches long but Doyle had its six-shot magazine loaded with hollow tips too.
It would take the back of a man's head off from twenty yards.
He knew it would because he'd seen it do just such a job.
How many times?
A dozen? Two dozen?
He'd lost count.
Who fucking cared?
Doyle certainly didn't and if he didn't, it was for sure no other bastard was going to.
He had no idea how many men he'd killed over the years. With guns, with knives. With his bare hands. He knew some of their names, others were just faces.
He'd been close enough to some of them to smell them, to look in their eyes. To see that combination of fear and pain.
Pain.
The constant companion.
