I had never felt so sad.
I made myself concentrate again. There was no room for distractions. She might be dead soon anyway. I felt enough of a shit for getting her to do my dirty work; while I was at it, I might as well make sure she did the job properly.
'That's good, so you know how to turn on the gas in the oven, and all the rings on the hob?'
'I told you, I can help cook.'
A coach load of teenage kids returning from a school trip was streaming into the Burger King. A gang of six or seven of them hung back and headed for the phones, laughing and shouting in newly broken voices, all trying to cram into the one vacant booth. The noise was horrendous; I couldn't hear a thing Kelly was saying. I had to do something.
'Kelly, just wait a minute.'
I put my hand over the mouthpiece, leaned out of the booth, and shouted, 'You shut the fuck up! I've got my aunty here, her husband's just died and I'm trying to talk to her, OK? Give us some time!'
The kids went quiet, their cheeks red. They slunk off to join their friends, sniggering with mock bravado to disguise their embarrassment.
I got back on the phone.
'Kelly, this is very important. The phone might stop soon because the battery is running out. I want you to turn on all the gas jets on the stove. Take the phone with you so I can hear the gas. Go there now while I talk to you' I heard the hiss of the bottled propane that Euan used.
'It's very stinky, Nick.'
'That's good. Now, just walk out of the kitchen and close the door. But be very quiet in the foyer. Remember, we don't want to wake Euan. Don't talk to me anymore, just listen.
Ready?'
'OK.'
I heard the door close.
'Nick?'
I tried to keep calm.
'Yes, Kelly?'
'Can I get Jenny and Ricky to take with me, please?'
I tried hard to keep myself in check.
'No, Kelly, there is no time! Just listen to me. There isn't time for you to talk. I want you to count up to three hundred in your head. Then I want you to take a really, really deep breath and walk back into the kitchen. Don't run. You must walk. Go into the kitchen and pour all the antifreeze in the blue bottle into the green can.
Then I want you to walk out of the kitchen don't run! I don't want you to wake Euan.'
If she tripped up and hurt herself, she could get engulfed by what was about to happen.
'Walk out very slowly, close the door behind you, then go out of the house and close the front door, really, really gently.
Do not go back for Jenny or Ricky.'
'But I want them please. Nick?'
I ignored her.
'Then I want you to run as fast as you can up to the trees and hide. When you're running you will hear a big bang and there will be a fire. Don't stop and don't look back.
And don't come out until I get there, no matter what happens.
I promise I will be there soon.'
It was at times like this that I was pleased I'd done all the laborious, rote learning of mixtures and formulas for making incendiaries. At the time, many years ago, it had been mind-bogglingly boring, but it had to be done because you can't take a notebook on the job with you. I learned, by heart, how to make bombs from everyday ingredients and how to make improvised electrical devices. As clearly as even atheists remember the Lord's Prayer from the time it was drummed into them at school, I remembered the formulas and step-by-step instructions for making everything from a simple incendiary like the one I was using to try to kill Euan--Mixture Number 5--to a bomb that I could initiate by using a pager from the other side of the world.
The phone started bleeping urgently, and then it just went dead. I visualized the glycerine in the antifreeze working on the mixture. In forty or fifty seconds it would ignite. If it was damp, maybe a little longer.
Kelly had less than a minute to get out of the house; the instant the gas was ignited there was going to be a massive explosion and then a fire. Hopefully, it would take Euan down, but would it take her with it?
Please, please, please don't go after those fucking teddy bears!
I ran back to the car and started driving west. First light was just trying to fight its way through the clouds. It was the worst journey of my life.
I saw a sign saying it was seventy miles to Wales. I raced along at warp speed for what I guessed was thirty miles, then another sign told me that Wales was sixty miles away. I felt as if I were running on a treadmill to nowhere and the treadmill was waist-deep in water.
My body had calmed down from all the excitement and was telling me I was hurt. My neck was in agony. The flow of blood had stopped, but the eye Simmonds had gouged was starting to swell up and affect my vision.
Euan, the fucker. The friend I had trusted for years. It was almost too painful to think about. I felt numb. I felt bereaved.
In time, maybe that numbness would turn to anger or grief or some other thing, but not yet. In my mind's eye all I could see was the look on Kelly's face as the train left the station and the smile on Euan's.
Where did I go from here? No fucker was going to move against me because they'd know that I still had the files. If the plan worked, Euan's package would sit in the post office now that there was no one to deliver it to. The killing of Simmonds would be covered up, no matter what. If some zealous policeman started getting too close to the truth, he'd be removed.
It all made sense to me, now, that every time peace talks began, PIRA, or someone claiming to be PIRA, had dropped a soldier or a policeman or bombed the mainland UK. And why? Because it was good business to keep the Troubles alive.
There were plenty on our side who profited from conflicts such as Northern Ireland and didn't want them to end. The Royal Ulster Constabulary is probably the highest-paid police force in Europe, if not the world. If you're its chief constable, it's your duty to say that you want an end to the war, but the reality is that you've got a massive police force under your command and limitless amounts of resources and power.
The British army doesn't want it to stop, either. The province is a fantastic testing ground for equipment and training ground for troops and, as with the RUC, it means the army gets a bigger slice of the cake. Every year the army has to justify its budget, and it's up against the navy, which is asking for more funds for Trident submarines, and the air force, which is banging on about needing to buy the Eurofighter 2000.
With Northern Ireland on the agenda, the army can talk about a 'now' commitment, an operational imperative and no body's going to argue against the need for funds to fight terrorism.
British industry stood to lose substantially from a cease fire, too. Major defense manufacturers design equipment specifically for internal security and make fortunes out of the operational conditions. Equipment that was battle-proven in Northern Ireland was eagerly sought after by foreign buyers.
No wonder the conflict had made Britain one of the top three arms exporters in the world, with beneficial effects on the UK balance of payments.
I knew now why McCann, Farrell, and Savage had had to die. Enniskillen. The backlash against PIRA. People signing books of condolence. Irish Americans stopping their donations. Dialogue and reconciliation must have looked a real prospect. Simmonds and his mates couldn't have that. They had to create martyrs to keep the pot boiling.
Me? I was probably just a very small glitch in a well-oiled machine. Come to that. Northern Ireland was probably only one item among many in their company accounts. For all I knew, these guys also provoked killings and riots in Hebron, stirred up Croats against Serbs, and even got Kennedy killed because he wanted to stop the Vietnam War. As Simmonds had said, it was business. There was nothing I could do to stop them. But I wasn't worried about that. What was the point?
The only thing I had achieved--perhaps--was revenge for Kev's and Pat's deaths. That would have to be
