Lynch grinned. ‘The exercise will do them good,’ he said.
‘Didn’t you tell them to bring gloves? They’ll have blisters the size of golfballs by the time they’ve finished.’
‘Slipped my mind,’ said Lynch. He sat down on the bumper of O’Riordan’s Landrover and groaned. ‘God, I hate mornings,’ he said.
Davie walked over, his spade over his shoulder. ‘Okay?’ he asked cheerfully.
O’Riordan stood with his back to the tree and counted off twenty paces. He raked his heel through the damp earth. ‘Here there be treasure, me hearties,’ he growled.
‘How deep is it?’ asked Paulie as he joined his brother.
‘Six feet. Maybe a bit more. Put your backs into it, boys. We haven’t got all day.’
As the brothers began to dig, O’Riordan went back to Lynch. Lynch looked at his wristwatch again.
‘We’ll be okay,’ said O’Riordan. ‘Half an hour, then fifteen minutes to load up, fifteen minutes to refill the hole. We’ll be away in an hour.’
‘I just don’t like being exposed, that’s all.’ He squinted up at the reddening sky. Birds were already starting to greet the approaching dawn.
O’Riordan leant his assault rifle against the vehicle and ducked his head through the driver’s side window. He took out a Thermos flask. ‘Coffee?’
Lynch nodded and O’Riordan poured steaming black coffee into two plastic mugs. Paulie Quinn looked over at them but O’Riordan nodded at the hole. ‘Keep digging, son.’
Mike Cramer lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He was thinking about death. His own death. Cramer wasn’t scared of dying. The act was usually less painful and stressful than what led up to it. Death could often be a welcome release, an escape from pain, a way out. His right hand stroked the raised scar across his stomach as he remembered how he’d been so sure that he was dying as he lay on the floor of the Lynx helicopter, his trousers soaked with blood, his entrails in his hands.
It had taken maybe twenty minutes for the chopper to reach the hospital in Belfast and he’d been conscious for every second. Two troopers had tried to stem the bleeding but they hadn’t known what to do about his guts, other than to cover the wound with a field dressing. There had been surprisingly little pain, and that had been why Cramer was so sure that he was dying.
He closed his eyes and shuddered as he remembered how Mick Newmarch had died. Death for Mick hadn’t been easy, but then Mary Hennessy hadn’t intended it to be. She’d used bolt-cutters on his fingers and a red-hot poker to cauterise the wounds so that he wouldn’t bleed to death. She’d tortured him for hours like a cat toying with a mouse, then she’d castrated him and watched him bleed to death. It had been Cramer’s turn then, his turn to be tied to the kitchen table in the isolated farmhouse, to be interrogated while armed IRA men stood outside. He remembered how she’d scowled as she’d heard the men shout that they had to go, that the SAS were on their way, and he remembered the way she’d smiled as she’d shown him the knife, letting it glint under the fluorescent lights before stabbing him in the stomach and cutting him wide open. ‘Die, you bastard,’ she’d whispered as the blood had flowed, then she’d left without a backward look. But Cramer hadn’t died. The troopers had bundled him into the chopper and sat with him, urging him to stay conscious as they flew to the city, then the doctors had put him back together again, patched him up as best they could. Six months later he’d left the regiment. A booze-up in the Paludrine Club — the SAS bar at the Stirling Lines barracks in Hereford — a couple of paragraphs in
No, death held no fear for Mike Cramer. Not any more. He’d stared death in the face and he had been prepared to embrace it with open arms. Now it was only the manner of his death that concerned him. And the Colonel had given him a way, a way to die with honour. In battle.
Seth Reed popped the last piece of black pudding in his mouth and chewed with relish. Reed’s nine-year-old son, Mark, screwed up his face. ‘Dad, how can you? That’s pig’s blood you’re eating!’
Reed sat back in his chair and patted his ample stomach. ‘Yup. And it was dee-licious.’
‘Yuck.’ The boy was still halfway through eating his breakfast, and Reed pointed at the rasher of bacon and half a sausage that remained on his plate.
‘What do you think that is?’ he asked.
‘Bacon.’
‘Pig. That’s what it is.’
‘Yeah, but it’s not pig’s blood.’
Kimberlee Reed’s spoonful of cereal came to a sudden halt on its way to her mouth as she glared at her husband and son. ‘Guys, can we please give it a rest?’
‘He started it,’ said Reed, pointing at Mark.
‘Did not.’
‘Did too.’
Kimberlee sighed and shook her head. ‘You two are impossible. I don’t know which of you is worse.’
Reed and his son pointed at each other. ‘He is,’ they said in unison.
The landlady, a tall, stick-thin woman with her greying hair tied back in a tight bun, appeared in the doorway, a pot of coffee in her hands. ‘Is everything all right?’ she asked.
‘Perfect, Mrs McGregor,’ said Kimberlee.
‘More coffee?’
Kimberlee flashed her little girl smile. ‘Do you have any decaff?’ she asked.
Mrs McGregor shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not, dear. What about a nice cup of tea?’
‘Decaffeinated tea?’
Mrs McGregor shook her head again as she refilled Reed’s cup. ‘We don’t get much call for it, I’m afraid.’
‘That’s okay. Orange juice will be fine.’
Mrs McGregor refilled the coffee cups of the family sitting at the next table and bustled out of the dining room.
‘Are we ready to go?’ asked Kimberlee.
Reed drained his cup and smacked his lips. His son finished his orange juice and mimicked his father’s actions. ‘Sure,’ said Reed. ‘Why don’t you get the check while I get the bags?’
There was a bellpush in the entrance hall and Kimberlee pressed it while her husband went upstairs. Mrs McGregor came out of the kitchen, drying her hands. Kimberlee gave her the money for the night’s bed and breakfast and the notes disappeared underneath Mrs McGregor’s apron like a rabbit bolting into its burrow. ‘So where are you going to next, dear?’ she asked.
‘Waterford, in the south,’ said Kimberlee. ‘We’re going to look around the crystal factory. I want to buy some champagne glasses.’
‘That’ll be nice, you make sure you drive carefully now.’
‘Oh, Seth’ll be driving, Mrs McGregor. We couldn’t get an automatic and I can’t handle a stick shift. Not with my left hand.’
Reed struggled back down the stairs, a suitcase in either hand and a travel bag hanging on one shoulder. Kimberlee looked at him anxiously. He’d had a minor heart attack the previous year, and while the hospital had given him the all-clear she still worried whenever he exerted himself. The high-cholesterol fried breakfast wouldn’t have helped his arteries, either, and he was drinking too much coffee. She reached out to take one of the suitcases, but he shook his head. ‘Honey, I can manage.’
The family said goodbye to the landlady and then Kimberlee and Mark followed Reed down the path to their parked car. He loaded the cases into the boot and five minutes later they were on the A29, heading south. It was an almost 160 mile drive to Waterford but they were in no rush and Reed decided to drive on the back roads so that they could enjoy the lush countryside, a far cry from their home in Phoenix, Arizona.
They’d been driving for less than half an hour when Mark announced that he wanted to use the bathroom.
‘A bathroom?’ said Kimberlee, looking over her shoulder. ‘This is Ireland, honey, not the Interstate. There are no pitstops here.’
