“Not for me. I could throw up now.”
“Take another couple of pills,” Dillon said, and went below.
He came back half an hour later with sandwiches on a plate and found Ferguson alone.
“What happened to the boy wonder?”
“Took a couple of pills and retired to lie down. I say, those smell good.”
“Help yourself.”
Ferguson put the steering on automatic and took a bacon sandwich. Dillon splashed whiskey into two plastic cups and they ate together in a kind of companionable silence. It was getting really dark now, far earlier than normal, only a slight phosphorescence shining from the sea.
“You seem at home,” Dillon said.
“I always liked the sea, from boyhood. The West Sussex coast, down to the Isle of Wight, the Solent. Loved it.” He drank the whiskey. “I’ll have the other half.”
He helped himself to another sandwich. “That Browning with the twenty-shot magazine you’ve put in the flap there. It took me back.”
“Really?”
“Yes. In 1973, I took extended leave; I was an acting major then. Done rather well for my age. I did the Atlantic run single-handed, Portsmouth to Long Island. It had to be Long Island, because I had an old uncle living there. He was a general, too. The American connection in my family.”
“A remarkable achievement,” Dillon said.
“Therapy, Dillon, therapy.” He finished the last sandwich and took the wheel again.
“What for?”
“Well, I’d been shot in the shoulder, but it was more than that. It was psychological. Coming to terms with what I was capable of.”
Dillon poured two more whiskeys. “And what was that?”
“I was never SAS, Dillon. What you’ve never known was that I served with Code Nine Intelligence.”
He had just named one of the most infamous army units involved in the underground fight with the IRA.
“Jesus,” Dillon said.
“It was a hell of a way to earn a living in Londonderry in 1973, but there I was. Thirty years old, Oxford, Sandhurst, Malaya, Communist rebels in the Yemen, Eoka in Cyprus, and then along came Ireland. I couldn’t wait to switch from the Grenadier Guards to counterinsurgency work.”
“You wanted the smell of powder again?”
“Of war, Dillon. I’d been engaged for three years, a lovely girl called Mary. From an army family, only she could never see the point. Mind you, she hung in there until Cork Street.”
He was talking as if he was alone, taking some kind of solitary journey into the past.
“Cork Street?” Dillon said. “What was that?”
“That was where I earned the Military Cross, Dillon, one of those they handed out in Northern Ireland for unspecified reasons.”
Dillon said softly, “And what would that be, Charles?”
“Well, I was link man between two safehouses run by the SAS. One night, I was doing a run quite late. As we discovered later, my cover had been blown. Going through Cork Street down by the docks, I’d a car on my tail, then another car came out of a side and turned to block me.”
“Just a minute,” Dillon said. “July ’seventy-three, Derry – the Cork Street massacre, that’s what they called it. The SAS took out five Provos. A hell of a thing.”
“No, they didn’t.
It was only then that Dillon was aware of a slight noise, turned and found Billy, the door half open, standing there, revealed.
Ferguson glanced over his shoulder. “Come in, Billy. Yes, Dillon, the second car blocked me, and the one in the rear was right up my backside. There were three Provos in front, two at my back. They just shouted, ‘Out, out, you Brit bastard.’ It always seemed ironic, being half-Irish. It’s the posh voice, you see.”
“So what did you do?”
“I had what you’ve got in there, a Browning with a twenty-round magazine, on the left-hand seat. One man wrenched open the driver’s door, so I shot him between the eyes, then shot his two friends through the door. I was using hollowpoint cartridges. Devastating.”
“And?”
“The two men in the rear car scrambled to get out. One of them fired wildly and was lucky. Hit me in the left shoulder. I riddled the car, a kind of reflex, killed him and the driver. Then I drove away, and made it to one of the safehouses, where the SAS patched me up and got me out the following morning.”
“Jesus,” Billy said. “You killed five.”
“All gone to that great IRA heaven in the sky, Billy, and the doctors put me together again and my masters gave me the Military Cross – had to, really. The loss of five members of the Londonderry Brigade was so mortifying that the Provos put it about as another SAS atrocity, and in the mythology of Irish Republicanism, that’s where it remains.”
It was Dillon who sensed more. “So what happened afterward?”
“Oh, I got a call to pick up the medal from Her Majesty at Buckingham Palace, and I asked Mary to go with me. She’d visited me in the hospital and naturally wanted to know how I’d come to be there, so I told her.”
“And what happened?”
“She sent the engagement ring back, and a letter explaining that she couldn’t possibly marry a man who’d killed five people.”
“Well, damn her eyes,” Billy said.
“That’s one point of view. So I went to the palace on my own. A nasty, wet day it was, too. The Regiment was proud of me. Gave me leave.”
“Which you used to sail to Long Island. You thought a hard sea voyage would blow the cobwebs away?” Dillon said.
“Something like that.”
“But in the end, you were still the man who shot five men dead, right?”
“That’s right.”
“General, they asked for it and they got it,” Billy said.
“True, Billy, I did my duty and it cost me Mary.” He said to Dillon, “God knows why I bothered to tell you after all these years. I think I’m getting maudlin in my old age. Take the wheel and I’ll go and have a rest,” and he went out.
Billy said, “My God, I said he was harder than Harry, but I never dreamed he was capable of a thing like that.”
“Oh, he probably killed before in all those rotten little wars, Billy. Cork Street was his spectacular.” He lit a cigarette. “Remember what I told you before, about the people who take care of the bad things that ordinary folk find impossible to handle? The soldiers? I’m a soldier, whether people approve of me or not, and so are you, and then we get Charles Ferguson, a decent, honorable man who could have been a banker or a lawyer. Instead he’s spent his life saving his country.”
Behind them, Ferguson said from the doorway, “That’s nice of you, Dillon, but don’t let’s overdo it, and as far as the steering goes, I’d say a couple of points west.”
In Drumgoole, in the back room of the pub, Derry Gibson ate bacon and eggs served by the local publican, one Keith Adair, his right-hand man in the little port.
“Is there anything else I can get you?” Adair asked.
“No, this is grand. It’s the weather I don’t like. It’s bad out there and getting worse. I’d hoped the
“That’ll make it more difficult to unload, Derry. Mind you, plenty of local fishermen have signed up for
