three companions he had yet to serve a prison sentence. Some thought he was just lucky. Kane put it down to his intelligence and organisational abilities. Things that made him valuable in his chosen field.
He watched as Best took and missed his shot.
‘Five more of those Fenian bastards are released at the end of the week,’ Best hissed. ‘And they expect us to accept it?’
‘What choice have we got?’ The question came from a chair pulled close to the pool table. Jeffrey Kelly picked at fingernails already bitten to the quick and waited for an answer.
‘We might not have a choice but nobody says we have to fucking like it,’ Best replied.
‘Which prison are they being released from?’ George Mcswain wanted to know, rolling himself a stiletto-thin cigarette.
‘Maghaberry,’ Kane said quietly, potting a ball. He walked around the table and chalked the end of his cue.
‘Look, I don’t agree with it any more than the rest of you,’ Kelly said. ‘But if it brings peace then what the hell.’
‘You think the fucking IRA will stop just because their men are being released from prison?’ Best snapped. ‘All the British government is doing is giving them back their best fucking soldiers.’
‘I agree, look what they did to that bus earlier in the week,’ Mcswain noted.
That wasn’t the Provos,’ Kelly offered. That was the Real IRA.’
‘What fucking difference does it make?’ snarled Best. ‘People were killed. Our people.’
‘Whose side are you on anyway?’ Mcswain wanted to know.
Kelly glared at him and got to his feet. ‘Fuck you,’ he roared, his gaze fixed on Mcswain.
The man seated at the bar turned and glanced briefly in the direction of the raised voices.
The barman also looked across as he dried glasses.
They won’t stop,’ Kane mused, lining up another shot and sinking the ball.
The ceasefire, giving up their weapons. It’s all bollocks. You all know that,’
snapped Best. The only ones who can’t see it are the fucking politicians.’
The other men nodded in agreement.
‘Well, I’m not giving in to a bunch of fucking Fenians,’ Best continued.
‘Quite right, Ivor,’ Kane murmured, surveying the remaining pool balls contemplatively.‘What do you think we should do?’
Best could only shrug. ‘What can we do, Danny?’ he wanted to know.
Kane drew back the cue and prepared to take his shot. ‘We can hit back at the IRA the only way they understand,’ he said.
He struck the white ball with incredible power. When it slammed into a red, the noise was like a gunshot.
Kane stood up slowly and looked at his companions one by one. Something unspoken passed between them.
Kane smiled malevolently.
LONDON:
Doyle could barely open his eyes. He groaned and attempted to sit up.
‘Fuck,’ he croaked, his throat feeling as if it had been rubbed with sandpaper.
It felt as if someone was trying to batter their way out of his skull using a pickaxe, and for fleeting seconds he had absolutely no idea where he was. But he didn’t really care.
Only gradually did he realise that he was home. Somehow (Christ alone knew how) he’d made his way back to his flat the previous evening (afternoon, evening, night?) and obviously blacked out in the chair.
There was a bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the floor close to him; some of it had dripped out on to the carpet.
What a waste.
Again he tried to open his eyes, this time to slightly better effect.
The thunderous headache intensified as he got to his feet and blundered towards the kitchen. Only then did he realise he was still wearing his leather jacket and boots.
Must have crashed out straightaway.
Doyle tugged off the jacket and dropped it on to the floor then he stumbled into the kitchen and spun the cold tap. As the water gushed into the sink he cupped handfuls of it and splashed his face. It helped a little but he knew what he had to do to help clear this fucking hangover.
He walked to the bathroom and turned on the shower. Then he undressed quickly, catching a glimpse in the mirror of his heavily scarred back as he pulled off his T-shirt.
Doyle sucked in a deep breath and stepped beneath the cold water, ‘Fuck,’ he hissed, allowing the water to strike every part of his body. His healing wounds stung under the powerful jet. He stood beneath the shower head and tilted his face upwards. Water soaked his long hair and it hung down like a nest of comatose snakes. For interminable minutes he stood beneath the spray, gradually becoming accustomed to the cold water. Eyes still closed he leant forward, his forehead resting against the tiles.
He had no idea how long he stood under the shower. His muscles were numb by the time he finally stepped from beneath the spray and reached for a towel. He found two Nurofen in the bathroom cabinet and swallowed them dry as he wiped himself.
Doyle wrapped a towel around his waist and padded back into the kitchen where he filled the kettle and spooned Nescafe into a mug while he waited for the water to boil.
In the street outside a car hooter blared loudly.The sound seemed to penetrate his very soul. He wondered how the hell he’d driven home. If, indeed, he had. He had been drunk before, many times, but he couldn’t remember ever having been so completely wrecked.
Supposedly one drink destroyed a thousand brain cells. If that was the case he’d done some real damage last night.
Doyle poured water on to the coffee and stirred it, sipping at the black fluid, ignoring the fact that it was so hot it burnt his lips and tongue.
Better get dressed.
Why?
He drank more of his coffee.
It’s not as if you’ve got anywhere to go, is it?
Doyle carried his mug into the living room and set it down next to the television. He switched the set on and flicked channels.
Kids’ programmes. Some chat show.A quiz. He found the news.
The usual shit.
Train delays. Problems on the roads. A famine somewhere. A couple of murders.
Doyle switched it off and sat in the silence.
HMP MAGHABERRY, NORTHERN IRELAND:
The early morning wind was cold and Vincent Leary shivered slightly as he stepped into the breeze.
The T-shirt he wore beneath his denim jacket offered little protection against the chill but he was more than happy to suffer the minor discomfort. It wouldn’t have bothered him if there’d been six feet of snow. He was free again and that was all that mattered.
As he and the four others released with him made their way slowly towards the main gates of the prison, Leary glanced back at the place he had been forced to call home for the past three years. He’d spent his first night in a cell two days after his twenty-seventh birthday.
Maghaberry prison was unusual because it held both male and female inmates.
The latter were housed in Mourne House, well away from the men who were incarcerated in four two-storey cell blocks bearing the names Bann, Erne, Lagan and Foyle. Each block contained one hundred and eight cells.
Leary had learnt that around four hundred and fifty men were currently serving or awaiting sentence inside
