The storm that had raged for most of the night had brought with it only a little rain and the grass had been virtually dry when he’d made his way out to the office that morning.
An hour ago to be precise. A painful, thought-free, tormented hour.
Finally he re-read what he’d written the day before.
Then he rested his fingers on the keys and began to type.
BELFAST, NORTHERN IRELAND, PRESENT DAY:
There were two pounds of explosive beneath the bus seat, wrapped carefully in a black plastic bin liner and secured by gaffer tape. No one but the bombers knew it was there.
Certainly none of the eighteen passengers who were crowded on to the vehicle as it moved through Belfast city centre.
Not the driver who brought the bus to a halt in North Street. He smiled courteously at every new passenger as they dropped their fare into the small metal dish. Some took the change. Others waved away the few pence he offered as if it were some kind of tip.
The driver smiled, waited until the last of the new batch was safely aboard then hit the button that shut the automatic doors.They closed with a loud hydraulic hiss and the bus pulled out into traffic once more.
As the driver swung into Royal Avenue he peered to one side to catch sight of the spire of St Anne’s Cathedral jabbing skyward at the banks of cloud that were scudding over the city.
Most of the seats were already taken. In his rear-view mirror, the driver could see a young woman struggling to puil a baby’s bottle from a bag. She offered it to her child and the boy (he assumed it was a boy as it was dressed in blue) sucked hungrily at the teat. Two middle-aged women were chatting animatedly, sometimes glancing back at the feeding child and murmuring happily to it while its mother ran a hand through her tousled hair and tried to stop her shopping bags from tumbling over as the bus rounded a corner.
There was another stop further ahead and two passengers rose, preparing to alight there. The driver could see more than a dozen people waiting to take their places.
He swung the bus in close behind a Datsun that was waiting in the bus lane, hazard lights blinking. He hit his hooter twice and the Datsun moved off.
The bus doors opened to expel the two passengers and welcome the newcomers. As they filed on, the driver looked at his watch. Shift nearly over, thank God.
The beginnings of a headache were gnawing at the base of his skull. He was sure his wife was right and he needed glasses. A combination of that and the concentration needed to guide a bus through Belfast’s busy centre usually left him needing to swallow a couple of Nurofen by the end of the day. Perhaps once he got his glasses he wouldn’t have that trouble. His appointment with the optician was at nine the following morning. Or was it nine- thirty? He’d check when he got home.
He was about to close the doors when three young children came hurtling towards the bus shouting and
gesturing. They were all wearing grey uniforms with ties askew and buttons undone. Pulled off in one case, he noticed. No more than eleven or twelve years old.
They hurried aboard and dumped their money in the tray. The last of them broke wind as he passed and looked apologetically at the driver who merely waved him away. A chorus of chuckles greeted the boy.
They made their way noisily towards the back, past the young woman feeding her baby. Past the middle-aged women still chatting loudly. Past an old man counting coins in the palm of his hand.
The boys sat down and one reached into his satchel for a bag of pick ‘n’ mix.
They started chattering, their voices mingling with those of the other passengers.
The driver swung the vehicle into Castle Street, narrowly avoiding a cyclist.
Who in their right mind rode a bloody bike in a city centre? The driver shook his head.
Four seconds later the bomb exploded.
In places blood had sprayed several feet across the road and pavement. It radiated from the gutted remains of the bus, its coppery odour mingling with the stink of petrol, burnt rubber, incinerated metal and, worst of all, the sickly sweet stench of seared flesh.
As well as the remains of the bus chassis, shattered glass from the vehicle and also from nearby shops was spread all over the thoroughfare like crystal confetti. Twisted metal hurled in all directions by the murderous blast was also strewn over a wide area.
Cars caught in the explosion stood abandoned.Those closest were almost as pulverised as the bus itself. Windscreens, smashed by the massive concussion blast, looked as if they’d been staved in by an invisible hammer. A wheel lay in the road. Close by was a scorched air freshener in the shape of a pine tree, and the head of a ‘Kenny from South Park’ figure, ripped from the foam-filled body by the force of the detonation.
Each one of these pieces of debris had blue-and-white or yellow tape around them. A larger piece of tape had been tied around the entire twenty-yard radius of the bomb-blasted bus. It bore the legend: POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS.
Uniformed RUC men moved back and forth, some charged merely with keeping ever-curious passers-by from stopping too long to gaze at the scene of carnage.
For every man dressed in the familiar blue serge uniform of the local constabulary, there were plain clothes officers, bomb-squad members and forensics men. The full complement of experts needed in the aftermath of such an event and God alone knew their expertise had been needed often enough in the city during the past thirty years.
Several police cars, their blue lights turning silently, were parked at both ends of the street. Further barriers to those who could bear to peer at the devastation.
All of the dead and injured had been ferried away by a fleet of ambulances more than two hours ago. Those that remained within the cordoned-off area had a purpose.
All those outside looked on with a mixture of revulsion and relief.
There but for the grace of God …
Sean Doyie brought the Orion to a halt close to one of the RUC cars and swung himself out. He dug a hand into the pocket of his leather jacket and retrieved a packet of Rothmans, glancing around as he lit a cigarette, shielding the flame of the Zippo with his hand. He sucked on the cigarette then walked purposefully towards the blue-and-white tape, his long, brown hair blowing in the breeze that had sprung up in the last half hour.
Doyle ducked under the tape and looked impassively at the remains of the bus.
There was a huge hole in one side of the chassis and most of the roof was missing. What remained was blackened and twisted. He stepped over the remnants of a double seat as he advanced through the maelstrom of activity.
‘Hey.’
He heard the voice but didn’t stop walking. Heavy footsteps behind him.
‘You’re not allowed in here,’ said the same voice close to his ear.
He turned and saw a tall RUC constable looming before him.
Doyle sucked on his cigarette and slipped one hand into the pocket of his jeans. He pulled out a slim leather wallet and flipped it open allowing the policeman to see the ID.
‘All right?’ said Doyle flatly. He held the man’s gaze.
The tall man nodded and watched as the leather-jacketed newcomer made his way among the dozens of personnel, occasionally stopping to speak with one of them or examining a piece of wreckage.
Doyle stopped beside a particular piece of twisted metal and ran an index finger over it. He sniffed at the digit. The oily residue smelt of marzipan.
‘Semtex,’ he said to a suited man with round glasses who had joined him.
‘About three pounds of it,’ the man told him, removing his glasses and cleaning the lenses on his tie.
‘Remote control or timer?’
The man looked vague.
‘How did they detonate the fucking thing?’ Doyle snapped.
‘Remote control as far as we can tell. There wasn’t much to go on as you can
see.’
Doyle took a drag on his Rothmans.
