Nothing came. No words flowed.
At 1.16 p.m. he gave up and retreated inside the house. There were two
messages on the answerphone but he didn’t bother to listen to them. Instead he made his way into the sitting room and poured himself a large measure of Glenfiddich. Then another.
He wanted to get drunk. Wanted to fall asleep but it seemed no matter how hard he tried, he could not drink himself into the oblivion he sought so badly.
His mind was spinning. Events of the past few weeks. What was going on in his life?
He smiled wanly.‘Your life,’ he told himself,‘is collapsing around your fucking ears. And so is your sanity.’ He laughed humourlessly.
He didn’t want to be in the house surrounded by his thoughts. He knew he needed to escape, albeit fleetingly.
He wandered out into the hall and scooped his car keys out of the small dish beside the front door. It took him fifteen minutes to drive to the cinema. All the way
over, the cassette-player blasted loudly and Ward sang along occasionally, joining in the words that ripped from the speakers.
He parked and sat motionless behind the wheel for a moment.
‘When you get home, your novel might be finished,’ he said to himself. He laughed loudly. A little too loudly. There was desperation in the sound, not joy.
A WELCOME DARKNESS
Ward stood looking at the electronic board that carried the titles and times of the films showing at the multiplex. The newest comedy from the Farrelly Brothers, an adaptation of a bestselling novel (there was always one of those), some mindless Steven Seagal action picture.
Not much choice and he’d seen most of them already.
Then he noticed with delight that there was a special one-day presentation of La Reine Margot. He’d seen it before, he owned it on video, but it was a welcome alternative to the other dross on display.
The girl behind the cash-desk window eyed him warily as she gave him his ticket.
‘You know where to go by now, don’t you?’ she said, attempting a joke.
Ward smiled and nodded.
There were few people at the cinema. One of the advantages of being able to attend in the afternoons.
He found the screen he wanted and selected his seat. Two other people came in before the picture began but, thankfully, they sat at the back of the auditorium.
The darkness closed around Ward as the film began. And he welcomed it.
PRODUCTIVITY
It had happened again. Ward didn’t count the pages. He didn’t know whether to feel gratitude or bewilderment at what had happened. He merely glanced at the desk and its contents.
It was almost 5.30 p.m.
Mel was the first to hear the noise. She assumed it was just the beams of the house settling. Expanding with the constant downpour of rain. Nevertheless she stood motionless on the landing of the safe house and looked up.
The white ceiling was discoloured in places, the paintwork peeling. Especially around the entrance to the attic. There was a single rusty ring in the hatch.
A small pole with a metal hook could be used to pull it open. Doyle had clambered up there when they’d first arrived, and according to him all that was up there was some battered furniture, cardboard boxes full of old magazines and Betamax video tapes and a water tank. All covered by a layer of dust.
Mel wondered if the water tank was responsible for the noise. She stood still a moment longer then walked slowly towards the window at the end of the narrow landing.
Cupping her eyes to her face she peered out into the night. She could barely see ten yards in the gloom. The rain that had been hammering down for most of the day and night did little to help visibility. She knew that Joe Hendry was
somewhere out there. Doubtless
complaining about the weather and wondering how long it would take him to dry off in front of the two-bar electric fire that provided most of the heat inside the house.
Doyle too was wandering around in the gloom. He’d already made two treks around the building, on one occasion walking as far as the end of the dirt track that connected to the road beyond. Mel had accompanied him, watching as he scrutinised every single inch of hedgerow, checking for anywhere that might provide cover.
The house possessed three security lights on its battered walls but none of them were switched on.
Mel heard the sound again.This time she was certain that it came from above her.
She slid a hand to the butt of her pistol and pulled it gently from the polished leather. Again she stood motionless, ears alert.
The noise was definitely coming from the attic.
Mice?
‘Mel.’
The sound of her name startled her but she didn’t move, merely held up a hand to silence the source of the voice.
She beckoned Doyle up the stairs then raised one index finger as a sign for him to remain quiet.
The counter terrorist moved swiftly to join her.
Mel tapped her ear then pointed at the peeling paintwork above them.
Doyle looked at her quizzically.
She mouthed the words, ‘Something moving.’
Doyle pulled the 9mm automatic from its shoulder holster and nodded, his own gaze now fixed on the ceiling.
‘Everything all right,’ he called, raising his voice slightly.
‘Fine,’ she answered, also increasing the volume of her response.
From above there was another creak. Louder this time. It was a foot or so in front of him.
He raised the Beretta, following the sound with the barrel.
Another creak.
Mel also raised her pistol and trained it at the noise.
A louder creak.
Doyle opened fire. Six shots drilled into the ceiling blasting pieces of plaster and timber in all directions. Empty shell cases spun from the Beretta and landed with a metallic clink on the wooden floor next to the counter terrorist.
He waited a moment, the thunderous retorts still ringing in his ears, the smell of cordite stinging his nose.
Blood began dripping slowly through two of the holes. It puddled on the landing.
Doyle reached for the hooked pole and tugged at the rusty ring in the attic hatch. The body fell with a loud thump and lay before him.
The counter terrorist lowered his pistol and trained it on the corpse. There was a Browning Hi-power gripped in one fist.
One of Doyle’s bullets had hit the man in the thigh. Another in the stomach. A third in the neck just below the left earlobe.
‘How the hell did he get in?’ Mel wanted to know.
Doyle didn’t answer.
‘How did he know we were here?’ Mel persisted. ‘The only people who knew our location were the RUC
Doyle knelt beside the body and rifled through the dead man’s pockets, finally pulling out a wallet which he flipped open.
‘Call Cl Robinson,’ he said, his face set in hard lines. ‘I want that bastard here now.’
Doyle stood beside the body, watching as Chief Inspector Peter Robinson took in the scene. ‘Daniel Kane,’ he said, tossing the wallet at the RUC man. ‘Name
ring a bell?’
