Читать книгу Once A Pilgrim - James Deegan - Страница 25

13.

THE IRA HIT TEAM found a space in the row behind the Allegro, about six cars along to the right of the driver’s side and sitting between two other cars so that they would be shielded from Billy Jones’s view as he walked to the car.

The car park was poorly-illuminated, and the route to his vehicle kept him away from theirs, so there was no chance of him seeing them and spooking.

It was perfect, near-as.

Sick Sean Casey killed the engine and the lights, but left the key in the ignition. He rubbed his head – it was itchy under the hot, rolled-up balaclava – and took the pistol from his waistband. He hid it under his right leg, where he could get at it quick if needs be.

In the rear, Ciaran O’Brien absently patted the AK, which was lying on the seat next to him under a dark towel.

Gerard held the Webley up, staring at it in the low, orange light from the nearest lamp.

‘Put that fucking thing down, Gerard,’ hissed Sean.

If a chance RUC patrol or – God forbid – an undercover SAS team rolled into the carpark, just as Gerard was waving his frigging gun around like he’d just won it at the fair, the last thing the three of them would see was muzzle flash. Those fuckers were out there every day and every night, and if they saw a pistol in your hand it was game over.

No warning, no surrendering.

No second chances.

Murdering bastards. He looked out of the window and sighed. Be glad when this is fucking done.

Gerard slipped the revolver under his right leg like he’d seen his brother do and sat there, fingers rat-a-tat-tat drumming on his thighs.

Ten or fifteen minutes, and they would be moving.

This was the vulnerable time, the sitting and the waiting.

He leaned forward and clicked the radio on – quietly, quietly.

Some old song he didn’t know.

Something about fear, and guilt, and a fire.

He grimaced and clicked it off again.

‘Hey, leave it on,’ said O’Brien, leaning forward. ‘That’s Funeral Pyre. It’s a fucking good song. The Jam, was it? I remember when it come out.’

He whistled a bar or two of the tune.

Gerard Casey switched the radio back on, and said nothing.

Twenty years old, and about to make his name…

O’Brien grinned.

To be fair, he thought, he’d probably been like that the first time himself.

Actually, no, I fucking wasn’t. But my first really was a piece of piss. That fucking tout, strapped to the chair in that barn, crying and begging. With my old man watching.

It was eight or nine years ago now, but he remembered it well: the cold steel of the pistol in his hand, the muzzle to the guy’s elbows, then his knees, then his ankles.

Finally his temple.

Once the order was given, O’Brien had been careful to show no weakness, and no hesitation, even though he knew the guy, and his sons.

All the time, his da’ watching, expressionless: he could never have shown the old bastard up.

He leaned forward and squeezed Gerard’s shoulder.

‘You’ll be alright, Gerry,’ he said. ‘We’ll be in The Volunteer tonight and I reckon that Roslyn McCabe’ll have her knickers at her ankles for you, once she knows.’

Gerard looked over his shoulder and tried to smile. ‘You reckon?’ he said.

‘Definitely,’ said Sean. ‘Sure, I’ve fucked her sister, and the young one’s no better. Tiocfaidh ár lá, son. Now keep your eyes on that car.’