Seventy Times Seven (2 page)

Danny McGuire had received the call just a few hours earlier. The thin, guttural voice on the other end of the phone sounded older than he remembered, but was easily recognisable: Lep McFarlane, one-time best friend of his elder brother Sean.

Danny’s instinct on hearing the thick Newry brogue was to hang up, but Lep was the last person to have seen his brother alive.

‘Wub? Weird I know, but . . . just listen.’

The phone call had taken Danny by surprise. He’d thought McFarlane was dead.

‘Are you there, Wub?’

Danny didn’t reply: he didn’t know what to say. If the rumours were to be believed, it was because of Lep McFarlane that his brother had been killed.

‘Wub, can you hear me?’

Lep sounded scared: speaking hurriedly, in barely audible whispers, struggling to compete with the din from the pub in the background.

‘Wub, I’ve got hardly any coins left, c’mon, are you there?’

No one had called Danny ‘Wub’ in years: not since Sean’s death. It was a nickname his brother used to taunt him with. Danny had no idea where it came from, but Sean and Lep would laugh every time they used it. They were the only two people who’d ever called him by it. Hearing it now after all this time reminded Danny how much it used to piss him off: still did.

Danny pushed the thick black-rimmed National Health glasses he was wearing further up on his nose and spoke. ‘They putting telephones in coffins these days?’

‘Jesus, I was just about to hang up.’

‘What d’you want?’

‘I need to see you. We have to meet. Don’t believe anything The Farmer and his mob say about me Wub, it’s a fucking stitch-up. If he tells you my name is on that list they stole he’s talking out of his arse.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Lep. What d’you want?’ cut in Danny.

‘Have it your way, Wub. Word travels fast – even to the dead. I know what you do for a living these days, so let’s cut the coy crap.’

He wanted McFarlane off the phone before he said something that could land Danny in trouble. ‘I can barely hear you. Why don’t you try ringing back later,’ he said.

‘Give me two minutes Wub, you’ll want to hear this. Something fishier than a trawler-man’s dick about that break-in, don’t you think? How was The Farmer able to stroll into Special Branch’s offices in the middle of the night, and leave ten minutes later clutching a file that even the Prime Minister doesn’t have the security clearance to read, tell me that? A file that’s going to destroy the Brits’ intelligence operation and get all those informers murdered – how does he even know where to look? I’m telling you: dark politics at work. And you have to ask what the hell the Brits are up to. Finn O’Hanlon knows what I’m talking about. He’s yer man: he knows the score.’

‘Knows the score about the break-in?’ asked Danny.

‘Knows the score about me: about what happened.’

Danny heard Lep pause to take another slug of whatever it was he was drinking. ‘The Farmer’ was the codename for E. I. O’Leary: the commander in chief of the Irish Republican Army. He was also sometimes referred to as ‘Old McDonald’, but only by those who had known him from his days as a political prisoner in Long Kesh.

He owned a farm next to the border in South Armagh. Always came across on the news as a hard-done-by worker trying to eke out a living in what he called ‘difficult times’: just an ordinary farmer – doing an ordinary job – subjected to constant victimisation and witch-hunts by the Crown authorities.

But whenever his name was mentioned, the words murder, torture and death were usually tagged on to the end of the sentence.

‘You ever heard of Finn O’Hanlon?’ continued Lep.

‘No,’ replied Danny flatly. ‘Don’t call here again, Lep.’

‘Wait, wait, wait, we need to get together. This is why I’m calling. I have to see you.’

Danny had stopped listening.

Lep was drunk: not making any sense. It was time to get off the phone. ‘I have to go‚ Lep. If you’re passing this way . . . keep going.’

‘Wait!’

 Lep’s voice was raised in desperation. ‘O’Hanlon says he knows who murdered Sean.’

Danny felt a kick in his stomach like peppered ice.

‘Did you hear what I said?’ asked Lep.

Suddenly Danny couldn’t think straight.

Eventually in a low, quiet voice he managed to say, ‘Where are you?’

‘Purgatory,’ replied Lep, ‘but the Devil’s got me by the ankles, you know what I’m saying? They’re out to get me. That big fucker Owen O’Brien’s been sniffing around Dundalk. He’s here for me, I know it.’

‘Meet me in Saint Pat’s tomorrow morning after Mass,’ said Danny.

‘Hang on . . .’

Danny placed the receiver back in its cradle and leant his back against the wall.

He stretched his right hand out in front of him and tried to stop it from shaking.

Danny stood in front of the bathroom mirror – naked from the waist up – and ran his cold, bony fingers over the small sharp bristles that had started to grow like coarse velvet on his chin.

If he closed his eyes he heard his brother’s screams, so he stared at his reflection without blinking.

Danny had experience of death from a very early age: his dad, his brother‚ Sean, friends at school caught up in the Troubles. Switch on the news any day of the week and some poor bastard had either been blown to bits or shot, or beaten to death.  He had grown almost immune to it.

After his brother’s murder Danny had been expected to join the IRA. He’d been approached several times to do so, but although he sympathised with their cause he didn’t approve of their methods and on each occasion refused to become a member. Terrorism was too crude a method for conducting a war.

Instead he’d waged his own war: quietly taking revenge on those he held responsible for his brother’s death.

He was selective. Any member of the security forces was a legitimate target: any member of the IRA who turned informer was a priority. Each killing was planned with precision and executed with an attention to detail that had – so far – kept him out of the clutches of the authorities.

Death was what Danny did for a living. He didn’t like what he did, but he was good at it.

His glasses lay next to the soap on top of the sink; without them his face looked strangely naked.

His dark eyebrows and black, piercing eyes contrasted sharply with his pale, milky skin and gave the impression of a hawk hunting its prey as he tipped his head to one side and scanned his taut, scrawny features.

In the early days – before his brother was murdered – people would often stop him in the street, mistaking him for Sean. Danny could never figure out why. They were nowhere near the same build. Danny was three inches smaller and not as broad. Even from behind, Sean’s hair was markedly lighter than the thick black mop of Danny’s youth (he kept it short these days). Both had the same cheekbones and well-defined nose, the same easy smile, but Sean was considered the better looking of the two. In company people were instinctively drawn to him, leaving Danny to go largely unnoticed. It was a trait that Danny now saw as a strength.

Anonymity had become his credo, but it was a battle-cry to be whispered.

Danny flexed the lean, wiry muscles on his arms and shoulders and frowned.

‘Jesus, you better start eating or you’re going to fade away to nothing,’ he said, tipping his head towards the mirror.

He slipped a fresh razor blade inside the metal holder and screwed it shut before lifting the small bone-handled shaver to his face and scraping it over his dry skin in slow deliberate movements. When the blade reached his hairline Danny didn’t stop. He continued until all the hair on his head was lying in soft tufts – and short, matted clumps – at his feet.

After filling the sink with warm water he submerged his head and repeated the process until his face and scalp were completely smooth and free of hair.

Danny knew that each tiny follicle had the potential to turn informer were it to be collected as evidence at the scene of a crime.

The phone started ringing.

Danny stood in the doorway of the messy bathroom and listened.

After four rings the caller rang off, then the phone started ringing again. This time Danny made his way along the narrow hallway and picked up the receiver.

‘Órlaith?’

‘What about ye‚ Danny, everything all right?’

‘Fine.’

‘Sorry to call so late, yer ma’s just been on the phone. There’s something wrong with the lights in her kitchen. She wants to get an electrician in tomorrow.’

‘Did you try the fuse box?’ asked Danny.

Órlaith laughed. ‘I wouldn’t know what a fuse looked like if it crawled up my leg and bit me on the arse, never mind finding the box they’re kept in.’

‘Did you tell her I’d fix it?’

‘No point! I’m taking her shopping for a few hours tomorrow afternoon. Why don’t you nip round while she’s out? If we finish early I’ll ring the house and you can do a runner.’

‘Aye‚ fine.’

‘If you’ve no other plans why don’t you head over here afterwards and I‘ll cook you your tea.’

‘What’s on the menu?’ asked Danny.

‘Whatever you’re given,’ replied Órlaith. ‘You bring the alcohol, and your pyjamas if you’re going to stay.’

‘Aye, grand,’ replied Danny.

‘Are you all right? You sound a bit flat,’ asked Órlaith.

‘I just had Lep McFarlane on the phone.’

‘Lep McFarlane! Jesus Christ, you are joking! I was convinced the little fucker must be dead,’ said Órlaith. ‘What the hell did the wee shite want?’

‘He wants to meet.’

‘Why?’

‘Did Sean ever mention anyone called Finn O’Hanlon to you?’ asked Danny.

Órlaith thought for a moment before answering. ‘No, never heard of him.’

‘Lep reckons this guy knows who killed our Sean.’

Órlaith was silent for a long time before she spoke again. ‘You be careful now, you hear.’

Even sheltering in the shade of the bar there was little relief from the stifling humidity outside. Finn O’Hanlon drew a hand across his brow as he made his way through the white shafts of sunlight that cut the lazy clouds of drifting cigarette smoke floating in front of him.

He was heading for a table next to the emergency exit at the far end of the tar-blackened, oak-panelled bar.

Finn sat with his back to the wall making sure he had a clear view of the entrance: force of habit from years of making quick getaways.

Two things to know: who’s coming in and the quickest way out.

He scratched at his beard and involuntarily licked his lips in anticipation of a cold beer.

The waitress headed over.

She was attractive; looked a little out of place serving in a local joint like McHales.

‘Hi, my name’s Marie. You wanna order from me or at the bar?’

‘Who’s serving at the bar?’ asked Finn.

‘Me,’ she replied, ‘but I make more on tips if I serve you at your table.’

‘I’ll get you at the bar then,’ said Finn, making to stand up.

‘Okay, sit down smart-ass. But be warned, “no tip, no hurry”. It’s an ancient Chinese proverb,’ she said with a genuine smile that told Finn she hadn’t been completely screwed over by life yet. ‘What can I get you?’

‘The coldest beer you have in your fridge and a razor please.’

‘Is the razor for your face or your wrists?’

‘My legs,’ he replied.

Marie smiled again.

‘Any preference of beer?’

‘As long as it’s cold and it doesn’t have the letters B, U or D anywhere near the label, I don’t care, Marie,’ said Finn.

‘Where’s your accent from . . . Scotland?’

She had an easy laid-back manner that Finn liked.

‘Ireland,’ he replied.

‘Shoot, I was going to say Ireland. I knew it was one or the other. It’s just a slight twang, but it’s still there. My great-grandparents were from Limavady in the north . . . The Mathisons?’ she said as a question, like Finn should know them.

‘Protestants?’ he found himself saying.

It was dumb, but he hadn’t bargained on getting into a conversation.

‘Who knows?’ replied Marie with a shrug.

‘Over there, it’s essential to know what side of the denominational border your name lies on or you could end up dead.’

‘Sounds a scream,’ she replied. ‘My grandfather helped build the first Presbyterian church there: one of its founder members. So I guess that makes them . . .’ she paused, knowing she was going for the gag, ‘Muslims.

‘You living over here? continued Marie’

‘Sort of,’ replied Finn.

‘Sort of whereabouts?’

‘Up near Cottondale,’ said Finn, being deliberately vague.

‘If New York’s the city that never sleeps, Cottondale’s the town that never woke up. You do something to offend someone in a past life?’

Finn didn’t answer the question.

‘You new here?’ he asked.

‘Been working here for just over six months,’ replied Marie. ‘You a regular? Can’t say I’ve noticed you before.’

‘Been in a few times, but not regularly.’

‘I love your accent. “Sort of” say something else.’

‘I’m thirsty,’ said Finn.

Marie caught that one square on.

‘Oh sure! An ice-cold beer on its way. That’s the first line of the Irish national anthem isn’t it? Be back in a sec.’ Marie threw the line over her shoulder as she headed back towards the cooler.

Finn liked McHales. He never went to the same bar on a regular basis and usually only ever stayed for one drink: two at the very most, but he was getting lax. The years spent looking over his shoulder were starting to give him neck ache.

There was a lot to be said for familiarity: it was much easier to spot something out of place. That’s why Finn had broken his own rules and been to McHales a few times.

It smelled of stale alcohol and had a perpetual haze of cigarette smoke: a boon to a reformed smoker like himself. The red leatherette booths were cracked at the edges and the long curving bar top looked like it had been covered in red Formica some time in the early Fifties. Spilling a drink in McHales only added to its character.

It was one of the few places Finn could relax.

He
needed
to relax.

A few regulars sat on tall stools, leaning over their drinks: heads cranked round to watch a re-run of some vintage baseball match on a television that hung precariously from the wall above them. The game was old enough to be in black and white, but that didn’t stop them behaving like it was live. They banged the bar with their fists and muttered abuse at the screen every time the opposition scored a home run.

The usual office crowd sat near the front window making more noise than was necessary and having far more fun than the occasion warranted; happy to let everyone else in the bar know they were enjoying the ‘Good Friday feeling’ a day too early.

That’s when Finn noticed the two guys sitting at the table next to them.

A skinny black guy and an ugly-looking dude with slicked-back hair, and shades too dark to be wearing indoors.

The black guy seemed uncomfortable: just staring at the floor or into his beer.

The pair looked out of place and anything out of place made Finn uneasy. He made a mental note to ask Marie if she’d seen them before, even though he suspected he already knew the answer.

Marie arrived with a beer and started to pour just as the office workers let out another raucous laugh. ‘Same in every country,’ she said, ‘mix a suit with some alcohol, you get an asshole.’

Finn couldn’t help smiling.

‘They’ve been here since lunchtime, drinking Bahias,’ she continued. ‘I’ve stopped putting alcohol in them, but they’re too stoked to notice.’

Finn’s eyes were on his beer: Marie had the angle of the glass all wrong. Before he could stop her, a large frothy head had formed, leaving just an inch of golden liquid at the bottom.

‘You live in Cottondale, this one’s on me,’ she said, looking at Finn like she felt sorry for him.

‘Am I supposed to drink that or use it for shaving my legs?’ said Finn.

Marie laughed out loud. ‘Sorry. The college I graduated from didn’t teach “life skills”. I’ll bring you a newspaper to read while it settles down – I’ll bring you two, looks like it might take a while,’ she continued. ‘No razors either I’m afraid, but if you are contemplating suicide we've a shotgun behind the bar: it’d be messier, but it’d be over a lot quicker.’

‘It’s just an itchy beard.’

‘Oh. Sure. Well if you change your mind let me know and I’ll stick a couple in the barrel.’

‘Don’t look round when I ask you this, but the two guys sitting at the front door: they part of the furniture?’

‘Never seen them before in my life, but the one with the Aviators thinks he’s something: got a nasty bark. Kept staring at my ass like that’s where I was speaking from. Didn’t once look up to my face. First time ever, I considered talking out my ass could be a good thing. I could tell him what his chances were in a language he would understand.’

She was off again.

Finn followed her shapely, tanned legs as she headed towards the office workers’ table with a tray full of impotent Happy Hour cocktails. In a way he could hardly blame the guy in the Aviators for staring too.

Finn watched the black guy stand up and shuffle out of the bar. The other guy stayed behind, leaning back in his seat giving the table of office workers a sideways glance.

Something wasn’t right.

Finn tilted the glass slightly, poured in some more beer and waited patiently as the cool, golden rivulets ran down the inside, pulling some of the froth with it. He let it settle for a few more seconds before lifting it to his lips.

The first drink was always the best. Finn loved the cold fizz against the back of his throat: he looked forward to the initial wave of euphoria as the alcohol took hold and gently lulled the demons away.

But as Finn tilted his head back he caught a movement over to his left: the guy with the Aviators was on his feet pulling something from under his jacket.

Shouting now.

‘
Got a message from the boys back home, motherfucker!
’

The guy was striding towards Finn, arm outstretched.

Finn was already on his feet: his wariness having given him a split-second advantage that could be the difference between living and dying.

Suddenly the air around him exploded.

Finn’s glass of beer tumbled from his hand and caught on the edge of the table, flipping its contents in a large frothy arc over the booth.

He was halfway through the fire exit when the second shot slammed into the wall beside him.

Almost immediately another burst the doorframe just above his head and a fourth seared across the top of his shoulder.

The shots were so loud it was like the guy was holding the gun right next to Finn’s head.

Finn sprinted down the alleyway at the rear of the building: his ears ringing, muting the everyday sounds of the street and turning the ordinary surreal.

A muzzle flash from up ahead sent him diving headlong over the bonnet of a parked car and crashing heavily to the ground on the other side.

The black guy he’d seen in the bar just a few minutes earlier was firing at him from the other end of the alley.

They must have been following him, watching his movements, waiting for him to drop his guard. But how could they have found him, how could they have known where to look, unless . . .

The windscreen above disintegrated, showering him in tiny shards of glass.

Finn was up on his feet heading back towards the fire exit when another bullet whistled past him and thudded into the wall, bursting the brickwork only inches from his face.

Just at that moment the guy in the Aviators appeared at the fire exit; his Magnum raised, ready to loose off another round.

Finn had nowhere to turn, nowhere to take cover.

He sprinted forward, covering the short distance to the fire exit in an instant, then launched himself at the guy’s outstretched arm with a flying kick.

As Cola Conrado moved instinctively to block, Finn’s foot caught him full in the chest, knocking him – winded – to the floor. Finn tried to scramble over him, but a large hand grabbed him by the ankle in a tight grip and started to pull him over: trying to topple him onto the ground.

Finn rained punches down on the guy’s head as he struggled desperately to stay on his feet, but he couldn’t break free. He was going down.

With a final desperate effort Finn lunged forward and grabbed hold of a fire extinguisher hanging from the wall.

As his legs buckled under him he managed to pull the extinguisher from its mounting and spin his upper body round, slamming the folded-steel base of the canister down with all his strength.

The hard rim struck the guy’s face with a sickening thud.

Cola Conrado’s grip relaxed instantly; enough for Finn to pull his leg free, but the fight wasn’t over.

Finn scrambled back inside the bar and launched himself over the counter, leaving Cola struggling to his feet. Bottles and empty glasses came crashing to the floor next to Marie who was cowering by the coolers, whimpering and sobbing, all her earlier confidence and self-assurance gone. ‘Please don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt me.’

Finn grabbed her by the shoulders – ‘Where’s the shotgun?’ – but Marie was in shock, too terrified to answer.

She pleaded with him, ‘Please don’t hurt me, please don’t hurt me.’

Finn was desperate. He shouted at her, ‘Where is the fucking shotgun?’

Cola Conrado was back inside, blood pouring from what was left of his nose.

One of the office workers who had been cowering under a table stood up and tried to make a run for the exit.

‘You leaving, motherfucker?’ screamed Cola as he started firing wildly round the room. ‘There you go.’ The force of the impact blew the office worker out through the front window and onto the sidewalk. The television over the bar exploded above Finn’s head, showering hot glass and splintered wood everywhere. The large glass-fronted cooler to Finn’s right ruptured, spilling its contents all over the floor.

Finn shouted at Marie again. ‘Where’s the shotgun?’

Marie pointed a trembling finger at a shelf just below the till.

Finn saw the butt of a Mossberg 590 and pulled it out from under the counter.

There was no time to check if it was loaded: he racked it and stood up.

The guy was standing just a few feet away on the other side of the bar: the twisted gold frame of his Aviator sunglasses hanging limply to one side of his face. A large black fragment of lens protruded from the skin just below his left eye.

As he turned, Finn pulled the trigger.

The blast from the shotgun lifted Cola Conrado off his feet and slammed him against the wall; his chest ripped wide open.

Finn swiftly rounded the bar and made his way over to where Cola lay slumped against the back of one of the leatherette booths.

Without hesitating, he lifted the shotgun and fired another cartridge into the guy’s head. Blood and tiny fragments of bone splattered up the wall.

Finn reached down and grabbed the Magnum from Cola Conrado’s twitching hand.

The fire-exit door creaked behind him. Finn turned quickly and fired three times in rapid succession, all three shots penetrating the door at head height, leaving ragged holes the size of tennis balls.

Without waiting to see if any of the shots had hit their target Finn strode out of the bar. Pushing his way through the small crowd that had already started to gather on the sidewalk outside McHales, he crossed – as casually as possible – to the other side of the street.

He waited till he’d turned the corner into Seventh Avenue before breaking into a run. He headed east to Riverview Drive, then cut left into an alleyway behind a neat row of shops. The air was thick and heavy in his lungs: stifling, choking, leaving him gasping for air.

He was blinking rapidly as streams of sweat ran down his forehead into his eyes.