Firewater Blues (The Dublin Trilogy Book 6), page 26
“What’s that?” asked Deccie.
“A poitín still. ’Tis a way of turning barley into something a lot less healthy and a lot more fun.”
“Mental. I heard that stuff can make you go blind. Can I have some?”
“No.”
Bunny took the torch off Assumpta and stepped inside the structure, ducking to avoid the low roof. He inspected the various barrels with pipes running between them, and the collection of glass bottles sitting in the corner. Whoever’s still this was, they were producing a fair quantity of it.
“Rosie. Deccie. We need bedding, towels – anything you can find. Go. Now.”
He looked back at Assumpta, who had an odd grin on her face.
He was starting to see Bernadette’s point.
Chapter Forty
GREAT BALLS OF FIRE
It took them only twenty-three minutes in the end, to prepare for their plan. In truth, as Bunny sat there, leaning his back against the stone wall, night falling around him, he knew it wasn’t much of a plan at all, but then again, somebody had once said that no plan survived contact with the enemy. What they had was a starting point – after that, it was a case of hoping for the best and a bit of luck. Maybe a whole lot of luck. This would be jazz, not a regimental march.
Sister Assumpta sat to Bunny’s right, with Deccie in between them.
Deccie tugged on Bunny’s sleeve and spoke in a whisper. “I have to admit something, boss.”
“What?”
“There is one good thing about the country.”
“What’s that?”
“The sky. I noticed it at the Gaeltacht. All them stars that they have out here – they’re amazing.”
“See – I knew we’d find something eventually.”
“Wait and see. You can’t see them now, but give it about half an hour. It’s bleedin’ spectacular. Do you know all the names of the consolations and that, boss?”
“I do know the constellations, as it happens.” Bunny peeked over the wall, checking there was not yet any movement down below. “When we get out of this, I promise you I’ll teach them to ye.”
“Cool,” said Deccie, nodding over and over again. “When we get out of this,” he repeated, as if reassuring himself.
“Listen, Deccie – I’m sorry for dragging you into this. If I’d had any idea, I’d obviously never have brought you with me.”
“Ah, still beats people trying to teach me to speak Irish.”
“You’re a lost cause, Declan. A lost cause.” He shifted around so that he was face to face with Deccie and put his hand on the lad’s shoulder. “Right, now, pay attention – this is important. As soon as everything kicks off, you look for a gap and you run. Don’t look back. Don’t try and do anything. We don’t need you to be a hero. Just get yourself out of here. These guys aren’t worried about you.”
Deccie shoved Bunny’s hand away angrily and jabbed a finger in his face. “How dare you say that to me. After all we’ve been through. You’re always telling us about the importance of teamwork. I’m not going back to the lads with them knowing I ran away and left you here so some pricks from the country could slap you around the place.”
Bunny was taken aback by the ferocity of Deccie’s response. “Right …” He stole a glance over the wall again. “Well, for a start, Declan, these boys are not from the country. Odds on, they’re English.”
Bunny regretted his words as soon as they were out of his mouth.
Deccie’s eyes grew wide with outrage. “English? Sure, that’s worse. This is basically an invasion.”
“Just— Listen to me. Whatever happens, after the season we’ve just had, the team needs your leadership more than ever. Please, for me – get out of here.”
“Alright,” said Deccie reluctantly.
“Good lad. I need to get in position.” Bunny ruffled Deccie’s hair then pulled him into a tight hug.
“Get off me. You’re embarrassing me in front of the nuns.”
Bunny released him and moved off into the darkness.
Once Bunny was out of earshot, Deccie turned to Sister Assumpta and drew his hand from behind his back, holding up the two fingers that had been crossed the whole time. “Doesn’t count.”
Bernadette stared into the face of Rosie Flint. “Can you do this?”
“I …” started Rosie. “I just wanted to say how sorry—”
“There’s no time for that. I need you to do your job – can you do that?”
Rosie gave a weak nod and was shocked when Bernadette gently took her face between her hands.
“Look at me.”
With considerable effort, Rosie did. Her eyes blinked rapidly.
“What matters is the next thing. We are not defined by what is done to us. We are defined by how we respond to it. Just keep moving forward. How you get through it is to just get through it. Alright?”
Rosie jutted her chin and nodded.
“Good. Wait for my signal.”
With that, and being careful to stay low, Bernadette hurried the twenty or so feet to the north wall, the lighter sweaty in her hand. The good thing about using a house with an old-school turf-burning poitín still out the back was the collection of lighters in the kitchen drawer.
Her post was the north wall, Rosie’s was the south, and Assumpta would handle things at the front east wall with the assistance of the boy. She looked around. This small area was theirs to defend. It didn’t look like much, but people had fought and died for less.
She stared intently through the gap that she had made for herself between the stones in the wall. The slope up to this side of the house was the most gradual and easy to traverse. It was why she had installed herself here. If this plan had any chance of working, it would be down to her being able to determine when they were coming. Bunny, as was his way, had referred to it as the Grand Old Duke of York moment – when they were down wouldn’t work, and when they were up would be far too late. They needed to catch them when they were only halfway up.
She held her breath.
Was that movement?
Was this that moment?
Furkser turned his night vision off and then on again, surveying the target. It should be straight forward, but then the whole bloody thing should have been straight forward and not the damnable mess it had become. He double checked his weapons. As a rule, he didn’t like Uzis, but it was what they’d been given. The Uzis and his trusty Glock. They would do the job.
He’d left Buchanan at the bottom of the hill with the jeep, sent Marshall to the north side, and he was covering the south. Buchanan’s right eye had all but closed over since the pummelling he’d received from Smith, and Furkser had been forced to reset Marshall’s broken right arm himself, while Marshall had bitten down on a leather belt.
He knew he shouldn’t let any emotion in, as it risked clouding his judgement, but damn it, Furkser was really looking forward to killing Rosie Flint and that McGarry idiot. Thanks to her, Mark Smith was dead, and thanks to McGarry, it had been Furkser who’d had to do it.
After tonight, he was going to put his retirement plan into operation. He had more than enough squirrelled away to get himself that bar in Thailand. By morning, he’d be out of this godforsaken country and as far away from the Spider as was humanly possible. He knew better than anybody how the man dealt with other people’s failure. It hadn’t bothered Furkser before, but then he’d never failed before. Maybe he was getting too old for this?
He winced as the headset in his ear beeped. Previously, all operational control on the ground had been left to him, but this time, once they’d found out Rosie Flint’s location, the Spider had insisted on taking a more “hands-on” approach. Not close enough to get those hands dirty, but close enough to get on Furkser’s tits.
“Why haven’t you gone yet?” came the Spider’s voice over the radio.
With these comms he could be anywhere within a ten-mile radius. Furkser guessed he was quite a lot closer than that – up in the mountains, most probably. If there was one thing he knew about the Spider, it was that he liked to look down on people.
Furkser held the button on the unit on his belt. “We’re waiting for optimum darkness. They know we are here and they are armed.”
“You have waited long enough. Go. Go. Go.”
Buchanan stepped out from behind the jeep and started to move up the slope, the rudimentary path to his left, the two disabled vehicles to his right. The ground was rock with vegetation springing up from it at random points. He moved at a slow, steady pace – alternating between looking down at his feet and up at the target. The slope was about a forty-degree angle. Nothing he couldn’t cope with, of course, but it always paid to watch your footing.
As he reached the halfway point, he noticed movement at the top of the hill. He crouched down and trained his gun on the top of the wall. Something large appeared. A metal barrel.
“I’ve got— Woah!”
The exclamation was because the barrel had just burst into flames. Buchanan dived to his right as the fire-soaked thing hurtled down the slope towards him. As it whooshed past, the edge of it rolled over his foot, sending spikes of pain shooting up his leg.
“For fuck—”
The barrel thudded into the side of the jeep, but a quick glance over his shoulder told him that it wasn’t a concern. The container had material wrapped around it that had been set on fire using some accelerant, but the foolish amateurs had miscalculated, and the flames had gone out before it reached the bottom of the hill.
He stood up gingerly, tested his foot and raised his head just in time to see the second barrel come flying over the wall. On this occasion, he stepped out of the way and fired a burst of shots in the direction from which it had come.
Furkser’s voice came over the radio. “Buchanan. Report.”
“They’re sending down barrels on fire. Not a problem.”
When the third barrel came down the hill, they hadn’t even managed to get it lit. Buchanan didn’t fire. Instead, he moved left and onto the path. His change in position confirmed that his foot was sore but nothing more. The third barrel careered away into the darkness, nowhere near him, thumping to a stop somewhere below.
The Spider’s voice entered his earpiece. “Other two. Move in.”
“Stay off comms,” snapped Furkser.
“I’m in command.”
“Negative.”
Buchanan shook his head. This whole thing was descending into amateur hour. He decided to get moving, and started to make his way up, slowly skirting the side of the track. The sooner these idiots were dead the better.
Marshall pulled out his earpiece and swore under his breath. He’d had more than enough of this shit. He moved around the large boulder he’d been using for cover and headed up the slope towards the north wall, pulling a flash bang off his belt as he went. A few more feet and he’d be within range. One of these, and whoever was up there wouldn’t even see the bullets that would come immediately after.
He cursed again as the flash bang fell to the ground. Bloody cast. He fumbled around for a few seconds before he managed to locate it. He drew himself upright and was just pulling the pin when he caught the bloom of flames out of the corner of his eye. He looked up to see a Molotov cocktail sail over his head and crash into the boulder behind him.
“What the—”
Before he had time to formulate a thought, a second Molotov cocktail came hurtling through the air. This one landed in front of him and exploded on the hard ground. Flaming liquid splashed out in all directions. His combat trousers caught alight.
He slapped at them briskly to put them out. In his panic, he didn’t notice that he’d also pulled the pin on the flash bang, which was why he never saw the third Molotov coming.
Buchanan caught sight of the explosions and flames, first from the south side, quickly followed by a trio from the north. Furkser returned fire instantly and a female scream from that direction ripped through the night air, followed quickly by what sounded like Marshall screaming somewhere to his right.
“What is happening? What is happening?” screeched the Spider in his ear.
The damned fool. Buchanan pulled out his earpiece. The guy’s bleating was making it hard to—
Something heavy hit Buchanan from behind and sent him sprawling forward. Before he could turn around, a big man was on top of him, pinning him to the ground and sending ferocious punches raining down on his head.
He heard a male voice – a single word accompanying each blow as it landed. “Don’t. Shoot. At. Kids.”
Just before he lost consciousness, Buchanan realised that perhaps the third barrel not being on fire had been more deliberate than it had appeared.
Marshall was rolling around now, oblivious to everything except the flames that were engulfing his body. He looked up to see a blanket being tossed over him, which was followed by a multitude of blows to his form, seemingly trying to put the fire out while also giving him a solid beating. He had the presence of mind to fumble for his sidearm but something smashed against his broken arm and caused him to scream in pain again. He managed to fight his way out from beneath the blanket just in time to see the flames illuminate the demented face of a diminutive elderly nun before her steel-toed boot connected with his head.
Bunny had the submachine gun in his hands and was attempting to drag it off the man he’d just rendered unconscious. He was making hard work of it, as the strap was caught under the man’s body. Bunny wasn’t feeling his best, and was still a touch dizzy. Being sent hurtling down a hill in a barrel will do that to a person, even when the side of the barrel against which their head is braced doesn’t hit a rock somewhere along the way. He was concussed and pissed. Part of him considered throwing up, but he didn’t have the time right now. While his attention was entirely focused on liberating the gun, he was aware that most of the world around him was currently on fire. He needed to—
Before he could finish the thought, a bullet thumped into the ground beside him. To his left, at the top of the hill, stood Rosie Flint. A tall man stood behind her, his left hand grabbing a fistful of her hair, his right holding a handgun.
“Let go of the Uzi,” the man barked at him.
Bunny recognised the guy. Last time he’d seen him, he and Mark Smith had been rolling around on the ground, which had ended badly for poor Smith.
Bunny looked down at the machine gun. As it happened, the weapon was pointing directly at the unconscious man.
“How about you drop yours or I—”
A second bullet smashed into the unconscious man’s head. Bunny was no doctor but given that half the guy’s skull was now missing, he didn’t reckon he’d be coming round any time soon.
Bunny dropped the gun and looked up in revulsion. “Ah, for feck’s sake.”
Flames were spreading behind them, licking the side of the house. He noticed that Rosie was bleeding heavily from a wound at her left shoulder. He presumed she must’ve taken a bullet while trying to throw one of the improvised Molotov cocktails.
“I’m going to guess your name is Furkser,” Bunny said to the man, who was still holding Rosie by the hair. “Mark Smith mentioned you.”
“Shut up and put your hands in the air,” ordered Furkser, shoving his gun under Rosie’s chin.
Bunny complied.
“Who else is here?”
“Nobody.”
Furkser fired a shot that skated off the rocks near Bunny’s feet, then placed his gun to Rosie’s temple. “Try again.”
“If you were going to go for the ‘just come out with your hands up and nobody will get hurt’ approach, I’d maybe not have shot your own man in the head first.”
“He’d fucked up one too many times.”
“Have you ever heard the phrase, ‘With friends like you …’?”
“Do you know what?” said Furkser, “I’m going to enjoy shooting you almost as much as this annoying bitch.”
“Lovely,” said Bunny. “If you do that, though, I’m not going to tell you who else knows who her father is.”
Furkser paused. “What?”
“What?” echoed Rosie.
“You still shouldn’t play with matches,” said Bunny loudly. “Still.”
“Stop talking bullshit,” snarled Furkser.
“What are you talking about, Bunny?”
With the flames behind her, he couldn’t make out all of Rosie’s face, but her tone of voice was enough to paint a picture of her bewilderment.
“My father is dead,” she continued.
“I’m afraid not. This isn’t exactly how I wanted you to find out, Rosie, but your real father is Gerald Royce – the husband of the woman who is not becoming Taoiseach tomorrow.”
Before Rosie could say anything else, Furkser shoved the barrel of the gun hard up under her chin again.
“Tell me who else knows – now.”
“Do you want an exact list of names or just a general number?”
Furkser drove the butt of the gun into the side of Rosie’s head with a sickening smash, causing her to wobble on her feet. “Last chance.”
Bunny took a step towards him but stopped when Furkser turned the gun in his direction.
“You’re some kind of arsehole.”
“Names!”
Fifteen yards behind Furkser, through the flames, Bunny noticed the unmistakable figure of a twelve-year-old of his acquaintance giving him a double thumbs-up as he ran across the yard and dived over a stone wall.
“Tell me or—”
Furkser was cut off by the monumental explosion of a poitín still that had been ignited by the aforementioned twelve-year-old. Deccie had lit a Molotov cocktail and tossed it in there in what he would later go on to describe as the greatest moment of his young life.
As Furkser spun around, Bunny took off running towards him.
Rosie Flint guessed this was her last and only chance. She withdrew the steak knife that was still in her pocket and rammed it deep into her captor’s thigh.
