9

The Master did not make his condolence visit until two days after Tommy had been buried.

The ceremony, in the driving sleet on a typical Belfast March morning, had been indistinguishable from the many others Billy had attended over previous years.

Billy had risen rapidly in the chapter since his initiation night five years before. He had impressed all with his uncompromising attitude: first, by leading the marches through Catholic neighbourhoods by day and invading their pubs with clubs and knives by night. He had taken the fight over the border on numerous occasions, striking deep into their leadership. Tommy, although the older brother, had taken his orders from Billy.

The grim minister said what he always said on these occasions and the masked gunmen fired their salvos into the air. It occurred to Billy that Tommy would have been happy with this send-off, even with his face smashed beyond recognition behind the wooden coffin. His assailants had shoved Tommy into their car as he left the pub filled with drink and proceeded to beat the shit out of him, until he was broken and no longer Tommy. One shot to the back of the head and he’d been dumped like a rotting carcass into the ditch down Bog Lane.

The Master spoke slowly. ‘You realise they thought Tommy was you, Billy? Your exploits have come to their attention and they need to make an example out of you. As you well know, Billy, it is our duty to expose them for their superstitions and their idolatry. They are enemies of freedom with their totalitarian Romanism and authoritarian Church.’ The Master lowered his voice until it was almost a whisper and Billy had to crane his neck forward to hear him. ‘It is a war, Billy. Your brother was murdered by them like so many before him. Be assured there will be more casualties before this is over. We will never surrender to a Republican Ireland where papal power is the same as political tyranny. I knew your father,’ the Master went on. ‘He would have been proud of Tommy.’

They had blown Tommy and Billy’s father to pieces down at Short Strand. The brothers had heard the explosion from their home and had legged it down to Anderson Street with the rest of the neighbourhood, only to be greeted by the carnage. Pa had been fixing some electrics in old man Johnston’s place when the bomb had gone off. Nobody really knew what they buried a few days later; a bit of Johnston here or a bit of Pa there. From then on it was just the two lads.

‘Billy, listen to me very carefully,’ the Master continued. ‘You’re a marked man and we are taking you out of Belfast, out of the country. Something else, something very important has come up that will need your skills. It may take years, Billy, but it will destroy them completely.’

‘They thought it was me?’ said Billy in a stupor.

‘Yes, Billy. But now you will finish them for good. Not just in Ireland, but everywhere.’