Eamonn’s Opel bounced along the country lane north of Donegal. He thought of stopping in town for a pint of the black at the Stag’s Head pub for old time’s sake. But it was still well before opening time, and his impending rendezvous with Stuart Clancy quickly scrubbed the happy memories of the place from his mind. Even ten years later, visions of the red-headed goddess named Moira danced in his head. He recalled the way her lips parted when she smiled, like a flower unfurling into bloom right before your very eyes. Her beauty was the kind for which songs of love and longing are written.
Little had changed over the past ten years. The hedges, running like rails on both sides of the rocky lane, a shade taller. The stone fences between properties less resolute. But he knew the farmhouse remained. The IRA used it during the Troubles as a safe house, an Armoury, and to launch raids across the border. In more recent times, as a storage facility for the Real IRA’s smuggling operations run in and out of the nearby coves.
He directed the nose of his Opel between the gateposts and along the winding path to the main house. The meet was to be as before, ten years previous, in the barn to the rear of the house. As he approached, he noticed Clancy’s Audi SUV parked by the barn’s doorway.
Eamonn hunched inside his coat against the cold and the stinging rain darting in horizontally from the estuary to the south-west. The softly falling rain of earlier in the morning, whipped up by a rising gale, turning spiteful.
Inside the barn, a single light bulb provided the only light. The small storage repository in the corner lost in the gloom. A dozen hens moved in and out of the light searching for a meal amongst the straw and dirt. To Eamonn’s right a cow stared back, chewing forlornly and waiting for the show to begin.
From the shadows to his left, Stuart Clancy stepped into the light.
Eamonn thrust his hands deep into his pockets to hide their shaking.
Aye, I do, Stuart. Perhaps we can start by you explaining why you would have me killed?
What are you babbling on about? I’ve ordered no such thing.
Then why was the last job cancelled? And why did I have two of your henchmen following me all over the countryside? Were the weapons on them just for personal protection?
There was movement in the darkness. Two men stepped forward taking up positions either side of Clancy.
Clancy spread his arms wide.
The two men were ten years older but none less imposing. Hard men; stout blocks of Irish granite with faces only a Mother could love.
‘We had a leak, and I plugged it.’ Answered one of the questions he’d yet to ask.
So, it was you that ordered Marnie Coogan killed.
I’m assuming you’re talking about the lady in Bray? Then, yes.
Why, Stuart? She was no threat to you.
There you are wrong, Eamonn. She was talking out of school. Blabbering to her priest, and God knows who else. Blowback, boyo! It must be avoided at all costs. But as God is my witness, I did not order a hit on you.
Eamonn stood stock still processing Clancy’s words. Could he be trusted? Why should he think so?
Clancy stepped forward, head bowed inspecting his fingernails. When he looked up his eyes bored into Eamonn’s.
With a nod from Clancy, the two men drew their weapons.
A rustling in the storage room at the back of the barn turned all four heads at once. Stepping forward and into the pale circle of light stood a tall man with ginger hair. In one of his strong hands, he held a pitchfork, while the other casually brushed straw from his long cashmere coat.
Timothy Feagan’s official title was assistant to the treasurer within Sinn Fein; however, it was his unofficial duties which struck fear into the hearts of the party members. Nothing took place under the auspices of Sinn Fein, legal or otherwise, without having Feagan’s approval.
Eamonn noticed Clancy’s cheeks blush a lovely rose colour, his voice an octave higher.
Clancy quickly recovered from his initial shock. Feagan had known of their operation, even giving his blessing at the outset. If he now wanted to play Mahoney’s protector, well, he thought, it was no skin off of his nose.
It seems Eamonn is worried I wanted to do him harm. I was merely trying to assure him it wasn’t the case. However, I have decided it best we end our little arrangement before it gets out of hand.
Out of hand, you say?
Swinging the pitchfork like a Hurley stick, Feagan scattered the hens gathering at his feet and took another two steps forward.
You know… Eamonn was kind enough to share with me an accounting spreadsheet he’d compiled from your wee operation. Very enlightening it was.
The temperature in the barn seemed to drop a few degrees as the colour slowly drained from Clancy’s face. Eamonn put it down to the ice-water sluicing through the big man’s veins.
You see, Stuart. I also kept track of the monies transferred into the Sinn Fein current account from your operation. Not an easy task, mind you. Lots of donations made through innocuous wire transfers. All in small amounts, so the taxation authorities don’t come sniffing around. But a job to which I’m well accustomed. And would you care to guess what I discovered?
I… I don’t see what this has to do…
Oh yes… yes, you do, Stuart.
The two men on either side of Clancy took a step back and turned to face him, their guns now pointed at his corpulent gut.
Feagan moved within a few centimetres of Stuart. His words hurled into Clancy’s face as he plunged the pitchfork into his left foot as an exclamation point.
Stuart choked out a howl of pain and swayed backwards; the pitchfork keeping him planted to the ground. A cold sweat dotted his brow.
I… there must be… I can…
Jaysus, Stuart. Spit it out, man. You sound like you’re drowning in your own words there.
The two men beside Clancy stepped forward, each grabbing an arm. Feagan turned and walked towards the cow, as if to plead his case before a bovine judge.
Eamonn looked on with a growing sense of dread. Backed into a corner, he’d come out swinging the only way he knew. He’d guessed Clancy was skimming from the proceeds of the heists. And sharing his hunch with Feagan, along with his meticulous accounting records, was his only card to play. At the time, Eamonn prayed the gambit would be enough to save his skin. He wasn’t yet sure how he felt about it costing Clancy his.
Feagan turned to face Stuart.
Stuart saw the proclamation of his death sentence pass before his eyes. Not near as bright and extravagant as the news headlines scrolling through Times Square he’d once seen on holidays, but just as easily understood. He’d gambled and lost. The two men supporting him now bore all of his weight, his resolve shattered. With his chin resting on his chest, he watched the blood seep from his soft leather shoe into the dirt floor.
Eamonn looked on in silence. He felt a small tinge of regret for bringing down Clancy. Then he remembered if it weren’t Clancy’s neck squarely in the noose, it would’ve been his.
Eamonn snapped to attention.
Yes, sir.
I believe we have no further need of your services here today. I, and the party, thank you for your contributions. They will not be forgotten. Everything else you’ve witnessed here today will be. Forgotten, that is. Understood?
Yes, Mr Feagan.
Eamonn turned and hurried from the barn. The first scream of pain pierced his ears before the wooden door swung shut behind him.
***
The drive back to Dublin should’ve been more relaxing. Eamonn received the blessing from one of Sinn Fein’s highest authorities, and his mind should’ve been occupied with planning a much-needed vacation. A vacation funded by the €270,000 from his share of the robberies. An embarrassment of riches tinged with a feeling of guilt. Money he’d earned, true enough, in the service of a cause he’d believed in his entire life. But a cause he felt should’ve been more about blood and heart than financial gain.
And something Clancy said also nagged away in the far recesses of his brain, like a piece of meat stuck between teeth your tongue can’t dislodge.
‘But as God is my witness, I did not order a hit on you.’
Eamonn wondered, why would he deny it? Killing meant nothing to the likes of Clancy. And, at that moment in time, Clancy held all the cards.
And why the British passports and tickets to Australia? If anything, Clancy was a creature of habit. Attempting to divert attention away from Irish involvement was not in his limited bag of tricks. And would only be relevant as a diversion if captured by the authorities. Why plan for that eventuality?
Outside of Longford the answer suddenly hurtled across the synapses in his brain, jolting his whole being like he’d been rear-ended by a lorry. It wasn’t Clancy ordering the hit. Eamonn cursed himself for being so blind. So blind to believe an institution, which wasn’t above funding its worldwide activities through money laundering, wouldn’t be averse to a trifling murder or two to cover its immense tracks.
Eamonn reached for his mobile phone lying on the passenger seat and scrolled through the directory. A split-second before he pressed the green dial button, he looked up to see a roundabout looming large and braked sharply.
A white Renault trailing close behind stopped inches from his rear bumper. Eamonn dropped his mobile onto his lap and waved an apology into the rear-view mirror. Thankfully, the bearded driver staring ahead impassively seemed unperturbed. He needed time to think this through, to order his thoughts. Taking the third exit off of the roundabout, he proceeded south towards the town of Longford. Then turned into a McDonald’s parking lot not a hundred metres further along.
The rain had eased soon after leaving Donegal, yet the clouds, the colour of granite and heavy with the threat of more rain, still hung menacingly low.
The call to Father Thomas in Rome went unanswered. Eamonn swore and punched the steering wheel in frustration. He watched two young children dash across the parking lot and plough into the glass door before stepping back and pulling it open. Their harried Mother balancing phone, jackets and purse followed in feeble pursuit. Eamonn watched the young ones make for the indoor playground at light speed before dialling another number.
And talk Eamonn did. It didn’t take long to explain to Father William Moynihan the precarious position he would find himself if anything happened to Eamonn. Father William, in a show of defiance, used his one trump card – his IRA affiliation and friendship with Stuart Clancy. Eamonn’s graphic explanation of the morning’s events in a farmhouse outside of Donegal silenced in short order the priest’s objections.
By the end of the one-sided conversation, Eamonn wasn’t sure if the noise he heard on the other end of the line was ice rattling in an unsteadily held glass or the good Father’s teeth clattering. Even Eamonn’s bluff about a package of information being delivered to the press if anything happened to him went over with nary a protest.
It was an Eamonn lighter of heart, like a dead weight removed, who stepped from his vehicle and made his way inside the McDonald’s to use their facilities.
The rain begun to fall again in earnest, but Eamonn merely sauntered across the parking lot letting the cleansing downpour wash away the week’s fear and tension.
His mind shifting to a tropical beach. He pondered over the decision, the Maldives or Majorca? And smiled meekly to himself that such a choice was possible.
On his way, he passed a white Renault that looked vaguely familiar but paid it no mind. Inside the fast-food restaurant, the repugnant smell of days-old grease and wet children’s socks greeted him. He turned away from the service counter and made his way towards the men’s toilet at the far end of the corridor.
Or perhaps the Caribbean, he reflected, as he unzipped and began to relieve himself. Absorbed in his daydream debating the pros and cons between the Bahamas and Jamaica while staring at a chicken nugget advertisement, Eamonn failed to notice the bearded man enter the men’s room.
The stab of pain in his side took him by surprise. As did the strong hand forcing his face against the wall. His first reaction was of anger that some gobshite caused him to piss all over himself.
After three further thrusts from the switchblade found their mark, he realised trying to hide a wet spot on his trousers was the least of his worries.
As he slid to the floor, he watched the retreating footsteps of the bearded man leave the restroom. Then a pool of blood swam into view. With his face resting on the cold, greasy, tiles of the bathroom floor, it looked like an incoming red tide.
It was then he realised he’d never see that tropical beach. And that he, Eamonn Mahoney – master strategist for the Real IRA – had made a deathly serious miscalculation within his final plan.