Brendan had never removed his underpants in front of a stranger before. He knew this man wasn’t really his uncle. But like the teachers at his new school he seemed friendly enough, so what the heck? It still didn’t feel right, but then a lot of things in his life had been like that. Ma and Da breaking up had been wrong for a start. And everything that had happened since had been a let-down. Sharing a house with three girls was definitely shite. Even if one of them was his Ma. His sisters always had to spoil things, especially Emma. But he’d never let her see him without his underpants. Now he stood at the sink naked from the waist down, rinsing the stained item under the tap like the man had told him, and for a moment he wondered if the tea towel was big enough to wrap around his middle.
‘That should do now, Brendan.’ The voice seemed close behind him. ‘Just squeeze out the water and put them next to your trousers.’
Brendan’s superior knowledge immediately surfaced. They’re not trousers. They’re pants! But he kept his thoughts to himself and did as he was told. Then he turned to face the man in the suit. He was rewarded with a dazzling smile, white teeth framed by thin lips. Peter Gris was standing above him, arms spread in a welcoming gesture.
‘You’re a fine-looking boy. A son to be proud of. Let’s get to know one another better.’
*
A shortwave radio crackled into life with a single word. ‘Amfortas.’
The agent glanced up from the file he had been reading on Patrick Faulkner’s desk and pressed the button to transmit. ‘Parsifal.’
‘Update, please.’
Parsifal fingered a blue folder. ‘Grail located as described. Checking for potential copies.’ There was silence for a couple of seconds before the response came.
‘Diary? Address book?’ The amplified voice sounded nervous.
‘Roger that. No trace evidence so far.’ Parsifal was turning over Faulkner’s sparse home study for anything which might merit his attention. His eyes fell on a framed photo of the dead man in which he was sitting with a boy of around seven on his lap. Happier times. ‘Anything yet from the boy?’
‘Negative. Unless you can find a mention of DBD.’
‘D-B-D?’ Parsifal repeated, careful to enunciate the letters.
‘Correct. Anything?’
‘I’ll get back to you. Out.’
Parsifal closed the connection and immediately changed the shortwave frequency for security. He sat back in Faulkner’s chair to consider the possible significance of the three letters. Ireland was full of organisations, many of them militant, using short identifiers: the UVF, the UDC, the INLA, several others. If a new one had sprung up, he would have heard about it. Who might adopt ‘DBD’? Militants tended to stick to well-recognised territories, so a new group in Portadown was unlikely. The letters almost certainly had another significance. He returned his attention to the file in the blue folder his employer had been so keen for him to retrieve.
*
‘That’s better, isn’t it?’
Brendan did not have an honest reply. On the one hand the cold wet tea towel had been soothingly applied around his lower parts. The problem lay in it not being his own hand doing the application.
‘We don’t want to hold you up from getting back to mother. Marion, isn’t it?’ Peter Gris dropped the tea towel but left his own hands in place. ‘So, we’ll let everything dry off and then it’s back to bed for you, my boy.’
Brendan clenched his teeth, clutching the side of the sink unit for support. Silky smooth hands were caressing his private parts as the man’s musky warm breath brushed against his neck and ears.
‘Tell me about DBD.’
The question was almost a welcome distraction. It came immediately after a physical shock when he felt pressure between his buttocks. Was that the man’s thumb?
‘What… what about it?’
‘Your father. When he left you here. Said something to you. “DBD”, he said. What did he mean?’ Regular small thrusts, exploring, testing, terrifying.
‘Please stop it! I don’t like this.’
‘No, Brendan! Not now. Tell me everything. Good boy. Who or what is DBD?’ A deeper thrust. Pain like he’d never known. ‘Ahh… no crying now. Just be good. DBD. Tell me!’
Another thrust.
Screaming now, Brendan gave the man his answer. ‘Death Before Dishonour!’
*
In the car on the way home Brendan suffered even more. Years before he had tripped crossing the road and gashed his knee on the kerb. It had hurt like hell and there had been so much blood. He had cried with the shock and the pain and hobbled back to his Ma and Da. Now it was worse. The physical pain below was bad enough, but now his brain was under attack from the words thrown at him by the man in the suit and the soldier at his side. Even worse was the prospect of facing his Ma. They’d said it was just man’s stuff, and not to say anything to her. They’d said she might be in big trouble if he talked to anyone. Could he risk that? And Da wouldn’t be there. Da was probably in the pub with his drinking pals. It would just be the girls. He thought about their sniggering faces and the fire began to return to his belly. He held back the dam of tears building behind his eyes as the car pulled up outside his house.
‘Wait there.’
The soldier dressed in civvies got out of the driver’s seat and went up the path. Brendan braced himself. Ma wouldn’t be happy woken in the middle of the night. There was no way he could tell her what had really happened. Not now. Whatever he said or did he was going to be in big trouble with his Ma, his Da, or the man in the suit. No way out of it.
The passenger door flew open and suddenly he was wrapped in his mother’s arms. The dam gave way and her yielding softness soaked up his tears. Soothing words had no effect on the soreness of his body, but he was surprised and pleased that she held him so close, and didn't ask him anything awkward beyond ‘Are you alright?’ He found it easier just to sniffle and nod, and even the sight of his sisters in their pyjamas at the top of the stairs was somehow welcoming. From a distance he heard his Ma scold them and send them back to bed. He felt comforted by the closeness of his mother’s breasts, her embrace pinning him there as if she wanted him to suckle like a baby.
But then he heard something pass between her and the soldier, before heavy feet began climbing the stairs. Creaks above him in a bedroom. His bedroom! The soldier was looking at his things. Why?
Did he know what he was looking for?
Brendan felt secure on his mother’s lap, legs dangling almost to the floor. But the protective armour she provided would not be enough. His defences were down. Now the enemy were on the rampage, grasping for victory. He had tried to fight, but if they found what he’d been given to hide, all would be lost. So much for DBD. How could he ever face his Da?
‘All clear, Mrs Faulkner.’
The soldier was back. Brendan’s mother eased him gently off her lap and stood close, her hand firm on his shoulder.
‘No ammunition then?’
‘Nothing.’ The soldier smiled and switched his attention to Brendan. ‘You were quite right, Brendan. We didn’t find anything. But if you come across any more stuff like that you have to hand it over to us. Okay? You understand me?’
Brendan nodded. He got the message.
The soldier was smiling at his mother again. ‘Sorry, Mrs Faulkner. We have to check out all reports like this. Live ammunition in the wrong hands… boys, eh?’
Brendan stopped listening. He didn’t care about the lie. All that mattered was his Ma didn’t have to know what the man had done to his body. And his Da’s secret must still be safe. Hidden from the bloody Brits, and that included the enemy soldier who now retreated, quietly closing the door behind him.