Blood From A Shadow (2012) Page 3

Lenny and Kyle were relieved, stepped aside, old boy cursed both of us under his breath as I was signed into the book. Bodyguard was a Lieutenant in their Marines, a Commando in the Royal Marines. They had taken many hits in Afghanistan and I knew a couple of our own Jarheads that worked the Sangin area in Helmand province with them. They had a good reputation with the Americans as a tough, professional unit, say the equivalent of our Ranger guys, a good man to have on my side.

  We found elbow space at the bar and had a couple of beers. He saw the burn and shrapnel scars on my neck, but didn’t ask. We joked about the conditions in Iraq and Afghanistan, but didn’t talk about the action. Men like us usually don’t, that’s our problem.

  After a couple of beers, the Commando excused himself to go to the rest room, and I scoped the room to see where Lenny and Kyle were. Between me and the exit, with their eyes on me. A big guy joined them, Lenny spoke into his ear, he looked over at me, and then came my way. He was about 50, taller than me, maybe 6′2″, around 230 pounds and still active. This was trouble.

  “On holidays are you?” he said, as he took the Commando’s place at the bar.

  “Yeah, just passing through,” I said.

  “I hope that wee Commando wanker isn’t boring you too much,” he said. “Fucking Marines, think they are special. I’m a Paratrooper myself, the Marines don’t spout any shit when we’re around, or we put them straight. What bunch are you with?”

  “I was 69th Infantry Regiment, New York,” I said.

  “I hear you’ve got a couple of interesting tattoo’s there. I’m not sure we appreciate them in here,” Big Para said.

  “Sorry to hear that, no offence intended,” I said, and turned to my left, away from him, but watched him in the mirror behind the bar.

  He started to croak out a song, for my benefit.

  HELLO, HELLO, WE ARE THE BILLY BOYS

  UP TO OUR NECKS IN FENIAN BLOOD

  SURRENDER OR YOU’LL DIE

  FOR WE ARE THE SHANKILL BILLY BOYS

  I recognised the melody, it was the tune of “Marching thru Georgia”, the marching song for Union troops in the Civil War. I didn’t know what Billy Boys meant, but I knew a Fenian was any Irish Catholic, and my tattooed tricolor was enough to earn me that distinction, despite my Polish name and American accent. I did know plenty about the real Fenian Movement though. It was the Irish Republican organisation set up in America before the Civil War. When the war started, many of these “Fenians” joined the Irish Brigade. My 69th Regiment survived since then, and that’s where all the Regiment’s Irish traditions come from. So, I suppose, Big Para was closer to the truth than he knew. Funny the way everything in this country runs in circles, but why this British regiment used our Irish-American Fenian battle cry was a mystery to me, it just didn’t add up.

  The mirror showed Lenny and Kyle positioned to my left, about twenty feet away. If they came within ten feet I would take the Para down first, quickly, then see if they were still interested.

  The Commando came back.

  “If you have a problem, you’ll have to go through me first,” he said to Big Para.

  “No problem to me, son, no problem,” Big Para said. “I was fighting IRA scum before you were born, I never had any problem then either.”

  Lenny and Kyle stayed where they were. The rest of the old soldiers watched on with quiet interest.

  “There’s no IRA here, he’s an American soldier, and he gets a soldier’s respect in here, ok?” said Commando, “now fuck off out of my face, before I move you.”

  Commando spoke in measured tones, no raised voice or excitable gestures. No display of strength or aggression. Lenny and Kyle moved out of the firing line. Big Para looked at the Commando, then at me. Situations like this always reach that point, either fight or save face. Big Para was wise enough to save face this time, swaggered off, shouting “NO SURRENDER TO THE IRA” as he went.

  The other old soldiers returned to their talk and drinks, or watched the game show on the TV. The Commando bounced his options for a new car off me. He was definitely getting a 2 litre Alfa Romeo Giulietta, but hadn’t decided on which model—the Veloce or more expensive Cloverleaf?

  It was only later, when I was leaving, he said, “I’d go straight back to the hotel if I were you, this is the wrong area for that tattoo.”

  Straight back to the hotel, I thought it would be that simple.

  * * *

  I saluted the Old Boy on my way out.

  “Stand easy, soldier!” I ordered.

  His medals bristled.

  “Fuck off!” he answered.

  My head was buzzing. I would text Rose when I got back to the hotel and then find out how to get to Armagh in the morning. I walked back towards the hotel, the road busy with traffic, delivery vans, red & cream “Citybus” vehicles, taxis. A lot of the taxis were the iconic black London taxi, didn’t realise there were any outside of London. I knew all about it the next minute, when one skewed across the sidewalk in front of me.

  Three doors opened and three guys jumped out, the driver stayed behind the wheel. I had been drinking, but my head was clear enough to compute what this was. The one closest to me was about twenty, with bad skin and out of his head eyes. He had the deadly plastic pistol, a Glock, more or less locked on my face. The one beside him was around the same age, but obese, and carried a metal Yankees baseball bat. The other one was behind these two, and had some sort of weapon, maybe an iron bar.

  “Get down, you bastard, before I fucking blow your head off!” Glock boy barked.

  I started to kneel down, but slowly, kept my eyes on his, and raised my hands to head height.

  “Fucking hurry up!” he roared, and drew the Glock back to pistol whip me.

  He was too slow, from my half crouched position I swivelled on the ball of my left foot and planted the heel of my right shoe straight through his right kneecap. His roar of anger turned into a squeal of pain as he sprawled across the sidewalk, with the pistol spinning underneath the taxi.

  Fat Boy swung the bat, but the fat fuck had probably never played sports and it just grazed off my shoulders. Any American kid would have taken my head off with a bat like that. I tasted the fear from deep in his gut as my right elbow smashed into his dough-flabby face. His eyes went blank as he crumpled, and he pissed himself.

  They had lost the advantage that comes with a surprise attack and I was getting warmed up now, the third one was going to have a major problem. He had a hammer, and held it ready to strike, his right forearm parallel with his right ear, but afraid to commit himself. He was half turned towards me, with his left arm straight out, his left palm raised in line with my face, to ward me off. I sidestepped to his left, grabbed his left wrist with my left hand and pulled him off balance. I was half behind him now, on his left side, the hammer in his right hand was useless. I kept moving, my momentum twisted his left wrist and I stepped in to smash my right elbow into the side of his head. I could see the driver on the sidewalk now, scrambling under the taxi to get the gun. As the third one went down, I drove my left knee high into the soft tissue below his ribs, and took the hammer off him.

  The driver was half under the automobile, his right hand stretching to get the gun. He was just touching it when I landed on his exposed back.

  “Drop it, motherfucker, or I’ll cave your skull in!” I shouted, and smashed the hammer into his left shoulder blade. He screamed in agony, but I couldn’t see where the gun was, so hit him again, on the back of his head, probably not enough to do permanent damage but enough to leave him senseless. I was dragging him out of the way so I could get the gun when two more automobiles pulled up sharply. Doors opened and feet hit the sidewalk. I needed that fucking Glock now and just felt my fingertips closing on it before a skinny runt swung the Yankees bat and everything went black.

  * * *

  I stirred slowly, the nausea swirling through the torture pain behind my eyes. The voices sounded as if they were far away, but they drifted closer as I came aro
und. They were standing over me in the upstairs room of a derelict house. The place stank of rat piss. I couldn’t move, my hands were tied behind my back.

  An older voice, giving orders,

  “Stay here until the intelligence officer comes. They want him interrogated properly. We’ll need a clean gun, that Glock would be easily traced. We’ll finish later.”

  Footsteps on the bare wooden floorboards, then down the stairs.

  There was someone still in the room, I could feel them behind me. The pain in my skull convulsed, I couldn’t think, then blood-streaked vomit exploded out of me and splattered across the floor and up the black-moulded wall.

  “Fucking dirty Fenian bastard!” the voice behind me kicked me between the shoulder blades then stepped over me to open a window. It was a young, scrawny kid, maybe the runt who hit me, maybe the one who had tied my hands, badly, with this elastic nylon cord. I pulled my arms apart and my hands were free. The kid was too puny to get the window open and was struggling with it when I hit him, my elbow smashing his face through the glass. He gave a child-like cry before I grabbed him by the hair and banged his head off the wall. They heard the noise and started up the narrow stairs

  I yanked the window open and squeezed through, I was about fifteen feet above a concrete yard. Slightly to the left was a wooden shed. I launched myself toward the shed roof, it fell apart under my weight, but broke my fall. My brain was still scrambled, but I was on my feet and moving forward. The yard was surrounded by an eight foot high red brick wall. I couldn’t get over it in this state but barged into the rotten wood door, barely hung on rusted hinges. I flung it open and was in an alleyway between a row of houses identical to the one the posse was struggling to get out of now.

  I stumble sprinted to the end of the alleyway and out onto a street, turned left and reached a main road before the lynch mob came into sight. Three side streets branching off this road, I chose the second one and ran through the traffic. Blocked the pain, heard the shouts behind me, knew I had maybe ten seconds to get off the main road before I was spotted. Down the street and then a sharp turn into an alleyway, couldn’t hear them behind me, just the pounding of my feet and the hammer of my heart and lungs. Half way down a yard door was open, an old lady hanging laundry on a small triangular frame.

  I lunged through the doorway and locked it behind me. The old lady jumped but didn’t scream. Fearful for a moment before steadying herself. Keep her calm, no panic, focus.

  “Please don’t be afraid,” I said. “I need your help. I’m an American, I’ve escaped from terrorists. Please call the police department.”

  She weighed up the danger, looked at the locked yard door and shuffled into the house, holding the door for me to follow.

  “I’m really sorry, ma’am,” I said, “just call the police and I’ll be out of your hair as soon as I can. They didn’t see me come in, so you’re safe, nobody will ever know I was here.”

  She locked the kitchen door to the yard. Very secure, a deadlock with three separate bolts, wouldn’t be easy to break. She ushered me into the tiny room beside the kitchen, a foot square window accepting a slice of gray light.

  “I’ll call the police,” she said. “The barracks is just around the corner, they’ll be here in a minute. I want you to stay in the room until they get here. I’m a respectable Christian woman, I’ve no money or anything. If you do anything, my neighbors will hear me scream.”

  I tried to look virtuous as she looked me up and down, made her judgement, closed the door and sagged along the tight hallway. I listened at the door. She spoke in a loud announcing voice, not used to talking on the phone.

  “Police, Police, put me through to the police”—a slight pause—“Yes, I have an American gentleman says he has escaped from terrorists. Yes, he’s here now, in my good room.” Pause. “Betty Jackson, 30 Roumania Street. Thank you, yes, yes, but come straight away.” Her voice got louder as she spoke. I hoped the neighbours couldn’t hear through the cardboard walls of her mean abode.

  The sole of her right slipper flapped against the scrubbed red tiles as she shambled back to my hiding place.

  “The policeman said you should stay in this room until they get here. Don’t go near the windows and don’t answer the door. They’ll be here as soon as they can. Would you like some tea?”

  I sank into the miniature red armchair beside the fireplace. The armchair was old but wasn’t used. The fireplace was clinically clean, too clean to allow soot. Didn’t look like anyone lived here. No family photos, no adored grandchildren. As welcoming as my pokey apartment in Hoboken. Just two pieces of clumsy tapestry;

  “If God be for us, who can be against us?”

  and

  “For though a righteous man falls seven times, he rises again, but the wicked are brought down by calamity”

  Maybe I would get some life affirming motifs for Hoboken, when I got home. Betty rattled her best crockery in the kitchen, trilled a hymn, praised her God of ages past. Maybe meant to give me courage.

  They would know I might have called the cops by now. The longer I was out of their sight, the more dangerous it was for them to keep looking, would probably have disappeared back into their mundane little lives. They had my wallet and my cellphone. Some cash, Duffin’s credit card and my driver’s licence. They should be satisfied with that. The kettle whistled and came off the boil. My hyper flight or fight arousal ran out of steam. Ferdy’s fucking tattoo, he would be laughing his balls off now, if he was watching.

  Betty brought me a tray and a smile with bared false teeth. A cup of tea and two bite sized plain biscuits. She had just set the tray on my lap when the screech of automobile brakes tore through the fabric of the house.

  “That’ll be the police now. You stay here until I bring them in,” she said.

  I set the tray on the floor just as the two men in blue boiler suits and black balaclavas mounted the yard wall. I was through the door to the hallway as Betty let six men in the front door. Six men in blue boiler suits and black balaclavas. I made for the back door, but it was locked. Three men were on me now. The first covered me with a Steyr AUG, the second pressed a Ruger pistol to my right temple, the third stepped forward and slammed my gut with the butt of an assault rifle. I collapsed under their boots, kicked back into my panic room. They couldn’t all fit in the small room, so two of them held me down while another two riveted plastic ties to my wrists. Expertly this time, professionally.

  Smacks around my head, then dragged out to the hallway.

  “Thank the Lord, Betty, you’ve probably saved Protestant lives today,” said the leader.

  Betty looked down at me as I was dragged past, then looked away, her nose in the air as if these were garbage men removing a bad smell from the sewer of her sinless home. Her righteous face disappeared as they put a hood over my head. They lifted me into a van, some more boots as they piled in over me. I counted four of them, then the front doors closed, two more? The side door of the van slid closed. Grabbed by the throat, the leader’s voice again,

  “One move or sound out of you, Yank, and you are dead. Understand?”

  I understood this might be the end, but couldn’t panic. I can’t even say I was really afraid, not like the last time I was hooded and prepared for slaughter. This danger didn’t feel real, it was too absurd.

  The driver went slowly, he wouldn’t attract attention. I should have smelt adrenalin pumped excitement in the back of the van, but these were quiet passengers, could have been taking the bus to the library. We rolled along in silence for a few minutes.

  “This is it. Stop there.”

  We stopped, the door slid open and they trundled out over me, three or four? The front doors both opened and slammed shut. One left behind? To dispatch me after the rest had cleared the area? I waited, straining. I wasn’t afraid, but didn’t want to die either, to be found with my pulped head in a hood on a dirty Belfast street. Not yet, I wasn’t ready.

  The van door slid open, I turned o
n my back like a beetle, kicked with both feet in a frenzy.

  “Ok, ok, police officers, you are safe, stop fucking kicking,” a voice said as the hood came off. Hands lifted me, the ties on my wrists were cut and I was on my feet, surrounded by six big guys in black uniforms, one blue light spinning on top of an unmarked automobile, another on top of a Landrover, Police Service Northern Ireland emblazoned on the side.

  CHAPTER THREE

  No questions were asked. Who are you? What happened? What did they look like? Where did they take you? It wasn’t their business, somebody else could speak to me. I was left in a room that fell somewhere between a waiting space and an interrogation centre. No windows, a coffee-stained table, four hard plastic chairs and a hint of body odor. I sat, and stood, and paced up and down, and then sat some more. I shouldn’t be here, but someone had decided that I would be. Since I had been a boy, there had always been someone making decisions. It didn’t matter what I wanted. It sure didn’t matter what I deserved. Deserved was what happened to other people, not me.

  I knew my wait here was over when he strolled in. An older man, maybe mid to late fifties, a long, mean face, like any caricature of an old Irish cop in the movies.

  “Hello sir! I thought I’d drop by and see how you are getting on,” he said. “My name is Swansea, your friend is on his way. You may as well have your sandwich before he gets here.”

  He set a blue and white striped plastic bag on the table and pulled out two packets of sandwiches and two king sized Mars bars. From the doorway, a pair of hands reached two mugs of coffee to him.

  “I hope you don’t take sugar, the bastards here have none, so they tell me, anyway. Ham & Cheese or Ploughman’s?”

  I didn’t know what Ploughman’s was, so took the Ham & Cheese. The price was still on the plastic wrapper, PS2.99 reduced to PS1. It was two days past its sell by date.

  “What friend?” I said.

  “Oh, you know, one of the big boys from your Embassy. He’s coming up from Dublin. They called to say he is on his way.”

  “How did they know I was here?” I asked.