James Craig - What Dies Inside

Palmer gave Durkan a questioning look.

‘Why should I care what you get up to, ya fuckin’ eejit? Just don’t bring your shite to my door.’

‘No.’

‘And clean that fucking mess up — right now .’

Finishing his lager, Durkan watched Palmer with a wry smile. The MI5 man was on his knees, making a half-hearted effort to remove the last of his vomit from the carpet with a wet cloth doused in disinfectant while grumbling to himself like an old dosser with early onset Alzheimer’s.

‘You missed a bit.’

‘Sod off!’ the spy grunted, dropping the cloth into the green plastic bucket by his side and struggling to his feet. ‘There, that’s the best I can do.’

Durkan looked less than impressed with his handler’s efforts, but his own interest in domestic cleaning was limited and he no longer had any wish to pursue the point. ‘What the hell were you doing here, anyway?’

‘What do you think I was doing here?’ Palmer responded, dancing round the bucket and sticking his hands under the tap in the sink. ‘I was looking for you. The whole of bloody London is looking for you.’ Giving his hands a quick rinse, he looked around for something to dry them with. Finding nothing, he wiped them on the arse of his trousers. ‘You’ve really fucked up here, Gerry.’

‘We were unlucky,’ the bomber said sulkily.

‘“We”?’ Palmer spluttered. ‘What’s this “we”? You’re supposed to be working for us, remember?’

‘Ah, well, Marty,’ Durkan said slowly, ‘what you’ve got to remember yourself, is that this is a very complicated situation that we’re both trying to operate in here.’

You’re telling me , Palmer thought, nervously eyeing the Browning. Suddenly dealing with a bunch of raggedy-arsed lefties in the provinces seemed like child’s play compared to this. Turning the tap back on, he drank from his hands, rinsing the bile from his mouth. When he’d had enough, he again dried his hands, cleared his throat and gave Durkan what he hoped was a penetrating stare. ‘You’ve got to let me take you in,’ he said firmly. ‘Before Special Branch track you down.’

‘You’ve got to be feckin’ kidding,’ Durkan snorted, turning up the Irish accent for effect. Reaching over to the coffee table, he picked up the Browning, waving it airily at Palmer. ‘I’ve had enough of all this bollocks. You tell that cunt Cahill that if he comes after me again, I’ll use your gun to put a bullet right between his bastard eyes.’

Who the bloody hell is Cahill? Mesmerised by the barrel of the semi-automatic, Palmer felt the bile creeping back up his throat.

‘Understand?’

The spy nodded dutifully.

Cleaning out Martin Palmer’s wallet as well as his pockets gleaned Durkan the princely sum of ten pounds and eighteen pence. Ten fucking quid! He shook his head angrily. That would barely get you to Birmingham. In order to make good his escape, the Irishman knew that he would need considerably more funds than that. Sadly, Rose was no use; since she had been disowned by her family, she was even more skint than he was himself. Much as he appreciated her willingness to travel the path less trodden — and her enthusiasm in bed — he found himself wondering if she might not have been a little cannier when it came to keeping her father onside and the funds flowing.

Unable to rely on the largesse of the ruling classes, Durkan realised that he would have to make a surreptitious return to Nelson Avenue to recover the emergency cash he had carefully stashed in the fireplace of his room. After a couple of quick glasses of Powers in the nearby Mowlam Arms, he buttoned up his coat, pulled on his green woollen hat (a la Mike Nesmith in the Monkees), shoved his hands in his pockets and set off down the street. Walking past number 179, he turned the corner into Pearse Road, confident that the place was no longer under surveillance. Just to be on the safe side, he walked on, taking another right into Colbert Road, running parallel to Nelson Avenue with the same three-storey Victorian terraces on either side of the road. Counting down the houses, he came to the property that should back onto Hilda Blair’s house. The lights were on and he could see the flicker of a television screen from the living room on the ground floor. No good. Moving on, Durkan turned his attention to the property next door, which was shrouded in darkness. Skipping through the gate and up the path, he hardly broke his stride as he walked up to the front door and smashed the small pane of glass next to the lock with the walnut grip of the Browning that he had taken from Palmer. A second blow cleared enough of a hole for him to stick a hand inside and unlock the door. Shoving the semiautomatic into the back of his jeans, he slipped inside, closing the door behind him before moving towards the back of the house, heading for the garden.

In the gloom, he took a moment to get his bearings. Hilda Blair’s garden, with its tiny, dilapidated greenhouse, was to his right, where it should be. Durkan took a deep breath. It was too late to worry about anyone seeing him now. Scrambling over the fence, he landed in the flowerbed of 181 and quickly vaulted over the adjoining wall, on to the muddy lawn of 179. In the distance, a dog started barking. No one, however, seemed to be taking any notice of the Brighton bomber who was running around their back gardens. Regaining his breath, he stepped over to the back door of the house, which opened into the kitchen. From experience, he knew that his landlady rarely locked it. He had remonstrated with her about it on several occasions. Their conversation would always go the same way; it had a ritualistic element that they both enjoyed.

‘This is a big, bad city, Hilda,’ he would smile, gesturing towards the wider world outside their four walls. ‘There are lots of sick and nasty individuals out there. Times have changed. You never know who might walk in, bash you over the head and steal all your valuables.’

‘Ah, but I do, Gerald,’ she would reply, a twinkle in her eye, her smile even wider than his. ‘After more than thirty years, I know that nothing bad is ever going to happen to me here.’ She would pause, so that they could both anticipate her punch line. ‘And, anyway, it’s not like I have any valuables to steal.’

Turning the handle, he felt the door open, the familiar squeak of its hinges reminding him that he had never made good on his promise to oil them with some WD-40. Well done, Hilda, he thought, closing the door quietly behind him. The kitchen was cold and dark. His landlady was probably in the front room, enjoying Crimewatch. Quality television , Durkan thought as he trod quietly through the hallway. Reaching the stairs, however, he realised that the living room was empty and the whole house was in darkness. Durkan frowned. The old lady rarely left the house, other than to do her shopping and collect her pension, and she was always home after five o’clock in the afternoon.

Hovering on the bottom step of the stairs, he called out, ‘Hilda, are you in?’ He listened to the sound of traffic on the street outside for several moments, waiting for a reply that never came. A sudden thought popped into his head. How old was she? ‘ Hilda !’

Bounding up the stairs, he stepped on to the landing, pushed open her bedroom door and switched on the light.

‘Jesus!’ Standing in the doorway, Durkan stifled a sob. However Hilda Blair had died, it wasn’t of natural causes. Lying on the bed, she looked up at the ceiling as if pleading for some divine intervention that never came. Her face was battered and bruised and her skirt had been pushed up so that it was almost under her chin. Embarrassed by her nakedness, he stepped over to the wardrobe in the corner and pulled out a blanket, carefully draping it over her. Standing at the bottom of the bed, he felt his shock turning to anger.