James Craig - What Dies Inside
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- Название:What Dies Inside
- Автор:
- Издательство:Constable & Robinson
- Жанр:
- Год:2013
- ISBN:9781472107435
- Рейтинг книги:4 / 5. Голосов: 1
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‘I remember you,’ Carlyle mumbled to himself as he watched the man disappear round the corner. ‘You’re that fucking spook from Orgreave.’ Thinking back to his time spent on picket-line duty at the mineworkers’ strike, he tried to recall the MI5 guy’s name. ‘Prentice, Patrick, no. . Palmer.’ That was it. Martin Palmer: the junior spy on the frontline who was busy fighting the so-called ‘enemy within’, while Constable bloody Carlyle was taking a brick to the head.
He shuddered at the memory of it. Never again.
His reverie was broken by the crackle of a radio from inside the van. A moment later, Jamie Donaldson appeared on the kerb waving angrily at Carlyle and the other coppers lolling about on the road. ‘Get back in the fucking van,’ he ordered. ‘Things are about to kick off.’
His heart was beating so fast that he thought it was going to burst out of his chest at any moment. Head down, Martin Palmer walked into a busy McDermott Arms suddenly feeling about as comfortable as the Pope at a meeting of the Glasgow Rangers Supporters Club. Avoiding eye-contact with any of the patrons, he walked up to the bar and cautiously put an arm on his contact’s shoulder.
‘Gerry.’
Looking round, Durkan did a double-take. ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ Lifting his gaze, he quickly scanned the room in order to confirm what he already knew: all eyes were upon them. The only person who hadn’t clocked the MI5 man’s arrival in the pub was Becky Andrews — the Spartacist foot soldier was still weaving drunkenly from table to table, trying to sell copies of her bloody newspaper. He shook his head sadly as he returned his gaze to the spook. ‘Have you got a fucking death-wish or something?’
Standing next to Durkan, Rose Murray placed her pint of Guinness on the bar and reached for her bag. Palmer quickly put a hand on her arm.
‘If I see a pepper spray,’ he hissed, trying to sound as hard as possible, ‘I will shoot you right in the bloody face.’ Rose looked at Durkan, who gave her the slightest of nods, and let her hand return to her glass.
Palmer took a deep breath. ‘Good.’ His heart was still jackhammering away inside his ribs, and he could feel the sweat building on his brow, but at least he hadn’t pissed himself. More to the point, no one had tried to glass him.
So far.
He turned back to Durkan. ‘Are you drunk?’
‘Not really,’ the IRA man replied, carefully readjusting his position against the bar. ‘Slightly lubricated, nothing more.’
‘So, what the hell are you doing here?’ Palmer asked.
‘I might as well ask the same of you ,’ Durkan replied. ‘Indeed, I think I already did.’
‘You should have got out of here when you had the chance.’
Durkan threw back his head and downed a double measure of Powers. ‘Don’t you worry about me,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m doing fine.’
‘You were doing fine,’ Palmer corrected him, ‘but now the situation has changed rather.’
‘Oh? How so?’ Durkan watched the barman silently refill his glass and lifted it to his lips, waiting for an answer.
Tilting his head, Palmer gestured towards the door. ‘There are fifty TPG outside, just itching to come inside and beat the living shit out of everyone.’
Durkan’s eyes narrowed as he took a modest nip of his whiskey.
‘They gave me five minutes to try and talk you into coming quietly.’
‘Ha!’
‘Otherwise, you might not get out of here at all.’
Rose started to say something but Durkan held up a hand, cutting her off.
‘They’re taking bets,’ Palmer explained, ‘on whether you’ll be shot resisting arrest.’
‘And what are the odds?’ Durkan grinned.
‘Evens, last I heard; six-to-four that there’s a fatal shooting.’
Momentarily lost in thought, Durkan stuck out his lower lip. Then he downed the last of his drink. ‘Not great odds.’
‘No.’
Rummaging around in the pocket of his jeans, the IRA man pulled out a crumpled banknote and slapped it down on the bar. ‘Put a fiver on for me, will you? I bet I’ll walk away unscathed.’
‘The book’s closed, Gerry.’ Palmer gestured towards the door. ‘Shall we go?’
Leaning forward, Durkan gestured towards Palmer’s sweat-stained shirt. ‘Are you wearing a wire?’ he whispered into the spook’s ear.
‘Hardly,’ Palmer snorted. ‘They tried to make me, but I refused. I don’t want those bastards hearing what we’re saying any more than you do.’
‘Good.’ Durkan nodded, resuming his pose against the bar. ‘Maybe you’re not that stupid after all.’
Pointedly glancing at his watch, Palmer let the barb slide.
Placing his glass on the bar, Durkan recovered the fiver and handed it to the barman.
‘Keep the change.’
‘Thanks, Gerry.’
‘No trouble.’ Slowly, Durkan turned his attention back to Palmer. ‘If you think I’m going out with you,’ he laughed, ‘you’re crazy.’ Leaning forward, he planted a gentle kiss on Rose’s forehead. ‘See you later, sweetheart. Sorry for leaving you in a mess like this.’ Without waiting for a reply, he grabbed Palmer by the arm and began marching him towards the back of the room. ‘Come with me. Your five minutes are almost up.’
Blocking the entrance to the gentlemen’s bogs, Palmer waited patiently while Gerry Durkan stepped up to the nearest of the two urinals and took a long piss. Unperturbed that the pissoirs were blocked with a collection of paper towels, fag ends, chewing gum and God knows what, Durkan watched his urine trickle over the edge of the porcelain and form a pool on the greasy floor.
Expecting the door to be kicked in at any moment, Palmer looked nervously behind him. ‘Gerry-’
‘OK,’ said Durkan, half-looking over his shoulder as he gave himself a shake. ‘Here’s the plan. I’m going to walk out the back of here and through the building next door.’ Zipping himself up, he told Palmer, ‘When the stormtroopers arrive, you’re gonna say that I thumped you and did a runner.’
‘But you haven’t hit me,’ Palmer frowned.
‘I have now.’ Spinning round, Durkan took two steps towards the spy, slamming a fist into his gut.
‘ Oopfff! ’ Palmer doubled up in pain, grabbing his stomach as his eyes filled with tears. Adjusting his stance, Durkan elbowed him in the face and expertly raked a boot down the back of his calf.
‘You are one fucking soft bastard,’ Durkan grunted as he watched Palmer slip to the floor. Taking a step backwards, he gave him a final swift kick in the ribs.
‘Urgh.’
‘C’mon, get up.’ Durkan grabbed Palmer’s collar and hauled him to his feet. ‘We don’t have time for this. Remember your lines. You don’t know where I went.’
Wiping his nose, Palmer felt a faint flicker of defiance stirring in his breast. ‘Why should I let you go?’ he choked out.
‘Because I know that you raped and killed Hilda Blair.’ Pulling a photograph from the back pocket of his jeans, Durkan shoved it in front of Palmer’s face. ‘If things were different, I’d bloody kill you for it.’
Pushing back his head, Palmer focused on the image of himself standing outside number 179 Nelson Avenue. How the hell did you get that? He tried to organise the jumble of thoughts flying through his brain into something that offered the vaguest approximation of a plan. ‘I visited the house. So what? I, like the rest of the world, was looking for you at the time.’ He pushed the picture away with a dismissive hand. ‘That proves nothing.’
‘Maybe not,’ Durkan replied, letting the photo fall to the floor as he took a step backwards. ‘But I also have these. .’
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