James Benn - Evil for evil

She began to cry, with big gulping sobs. She let go of the shawl, her hand covered her mouth, and the shawl slipped from her heaving shoulders. Her blouse was stained dark red between her breasts, but there was no wound. Then I recognized the odor. Cordite lingered in the air, the faintly peppery smell of spent gunpowder drawing out another terrible and familiar scent.

"Have Finch drive to the pub and call Carrick," I said to Slaine as I walked to the kitchen door. Mrs. Simms was hunched over now, silent, her head buried in her hands. I entered the narrow room, the smell of death heavy in the air. Gunpowder and blood, whiskey and piss. Adrian Simms faced me, seated at the end of a small kitchen table, his face tilted toward the ceiling, his mouth slack. His revolver lay on the table, surrounded by a box of shells and cleaning gear. Bore brush, rags, an old toothbrush, and solvent. A bottle of whiskey had been tipped over, the amber liquid soaking into the tabletop. A broken glass lay on the floor.

One shot to the heart. Simms wasn't in uniform. He had on a white shirt, sleeves rolled up. A dark hole above his shirt pocket was tattooed with gunpowder marks, the dried blood coating his shirt and soaking his trousers. He hadn't died right away; he'd had a minute, maybe two, as his blood flowed.

"He told me we had to leave," Mrs. Simms said, coming up behind me. She was wringing her hands, her eyes darting from me to her dead husband. "Leave, can you believe it? Hide, like criminals, all because of his hideous half brother, that Bolshevik killer. He said we would go to South America. South America!"

"With Jack Taggart?"

"I said, 'No, I am not leaving this house!'" She hadn't heard me, wasn't speaking to me. She pushed against my chest, her arm extended, pointing at her husband, continuing the argument that had ended with a bullet. "'And neither are you. Would you make a laughingstock of me again, you liar? How dare you!'"

I could see it all, Adrian telling her that they had to go. Maybe he said the money was all for her, so she could be a high-society lady somewhere south of the equator. He'd laid his revolver down, finished with cleaning and loading it, ready for whatever the night held-German agents, the U.S. Army, everyone except his own dear wife. Maybe as he raised the glass to his lips, she'd grabbed the revolver, two-handed it, and pulled the trigger, less than a foot from his chest.

"Gold, he said, hard cash and gold, just a few hours away. Well, no one from my family ever ran off like a thief in the night, gold or no gold," she said, her eyes fixed on her husband's once-white shirt.

"What gold?" I asked, easing her out of the kitchen.

"German gold, he said it was. That wasn't Adrian, that was his bad blood speaking. Catholics, Communists, and Germans. Did he think I'd consort with them? Take their money and flee my own nation, my family, my church? He was insane, don't you see? It wasn't his fault."

Her face softened as some memory of the man she loved crept in and dissolved her hate and anger for a moment. I could imagine her placing the revolver on the table, hugging Adrian as he gasped for breath, the shock widening his eyes as his shattered heart pumped the last of his blood, staining his wife's blouse, his dreams of revenge and wealth fading with each pulse, then gone.

"What will I do now?" Mrs. Simms said, seating herself in one of the good armchairs by the fire. Her chair, next to her husband's.

"We'll get this all sorted out," I said as soothingly as I could, as if it were all a matter of paperwork. "Tell me, did he say anything about where the gold was? Was he going to meet Taggart tonight?"

"Don't speak that name in my house," she said, drawing the shawl around her.

"I'm sorry. The gold, that he said was only a few hours away. Do you know where?"

"He didn't make any sense, he must have been off his head. He wasn't responsible, you know; it was that terrible half brother of his."

I heard the door open, and Slaine walked in ahead of Finch, who stood guard at the entrance. There was no wind now and his coat was dry.

"Have you come to take him away?" Mrs. Simms asked. "I have to clean up, I don't like a messy house."

"What was it that didn't make sense?" I asked. I smiled, trying to keep her with me for another minute or so. She was retreating, falling back on memories and delusions, blotting out the present of betrayals and failures, her visions turned inward. "What did Adrian say?"

"That it was above us. Right above us. Do you think he meant in the attic?"

"I don't know. Didn't he say it was a few hours from here? It has to be someplace else."

"Oh dear, I suppose you're right. You can ask Adrian when he gets home." With that, she relaxed, staring at the glowing peat, and sighed.

"A few hours away, and above us," I said to Slaine. "What does that mean?"

"The German Focke-Wulf 200? It should make landfall within a few hours."

"But we don't know where," I said.

"There's only one place above us and a few hours away," Finch said from his post by the door. "Slieve Donard, that great bloody mountain that's at our backs. About half a mile up."

I stood outside the house, watching the clouds break up and stars begin to show in the east. The rain had passed. By the time the Focke-Wulf made landfall, the half-moon would give enough light to find the drop zone, probably with the aid of a signal fire courtesy of Red Jack.

"You should be able to make out Slieve Donard soon," Slaine said, pointing south. "It's the closest peak to Newcastle, and the highest of the Mournes. It blots out the stars."

"Have you been up it?"

"Yes, it's a pleasant climb in daylight and good weather. Steep but not difficult. There's a bit of a plateau just before the last stretch up to the summit. That's where I'd look for parachutists. Tricky but if the pilot gets close enough, he should be able to put them spot-on."

"Red Jack could be up there right now, preparing a signal fire," I said.

"More likely a torch-what you Yanks call a flashlight. It's above the tree line and he'd have to drag an awful lot of wood up there for a sustained fire. But the plateau is protected by mountain walls, Slieve Donard on one side and Slieve Commedagh on the other. The Glen River runs between them, and that's the route we'll follow. Beyond the river the terrain flattens out before the final ascent."

"We?"

"Of course. You're coming, aren't you?" She opened the trunk of the car and pulled out boots, clothing, and a Sten gun. "Finch called the RUC from the pub. They're sending a constable from the next village, and Carrick is on his way, probably with your uncle. You drive while I change in the backseat. And keep your eyes on the road."

I backed out of the drive, listening to the sound of fabric being pulled off and on, resisting the temptation to risk a backward glance. She had a submachine gun.

"I'm going to make a call for reinforcement," I said, stopping at the pub. "Where should they meet us?"

"We don't need a company of gum-chewing, heavy-footed GIs getting in our way," she said. "No offense."

"Not a problem," I said. "But I know some guys who have been training up and down those mountains. A reconnaissance platoon."

She came in with me, now wearing sturdy boots, camouflage jacket and trousers, with a web belt and revolver. I was glad she'd left the Sten gun in the car.

"What's going on?" Tom asked, staring at Slaine in her combat duds as she adjusted her beret. "That sergeant burst in here and demanded to use the telephone, said it was an emergency."

"It was. Still is, so I need the phone too."

"What emergency, Billy Boyle?" Grady O'Brick asked from the end of the bar. "What trouble have you got yourself in now?"