Shaun Hutson: Knife Edge

The daylight was grey, like dirty sheets. Still full of lowering clouds, the sky was a clear warning of things to come.

Doyle watched the rain hitting the windscreen of the Datsun, the rivulets coursing down the glass.

He'd switched off the cassette for the time being and was listening to the news on Radio 5. The draw for the next round of the Coca-Cola Cup was coming up after it and the counter terrorist seemed more concerned with that than what was happening in the world around him.

It was the usual shit.

Just like the papers.

Same shit, different day.

Politics.

Showbiz.

Bullshit.

He looked across at the windows of number ten London Road.

The windows of one of the rooms upstairs were open. Every other set was firmly closed. In the darkness the windows had been uncovered, exposed to the gloom. Now that light was grudgingly filling the sky, it was being shut out. At least from that particular house.

There was a brief mention of number ten London Road on the news.

Doyle looked disdainfully at the radio as if hoping his mood would be transmitted to the newsreader.

It was a short piece.

They didn't have enough information as yet. There would be more bulletins as the day went on.

I bet there will.

With the coming of daylight he could see the entire road.

Both ends had been sealed off now, uniformed police moving around without any pretence of furtiveness. Doyle counted at least twelve men in clear view and he knew there must be more he hadn't yet seen.

Also parked further up the road were two ambulances, a couple of police cars and a large white Transit van with police markings.

Doyle puffed on his cigarette and turned up the volume on the radio as the news came to an end.

The weather forecast was for more rain.

Doyle shuffled uncomfortably in his seat and sat forward slightly as the announcer proclaimed that the draw for the next round was about to take place.

Doyle glanced out of the window and saw men moving about, taking up positions.

He was surprised at how silently it all took place. It was as if the car was hermetically sealed. No sound from outside could penetrate.

He pulled distractedly at the top of one boot as the draw began.

Arsenal would play Spurs.

Doyle continued to watch the policemen, some of them glancing towards the curtained windows of number ten as they moved, swiftly, nervously.

Newcastle would play West Ham.

Still Doyle had seen no movement at any of the windows. He wondered how well the rear of the house was covered. The back garden led down to train tracks; it would be difficult escaping that way.

Watford would play Liverpool.

'Come on, you reds,' he whispered under his breath.

And Manchester United…

Doyle switched off the radio.

Who gave a fuck about that shit?

He shoved a cassette back into the machine and turned up the volume further.

The tap on his side window startled him and he turned to see a uniformed policeman standing there.

The counter terrorist wound down his window.

'Mr Doyle,' said the policeman. 'Will you come with me, please?'

Doyle looked at his watch then at the constable.

'About fucking time,' he snapped and hauled himself out of the car.

Was the waiting over at last?

Portadown, Northern Ireland

'Bullshit. '

Doyle looked directly at Wetherby as he spoke the word.

'His name is Robert Neville,' the Intelligence officer said, pushing a file towards the counter terrorist. 'Corporal Robert Neville, a para. Age thirty-eight, married with a daughter. Enlisted March fourteenth 1977. Joined the Paratroop Regiment and came through the training with the highest marks of anyone in the same batch of new recruits. He subsequently specialised in explosives.'

Doyle had begun to read the file, scanning the pieces of paper there.

'Wounded four times,' Wetherby continued. 'Recommended for promotion to Sergeant in January 1993.' There was a photo of Neville amongst the reports. Doyle studied it.

Neville had a square face, his jaw flat, his ears tight to his head. His hair was short as Doyle would have expected. Dark and lustrous. A faint smile was distinguishable on the paratrooper's lips. A small scar ran from the corner of his mouth to his chin.

'There's a psych report in there too,' Wetherby told Doyle. 'But as far as anyone can tell, he's no crazier than anyone else in the army. '

'How can you be so sure he's responsible for these killings?' Doyle asked, his tone subdued. 'How do you know it isn't some extremist faction on either side?'

'The bullets they dug out of the men that were shot had Neville's fingerprints on them,' Wetherby explained. 'Some cartridge cases were found by the Gardai at the scene of a shooting in the Republic. They had his prints on too.'

'And the bombings? How can you be sure he was responsible for those? He's not the only geezer out there who knows how to use Semtex.'

'Forensic reports by the RUC and Army Intelligence found evidence that Neville-'

'What kind of evidence?'

'You sound as if you're trying to defend him,' Wetherby said.

'You could be wrong,' Doyle snapped.

'We're not,' Wetherby assured him.

Doyle tossed the file back in the officer's direction.

'So what the fuck do you want me to do?'

'Find Neville, before the IRA, the UVF, the media or all three find out the truth.'

'And if I do find him?'

'Kill him.'

Doyle regarded the officer coldly. 'Just like that?' he said softly.

'You've done it before, Doyle. Don't tell me you're going soft,' Wetherby chided. 'How many men have you killed? Twenty? Thirty?'

'This is different.'

'Why?'

'The others weren't British soldiers,' Doyle snarled.

'What difference does that make?' Wetherby snorted. 'It's one man's life. We're talking about a country here, Doyle. Over three thousand people have died since 1969. Half of the people involved don't even know why. Now, after all those deaths, there's peace. That peace can't be destroyed. Not at any cost. Neville is threatening that peace. He has to be removed. If not, all the deaths, all the sacrifices, the talking, it'll have been for nothing. We can't let one man jeopardise that.'

'Save the fucking sermons, Wetherby,' Doyle rasped.

'You've suffered enough yourself,' the officer continued. 'Don't you want it finished?'

Doyle didn't answer.

He reached for a cigarette and lit it.

'You said there was nothing left for you, Doyle,' the Major reminded him. 'Look on this job as a swan song. A last shot. You're right. There is nothing left.'

'And what if I refuse?'

'You won't,' said Wetherby, smugly. 'Two days, Doyle.'

Doyle snatched up the file on Neville and headed for the door.

'You're right, Wetherby,' he said, pausing as he turned the handle. 'I'm nothing without the fighting, maybe that's how Neville feels too; perhaps that's why I don't want to kill him, because I understand how he feels. The difference between you and me is that I might be nothing when all this is over but you, you'll be a nothing for the rest of your fucking life. You've always been nothing and that's the way it'll stay.'

And he was gone, the door slamming behind him.

'Who's in there with him?'

Doyle took a drag on his cigarette, his eyes fixed on number ten London Road.

From the single window of the Portacabin it was clearly visible, as were the dozens of uniformed policemen who had taken up position around it, some as close as the pavement. They were using parked cars as cover.

The Portacabin was about twelve feet long, half that in width and, despite the fact that it contained just three men other than Doyle, it seemed crowded inside. Somehow a small table had been brought in and upon that a map of the area and several files had been laid out.