Gerald Seymour - The Journeyman Tailor

"Christ, you cut it fine…" He saw Song Bird crumpled in front of him, his head in his hands and his head bent down to his knees. She was shaking at his shoulder and then she punched it. "Bloody good shot, Bren. Well done…" She was standing above him. He heard nothing, but he saw the flash of light behind her. The flare burst, brilliant bubbling red in the night sky. The light of the flare reflected back from the low cloud. "Come on, old thing, don't just lie there." And then the crisp belt of her voice into the radio.

They had been at the door of the farmhouse.

They had heard the shot, booming, echoing down off the mountain in the wind. They saw the bright blood colour of the flare.

Little Kevin was against Attracta's leg. They stood at the door and Siobhan was on the path beyond the step. They watched the tumbling dying of the flare.

Attracta said, "My Jon Jo, he's up there."

The taste of the tea was in Siobhan's mouth, and the warmth of the kitchen still lingered around her.

The voice of the boy babbled, muffled in the skirt against his mother's leg. "The journeymen tailors'll get the dragoons to kill the patriot. It's the touts that'll get him. Ma, is that the end of the story?"

Siobhan Nugent went to Attracta Donnelly. Mossie's wife's arms were around Jon Jo's wife's neck. She kissed the face of her neighbour. She ran the length of the front path.

The telephone was ringing, Charles was first to it. Wilkins watched…

Charles held the telephone against his ear, and there was the dry, droll smile on his face.

"I'll tell him, he has been very anxious to hear… Goodbye."

It was the moment of triumph or the moment of failure. You never could tell with Charles, infuriating man.

"Splendid news, Ernest… your wife, the plumber's in at last, the immersion's working again. She thought you'd want to know so you wouldn't worry…"

He'd kill that woman. So help him, he'd do a life sentence for her. He slumped against the wall. His head was close to the life- size photograph of Jon Jo Donnelly. The telephone rang. Again Charles beat him to it.

"An incident on Altmore. An incident? Is that the best you can do? It looks to me as though Mr Wilkins could use a little bit more detail

…

Ah yes, thank you, Jimmy, a shooting incident. That's more like it.

What shall I tell him? Three hundred rabbits believed seriously injured

…? You'll come back if you get an exact head count, bless you, Jimmy." Charlie put the receiver down. "Well, you heard what the man said, Ernest. Rather a confused picture on Altmore just at present."

He wanted him dead. He gazed at the photograph. Too damned old for it all. The shame surged in him. He wanted him dead, killed.

He heard the voice, the command shout.

"Stay still. Don't move, Mossie."

The eye of the night scope was on the figure. The figure crawled a few inches at a time towards the far tree line. The figure struggled to be out of the clearing. He had done it. He had cut the figure from his legs, reduced him to a crawling effort of escape. The shadows swam around him. Coming quickly and coming silently. He never took the night scope sight away from the target figure, but he saw them running, the shadows, hunched and bent. A shadow merged with her, then moved on. They were spread out, three of them. Two shadows, from opposite sides, ringing the clearing. The third s hadow away from her and then forward to the still kneeling Song Bird, crouching over him. The protection had arrived. He watched the shadows, sometimes he lost them in the tree shapes, sometimes he saw them clear. Flitting shadows that closed on the target figure. He could almost have shouted out to the fallen man that the danger was on him. Bren watched in the image intensifier. Too late to warn the target. They were black in the scope, one tall and one short, one who painted water colours and one who grew onions. It was because of what he had done, and because of what she had told him to do. The shorter man going in, grabbing the weapon from the target's hand. No resistance. The second figure moving forward. It was very quick. The boot onto the small of the back of the target, the weapon pointing down. It was the moment when Bren closed his eyes, and the moment of the crash of the single shot bouncing in his ears… and then he heard the first stirrings of the helicopter rotors.

The light flooded down from the helicopter. Through the night scope the clearing had seemed huge, but the light from the helicopter shrunk it. Bren stood up. The Heckler and Koch hung against his leg.

It was cardboard city who had gone to Song Bird. He shouted at Bren.

"Make safe your weapon."

They were the professionals, and they had not been there…

He wanted no more part of it. Cathy had the radio across her lace.

The body of Jon Jo Donnelly was at the far side of the clearing and in the beam from the helicopter Bren saw the hole at the shoulder of the tunic. The cardboard city man dragged Song Bird to the edge of the clearing. Herbie and Jocko were crouched over the target figure, and the rotors whipped their camouflage smocks as the first helicopter landed.

There were troops ducking from the helicopter, running under the low rotor thrash. He disengaged the magazine. He cleared the breech.

He pocketed the live round. He saw Cathy stride over to Song Bird and the cardboard city man. She had to shout against Mossie's head. Bren could just hear her.

"Well done, Mossie. Sorry we left it so late."

Bren saw the pleading on his face, just as had been when he pleaded for his life.

"You're not hurt? That's good. Get moving Don’t go straight home Stop and get yourself a couple of pints. Make it natural. I can get you a long slow search if you need an alibi for the last half-hour. Let me know if need be, but for heaven’s sake keep your head down for the next two or three days Safe home, Mossie " She thumped his shoulder Bren watched. Mossie walked away Each stride and the strength grew back in his legs. Cathy wasn’t looking over her shoulder at him.

Cathy was hard in talk with the cardboard city man and Colonel Johnny, and the colonel put his arm on her shoulder and she removed it briskly and pointed to Bren. Bloody good, credit where it was due, He saw Mossie go out from the range of the lights, trudging away towards his car. It was what they taught the recruits on the Source Unit seminar, that there should never be emotion between a player and a handler, didn't matter how valuable was the players’ talk. All by the bloody book, all the emotion stifled, strangled, chucked out of the bloody window.

Jocko was beside him "Good effort. A perfectly adequat shot, in the circumstances.’

He took the rifle from Bren, and Bren gave him the magazine and the last live round

"… You did well, but it has to be down to us. You don't exist, you see."

Jocko had one of Bren's arms, and Cathy had the other and they ran him to the open door of the helicopter.

Bren felt the shudder as it lifted off, swooped up out of the forest.

He would have told her that morning.

Bren would have told Cathy what he had decided.

It was a crisp start to the day, fiercely cold. The roads from Belfast to Dungannon had been gritted, but the lanes onto the mountain would be treacherous, and he was slow coming the last few miles. He had never driven through the village before and up towards the farmhouse and the bungalow. He didn't need the map because the helicopters ploughing the low cloud overhead guided him. He felt no tiredness although he had not slept. He had been sitting in the small living room of the flat, where he had been all through the night and still dressed, when she had telephoned. He had left in darkness. He arrived in the first pale gleam of sunlight.