Pray for Us Sinners (43 page)

“Surely you could have told his mother and me the truth?”

“Not my call, I'm afraid. The intelligence chaps are a very secretive bunch,” said Sir Charles. At the same time, he thought,
I will not accept blame for Mr. John Smith's incompetence.
“Marcus made his own decision,” he said, “although I can tell you he was very worried about your being kept in the dark.”

Sir Charles wondered why the suggestion of a smile touched Professor Richardson's lips. “It wouldn't have been the first time.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing. Please go on.”

“Yes. Well. Marcus volunteered to try to penetrate the Provos—you've no idea how vital such intelligence can be to our forces in Ulster—and he succeeded. I can't tell you how, but it took enormous resourcefulness and courage of a very special kind.”

“I know about his courage,” Professor Richardson said softly. He looked down at his hands as he rubbed one palm across the other. “You wondered what I meant when I said it wasn't the first time he'd kept me in the dark.”

Sir Charles waited.

“When he was very little—five or six—I asked him to walk on a wall. He wouldn't. He was frightened.” The professor looked straight at Sir Charles. “Marcus went back by himself, walked on the damn thing, and never said a word to anyone.”

“How—”

“How did I find out? Bangor was a small town then. Someone who saw him told me.” The professor's voice cracked. “I never told him I knew. Now I never will.”

“A truly remarkable young man.”

“I know.”

“I did not have the privilege of knowing your boy, sir, but without him, there's absolutely no doubt—none whatsoever—that Mr. Wilson would have been killed. Your son has earned the gratitude of the entire country.” Sir Charles leaned forward, his right hand almost touching the professor's. “And you and Mrs. Richardson have my deepest condolences.” He steeled himself to deliver his next words. “And my most sincere apologies for the way you have been misled.”

The professor said nothing.

Sir Charles withdrew his outstretched hand, dropped it into his thigh, and rubbed aimlessly as he searched for his next words.

“Sir Charles, I'm not entirely satisfied—I never will be, but I think I can help my wife see that our boy's death did have a purpose.”

“Thank you.”

“I accept your apology—with reservations.” Professor Richardson rose.

Sir Charles stood. “Under the circumstances, sir, you have been more than gracious.” He moved round the desk and offered his hand. Professor Richardson's grip was firm. As the professor turned to leave, Sir Charles said, “There is just one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“The funeral. It's tomorrow. In Bangor. The army will fly you and your wife over, of course.”

The professor's lips tightened before he said in a low voice, “I hate funerals.”

“We'll send a car to take you to the heliport. Ten thirty.”

“My wife can't possibly go on her own.”

Sir Charles could see the effort the man was making before Professor Richardson said, “We'll be ready.”

 

SIXTY-THREE

MONDAY, APRIL 22

The coffin was draped in a Union Jack. The rain lashed down in stair rods blackening the reds and blues of the flag and drenching the guard of honour and the huddled mourners. The army chaplain's words were barely audible over the soughing of the wind in a nearby stand of elms.

Siobhan stood, head bowed, apart from the others. They would not know who she was—probably thought she had no right to be there. None of them could know how much she had loved him. In her hand she held a rose—its petals, scarlet on the night he'd given it to her, now withered.

She watched as the flag was removed and folded. It was the standard of the people her dad and her uncle Davy called the enemy. How could a lovely man like Mike have been her enemy? How? She would have forgiven his deceit in his life, and as she had told her father when he had asked her not to go to the funeral, she would forgive Mike in his death.

She stared at the sky, black clouds layered like ragged slates on a decrepit roof, the rain pouring through, cold on her upturned face.

The movements of the soldiers caught her eye as they tailed onto the ropes to lower the coffin. She shuddered and hugged herself, arms across her chest, hands on her shoulders, fighting the day's rawness and the iciness within her very soul. She let her cheek fall onto the back of her gloved left hand, feeling it against her skin, the kid leather damp yet soft as his touch. Oh, Mike. Oh, Mike.

She glanced at the guard of honour and at a tall, bareheaded man wearing a dark raincoat. He stood rigidly, one hand holding a woman's hand as his other tried to keep an umbrella over her head. He had Mike's hazel eyes. Was he Mike's—no, she corrected herself, Marcus's—father, the weeping woman his mother?

Siobhan would not cry. She thought she had no tears left.

She flinched as the soldiers fired the feu de joie. The ragged volley scared a murder of crows from the elms. The black birds wheeled across the sky, their cawing and complaining a lament for the dead.

A bugler sounded “The Last Post,” its liquid notes rising, falling, dying—their melancholy hers, their finality, Mike's. She could no longer hold back her tears, and her body shook to her sobbing. In her grief she barely noticed the shouted orders, the soldiers marching away, the departure of Marcus's father and mother.

When she was able to calm herself, able to see that, apart from a sexton, she was alone, she moved to the lip of the grave. The man withdrew, leaving his spade in the mound of earth. She could smell its damp mustiness. She looked down at a strip of polished wood, half hidden by brown soil.

“Good-bye, Mike,” she whispered. “I love you.”

She knelt, bowing her head and crossing herself, murmured, “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art Thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of Thy womb, Jesus.” She let his rose fall. “Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.”

 

AUTHOR'S NOTE

 

This is a work of fiction. It is set in Belfast in 1974. Every effort has been made to ensure accuracy in the descriptions of the city, the political events of the time, and the organizational structure of both the Provisional IRA and the British Security Forces.

It is a matter of record that the Security Forces were in some disarray in 1974 and that interservice rivalries existed. Harold Wilson did visit Ulster on April 18. The Provisional IRA did use a flat in Myrtlefield Park and did have a direct telephone tap into the Thiepval switchboard. No senior member of the Royal Ulster Constabulary has been suspected of, or convicted of, treason.

The technical details of the explosive devices used in the story are authentic. I am deeply indebted to Special Constable Yves Pelletier, Police Explosives Technician, Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Yves has given generously of his expertise and, more importantly, has confirmed that there is nothing in these pages that is not already well known by the bomb makers of terrorist organizations.

It is not possible to create a work like this without referring to real people. Historical figures are named and the positions they held are identified. The fictional characters are mine, and any resemblance of theirs to anyone, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

 

ALSO BY PATRICK TAYLOR

Only Wounded

Pray for Us Sinners

Now and in the Hour of Our Death

An Irish Country Doctor

An Irish Country Village

An Irish Country Christmas

An Irish Country Girl

An Irish Country Courtship

A Dublin Student Doctor

An Irish Country Wedding

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Patrick Taylor, M.D., was born and raised in Bangor, County Down, in Northern Ireland. He is the
New York Times
bestselling author of the Irish Country series that began with
An Irish Country Doctor.
Dr. Taylor is a distinguished medical researcher, offshore sailor, model-boat builder, and father of two grown children. He now lives on Saltspring Island, British Columbia.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

PRAY FOR US SINNERS

Copyright © 2000 by Ballybucklebo Stories Corp.

Previously published by Insomniac Press in 2000.

All rights reserved.

Cover photography © Getty Images

Cover design by
www.nick-venables.co.uk

A Forge Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

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ISBN 978-0-7653-3518-0 (hardcover)

ISBN 9781466821422 (e-book)

First Edition: June 2013