Police at the Station and They Don't Look Friendly (Detective Sean Duffy #6)(4)
We wade through a slew of black tree roots and damp earth and finally arrive at a dell in the wood that must be the designated execution spot.
It’s a good place to kill someone. The ring of trees will muffle the gun shots and the overhanging branches will protect the killers from potential spying eyes in helicopters and satellites.
“We’re here,” Tommy says, looking at his map again.
“There must have been a better way to come than this,” shovel man says, exhausted. “Look at my trainers. These were brand new gutties! Nikes. They are soaked through to the socks.”
“That’s all you can say? Look at my gutties! Complain, complain, complain. Do you have no sense of decorum? This is a serious business. Do you realise we’re taking a man’s life this morning?” Tommy says.
“I realise it. But why we have to do it in the middle of nowhere halfway up a bloody mountain I have no idea.”
“And here’s me thinking you’d appreciate the gravity of the task, or even a wee bit of nature. Do you even know what these are?” Tommy asks, pointing at the branches overhead.
“Trees?”
“Elm trees! For all we know maybe the last elm trees in Ireland.”
“Elm trees my arse.”
“Aye, as if you know trees. You’re from West Belfast,” Tommy snarls.
“There are trees in Belfast. Trees all over the shop! You don’t have to live in a forest to know what a bloody tree is. You know who lives in the woods? Escaped mental patients. Place is full of them. And cultists. Ever see The Wicker Man? And big cats. Panthers. The Sunday World has a photograph of—”
“Gentlemen, please,” the woman says, reaching us. “Are we finally here, or what?”
“We’re here,” Tommy mutters.
“Well let’s get this over with then,” she says.
“Uncuff him and give him the spade,” Tommy says.
Shovel man uncuffs me and leaves the shovel on the ground next to me. All three of them stand way back to give me room.
“You know what to do, Duffy,” Tommy says.
“You’re making a big mistake,” I say to him, looking into his brown eyes behind the balaclava. “You don’t realise what you’re doing. You’re being used. You’re—”
Tommy points the revolver at my crotch.
“I’ll shoot you in the bollocks if you say one more word. I’ll make you dig with no nuts. Now, shut up and get to work.”
I rub my wrists for a moment, pick up the shovel and start to dig. The ground is damp and soft and forgiving. It won’t take me ten minutes to dig a shallow grave through this stuff.
Everyone is staying well out of shovel-swinging range. They may be new at this, but they’re not stupid.
“I’ll be glad when this is over,” the woman whispers to the younger man. “I’m dying for a cup a tea.”
“And I could do with a ciggie. Can’t believe I left them back at the farm,” he replies.
“Tea and cigarettes is all they can think about when we’re taking a man’s life,” Tommy growls to himself.
“It’s easy for you, you don’t smoke. I …”
I turn down the volume so they’re nothing more than background noise.
I think of Beth and Emma as I dig through a surprising line of chalk in all this peat. Chalk.
Emma’s smile, Beth’s green eyes.
Emma’s laugh.
Let that be the last thing in my consciousness. Not the babel of these misguided fools.
Shovel.
Earth.
Shovel.
Always knew that death was a strong possibility in my line of work, but it was absurd that that banal case of the dead drug dealer in Carrickfergus could have led to this. As standard a homicide as you’re ever likely to see in Ulster. Ridiculous.
Earth.
Shovel.
Earth.
Shovel.
Gasping for …
Having trouble breathing again.
Gasping for—
Gasping for—
They think I’m faking it.
I have taxed their patience.
Someone pushes me and I go down.
Spreadeagled on my back in the black peat.
“Let’s just top him now,” a voice says from a thousand miles away.
“Yeah, all right.”
Above me tree-tops, crows, sky.
And the yellow dark, the red dark, and the deep blue dark …
1: NO HAY BANDA
County Donegal is certainly not the wettest place on planet Earth; 130 inches of rain a year in Donegal may be a typical average high, but that’s nothing compared to, say, Mawsynram in India, where over 400 inches of rain can fall in a calendar year. Crucially, however, that rain comes during the monsoon and the monsoon only lasts for about ten weeks. The rest of the year in Mawsynram is probably rather pleasant. One can imagine walking in the foothills of the Himalayas or perhaps taking a guided excursion to the tea plantations of Barduar. Donegal may not have the sheer amount of precipitation of Mawsynram but it makes up for this in the dogged persistence of its rain. Rain has been measured in some parts of Donegal on 300 days out of the year and if you add in the days of mist, mizzle and snow you could be looking at a fortnight in which some form of moisture does not fall to earth.