A reason to kill, p.22
A Reason To Kill, page 22
“Papa.” Deirdre whispered, “I’m awful sleepy.” Closing her eyes she added, “Let’s not tell my dad?”
~~~
Deirdre was release from hospital twenty-four hours later and joined her friends at RUC headquarters.
Swinging a chair from the side of the desk, Inspector Dan Mitchell straddled it as an easy grin touched his mouth. He said, “You’re really not necessary. I’ve brought no thumb screws or hot irons.”
“You may wish you had.” The female RUC officer’s stiff frown remained intact corrupting an otherwise charming face. “Two of them are female, budding anyhow.” She shoved the folders across her desk to him as she admitted, “It’s a waste of time you know? The little cheats have done their homework and they know we can’t pressure them too badly.”
Shuffling through the files he suddenly whistled. “Two Catholics? Two Protestants? They’re friends?”
“It happens. The O’Neill girls are only part-time citizens and not likely to get mixed in religion. From an old money tree, their family’s never been hurting for funds. Granddaddy’s a solicitor, real blooming pain. With Carey’s connections those three were bound to meet. Buddied up before they were out of nappies.
“The Henry boy, he’s different. Figure he’s Deirdre O’Neill’s exclusive flunky. They only met last summer; an incident occurred when O’Neill was bringing his little darling across the border and he stopped at the Henry’s place in Bainbridge. I gather the kids got on. So this summer, the boy’s been staying at the O’Neill’s.”
Mitchell’s sharp blue eyes did a rapid scan of the typed pages. At thirty-six, he’d lost much of the enthusiasm that sparked the earlier years of his chosen profession. Gunmetal streaks were dulling the black hair, and a need for exercising to keep in shape for dodging bullets or painful bruises had become bothersome. Still, he retained enough of those boyhood fantasies to excel in his career. “So let’s have a go at Deirdre first.” His grin widened. “I’ve a grand rapport with rich Yanks.”
“Do I have to go over the darn mess again?” Deirdre complained before she even sat down. Then she plopped in a chair and propped her chin in her palms while mumbling a bored, “Who are you?”
The female inspector, subjected to a prior encounter with the youngsters, introduced, “He’s Inspector Mitchell.”
To which Deirdre grumbled, “Big deal.”
While Mitchell said, “Just a few questions.”
“That I’ve answered a zillion times before.” The young mouth curved in a nasty pout. “Your asking won’t change the answers.” Pushing back the chair, her rump moved forward as if preparing for instant flight. “In the States,” Deirdre said, “This is termed harassment.”
“Can you spell that?”
“Shit!”
“How old did you say she is?” Mitchell glanced at the woman who only shrugged.
“Fourteen! I’m a horrible brat, so beat me!”
“Don’t tempt me.”
Her lids narrowed over her eyes as she accused, “You’re SAS?”
“And what would a Yank know about the SAS?”
“They’re a goon squad,” Deirdre said with a sneer. “They torture and kill—” She halted as if realizing she was about to compromise her position.
A frown formed on the English inspector’s face as he glanced over at the Irish policewoman who had finally found something to chuckle about. Quickly his attention swung back to the girl and he made no attempt to hide the disgust in his tone. “Let’s stop playing games, Deirdre. The law is not out do you or your friends any harm. All we are looking for is something you might have remembered. You were hurt and scared the men wore masks and I realize you can’t pick out faces. But maybe something else? Even a simple name those criminals might have used?”
“What criminals?” Deirdre’s expression perked up. “Oh! You mean those men who saved our lives when you Brits were trying to kill us?” Her tone was low.
But Mitchell’s voice rose in a harsh demand as he thrust his face close to hers. “What were you doing there?”
The young teen stammered, “We, Amy got shook, she ran, we chased her.”
With the girl off balance, he pushed his advantage and continued to holler. “What where you brats doing in the Strand? How did you get to Belfast?”
“We hitched. We were bored so we hitched a ride in. When we saw the armored cars headed over the bridge we followed.”
“Pretty dumb. You could have been hurt.”
“I was!” Her voice took on its previous sharpness.
Ashamed that he allowed the youngster to regain the offensive he stood and paced. Coming up behind her chair, he reverted to lowering his tone. “Okay, so you followed the soldiers, then what?”
Only Deirdre was not about to jump back in line. She turned her head only slightly his way. “By the time we got there the street was full of people screaming and throwing things. There was a lot of shooting by the Army. We were hanging back watching when suddenly the soldiers started shooting at us and Amy panicked.”
“I suppose you expect me to believe that trained soldiers were deliberately aiming at a group of kids?”
“Sure felt like it!”
“Come on, Dede, those burns you sustained came from plain old gasoline.” He’d switched his seat to perch on the edge of the desk where he could look down squarely into the teenage face as he warned. “Don’t get your loyalties mixed up. You don’t owe those criminals. They belong in the lockup and it’s your duty to help the law put them there. If you remember anything.”
The lecture brought on a nasty childish singsong of, “nothing…nothing… nothing.”
Mitchell shrugged in resignation as he said, “You can leave. Send Kevin in.”
As the door slammed behind Deirdre, the female inspector offered, “Now we resort to thumbscrews and hot irons?”
“Don’t tempt me.” Mitchell was considering the logic that the boys might be more maneuverable; especial this Protestant kid who wasn’t born to the privileges a wealthy family allowed.
~~~
Kevin Henry’s freckled cheeks were flushed from nerves as he hesitantly entered the room. But he was more intimated with the warning, “Keep your yap shut!” given by the flouncing Deirdre O’Neill than the inspector’s rapid questions.
Convinced by the manner the girl made her exit, that she had done just that, made his efforts to further frustrate Mitchell a whole lot easier.
~~~
Hampered by the youth of his victims, when the easy grinning Neil Carey apparently found the scene rather comical, Mitchell was forced to admit defeat. “Little bastards,” he groaned to the female officer, when Neil had been sent out, “rehearsed this like a play, word for bloody word. You figure their old men prepared them?”
“If it was your kid?”
Soon the inspector gratefully fled the final torture of a loudly sobbing Amy O’Neill.
~~~
Pleased that she and her friends had held up so well, Deirdre O’Neill listened while her grandfather did his usual understating when he conversed first with her father, and then with her uncle.
His minimizing of the accident apparently worked with Michael, so Deirdre would be allowed to finish the summer. While his father may have also swayed her uncle, he fell short with her aunt, and Amy was going home.
Yeah! Deirdre only cheered in her mind, while she forced back a grin. She’d not only gotten a reprieve but was rid of Amy for the next few weeks—life was grand.
Still, Deirdre and her peers found their roaming ways at an end.
~~~
Later that afternoon, after suffering too long under her friends’ complaints of their imposed limits, Deirdre piped up, “Let’s make another movie?”
“A movie?” Came the chorus.
“First we have to write another script,” said Deirdre.
Kevin Henry took a swig of his Coke, closed his eyes and moaned as if aware there was trouble afoot. His body, in a hurry to grow taller, was all arms and legs with wrists and ankles protruding from clothing unable to keep up. If his wealthy friends noticed how poorly he dressed they never called attention to the fact. Deirdre had brought Kevin into their group, so he was accepted.
“First we have to have an idea.” His tone advertised his hope that no one would come up with such a thing.
“Leave that to Dee.” Neil Carey said. “She’s always full of ideas. My ass still stings from her last one.” This youth’s smiling face belied his serous words. Blessed with true-black wavy hair that perfectly fit his head, hazel eyes that gleamed with humor at the slightest inducement, he already possessed a face and physic that promised to mature into ‘leading man’ looks.
“Wasn’t so bad.” Bridget Monroe giggled. Neil’s cousin, who could have been mistaken for his twin sister, had chosen to join the group of detainees. “My mom was mad that you got into trouble but my daddy was all heart.”
“Ya, I bet, your pa just puts lads in jail,” Kevin said. “He ain’t ever rotted in one.”
“Shit!” Deirdre leaped from the couch. “Let it die. I’m the only one got hurt but you guys do all the squalling. Bridget and I will write the script; while you and Neil set up the back ground and cameras.”
“What’s it to be about?”
“Sure, Kev, what else, we done the arrest scene. Now we get a trial.”
“We’ve only four,” Neil corrected. “We need a lot more players for a trial.”
Deirdre wiggled her nose and snorted. “Boy are you dumb. In this country? One-two-three-four.” She swung about as she pointed to each in turn then herself. “Bridget can be the judge like her pa. Kevin will be the victim.”
“Why?” yelped Kevin.
“Cause your daddy’s been in the lock up,” Deirdre said. “You know how they act.”
“So you’re always tellin’ us.” Neil was quick to point out. “Dee, what will I be?”
“The prosecutor. I’ll be the defense lawyer like my papa.”
Now it was ‘Judge’ Bridget who turned skeptical. “What do we do for witnesses? A jury?”
Deirdre let loose an evil snicker. “This girl lives in another country. You don’t have a jury in the kind of trial those men that saved us would have got. And your daddy don’t listen to any witnesses ‘less they’re lawmen or soldiers.”
Bridget grumbled, “How do you know? You never been at trial.”
Deirdre glowered back at the other girl. “Don’t my papa complain all the time. Don’t he call your daddy the hanging judge.”
“Cut!” Neil barked. “You cats start scratching I’m leaving.”
“Dee, just write the script yourself,” Kevin offered. “We’ll start on the props.”
~~~
After several more hours of wrangling the youngsters set up their final production. The boys had done a reasonably fair job of painting and constructing cardboard posters to mimic a courtroom.
The ‘judge’ was allotted a wooden crate painted brown for a desk and her meat mallet made a reasonably accurate gavel sound as she banged it in complaint. “We usually have better props. Kevin don’t look all that pitiful with no bloody bruises showing.”
“The RUC don’t bring a victim to court with bruises showing.” Deirdre informed with her superior knowledge.
The ‘prisoner’ was securely chained in paper loops painted bright silver. He stood in an egg carton dock. To one side of him, adorned in one of Mr. O’Neill’s black coats, the ‘prosecutor’ was stiffly attentive. Neil had taken part often enough in Deirdre’s productions so he knew better than to show a silly grin like Kevin was doing.
To complete the cast, in another borrowed coat that fell well passed her knees; the ‘Solicitor’ seemed comfortable in her chosen role.
The ‘judge’ propped up a sign declaring loudly what it read. “Dip-lock court now in session. How does the prisoner plead?”
“Guilty!” The ‘Prosecutor’ read from the script Deirdre had written. “The law says he done it. We’ve a signed confession.”
“Innocent!” solicitor Deirdre piped up.
Ignored by Judge Bridget, who’s printed instructions said ignore solicitor, asked, “What’s he accused of?”
Stepping closer to the desk, the ‘solicitor’ answered in a husky voice just short of a whisper. “He was born in a ghetto.”
“Objection!” hollered the ‘prosecutor’. “That’s political!”
“Sustained,” said the ‘judge’. “That’s political.”
The ‘solicitor’ said, “He fought for human rights.”
“Political!” yelled the ‘prosecutor’.
“Sustained,” yelled the ‘judge’. “Stick to the crime.”
But the ‘solicitor’, author of the script, was able to press on, “He’s been arrested, held without charge, tortured and forced to sign a false statement.”
Rubbing his palms together the ‘prosecutor’ smiled pleasantly at the ‘judge’. “Surely, the criminal’s a political.”
And returning the smile, the ‘judge’ answered in a tone that her script prompted should show weariness. “I’ve an early lunch date. We’ve wasted enough time. Guilty!” She banged her gravel.
“Of what?” The ‘solicitor’ asked as the ‘prisoner’s’ chin slumped on his chest.
The ‘judge’ said, “Why sure, the fellow’s a criminal.”
“Damn, Dee,” Kevin complained. “When do I get ta say something?”
“Dummy, you’re the accused, you don’t get to talk.”
“Why?”
“How do I know? I guess it’s just the way your law works over here.” Deirdre shrugged her shoulders. “They make you confess before the trial.”
“My daddy’s doesn’t act like this.” Bridget tossed her long black hair and her features twisted in a pout of disgust. “And I don’t think he’s that mean either.”
“Of course you wouldn’t.” Deirdre snickered.
“Don’t wanna be in the stupid film.” Kevin broke in. “If all I get to do is stand there.”
“Maybe you could cry a little.” Bridget suggested.
“No!” Deirdre yelped. “Politicals don’t cry!”
Chapter 41
Belfast, Northern Ireland, 1982
A small, skinny, male crouched in the corner of the cell and a hoarse plea oozed from his battered mouth. “I’ve not seen him, I swear. Holy Mary, I swear I’d be tellin’ ya.” Packy Hanlon shrieked as the toe of a boot broke against his hip. Tightly he pressed bent knees into his chest and wrapped his arms around them.
“Get your ass up!” The boot now connected with the prisoner’s ankle causing louder yelps as Packy squirmed on his butt a few inches away.
“Get him on his feet.” The wearer of the boot ordered.
Ignoring the prisoner’s squeals, two warders hauled the struggling creature to his feet. Retaining an arm each they stretched him out between them. He slumped as if still seeking the protection of the floor as he mumbled, “Years, Kelsey, not in years I seen ‘im.” Chin on chest he tried to avoid looking into his tormentor’s face.
Twin puckered white scars ran from the bridge of Kelsey’s nose to hide beneath his collar on the left side of his neck; where they cut across his cheek and jaw the flesh had once been opened to the bone by a blade. “Look at me scum,” he said. “So far I been playin’ nice with ya. You don’t start talking I get mean.” Pushing his damaged face into the captive’s, without warning his fists slammed into the weak flesh of the man’s belly.”
As the rapid punches hammered into his skinny frame, Packy Hanlon choked on howling pleas. “Not seen ‘im! Not seen ‘im!” Bitter bile filled his throat and his brain swirled in rhythm with his agony. They propped him in a metal chair. He was blind to which hand thrust the wet towel in his lap that he ignored.
~~~
Kelsey had learned from experience that time was important for the success of any interrogation. When violence was instigated the rest periods were vital to allow the nerves to calm, the raw pain to subside, and the knowledge of what was still to come to set in. Lighting a cigarette he placed it between the prisoner’s lips. “Get the taig some water,” he said then snickered. “Ya rather ‘ave a pint lad? A nice smooth pint a stout? But then ya might start pissing again. Don’t think ya wanna do that?” He laughed as his gloved hand slapped lightly at Hanlon’s cheek.
~~~
Packy Hanlon shivered in memory as the stench of the urine, still on his face, assaulted his nostrils. He pushed away the offered water. Why? He moaned to himself, why now? He’d kept his nose clean for years. He’d been so careful. Why now? His fucking brother disappears and they get on his ass. “Kelsey, sir,” he sniffled. “You gotta believe me. Not in years, I’ve not seen Rory since ya put ‘im down. Better’n ten years now. Sure’n weren’t it me set ya on ‘im? God damn my soul, you think I’d be goin’ near ‘im?”
~~~
“Brother’s forgive.” Grasping Hanlon’s hair Kelsey forced him to look up as he snorted, “I don’t.” When Kelsey smiled the ends of the scars joined to create a second evil mouth. “Lay it on me again,” sounded like a threat not a question. “How, this Yankee bloke’s been paying you fifty pound a week to store his car. Fresh off the dock that car ain’t registered to nobody. New Ford. It sits in your yard and rusts. Half a year it sits and you receive this envelope every month—no return address. Just cash! It shits!” He slammed the prisoner’s head into the back of the chair.
Hanlon’s legs shot out as he screamed, “Holy Mother! It’s true! It’s true!”
A barked, “Kelsey!” came from the mouth of another warder peering into the cage. This uniformed male made frustrated motions with his hands as he announced, “O’Neill with all the proper papers.”
“Damn! How?” Kelsey slammed a fist into a palm in disgust. Then threw a nasty look at one of the other young warders who had sighed in relief. “Not your cup-o-tea, lad? Just you wait ‘til it’s your bloody ass they choose to blow away.”
