He smelt him before he heard him speak: sulphur and ammonia.

‘Are you two ever going to feck off?’

Cormac was grateful for the rude interruption. He looked at the dirty little man who had arrived at his feet. He was covered from his neck to his feet in a brown checked blanket. Cormac suspected it had begun life as a different shade entirely, but was reluctant to inspect it in any more detail. He held Bernadette’s discarded cup in one hand and a card in the other, which read:

‘DEAF AND MUTE. PLEASE GIVE GENEROUSLY!’

Cormac stepped back towards Bernadette.

‘I am sorry?’

‘Are you deaf, Mister? I said would you two ever mind fecking off?’

‘I thought you were deaf?’

‘Feck knows I wish I was! Having to listen to the shite you two have been talking. Now would you do a working man a favour and feck off this bridge? I have been working here for fifteen fecking years and I don’t need a middle-aged Romeo and Juliet eating into me margins! Now, I don’t mean to be rude, but would you both just feck off!

He felt Bernadette tug the back of Harry’s jacket. When their eyes met, they smiled together for the first time in over two decades. As they walked off the bridge, Cormac looked back to see the deaf man check the contents of his cup.

He estimated that the fifty Euros would represent a significant boost to the talking mute’s margins.

22

The weight of the holdall cut into his shoulder. He didn’t mind the pain. He would have liked it to have been heavier, but The Chemist would be reasonable once he knew the significance of the operation. Once he appreciated the part he could play in the altering of the history of an entire nation, he would supply the necessary goods, even if he couldn’t pay the full amount up front. What did something as insignificant as money matter at a time such as this? The Chemist would not let him down. They had a history together. They were comrades together in The Maze. Five years of torture together in that hell-hole made them practically brothers. Yes, they’d had a small disagreement but that was ancient history. The Chemist took over his role as ‘officer commanding’ in the prison, after he’d been prematurely relieved of his post. He wasn’t happy about that. He felt The Chemist could have done more for him. Instead, he’d stepped into his role too quickly and with too much enthusiasm. But they’d sorted it like men. The Chemist came to his cell, and explained to him, face to face, that he’d no choice but to accept the position. It had been forced upon him from the very top. He explained he had no part to play in his expulsion from the movement. He promised one day he would help him recover his rightful place back in the fold. The thought made his jaw clench. They’d not only removed him from his post but expelled him from the movement. They said he’d used up all of his chances. Who the fuck did they think they were, humiliating him like that? He was a dedicated and obedient soldier who’d only ever served the cause to the best of his ability. Yes, he ran a tight ship inside. But the men responded to strong leadership and he was a leader. Everyone knew where they stood with him. Everyone knew the rules. Everyone accepted punishment would be swift and brutal when the rules were broken. How could they, those on the outside, those that knew nothing of life inside, possibly sit in judgement on him without even hearing his side of the story? How could they simply cut him off like that? Those same people who’d since led the movement down a cul-de-sac to oblivion and forsaken the armed struggle for a suit and a seat in Stormont. And expelled him for what? For delivering justice on behalf of a terrified boy who’d been violated by a notorious nonce? It wasn’t pleasant and it was not as if he enjoyed it, but it was swift and brutal. The nonce was to be fed his own balls by the boy. When the boy couldn’t complete his duty, someone had to. As O.C., the responsibility was obviously his. He’d read him the verdict. He’d made sure he understood the sentence and why he’d received it. The nonce fully understood and agreed with the punishment. He’d removed them with as much precision as is possible with a shard of broken glass. He’d held the old pervert’s nose and waited for him to breathe. He’d forced one, then both down his throat and left him in his cell. With hindsight, leaving him to bleed to death was perhaps severe, but it was an error of judgement, nothing more. It didn’t merit his total humiliation in front of his men. The Chemist knew they were wrong to treat him with such disrespect. That’s why he’d always made sure to keep him informed of any developments within the movement. It was The Chemist who’d stunned him with the news of the surrender. They had both agreed that their struggle wasn’t over. They‘d kept in touch in the years that followed and The Chemist supplied him with the little bits and pieces he’d required from time to time. He felt the old fella had become a too interested in the money on recent visits and less interested in the struggle, but on this occasion he would surely understand. This was bigger than any monetary reward. This was a chance to stand on the shoulders of giants!