Eight: Ascension
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They call Belfast 'the big smoke', and it was sure earning its nickname – although 'the big fog' might've been closer. The fog didn't smell of the nearby sea; it was the kind of city fog that makes your nose wince, threaded with factory smoke and car exhaust and bad furnaces, with an undernote of burnt food and short tempers, pent-up rage and narrow views. This late in November, the light would've been starting to fade anyway by mid-afternoon; under the reeking overcast, it never really seemed to be full daylight at all.
Lousy light for shooting, and it was getting worse . . . but how good a shot does someone have to be to hit random targets in a packed mass of people solidly filling several city blocks? The march was huge – there couldn't have been less than a hundred thousand people spilling through Belfast like a ton of rough gravel being pushed through a narrow chute. The only consolation I had, as I tried to find a way to dodge the mob and the police checkpoints and catch up with Liam, was that he must be dealing with the same obstacles. Except that he knew the territory.
But he and Matt were in a car – Máire had given me the description and the plate – and I had McMahon's best motorbike, which could go through places where a car would have to go around. If I managed to get back to Shannon, I'd have a few scratches and dings to explain away, but any extra charge he wanted to tack on to the rental would be more than worth it. I'd even throw in a few drinks or a free tune-up and figure I still had the best of the deal.
Máire Ui Súilleabháin had not known exactly where Liam planned to stage his attack – the plans had been unsettled due to uncertainties about the march route and the progress of the rally – but she had given MacGyver a short list of possibilities and a succinct summary of Liam's intentions. She had also tried again to talk him out of following Liam, or at least into waiting for Walsh to arrive with support troops. Her language had become even more unprintable when she realised she was wasting her breath.
Once Mac had a sense of how the rally was going and where the crowds were bunching up and eddying as the day waned, he skipped over two of Máire's suggestions and struck pay dirt almost immediately, spotting Liam's car tucked up a side street where it must have been abandoned when the driver could no longer make headway against the multitudes in the packed streets.
The target building was three blocks away, and Mac carefully approached it on foot by an alleyway that ran beside the building. The light was dimming fast, but he spotted the long shape of a fire ladder leading up towards the roof; at its foot, Matt Gallagher stood at guard. Mac's throat clenched when he saw the gun Matt was carrying: it was a Russian-made Dragunov sniper's rifle.
So soon after Prater Tommy, Matt's terrible youth seemed like an appalling stairstep down the years: Connor's unit spanned a surprisingly wide range of ages, as the interminable undeclared war stretched its bloody hands into yet another generation. Mac set his teeth, took a very deep breath, tucked his hands into his pockets and stepped casually out into the open alleyway.
"Hey, Matt."
"MacGyver!" Matt swung around and faced Mac, pointing the rifle at him, but without conviction. "For fuck's sake, Mac, this isn't your fight! Why did ye have to be followin' us?"
"Are you sure it's your fight, Matt?" Mac began to walk towards Matt, slowly, trying to project a calm confidence that he didn't feel at all. Matt's nervous, wavering aim didn't help. "Are you sure this is the best way of fighting it?"
"Stay back, MacGyver, or I swear I'll shoot ye!"
"Why?" Mac stopped about ten feet away from Matt. "Why shoot? Why kill me? You just said it isn't my fight." He gestured towards the rising sound of the approaching crowd. "Why shoot any of them? Do you honestly believe that'll get you what you really want? Matt . . . what good can it possibly do?"
Matt didn't answer. His eyes flickered nervously from MacGyver's face to the gun in his own hands to the deepening shadows that surrounded them.
Mac took another step forward and gestured towards the ladder. "Matt, you gotta let me go up there and stop him. Nobody has to die today."
Matt took a half step back and bit his lip. "Mac, get out of here while you can, please . . . " His eyes shifted again.
MacGyver realised what he meant a moment too late. There was only a faint sound of a step behind him as Liam seemed to materialise out of the shadows like a fist swung by the malevolent spirit of the city itself. He was carrying a Kalashnikov machine gun, swinging it at Mac's head as if he meant to fell him like a tree. Mac twisted around, trying to sidestep, but Liam was on him; he threw up his left arm barely in time to block the vicious swing. The blow caught him solidly on the upper arm and he felt his left hand suddenly go numb as if someone had switched it off.
Mac grunted and fell back, ducking as Liam swung the gun around again, and the weight slammed down on his back and left shoulder with bruising force, just missing the head again but knocking him off-balance. A kick from a steel-toed brogan connected with his leg, and Mac stifled his yell of pain as he went down – somehow, shouting for help in a back alley in Belfast seemed about as good an idea as thrashing around in shark-infested waters.
The next kick caught him in the side. Mac tried to roll away from it and scramble to his feet, but Liam brought the butt of the Kalashnikov down onto his already bruised shoulder with a force that felt like a pile-driver and followed it up with another kick that knocked the remaining breath out of him.
Liam's hands were broken years back in Long Kesh, Máire had warned him. They hurt him yet, especially when it's damp. He doesn't like to use his fists – he'll kick and club you instead if he can. And he fights dirty.
No kidding.
Above him, he could hear Liam berating Matt. "Ye fuckin' glipe, what were ye after chatterin' with him for so long?"
"Liam, you told me to keep him busy so you could take him down."
"I didn't tell ye to chat him up, did I now? Matty, you've got to be careful who ye trust. Don't ye be givin' an ear to the Devil and his lies – he'll be tellin' you ye're headed upwards even as he drags you down."
MacGyver could see his hands splayed out in front of him and could feel the gritty cement under his right palm – no, under both palms: the back of his left hand was numb, and he couldn't quite move all his fingers, but the hand was still there. He leaned on his right hand and arm and dragged himself to his knees, his ears singing with the effort. Through the haze he heard Liam laugh.
"Sure, that's it, Yank! Up on your knees now – 'tis a fine time to be sayin' a prayer." Liam reached out, grabbed a fistful of Mac's hair and hauled him painfully upwards, forcing MacGyver's blurred gaze directly into his. His eyes gleamed with malice. "Let's hear your catechism now. Can ye be givin' us a Hail Mary?"
"Liam – " Matt's voice came hesitantly, only dimly heard through the haze of pain.
"Ah, that's right, Matty; we musn't be makin' any assumptions now." Liam shook MacGyver's head roughly by the hair, and Mac nearly lost his precarious balance. "Church or chapel, Yank?"
"What . . . ?" Mac tried to use the pain to clear his head so he could focus.
"Are ye Catholic, man?"
"Like that matters . . . " MacGyver croaked.
Liam shoved MacGyver down again so hard his hands slipped from under him and he sprawled on the rough pavement. "Ye just don't get it, do ye? Fuckin' Proddy!" Mac didn't actually see Liam's next move, but he could sense the animal rage behind it, a searing wave of white-hot hatred and contempt. He rolled in time for Liam's steel-toed boot to miss his kidneys and took the kick in the ribs instead. He couldn't tell if the blaze of pain that followed signaled a cracked rib or just another livid bruise.
Out in the main thoroughfare, the noises of the approaching crowd were growing louder. Liam half turned from MacGyver's prostrate form and tossed his gun to Matt. "Finish him off."
Matt had set the sniper's rifle aside; now he caught the Kalashnikov in a clumsy hold and gaped at Liam. "What?"
"He's a Prod and an informer. Kill him." Matt clenched his fingers on the gunstock as Liam stepped up to him, towering over him, and squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. "For fuck's sake, you've got to be startin' somewhere, boy! 'Tis time ye were growin' up." He gestured towards the murmuring streets beyond the alleyway and grinned with a horrible delight. "That'll be the crowd passin' by – we mustn't miss that, Matty!"
The boy fumbled with the heavy gun and stared from Liam to MacGyver.
"Matty, this is no fuckin' time to go gutless on me!" Liam's voice suddenly became harsh with contempt. "If ye can't be the man of the house now, count on it, he'll have his filthy Proddy hands on your precious sister, if he hasn't made a whore of her already."
Matt flushed scarlet and looked away. "Liam, enough of that . . . get on, I'll take care of him . . . I swear it . . ."
Liam picked up the Dragunov, slung it over his back, and sprang for the ladder. He hauled himself up rapidly and faded from sight into the falling dusk..
MacGyver pulled himself up out of the whirlpool of fire and slowly staggered to his feet to find Matt training the Kalashnikov on him. The boy's face was as white as a sheet.
Up a long ladder . . .
Mac tore his gaze from the monstrous glaring cyclops eye of the gun's aperture to look Matt directly in the eyes. He could see that the boy was starting to quiver. Slowly, as if he were reaching out to pet an unfamiliar and jittery dog, Mac stretched out a careful hand and gently eased the muzzle away to the side. There was an interminable black moment when the gun didn't move and the aim held, and then Matt's fragile determination crumbled and the barrel sagged down towards the ground.
Matt's hands were shaking so hard he could barely hold the gun. "'Tisn't so easy, it's one gun in thousands . . . what fuckin' difference will it make tomorrow?"
MacGyver kept his voice soft and earnest. "You're right, Matt – maybe no-one can disarm the whole country. But if you have just one gun in your own hands, you can always put it down." Mac stepped softly away from Matt, towards the ladder. "I'm going up there."
"Liam will kill ye." Matt's face was beginning to stream with tears.
"Maybe. But you won't."
"Wait! Stop it right there." Suddenly the boy's grip was firm again on the gun stock, and Mac sucked in his breath.
But the muzzle didn't swing back towards him. Instead, Matt aimed it at a stack of ragged boxes ten feet down the alleyway and fired off a short burst. Then he let the gun drop again.
"Liam would notice if there weren't any shots . . . he notices shite like that." Matt looked up at MacGyver, his eyes now clear again, and held out the gun. Mac stepped back and shook his head. "Are ye sure ye won't be needin' this yourself?"
Mac grinned and set his foot on the bottom rung of the ladder. "Naw, I'll do better without it." He began to haul himself up one-handed; his left arm was still half numb, but he was beginning to feel his fingers again.
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Moving fast, MacGyver was well up the ladder when the attack slammed into him. The sudden and acute awareness of height washed through him, the adrenalin-fueled fire in his blood freezing as his skin crawled and his stomach clenched. The increasing distance between himself and the lethal concrete landscape below yawned into an infinite chasm. Mac's palms began to sweat, and he had to tighten his grip on the rungs until his fingers ached.
Not now!!
But it was an old and familiar enemy. He'd been fighting it for years, beating it back in endless skirmishes, although he never seemed to win the war. Mac let the momentum of his own movements take over while he fought – he could not afford to let the old demons slow him down now.
Open the hand. Lift. Close. Pull. Steady with the other hand – can almost grip the rungs with it now. Cold hard metal, solid and real. Foot. Other foot. Look up. Look up. Up!! Repeat. Open the hand. Lift. Close. Pull. Focus.
Up a long ladder and down a short rope . . .
Gravity was clawing at his back and legs as if the intractable rage and malice of the city itself wanted him to fall, to fail, one more body in the eternally lengthening list of casualties. The thirsty streets of Belfast were ready for a fresh coat of blood, always ready again even before the last coat was dry.
Suddenly MacGyver was angry himself, hot with fury at the old fear that always chose the worst moments to attack. With the anger, fresh adrenalin washed through him, burning away the ice and carrying him up the ladder. The pain in his left shoulder retreated to an unimportant distance, although he still couldn't get a firm grasp with that hand.
Up a long ladder and down a short rope . . .
The jingling rhythm of the rhyme had stuck in his head, and its momentum pushed him on, the way the daily rhythms of life carried the Irish through the chaos of their own belaboured existence. When Mac reached for the next rung and found none, the jarring break in the rhythm was disorienting, almost painful. He was at the top.
MacGyver pulled himself up the last few feet to the edge of the rooftop and peered cautiously over. He spotted Liam immediately, lying prone at the edge of the roof overlooking the street, perhaps thirty feet away: a grotesque hunting predator waiting for the herds of oblivious prey to file into place below him. Light from the street glinted on the barrel of the Dragunov and caught the irregular white patches of Liam's hands, although the rest of him was in shadow.
Liam's hands hurt him yet, especially when it's damp.
Mac threaded his left arm through the rungs of the ladder to hold himself steady, pulled out Bobby's slingshot again, and felt in his pockets for ammunition. No good firing matchboxes at him . . . gotta have something with some sting to it. The back of his left hand was still numb, and he couldn't grip as tightly as usual, but the hand was steady enough as he took aim.
There had still been two bullets from Connor's gun left in his pocket; Mac held one cupped in his right palm as he fired off the first, drawing the slingshot again and letting off the second shot in quick succession. He hadn't practiced that rapid-fire double-shot technique since childhood, and with no real time to aim, the second shot invariably went wide of its target; but it was good enough. The first shot had caught Liam squarely on the back of his right hand – Mac could see the hand jerk away from the gun and hear the fulminating curse at the sudden flare of pain. The second shot was only meant to win another precious second of distraction, clattering against the brick near Liam as Mac tossed the slingshot aside, vaulted the last few feet onto the roof, and launched himself at the terrorist.
The footing was rough and the light was terrible, and Liam had learned his fighting in a dirty school, but it made him predictable: MacGyver blocked a kick to the knee and a blow to the groin as they grappled over the rifle. He was better prepared this time for the hate-fueled intensity of Liam's wiry strength, but the sharp stinging blow to Liam's hand had done more than just break his focus and ruin his aim: it had enraged him.
Mac tried to twist the gun out of Liam's grasp, but the older man held it across his body in a bulldog grip, trying to bulldoze Mac towards the edge of the roof. When Mac tried to break his charge, the older man suddenly threw his weight against him and twisted the rifle in turn, catching it around Mac's throat and bearing him to the ground. MacGyver found himself lying on his stomach right on the edge of the roof, with Liam crouched over him trying to choke him with the rifle barrel, and the drop into the alleyway gaping below them. The personal demons he'd only just beaten back on the ladder were grinning back up at him again.
MacGyver wrapped his hands on top of Liam's where he was hauling back on the rifle, trying to crush it against Mac's throat, and drove his fingers into the backs of Liam's hands, digging the fingertips as hard as he could into the delicate spiderweb of bones and nerves. The Irishman screamed, a piercing howl of pure agony, and the pressure on Mac's windpipe disappeared as the gun fell out of Liam's nerveless grasp and clattered into the shadows of the alleyway below them.
Liam rolled away from where MacGyver lay and started to rise to his feet, reaching to the back of his waistband in a gesture that had become nightmarishly familiar. Not another gun!
When the first shot rang out across the roof, Mac was momentarily disoriented; Liam hadn't yet drawn whatever pistol he had in reserve. The shot had come from behind them, and had passed well off to the side. Liam flinched and looked around wildly.
"MacGyver!" Pete's voice, a welcome sound from another, safer world, rang out from the direction of the ladder.
Another shot sang out, well above their heads, and Mac realised that Pete was only trying to rattle Liam and keep the pressure on him – but Liam didn't seem to realise that. He flinched down and sideways again, still scrabbling at his waistband for his own pistol. Mac saw that he'd been thrown off-balance, and watched him take a step back to steady himself – but the step was too close to the roof edge where the footing was uneven and slick from the clammy damp and fog.
Time slowed horribly as Liam tried to pull himself back from the misstep, and his body twisted in the impossible struggle against gravity. MacGyver dived towards the falling man, but he seemed to be moving very slowly himself. The demons dragged Liam down even as Mac tried to reach him, and he was gone.
Once again Mac was lying prone on the edge of the drop, looking down into the shadows of the alleyway as he clutched at the edge; but now the demons had turned their attention elsewhere, uninterested in him for once. As he drew back from the edge and dragged himself to his knees, he could hear Pete calling his name.
"MacGyver! Are you all right?"
"Yeah . . . I'm okay . . . I think." Mac took a long breath and winced as the adrenalin started to fade and the bruises in his battered body began to make themselves felt. "Glad to see ya, Pete. Did Máire tell you where to find me?"
"She insisted we follow you as soon as we could." Pete was stooping over MacGyver, helping him to his feet; behind him, Mac saw Kathleen Walsh hurrying up, out of breath. "What happened? I swear I can't have hit him – "
"You didn't, Pete." Mac flexed his left hand to see if any trace remained of the numbness. "But he thought you were getting his range and he tried to dodge."
"Thank a merciful God for that." Kathleen peered down into the alleyway. "We'll have a body without bullet holes. They'll be hard put to it to make a martyr of him just for falling off a roof."
"But Kathleen, I wasn't even aiming at him."
"Ah, Peter. You really did come up the Lagan in a bubble, didn't you? It would never occur to Liam Doherty that you weren't shooting to kill." She threaded an arm through Pete's and gave him a long look, then turned to MacGyver. "What I truly can't credit is how fast Peter went up that bloody ladder. I swear I barely made it up myself, but he never faltered."
Pete shook his head with a self-deprecating laugh. "You didn't see me gasping for breath at the top."
"Were you gasping indeed? It didn't hurt your aim any. Are you always such a steady shot when you're gasping?"
Mac grinned, the shakiness beginning to ebb. "Hey, I've been telling Pete for years now that he could be a biathlon champ if he'd only get the skiing part down . . . "
"Are you kidding?" Pete interrupted. "Not when it requires strapping oversized, overpriced boards to my feet and wallowing around in the snow in very cold temperatures."
"Yeah, I know, Pete." MacGyver found himself exchanging a long-suffering look with Kathleen Walsh. "Not gonna happen."
"Well, all I can say is I'm glad it's over. You had me worried sick, Mac. You know what terrorists are like."
"Yeah, Pete." MacGyver looked down into the alleyway again to where a squad of Kathleen's men were collecting the limp rag-doll form of Liam's body. In the open, well-lit street beyond, he could hear the Unionist crowds streaming past, leaving the rally to head home – or to their own local pubs – in safe obliviousness. "Yeah. I know."
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