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Chapter Eleven: Bury the Hatchet

The Divis Flats stood starkly against the clear summer skies, throwing their long dark shadows over the Falls Road. Will had to crane his neck to see the top of them, shielding his eyes from the sun. CCTV cameras stood guard over the front entrance, watching the silent lobby. Up several floors someone had draped a flag the size of a bedsheet over the balcony railings. One half Irish tricolour, the other half the flag of the Palestinian state. A show of solidarity with another people under siege in a land far from Belfast. Others stuck to more conventional laundry, drying in the sun.

Around the flats, life on the Falls continued. No one even looked at Will and Harry as they surveyed the scene. A shopping centre was packed with afternoon shoppers; the Westlink roared with heavy traffic headed south to Dublin and West to Derry and Donegal. There was nothing left of the British military presence save for the markers commemorating the civilian dead. A large Celtic cross of black marble marked the spot where five members of the public were shot dead by British paratroopers. Small white flowers wilted in the heat at the foot of the memorial. Other than that, there was nothing.

Will felt no connection, nor gravitational pull towards the towers. There was nothing of his father here. He wondered to himself whether he truly expected to feel anything at all. But there it was: the place where his father was last seen alive.

"We can't hang around too long," Harry cautioned him.

Jolted out of his reverie, Will turned quickly to face him. "I know. I'm sorry." He shook his head, starting to walk away. "There's nothing to see anyway."

The flats his father had been abducted from had been demolished not long after. These he was studying now were merely the upgraded replacements. Completed in 1979, they were Belfast City Council's long over-due first measure to try and resolve the Catholic's chronic housing shortage. A remedy to the families of up to twenty sharing a two bed house barely fit for a dog.

"Everything is in the same place, though," said Harry, looking back over his shoulder as they left the scene. "I mean, the doors were in the same place and the driveway is the same. I remember this whole road and some of the buildings."

They had passed the Felon's Club in their hire car as they came down via Andersonstown. These days, it was just a pub that anyone could drink in. Anyone who wasn't English, of course. Some things hadn't changed, and Will knew it was risky for Harry to be lingering in this part of town. Nor could they speak openly. When Harry described something to him, he did so in hushed tones and leaving blanks where names and dates should have been. Will himself did not feel especially threatened, but he was conscious of being out of place. Earlier, he had nipped into a corner shop on the Lower Falls to buy cigarettes and thought twice before speaking and revealing his London accent. But it was too late to back out and, in any case, the shopkeeper paid no heed and merely chatted enthusiastically about the weather while searching for Will's brand. Summer, it seemed, was their favourite day of the year in Northern Ireland as much as it was in England.

They returned to their hire car in the parking lot of the Kennedy Centre. A bustling shopping place that attracted people from all over the city, rather than just the Catholic west. Back in the day, Harry told him, it wouldn't have been safe for outsiders to cross the divides. Will drove, finding his way back into the city centre, much more neutral ground where they could finally talk openly in a place free of open political gestures. What surprised him most was how small it was. Everything was so close together, the whole city pedestrianised and compact that when things were bad, these sworn enemies must have co-existed cheek by jowl.

After a ten minute drive, Will navigated the incredibly fussy one way system that led round the city hall, desperately in search of somewhere to park. Harry had unfolded a map of the city and the satnav was barking computer generated commands at him, but he ignored them both. Following the street signs eventually led Will somewhere completely unknown and unexpected on the opposite side of town. Still, it was habited and developed. It would have to do.

"How the hell did we get here?" asked Harry, peering out of the passenger window.

Will shrugged. "Buggered if I know. But here we are."

They parked beside Belfast lough after picking up sandwiches from a bakery. Remaining in the car while they ate, they could just see ships sailing out into the calm seas. Passenger ships destined for Scotland and Liverpool; Tall Ships arriving for the annual races and great merchant ships bound for god knows where. Even small fishing boats bobbed on the rippling tides. A surprisingly bustling port for such an out of the way city.

"I didn't think it would all be gone," said Will, at length. "I mean, every trace of what happened here. It's like it never was."

"I did try to tell you," replied Harry. "You can't expect people to live in an old war museum. They want to move on and, not forget what happened, but have a new future."

"And I don't blame them for that," he was quick to point out. "God knows, no one can blame them for that."

He paused, growing solemn as he gazed off into the distance. His eye was trained a tall ship, but he wasn't really seeing it anymore. It was just something to look at. Inwardly, he went over his reasons for being there again. It seemed he was chasing answers that he'd never find. Looking for a sense of closure that kept slipping his grasp.

"You're focusing on his death again, aren't you," Harry wryly observed.

Will sighed heavily. "I suppose I am."

"You said it yourself, there's so much more to Bill than that. If you're looking for him, this is the last place you should be," said Harry. "You need to be where we grew up, where he had his first kiss, where he got laid for the first time – which was on the Moore at the back of my Granny's old house, in case you were wondering."

Torn between recoiling and laughter, Will's sense of humour won the moment and laughed. "Yeah, I needed to know that," he said, still smiling. But then, he turned serious again. "So, why did you come here?"

Harry turned contemplative. "Two reasons, I suppose. One: you're every bit as pig-headed as your father was and you were not to be dissuaded. Someone had to make sure you stayed safe over here. Two: for me. I lived through it. Coming here again, after so long … well, it helps to bury that hatchet, doesn't it."

Will looked from the lough to Harry again. "Depends where you're burying it, I suppose. In the ground or in someone's face."

It was meant as a joke, but the old Spook wasn't laughing. He turned to Will with a calculated look of determination in his hazel eyes. "I'm still glad you came here, by the way. There's someone I want you to meet tonight."

Curious, Will's brow creased. "Who?"

"Do you remember the cover story I insisted you learn?"

"Yes," he replied, nodding.

"Good. Look over it again when we get back to the Europa. I want you to have it all off by heart. Understand?"

The atmosphere had turned serious, a shift in temperature that made Will's mouth run dry. "Sure," he said, quietly. "But who is it?"

"Someone who will help you get over this death fixation you have," he replied, vaguely. "But understand this: you do as I say. If I tell you to run, you run. You don't speak at all, unless absolutely necessary. I'll tell you to leave before the end and I want you to leave without question. When you go, wait for me in the car. I need a moment alone with this man."

Bury the hatchet, he thought again, bury it in their face. "I'll do everything you say, I promise."

The moment passed and normality crept back in. Harry even looked relaxed again as he finished off his lunch. Will did the same, curious and nervous in equal measure. Dimly aware, as he was, that they were going beyond answering questions; they were settling old scores.

"Don't be nervous," Harry said, pulling on a nice pair of black leather gloves. He hadn't used these ones since the last Home Secretary turned out to be a bastard. Once done, he straightened his tie and checked his reflection in the wing mirror of their hire car. An especially awful purple Nissan. Meanwhile, Will continued to bite his lower lip. His gaze flitted from the road to the pavement, bright streetlamps reflected in his wide, dark irises.

The height of a northern summer, it hadn't grown dark until long past ten pm, but night did eventually settle. As soon as it did, Harry took over driving duties just to keep his mind occupied on something other than Brendan McLoan. He took a circuitous route through Belfast's meandering docklands, plagued with second thoughts about brining Will along. But, of them both, it was he who needed to hear this the most and this really was his last chance. If he didn't do as he was told, he'd kick him.

"Right, Harry," said Will. "We're building contractors normally based in Liverpool. I live in Speke, close to the John Lennon Airport. You're close to the Albert Docks. Through those channels we're shipping building supplies to companies in Northern Ireland and drugs, on the side, to Brendan McLoan's paramilitary friends via those same routes."

Harry smiled. "Very good. Clearly, we're not Liverpudlians. How long have we been based there?"

"Only two years now," he parroted. "We're still getting out business off the ground. Before that, we were based in Southampton, but we weren't getting enough business from there. So we moved north."

Harry continued to be pleased. "And I am?"

"You're my Uncle Ivan. Vanya, to your friends. Uncle Vanya."

"And you are?"

"Your nephew, Sean. Your sister, Eileen, was my mother but she died when I was fourteen. My parents were divorced, so you looked after me until I finished school, then gave me a job in your building firm."

"Perfect. But the rules remain the same: you don't talk at all unless absolutely necessary. If you forget, keep it vague," said Harry, going through it all again. "And don't forget to sound natural. You're parroting it off like a schoolboy reciting Shakespeare. You don't have to use my exact words."

"Sorry," said Will. "I'll keep it conversational then. But only if I must."

It was morally and professionally wrong, but needs must. Bill would have done the same for Catherine, he knew. The only difference was, he probably would have done it a lot sooner. When he reached the spot, Harry pulled the car up in the shadow of a freight container. No one used this part of the docks. It was set too far from the city for the dog walkers and the nearby housing estate was sealed off by a large wall. Otherwise, there was only the water. Harry could see the moon reflecting the restless surface, the balmy air heavy with its scent. Before he got out of the car, he turned to Will for one final time.

"If you're having second thoughts, now is the time to back out," he said. "No one would think less of you if you did."

"No," Will was adamant. "No, I need this."

His gun was in the glove compartment. Before getting out of the car, he stripped the weapon down and double checked every mechanism on it. Unloaded, he reloaded it again and slipped the rest of his ammunition into the pocket of his overcoat. He slipped the silencer on but was unable to test it without wasting a precious bullet, so he put his faith alone in it. Will watched his every move as though transfixed.

"You're going to kill him no matter what?" he asked.

Harry looked up and met his gaze. "Does that disturb you?"

"It worries me," he admitted. "What if he gets to you first?"

"He won't, and you'll be long gone by that time," he said. "When I say, you get in the car and drive away. I'll call you when it's done. I'm not having you witness it."

Almost immediately, he realised he had said the wrong thing. Will's hackles rose.

"Why? You can trust me; I won't say anything-"

"It's not that!" Harry cut in. "You're not an MI5 Officer, Will. You shouldn't be here at all."

Strictly speaking, murder was still illegal. Even for MI5 Officers, including the high up ones. But it was nothing they hadn't done a hundred times and more. This man was a threat to British national security and it was Harry's job, and his alone, to circumvent it. However, Will settled back down again and made no further protest. Together, they stepped out of the car and headed towards a warehouse close to the water's edge, just off a tarmac footpath. If Harry looked left, he could see the car parked under a bridge. A motorway flyover, to be precise. The traffic sped overhead so fast not a single motorist would see anything happening below, even if they did bother to look.

"He's coming alone, isn't he?" Will asked.

"Those are the instructions we gave him," Harry confirmed. "If he's with people, the whole thing is off and we walk away before he even gets here. Understand?"

Will nodded, sticking his hands deep into his pockets. He had lost weight since Harry first met him, he was sure of it. For a moment, he just watched the younger man, shivering in the night air. Ghostly pale in the moonlight, his dark hair was a mess of unruly curls. Dark eyes made even darker in the poor light. The only physical difference between him and his father was height. Bill was a good few inches taller than Harry, but Will was at least two inches shorter. Will turned his back on the soft wind and lit a cigarette. A nervous cigarette rather than one that was actually craved. Something to keep him busy. Somewhere, deep in Harry's consciousness, he acknowledged the fact that he was using the younger man. Using him as bait to lure McLoan into a trap. Would McLoan recognise him after all these years? He couldn't guess. But Will was Bill frozen in time, propelled untouched through the decades. For reassurance, he touched the holster of the gun, feeling its bulk resting against his ribs. Will would not be harmed. Tonight, the wheel of history would be kicked squarely in the spokes, stopped for good.

"Will," he said, getting his attention just as headlamps swerved into the docks. "Get behind this wall. Stay out of sight until I give the sign."

Will also noted the lights and ducked to the side of the warehouse. It was a warehouse actually owned by MI5, from back in the dark old days, but never used. Malcolm Wynne Jones had procured its use for them, along with Ruth. On paper, it was owned by some fictional haulage company based in London.

By the time the newcomer was walking down the path, Will had secreted himself away. Hidden by overhanging bracken from the roadside verge, he was concealed from view from the opposite direction. McLoan would not see him. Meanwhile, Harry stepped out into the path, making himself clearly visible to McLoan.

"Brendan, is it?" he asked, stepping forward and extending one hand.

"Aye, it is," the man replied, also reaching out to shake hands. "You must be Ivan?"

"So it is," Harry replied. "You'll have to excuse our surroundings here, we're just getting on our feet in Belfast. Our warehouse is still bare."

Harry removed the keys from his coat pocket, making a show of searching for the right one.

"Aye, no worries mate," said McLoan. "It's not a great time to be setting up is it, what with all the financial troubles?"

Harry laughed as he swung open the metal door and fumbled for the light switch. "Too true. Hence our new side line."

He avoided looking directly at McLoan. Before that, he had to school his own reaction into showing not the faintest trace of recognition. They were two perfect strangers, meeting for a business transaction. Only one they in out of the dark could they see one another properly, anyway. But Harry could already see that time had taken its toll on Brendan as much as him. He was no longer skinny and lithe, but larger with a heavily receding hairline. What was left of his once brilliant red hair had turned pale grey. He also peered at the world through thick rimmed spectacles. But the youth he had once been was still recognisable. It was definitely him. He even retained the chatty, affable manners that had made him so easy to talk to as an Asset.

"This is dead on actually; very nice," he commented, looking around at the empty wooden pallets. "Well, we normally wouldn't be dealing in narcotics either. But as you said yourself, business and trade is so tight right now we have no choice. The Irish Republican Army must generate capital, like any other business. We need money to further our campaign."

Harry noted use of the name "Irish Republican Army" and remembered Ros' mocking words "I Can't Believe it's not the IRA". That was no longer the case. McLoan no longer recognised his organisation as a dissident one, or any splinter group. They were out to usurp the Provisionals as the official army of the Northern Irish nationalists. For another moment, Harry kept his back turned to the other man.

"I wish I could offer refreshment, but as you can see, we're still a little under-equipped," he said, apologetically.

"Don't worry about it," said McLoan, now moving about in the background.

When Harry turned to get a proper look at him, he was inspecting the structure of the warehouse. His attention elsewhere, it was impossible to gage his reaction. However, old habits came swiftly back to Harry and he slipped effortlessly into his new persona. He only checked in on reality every so often, just to see if the plan was progressing. Although he could not see what McLoan was scrutinising so intently, he could guess at why.

"If you're looking for somewhere to store weapons, I am sure we can come to some arrangement," he suggested, cordially. "At only a small cost, of course."

Finally, McLoan turned to face him. Evidently, the suggestion pleased him. "Now that's something we would definitely be interested in. We always need secure places for certain shipments. The only problem, from what I can see, is access. We would need a key."

McLoan's gaze was directed squarely at him as he spoke, but there was no recognition there. Harry moved forwards, into the light.

"Obviously, we would need assurances that our stuff would not be touched-"

"Here, you know what, if so much as a stray nail goes missing from here while we're sharing it, let me know and I'll conduct a full investigation," McLoan explained. Still acting the policeman, after all these years. "The Irish Republican Army does not tolerate thieves."

Sanctimonious bastard. "That's something of a reassurance."

McLoan's eyes narrowed, but only briefly. He looked as if he was about to say something, but then changed his mind. Meanwhile, Harry defiantly held his gaze.

"I'm sure we can come to some arrangement," he said, calmly. Inwardly, he urged that penny to drop.

"You know, I can't shake this feeling we've met," said McLoan, sounding more curious than disconcerted. "Is this your first time in Belfast?"

"Funny you should mention, actually. It isn't. Far from it, in fact," Harry explained, still casual, still calm. Every time he thought of Bill, of his friend's charred remains, he deliberately batted the memories away. Placid and calm. He needed to stay completely collected. But that didn't stop the past intruding. "Not sure if we've met, though."

McLoan was looking now. Really looking. The lines around his grey eyes crinkled deep as he scrutinised Harry to point of discomfiture.

"So, the gear?" McLoan asked, clearly trying to bring himself back around to business. But Harry could tell he was troubled now.

"Yes, my nephew has that. He's out in the car," answered Harry. He held McLoan's gaze as he called out to Will. "Sean! Get in here!"

As per the instructions, Will was hesitating before making an entrance. Meanwhile, the silence spiralled uncomfortably. McLoan took a step back towards the far wall, while Harry positioned himself closer to the door. One hand crept into his jacket, beneath the lapel where the gun was nestled against his ribs. The only sound he could hear now was the wings of a moth beating against the electric bulb overhead.

"I do know you," McLoan said, his voice low as he squinted back at Harry. "I know you, I know I do. Who the fuck are you?"

"A ghost," Harry murmured, softly.

His hand tightened round the butt of the gun, drawing it slowly as Will materialised from the darkness outside, moving to stand by Harry's side. As per the instructions, Will remained silent as Harry aimed the gun at McLoan. Stunned, McLoan turned from Harry to Will, fixing on the younger man and paling. His pupils dilated, eyes widening as he shrank quickly against the wall.

He knows, Harry thought. He knows now.

"You!" McLoan's jaw hit his chest as he gasped. "You're dead. I killed you." He was addressing Harry, not Will. "And who is that? I know him, too. What the fuck is this? A ghost can't pull the trigger, so what do you want?"

"You'd be surprised at what ghosts can do," said Will.

Instinctively, Harry repositioned himself so that he was directly in front of Will, forming a human shield to protect him. All the while, his hand did not so much as tremble as he trained the gun on McLoan. 'Just shoot the bastard,' Lucas had advised. But it was too late for that. It was too easy. His finger curled around the trigger, squeezing it just as he trained the bullet at the man's thigh. It hit the target almost instantaneously, causing McLoan to drop to the floor in great pain.

"You bastard!" he shouted, the sentiment reverberating around the warehouse.

Harry didn't move except to train the gun at McLoan's head again. One false move, and the next would be straight through the brain. Lights out. Blood from the thigh injury pooled over the stone floor, hot and sticky it merged with years of accumulated dirt. He gripped at it, squeezing the injury tight, turning his hands slick and red. He could no longer see Will, not without turning from McLoan. But he could sense the younger man remaining in place by the door.

"Who am I?" asked Harry.

"This is murder," McLoan spat through laboured breaths.

"Oh really, Brendan, you of all people should know what murder is," Harry goaded. "You're not even fucking dead yet."

Sweat was beading on McLoan's brow now. He looked like a pig before slaughter. But when he opened his mouth again, he laughed. Laughing with some gusto for several minutes. His dilated eyes now looked past Harry and he pointed a blood dripping hand towards Will.

"She was pregnant," he laughed. "I remember it now. She – the other one's wife – was pregnant, and you scared me for a minute there, boy! Your father cried for you. I can tell you that. He fucking cried for you, right enough."

Harry swallowed hard, tightening his grip on the gun to stop his shaking. He no longer needed the pretence of calmness. It was all out in the open now. McLoan lowered his hand, returning it to the gaping, weeping hole in his thigh. It was a non-fatal injury, but a bloody painful one.

"William, come here!" Harry called, still not taking his eye off McLoan.

He heard Will approach, coming to a rest at his side. He too was transfixed on the injured terrorist, but he seemed beyond speech.

"Tell this man why he grew up without a father," said Harry. "Tell him everything, and I might just let you live. But you fucking explain to him now!"

Beside him, Will was as taut as a bow string.

"Are you serious?" McLoan cried back at them. "You let me go and you'll go down for this!"

"No, I won't," Harry replied, once more calm. "You and I both know that won't happen. It never does. I'm British Intelligence, after all. We never go down for what we do to your sort. You know that. Where are the Bloody Sunday paras now? The soldiers who shot the Ballymurphy Five and the Falls Road kids? They're in England and enjoying a nice, cosy retirement without a stain on their character, that's where."

He was winding him deliberately. Bringing him to the boil as his eyes flashed angrily.

"We were soldiers," he countered. "We were all soldiers. You knew that. Bill fucking Crombie knew that. It was a dirty war and we all pulled dirty tricks to make it what it was."

"Where did you take him?" Will found his voice. "My father. Where did you take him? Where was he for those two weeks? Just tell me."

McLoan snapped round, looking directly back at Will again. "He came to us," he said, his voice growing weak now. "He just walked right up to us, saying this one was dead-" he broke off to nod towards Harry. "He wanted to negotiate. But we needed his intel. We had him, and we couldn't ever let him go-"

"This is all lovely, but Will didn't ask for justifications; he asked for facts," Harry cut in.

"It was a disused meat processing plant on the Shore Road, North Belfast. There's a small housing estate called Bawnmore. But the plant you're looking for was facing the road, a big picture of a red mushroom on the board," McLoan answered. "It's still there now, but it's been taken over. It is back in business and you can't get inside. There's nothing left of those days. But back then it was empty, just meat hooks hanging from the ceiling and a few knives. We hung him up and one of the other fellas, Patrick McCann his name was, he did all the work. He had a blow torch … some other stuff."

He trailed off, still looking at Will. Will, in return, stood his ground and did not flinch. From the tail of his eye, Harry could see him standing firm. But the tension was like electric in the air. It crackled. McLoan sprawled across the ground, helpless and immobilised, covered in his own congealing blood.

"Listen to me, kid," he rasped. "Your father was a soldier and so was I. This is what soldiers do to each other. It wasn't aimed at you, or your mother. It was aimed at the British State. You understand?"

"My father was not the British State!" Will shot back, angrily. "He was my father! He was somebody's son, somebody's husband, somebody's best friend … and my Dad."

"What did he reveal?" Harry asked. "Did he tell you anything?"

He already knew the answer. But he wanted Will to hear from him. McLoan began by shaking his head.

"Fuck all!" he laughed again. "Absolutely jack shit."

Will trembled; Harry could feel as the younger man was right beside him. "Did he say anything?"

"Nothing. Just kept going on about the baby. The baby this, the baby that. It was his safe place. He just retreated inside, pretending none of it was happening and focused on something else. Do it for the baby. Think of the baby. Only the baby. It was his diversion. You see it all the time."

Now Will buckled and gagged. He managed to not vomit, but he heaved. Looking down at McLoan in utter disgust. "See it all the fucking time?" he echoed, contemptuously. "Did this a lot, did you? Torture and murder people! That's not what soldiers do to one another, you fuck wad!"

"Oh really!" McLoan retorted, all wide-eyed surprise. "What's this, then?" He threw his arms open, revealing the ruin of his thigh.

Enough. A shutter dropped in Harry's mind as a cut-off point was finally reached. Bury the hatchet now, he thought to himself.

"Will," he flatly intoned. "Leave us now."

McLoan was laughing again. Sanity, it seemed, was leaking out that hole in his leg. "As soon as you walk out that door, boy, he's going to kill me!"

Will paused, looked back over his shoulder. "I know," he said, casually. "See ya."

Harry waited until Will was gone. Just as at the start, he was alone with McLoan. The two of them looked at each other unflinchingly.

"Éirinn go Brách," he whispered, closing his eyes. "tiocfaidh ár lá."

"Don't kid yourself, Brendan," Harry answered, pulling the trigger.

The blast of the gunshot filled the room, shaking the walls and sending a cloud of dust showering over the dead man. Harry remained standing there for several minutes, looking down at him. Motionless, death quickened. It was over for him far faster than it was for Bill Crombie. But Harry wasn't an animal. He drew a deep breath, turned around and walked away. Now he had his peace and reconciliation.

As if he had been physically struck, Will flinched as the gunshot shattered the night. But once the echo faded out across the waters of the lough, a great burden lifted from him. It was over. Harry had put an end to it. He took a moment to get his breath and let Harry lead him back to the car. Shaking and jittery still, it was just relief. Relief that something so bad, so insidious, had been taken from him. It had been there so long he almost didn't know how to function without it. But he was sure he would find a way.

That night, they went back to their hotel and Harry pressed a hot, spiced whiskey onto him. He drank it while perched on the edge of his bed. Still dazed and bewildered. He looked up at Harry through wide eyes, watching as he started packing up their belongings. There was no point hanging around.

"I can do that," he said.

"No you can't. You'll be sleeping."

The next thing he was aware of was the late morning sunshine spilling through the windows. His head felt thick, like his brain had been replaced with cotton wool. Still fully clothed, he was lying flat on his back so at least Harry put him to bed properly after lacing his drink. Will thought he should be angry about that, but he hadn't the heart. Besides, he would never have slept otherwise.

Still sluggish from the sleeping pills, Harry did the driving that morning. They followed the Shore Road, all along the lough. Will hadn't realised just how wide it was. Thirty to forty miles wide as they headed north. But the Shore Road was staunchly Protestant looking, with its UVF murals and Union Jack flags on every lamppost. But it was seven miles north of the city that they reached the tiny nationalist enclave of Bawnmore. The meat processing plant was exactly where McLoan said it would be. Complete with hoarding bearing a picture of a large, red mushroom with a jolly, smiley face painted on it.

They got out of the car in silence and looked up at the plant where his father died. A soft wind swept in from the sea, ruffling the undergrowth and Will's hair alike. Side by side, they thought their own private thoughts as they took in the bright yellow walls from the car park. This is where it happened. He knew that now. Just like his father, Brendan McLoan's death had not been mentioned anywhere, despite his body being carried away in the early hours of that morning. It was another secret of the past, whispering away into the depths of obscurity. The world continued, blissful in its ignorance.

Will thought of his father, inside those walls, hanging from butchers hooks. He could almost hear the blow torches. But his father said nothing. He really had died a hero's death. He hadn't been entirely wrong, in those naïve days of his childhood. While deep in his own thoughts, he felt Harry touch his elbow. When he looked, he had a single carnation in his hands.

"Take it," he said.

Will raised a pained smile. "Both of us," he replied. "Together."

Together, they set the lone blossom down on the railing outside the plant. No one would notice it. But still, Will plucked some of the petals and let them blow away on the wind as the first tear fell from his eye. As small a tribute to his father as it was, he didn't want the petals staying there. He wanted them to be free, just like Bill Crombie. Free, and far away from this dreadful place. He watched them go, pulled on by the sea breeze, small spots of vivid pink, scattering over the grey. Go, he thought, just go now.

He swiped at his face with the sleeve of his jacket, sniffing audibly. But when he looked back up at the blank, dark windows of the plant Harry blocked his view. A heavy arm fell over his shoulders as he was pulled into a bear hug. The last of his resolve shaking before falling away.

"Come on, now," said Harry, quietly. "Let's get you home."

For once, he did not argue. Will allowed Harry to lead him back to the car, where they started up the engine and pulled out on the road home.

Thank you again to everyone who has read and reviewed this story; it means a lot. Thank you.

Just the epilogue to go now and that will be the end.

Translation of Brendan's last words:

Éirinn go Brách – Ireland forever.

Tiocfaidh ár lá – Our day will come.