Now and in the Hour of Our Death Read Free

bastards. Not one was in H-7 now. Good riddance to bad rubbish.
    Then Bic McFarlane and his mates had put pressure on the Northern Ireland Office to let the prisoners work, maybe get back some of the remission time that they’d lost during the blanket protest. For a year, many of the men of H-7 had worked as orderlies. This gave them access to each of the block’s eleven electronic gates. The screws had got used to them being there, and close to the guards. That was bloody important. If it were going to work, twenty-six guards would have to be captured before they could raise the alarm. Total surprise would be everything. Surprise, and five other small handguns all brought in the same way that Erin was bringing hers.
    Eamon stood up and peered at the window in the entrance door. There she was. About bloody time.
    The screw let her in. She sat opposite Eamon.
    â€œWhat kept you?”
    â€œBody search. The ould bitch noticed a piece of string hanging out of me.”
    â€œShe didn’t…?”
    â€œNot at all. I told her I was on my monthlies.”
    â€œGood lass. I’ll get it from you in a wee minute.” He turned to where another inmate sat several tables away, ignoring the woman opposite, staring at Eamon, who nodded.
    The man turned to his visitor, smashed his fist on the tabletop, leapt to his feet, and yelled, “You fucking slut, you’ve been screwing Sean Molloy.”
    â€œHave not.”
    â€œI’ll fuckin’ well kill you. I’ll kill you dead.” The man rose to his feet, spittle flecking his lips.
    Two warders rushed to restrain him.
    â€œNow,” Eamon hissed. “Now.”
    Erin passed him the package under the table. It slid through his fingers, clunked on the floor and slithered into plain view. He froze like a rabbit in a car’s headlights. Erin slipped off her chair, scooped up the package and thrust it at him. Eamon dropped it down the front of his shirt and tried to control his breathing.
    â€œJesus, you done good, love.” He had to raise his voice to be heard over the yelling of the decoy.
    â€œAye,” she said, and ran her tongue over her upper lip. “And I hope you’ll do good for me soon.”
    What was it about women? Eamon wondered. Was it fear that made Erin horny? “Soon, love.”
    â€œNow would be good,” she said with a grin. “I’m not wearing no knickers.”
    He laughed and felt the package slip down under his shirt, the gun hard against his belly. It wasn’t as hard as the bulge in his pants.
    â€œI’ve to go now,” he said. “But it won’t be long. You just bide.”
    â€œI will.”
    â€œRight. And, Erin?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œDon’t be wearing any panties that day either.” He smiled and blew her a kiss, rose, and walked over to the nearest screw.
    â€œâ€™Scuse me, sir. Permission to go to the lavatory?”
    â€œGo on.”
    Eamon headed for the toilet. His smile faded. To get back to his cell, he’d have to pass a body search. He knew there was only one way to do that. Pushing the Vaseline-lubricated package into his own rectum was going to be a real pain in the arse.

 
    CHAPTER 2
    VANCOUVER. THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 15, 1983
    Fiona Kavanagh looked out over Burrard Inlet. White sails and multihued spinnakers studded English Bay, the yachts’ hulls tiny among the lines of moored cargo ships. Beyond Point Atkinson, Bowen Island tumbled down to Cowan Point and was etched against a sky as colourful as a Fair Isle sweater. Across the Strait of Georgia, the sun behind the mountains of Vancouver Island slipped into the Pacific Ocean and dyed clouds pink and mauve and scarlet.
    The air was redolent of salt and drying seaweed, the sand of Kits Beach warm between her bare toes. Fiona let the evening’s peace wash over her. Kits Beach was her “Lake Isle of Innisfree,” where “peace comes dropping slow,”