door and saw two young men in bomber jackets run up behind Grace Browning and grab her. He heard her cry out and then they hustled her into an alley.
Grace wasn’t afraid, just angry with herself for having been such a fool. On a high after her performance, she’d thought that the walk back to the hotel in the rain would calm her down. She should have known better. This was uncharted territory. Belfast. The war zone.
They hustled her to the end of the alley where there was a dead end, a jumble of packing cases under an old street lamp bracketed to a wall. She stood facing them.
“What do you want?”
“English, is it?” The one with a ponytail laughed unpleasantly. “We don’t like the English.”
The other, who wore a tweed cap, said, “There’s only one thing we like about English girls, and that’s what’s between their legs, so let’s be having you.”
He leapt on her and she dropped the umbrella and tried to fight back as he forced her across the packing case, yanking up her dress.
“Let me go, damn you!” She clawed at his face, disgusted by the whisky breath, aware of him forcing her legs open.
“That’s enough,” Rupert Lang called through the rain.
The man in the tweed cap turned and Grace pushed him away. The one with the ponytail turned too as Lang and Curry approached.
“Just let her go,” Curry said. “You made a mistake. Let’s leave it at that.”
“You’d better keep out of this, friend,” the man in the tweed cap told him. “This is Provisional IRA business.”
“Really?” Rupert Lang replied. “Well, I’m sure Martin McGuinness wouldn’t approve. He’s a family man.”
They were all very close together now. There was a moment of stillness and then the one in the ponytail pulled a Smith & Wesson .38 from the pocket of his bomber jacket. Rupert Lang’s hand came up holding the Beretta and shot him twice in the heart.
At the same moment, the man in the tweed cap knocked Grace sideways so that she fell. He picked up a batten of wood and struck Lang across the wrist so that he dropped the Beretta. The man scrambled for it, but it slid on the damp cobbles toward Grace. She picked it up instinctively, held it against him, and pulled the trigger twice, blowing him back against the wall.
She stood there, legs apart, holding the gun in both hands, staring down at him, and Rupert Lang said, “Give it to me.”
“Is he dead?” she asked in a calm voice.
“If not, he soon will be.” Lang took the Beretta and shot him between the eyes. He turned to the one with the ponytail and did the same. “Always make sure. Now let’s get out of here.” He picked up the umbrella. “Yours, I think.”
Curry took one arm, Lang the other, and they hustled her away. “No police?” she said.
“This is Belfast,” Curry told her. “Another sectarian killing. They said they were IRA, didn’t they?”
“But were they?” she demanded as they took her down to the car and pushed her into the rear.
“Probably not, my dear,” Rupert Lang said. “Nasty young yobs cashing in. Lots of them about.”
“Never mind,” Curry told her. “They’ll be heroes of the revolution tomorrow.”
“Especially if January 30 claims credit.” Rupert Lang lit a cigarette and passed it to her. “Even if you don’t use these things, you could do with one now.” She accepted it, strangely calm. “Do you need a doctor?”
“No, he didn’t penetrate me if that’s what you mean.”
“Good,” Curry said. “Then a hot bath and a decent night’s sleep and put it out of your mind. It didn’t happen.”
“Oh yes it did,” she said and tossed the cigarette out of the window.
When they reached the Europa, Lang, a hand on Grace’s arm, started toward the lifts. She said, “ Actually, I’d like a nightcap.”
Lang frowned, then nodded. “Fine.” He turned to Curry. “Better make the call, Tom,” then he led her into the Library Bar.
A few minutes later
Grace wasn’t afraid, just angry with herself for having been such a fool. On a high after her performance, she’d thought that the walk back to the hotel in the rain would calm her down. She should have known better. This was uncharted territory. Belfast. The war zone.
They hustled her to the end of the alley where there was a dead end, a jumble of packing cases under an old street lamp bracketed to a wall. She stood facing them.
“What do you want?”
“English, is it?” The one with a ponytail laughed unpleasantly. “We don’t like the English.”
The other, who wore a tweed cap, said, “There’s only one thing we like about English girls, and that’s what’s between their legs, so let’s be having you.”
He leapt on her and she dropped the umbrella and tried to fight back as he forced her across the packing case, yanking up her dress.
“Let me go, damn you!” She clawed at his face, disgusted by the whisky breath, aware of him forcing her legs open.
“That’s enough,” Rupert Lang called through the rain.
The man in the tweed cap turned and Grace pushed him away. The one with the ponytail turned too as Lang and Curry approached.
“Just let her go,” Curry said. “You made a mistake. Let’s leave it at that.”
“You’d better keep out of this, friend,” the man in the tweed cap told him. “This is Provisional IRA business.”
“Really?” Rupert Lang replied. “Well, I’m sure Martin McGuinness wouldn’t approve. He’s a family man.”
They were all very close together now. There was a moment of stillness and then the one in the ponytail pulled a Smith & Wesson .38 from the pocket of his bomber jacket. Rupert Lang’s hand came up holding the Beretta and shot him twice in the heart.
At the same moment, the man in the tweed cap knocked Grace sideways so that she fell. He picked up a batten of wood and struck Lang across the wrist so that he dropped the Beretta. The man scrambled for it, but it slid on the damp cobbles toward Grace. She picked it up instinctively, held it against him, and pulled the trigger twice, blowing him back against the wall.
She stood there, legs apart, holding the gun in both hands, staring down at him, and Rupert Lang said, “Give it to me.”
“Is he dead?” she asked in a calm voice.
“If not, he soon will be.” Lang took the Beretta and shot him between the eyes. He turned to the one with the ponytail and did the same. “Always make sure. Now let’s get out of here.” He picked up the umbrella. “Yours, I think.”
Curry took one arm, Lang the other, and they hustled her away. “No police?” she said.
“This is Belfast,” Curry told her. “Another sectarian killing. They said they were IRA, didn’t they?”
“But were they?” she demanded as they took her down to the car and pushed her into the rear.
“Probably not, my dear,” Rupert Lang said. “Nasty young yobs cashing in. Lots of them about.”
“Never mind,” Curry told her. “They’ll be heroes of the revolution tomorrow.”
“Especially if January 30 claims credit.” Rupert Lang lit a cigarette and passed it to her. “Even if you don’t use these things, you could do with one now.” She accepted it, strangely calm. “Do you need a doctor?”
“No, he didn’t penetrate me if that’s what you mean.”
“Good,” Curry said. “Then a hot bath and a decent night’s sleep and put it out of your mind. It didn’t happen.”
“Oh yes it did,” she said and tossed the cigarette out of the window.
When they reached the Europa, Lang, a hand on Grace’s arm, started toward the lifts. She said, “ Actually, I’d like a nightcap.”
Lang frowned, then nodded. “Fine.” He turned to Curry. “Better make the call, Tom,” then he led her into the Library Bar.
A few minutes later
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