Knife Edge

CONCILIATION

Dromoland Castle, County Clare, The Republic of Ireland

They were the last three in the dining room.

The waiter watched as the trio of men, all immaculately dressed, ages ranging from thirty to forty, sat around a table close to the window of the oak-panelled room.

The curtains were open, offering a view of the man-made lake and part of the golf course beyond.

The sun was setting, reflecting on the still surface of the water like fire on glass.

In these winter months the darkness came early but the death of daylight was no less spectacular.

Apart from the three men there had been only two other tables to serve that evening. The hotel was quiet. The tourists wouldn't begin to descend for another month or two. For now the natural serenity of the ancient building was intensified by the lack of guests frequenting its magnificently appointed corridors and halls. All too soon the swarms of Americans would arrive, all of whom were convinced they had Irish ancestors in this or some part of the country.

The waiter smiled to himself as he tidied one of the other recently vacated tables.

A couple in their late twenties had sat there and the waiter had been particularly struck by how good looking the young woman was. He'd cast an envious eye in the direction of her companion as they'd left the dining room.

Now he glanced across to the three men and noticed that they had finished their desserts. He wandered over to collect the plates.

'Did you enjoy your meals, gentlemen?' he asked.

'Superb,' said Patrick Macarthy, wiping some crumbs from his beard.

His companions echoed his sentiments.

'Could you bring us three brandies, please?' Macarthy asked as the waiter gathered the plates.

'What's this, Patrick?' Liam Black said, smiling. A celebration?'

Macarthy sat back in his seat, glancing up as the waiter propped the last of the plates on his arm and retreated from view.

'I think we've every cause for celebration,' he said, clasping his fingers together before him on the table. 'We've won. This peace is on our terms and I'm glad it's over.'

Macarthy had been a member of Sinn Fein for the last eight years and, prior to that, he'd spent six years in Long Keshfor possession of firearms. Now, just three days away from his fortieth birthday, he still had the lean and hungry look of a fighting man which not even the flecks of grey in his beard could diminish.

His companions were younger, both members of the coiste seasta, a standing committee which ratified major Sinn Fein decisions.

Liam Black was a tall, powerfully built man with thick brown hair.

Eamonn Brady was thinner. Pale and narrow-featured with sad eyes.

'Are you sure it is over?' Brady asked, pulling agitatedly at the corner of his napkin. 'If the Prods have anything to do with it…' He let the sentence trail off.

'It's just a matter of time now,' Macarthy told the younger man. 'Tying up loose ends. We'll see a united Ireland before the beginning of the next century.'

The waiter returned with the brandies and set down the crystal balloons before disappearing once again.

Black warmed the liquor in the glass, cupping one large hand around the base.

'That was all I ever wanted for my kids,' Macarthy continued. 'That was what I fought for when I was a soldier, what I campaigned for when I got out of the Maze.' He took a sip of his brandy, brushing his lips with his thumb and forefinger as he replaced the glass.

'How are the kids?' Brady asked.

'They're grand,' Macarthy said, wistfully. 'My daughter started school three weeks ago and my son's just been picked to play for his school's hurling team.'

'He must get his athletic prowess from his mother then,' Black chuckled.

'You cheeky bugger,' said Macarthy, patting his stomach. 'Look at that, still flat as a washboard. Pure muscle.'

'Pure bullshit,' Brady retorted.

Macarthy raised his glass and sipped once more at the brandy.

The blast was deafening.

A thundercrack which seemed to reverberate not just around the dining room but also over the lake, echoing away like wiling thunder.

The window behind Macarthy shattered, the first bullet striking him in the back of the head, at the base of the skull.

It exploded from his mouth, blasting two teeth free, smashing the brandy glass.

A thick gout of blood spouted from the wound, tiny pieces of pulverised bone spinning through the air like bloodied confetti.

The impact drove him forward, slamming his shattered face into the table which immediately upended, sending more glasses flying into the air.

Three more shots followed in rapid succession.

One caught Black in the chest, staving in his sternum before exploding from his back just below his shoulder blade. He remained motionless for what seemed like an eternity then dropped to his knees, hands clapped to his chest as if trying to hold in the blood.

Brady threw himself down as two more bullets sent glass flying into the dining room. He looked across at Black who was on his knees, head bowed as if in prayer, blood pouring down his chest and stomach.

Macarthy lay face down a foot or so from him, eyes open.

Brady felt his stomach somersault as he looked at the back of his companion's head.

Where the bullet had entered there was something thick, swollen and pinkish-white bulging from the hole.

He realised it was brain.

Brady vomited.

Outside, the thunderous echo of the firing died away on the cold air.

The sound of an engine drifted across the lake as a car sped away into the enveloping gloom.