The Hanging Shed

THIRTY-NINE

The main road cut through Enniskillen. The town was thronged with traffic, much of it horse and cart. People were smartly dressed for a provincial town in the Wild West. Then the bells reminded me; it was a Sunday. I began to feel more and more conscious of the big Riley and its Scottish plates. I felt the crowd scrutinise me as I edged through. This close to Lisnaskea there was just the chance of running into one of the Slattery men and being recognised. I put my hat on and pulled it down on my forehead.

The faces outside were familiar, but not because I knew any of them; I’d seen those generic, whey-skinned, undistinguished features – like oatmeal biscuits – a hundred times a day growing up in the West of Scotland. The accents drifting though my sidelight window were as impenetrable as the best of the Gorbals.

I threaded my way out of town and turned due south towards Lisnaskea. I waited till I found a farm track and pulled off. I cut the engine and let the silence sweep in, or at least what passed for silence in the country. The birds were singing for their lives all around me as I stepped out of the car and opened the boot. The smell of grass and hot earth seduced my brain and made me think of walking hand in hand with Fiona long ago by the Kilmarnock Water.

But I had other business this day. I unwrapped the cloth next to my coat and tossed the gutting knife up and down to get the feel of the balancing point. I chose a tree about ten feet away. I flung the knife. It clattered handle first off the trunk. I adjusted my grip and tried again. It flew straight and true and sunk into the soft wood. I repeated the throw until I was satisfied I had the measure of the blade. I moved back another few feet and repeated the move. I cleaned the knife and slipped it down the side of my sock, point first. The metal chilled my leg and the sharp blade pressed sideways against the ankle bone as I moved.

I tore open a cartridge box and lifted out the Dickson. I broke the gun and slotted two shells in the chambers and clicked it closed. I put it up to my shoulder and aimed along its length at some circling crows. It was tempting to test its accuracy, or, to be honest, just feel the recoil and smell the cordite; it had been a while since I last held such a weapon. I tracked a pigeon for a while and went bang bang at it. It seemed unmoved by my play. I placed the beautiful piece down in the boot. I filled my left jacket pocket with shotgun cartridges, my right with. 455 bullets.

I cracked open the Webley and checked each of the six chambers was filled with the heavy shells. I spun the chamber once for luck and snapped it shut. I took both weapons round to the open driver’s door. I placed the shotgun on the floor under the bench front seat. With a slight lean forward I could reach it and swing it up fast if I needed to. The revolver went into the open storage compartment under my steering wheel, its vulcanised stock reassuringly close to my right hand. I got back in the car and went off to find the OK Corral.

*

Lisnaskea was the second town in County Fermanagh after Enniskillen. Its population was about two or three thousand, mostly land workers or quarrymen hewing the grey sandstone and limestone to build houses all over the North.

I had decided on sheer brass neck being the best way of finding Planner Farm. I drove straight into Lisnaskea and along a High Street that bent suddenly 90 degrees for no obvious reason. Maybe the surveyor got drunk or perhaps they just got bored with a long straight road. In the town centre where it widened out briefly stood a market hall in good sandstone. In front of it was a tall stone cross that looked borrowed from another age. I rolled to a halt and stuck my head out the window as two old wifies staggered by, Sunday-best black coats on, Sunday hats perched on their grey heads, gloved hands clutching hymnals.

‘Excuse me, missus. Can you help me? I need some directions.’

They smiled and came over, pressing forward so they could see who and what was in the car. The guns were too low for them to spot.

‘And where is it you’re looking for, young fella?’

If I hadn’t asked the question I wouldn’t have understood her wild accent.

‘It’s a farm. It’s called Planner Farm.’

They stepped back as though I’d just exposed myself. And clearly, in their eyes, I had, in some way.

‘And who are you after exactly, did you say?’

‘Dermot Slattery.’

Their two heads turned and looked at each other knowingly.

‘And what would you be wanting to see this fella Slattery for exactly?’

‘I’m delivering this car to him. He bought it in Glasgow and asked me to bring it over to him.’

This lie seemed to satisfy them.

‘Straight ahead and out of the town. About two miles outside. On the right. You’ll see a sign.’

It was only mid morning and I would have much preferred to be doing this by moonlight. But if I thought it was an unsuitable time to be storming this castle, presumably so would the Slatterys. I was gambling on them thinking that they were already in a fortress, rural Ireland itself – and wouldn’t be expecting a cold-eyed Scotsman to arrive, guns blazing, in their midst. On the other hand, with Sam as the trap, that might be exactly what they were hoping.

I watched the cog of the milometer slowly turn round. One mile, then just after the two mark I saw a sign and a driveway up ahead. There was no guard at the wooden barred gate, or at least none I could see. I gingerly slowed down and cruised past at twenty miles an hour. No one in sight down a long straight drive. I caught a glimpse of a slate roof and a whitewashed low building. There were trees behind and to its left. Then I was past.

About a mile further on was another wood. I drove towards it and saw what I was looking for: a grassy path cutting into the trees for forestry work. I bumped the car over the rough ground until I was well hidden from the road. I drove on and pulled into a small glade. My heart was hammering. I sat back and closed my eyes and let the picture crystallise as best I could. In the Seaforths we were trained to observe targets in the blink of an eye, like taking a snap with a fast-reaction camera that we’d then process. A straight drive, about 150 yards from the road to a square horseshoe-shaped building. The arms of the horseshoe reached forward towards the drive. Sheltering between the wings was a black car. There might have been a figure standing to the right of the car, but I wasn’t sure. That was the best I could manage.

I couldn’t see the plate from the road but it looked like the big Austin from Arran. It could take four, maybe five in comfort. Let’s assume that it had brought Dermot and Gerrit, Dermot’s wife and a bodyguard or two. The boot was big enough for a trussed-up prisoner. Or a body.

I got out of the car, tucked the revolver into its pocket inside my jacket and slung the shotgun over my right arm, its barrels pointing to the ground. I hooked the water bottle over my other shoulder and began walking back to the road. Depending on what I found at the farm, I would go in now. Hard. Or if there were vigilant guards all round the building I could at least get the lie of the land and make my attack this evening. What I feared were dogs. Bloody animals. A slight noise or a whiff of a stranger and they’d be barking their heads off till teatime. Not to mention taking a lump out of my backside.