Warlord

SIXTEEN

LOVELY SPOT, MR. SMITH," FAITH MCGUIRE allowed, rolling onto her side and propping her pert little chin into the palm of her tiny little hand. It was chilly in the dappled shade of the overhanging trees, the late afternoon sunlight filtering down to the green grass but not providing much in the way of warmth. Smith was gazing out to sea, giving her his best side, and she gazed unashamedly at his profile. He was a handsome one, all right, just like she vaguely remembered from the pub the night before.

They sat on a small shady bluff overlooking the ponderously heaving blue Atlantic, gazing at a small island just offshore. He'd brought a blanket and a jug of wine. Tools of his trade, Smith thought, smiling to himself. A jug of wine, a loaf of bread, and thou. Isn't that what the poet said? And don't forget the knife. He had not forgotten the knife…

"Whatever was it the Bard said about a summer day?" he asked.

"Silly boy. I've no earthly idea what he said or didn't say. Never even heard of him. And, move your hand, please, sir."

"The Bard was a poet, my pet," he said, stroking her rounded thigh through the thin cotton of her white skirt with the pink polka dots. She hadn't dressed for the day. She had dressed for him.

"A poet, eh? Do you know one of 'em, then? You being such a fancy schoolteacher and all. One of his poems, I mean."

"I know them all, of course. The sonnets, at least. Would you care to hear one?" He moved his hand up and cupped one of her heavy breasts.

"I'd blooming adore it, I would. No one's ever told me a poem before."

"I'll tell you one in a bit, but first, lean back and let me look at you."

A swath of dark gold hair fell across her forehead, hiding one eye. He pushed it gently away. He looked deep into her pale blue eyes. Had she known what he was looking for, she would have run for her life.

He stared at her as he slipped his hand inside her blouse and began to fondle her breasts.

"Do you see what I see?"

"I see some of me very most private buttons being unbuttoned is what I see, sir. And I ain't that kind of lass so I will thank you very kindly to-"

"But you said you loved me."

"Right. Love, he says. A pint or three after we was introduced last evening, you'll remember."

"I remember everything, dear girl. It's my private hell."

"How you do go on. Still. I'm saving meself, I'll have you know. So don't get any fancy ideas. I'm Catholic, y'know. We wed 'em afore we bed 'em, as me sainted mum says."

"I know that. But I love you, Faith McGuire. In my way."

"Now, who said anythin' a'tall about love?"

"You did. Last night in Belfast, at Bittles Bar."

"That was just Arthur talking."

"Arthur?"

"Arthur Guinness." She giggled. "Do you get it? Guinness? Talking? It's a common enough pub joke."

"Bit of a wit then, are you, darling?"

"Oh, go on."

"I mean it."

"You'll take your hands off me if you know what's good for you. You heard of Billy McGuire? That's me older brother. A right knee-capper he is, too. You dinna want to be on the wrong side of 'im, I'll tell you."

"How many men has he killed? In Londonderry? I think you said his garrison was in Londonderry last night? Yes?"

"Billy doesn't say much about the regiment. Against rules and regs, he says."

"His regiment. That's the Prince of Wales's Own Regiment of Yorkshire? Infantry, isn't that right?"

"Like I say, he don't say much."

"Too bad about that eighteen-year-old British soldier shot by a sniper last week. On foot patrol in the Creggan housing estate. Your brother tell you about that, did he?"

"You ask a lot of questions for a man taking a girl for a picnic. How do I know you ain't IRA? A bloody Provo, right? Is that what you are?"

"Don't be a silly girl. I'm just naturally curious, I suppose. I happened to be present when the soldier was shot. I was the only eyewitness to the shooting in point of fact. I know precisely who killed him. Know him quite well, in fact, watch him shave every morning."

"Listen. We don't talk about such things in my family. It's dangerous. And we especially don't talk about such things to strangers."

"I want to ask you a very serious question."

"Then ask."

"Would you marry me?"

"Me? Marry you? Barmy."

"Would you?"

"Never."

"Why not?"

"We're from two different worlds. We got nothing in common."

"Two different worlds," he said, a brief glint of bright red anger flashing in his dark eyes. He'd looked away just in time. She hadn't seen it.

"As different as two can get. Look, I don't want you to think I've anythin' against yer kind. But, really, it's just not thinkable. I think you're as handsome a bloke as ever there was, but-"

"But what?"

"A bit old for me, I'd say, Mr. Smith. Unless you were very, very rich of course. But you're only a poor schoolteacher. Or so you say, anyway."

"Would you like to row out there to Mutton Island? It's not that far."

"I told you I would. Going with a big strong fella such as you, aren't I? It's a haunt, y'know, that island is. Sure it is. Beasties. Goblins and banshees. When I was a wee one, I heard stories of people going out there. And never coming back."

"I'll take care of you, don't worry."

"It's what you promised. Show me the ruins, you said. The old Norman watchtower and the abandoned schoolhouse. And the graveyard."

"Of course. I'll get the wine, you button yourself up and wrap this blanket round, it's getting quite cold. Storm front coming. My boat is the pretty little blue one down there on the beach."

"Are you sure it isn't too rough, the water? I can't swim a stroke."

"It's only half a kilometer across the strait. I think I can handle it. Let's go."

MUTTON ISLAND ROSE FROM THE SEA to a height of 110 feet. It was covered in wind-whipped grasslands and surmounted by the ruins of an ancient settlement that still stood at the western end. It had been periodically inhabited since prehistory, and the legendary "Children of Lir" had spent their last three hundred years on the island. They were now spending eternity in the island's ancient graveyard.

Myths about the place were common, most generated by the presence of a Pagan tombstone, six feet high, with hieroglyphic inscriptions. It stood in the center of the graveyard in absolutely pristine condition, despite countless centuries of horrific Atlantic weather conditions.

Pulling hard against the fierce rip of the narrow strait, Smith recalled the first day he'd seen this desolate, uninhabited place. He'd been drawn to it for any number of reasons. Not the least of which were many outings like this one, a beautiful fair-skinned lass seated in the bow of his rowboat, looking for adventure with the handsome stranger.

He timed and caught a wave that carried them high up onto the smooth rocky beach. He shipped oars and waited for the wave to recede, leaving them high and dry, so to speak. Once they'd climbed out, he fastened the long painter round a large boulder. Then he took her hand and led her across the slippery rocks to a pathway he often used. It led to the graveyard. Climbing it, he began to perspire.

They reached the top.

"It's lovely out here. Makes you wonder why no one ever comes. Lived here all me life and never been."

"Mind your step," he said. The weather-worn stone tablets of ancient graves had been heaved up topsy-turvy, as if the soil itself was rejecting them. Thick tendrils of fog had wreathed themselves into the ruins, and the graveyard had suddenly become an altogether more haunting place. She was shivering. She hadn't dressed for the cold sea wind.

"Who is buried here? So many graves."

"Children. Centuries ago."

"Sad."

"Yes. Death comes and we go."

"And what might that be?" she asked, pointing at the six-foot obelisk and wrapping his worn woolen blanket more tightly about her. "The grave of some great laird, I wonder?"

"A Pagan tombstone, certainly. The grave of an infidel. A kafir."

"What's a kafir?"

"Someone who doesn't believe in God."

"Who doesn't believe in God?"

"You'd be surprised."

"There's writing on it."

"The hieroglyphs are proving much harder to decipher than I first imagined. But I'm working on it."

"You're some kind of…archaeologist…then, are you?"

"Yes, something like that," he said, walking toward the old stone building. "I make a study of graves."

"And that building there? It seems to be the only one still standing, if you can call it that."

"I call it the schoolhouse. It was probably a church since it's adjacent to the cemetery. But I like to think of it as the place where I do my work. Teaching. And learning, of course. Oh, the things I do learn."

"Oh. You seem to know an awful lot about this frightful place for someone who ain't local."

Thunder rumbled overhead and there was a searing crack of nearby lightning. The air was suddenly charged with electricity. Fat drops of cold rain began to spatter on the upended stone markers of death. The temperature had dropped at least twenty degrees in the last fifteen minutes.

"You'll catch your death out here," he said. "Come inside the schoolhouse. Quickly. I want you to see something. In fact, I want to teach you a lesson. About life and-"

"Teach me a lesson, eh? Cor, the way you do go on!"

"It's my sense of humor. I simply can't help myself."

She looked at him quizzically but went through the low opening, peering into the gloom.

He followed her into the one-room stone structure. The floor was covered with small white pebbles. There were no windows and only the single heavy wooden door. Faith thought it odd that the door looked so new, and had a bolt, but said nothing. She was staring at the strong shaft of light that came through a crack in the roof.

There was a rough-hewn stone table directly in the center of a jagged beam of sunlight slanting between the rain clouds. Beneath the table she saw a large wooden hatch, as if it covered a set of stairs leading below to…what? A cellar?"

"Look at the lovely light in here," she said, turning to smile at him over her shoulder. He had his back to her, fussing with something about the door. He turned to her and smiled. An odd smile, rather queer, nothing like the easy smiles on the cliff overlooking the sea. It made her uneasy, like a small cold ache in the pit of her stomach.

"Why did you close the door?" she said as he approached her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw it all. The cot. The books scattered on the floor. The rotting food and empty wine bottles on the ancient stone floor. Lightning struck close by, filling the room with white light.

This was where he lived.

Horror began to steal its way into her mind, hot blood racing upward, flooding her skull.

He smiled. "If you were granted one wish, Faith McGuire, what would you wish for?"

She tried for a laugh. "To stop drinking with strangers."

"I promise you, Faith, today will be the day you stop drinking with strangers."

She edged toward the door, blindly reaching out for the handle.

"Don't bother, Faith. I locked it."

"Locked it! Why on earth would you lock this door?"

"So you can't get out. Not until you've answered every last one of my questions about your brother's regiment. I need this information, you see. It's my trade. I'm rather a spy. I trade information for favors. Simple, isn't it."

"Ah, yer full of it, ain't you? Trying to scare a poor young girl like that? I know your kind. Open that door and I'll give you a kiss, but only one. You don't scare me a lick."

"You should be scared, my dear girl," he said, moving toward her. He pulled something from his jacket pocket and held it up into the light.

"Oh, my God."

"If you have a god, my dear, now would be a good time to have a quick word."

"What is it? What are you going to do? Have your way with me? It ain't necessary, mister. I'm no virgin. I like it, y'see, can't get enough. I'll do whatever you want. Just don't hurt me."

"Oh, I've no doubt you'll do as I say. But now it's time for the Q & A, my darling."

He pressed the tip of the carving knife against her cheek.

She screamed once, found herself backing away and hit the edge of the table, hit it hard with her hip. She put a hand down on the table to steady herself. It was covered with a crusty dried substance that flaked off onto her hand. In some dim recess of her brain she knew instantly that it was old blood.

"It's covered with-"

"A sacrificial altar," he said quietly. "A Pagan ritual. Centuries old."

"Please. Don't hurt me. I know how to make men happy. I'll do it for you. Anything. I swear it! On my knees, I'll swear it, only don't-"

"Oh, don't worry about all that nasty business. I'm not that kind of man. I find all that rubbish rather messy and disgusting, to be honest."

He moved closer. She opened her mouth to scream as he raised the knife.

He jammed his fingers into her mouth, hooking his left thumb under her jaw, and pushed her back onto the table. Her large breasts were heaving beneath the low-cut white cotton peasant's blouse, and he yanked it down at the neckline, ripping the cloth away from her shoulders with his knife hand.

"Will you talk now, Faith? Will you tell me everything I need to know?"

He missed the hand coming for his eyes. She screamed as she went for them, intent on gouging, and he'd time enough to turn the other cheek, as they say, and all she managed was to rake three shallow wounds down the side of his face.

He slashed her with the knife. She was moving frantically now and the wound was only superficial.

"Faith. Your brother's unit is charged with the protection of Lord Mountbatten. I want to know how many men are assigned to his unit, and I want to know what their rotation schedule is!"

"No!"

He slashed again and the blade struck bone, a rib, but the blood was spurting and he gripped her jaw harder, slamming her head against the table with a hollow thud.

She quieted down a bit, dazed.

"Now talk," he said, but he was convinced he wasn't going to get anything out of this one.

He took a moment to compose himself and regarded her calmly. She was still wriggling too much for his taste, and he cracked her skull once more against his altar.

"Do you or do you not intend to answer my questions about your brother's regiment?"

"Yes! Yes I do! Just stop. Don't-"

The bloodlust was up now. He'd never get anything but lies out of this simple girl. And he certainly could not allow her to go free, not now.

Pity.

He raised the knife above his head, bringing it down in a wide ripping arc. The vicious blow tore away most of her throat.

He took a step back to avoid that awful spouting gout of blood and said, "I'm sorry, Faith. That was mean. You should never have trusted me. No one ever should. They all learn that lesson too late, I'm afraid."

She was silent now.

He went over to his miserable cot and lay down, sick to his stomach over what he had just done, swallowing the vomit. The rage blooming inside him, the hot red need to kill finally extinguished, he lay there, disgusted, panting, hating himself, drenched in the hot blood of Faith McGuire. He seemed to have a half-empty wine bottle in his hand and he drank it down in a single draught.

In the morning, Faith would join all the others down in the catacombs. But for now, at last, he could get some sleep. He stared at the old magazine cover of Mountbatten taped to his wall. Scrawled across his face were Roman numerals, scribbled there every night as Smith marked off the remaining days until he struck. A grease pencil hung by a string, and he used it to mark off one more day, one more week.

Now, to sleep.

Perchance, if he was lucky, to dream of his unsuspecting nemesis.