Fanatics: Zero Tolerance (4 page)

He had his
radio earbuds in, but the little speakers were silent; radio reception was both poor up here in this particular nook of the Cave Hill, and the only stations he could find were broadcasting fidget-inducing music or chat radio so banal that he was amazed the participants themselves could sustain any interest in their conversations. He had tolerated this for a couple of hours, hoping to hear a news report of a major terrorist incident having been foiled; then his patience was exhausted and he turned the radio off.

Even without looking at his mobile, he knew
it must be well past two in the morning. Sleep stubbornly refused to come. It is not easy to relax when you believe that this night might be your last.

He
was not at all confident that the Police would take his tip seriously; an oblique reference (in a conversation he heard only in snatches) by a man whose habit it was to threaten his enemies in hyperbolic terms was not much for detectives to go on. Carson was not even sure if his anonymous message had even been heard by anyone yet, and the more he thought about it, the more that seemed likely: messages left via the Police’s confidential phone line would surely be played back at the beginning of the next duty period, wouldn’t they, rather than piecemeal, as they came in?

Well; if Belfast was in the sort of trouble
he thought it might be in, the far side of the Cave Hill seemed to him to be as good a place as any to ride it out. If nothing happened, then he’d had a night out under the stars, and could size up the situation in the morning. If the cops did swoop, though, and the Bossman put two and two together, a discreet little cave somewhere in the mountain might be the best place for a grass to be.

But the outlook surely wasn’t completely grim. Even if (God forbid) the Big One happened, he could see there might be a bright side: streets upon streets of shops just waiting to be plundered, flashy cars waiting to be driven away, and opportunity for any number of scams; people would need all sorts of things, and he could see himself stepping into the role of Mr Fixit very nicely.

A lot of things were going to need fixing. As long as he wasn’t one of them, he’d be alright.

*****

The poster party was enormously successful. Less than forty-eight hours after the idea had first occurred to him, (prefaced, naturally, by a celebratory toast or three to his barbed wit) Gerry Marshall and his fellow members of the University Of Ulster’s Anti-bull Society were creeping around each of the towns in the Triangle, pasting their
piece de resistance
to every lamp post they passed. (At least, they began by creeping; it is, of course, quite difficult to maintain discreet behaviour as one becomes progressively more drunk, which was one reason why the party retired to Gerry’s lodgings at about 3:00 AM.) Identical notices were being posted in The Big Smoke too, and in half a dozen other places between here and there.

From the moment the party began, Gerry’s mood was never less than one of elation. The fanatics were at last going to find out just what reasonable people thought of them.
It was time for a zero tolerance policy.

At about four o’clock, someone turned on Gerry’s portable TV just in time to hear the
fag-end of a news report about what had happened to McDonald in Paris; preoccupied through most of the day before, the Society had missed everything.

Gerry’s mood would certainly have been dampened by the news, but he didn’t get to hear it; by 4:00 AM he was fast asleep, and when he finally woke up, his TV didn’t seem to be working.

*****

Half an hour later,
Barry McCandless was ambling home from a drink-and-video session at Tompo’s flat. The last bus had long since gone, he didn’t have enough money for a taxi, and Tompo would neither lend him cash nor put him up for the night.

He stopped to look at one of the posters and fumbled in his jacket pocket for a black marker he sometimes carried, supposing the bill to be an announcement about some political meeting or an advertisement for a local no-hoper rock band’s latest album. The marker seemed to deliberately evade him; he read the poster while he searched for it.

In the end, he gave up and walked on, his destructive urge frustrated.

*****

It was around 5:00 AM that people began to be disturbed by messages announced via bullhorn from roaming Police cars: “Attention! Remain in your homes. Lock all doors, keep all curtains drawn, and do not panic.” So, did they remain calm? Well, what do you think?

Folks in North Belfast heard a bit more than they were meant to when someone forgot he
still had his finger on the button.

“Have you read this? ‘
At the earliest opportunity, report for census to the nearest municipal building still standing and staffed-’ ”

“Here, you’re not supposed to announce that page.”

“I’m not, I’m just – oh!”

After a moment’s embarrassed silence, it
resumed with a short squeal of feedback: “There will be radio bulletins bringing everyone up to date on the current situation later this morning, and further announcements made as matters develop. Um, ignore the bit before this. Nobody go anywhere. Yet. Just stay at home, I mean. Until you’re told different. Over.”

*****

Victor Grimley got out of bed crossly, trudged over to the window, and pulling one of the curtains aside, squinted beyond the streetlamp immediately outside his house. He could see that people in other houses were pulling curtains or tilting blinds to get a better look at what was going on; but whoever was making the announcement was by now cruising along the next street, and there was nothing to see.

Behind him, his wife stirred. “What is it?” she said. “Who was that? Is it the Water
Board again?”

“No,” said Victor.
“They’re not called that anymore.”

Mrs Grimley knew her husband was deliberately trying to exasperate her, and
replied in kind. “The Northern Ireland Aqueous Affairs Department, then. Is it them?”

He gawked one last time at his neighbours before turning away from the window; they gawked right back. “Practical jokers. Go back to sleep.” He climbed into bed, muttering: “Characters like that should be strung up, annoying decent people for no good reason - I’m going to write a letter to somebody about this.”

The letter was never written, of course. Victor and his wife had no idea what hit them.

*****

A rather sorry-looking figure stumbled in through the doors of the Royal Victoria Hospital’s A&E unit. He attracted less attention than he had anticipated; most of those present mistook him for a wino tramp, and made a deliberate effort not to notice him unless he passed by too closely.

Even the receptionist declined to lift her head more than once when checking him in. She had seen some pretty grim things in A&E over the years, and had learned the best way to cope was not to look too closely.
“Name, please?”

“I’ve been burned,” he told her.

Somehow, without him being aware of her approach, there was a nurse at his elbow. She led him to a curtained-off booth and made him sit down. “Scalded, you mean?”

“No, burned,” he insisted.

“Those patches on your face look like scald marks to me,” the nurse said, scolding: “and they didn’t happen this morning either! Why did you wait so long before coming to have them seen to?”

“They conned me,” he muttered.

“What’s that?”

“What a mug I’ve been,” he said, this time even more indistinctly.

The nurse had little time to waste listening to this sort of thing; in her opinion a story that couldn’t be heard wasn’t worth telling. “Where else have you been scalded?” she asked, brisk and businesslike.

“Burned everywhere,” he said. “Burned inside and out.”

She took off his coat and began unbuttoning his shirt.

“I volunteered to stand guard over it,” he said, his eyes glazing. “I thought I was taking the easy duty. I wondered why they were so surprised and pleased with me.”

The nurse considered it unprofessional to gasp at a patient’s injuries, so contented herself with staring for a little bit longer than she really ought. She gathered herself again. “Well! A wee bandage isn’t going to do here! I’m going to fetch the doctor now, okay? I’ll be back in two ticks.”

“That’s all I want,” said the man. “That’s all there is left.”

“Sorry?”

“One last lie down,” he said. “Peace and quiet. Medical treatment while it’s still available.”

“Right,” said the nurse. “I see.”

He took her by the arm
; fresh blood from under his nails smeared along the sleeve of her uniform. He looked at her with one bloodshot eye and one blood-filled one. “You’ll be in demand soon. More than you can cope with.” His fingers relaxed and his eyes glazed again. “If you make it.”

PART 2: Nuke

REWARDS OFFERED

Your country is suffering.

We are facing the most serious crisis we have ever confronted. Our right to sensible, just self-government is being seriously undermined - and not merely by enemies from without, but by filthy traitors within our midst.

The “Lemming” attitude to life, with its repressively Victorian rules and regulations, long recognised by experts as mind-cramping and fascist, has been allowed to persist too long. Its true tendencies have become plain for all to see. Our land is on its knees because of these people. Don’t be fooled by their pseudo-liberal talk of tolerance. TOLERANCE IS COUNTER-SURVIVAL.

The only way to avoid toppling into the abyss we are facing is to be bold and ruthless. The Government is now offering generous rewards to those courageous enough to take the appropriate action. We are determined to be free of these fanatics once and for all. Regrettably, the only way forward is a “Dead Or Alive” policy.

Declare war on this crippling blight.

ZERO TOLERANCE!

*****

“WAR - there always seems to be another just around the corner, doesn’t there? True, the human race is continuing to make progress generally, but until I’ve seen a bit more improvement in this area, I’d advise you to exhibit a healthy scepticism towards anybody who tells you that the meek will inherit the Earth.”

-
from “Instant Wisdom” by G.C. Campbell.

*****

The start of the war (most commentators agreed afterwards) probably had something to do with terrorists… Surprise, surprise. The Irish paramilitaries had probably confided about their new acquisition to old Libyan acquaintances, who whispered to the Islamic Fundamentalists, who made false boasts about similar capabilities to intimidate their enemies, who raised an alarm that was not heard by enough of the right sort of people (never mind taken seriously) - though some of the wrong sort, such as those on the Indian sub-continent who sat itching to use their shiny new nuclear missiles, could see a marvelous opportunity to obliterate some rather annoying neighbours if everyone else was either preoccupied with blowing themselves into orbit or quite sensibly hiding, like the East European
Mafiosi
who had, according to rumour, started the ball rolling by supplying the Irish terrorists with weapons-grade plutonium and a little technical advice.

The question of who was responsible was, in the end, entirely academic. It was impossible to be certain, because too many of thos
e in the know were not subsequently available for interview. Interviews with corpses
do
tend to be unfruitful.

Yet there was consensus about one thing at least: Lewis McDonald could have prevented it all, or at the very least minimised the scale of the disaster. No matter how difficult a situation was or how abrasive the antagonists were, his cool, sharp-minded approach had never failed to have a beneficial effect.

But he was lying at death’s door, and everyone knew whose fault that was.

*****

Dermot Reilly was not a terrorist - at least, not in his own opinion - and certainly to suggest he had any part in beginning the war would have been a vile calumny. How could he? This honourable, principled, dedicated man, who believed in peace, justice, and freedom, hadn’t finished the last one yet.

True, he was rather resisting something of a tidal wave in trying to stand firm against all this blether about
leaving the past behind, especially since it was not just a done deal, but a done deal with cobwebs on. He knew he and his few like-minded colleagues were isolated; historical detritus that hadn’t been washed away yet. Still, it seemed utterly unbelievable to him that the leadership had even been able to entertain the notion of setting aside the armed struggle after all this time. How could they have done it when victory was just around the corner? How was talk and co-operation going to bring a United Ireland? If only they had waited a little longer - just given the Brits a few more firm boots up the rear...

So much, he thought bitterly, for all that tough rhetoric about seeing the North destroyed utterly before giving in to the enemy. It was apparent to him now that only the crazies in the hard-line splinter groups had ever really meant it. He remembered the rumours of a few years back that somebody had somehow managed to get hold of three or four pounds of plutonium. It was too bad that they were only that: rumours. A shiver went up and down his spine as he thought of what might be done with stuff like that. Just imagine turning the North of Ireland into the biggest Ulster Fry of all time!

Dermot did not have the ear of the right people, which was the reason why he was where he was now: taking matters into his own hands just like Pearse, Connolly and the other heroes of the 1916 Easter Rising. He and a few others, with the help of a handful of weapons “borrowed” from a certain source, were about to take up where a weak-willed leadership was leaving off. It wouldn’t be long before another state-paid hood was away for his tea.

Well - Dermot was
fairly
certain a policeman would be biting the dust, providing all went according to plan - the plan they’d finally settled on, that is. The one they decided to go for if the semtex turned out to be unavailable. The one where Aidan was supposed to watch the back door of the house, and Ciaran and himself closed in on the peeler, one Tommy Magee, from the left and right - if he arrived home from the North end of the street. It would be slightly different if he came down from the Southern end; a bit like the original plan - the one they’d pretty much rejected, but were still using bits of, though not of course the bit where...

Dermot shifted uncomfortably in the car seat and leaned forward, trying to see where Ciaran had
disappeared to. Just then, Magee’s car turned onto the street from the Southern end, coasted along, and turned into the driveway of his house, which was about thirty yards ahead of where Dermot had parked.

This is it!
thought Dermot, and trying to control a rush of adrenalin that might make him move too quickly and give himself away, he got out of the car, shut the door, and walked steadily along to the peeler’s driveway at just the right pace to get him there before the target had gone into the house.

Magee had only just opened his garage door when Dermot reached the garden gate; the target turned, and seeing Dermot approach, froze as he realised what was happening. His personal weapon was holstered, but Dermot’s handgun was already pointing at him.

Their gazes locked, and Dermot paused deliberately. He wanted to be able to remember this moment later and pore over it; he had wondered endlessly what he would feel as he pulled the trigger and ended someone’s life. Would there be a sense of triumph, or a surge of hatred? Would there be self-loathing? Would the thing feel oddly impersonal, with only a muted sense of regret for the consequences of a distasteful job which simply had to be done?

Well; however it felt
, he was bound to remember it, he thought, for the rest of his life. As it turned out, he was completely wrong about this. Something distracted him, and he never considered the matter again in his life - which is to say, he was distracted from the question for at least another thirty seconds.

Dermot squeezed the trigger, and nothing happened. His eyes widened and his jaw dropped in horror; he gawped at the gun as if its barrel had suddenly sprouted a black flag with the word “Bang!” on it. Had it jammed? No. After all the disasters he had tried to plan against, it had to be the one he had never imagined himself stupid enough to cause.
Aidan and Ciaran, yes, but not him. He had forgotten to release the safety catch.

Magee was frozen an instant longer, as if he couldn’t believe his luck; then he dashed forward, throwing himself at Dermot, not in the least intimidated by Dermot’s back-up team for the very good reason that (who knows why?) they were nowhere to be seen.

Dermot was still fumbling with the catch when the world turned white. His last thought before he was swatted aside like an insect by a wall of air harder than stone was exasperation with Aidan and Ciaran for not telling him they had changed the plan yet again; they were blowing the peeler up after all.

Dermot Reilly’s bit of Ulster sizzled nicely.

*****

As the bus pulled over to the Oxford Street stop, Morris Whitcomb roused himself from semi-somnolence to get up and move to the door before the crowd of debarking commuters trapped him in his seat. He was quick enough to be only a few places away from the head of the queue when the bus stopped; and stepping off, he walked briskly so as to be one of the first to the kerbside at the pedestrian crossing. He hated being in the middle of that silent, monomaniacal mob which marched on staring grim-facedly at the ground when it wasn’t watching the traffic; he always imagined that if he tripped over something and fell down they would walk right over him, and not being able to see the kerbstone made him feel insecure.

He stopped abruptly, so that the people behind him, not fully alert at that time of the morning, almost walked into him. No-one had quite enough energy for active impatience, but they frowned at him as they went by. He didn’t care. He was suddenly fed up with the whole routine. Why was he rushing? The pedestrian crossing lights would be red. They were always red. He would have to stand and wait while they all came and crowded around him anyway, thoughtlessly shoving their way forward and making him feel that the only thing preventing him from being tipped off the pavement and into the path of the rush hour traffic was the extra purchase he gained on the kerb by curling up his toes. Then there would be another race up to the lights beyond the courthouse, which would also be red. What was the point?

On a whim, he turned right and went towards the subway that led to Ann Street. Only two or three other people were going this direction, and it felt oddly relaxing, as he went down the subway stairs, to hear the noise of the traffic fading to a dull rumble overhead and being replaced by quick, light footsteps echoing along the tunnel.

He was about halfway along when he was dazzled by something as bright as if a camera flashgun had gone off right in his face. He gasped and staggered backwards, screwing his eyes shut tightly; the intensity of the light did not seem to diminish. Somewhere nearby, he could hear a woman giving a little squeal of distress, and someone else uttering oaths of pain and surprise. He felt a tingling, prickling sensation in his skin, even where it was not exposed. A ferocious blast of hot air began rushing past him.

Then the world seemed to be filled with a roar that arrived with a thump and went on and on and on, a hundred times louder than the traffic had been, obliterating all other noises so completely that even as he was being deafened, Morris felt as if his ears were stuffed with cotton wool.

In the same instant, the floor of the subway was whipped from under his feet as if it was a carpet being given a sharp tug. He fell to a floor that shuddered and tilted and crumbled even as he lay on it, and his nose and lungs filled with dust. Small, hard things hit him, and a heavier, dead weight that he thought must be earth seemed to pile up over his legs. He yelled as something razor sharp - flying glass, he supposed - whipped across his back.

Then, suddenly, it was all over.

He raised himself gingerly onto his hands and knees, kicking off the soil and stones and trying to blink away the purple spots that filled all but the very edges of his vision. He hurt just about everywhere, though above the general haze of pain the back of his neck and his hands especially were stinging as if they had been scalded.

“Oh, God,” he heard someone say; but a high-pitched whine of tinnitus filling his head seemed almost to drown the voice out. Morris turned in the direction of whoever spoke, but could see nothing. “Oh, God, help me,” said the man again. “I can’t feel my legs.”

“Where are you?” said Morris. “I can’t see properly yet. The light - it was so bright-”

“Over here,” said the man. “Over here.”

Morris crawled towards the place the voice was coming from. “Can anyone else see? What’s going on?"

From somewhere else, there was the sound of a groan and someone stirring under rubble. “It was the IRA,” said a woman. “It must have been the IRA.”

Morris was as yet too traumatised to think straight, but felt blurrily that this did not ring true. “I don’t understand,” he said. “What about the flash? Did anyone else see that?"

“I saw it,” said the crippled man. “I thought it must be something electrical -” he paused as an idea struck him. “A gas explosion! That’s what it was - and something electrical set it off -”

He was interrupted by a tearful howl from the woman. “Who cares what it was?” she cried. “Help me, somebody! I’m blind! Help me -”

“You’re not blind!” Morris bawled back, desperately trying to resist the temptation to scream mindlessly for help along with her. He had never realised the idea of giving oneself up to panic could seem so seductive. “It’s just temporary, and it’s dark down here anyway. Keep on blinking and you’ll find your vision gradually returning.” He tried it himself, hoping he was not talking optimistic nonsense. “Panic’s not going to help. We have to keep calm until help arrives, and in the meantime, help ourselves.”