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fill the pews once more. They would not notice the cold as they huddled
together, united in a common cause, prayer overshadowed by terror. A last plea
for deliverance.
Outside the soldiers had unslung their rifles, a demonstration of military
authority which the O.C. hoped would be sufficient. The bullets were no longer
rubber.
'Let us through!'
'You can't keep us out of the church.'
'For God's sake, what next?'
A man had pushed his way through the milling crowd, his face white and
strained. He wore an old-fashioned mackintosh reaching below his knees. He
came to a halt barely five yards away from the muzzle of the nearest rifle. It
was David Houston!
'Get back!'
'I'm a relative.'
'The service will be over in a few minutes.'
'Couldn't get through the crowds. Let me go in, just for the end. Please!'
The soldier glanced sideways at his commanding officer, the barrel of his
rifle unwavering. The latter sighed, nodded reluctantly. Houston walked
forward through the line of soldiers, hastening towards the rotting wooden
porch of the church. They had not even asked for proof of his identity.
His nerve was almost at breaking point - sheer desperation, blind vengeance
swamping all reason. Nothing else mattered; there was nothing else to live
for. He clutched at something beneath the raincoat. It weighed the garment
down on the one side, but nobody noticed.
Everything now depended upon the gun which bulged in Houston's pocket. His
long dead father's favourite poaching weapon, a single-barrelled .410 folding
shotgun. Less than three hours ago it had undergone a few improvisations -
carried out with a hacksaw. The skeleton wire stock had been removed, leaving
only the pistol-grip. The barrel had been reduced in length, cut down to five
inches just above the chamber. The range and penetration had gone along with
the choke. All that remained was a scatter-pistol, capable of inflicting a
terrible wound if fired at close range. After a lengthy search, Houston had
discovered a cartridge hi the tool-box in the shed. The paper case was damp
and swollen, and he had needed to force it into the breech. Yet the percussion
cap was sound. It would ignite. Three-eighths of an ounce of No. 5 shot,
destined for Sarah Coyle's head. Her features would be unrecognisable
afterwards. As for himself, he did not care. Everybody was under sentence of
death, anyway. There would not be time left for a trial.
His tense fingers closed over the handle of the church door, but it refused to
yield. He used his shoulder, restraining the panic which suddenly engulfed
him. The bastards!
They had locked the door - determined to go through with their memorial
service to that useless lout, uninterrupted.
Houston stood back, knowing he could not force an entrance. A hail of bullets
would cut him down if he tried. Instead he listened. Above the shouting of the
crowd he could hear the Reverend Mortimer's voice inside, a low monotone. 'May
the blessing of God Almighty . . . Holy Ghost . . . now and always . . . '
followed by a halfhearted, almost inaudible 'Amen'.
The service was over. Houston shook his head, and retreated slowly down the
gravelled path as far as the dilapidated gates hanging precariously on rusted
hinges. His mac was undone, his right hand gripping the gun inside its
spacious folds. They would have to pass this way.
'They took their time coming out, and the crowd in the street was becoming
even more restless, only the rifles holding them at bay.
Then the door opened slowly. A gasp of relief from the surging watchers, two
hundred or more. Mortimer first, a black cape over his white cassock. Jane,
unseeing. Coyle, eyes on the ground. Sarah . . . she looked up and saw him.
Recognition and hate, but no fear. She had no suspicions, looking away in
contempt. That was the moment when Houston's rage erupted. A red haze before
his eyes as he saw her finely moulded, almost aristocratic features. His hate
boiled, then was ice-cold in the same instant. The home-made pistol was
aligned with the striking speed of a card-sharper's derringer. Three yards
separated them. Ample. His finger tightened on the trigger. Nobody would ever
look upon that face again!
A shot rang out, crisp and clear. Somebody screamed, continued to scream.
Jane. Coyle was ashen-faced, rendered immobile by the suddenness of it all.
The crowd fell silent, staring in stunned horror.
Jane stopped screaming. There was a faint mechanical sound, scarcely audible,
as another shell replaced the spent one in the rifle held by the nearest
soldier. His features revealed a bitterness towards life itself; death meant
nothing to him. It was routine. A two-year posting in Belfast had made him
that way. It had also taught him to shoot fast, accurately, and instinctively.
You sensed trouble before it began, and it was the first shot that counted,
determining who lived and who died. A wisp of smoke trickled upwards from the
barrel of his rifle. He looked coldly at the body of the man in the raincoat
lying less than ten yards away, the gaping bloody hole in the back of the
head, the unfired .410 still clutched in the lifeless fingers.
Then Sarah began to sob. The crowd burst forward in one human tidal wave, the
scene before them a minor diversion as they fought their way into the church.
Chapter 15
Tuesday night. Winston Dyne was still at his desk. He ate there, and snatched
the odd half hour of troubled sleep slumped across the paper-strewn surface,
leaving the room only to answer the most urgent calls of nature. He was afraid
to leave the telephone - even more afraid when it jangled harshly. But it was
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