The Whore-Mother by Shaun Herron Page A

printed his letter to his sister, got it into its stamped envelope, and stowed it in his sock.
    His passivity was gone. He had made up his mind to run or die—maybe both. If he was going to die, he told himself, the initiative would be his, not theirs. Forgiveness, he decided, was a Christian but not an Irish virtue. With festering magnanimity he presented a modestly friendly front to his guards. They kept their silence and their distance.
    He wasted his time. On the third day back in the Markets, when his strength had increased and McCartin ceased to be a battered zombie and was once again a terrified child, Powers and Callaghan appeared.
    â€œYou’re movin,” Powers said, full of command, and took him back to the Falls.
    The man with the good suit and the long pale hands came to see him twice in the next two days. He drew pus from cuts on his face, stitched some wounds, put medicinal tape on the ones that needed it, and came and went in silence.
    â€œYou’re a doctor,” McManus said to him. Perhaps the man did not hear him.
    At nine on the second night, Powers said, “Bed. We’re workin the morrow. Up at six.”
    The time was now. McManus didn’t care what it was, or what they were going to make him do, so long as it got him outside. However slender the chance, he was going to take it. He slept. They had something in store for him. He was to be a patsy of some kind. It didn’t matter. One good crack at it in the open air was the most he could expect. He had to be ready for it. He slept soundly, resigned and ready. His composure surprised and pleased him.
    In the morning, Powers issued gray step-in overalls and gray peaked caps. On the breast pocket of the overalls a red circle had been embroidered and in the circle, a large M. The badges on the caps were the same. They were the uniforms of the vanmen from Marsh’s biscuit and cake factory on the Springfield Road.
    At eight they walked to the Falls Road and up it to three houses set back behind small railed gardens in the middle of a block of shops. Powers and McManus walked together, Callaghan behind. The third of these houses was the home of Dr. Brendan McDermott. His car was parked in the street. The keys were in the ignition. Callaghan got into the back seat. Powers held open the front passenger door for McManus and said, “Slide over and drive.”
    The doctor watched from behind his curtains as his car was stolen. Then he went back to bed. “I’ll report it at ten,” he said to his wife, “that’ll give them enough time.”
    â€œWant some coffee?” she said, and went to get it. The doctor propped his pillows and opened his paperback. Surgery at ten. Plenty of time. After coffee he might have the wife; last night he’d been too tired, but this morning he felt like it in an indifferent sort of way.
    If she’d let him. If she did, she’d lie there suffering like a stone nun. The thought put him off her; he’d go elsewhere for it this afternoon; the car and his wife were put out of his mind.
    McManus drove where he was told to drive; slowly, against the traffic going into the city.
    â€œUp the Springfield,” Powers said.
    Then he said, “Turn and park beyond Marsh’s factory.” It was a quarter to nine when they settled to watch the factory gates.
    â€œWhat is it this time, Powers?” McManus asked.
    â€œWe’re makin a delivery.”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œOff the Loughside Motorway. To the worker’s canteen kitchen. The chemicals factory.”
    â€œWhen’s it timed for?”
    â€œHalf-ten.”
    â€œThat’s close. Who delivers it?”
    â€œYou and me.”
    â€œWhat’s Callaghan doing?”
    â€œHe’ll bring this car for the switch when we leave.”
    A delivery van pulled out of the factory gates at exactly nine o’clock. “Than’s Wee Jimmy,” Callaghan said.
    â€œGet in behind him