‘Dying,’ she said calmly. ‘Peacefully, I hope. He is one of those patients who responds well to our drug programme which means that pain is only intermittent.’
They reached the first of the open plan wards. Devlin said, ‘When?’
This afternoon, tomorrow – next week.’ She shrugged. ‘He is a fighter, that one.’
‘That’s true,’ Devlin said. ‘Big for the cause all his life, Danny.’
‘Father Cussane comes in every night,’ she said, ‘and sits and lets him talk through this violent past of his. I think it troubles him now that he nears his end. The IRA, the killing.’
‘Is it all right if I sit with him for a while?’
‘Half-an-hour,’ she said firmly and moved away followed by the interns.
Malone seemed to sleep, eyes closed, the skin tight on the facial bones, yellow as parchment. His fingers gripped the edge of a sheet tightly.
Devlin sat down. ‘Are you there, Danny?’
‘Ah, there you are, Father.’ Malone opened his eyes, focused weakly and frowned. ‘Liam, is that you?’
‘None other.’
‘I thought it was Father Cussane. We were just talking.’
‘Last night, Danny. You must have fallen asleep. Sure and you know he works in Dublin at the Secretariat during the day.’
Malone licked dry lips. ‘God, but I could do with a cup of tea.’
‘Let’s see if I can get you one,’ Devlin got up.
As he did so, there was a sudden commotion on the lower level, voices shouting, drifting up. He frowned and hurried forward to the head of the stairs.
Billy White turned off the main highway on to the narrow road, flanked by fir plantations on either side, that led to Kilrea. ‘Not long now.’ He half-turned to speak to Levin behind him and noticed, through the rear window, aGardai motorcyclist turn off the main road behind them. He started to slow and Levin said, ‘What is it?’ ‘Gardai,’ Billy told him. ‘Police to you. One mile over the limit and they’ll book you, those sods.’
The police motorcyclist pulled up alongside and waved them down. With his dark goggles and helmet, White could
see nothing of him at all. He pulled in at the side of the road angrily. ‘And what in hell does this fella want? I wasn’t doing an inch over thirty miles an hour.’
The animal instinct which had protected his life for many years of violence made him wary enough to have his hand on the butt of the revolver in the left pocket of his raincoat as he got out of the car. The policeman pushed the motorcycle up on to.its stand. He took off his gloves and turned, his raincoat very wet.
‘And what can we do you for, officer, on this fine morning?’ Billy asked insolently.
The policeman’s hand came out of the right pocket of his raincoat holding a Walther, a Carswell silencer screwed on the end of the barrel. White recognized all this in the last moment of his violent life as he frantically attempted to draw his revolver. The bullet ripped into his heart, knocking him back against the car. He bounced off and fell on his face in the road.
In the rear seat, Levin was paralysed with horror, yet he was not afraid for there was an inevitability to all this as if it was somehow ordained. The policeman opened the door and looked in. He paused, then pushed up the goggles.
Levin gazed at him in astonishment. ‘Dear God in heaven,’ he whispered in Russian. ‘It’s you.’
‘Yes,’ Cuchulain answered in the same language. ‘I’m afraid it is,’ and he shot him in the head, the Walther making no more than an angry cough.
He pocketed the weapon, walked back to the bike, pulled it off its stand and rode away. It was no more than five minutes later that a van making morning deliveries of bread to the village came across the carnage. The driver and his assistant got out of their van and approached the scene with trepidation. The driver leaned down to look at White. There was a slight groan from the rear of the car and he glanced inside quickly.
‘My God!’ he cried. ‘There’s another in here and he’s still alive. Take the van and get down to the village quick as you like and fetch the ambulance from the hospice.’