The Enemy Inside Read online

  CONTENTS

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Acknowledgement

  Dedication

  Theme Quotation

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Border Poem

  Other Titles

  Newsletter

  About the author

  Scott Hunter was born in Romford, Essex in 1956. He was educated at Douai School in Woolhampton, Berkshire. His writing career began after he won first prize in the Sunday Express short story competition in 1996. He currently combines writing with a parallel career as a semi-professional drummer. He lives in Berkshire with his wife and two youngest children.

  THE ENEMY INSIDE

  Scott Hunter

  A Myrtle Villa Book

  Originally published in Great Britain by Myrtle Villa Publishing

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © Scott Hunter, Anno Domini 2020

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher

  The moral right of Scott Hunter to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  In this work of fiction, the characters, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or they are used entirely fictitiously

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to Stuart Bache (Books Covered) for the cover design, and to my insightful and excellent editor, Louise Maskill

  For Martin

  “When there is no enemy within, the enemies outside cannot hurt you.”

  —Winston S. Churchill

  CHAPTER ONE

  From where Moran was standing it looked like a long way down – the multi-storey was stacked six levels high.

  The guy was perched on the top tier, the one open to the elements, the one where Moran inevitably found himself every shopping trip – right at the top, no spaces below.

  This fella, though, he wasn’t bothered about parking today by the look of him. No shopping list in his jacket pocket, no agenda for the weekend. No agenda for much at all.

  A deep breath, a step into air. One small step for a man. Three, maybe four seconds of free fall before impact.

  Moran had often wondered what went through their minds during those seconds? Regret? Fear? Or just blankness, an empty, flickering film reel, like the old cinemas when the celluloid finally ran out? Pointless questions. He had no idea, and intended to keep it that way.

  Moran’s week had concluded with an empty fridge and a yawning larder. Sainsbury’s had beckoned, the call hard to resist when faced once again with menu options of baked beans, egg on toast, cheese on toast …

  So here he was; heading for the Oracle shopping centre, that was the way. Not top of his Saturday bucket list, for sure, but there was a reason for everything, was there not? Maybe he was supposed to be here, right now, in this very moment; some higher authority had ordained it: Brendan, you thought you were on a grocery run, but there’s someone I really want you to meet …

  Moran craned his neck. The figure teetering on the edge had been in situ for at least three minutes. Time wasn’t just short if the guy was in category two – time was out.

  Moran’s categories worked like this: category one; the attention seeker with no real intention of making the leap into eternity. Category two: the real deal, the end-of-tether, no-other-option type. They’d step out, for sure, when they’d settled themselves, when the time was right. Could be a few seconds, could be a few minutes. Hard to say.

  Moran took the concrete staircase two at a time, his weaker leg protesting with each stretch of his protesting muscles. The level signs incremented with painful slowness.

  Level 6.

  He put his shoulder to the heavy door and stepped into the open. The roof of the car park was jam-packed with vehicles, not an empty space in sight. To his left, an air conditioning outlet projected from the concrete floor. Beside the outlet, a lone female police officer was rooted to the spot, fists clenched impotently by her sides.

  At a distance of a metre or so, the tall figure of a man was swaying on the raised lip of the car park’s apron, coat tails flapping gently in the breeze like a bird of prey scanning the terrain for carrion.

  The policewoman turned to him with an expression somewhere between anxiety and indecision. ‘Please keep back, sir. Help is on the way.’

  Moran showed his warrant card.

  The transformation was instant. Relief flooded across the officers’s face like water from a breached dam. Someone else was going to sort this, and her brief leading role in the drama had concluded as quickly and unexpectedly as it had begun. ‘Oh. Sorry, sir. I didn’t realise you–’

  ‘That’s fine, don’t worry. Do we have a name?’

  ‘No, sir. I can’t get him to talk. I was on Broad Street, someone told me he was here, and, well,’ she shrugged, ‘here I am.’

  Moran nodded. ‘If you could call for an ambulance, just in case.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Her hand went to her radio.

  ‘Maybe better out of earshot.’ He thumbed an explanatory gesture towards the man on the edge. ‘And stop the traffic coming up, would you? We don’t want an audience.’

  ‘Of course, sure. I mean, sir…’

  Moran watched her scuttle off to the security of the multi-storey’s interior. He took a breath, and then a tentative step towards the man.

  ‘No closer.’

  The man’s tone was calm – surprisingly so, given the circumstances. Moran tailored his response accordingly. ‘That’s fine. Just wanted to have a little chat, you know, while we can.’

  ‘While we can? Ah, a comedian.’

  ‘No, an off-duty police officer, actually.’

  The man’s back was still turned, but he had swivelled his head a fraction so that Moran could hear him. A good sign. Now they had a dialogue going.

  ‘I’ve struck gold.’ The man laughed, but it was a humourless sound. Colourless, bitter.

  ‘Maybe you could step down for a bit, tell me what’s up?’

  A sudden gust of wind flared the man’s coat. He steadied himself, arched his back. Moran pressed on. ‘Hell of a long way down. Not the best way to sort things out, is it? Besides, you’ll scare the kids to death. You have any yourself?’

  ‘Admire your tactics,’ the man said over his shoulder. ‘Textbook stuff. Get him to talk, zoom in on the relational aspects. Build a rapport. Blah, blah, blah.’

  ‘I don’t fancy clearing up the mess, that’s all.’ Moran went for bluntness. ‘Someone’s got to, and it’s not a pretty job, believe me.’

  ‘Why should I care?’

  ‘Maybe you don’t. But you haven’t told me what’s troubling you. I’ve heard it all before, trust me.’

  A moment’s silence. The noise of Saturday floated up from below. Children’s raised voices, exasperated parents, the hiss of air brakes, passing traffic.

  Moran moved away, taking a circuitous route until he too was peering over the edge into the void, but several metres along from the man’
s position. Inevitably, a small crowd had gathered below. He could see the upturned faces, a few arms raised, pointing.

  ‘Your audience awaits,’ Moran said casually. ‘Going to keep them hanging on a bit longer?’

  ‘You’re supposed to stop me. That’s how this works.’

  Had Moran imagined it, or had a slight tremor crept into the man’s tone? No, maybe not a tremor – somehow, incongruously, it came to Moran’s ears almost as repressed laughter. Just a trick of the wind, surely?

  ‘The name’s Brendan,’ Moran said. ‘Nice to meet you.’

  A horn beeped in the car park interior as some frustrated motorist was prevented from completing his ascent – Moran’s officer, blocking the level off.

  The man turned his head so that Moran could see his features clearly for the first time. He was in his mid-to-late fifties, bare-headed, close-cropped reddish-blond hair greying at the temples. He would have been considered good-looking, Moran guessed, in a rough kind of way, were it not for his nose, which was just a little too large for his face, spoiling the balance. Still, nothing the ladies would bother too much about, especially when they clocked the eyes, which were strikingly blue. It was a masculine face, not exactly weatherbeaten, but used to the outdoor life – the kind of face some might find reassuring in a tight spot. An action man, perhaps, or some kind of sportsman or adventurer.

  Or ex-army.

  ‘Liam. It’s Liam.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Liam.’ Moran continued to survey the ground below. There was a stone fountain set in the centre of the pedestrian walkway. Pigeons waddled between shoppers’ feet, fluttering to and from the fountain’s crown, getting in the way, pecking at discarded crusts.

  ‘So, Brendan what?’

  ‘Moran.’

  Liam shifted carefully, turned to face Moran. ‘Well, well. So it is.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Moran was taken aback. There was amusement now, surely, sparkling in the deep set blue eyes …

  ‘Brendan Moran,’ Liam said slowly, lingering over each of the four syllables. ‘Of the Gardaí.’

  ‘The Gard–?’ Moran began, ‘Yes, you’re right. But that was a long time ago. Do I know you?’

  And then recognition hit him like a wallop from a cricket bat.

  Liam’s blue eyes blazed with suppressed emotion. ‘The accent gives you away, Brendan.’

  Moran took a moment to gather himself. If this was coincidence … hell, what were the chances? ‘Liam, whatever the problem is, let’s talk about it.’

  ‘Talk? We’ll talk, oh sure we will.’

  Moran caught a movement in his peripheral vision. Two policemen were stealthily approaching from behind the brickwork of the ventilation shaft, using the parked row of cars as cover.

  Moran kept his eyes on Liam, trying to maintain a neutral, even, expression.

  ‘You don’t remember? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?’ Liam’s expression was a mixture of disdain and disbelief. He was shaking his head from side to side.

  ‘I’m trying.’ Moran could see the two policemen closing fast. They were good, their movements sure and co-ordinated.

  ‘You’re lying.’

  Liam seemed to sense something at the last moment. He turned, swayed, almost lost his footing, but the first policeman was on him, grabbing for his coat, pulling the man towards him using all his weight. His partner caught Liam’s flailing arm and hauled on it until the three fell sprawling onto the concrete apron.

  ‘All right, sir. That’ll do. Let’s get you somewhere nice and safe, shall we?’ The first uniform was sitting on Liam’s back applying an armlock, the second getting to his feet and dusting himself down.

  ‘Well done, both,’ Moran said. ‘I’ll leave this to you, if that’s all right?’

  ‘Just a moment, sir. We’ll need a statement.’

  Moran fished for his warrant card a second time.

  ‘Ah, sorry sir.’ The uniform grinned. ‘Thanks for your help.’

  ‘My pleasure.’

  ‘Don’t think you’re getting off so lightly, Moran,’ Liam interrupted. ‘I’ll be looking for you, that’s a promise.’

  ‘You know this gentleman, sir?’ The first policeman had hauled Liam to his feet, taking care to reapply a firm armlock.

  ‘Oh, he knows me all right,’ Liam spat. ‘And he’ll know me better by the time I’ve finished with him.’

  ‘I don’t want to arrest you for threatening behaviour, sir,’ the second uniform told the panting man. ‘But I will if I have to.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Moran said. ‘Look – Liam – can I suggest you take a breather, calm down, and find someone to talk to? A partner, or family member?’

  ‘I’m on my own, Moran. Ever since it happened.’

  ‘Come along now, sir.’ The second uniform eased Liam forward with an encouraging pat on the shoulder.

  Moran hesitated. What to do? He opted for a compromise, took one of the coppers aside.

  ‘Look, here’s my phone number.’ He scribbled the number on an old receipt and handed it to the policeman. ‘I’m happy to get involved if you need me. But go easy on him, eh?’

  Uniform two took the receipt with the faintest trace of a frown. ‘It’s PC Furness, sir. Thanks again for your help.’

  A barrage of expletives followed Moran down the car park stairwell until the noise was swallowed by the town centre bustle. Before Liam’s curses became too indistinct, though, Moran thought he recognised one word – a name synonymous with Ireland’s troubled past, and a word which he’d every reason to try to forget.

  Checkpoint.

  It had been 1978, the Belfast trip.

  And yes, he remembered.

  Oh God, he remembered.

  CHAPTER TWO

  It had been an unusually hot day, and Moran’s passenger had his window open and a cigarette going. The Cortina had threatened to overheat in Belfast’s rush hour traffic, but as they picked up the A1 south of Dunmurry and Moran put his foot down, the strained clattering noises from beneath the bonnet eased off and Moran began to feel that they might even make it home after all.

  ‘Fancy a refreshment pit stop?’ Joe Gallagher flicked ash, most of which blew back into the car.

  ‘Can you point that damn thing somewhere else?’ Moran said, rubbing his eye to clear a stray particle. ‘And yes, a pit stop sounds like a grand idea.’

  ‘Top man,’ Joe grinned. ‘I’ll look out for a likely watering hole.’

  Moran grunted a reply as they passed the turnoff to Ballynahinch. Name rang a bell: there’d been trouble in Ballynahinch a while back, but then, he mused, there’d been trouble pretty much everywhere around here. That was the state of play right now, in July 1978, the state of the nation. As a junior officer in the Gardai, Moran had seen his fair share of trouble, but nothing like the problems folk had to endure on an almost daily basis in the border districts. He’d been surprised when his companion had opted for Queen’s, Belfast, as his university of choice but, as Joe had said on many an occasion, ‘It’s an institute of learning, Brendan, not politics. I’ll be well clear of it all. Don’t be worryin’, now.’

  ‘You haven’t said much about the interview.’ Moran overtook a lorry, eased the Cortina into the left-hand lane. ‘Still happy with you, are they?’

  ‘Happy as Larry,’ Joe grinned. ‘Getting someone of my intellect on board is a coup for them. Whole thing was a mere formality. I had them eatin’ out of my hand, sure I did.’

  Moran guffawed. ‘Yeah, that’ll be right.’

  ‘You should join me, Brendan. Give up the law enforcement shenanigans. A life of academia, that’s the way.’

  ‘Not for me it isn’t.’ Moran shook his head. ‘I’d go nuts.’

  ‘The action man, is it? The outdoor life for you?’ Joe lit another cigarette from the stub of the old one and grinned.

  ‘You know me. I’d wither away stuck in some lecture theatre. I need to be out and about, see a bit of life.’

  ‘Plenty
of life in academia, Brendan.’ Joe winked. ‘Plenty of girls too, I’ll be bound. They love a man with an enquiring mind – and an active brain.’

  ‘Except your brain, for the most part, resides due south of your navel.’

  ‘There you go, that’s my point.’ Joe waved his cigarette.

  Moran laughed long and loud. He’d known Joe for a lifetime, literally. They’d grown up together, the two families closely knit – the Hannigans, Moran’s adopted family, and the Gallaghers. Thick as thieves, people said.

  ‘So anyway,’ Joe puffed smoke, ‘what did youse get up to while I was wowing the professors?’

  ‘Oh, not much. Caught up with an old friend. Mooched around, you know.’

  ‘An old friend, eh? Mysterious. Wait – there – the turn off coming up.’ Joe pointed. ‘I’ve a feelin’ in me water we’ll find somewhere just along here.’

  ‘Mayobridge?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘You’re the boss,’ Garda Moran said, and indicated left.

  Moran stashed his shopping in fridge and cupboards. Mostly convenience meals, he admitted, but that’s what the job required: convenience. He had neither the time nor the inclination to channel the old cordon bleu. A passion for cooking was absent, no point pretending otherwise. A woman would have a different perspective, of course, but there was no woman, not at present, so that was that.

  Moran moved around the kitchen automatically, putting the remaining foodstuffs away. He clicked the kettle button and sat down. No point procrastinating; he had to face it. That had been Liam Doherty on the car park roof.

  Moran poured boiling water onto his teabag, poked it with a teaspoon. Best thing would be to phone the station, find out what happened, where they took him. Would he be sectioned? Probably not. Kept under obs for a while, maybe. There were specialist teams for this kind of incident – if the criteria fitted the bill. He dialled a number, waited, asked for PC Furness.