The man eased his legs to try and relieve the cold stiffness that was creeping through his limbs. Rain bounced off the tree branches above him, puddled on the ground, ran in rivulets down his neck as he lay prone on the wet earth in the same position that he had assumed three hours ago.

It was a filthy, miserable grey Irish day in late autumn. The sun was already low in the sky and soon the poor light would begin to fade. He was not sure if that was good or bad. If his waiting came to an end before dark fell then he would have to carry out his orders. And they were ones he did not relish.

Dampness permeated his entire body, from his legs lying in the sodden mud to his chest wrapped in a sweater now moist and soggy despite the waterproof ski coat surrounding it. His wet hair dripped relentlessly. To make matters worse, he also wanted to piss, a situation hardly aided by the steady splash of the downpour. With a grunt, he rolled himself on to his side, unzipped and pulled himself out, urinating in an arc that fell in a steamy stream away from his body. He let out an involuntary whimper with relief.

"Hey, Terry? Didn't know you cared!" He heard the whispered comment from his colleague Jon Hynes, who was lying in a similar position further along the bluff. The first man, Terry, raised a middle finger and grinned, enjoying the momentary release of tension.

Just then a car snaked around the bend towards the derelict farmhouse nestled in the small valley below them. Immediately the two men rolled to attention and gripped their weapons tightly. The car came to a halt and out stepped three men. Two were clearly bodyguards, clutching high performance rifles, jumping out even before the car had stopped and surveying the area about. The two hidden men dropped their heads instinctively on the unlikely chance that they might have been observed.

A third man alighted, brushing down his expensive wool overcoat. Terry and Jon exchanged glances and a nod passed between them. Target identified. Captain Terrence Thorne raised two fingers and pointed at Lt. Jonathan Hynes who blinked his assent. Then he raised one finger and pointed at himself.

Terry stared intently as he lowered his eyes to the sight. Despite the cold, he was sweating now, a large drop of perspiration running along his nose. He shook his head to dislodge it and then steadied his aim. This was what he hated most.

Even as Capt. Thorne lay and fixed the man in his focus, miles away across the sea in Westminster, politicians were lying to the country.

"There is no shoot to kill policy." "We do not assassinate our enemies."

Is this what he had joined the army for? Left his country and given his bond to a mother land to which he felt no real allegiance? To become an assassin of men whom he didn't even know? Terry wondered if the carefree boy he had once been would have recognised the man he now was. Young Terry Thorne, larrikin and smart arse, eager to leave the backwater of his home and see some action, do some real damage, taste adventure and fight for the bigger cause. Jesus, what would he think of himself now?

His finger stroked the sensitive trigger. This man had a family. A wife. Four children aged five to nineteen. He had read the dossier, learnt it by heart. His mother was in poor health, dying of heart disease, in a Belfast hospital unvisited by her son for fear that the authorities would pick him up. One of his children had severe asthma; his eldest daughter was at university in London and was sleeping with a Turkish medical student. Terry cleared his thoughts. Mad Dog O'Rafferty, IRA chief of staff, military wing, mastermind of countless bombings on the mainland and in the province itself. Had caused the deaths of dozens of innocent civilians. Was alleged to have personally conducted the torture and disembowelling of one of Captain Thorne's regimental colleagues who had fallen into his hands. "Think on that, mate," Terry Thorne told himself as he pulled the trigger.

The man crumpled and Terry knew that he was dead. Jon went for the guards, hitting one and winging the other. Terry finished him off with a bullet through the brain and then took out the driver who had reached for a weapon in the glove compartment. Four men dead. No sound. The quiet marked only by the flutter of a few hens from a nearby coop and then the shrill keening wail of a woman's voice. O' Rafferty's mistress. Standing at the open door. Jon raised his rifle to take aim. Terry knocked it away, shaking his head.

"Let's get the fuck out of here. NOW!" He ordered.

The two men wriggled their way down past the embankment, sliding down the sodden turf, until they reached the bottom, plastered in mud and grass. Willing their stiff muscles to respond, they ran hell for leather across a field to the shelter of a small wood, thrashing through that to reach the road.

Cold sweat running down their backs, they parted. Hynes took the weapons, threw them under the floor of his estate car, pulled back the base and scattered fishing tackle over it. Ripping off their filthy jeans and jumpers and stripping to their underwear, they donned fresh clothes. The sodden outerwear they had used was bundled into a holdall and slung over the hedge.

"Get your arse out of here, mate." Terry shouted as he pulled on a helmet and slapped his colleague on the back.

"Too fucking right, Thorny. Catch you later." Jon ran to the car, Terry to a motorbike and they roared off in separate directions. Mission accomplished.

PART TWO

The army vehicle pulled out of Aldershot camp and headed for Bracknell and the patrolled estate on which many of the officers' families lived. Terry lit up a cigarette and leaned back, staring blankly out of the rear window. His mind played out the moment when the target's head had exploded like a ripe melon, a kaleidoscope of blood and brains. He shook his head to shift the image and dragged deeply on his cigarette.

Bringing both hands before him, palms down, he observed them. No signs of shaking, dead calm. That's why he was the best. That's why they chose him to kill other men in cold blood. He swallowed down the bile that rose in his throat. Is this why he had become a soldier?

"Here we are, sir. You must be glad to be home."

Terry nodded his thanks to Private Morse, his young driver, and hitched his kit bag over his shoulder. Standing at the gateway of the neat suburban detached home, he ground his cigarette butt beneath his boot and braced himself. Home.

As he entered the front door, his three- year old son, Henry, hurtled down the stairs.

"Dad!" The child threw himself on his father who dropped his bag and caught him.

"Hiya, mate! How y're doing?"

"Dad! It's grandpa's birthday. We're going to the party."

At that moment, his wife Penny appeared; dressed in an elegant cocktail dress, strappy stilettos on her long slender legs, an iridescent silk wrap over her shoulders. Her pale blonde hair was sleek and shoulder length, held back by a black velvet band. As usual she was beautiful, cool, artfully made up and perfectly groomed.

"My God, Terry, have you never heard of a telephone?" A cool welcome home.

She placed her hand on his shoulder and allowed him to peck her chastely on the cheek.

"It's my father's 50th, as I'm sure you have forgotten. We are due at seven. Get shaved and showered and I will put out your dress uniform. Follow us on as soon as you are ready. I'll pack a change of clothes for the morning."

"Change? We're staying over? Fuck!"

"We are staying.  Henry will fall asleep and you'll get drunk. And I expect to have a few glasses of wine- I am not driving."

"Christ, Pen, I've been on active for six weeks. I'm shagged out. Give my apologies will ya, love? I want an early night."

"How dare you try and get out of this! It's an important family occasion. Daddy must know you're back. And for God's sake watch your language in front of Henry. This is not a barracks."

It was no use arguing with Penelope in this mood. Upending his son and rolling him onto the ground, he ran up the stairs with Penny following. As he pulled off his uniform, she busied herself in the wardrobe, taking out his dress uniform and various items of clothes.

"Have you a shaver in your kit bag?" She asked, efficient as ever. She could organise the logistics of the entire regiment on her own.

"I'll give it a miss tomorrow, love," he replied, sitting on the bed, to remove his black army issue boots.

"You will not! I'm not having you at breakfast with a grubby shadow all over your face. There are other houseguests and Daddy hates your ill-kempt look."

He looked up as he unzipped his pants and wrenched them off but he didn't reply. He remembered a time when she had loved him to rub his beard-roughened face over her naked breasts and belly. Christ- was that in a different life?

Penny Thorne caught her husband's reflection in the bedroom mirror as he pulled off his briefs and walked about naked. She felt the familiar knot of longing for him that was always there. He was quite magnificent, like no other man she had ever seen. At twenty eight, he was at the peak of his youth; fully a man but still with the sleek muscularity of  his younger years reflected in his high level of physical fitness and perfectly honed frame.

Terry Thorne was not an exceptionally tall man, but always seemed bigger than those around him; he exuded strength and vigour. From his thick unruly brown hair, down to his strong well-shaped legs, he spelt sheer virility, enough to make a woman weak kneed. At twenty-three, when she had met him, he had been a handsome lad but he had grown into something else, something she had never quite foreseen - a man of intimidating abilities and almost frightening masculinity. Penny loved the thick muscle of his neck and the sweep of his broad shoulders bulging with sinew beneath the smooth flesh, marred here and there with moles and freckles which spoke of too much sun when he was younger back home. His arms were like sturdy oaks, bigger and more replete with muscle than when she had first met him, the cheeky Aussie soldier, chatting and flirting with girls in a nightclub, as spunky as they come. But he still had the flat belly and narrow hips that saved his frame from too much bulk. And Lord - his bum! - it was the best example of a male arse she had ever seen and was graced even more by the powerful thighs beneath.

Terry turned round to get some clean underwear from a drawer and she could not help but look longingly at his long thick cock and the heavy dark wrinkled sack beneath. He was not a hairy man, but sleek skinned; golden brown hair sparse on his chest, thick and luxuriant in his groin. It was almost two months since he had made love to her, since she had felt him hard and thrusting into her, throwing her into the usual confusion that his touch caused. Penny mentally berated herself. He was a beautiful bastard who had ruined her chances in life. He had taken her love and abused it, fucked around with countless tarts while she was confined to this grim existence as an officer's wife on a crummy estate. All they had was sex and Henry. She wasn't going to let him play her again.

"Don't be late. I expect you in half an hour. I'm warning you, Terry!" 

He slammed the bathroom door as he entered and snapped on the shower. As the water cascaded down on him and he ran his hands over his hair, he shuddered at the welcome he had received. Penny was his wife but she felt like a total stranger. Once they had both been besotted with each other, unable to keep their hands from each other's bodies. To Terry, Penny had been a girl from another world: fresh, confident, intelligent and independent, like no other girl this working class boy had ever known. What was he to her? Just a rod to beat her father with? Just a bit of rough to show off to her upper class friends? Just a sexual adventure that went too far? But he had loved her, wanted to give her everything, tried to be the man her father expected him to be. But it never seemed to matter what he did; it was never enough.  He was not one of them and the years together were only widening the void between them.

He thought of his family back home, the rough and tumble of his Australian childhood, laughter and fights, simple pleasures and not much money. It had once seemed tawdry and small to him; now he would give anything in life to feel that same warmth in his own home. Christ- what kind of life was Henry going to have? He longed to take him back home, to see him run about naked in the sun catching bugs and snakes, feel the freedom of an endless horizon - not stuck here in cold grey suburbia with a mother who felt she was living beneath herself and a father who was like a visitor in his life. When exactly had it all come down around his ears?

"Ah, Terrence. Come over here and join us. You know Colonel Davison- Military Intelligence? He's keen to meet you." Terry accepted yet another glass of champagne from a passing waiter and walked over to join Brigadier- General Wallis, his father-in-law and commanding officer of the regiment. There was little love lost between the two men in private life but the general was no fool. Thorne was a consummate soldier and natural leader of men. It was time he was promoted and given more senior work- he was heading to be the youngest major in the regiment's recent history. But, despite his desire to raise the prestige of his daughter's husband amongst army circles, he was reluctant to hand the ultimate accolades to the cocky young stud who had once impregnated his eighteen-year old daughter in his own bed.

Apart from that, Thorne was too useful in the field. He was fearless and intelligent, could think on his feet and was highly skilled in weapons, communications and intelligence work, not to mention a linguist of some ability. His reputation was second to none and other men would follow him through anything. But somewhere at the back of the Brigadier's mind was the lurking notion that Thorne was expendable. In the long run he might be more of an asset as a brave deceased son-in-law, perhaps recipient of the George Cross, than this continual reminder of how his daughter had failed him.

"Captain Thorne!" Colonel Davison shook his hand.

"Sir."

"Good work, man. Read the reports. Media are talking in-fighting among the Provos - jockeying between the different factions for control. Just the scenario we wanted. Excellent, Thorne."

Terry nodded and grimaced slightly. He didn't want praise. You don't thank a murderer, even a sanctioned one. What was happening tonight in O'Rafferty's family home? Had the news killed his ailing mother? Was the young daughter flying home to be with her family, white faced and shocked on a British Airways flight? And what of the other men...

"So, Terry, get some rest over the next couple of days, will you? Why don't you and Penny take a break somewhere warm? We'll have Henry for you. You'll be back over there soon enough and need to recharge your batteries first." The Brigadier appeared almost fatherly but Terry wasn't fooled.

"Sir, I'm due long leave. I was thinking of a trip back home. It's summer there..."

The colonel coughed and leaned in. "Not just yet, Thorne. We have a little show brewing. I'm sorry about the leave but you are clearly the man for this. I'd like to see you Monday  week in my office in Whitehall. I'll have some details delivered before then. But take a rest. Get some sun. A suntan would be an asset too," he added cryptically and excused himself to move away.

Terry frowned unsure what to make of the request. "I'm burnt out, sir. I need a break. Penny and I need some time. I hardly ever see my son..."

His father-in-law weighed him up, a thoughtful look on his face. "Don't talk bollocks, Terrence. If this were a full-scale war you'd be in the field a damn sight longer than you've been so far. There's promotion in this, if you pull it off. Major. How does that sound? Penny won't have any complaints. You'll be able to get a decent house and pay fees for a sound school for Henry. By the way, isn't it time you sorted her out with another? Christ, man, you were quick enough out of the blocks in the beginning. I want more grandchildren. Take her away for the week and do what you're good at."

Terry choked down a retort and the desire to kick the shit out of the birthday boy. Even offering the carrot of promotion, he made it sound like it was just a sop to make up for his daughter's sorry marriage. He drank down the champagne and wandered off to find a proper drink. Walking through the lofty hallway of this comfortable manor house, he headed for the library, hoping to find a Scotch and some peace and quiet. Snagging a tumbler of malt from a waiter, he opened the door to the book-lined retreat and stopped dead. Penny was standing by the window talking to a man. Her face seemed relaxed and young; she was looking up at the gaunt academic-looking chap with a flash in her eyes that he had once seen when she looked at him.

"So this is where you're hiding, love. How d'ya do, mate? My name's Terry Thorne. I'm the husband." Terry strode in, all jovial Aussie but his eyes were cold. Penny jumped slightly but he saw no sign of guilt on her face.

"Terry! Meet Michael Wilson -Smith. He's Mum's surgeon. You do remember, don't you? The hysterectomy?"

Terry vaguely remembered a visit to a private hospital in the area to pay his good wishes to the mother-in-law who gritted her teeth whenever she spoke to him. " Working over time, doc? Short of pussy to feel up? You are a gynaecologist aren't ya, mate? What a job. They even pay you for it?"

Penny's face froze to a stony marble. Wilson-Smith cleared his throat and looked acutely embarrassed. Terry slugged down the Scotch and smiled coldly.

"You must excuse my husband, Doctor Wilson- Smith. He's a shit. A drunken foul mouthed one too. But what can you expect from a bloody Australian?" She stormed  away from them both and made for the door.

"Used to make you sweat though, didn't I, Pen? Couldn't get enough of me up your fanny. Think you can measure up, doc?" Penny slammed the door behind her and Michael moved away to pick up his drink, watching Terry pensively.

"I don't know what you're implying but you're way off, Captain Thorne. If you have problems in your marriage- they are not of my making." He turned and followed Penelope out.

Terry slumped down in a leather armchair and held his head. What had possessed him to speak like that? He had just blown. Too much going on in his head. Hitting out at Penny because she was the easy target. What had they meant-' a little show' planned? 'The only man for the job?' Cannon fodder. Had to be. Wave the carrot of a higher commission. Christ, he had a bad feeling about this one. Really bad. Suddenly he realised that he no longer cared. How bad was that when you prefer a dangerous undercover mission in the Province than the reality of your life? Terry knew that was when men made mistakes. When you stopped being lucky.

Penny didn't speak to him that evening. They slept in the east wing in a room with two single beds, no doubt hand-picked by Mrs. Wallis, and Penny didn't even make eye contact. Her only comment was "Wear these. I can't bear it when you sleep in your underwear. You are so fucking working class." And she had flung a pair of pyjamas at him. He had stripped naked and slept like that.

Breakfast in the large sunny morning room was equally unpleasant. Terry came down bare foot, dressed in jeans and his shirt untucked - only two buttons fastened. He hadn't shaved. The Brigadier glared at him, Annabella Wallis tutted primly and Terry smirked. He sat with Henry on his knee and fooled around with food, allowing his son to eat with his hands and laughing when he spat food out. He knew it was childish and petulant behaviour but he no longer gave a damn. They thought him a lout, so he would behave like one. But it wouldn't stop him being the best fucking officer in the regiment and the Brigadier could stick that up his rigid arse.

Terry did not suggest going away for a few days in the sun with Penny. Instead he called up a friend and the two took off for Scotland and did a couple of days' climbing and drinking themselves stupid in Highland pubs. By Thursday he was ready to face Penny and the usual crap. It was early afternoon when he let himself into the quiet house. As he went through to the kitchen and drank from a pint of milk straight from the fridge, he heard the sound. Penny laughing - a fucking rarity these days.

He knew before he even hit the stairs. They must have heard him coming because they were trying to dress as he burst in. Penny was in her underwear, wrapping a dressing gown round her. A young man was fastening his jeans, his naked back turned to the door. Terry lunged forward and pushed him against the wall, smashing his head into the long mirror. The guy crumpled but Terry pulled him up and went to hit him again; Penny dragged on his raised fist to stop him.

"Don't you dare!" she screamed. Terry stood panting, blood thumping in his veins. He looked at the man who had slithered to the floor, his forehead bleeding profusely and Penny trying to staunch the flow with a towel. The guy was young, blond, hair cut short, vaguely familiar.

"Do I know you?" Terry barked at him.

"Yes, sir."

A closer look. Christ, Private Darren Morse- his driver. "Morse?"

"Yes sir," the boy muttered. He must be all of twenty at the most. A kid. What the fuck did Penny want with a kid from Bristol whose only qualification was his driving certificate? Terry was stunned.

"Get the fuck out of my house before I fucking kill you." Terry turned away and fought for self control.

"Sir, will you report this?" The young private asked, shaking with fear.

"What- that my wife prefers fucking scum like you? What do you think?" Terry retorted.

The boy gathered up the rest of his clothes and scarpered.

"Where is my son?" Terry asked coldly.

"Mum took him to town." He sat down on a chair and looked down at the floor as Penny stood before him.

"Why did you do it?" Terry asked, a pleading note in his voice.

"Cos I needed a fuck." Penny answered crudely.

"He's a fucking kid."

"He's got a dick. Knows what to do with it. He's young and horny. No complications. Just like you were when I met you. I should have just had at you and none of this mess would ever have happened." She began to pull at the bedclothes and straighten the cover.

"Penny, it doesn't have to be like this! We used to get on so well. I thought it was love. Jesus, we made Henry. I know I've been away but I'm a soldier- you know that's beyond my control. The work I'm doing, Jesus Christ, it gives me nightmares, Penny. I need you to understand. I need you to be there for me. I'm dying here..."

Penny folded her arms. "You're a soldier- so act like one. It isn't my job to hold up your bleeding heart. You never had what it takes, Terry, whatever they think. You don't have the backbone or the breeding for command. You are a freak of nature. One of the rabble with just enough brains to raise yourself from the pit but not enough to climb over the side. But you will always be a working class boy hanging on the coat tails of the real movers and shakers. And I could have had anyone I chose. You ruined my life. I hate you."

Her words cut through him like shards of glass, teasing out his vulnerabilities and his doubts. Penny could always do that. She knew, because he had confided in her, all the little frailties and insecurities that he had. He had once thought she would hold those secrets safe and it would bring them closer than ever. Now they were just ammunition to fire at him.

Sitting down on the hastily made bed, the scene of his wife's adultery with a boy in his command, the ultimate insult to his reputation, he thought long and hard on where he was going. He imagined the chat in the barracks as the little bastard boasted of how he had stuck it up Captain Thorne's wife...she was begging for it. He hasn't done her for months...the usual sniggers of young men directed at their commanding officers now turned to a pissing contest with his virility in the balance.

Did he deserve it? Christ knows, he hadn't been a perfect husband. In the early days he had been a bastard, sleeping around on tours of duty, sometimes even when he had been at home. Women liked him; he liked women. Uncomplicated sex, get your end away and say goodnight, no need to pretend in the morning that this was about anything other than getting laid. He'd been twenty-three, not ready for marriage, a father before he was mature enough, domesticity forced upon him at a time when his sights were set far away. But he had changed. Time had changed him. He was a man now and tired of meaningless encounters and drunken sex in backs of cars or motel rooms. Penny was his wife and he wanted to be a husband for her. Had he left it too late?

He heard the sounds of dinner being prepared in the kitchen below and the haughty tones of his mother-in-law bringing Henry back from his trip out. Taking a shower and changing, he lit a cigarette, ran down the stairs, picked up the car keys and slammed the front door. He saw Penny follow and shout something as he pulled out of the driveway but he ignored her. The sight of Henry's face peering out, confused, from her side made him wince. What life were they giving that boy?

Terry rang the buzzer at the apartment block. He heard the intercom. "Piss off, whoever you are."

"Hey, Jonny boy, it's me. You got a bird there?"

"Thorny? I fucking wish. Get your arse up here."

The door opened and he ran up the stairs to the first floor flat. Jon was waiting at the door in his underpants drinking a can of beer.

"Jesus, Jonny, you started without me?" He laughed and the two men slapped each other on the back. There was the immediate unspoken bond of men who had both put their lives on the line for each other. A love that embarrassed them, that they hid in crude comments and puppy-like knockabout - but a love all the same; something far deeper than that which existed in his marriage.

"I just got up. Had a few hours' kip. Thought you'd be holed up with the wife for the next twenty-four. Brigadier not up to babysitting?" Jon grinned and Terry pulled a face.

"Not had a sniff, mate. You'll be playing stinky finger before I do, I guarantee it," Terry retorted, helping himself to a can and lighting up.

"Thought that was the advantage of marriage. Can't think of any others."

Terry raised his eyes. "You still thinking of jacking it in, mate? Resigning your commission?" He changed the subject, not wishing to linger on his crumbling marriage.

"I sure am. But I'll finish this tour out. Another year or so. Might be up for captain if I play my cards right. Sounds better at job interviews." Jon answered, tossing Terry another beer and opening one for himself.

"What the fuck can you do? Or is Daddy fixing you up in the City?" Jon's father was a banker; he was an ex-Harrow and Sandhurst boy.

"Jesus, no. Could you see me doing nine to fucking five? But yeah, maybe the City. Mate of mine from school put me on to something. He's in Insurance."

Terry snorted. "Selling Insurance? You fucking mental, Hynes?"

"Not selling, Thorny. Seems that big international risk companies, like his, recruit guys like us for their more vulnerable clients."

"Guys like us?"

"Special forces, police, intelligence service."

"What for- muscle? What the fuck's a vulnerable client?"

Jon laughed. "International companies based in world trouble spots have to take out expensive risk insurance on their expatriate workers and families. Kidnap is a big business all over the world now and foreign employees are sitting targets. When a client gets nabbed, they send in the cavalry (i.e. guys like us) either to negotiate a release or if necessary go find the wally. Pays fucking ten times what you're on, mate. First class travel, expense account, five star hotels, exotic locations, chance to knock a few heads here and there. Big boy's dream. You should try it, Terry. They'd snap your hand off to get you in. Especially with all your languages. How many is it?"

"Spanish, French, some German and Italian, passable Russian, Bahasa Indonesia..."

"See- you could do Africa, S. America, Far East, Eastern Europe...Terry, you should consider it, really. Guy like you, you'd be a fool not to get out and earn some proper dosh. Ulster's a crock of shit, you know it. Some of the stuff we are doing is way, way off the mark. Make a fucking mistake, shoot the wrong bastard, take out some passer by and they'll throw the fucking book at you. Not to mention what the Provos will do if they get their dirty little Fenian hands on you. This job would be like candy and babies in comparison...

Terry shook his head. "You'd be on call twenty four hours a day, away for months on end, dealing solo with fucking armed head cases. No back up. No recourse to the authorities. Owned by the company. Be worse than the fucking shit we're in now. And I'd be an even more absent husband than I am now. Penny would love that."

"Penny would like the pay cheque, Thorny, and you might get laid once in a while- can you imagine how easy it would be to pull living in top hotels and throwing your expense account around? Here, take a card. My mate gave me a stack, said 'pass them round your boys.'  By the way talking 'bout getting laid... you up for a night on the town? Go up to London and do the clubs? Get ourselves some easy pickings? Christ, I've got blue balls, it's been so long," Jon laughed.

Terry sniffed, looked at the card and shoved it in his pocket. "I'm buggered. Need about a month's sleep. Some other time, hey?"

"What you here for then? Don't play the faithful husband, Terry. You know you came here to get pissed after Lady Penelope froze your balls in her icy gaze. What you need is a nice hot little cunt to defrost your tackle. Leave it to Uncle Jonny."

Terry didn't argue. He didn't know why he was there. Company? Booze up? Partner-in- crime? Maybe he just didn't have anywhere else to go. "Okey dokey. But no dogs, hey, Jonny? You remember that blind date you fixed me up with? She was as rough as a dingo's arse..."

Jonny burst into a howling laugh. "Didn't stop you fucking her in the back of the car while I was driving. I thought you were having a fucking heart attack when you came."

"Christ, she was like a circus act. Thought she'd bite my fucking dick off..." He laughed at the memory. Let it wash over him. Drown his sorrows. Bury it all deep. Hope the top wouldn't finally blow off.

Later that evening the two men took up a vantage point in the heaving nightclub. They had been drinking steadily for hours and were at that point when inhibitions are negligible and potency still viable; in other words - extremely dangerous to any young woman who came into their field of vision. Terry was using his perceptive vision and scanning the room for talent. Suddenly he nudged Jonny. "Hey, mate, check out those two."

Jonny followed his gaze. Two platinum blondes. Big tits, short skirts, looking around and clearly saying "You up for it?" Without a further word the men both moved forward and circled.

"Hello ladies! Can we buy you a drink?" Jonny said, turning on the full force of his public school charm.

The girls giggled and ordered cocktails; Jonny went to the bar to get them and refill their pints. Terry stood back a little and smiled. He knew the effect he would have. Too eager and they'd blow them away. A bit of distance and they'd wet their knickers to get his attention. He leaned back on the bar top, one leg resting on the rail and watched them appraising him. They were checking out what he was offering just as he was weighing them up. He felt the first twinge of interest. Been a while since he had played the game.

"I'm Sharon. This is Nicki. What's your name?" asked Sharon, a buxom blonde who would run to fat in a few years but was still young enough to be pleasantly voluptuous

"Terry."

"What about your friend."

"Jon."

"What do you do?"

"Soldiers."

"Ooh! I like a man in uniform. Have you got a big gun?" The two girls giggled and Terry raised his eyebrows.

"Only one way to find out, love." He accepted the pint and watched the girls making eyes at each other as they sipped their drinks.

"Guess what we do for a living?" 

"Brain surgery?" Jon asked. They tittered again.

"No! We're hairdressers. Vidal Sassoon. You know- a classy salon."

The men exchanged knowing glances.

"Wanna dance?" Terry asked, suddenly tired of the drivel they were talking. Time to move this up a notch.

"You an Aussie?" Sharon asked as she stepped forward and accepted his invitation.

"Yeah." Terry answered and dragged her into the crowd on the dance floor, pulling her close to him and giving her a good feel. She had large breasts, so firm that he suspected silicon; they were wrapped in a sheer top with no sign of a bra beneath. He could see the outline of her nipples. The skirt she wore was silky and more like a band than a garment. He cupped her ample buttocks and felt bare flesh beneath. "Christ, you naked?" He whispered into her ear. His cock ground into her thigh.

"Thongs. Tiny ones. You could rip them to pieces in your teeth, soldier boy." Her hand checked out his groin and she murmured her approval. They kissed shamelessly, overtly sexual foreplay, no need even to chat this one up, Terry thought gratefully. Manoeuvring her to the wall, he continued to kiss and fondle her until he felt a tap on his shoulder.

"Terry? Let's move. The fair Nicola suggests a room. You interested?"

Terry whispered in Sharon's ear. She nodded and he pulled her out of the club behind the others. They checked into a nearby tourist hotel asking for a double room with two single beds; the old guy on the desk leered at them but nobody took much notice. Jon and Nicola were already almost devouring each other by the lifts.

Once inside, the two guys sat down on the beds, drinking from a half bottle of Scotch Jon had in his pocket. Terry threw his jacket on a chair and removed his boots and socks; the two women began an impromptu strip show and gyrated in front of them. Jon ripped off his shirt and pants and lay stroking himself while the girls gave them a free show.

Sharon came over and pulled Terry to his feet, easing off his jumper and unbuttoning his pants. She had his shorts down in a quick movement.

"Jesus, Nic, look at Terry's. Told you I got the jackpot!" The two girls giggled as Sharon stroked Terry's cock and then bent to suck it. He leaned back on the wall and watched Jon and Nicki getting it on across the room on the other bed. He felt a little sickened by the moment; four people acting out a sordid orgy in a run down hotel room. But he was too aroused to help himself. Sharon sat back on the bed and he attended to her needs, kneeling to bury his head in between her legs and turned on by the strong musk of her cunt. She was wet and willing, moaning in his arms when Jonny threw him a condom and he donned it quickly. He thrust in, held back while she adjusted and arched to accommodate him and then hilted.

"Fuck me, Terry. Christ, you're like a fucking baseball bat. Yeah, baby...harder... like that...He let the crude sex talk and the cries from the other couple drive him on. His vision started to blur as he buried his head against the pillow and pumped her into the mattress. He felt the rise of tension, fear and anger that had been curdling in his stomach for days and struggled to release it. Terry heard his own voice, like that of someone else, growl and spit out profanities as he shot into her and she wrapped her legs round him and tightened against his orgasm.

They lay there, panting and sweating, two complete strangers who had just shared the ultimate intimacy. He tried to show affection, kissing her face and holding her to him but she wriggled away. "Want to see us do it?" Sharon asked and she began to suck at her friend's nipple as she lay on the opposite bed. Jon grinned at Terry. Terry turned away and snagged his cigarettes from the bedside table. He threw the used condom onto the floor and felt bilious.

Standing suddenly, he thrust his legs into his shorts and jeans and shrugged on his jumper. "Hey, Terry, what's the matter?" Nicki asked with a slight hint of mockery in her voice. He bent down to put on his socks and boots.

"Need some air. Jon- I'll catch you later." Terry lurched out of the room and ran down the stairs, grateful even for the steady drizzle that had begun as he walked towards the tube. He wasn't sure what was wrong with him; he had enjoyed countless nights like that one before but...Christ, it was so empty. So dead. That was not what he needed.

Alighting from the tube he rode the escalator to the main concourse of King's Cross station. There was a late train for Oxford, calling at Bracknell, Wokingham, Reading... He heard the muffled announcement and threw himself down in the first compartment. It was non-smoking. He didn't give a fuck and lit up.

The whistle sounded and the train lurched into motion. At that moment the carriage door was wrenched open and two people fell in, laughing manically. Terry watched their reflection through the window as the young pair stumbled to a seat; they were drunk and completely wrapped up in each other.

As the young woman passed his seat, the train hit a tunnel and she staggered and fell forward onto him. Terry caught her gently and steadied her. The girl looked up at him and smiled. She was very young, maybe eighteen or so, very beautiful, small and slender with deep blue eyes, almost violet, and a wild mane of shiny black curls.

"I'm so sorry. I hope I didn't hurt you!" She said and he shook his head. "Thanks anyway, I'm a bit pissed, you know?" she whispered conspiratorially. Her boyfriend leaned over to claim her, giving Terry a look but thanking him grudgingly. Terry nodded and turned away as they sat down opposite him

He watched in the window as the girl curled up in the young man's arms, her fingers playing with his messy long, blond locks. They whispered to each other and kissed. He felt like a voyeur witnessing their innocent pleasure in each other. He hoped they never had to find out what can happen to young love that goes sour and bitter with age.

"Ben, are you sure this is the right train?" The girl said.  Turning to Terry she inquired: "Excuse me, is this the Oxford train?" He nodded.

"Yeah love. You're all right. Safe home." And he stubbed out his cigarette and closed his eyes.

PART THREE

Terry Thorne searched through the cache hidden under a loosened floorboard in the abandoned crofter's cottage. The box contained the essential equipment that might keep him alive and would most definitely cause the deaths of anyone who crossed him: short wave radio on a scrambled frequency, keys to numerous vehicles parked at salient places in the vicinity, money in several currencies, alternative documents - but most importantly the weaponry- several high velocity rifles, ammo and a small hand gun, his favoured Beretta, and a selection of knives and grenades.

Checking the action of the guns, Terry pocketed the handgun and then changed his mind, replacing it in the case. Of the knives he selected a slim stiletto and slipped that into the inner pocket of his leather jacket. Closing the box, restoring it, replacing the boards and pulling a heavy barrel over it, he waited at the door and checked the area for any possible onlookers. With a pair of binoculars, he scanned the valley but all seemed quiet. Pulling his leather jacket round his face and donning his helmet, Terry ran over to where he had hidden his Harley in some nearby trees. In a few moments he hit the road and roared up the hill towards the town ahead.

He had toured the border region for the past two days, familiarising himself with his surroundings and making no attempt to be discreet. Terry Thorne wanted to be observed. That was his best protection. An hour later, after a drive up from Lough Derg where he had crossed the border, he found himself entering a small town, Ballymagorry.  Coasting down the main street, he came to a stop outside a typical hostelry. O'Malley's. Beers and spirits. Pub Grub. Rooms. Help wanted. Terry read the boards and parked the bike, locking it up. A few kids playing football nearby hovered with admiration at the vehicle. Terry grinned but they stared stony faced at him. Strangers were not much appreciated in this town it would seem.

Pushing open the door, he checked his watch. Two fifteen. Too late for lunch? He was hungry but a few pints of the black stuff might have to do. Strolling to the bar, he slid onto a stool and placed his helmet on the next seat, pulling off his gloves.

"What'll it be, sor?" The landlord, a small narrow faced man with piercing blue eyes and receding sandy hair, asked him.

"Pint of Guinness, mate. Food still on?" Terry answered.

"Might have some steak and kidney pie left. That do?"

Terry nodded and lit a cigarette.

"Niamh? Get us a steak and kidney! You want chips?"

Terry shrugged. "Whatever, mate."

The landlord eyed him up as he waited for the head on the Guinness. "You Australian?"

"Yeah, mate" He was laying the accent on thick. Thought he sounded like fucking Paul Hogan.

"Thought so. You sound just like that Crocodile Dundee fella..." Terry smiled inwardly. "Bit far away from Sydney, aren't ya?" The publican inquired.

"Tourist. Doing Europe. Ya know how it is."

"Chose the wrong fucking time of year, boyo."

Terry grinned. "Just how it goes. Meeting some mates in Dublin around Christmas time. Thought I'd come up here and see the old country while I was in the region."

"You Irish?"

"M'Dad was. Came from Donegal."

"What's your name, son?"

"O'Neill. Terry O'Neill." He extended his hand and the man shook it.

"Colm O'Malley. Pleased to meet you, son." The two men nodded and O'Malley handed over the pint.

"You got a room?" Terry asked. "Weather's turning bad, might as well stop here for the night."

"Yes, of course. I'm not exactly beatin' them away these days. Even in the summer we rarely see many visitors nowadays. The Troubles. Used to get coach loads of Yanks but they won't come now. They stay south. Can't say I blame them."

Terry nodded. "Much trouble up here?"

Colm shook his head. "Not really but...you never know, do you? They're all mad fuckers. Both sides. And then there's the fucking Brits. Jesus, they won't be satisfied until we're all dead." He shrugged, as if embarrassed by his vocal outburst.

At that moment a girl entered the bar carrying his food. She placed it down in front of him, handed him a knife and fork wrapped in a paper napkin. "You want any salt and pepper?"

Terry raised his eyes to look at the barmaid and was momentarily taken aback. In front of him was a beautiful girl, slender and pale skinned with the same blue eyes of Colm O'Malley. Her red gold hair was swept up into a neat ponytail and her delicate features were completely free of makeup or adornment. She was a natural beauty, one of those Irish colleens that the old songs sing of.

"You speak English?" she grinned at his silence.

Terry smiled back. "Not really. I'm from Australia," he retorted. The girl laughed brightly.

"Mr. O'Neill is staying the night. Air out one of the rooms will you, darlin'?" Colm asked. The girl smiled again and ran up the stairs to the upper floor, Terry watched her go, admiring the svelte body encased in tight jeans and a black skinny ribbed jumper.

"My daughter, Niamh. She's my partner in the business. Not a barmaid, son, if you take my meaning..." There was a friendly note of warning in the man's voice. O'Malley was no fool; he had observed the young man's lingering look as Niamh had turned on her heel to go upstairs. He wasn't having some itinerant Aussie biker making free with his girl. Not that Niamh couldn't handle herself, mind you. She might be a slip of a thing but she had a fierce tongue on her and never let the boyos take her for a ride. Sometimes he wondered whether she was too hard on them. Niamh was twenty-six and seemed uninterested in finding either a husband or even a boy friend. Something had happened years back when she was in Belfast and she had come back home, licking her wounds and then stuck with her old Da. But it was no life for a young woman, however much he would hate to lose her. Stuck in this backwater, an intelligent, educated woman who had travelled the world...

"Pretty name. Is that N-e-v-e?" Terry interrupted his train of thoughts.

"No N-I-A-M-H. Gaelic spelling. But pronounced Neve. Fucking mad if you ask me, but her mother liked the traditional names," Colm observed.

Terry ate and appeared to be watching a television that was over the bar, showing some afternoon farmers' show. In actual fact his mind was playing over a number of matters in hand. The 'little show' was just as he had imagined - deep cover and completely out on a limb. If he was rumbled then he might as well put a gun to his own head. The fuckers he was stalking would kill him for sure and make it last. Somewhere in this border region was a cell of highly trained crack IRA assassins; a plot was being hatched to take out a member of the Royal Family. That much was known but nothing else.

Time was running out and information had dried up. Whoever was in the conspiracy it was so secret that few members of even the inner council knew the plan or the identity of the would-be killers. Terry's job was to watch and wait. Either he would pick up a lead or the intelligence guys would and then he was to act first and take out the cell. Piece of piss? Terry groaned inwardly. He had about as much chance of walking out alive as he had of getting his wife back. Penny. He somehow thought she would like the idea of widow's weeds. The grieving widow of a war hero. Good old Penny. Maybe he might redeem himself after all.

The room was simple but clean, furnished in an old fashioned style with chintzy wallpaper and curtains. Terry nodded his thanks to the young woman who had shown him up.

"Bathroom's two doors along on your right. You're the only guest so you won't be disturbed. Is there anything else you need, Mr. O'Neill?"

"No, that's fine, love. Name's Terry, no need to be too formal, eh?" he replied with a broad grin. Act like a laidback Aussie, hit on the girl; make her back off and keep her distance. "Niamh, isn't it? Pretty name for a pretty girl. You seeing anyone?"

Niamh took a step back towards the door. Her face was relaxed giving nothing away but her body language said she was uncomfortable with the drift of the conversation.

"They teach you subtlety in Australian schools, do they? You're passing through, love. The town, that is, not me. Fuck off."

Terry blinked at her response, spat out in a hard rasp. The fair Niamh had blown him away with one burst of venom. He was unsure whether to be disappointed or impressed with her style. She wouldn't have much problem with drunks on a Friday night, that was a dead cert.

"Sorry, love, just being friendly. No need to give me grief. I get the message." She walked out of the room and slammed the door behind her.

Throwing himself down on the bed, Terry lit a cigarette and stared at the ceiling. Even as he lay, apparently dreaming, his mind was sifting through information that he had been given and working out a series of strategies for the next few days.  Stubbing out the cigarette, he pulled off his clothes, wrapped a towel round his waist and headed for the bathroom. No one about. There was an old porcelain tub with large brass taps, no shower. Terry ran some water and stood by the window as the bath filled up, staring out over the back yard of the pub and away over to the hills in the distance. It was already gloomy; within an hour it would be night already. There was a raw wind blowing from the north and rain was lashing down against the pane.

His eye was caught by a flash of colour moving in an adjacent building that seemed to be full of barrels. Leaning back, the curtain blocking him from sight, Terry saw Niamh now wearing a bright red waterproof coat, pacing up and down inside this storeroom. Suddenly she dashed out into the yard and a young man followed her. He was smoking a cigarette and they appeared to be arguing. Terry saw him place a hand on Niamh's arm; she shook it off and shouted something at him. He laughed and put two fingers up at her as she ran back to the pub.

Terry wondered what it was about. Lovers' tiff? Probably. He fixed the image of the swarthy, black-haired charmer in his brain and filed it away. Turning back to the taps, he switched them off and eased himself into the warm water. He was chilled to the bone after sleeping in the crofter's cottage in a sleeping bag the night before; it had been damp and draughty and he had shaved in freezing water that morning, breaking the ice on the top of a bowl to get to it. He smiled ruefully to himself. Why did he never get posted to anywhere hot? With his languages you would think they might find a better use for him than northern Ireland. Nice tour of duty in a desert region, SE Asia, even Africa...he drifted off, lulled by the warmth returning to his limbs and the reverie of sun, sand and maybe a local girl or two.

As he returned to his room, hair still wet and wearing nothing but a small towel, Terry bumped into Niamh in the corridor. She stepped back to let him pass and he gave her a cocky grin. It said, 'look what you're missing, love.' He saw her tighten her lips and feign lack of interest but he wasn't fooled. Her eyes had swept down his torso and rested for a second on his groin. Back in the room, he caught his reflection in the mirror and smiled at the sight she had seen. The thin towel was pulled taut around his hips and his ample package was clearly visible, bulging and heavy. 'So, Niamh, you're not against checking out the goods yourself, love,' he grinned to himself as he whipped off the towel and rubbed his hair with it.

The momentary thought of her surreptitious look sent a warm rush of blood to his genitals. He saw the rise of an involuntary erection in the mirror and instinctively ran his hand down his length, pulling back the skin to dry himself but aware that he was stimulating himself further. 'What the hell...' he muttered to himself as he threw himself back on the bed and gave in to the urge. 'bit too late now to worry about going blind.' Closing his eyes and recalling the scent and feel of a woman, he jerked himself steadily breathing heavily as he became more aroused. Unbidden the sight of Niamh's pert butt and her flashing eyes passed though his mind and he gave into the temptation to mentally fuck her. About as close as he was ever going to get. With a choked grunt, he came and shot over his hand and the towel. Lying back he let the feeling wash over him. The ease lasted only for seconds and was soon replaced by the usual tense readiness. Back to business.

Niamh ran down the stairs, willing her cheeks to stop flushing. He had seen her look at him and he had been amused. But Terry O'Neill was a hard man not to lust over. How many specimens like him did they get in Ballymagorry? He might be about as obvious as a bull in a field of cows but he was still packing some mighty impressive equipment. Niamh shivered slightly at the memory of his upper body, sheer man but not a weight lifter's body - he was an outdoors type of guy and his body came from real man's lifestyle. And he was a looker too- those eyes and his lashes -she had noticed them as he had glanced sidewards at her. He even had one of those cleft chins that made you long to put your tongue in and wriggle it about. She grinned at her lustful thoughts and giggled at the thought of his tackle as seen clearly outlined by the small towel. God, he was a big boy! Look but don't touch, my girl. This is not the moment in your life for acquiring baggage.

Byrne. His image suddenly flashed into her mind. Fucking Byrne! He seemed to think he had some droit de seigneur over her. Just because of the weekend in Dublin. The bastard! Why couldn't men ever see a woman on equal terms once they had managed to get their end away? Niamh could kick herself for what had happened. She'd been horny and he'd been there. What's a girl to do? She was randy again now but had learnt her lesson- she reckoned O'Neill would be a past master at fuck and run- he wouldn't be carving her name on his bed post no matter how much she fancied a bit of what he was offering.

PART FOUR

Down in the bar, later that evening, Terry read a newspaper and downed a pint. The place had filled up and there was quite a crowd at the bar. Niamh was alone, trying to keep up with the customers' demands. There was a football match on, beamed from UK, Manchester United versus Liverpool. Colm was collecting glasses.

"You're busy tonight." Terry observed as Colm cleared his table

"Yeah. Could do with someone else behind the bar but...no takers so far," he replied.

An idea occurred to Terry. "Mate, I've got bar experience. Could do with earning a bit here and there. I fancy hanging around a week or two. I'll give you a hand, if you like."

Colm looked surprised. "Straight up? Why not? Tell you what- free bed and board and you're on."

Terry grinned. "Deal. Want me to start now?"

Colm said "Finish your pint and you can go change a barrel. I take it you know how?"

Terry nodded. 

"Out the back. The Caffrey's is low. And bring in a few crates of mixers. You can spare me old back and do some lifting and laying for me. You look like you've got the muscles." Terry drank back his pint and loped out towards the store at the back. He found a barrel and hoisted it on his shoulder. Just then he noticed something on the floor. Terry carried through the barrel, changed it over, returned the empty and then crouched down to look at the piece of paper he had noticed. It was a receipt from a hotel in Dublin, dated three weeks' previously. Just a bar bill charged to a room. The signature was indecipherable. Something made Terry pocket it. Maybe Niamh and lover boy had had a dirty weekend in Dublin recently? Or maybe this was something else.

Returning to the bar with three crates of bottled drinks, Terry stood and called over to Niamh. "Where you want these, love?"

She frowned. "Just shove 'em in the back and load a few on the shelves." She returned to serving.

Terry followed her instructions and knelt behind the bar to load the shelves; she made a show of tutting every time she had to struggle to get past. He grinned. She was a little hell cat.

"Am I in your way, love?"

"Don't call me 'love'. I hate to be patronised." Niamh snapped back.

"Sorry, Miss O'Malley." Terry stood up and said. "You got a problem with me behind the bar?"

"I have a problem with you. Full stop." Niamh pulled a smart mouth like a naughty little girl and it made him grin all the more. She flounced off and barked at the next customer. Terry grinned. He liked them spunky.

The evening passed quickly. Terry was quite an attraction behind the bar in a town that rarely saw strangers and the old regulars plied him with questions all night. It was after midnight before the last stragglers were sent on their way home and the last glasses washed and stowed. Colm pulled two pints and they sat on stools drinking, leaning on the bar as Niamh wiped down tables and emptied ashtrays.

"Well, I'll lock up and turn in. I'm shattered. Finish your drink, Terry. Take your time in the morning. You can breakfast when you get up. I won't need you until evening; the lunchtimes are quiet," Colm said as he drained his glass.

Niamh came behind the bar with the rubbish. "Niamh, you want a drink?" Terry asked. "You've not stopped all night."

She stared suspiciously at him and then shrugged. "Get me a Bushmills. Make it a double."

He poured it out and handed it to her, "Ice? Coke?"

"Shite, man, I'm an Irishwoman. Don't insult me." But she grinned wryly.

They stood for a while drinking, neither speaking. "Look, Niamh. I'm sorry if we got off to a bad start. I'm a bit of a hoon at times. I didn't mean to offend ya."

Niamh took a swig of her whisky and banged the glass down. "Pace. I've a sharp tongue. No harm in trying to chat a girl up, Terry. I'm just a bit of a banshee at times. Too many fucking bastards in the past. Makes me wary."

He nodded. "I didn't know you had a bloke."

"Bloke?" She frowned.

"I saw you with a man in the back yard this afternoon. I just presumed..."

"Oh, you did, did you? I'd appreciate it if you stopped leering about after me. And - don't walk about in a towel. This is a respectable guesthouse, not a nudist colony." Drinking back the last of her whisky, Niamh switched off the bar lights, leaving Terry alone in the dark, and ran up the stairs.

He scratched his head and thought. His hand went to the piece of paper in his pocket and he wondered. Maybe it was worth checking out.

"Going out?" Colm asked Terry as he crossed the bar, his helmet in hand. It was mid- morning.

"Yeah, mate. Thought I'd take a tour round Lough Derg. You need me for something?"

"No, you go, Terry. Watch the weather. It's forecast for a bit of a cold blast. Might even snow."

"Brrr!" Terry retorted. "I won't last long in that, mate! Expect me back soon!"

Leaving the town behind, Terry retraced his steps of the day before and returned to the ruined cottage. There was no sign that his cache had been disturbed. Sitting cross-legged, already feeling cold, he opened up the crate and retrieved the small radio.

Within minutes he had found his scrambled frequency and called into his control. 

"Thorne. I have a base and temporary job. Do me a trace. O'Malley, Colm and his daughter- Niamh. Run a bar in Ballymagorry, O' Malley's. Also check this: Jury's hotel, Dublin October 28th Room 412. Just curious what you can find. May be nothing. Any news?"

"Nothing, sir. Everything is closed down tight as a drum."

"Tuesday then. Time may vary- but it will be a.m. Copy?"

"Copy, sir."

He replaced the equipment and zipped up his jacket. The first flurry of snowfall hit his face as he started up the bike. Down on the lower road, he took the main A-road towards Strabane and meandered aimlessly, a mixture of killing time and watching. Sometimes just keeping your eyes open was more effective than any other form of intelligence work.

Reaching the large town, he coasted along the main street. Just across from a Tesco supermarket, Terry saw Niamh crossing the road, heading for the bank. He revved the engine and she turned to look at him. He pulled up alongside the kerb.

"I'm sure you're bloody following me, O'Neill!"

"Scout's honour, love. Looks like fate is pushing us together." He raised his eyebrows saucily.

She scoffed but her manner was more friendly than previously. "You heading back? Daddy dropped me off but I was going to bus it back."

"Fancy a cup of tea? I'm frozen solid," he replied.

Niamh thought for a moment. "Look, I'm going to the bank. There's a café at on the corner. Go order a pot and I'll be there in a minute."

Ten minutes later, Niamh entered the café. Terry had taken a window seat and she joined him. There was a pot of tea and a plate of scones. Niamh snorted.

"Old women come in here for scones and jam. Not very macho, Terry me lad."

"Hey, I wrestle crocs for breakfast. I don't need to prove my manhood, " he grinned. "Anyway this is a typical Aussie tea break. Don't knock it."

She tucked in regardless. "Terry, you seem a bit old to be a student on a gap year. And that bike of yours cost a bob or two. What's your story?" She bit into a crumbly scone and licked at the drip of cream and jam. He noticed her lips and dainty pink tongue; he shrugged the thought away.

"I'm a bit of a drifter, really. Dropped out of Uni. Worked at this and that. Bit of everything. Bars, constructions sites, drover, guide, sports instructor, taxi driver...get bored easily. Couple of years ago, I started a bit of a business with a mate- just beach bums really in Cairns - jet skis, water sports, ya know. Sold out. Made a bit of money. Fancied seeing the world. Flew to London, bought the bike. Want to drive back- well to Asia anyway, see how far I go."

"Wow. That's cool. I envy you," she said, elbows on the table and a wistful look in her eyes.

"Do it. Buy the ticket. Go to Oz, the States. Christ, you're a long time dead, love."

"I know. I always expected to do things like that but...well, some of us have to grow up, Terry. Don't you ever wish for something permanent? Wife? Kids?"

He shook his head. "Not me, love. Be a long time till someone gets a noose round my neck. But what's permanent in your life? You don't exactly live the dream here, do you?"

Niamh sighed. "I went to Uni at Coleraine. Got a good degree. Chemistry. But...Mum died and Dad found it very hard. At the same time...well, there was a guy, you know how it is? He ...it didn't work out, Terry, and I think home was the safest place to run. I didn't mean it to be forever but that's four years ago and I'm still here. Suddenly you get more scared of taking chances. That's life, I guess."

Terry nodded and drank his tea thoughtfully. Replacing the cup, he said, "Niamh - can we try again? I'm not a compete bastard. I'd like to take you out one night. Just dinner or something. No monkey business. If the truth were told, I'm lonely. Maybe I'm not the world traveller I thought I was."

Terry had hit the right note or maybe Niamh was merely looking for an excuse to get to know him better. Her face lit up and her eyes sparkled. "A date, is it? Ah well, now that's different. Monday is always quiet. Dad can manage. Maybe we could go to Derry, have a meal, go dancing? Or would you rather do some sight seeing?"

"No, Derry sounds fine. Monday it is then. Thanks, Niamh."

"Ach, just doing m'bit for the exile returning. Show you a bit of the charms of the old country, boyo!" She twinkled and he laughed. "OK, time to get back to work. Get me up on your bike then, Aussie boy. Let's see how you ride." And with a flash of her eyebrows, Niamh strode out of the café in front of him. Her walk was jaunty and she was flaunting herself. Terry smirked. Maybe...

Niamh climbed on to the bike behind Terry and automatically slipped her arms around his waist. Immediately she felt self- conscious and was relieved that he could not see the blush that came to her face. 'Damn red hair!' she thought. His body felt so solid and warm and she could not help herself rest against his powerful back. He shouted, "Hold tight!" and pulled away. The cold wind bit into her face and she buried it further against his back.

Niamh thought about this guy who seemed to have arrived from nowhere. Some might see him as a godsend but Niamh was no romantic dreamer. She had a strong feeling that he was not what he seemed and in these parts that could only mean one of a few things. He was IRA, hiding out...No, making himself too visible. UDA- trying to worm his way into a predominately Catholic area? Possibly. Niamh had been to Sydney and had kept that to herself. She would check how much he knew about the place. There was one other idea. A Brit? Army? He had an air about him that seemed too controlled and perceptive for the lifestyle he had described. She couldn't see him as a beach bum somehow.

Dread filled Niamh at the notions playing in her mind. He was so fine, so handsome and virile, touching a part of her that she had believed was dead. Please God, let him be what he says he is. I cannot bear the pain again.

Monday night and Terry waited for Niamh in the bar. He had shaved again that evening and dug out a fairly decent shirt and jeans from his backpack. It wasn't his style really. When Terry Thorne took a girl out he preferred to wear a suit and tie - bit of the old school, army training, spit and polish. Hair well groomed and best foot forward.  But Terry O'Neill was a drifter. Not a suit and tie man.

At that moment Niamh breezed through the bar and received a few whistles from the old fellas who propped up the bar for most of the day. She was dressed in a velvet trouser suit in a midnight blue colour. It was closely fitted to her slender frame and her vibrant red hair was piled up high with a few stray curls artfully arranged. She was wearing makeup- minimal but well done. The effect was cool and mature and her sophisticated style surprised Terry. She looked nothing like a country girl.

"What do you think?" Niamh smiled down at him.

His eyes flashed slightly, a whisper of the real Terry appearing through the mask. "Beaut. Let's go." His voice felt gruff and his reaction puzzled him. He was an experienced womaniser and could play young woman like Niamh like a musician plays an instrument. But he felt strangely at sea with her. Almost shy. It was a most curious sensation.

Terry had asked Colm for the loan of his van. He didn't want Niamh all dressed up on the back of a bike and Colm had smiled and thrown him the keys. "No funny business in the back either!" Terry had laughed and winked at O'Malley. The two men were getting to like each other and Colm was quite happy to see Niamh have a night out with this laid back Australian. She deserved a bit of fun and was old enough to make her own mind up. Personally, he hoped she had a bit of a thing with O'Neill. A woman in her prime should be with a man even if it was only temporary. It was good for the soul.

PART FIVE

They drove to Londonderry on a cold wet night with the radio playing chart hits and the two of them singing along. It was easy and fun. Terry closed that part of his mind that usually never slept and found himself recalling an earlier life when you went off duty and there was nothing else to do but lark about until the next one. Take a girl out for the night and hope to get lucky. He looked across at Niamh smiling and singing happily. Get lucky. Somewhere along the line the phrase had changed its meaning in his head.

They ate dinner at a little trattoria run by an Italian, Carlo, with a distinctly Belfast brogue. It was an easy, laugh-filled meal; Niamh was witty and lively, Terry laconic and dry- they laughed a lot. Niamh was fascinated to hear about Australia, particularly Sydney and he talked about his home at length, grateful for a topic that did not require him to disseminate; he did not relish lying to this woman. Mellowed by a good meal and a carafe of pretty tasteless house wine, he paid the bill and they sauntered out into the city streets.

It was cold and clear, a full moon shining on frosty streets, the temperature already falling rapidly. Terry put his arm around Niamh and she did not resist, merely looking up into his eyes, a look that spoke volumes. He felt that warm glow that only being with a woman whom you care about can bring you. How long since he had experienced that sensation?

Niamh whispered, "The club up ahead. Shall we try it? It's ages since I've had a bop."

"Bop? That shows your age, love!" he teased but they joined the queue outside The Coconut Grove with its unlikely Caribbean theme.

"Big Reggae joint. You like?" Niamh asked.

Terry grinned. "You hum it, I'll dance it."

"So you fancy yourself as a bit of a dancer, do ye O'Neill? 

"Yeah, I'm a great mover," he raised his eyebrows.

"Ha! Pride comes before a fall, Terry me lad. What do they say about coconut trees...the bigger they are, the harder they fall?"

"No, Niamh, that's trees in general. What they say about coconuts is...'The bigger the tree, the bigger the nuts'," he grinned cheekily.

"Ho, ho ho! You are setting yourself up, Terry! I'm used to big Irish boys."

"They sent all the biggest to Oz, love. The real big Micks." They both laughed and he pulled her closer. It was moving along so nicely.

"Bit busy for a Monday night," Terry whispered into her ear as they wrapped their arms around each other against the cold and he nuzzled at her neck.

"Cheap night. Girls get in free if they bring a fella," she murmured back as his lips grazed the tip of her nose and he bent to kiss her.

"Great. Cheap date. Getting better and better," he muttered against her lips and she punched his arm playfully. But she met his mouth and they kissed in the queue like teenagers until the couple behind nudged them and shouted "Fuckin' move up, will youse? It's fuckin' freezing out here." They were nearing the door.

Laughing, Terry paid the entrance fee, let the bouncers frisk him and make a cursory check in Niamh's bag and then they went in, down the narrow rickety steps to the underground club. Momentarily, Terry weighed up the exit and shook his head. This was a firetrap - illegal; someone was paying someone for the licence. On instinct he gauged the escape routes, saw the back fire door and noted the bar across it, padlocked. He grimaced and shrugged. He'd been in less safe places than this.

At the bar, he bought drinks and they found an empty booth where they sat and watched the crowd, largely younger than they were by at least five years- although some looked like school kids- probably were. Terry felt old. Niamh offered him a cigarette and he took one surprised, hadn't known she smoked.

"When I'm having fun. Which isn't often these days," she shouted across the din of the music. They smoked and tried to talk but it was impossible.

"Dance?" Terry asked. The irresistible throb of "No Woman, No Cry" was playing; they found a corner and he swung her against him as they moved to the beat. It was Bob Marley Hour.

"Nothing like a bit of Bob," Niamh shouted as the next record began. "My favourite!" she giggled. "Waiting in vain!"

They smooched close and she sang into his ear as he nuzzled against her.

From de very firs' time, I rest my eyes on you, boy,
My heart jus' fell tru'
But I know now dat I'm way down on your line
But de waitin' feelin's fine

Now don't treat me like a puppet on a string 
Cos I know how to do my thing
Don't talk to me as if you think I'm dumb
Cos I know when you're gonna come...
And see... 

I don't want to wait in vain for your love
I don't want to wait in vain for your love

Terry rested his head against hers and gazed into the room beyond. A young couple had just come in and they took a place at the empty booth where they had been sitting. He watched them idly; they appeared nervous, looking around in a distinctly odd way. Then he saw the young woman slip her hand gingerly into the lining of her heavy winter coat and take a package out. She rested it on the floor and then the two jumped up and burrowed their way through the crowd towards the exit.

It took Terry a second to realise what was going on and he swore as it occurred to him how far his guard had been down. Grabbing Niamh by the hand he lurched for the exit, smashing his fist onto a nearby fire alarm and bellowing "BOMB! OUT NOW!"

As the shrill bell rang in their ears, he pulled her up the narrow stairs, fielding off the hysterical blows of young men and women who had joined the stampede to get out. At least in this town, no one ignored such warnings.

They were on the last few steps when the explosion came. They felt the whoosh of hot air before they heard the noise of the blast and were knocked forward into the street beyond, the narrow stairs acting like a cannon to increase the force of the pyroclastic shock. Instinctively rolling over and pulling Niamh beneath his body, Terry lay dazed and temporarily blinded.

There seemed to be a long silence and then screams shattered the night and pierced the eerie calm. The sound drove Terry into action. Scrambling to his feet, he raised Niamh to hers; she looked white and there was a cut on her forehead but she seemed otherwise unhurt.

"Niamh? You OK?" She nodded. Terry spun round. The scene was horrific. Young people all around, some on fire, others slumped holding gaping wounds, those uninjured in stupefied shock at the appalling sights. But there were also the terrible, unearthly screams of those who were trapped in the burning cellar and the frantic shrieks of their friends who could not reach them.

Terry assessed the scene. Grabbing a metal bin that was at the nearby bus shelter, he smashed the window of a household shop along the street and grabbed handfuls of blankets and sheets. Grabbing the uninjured he shouted, "Wrap those on fire in these!" Then he began to drag the injured away from the club door, aware that there could be a further blast. Others took note of what he was doing and joined in. As soon as that was established he began to assess the wounded, and called over to people standing by -

"Put your hand here, stop the bleeding! Don't stop the pressure until an ambulance arrives!"

"Take off your coat! Keep her warm!"

"Talk to him! Don't let him pass out!"

"Leave her- she's dead! Find someone you can help!"

"Get your fucking arse over here and give me a hand! This is not a fucking side show!"

It was the instinctive reaction of a man for whom command and decision-making under stress was second nature. He shouted and raced from one to the other until the sirens indicated the arrival of the paramedics, the police and the fire brigade. And then he backed off, slipping into the shadows and searching for Niamh.

He found her talking to a young boy who was severely burnt and shivering with the spasms of shock and pain. A nurse and doctor ran over and Terry eased her to her feet; her eyes were tear-filled and hollow, her face was white.

Leading her away, he began to walk to the car park a few blocks away.

"NO! We can't just go!" Niamh shouted and tried to run back.

"Nothing more we can do. Believe me- leave it to them. Come on, I've seen enough."

He hurried her to the car; suddenly she leaned over a low wall and vomited, falling to her knees and groaning. Terry knelt by her and cushioned her head against his chest.

"Terry! They were dying all around me! It could have been us! How did you know?" And her words seemed to trigger a thought in her brain. "How did you know? And how did you know what to do? Terry, you were amazing. I've never seen anyone so calm in any situation..."

Lifting her to her feet, he helped her to the car, sat her down in the passenger seat and crouched down by her.

"I've done some medical training. Lifeguard. Beach rescue. That sort of thing. Must have just kicked in when I needed it. Adrenalin, ya know?"

Niamh looked unconvinced but said nothing. He went round to the driver's seat and started the engine, pulling into the street and passing countless emergency vehicles and some army vans. For a few miles, they drove in silence until Niamh suddenly said:

"Pull over. I need fresh air." They were out in the countryside; the night was raw. But somehow the feeling of the ice-cold blast was comforting. It hurt, you were still alive.

"The UDA bastards. They knew it was just a bunch of Catholic kids on a Monday night," she spat through her gritted teeth.

Terry lit a cigarette and wrinkled his eyes against the smoke. "IRA never blown up a night club?"

She spun round. "This country is ours. Not theirs. How else are we to win it back? No one in the world would give a shite if the IRA hadn't gone to war."

"War? Terrorism isn't war. You want to change things- use the ballot box. In the end it's the only way. The rule of law," he observed blowing out a steady stream of smoke and offering her the cigarette. She took it and inhaled deeply.

"They call Mandela a hero. He was a terrorist. It depends whose side you're on. Whose side are you on, Terry?" She looked accusingly at him.

"No side. No side that blows up innocent kids on a Monday night."

"So you support the Brits? Thought Oz wanted out of the whole Commonwealth shite. How would you feel if British soldiers walked your streets with machine guns and tanks?"

"We gained our freedom without violence."

"We were shafted. The first colony and the last one."

He shrugged. "Maybe you're right. I don't know - but what happened tonight is wrong."

Niamh stubbed out the cigarette. "About couple of weeks ago, some SAS shite gunned down four men in cold blood. Assassination. Murder. Tell me, Terry- where is the force of law in that? Why weren't they tried in court? The Brits are the biggest terrorists goin' and they have been for hundreds of years."

He swallowed hard and turned away. SAS shite. Him. No better than the terrorist that planted the bomb.

It's getting cold. Let's go home, Niamh," and he walked back to the van with her following silently in his wake.

By the time that they reached home, the news had hit the TV and the whole pub was still open following the live pictures being beamed from the bombsite. One look at the couple and it was clear they had been involved. Their clothes were torn and dusty, their faces bruised and cut. Terry's hand was bleeding where he had smashed the alarm; he hadn't even noticed it.

"Jesus! You were there?" Colm shouted.

They nodded. Niamh ran to her father and he embraced her. "Daddy...I'm OK. Terry saved my life. Daddy, it was so awful..."

"I know, love, I know. Hush, mavorneen, try not to think about it now. You want a drink?" He turned away "Some one turn that fuckin' TV off!"

Niamh shook her head. "I want to have a bath. I want to be on my own. Just let me go up." She pulled away and ran up the stairs to the family quarters above. The pub was quiet, subdued. Terry stood by the door, a little embarrassed, like an outsider.

"Need a hand behind the bar, Colm?" he muttered.

"No, lad. Sit down, here take the bottle." He handed Terry a glass and a bottle of Irish and Terry poured himself a sizable slug and drank it down in one. The warm buzz hit him and he felt the numbing sensation drain though him. Something was bothering him. Something Niamh had said, "About two weeks ago, some SAS shite gunned down four men in cold blood" How did she know that? Media reported it as Provo infighting- different factions struggling for predominance. Only those inside would know the truth. Jesus- she couldn't be? Could she?

"What happened?" Colm asked and the crowded bar fell silent.

"We were in the club. Some kids left a package. I saw it, shouted BOMB, hit the fire alarm and got the fuck out. Too late for some. Fucking deathtrap." Terry exhaled and realised he was feigning a horror that he didn't actually feel. How jaded was he if this experience just joined the thousands of other dangerous situations he had faced in his life? When had he come to accept violent death and just shrug it aside?

"Thank Christ, you saw it. Fucking Orange bastards. They'll get theirs..." someone shouted from the back.

Terry stood up. "Christ...is that all you can fucking say? Jesus, you all make me sick."

He lurched from the bar and climbed the stairs to the retreat of his room, slamming the door. In the darkness, he lay and rocked from side to side. The crushing horror that Niamh might somehow be involved in what he was investigating would not shift itself from his brain.

There was a gentle knock on the door, almost hesitant. Terry sat up abruptly and swung his legs onto the floor. He crossed to the bedroom door and opened it; it was Niamh, fresh from the bath, hair damp and dressed in a modest pair of blue cotton pyjamas. He noticed the little white daisies embroidered around the collar. She looked virginal and pure; was this the best disguise in the world? One that could even fool a man like him?

"I wanted to apologise. I was very sharp before. You didn't deserve that. I just wanted to say that..." Niamh began.

"No worries, love. You were upset. You have a right to your own opinion," he replied.

"And you have to yours. Terry, it was such a lovely evening until then. I've never...not for a long time...I didn't want you to think I didn't appreciate it..." Niamh looked genuinely sorry and at breaking point; she was still in shock.

"I know that. I enjoyed it too. Come here!" He pulled her into his arms and held her while she burst into a gentle sobbing, tears flowing down her cheeks and wetting his shirt. All he could do was bury his head against her damp hair; it smelt of apples. His hands stroked her back and he murmured calming noises to her. It reminded him of times when he had held his baby son when he could not settle and Penny had been at her wit's end with him. Terry had spent many nights walking the boards cradling him and gentling his tears.

She needed to cry; it was the best release for her. What did he need? What do you need when your emotions are so far down that they don't even register the deaths of a dozen young people? Terry was scared of release- if he opened up the can of worms inside him- he seriously wondered whether he would go insane.

It wasn't in his mind; he doubted whether it was in hers. But some part of their natures began the process that led to what they did that night. From his hand stroking gently down her spine, to her arms reaching for his neck, rubbing the tense aching muscle there, to their lips meeting and a frantic, desperate longing unfolding in each other's arms.

Some secret signal seemed to be triggered, some instinctive green-light, for at the same moment they both groaned and began to tear at each other's clothing and fell to his bed. Terry never remembered what he was thinking - was it possible his conscious mind just switched off?- he simply let his body lead him, unable to stop the inevitable passion. He simply cupped her breast and gorged himself on her nipples as she lay helpless and writhing beneath him, hands ruffling through his hair, begging him to touch her, take her, love her.

It was so long since he had held a woman who longed for him, not a casual pick up, nor a shrewish wife who would allow him sex when she'd had a few glasses of wine too many and then make him pay for it over the next few days.  Niamh was like a flower too long in the dark; her body opened to him and her tender touch almost made him weep. She was not shy but nor was she bold - Niamh responded to him with an innocent abandon, shameless and free, a nature child too long held back.

His head cleared long enough to grab his wallet from his pants and find a condom; some instinct from years of safe sex still operating in their brains. Once protected, she pulled him to her and they came together in a wild urgent lovemaking, crying and gasping for the feel and sensation of want, need and simply being alive.

Lying in the dark, a bright moon shining through the window, they held each other but were no longer of one flesh. Curled up in his arms, spooned together as he stroked back her thick red golden curls, Terry prayed that he was wrong about her. She was just a girl, lived in these parts, bound to have IRA sympathies; she had picked up on gossip in the bar. It meant nothing, he was paranoid - he had been too long in this murky world and saw danger even in a woman wheeling a pram. Any fool could see she was just a sweet, lonely woman who had got stuck in this backwater, who loved her Dad and had given up her crack at life to look after him. Please God, let her be that!

Niamh closed her eyes and bit back the urge to cry some more. His body, wrapped around, keeping her safe, as he had shielded her from the force of the blast, was like heaven to her- beautiful, strong, healthy male. All she wanted and needed in a man- this clever, funny, laid-back Aussie with his gentle manner and tender ways. But she couldn't clear this feeling that he was too perfect, too competent, too...damned honourable to be what he said. He had acted like a professional when the bomb had blown. Professional? Doctor? Policeman? No neither of those; he acted like a leader of men - a soldier. Dear God, she of all people should recognise the signs. Don't let him be an agent!

PART SIX

Terry left Niamh still asleep the next morning, bathed, shaved and dressed before making his way down to the bar; his leather jacket over his arm. His hand was still sore and had started bleeding again.

Down in the kitchen, Colm handed him a cup of tea. "Sit down, Terry. I've got some bacon and eggs on. Do you need a bandage for your hand?"

"No, mate. It's nothing. Just knocked it when I was dressing." Suddenly Terry realised that Colm would wonder where Niamh was- she was usually up early to cook the breakfasts. "Niamh sleeping in?" Terry asked.

Colm looked across and said nothing, merely tossing two eggs and a couple of rashers of bacon on a plate and set it down before him. "You tell me, son. Either she's in your bed, or she went out very early this morning."

Terry looked up sharply and found O'Malley smiling at him. "She's twenty six and no innocent virgin. I don't run her life. She could do worse than you. Believe me, she has."

He blushed. "Look, mate...I didn't mean... in your own house...Jesus, last night was ..." What do you say?

Colm shook his head. "You two might have been dead. Who would blame you both for a bit of life affirming? Terry, I know you're not permanent. I don't expect you to make a decent woman of her. She's that already. But she needs a break. Yesterday was the last straw. I rang a few of the old guys. They will help me out. Take her away for a couple of days. I have a cottage by the sea in the Republic. The two of you go and spend a few days in bed. Do you both the world of good. Bring some colour back into my girl's cheeks. Please."

Terry ate pensively. If Niamh were clean then a few days would make no difference; there was no real information to act on. If she wasn't...maybe the time might reveal the extent of her involvement. His own detachment shocked him; he was already reverting to Captain, soon to be Major Thorne, SAS officer and merciless killer. God knows what poor O'Malley would do if he knew what was in his mind.

"I'll have a talk with Niamh later. Maybe. Still a bit thrown by it all, Colm."

O'Malley nodded. "Think about it."

Terry finished and took his plate to the sink, washing it and finishing his cup of tea. "I'm off out for a ride. Need some air. Tell Niamh I won't be long."

With that Terry zipped up his leathers, donned his helmet and set off to call in with an impending sense of dread.

"Thorne. You copy?"

"Yes sir. Bit of a situation last night. You hear?"

"I was there, mate. Anything?"

"Yes sir. Definite ID for Ballymagorry. Colonel says - you lucky bastard. Got some sort of sixth sense, have you? No names yet but you could have stumbled onto something.

"The receipt?"

"Partly. O'Malley. Father checks clean, we think. No form, has run the pub for years. Very clever if he is involved. The daughter took longer. We looked up Neve O'Malley but got nothing. Then some bright spark said try Gaelic spelling- the Provos always like to appear patriotic. Niamh O'Mallaigh- bingo. Graduate Chemist, University of  Coleraine- M. Sc. in fucking bomb-making probably. Known associate of Tommy Kelly...ring any bells?"

"Jesus Christ! The hunger striker?"

"The same. His girl. Before they pulled him the pair of them had been abroad. Possibly Libya. Reckon they were training at one of the camps. Then they were both in Oz for a spell- fund raising. Came back and he was nabbed. Went on the blanket protest and then hunger strike. Died after four months. Buried with full military honours." Terry dropped the receiver and laid his head back against the wall, he was sweating profusely.

"You still there, sir?"

"Yeah mate." Since then? He composed his voice, became the soldier, pressed the shock down deep.

"She has kept her nose clean. Apparently. But...interestingly enough the Dublin hotel receipt. We know there was a big Provo pow-wow that weekend in Dublin- could be when this caper was given the green light. That room was taken in the name of Diarmid Byrne. Little swarthy black haired chap- marksman- we would like to get our hands on him. Hotel staff says he was with a pretty redhead - answers O'Malley's description. Boy, have you got this nailed, Sir! Brass say- take out at will. Even if there are others, chances are you will have rumbled the heart of the nest and they will have to pull back."

Terry sat with his head in his hands and thought hard. He could not shift the memory of the touch and feel of her slender body under his, the sweet pressure of her gripping him as he had loved her. And he had loved her; that was not just getting laid, getting lucky. Together they had reached a place where lovers meet, their bodies used for higher things than simply easing an itch that had to be scratched. Take out at will. Destroy that body that he had worshipped with his only a few short hours before? What had he done to deserve that kind of punishment? Was he capable of it? With a sick dread, he realised the worst of it all - he was.

Reaching in the box, his mind made up, he reached for a set of car keys and his handgun. Then he took out a marksman's rifle, and several boxes of ammunition. These he packed onto his bike. Driving to Strabane, he parked the bike in a multi-storey car park by the side of a blue Ford Sierra. Opening the boot, he stowed the guns and ammunition under the spare wheel in a specially fashioned compartment and locked up the bike.

Back at the pub, he strolled in and found Niamh reading the morning's papers on a table in the bar. She was sipping a mug of coffee. As he walked in she looked up and smiled. It was a shy grin, a little unsure in the light of day after the abandoned passion of the night before.

"Morning, love. You OK?" Terry asked, slipping in beside her, his lips making contact with the tender flesh of her neck.

She nodded. "Never felt better. Terry...last night was...you're a wonderful lover, Terry. But I don't expect anything from you. I know it is not what you want. But I'm just glad we had that much. I'll never regret it."

Her words reached down into his soul, testing the strength of his resolve. He cleared his throat. "Niamh...it doesn't have to stop there. I'm not a complete bastard. It meant the same to me. Baby, your Dad offered us his cottage for a few days. Let's get away. Find out how we feel. If that's what you want..."

She gazed up at him, her eyes sparkling with tears. "Oh, Terry...that is just what I want. Daddy offered you the house at Roonagh Quay? Are you the blue-eyed boy!

"Green actually, but he's a pretty cool guy. Just wants you to be happy. I'd like to try and make you happy, Niamh." He meant the words whatever other burdens lay upon him. All he wanted was to make her happy. It wasn't his fault that circumstances might prevent him.

After lunch they set off in the 'hired' car and drove across the border through Sligo and on to Mayo to that wild promontory facing the Atlantic in the foothills of Croagh Patrick, the mountain of St Patrick himself. On the way they stopped at Castlebar to fill up with petrol and Terry excused himself to make a phone call. He needed to talk to a friend in Dublin.

The thought had struck him on the long drive; it was December 3rd -Henry's fourth birthday. Four years ago he had been away when his son had been born and now he was away again- had he ever been present for any significant moments in his son's life? Risky it might be, but he wanted to speak to him. A call from a public box would be safe enough.

"Hello?"

"Penny? It's me."

"Jesus - The Scarlet Pimpernel? They seek him here... they seek him there...what do you want?"

"It's Henry's birthday. I want to say Happy Birthday. I'll get him something when I get back."

"You remembered? Wonders will never cease! Don't worry- I got something on your behalf."

"Can I speak to him?"

"He's not here. His Grandma took him for a few hours while I get his party ready. Fifteen four years old- it will be mayhem. But don't worry about missing it. I'll show him a photograph of you to make sure that he doesn't forget who his Dad is."

"Christ, Pen! You know where I am! What the fuck can I do?"

"Who the fuck even cares?" 

He stood holding the phone and resisted the urge to ram it through the window of the kiosk. He bit back the anger and tried to look like he'd just spoken to his Aussie mate in Dublin rather than had the last conversation he ever wished to have with his wife as her husband. If he survived this show, that was it. He was ending the farce. Both of them had the right to their own lives; Henry was no better placed with them married as with them separated. The sudden decision gave him a sweeping sense of relief. He didn't have to pretend anymore.

Niamh gave him a questioning smile as he emerged stony faced from the station shop. He forced a grin and joined her, to drive off and turn up the volume on the car radio.

"C'mon, love, let's get in the mood. I am ready to party. What you got planned for me?"

"Hope you brought plenty of Johnnies, sunshine, 'cos you can't buy them here, you know?" Niamh chortled in reply.

"Jesus, I forgot! Terry groaned. Niamh opened her bag and pulled out a couple of twelve packs. "Didn't know how long we were staying," she teased. "Got enough to last you about a year here."

"Twenty four frangers? That'll hardly last me the night..." he replied with a wink.

Niamh put her head back and howled with laughter banging her feet on the floor. "You are such a cocky bastard, O'Neill. But then... you have quite a cock there..." and she leant over and gave him a squeeze.

Terry pulled the car down a nearby farm track. "OK. You asked for it. Now you get rooted like a Sheila. Back of the car. At the double. Knickers off." At that he leapt out of the driver's seat, ran round and pulled her out too. Yanking open the door of the back seat, they fell in, both laughing and grabbing for each other at the same time. Niamh sat on his knee and he fell back as she covered him with wild kisses and he devoured her just as passionately.

Wriggling from his grasp, Niamh slipped down him to kneel on the floor of the car. "Car seats used to be more roomy when I was a kid," she observed.

"I think I've grown a bit since then," Terry laughed.

"This certainly has," Niamh quipped as she eased his zip down and stroked his hard cock. He helped her pull down his boxers and he lay playing with her red gold hair as she lowered her lips and kissed him, letting him savour the sight of her tongue lazily lapping at the ooze of moisture that was pearling at the tiny hole. Terry breathed deeply, tried to keep control as she gently rolled back his skin and ran her tongue underneath his ridge, her long, sweeping motions now changing to light flickers; he shivered.

"Oh, Jesus, Terry. This is a beautiful fella. Bet all the girls tell you that!" she whispered as she lowered her mouth down the length, swirling her tongue around the rigid veiny shaft and cupping his heavy balls to massage them gently.

"Christ, Niamh, I'll come...Ahh fuck...Jesus, baby, suck me hard, yeah....Fuck, baby." Terry slumped back and let her go, straining not to come but wanting so much to feel the sensation. When he couldn't stand anymore, he raised her head and she donned the condom for him, jerking him gently throughout. He pulled her onto him and she hurried out of her jeans and panties to sit naked from the waist down on his shaft.

"I can't last long," Terry gasped.

"Me neither...fuck me, Terry, Jesus you feel so fuckin' good."

Niamh rested her head on his shoulder and they rode each other, her hands gripping his arms, his fingers biting into her slender buttocks. She cried out and he let himself go, pulsing into her, shuddering in her arms.

They rested there long moments of quiet calm, the wild carnality of moments before replaced by the tender touch of affection, maybe even love. Terry held her to him and stifled back the urge to cry. Rocking her like his baby in his arms, he wondered at what the future would bring.

PART SEVEN

It was a beautiful little cottage set on the slip road down to the tiny quay. On that December afternoon, the rain had held off and the sky was clear but the sea was stormy and wild. Terry and Niamh stood on the rocks staring out to sea over Clew Bay, watching the disappearing landmass of Clare Island fading beneath the gloom and the mist. Seals took shelter on the rocks below them and they watched them play, young now almost full grown, females already heavy with next season's pups. Terry held Niamh to him as the biting cold cut into them and the wind almost knocked them off their feet.

"Next stop, Americay...." She bellowed pointing out to sea. " For so many Irishmen and women- this was their last sight of land." She shook her head.

"That was a long time ago, Niamh. My father left for Australia. He doesn't regret it. Maybe they found better lives."

"We have peopled the world with our children. The Brits took our land and starved us. It isn't a long time ago. It is now, Terry, as we speak. And we are Celtic people. Our memories are long. Shame on you that you don't remember."

They walked back hand in hand to the shelter of the cottage. It was a beautiful white washed stone, well renovated and restored. Niamh had explained that her maternal grandfather had been a fisherman; this had been his home. Colm had worked on it for years for his wife and daughter and then her mother had died of cancer and he had lost interest in the dream of retiring to this wild, majestic spot. Now they rented it out in the summer months to tourists; it was very popular.

On hands and knees, they lit the turf fire, a new modern range but still with the wonderful peaty smell. The cottage consisted of a main room, lounge and dining together, rustic with its exposed stone and ceiling beams, opening out onto a conservatory with a comfortable cane suite and a telescope set up to watch the sea. Pebbles of every shape and description, maritime paraphernalia, nets and fishing tackle decorated the walls and a great mirror, crafted from driftwood and studded with seashells hung over the fireplace. The kitchen ran the length of the building, a modern affair, freezer stocked with food, wine rack with bottles of wine and plenty of spirits and beer.

"Daddy rang ahead. Bridie Callaghan comes up to change the sheets and stock the place when guests are coming. She's marvellous." Niamh had explained.

The bedrooms were in the eaves, one master bedroom and a smaller single room. The wind howled and it seemed that they were the only people in the world. Searching the deep freeze, they found a piece of Irish Corned beef, ready for roasting, and Niamh tossed it into the microwave. They lay by the roaring fire and thawed out, drinking hot toddies: Irish whisky, lemon juice and honey. Entranced by the hypnotic glow of the fire, they held each other and talked.

"So you went to university. Tell me, Niamh- how bad did the guy hurt you, who broke your heart?" Terry asked as they lay there.

Niamh looked up at him and shook her head. "You're a clever bastard. Is it that obvious?" She stared into the flames and swirled her drink. "I met Tommy at the freshers' ball. God, he was so fine. Yellow curly hair and a fresh face - like one of God's own angels. He spoke of Ireland like a hero. He studied History. Wanted to show the world how we had suffered." She smiled and wiped her eyes. "Terry, I loved him. I loved him so much. But they got to him."

"What do you mean?" Terry asked.

She breathed in deeply. "He joined the Provos, dropped out. Became a foot soldier. He did bad things...I know he did. But I loved him, Terry, and he loved me. I would have done anything for him. Anything."

"What happened?" There was an eerie quiet broken only by the 'ding' of the microwave finishing its programme; an absurd domestic sound amidst this significant disclosure. Niamh jumped up and ran to tend to it, wrapping it in foil and setting it to roast. Terry sat on the floor and waited.

"What happened, Niamh?"

"He died. A hero of the Republic." She looked at Terry and he read something in her eyes that frightened him. A challenge.

"He died fighting for the IRA?"

"He died a martyr. His sacrifice makes cowards of us all," her words were spoken quietly but her intensity was fierce; Terry had seen and heard such tones before. It was the fervour of the fanatic. He already knew what he needed to know.

"Let's cook," he said and began to gather the rest of the ingredients for their dinner. The whisky on an empty stomach had made his head ache.

Late that night, he lay in the cosy attic room, Niamh lying in his arms, bodies worn out with passion. The icy blast echoed through the rafters but they were warm and safe inside. Crazy notions passed though his head. Desert. Get her out of Ireland, go to Oz, maybe New Zealand, start a new life. Turn their backs on both their pasts. Forget about the worlds they belonged to. Then reality set in. Henry. He had a son. However hopeless he had been as a husband, he had tried to be a father; he loved his son. It was impossible to disappear and abandon him. Niamh would never leave Colm. Dear God, what was he to do?

Morning came and the warmth of a body pressed against him; the welcome hardness of an erection. Niamh murmured as she stroked him; they rolled over and he entered her, both half asleep, half awake and rocked together instinctively until good sense prevailed and he pulled out, searching for a condom on the bedside table. Niamh lay jerking him and whispering; words to make a man proud, to hear a woman tell him what a man he was, how he was the best lover she had ever known, that his body was beyond belief, that she wished she could take him in and be one with him for ever. Love talk. Crazy, senseless streams of consciousness but the sweetest words he had ever heard, guaranteed to drive any man over the edge between sanity and madness.

The day they spent touring the area, driving the road over the hills to Lough Mask along the old famine road, passing famine villages like Leenane, once deserted, now important heritage sites. They ended up in Westport by the harbour and dined on fresh seafood, entertained by a live band and the high spirits of the other guests. Niamh's eyes shone and her whole body spoke to him of love and belonging. They danced and held each other.

"Niamh?" Terry murmured as they moved around the floor.

"Hmmmm?" she whispered back, fingers stroking the hair at the nape of his neck.

"I love you," he muttered, into her ear, closing his eyes and dreaming a future.

"I love you, too. My beautiful man," she sighed.

"Let's go to bed," he said in low rumble, and they hurried home, to fall desperately into the cottage and make love with wild abandon, naked on the rug before the fire, savouring every sensation that their bodies knew. In the flickering firelight, in silence, almost reverential, they adored each other; tiny gasps and moans were all the sounds they made. The pleasure was so close to pain that neither dared speak a word. Words might break their hearts.

PART EIGHT

Niamh woke up early that final morning; she had dreamed uneasily and something was bothering her. Sitting cross-legged, she watched Terry sleep, smiling at his face, boyish, hair tousled, snoring lightly. Suddenly she had an urge for a cigarette. Slipping off the bed, she thrust her hand into his backpack lying on the floor near the door and her fingers closed on the hard, cold outline of a gun.

With her hands shaking, she worked it free and turned it over. This was an expert's gun. A Beretta Neos. Top of the range. She turned the elegant black and silver weapon in her hand; it was loaded.  Her blood ran cold. Throwing on some clothes, she ran out to the car and opened the boot. Beneath the floor was a compartment, full of weapons and a radio. Niamh stared in horror. He was a plant. They were fucked. Jesus Christ, he's a fuckin' British pig. He's played me.

Niamh bit back the scream that choked her and ran back to the house. It was still all quiet. Reaching for the phone, she called the number and gave them the information.

Terry opened his eyes, aware that he was alone in the bed. Someone was standing over him and instinct roused him to full wakefulness. His eyes took in the sight; Niamh positioned, legs slightly akimbo, his handgun held professionally in two hands as she pointed it straight at him.

"G'day, ye lying scumbag. Hope you slept well."

He said nothing. For a second he closed his eyes and then allowed his professional mind to take control. Raising himself slowly, hands held out in surrender, he watched her and waited for an opportunity. "Niamh, steady on. Don't fuck with that gun. I can explain. Christ , Niamh, I didn't mean this to happen."

"Don't come any nearer! I swear I know how to use this, O'Neill, and I will. Not that O'Neill is your real name, is it, you British shite?"

Terry sat up on the bed. "If you can use that gun then you haven't been straight with me either, Niamh. You are IRA. I've known it quite some time. It doesn't change what has happened between us..."

"What? You think I could love a ...what are you? Who are you? Jesus, I don't even know anything about you." Her hands shook with temper and Terry saw the chance. With a lunge, grabbing her arms, kicking her legs from under her, he disarmed her, knocked her to the floor and straddled her, picking up the gun.

Niamh attempted to struggle but he held her firm. Searching the room, he saw the plaited loops of rope that tied back the curtains. Dragging Niamh to her feet, he pulled her over, took the tie-backs and bound her hands together, throwing her back on the bed.

Terry reached for his clothes and dressed as she lay glaring at him, tears of anger pooling on her eyes as she watched him clothe his naked body, the body that she had loved. Who was he? Why had he pretended to love her? How could she stand by and watch him die?

"Right, love. Now let's talk. You called your friends? They on their way?" Terry sat on the stool and lit up a cigarette. Niamh turned her head to the wall and refused to answer him.

"Then I'll presume you have. Thanks, love. Just what I need most. Will save me a coupla weeks of this shit."

Raising her to her feet, he snatched up his pack and the car keys, threw their coats over his arm and pulled her through the door to the car. Forcing her into the back seat, he tied her feet with a line of chicken wire that he found round the back and drove off. At the end of the road, he drove onto the rough dirt track that went up the cliff until it reached an overhang above the cottage. There he stopped and began his preparations.

First he dragged Niamh out and sat her down against a rock. "Now, let's hear it. Niamh, I'm not fucking about here. I want some information out of you but first I'll come clean. I'm SAS, love, sent here to worm out your little cell. You've been rumbled - we know about the Christmas Windsor caper. Now we also know about you and your mates. Niamh, I am sorry, as sorry as I've ever been about anything but...what you are doing is a crime against a state and in this instance I represent law and order. They have given me total authority to act as I see fit. Do you know what that means?"

Niamh turned around and refused to look at him. "NIAMH - ANSWER ME! DO YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN!" he bellowed into her ear.

She nodded. 

"Niamh, we are not playing here. They want you dead. They don't want trials and clever lawyers and maximum publicity resulting in prison sentences that may have to be commuted when peace talks occur. They don't want any more blankets protests or hunger strikes. I've been sent here to kill you all. I'm a killer, Niamh. The best there is. A sanctioned killer. An executioner. When you pulled a gun on me you should have used it. You won't get another chance."

Facing him, Niamh asked," Are you going to kill me?"

Terry blinked his eyes and looked away. "No."

"Why not?"

"Because I love you. How can I kill the woman I love?" She saw his eyes and knew he had never been lying to her. At least not as a man to a woman.

"How can you say that? I don't even know your name. Are you Australian? Are you married? I loved Terry O'Neill. I loved him so much. I don't know who you are," her voice choked on the words.

Terry sat beside her and buried his head in his hands. "My name is Terry. I am Australian. I do come from Sydney. The rest...is just cover. I can't tell you my real name, you know that. I have a wife in UK but my marriage is on the rocks. I have a four-year-old son. I'm a soldier. What else do you need to know?"

"You lied to me. You took me into your bed and you lied to me," she said accusingly.

"You are IRA. You lied to me. You are the former mistress of Thomas Kelly, hunger striker and bomb maker. You are suspected of being involved in bomb making, have trained in guerrilla tactics in the Libyan desert, have fundraised for the IRA in Australia(about which you lied and said you'd never been). You have since been part of a cell based in Ballymagorry, so secret that many of the upper echelon of the Provisional IRA do not even know of its existence. As the partner, and possibly lover, of Diarmid Byrne you were recently in Dublin at the Jury's Hotel where a plot to assassinate a member of the Royal Family was hatched due to take place over the forthcoming festive season. Merry Christmas, Niamh. So where was the bit you told me about?"

Niamh hung her head. "You were just a guy from Australia. How could I tell you that?"

"You suspected who I was. The grilling about Sydney. The questions after the bomb in Derry. I think you searched my room the morning after we slept together. Niamh, we both knew. We just didn't want it to end. Because we..."

"...we fell in love. Is that what you want to say? How can this happen? You stand for everything I hate most in life."

"I'm just a man, Niamh. At the end of the day, I'm a man, you're a woman. There's nothing else to say."

Niamh bit her lip and tried to wipe her eyes on the shoulder of her jacket, Terry reached out a hand and brushed her tears away.

"Terry, what are you going to do with me?"

He shook his head. "We wait. Your little nest will gather to sort me out. Thanks for bringing them together for me. I will take them out and then we will get out of Ireland. Get your passport, fly from Dublin to Europe. I've got access to money and I'll give you enough to see you right. I have a few contacts, people who can get a new identity. Niamh, disappear. I don't even want to know who you are or where you are. Then I will go back."

"NO! What will they do to you if they find out what you have done? They will court martial you for treason. Military prison. It could be years. Terry, I can't let you do that for me."

He held her shoulders firmly. "It's the only way. If there was another way I would take it..."

"But let's run together. Now. This minute. Forget about the cell."

"We'd be running all our fucking lives. From your people and mine. And Niamh, I have a son. I'm a lousy father but I love him and I can't do this to him. I just can't do it. My mind's made up, Niamh. This is how we play it. Just stay here and keep out of it."

"You are going to kill my friends?"

"Yes."

She closed her eyes and laid back, head on the rock.

PART NINE

Terry knew that the men sent to kill him would not be long in arriving. A helicopter would be on hand and there was never a shortage of local volunteers to provide transport. He reckoned on about two hours tops. It was important that they keep warm- the temperature was barely above freezing and the bitter gusts from the sea made it feel colder still. Their fleeces and waterproofs were not enough protection.

Returning to the car, he turned on the engine and let it run, leaving Niamh curled up on the back seat while he stayed mostly outside, scouring the surroundings with binoculars for any signs of movement. Few were about that day - he noticed the local residents of the scattered cottages but even they chose to remain largely indoors and there was little passing traffic on the nearby road.

He should have immediately contacted control and secured backup; it was almost suicidal to remain here and consider taking them all on. How many would arrive? What weaponry would they carry? Terry reckoned he could pick a few off in seconds but once they were alerted - he would be a sitting duck and they could take their time.

His mind never stopped playing out one scenario after another, discarding and rethinking, plotting and assessing, realistically facing the task before him. He'd been in tight spots before but he was a soldier - he rarely acted alone. That was the whole point of the army. You were a force not an individual. The group mentality was paramount; each man merely a link in the chain.

For the greater good - who said that? Winston Churchill? No. Ignatius Loyola, the Jesuit priest- For the greater glory of God. De Maiore gloria Dei. He remembered it sewn on the pocket of his school blazer. Somehow he didn't think the founder would have meant killing in cold blood when he said that. Or maybe he would- he was a Jesuit- didn't they do the Inquisition?

The thoughts that pass through a mind at such a time are many and varied. If he were honest- and Terry Thorne invariably was- he didn't expect to survive. Maybe that was why he found himself thinking about his childhood, his schooldays, his early years in the regiment back home, girls he had known and loved...well, known anyway ... Penny ...what it had been like then...how it was now, how he'd felt about his son from the day he had first held him in his arms...

Could he trust Niamh? Did he dare untie her and give her a gun? She knew how to use one. But would she fire on her own comrades? Whatever he had said about illegal acts and crimes against the state, she was a soldier too and had her allegiance to another cause. He couldn't expect her to betray her people even for his sake. She was a woman of more integrity than that. No, she must stay out of it.

Returning to the car, the welcome warmth of the radiator blast thawing out his freezing limbs, he sat in the backseat next to Niamh who still lay curled up against the other door.

"It's fucking freezing out there," he said sheepishly. 

"Lightweight," she replied but there was a glimmer of a smile.

"You OK, love?" He asked.

Niamh looked at him. "Never better." She grimaced. "How did it come to this, Terry? Why didn't you just leave me alone? What possessed a professional of your abilities to allow himself to get emotionally involved with the target?"

Terry hunched his shoulders. "I didn't know you were the target."

"You shouldn't have developed any bonds. You know how it is when you are undercover. Remain aloof. You cannot afford to allow personal feelings to interfere! You must be an experienced hand to be involved in something like this. I can't understand why you behaved as you did." Niamh wriggled against her bonds to sit up and observe him.

He stared ahead looking out of the window to the bleak seascape beyond. "I'm a professional but I'm at a crisis in my life. I don't want to be a soldier anymore. I used to think that it was the finest thing a man could be. I'd look at people in office jobs and think- what the fuck are you wasting your life for? Now I look at myself and see someone I don't even like. I'm a trained killer who cannot even think for himself. Like a guard dog- someone lets me off the leash and I kill. Then I come back and they snap on the collar and pat my head and say I've been a good boy. It used to be simple. I trained and got shipped out and went to war. I've been in the Falklands, the Gulf, Africa, on UN missions. I can understand that. There was a purpose. Here it screws your head up. This isn't war -it's something else and ..." he broke off, unsure why he had said so much.

Niamh reached forward and rested her head against his arm. "I understand. I'm in above my head, too. Once you get in, you can't get out. But...Terry, you can resign your commission, do something else, go back to Australia- Christ, this isn't your war! What about your marriage? You said it was on the rocks- what did you mean by that?"

With a groan, Terry rubbed at his eyes. "I meant what I said. My wife hates me and frankly, I'm not sure I can stand the sight of her either. We're like two strangers. I think we always were." He looked at Niamh and shrugged. "Shotgun wedding. We had a wild affair and I got her pregnant. Daddy insisted I do the honourable thing...he's my commanding officer."

Niamh groaned too. "Fucking recipe for disaster if I ever heard one. What about your son?"

He smiled. "Henry? He's a beautiful little boy. Jesus, when I think what we are doing to him..."

"Is he like you?" Niamh asked suddenly a little dreamy eyed. Terry smiled over.

"Not really. I can't see it anyway. Seems to favour his mother. Blonde, pretty - she would say better bred," he said with a bitterness that made Niamh's heart ache. He was really hurting and in the middle of a nightmare. For the first time Niamh began to consider the other side of the coin. The soldiers whom they saw as legitimate targets, no longer faceless enemies, but men with home lives and problems - just like everyone else.

Just then they heard the sound of a car turning down the small lane that led to the quay. Niamh watched, fascinated, at the immediate change in Terry. It was like watching a hunter or perhaps a giant cat like a tiger sense its prey. As if they had not just been exchanging heartfelt confidences, he sprang into action. Pulling out a scarf that he must have taken from the bedroom, he bound her mouth so that she could not warn them and then he locked the car. She watched as he thrust a large knife into the belt of his jeans, then a handgun, picked up the high velocity rifle with its silencer and then held another knife in his mouth.

Creeping towards the bluff, he lay prone and observed the arrival. There were six men. They parked the large Range Rover, leaving one driver in the vehicle and then spread out approaching the cottage from several sides. Terry shinned down the slope out of sight of the cottage and skirted round the road, throwing himself prone and shuffling forward on his elbows and knees beneath the low stone wall until he was level with the car. The driver was looking outwards towards the sea and the cottage, lighting a cigarette and leaning on the bonnet. In a sudden burst Terry moved, crushed the man's windpipe with his left arm to prevent him screaming out and then with a practised stroke, severed the artery in his neck, pulling away to avoid the spurt of blood that sprayed like a jet.

He concealed the body behind the wall and crouched behind the vehicle. Another man was circling the cottage. He threw the blade and hit the man in the throat. He went down choking in his own blood, making a low gurgling sound. He had barely hit the ground when Terry reached him and made sure of his silence.

To the window, flat against the wall, heart pounding and adrenalin pumping. Three men in the downstairs room, one on the phone, another two nosing around. He assessed his chances. Fairly good. They thought he and Niamh were out. Raising the rifle, he aimed, fired and then again- one more down- three.

Racing round the building, he threw himself behind the peat store; at that moment the back door opened and two men charged out, both armed. On his feet, fire, roll, fourth man down. He heard the bullet that whizzed past his ear and rolled again to curl behind a wooden rainwater barrel.

Footsteps sounded. Held his breath...counted one, two, three- move! He rose and fired, blasting the man's face off. Five.

Niamh lay in the car until Terry ran out of sight. Then she moved. For the past two hours she had been working at the cord. He hadn't tied it tight enough; still fool enough to be gentle with her. It had felt loose for quite some time; now it took only minutes to free her wrists. She dragged off the gag and unwound the chicken wire from her ankles.

Out of the car, she followed Terry's example and lay on the overhang of rock looking down on the cottage. No sign of life at the front. Shimmying down the rock, she ran to the Range Rover, stepping over the body by the wall. It was nobody she knew- did that matter, she wondered?  Steeling herself, she thrust her hands under the man's jacket and took the handgun he was wearing. Checking it was loaded and the catch off, she ran in a crouched posture to the corner of the cottage, hearing the muffled shots of the silencer but also the louder more explosive crack of another gun.

Peering round the corner, she saw a man lying dead on the kitchen doorstep and another man groaning and writhing with terrible facial injuries. A noise above her head made her look up.

Inside the house Diarmid Byrne searched the bedrooms. No signs of life but they had been there. The bed was messed up and a case was lying open with a woman's clothing spilling out. He pulled open the blanket, red gold hairs on the pillow, a packet of condoms lying on the table. Diarmid smiled crudely. "So Niamh had a bit of Brit dick before she handed him over? What a girl!"

The burst of gunfire startled him. A quick glance out of the window showed him what he needed to know. This guy was good. Running to the spare room, he opened the dormer window and eased himself onto the roof.

Terry skirted the building towards the front. Five men down. One still inside- must have heard the shots. He felt in his pocket for a gas canister. Suddenly he heard her voice:

"Terry!" he spun round and saw Niamh holding a gun and raising it. The instinctive struggle for self preservation is the strongest emotion when under pressure. Adrenalin makes the brain respond much quicker than the conscious mind. In a trained soldier, these reactions are even sharper and faster. He fired. She fell crumpling onto her knees and then straight down on her face. A classic shot. Right through the heart.

A thud behind him and Terry saw the body of Diarmid Byrne crash lifeless to the ground. Clarity washed over him like a tidal wave, the awful realisation that it had happened, the thing one always fears. His trigger-sharp reaction had blinded him to the scene before him. Niamh had called his name to warn him and then shot dead the man who was about to kill him. And he had shot her through the heart.

Seven men down. Staggering to her body, he turned her over. Her eyes flickered; she tried to raise her hand.

"Hold on, Niamh, baby, hold on..." he shouted hopelessly.

She winced and opened her mouth, a bubble of blood welling up; she coughed it back. "I couldn't watch you die...not another love...too much pain..."

"Niamh - listen to me...don't fade away..."

"No...better this way...now you're safe...love you...."

The light faded from her eyes and he knew she was dead. Like an automaton he picked up her lifeless body, carried it inside and laid her on the couch where they had made love the night before. Then he picked up the phone and made a call.

Before he had finished, he heard the sirens of the local Garda, then a loudspeaker telling anyone inside to come out with their hands on their heads. Terry walked out, hands crossed on the back of his head and they surged forward to apprehend him.

"I'm British Army. You'll find my papers in a Sierra at the top of the cliff. Call this number...they'll confirm..." he spoke the words in a lifeless voice, only part of him aware, the rest curled up in a foetal position and screaming a heartrending wail at the horror he had unleashed.

PART TEN

...The deaths of seven members of the Provisional IRA in a running gun battle at a remote cottage in Clew Bay, Co Mayo, Republic of Ireland, had all the hallmarks of the recent in-fighting between splinter factions of the organisation. The deaths - some execution style- included that of Diarmid Byrne, himself a suspected IRA hit man, and Niamh O'Mallaigh, the girlfriend of Thomas Kelly famous as the hunger striker who died in prison four years ago....

"They'll see you now, sir."

Terry looked up from the copy of The Times and nodded at the young officer. He stepped briskly towards the conference room door, tapped lightly and entered. Before him was a tribunal of senior officers. He strode across the room saluted and stood to attention, a habit of a lifetime still engrained.

"Stand down, Captain. At ease. Take a chair. You're not on trial."

Terry sat down on the leather upholstered straight back chair and wished he were still standing. He felt more vulnerable in this position.

"We've read the debrief and your own report. You have achieved a remarkable result but your action was unconventional to say the least. What on earth was in your mind when you took out seven men without backup, Captain?"

"One woman, sir. Six men. One woman." Terry said, stony faced.

"Quite. Why did you not call for back up?"

Terry stared at the panel of men, all highly decorated armchair soldiers. One of them was his father-in-law.

"I was given authority to act as I saw fit. I made a decision. Sir!"

"I fail to see how risking your life and the whole success of a long operation could be said to have been a well-taken decision," Brigadier-General Wallis added.

Terry turned his head to look at Penny's father. "You weren't there. I was."

The panel of men exchanged glances and raised eyebrows. General Hammond, the senior of the men, spoke:

"Captain Thorne, we are not here to castigate you. What you achieved was remarkable and has succeeded way beyond our expectations. It is our recommendation that you be raised to the rank of Major, effective immediately, and put forward for the Victoria Cross.  However we feel that you have been under great pressure of late, the psychiatric reports of your debrief back this up, and would like you to take a long leave, up to three months to re - orientate yourself before you rejoin the regiment in your new capacity. May we say that..."

"May I speak, sir?" Thorne interrupted.

"Well, I suppose it is in order although highly irregular..."

"I'd like to hand in my resignation - effective immediately. Sir."

The five men stared at him. "Resign your commission? Are you mad? You are being promoted and decorated. Your record in the SAS is one of the most outstanding of your generation..."

"I want out. Now. You agree or I desert."

"Terry...I know it's been a hard few months but you have to reconsider. Have some leave, you'll see it differently then. Take Penny and Henry to Australia - a complete break... 'The Brigadier began.

"Desert then?" Terry asked. "I want an answer - now!"

Clearing his throat Hammond said, "As you wish, Captain Thorne. Not your finest hour. Good day, sir."

"Fuck you, too. Sir." Terry retorted and saluted, turning on his heel and marching out.

He had arranged to meet Penny in a hotel in London. On the telephone, Terry had said little, merely informing her that he was back and in London; it was important he saw her, would she take a train up and meet him at one in the afternoon. For once, Penny did not demur. Over the past few weeks she had had time to think and her behaviour and treatment of her husband shamed her. Her father had indicated that the mission Terry had been sent on was highly dangerous and one of the most important pieces of military intelligence work of the past few years. His career and reputation would be made.

Penny was no fool. Terry was a good catch despite the unsatisfactory nature of their relationship and at last he seemed to have the opportunity to begin the rise through the chain of command to the senior ranks. She was married and had a child; it was up to her to make the marriage last. However he might have behaved in the past, he seemed to want it to work- he even seemed to still love her. They might never be love's young dream again but there were worse fates. He wasn't exactly a hard man to fake it with.

She dressed carefully: elegant wool suit hiding the silk underwear and stockings that would soon wear down his resolve. Terry was putty in her hands if she gave him encouragement - his cock always led him. Penny observed herself in the mirror and saw the slight flush in her cheeks. Who was she kidding? If he touched her she would melt. It was ever thus. Her nights were filled with longing for him and her days of loathing that he made her feel that way. But today she could relent and enjoy him and pretend that this was just how a wife secured the loyalty of her husband.

He must want this. Why else would he ask her to join him at an hotel in the middle of the day, if not to rekindle their passion after the disasters of the last few months? Dropping Henry off at her mother's house, she left the car at the station and caught the train to London. The tube was crowded, full of Christmas shoppers and Penny felt a curious expectancy that she had not experienced for years- the secret knowledge of a woman who is about to meet her lover. She smiled despite herself at the frisson of erotic pleasure that the rendezvous presented.

At the Inn on the Park, she crossed the lobby to the restaurant. It was a few minutes off one; he would be on time. You couldn't fault Terry that way. At the entrance, the maitre d' approached - she gave her name and was led to a table in the corner, an intimate nook, perfect for lovers. Terry was sitting there playing with a glass of beer, his attention far away. Penny smiled. God, he was so beautiful! Her heart leapt to see him and she already imagined his touch.

"Hi, darling. I'm so glad you're back." Penny stood and smiled down on him. Terry seemed to jump a little and rose to his feet. He stepped forward and kissed her cheek. She ran her hand down his face but missed the slight twitch in the muscle beneath his eye.

"Penny. How've you been, love?" he replied with a half smile and held out a chair for her to sit down. A waiter fussed with napkins and menus. They ordered with little interest in the food and he called for a bottle of Chablis. Penny smiled. They had always drunk that when they were celebrating, ever since their honeymoon in Paris.

"Daddy said you were involved in something very dangerous. I'm sorry about that day you rang. I'm sorry about a lot of things, Terry. I've been a cow. I want to make it up to you. Was it really bad?"

Terry raised his eyes and fixed her in his gaze. "It's classified. I can't discuss it."

"I know that. I don't want to know the details. I just want to know that you are all right. You weren't hurt, were you?" Penny looked at him searchingly; the thought had just occurred to her- maybe that might explain his subdued mood.

Terry made a mocking laugh. "No, love. Unhurt. Nothing broken. I'm Captain Thorne, fucking indestructible...what's that TV puppet show Henry watches?" He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture.

Penny frowned slightly, recognising a mood that was unfamiliar. "You mean Captain Scarlet and the Mysterons? He's indestructible," she answered quietly.

"Ah yes, Captain Scarlet. That's me. Wait no...Major Scarlet. Been promoted. Joined the brass now, Pen,"

"Oh my God, Terry! That's wonderful news! Darling, I'm so proud of you..."

"I'm sure you are. But then, you're an army wife and an army brat. General's daughter. You can play the game. Going to the Palace, sweetheart. Pussy cat, pussy cat, where have you been? I'm going to London to visit the Queen." Terry laughed and threw back the remains of his beer.

With a shrug of incomprehension, Penny said, "What are you talking about? Are you drunk? At this time in the day?"

He replaced his glass and paused while the waiter set their first course before them. "I'm not drunk. I'm getting the Victoria Cross. I've been recommended for it anyway and it's a pretty safe bet. Splash out, get yourself a new frock, love. You'll be the talk of the golf club."

She smiled. "Oh my God, this was really big, wasn't it, Terry? The Palace? Decorated for bravery? Oh my God...I can't believe it!" Penny grabbed his hand across the table and gasped with shock. He pursed his lips and raised his chin. If she had been more astute she would have recognised the belligerence.

"Didn't think I had it in me to make the grade, did ya? Too fucking working class, isn't that what you said? Scum can be brave as well, you know? Not just top drawer Sandhurst boys who have the balls to risk their fucking lives dealing with other people's shit, ya know?" He bit his lip and choked down the bile that was rising in him. Niamh had died to save his life; Penny was more than willing to risk his for a higher salary and her status in the pecking order.

"Terry, is something wrong? You seem very tense. Let's take a holiday - that's what you need. We can go away as a family, somewhere warm. What about Christmas in the Caribbean? Poppy Smithers says Mustique is wonderful. Do you think we could afford it? I'm sure Daddy would help out..."

With a sudden movement, Terry stood up and lunged out of his seat. "I need a piss." He threw down his napkin on his untouched plate of food and headed for the men's room. Lurching into a cubicle, he threw up in the bowl and rested his head against the marble tiles, panting. He looked at his hands. They were shaking.

At the sink he threw cold water over his face and stared at himself in the mirror. A haunted mirror image reflected back at him. Is that me or some other man? Am I actually sitting at a table with a woman who wants me to take her for two weeks in the sun when the woman I love is being buried by her father in a tiny cold windy graveyard, the woman that I killed? He bent over the sink, his stomach heaving again, choking back the groans and fighting the tears that were welling up in his eyes. One tear ran down his face as a voice whispered in his ear, "You're safe now." He wiped it away and went back to join his wife.

"I can't eat, Penny. I'm sorry. I've got a room upstairs. I will sign the bill. I need to talk to you in private."

In silence they rode the lift and he led her to his room. Penny already knew with a sickening dread that he had not brought here for an afternoon of passion. She turned to face him.

He composed himself and for the first time, Penny recognised the wild look in his eyes and the bright gleam of unshed tears.

Holding up his hands to prevent her from approaching him, Terry began. "I've resigned my commission. I'm out. I want a divorce. I don't want a scene or any arguments. My mind's made up. You can have the house, what's in the bank...I don't fucking care. I'll do right by Henry, I swear I will. But I can't live with you anymore nor can I be a soldier ever again."

Penny stared at him, her mouth open and her eyes wide. "I know it's been bad, Terry, but I want us to start again. It will be different. You won't be away so much, we can buy a decent house...Terry, don't give up on us. We still have a chance...this is the moment. All your work and our sacrifices have paid off..."

Terry grabbed her by her upper arms and shook her. "You don't understand, do you? Even now! I have resigned. It is over. I have left you. Our marriage is over. See a lawyer, do what you have to do...just leave me the fuck alone." He tossed her from him and walked to the window, staring out at the gloomy winter's afternoon livened by the bright festive lights in shops and restaurants.

Penny walked up to him, raised her hand to touch him arm, hesitated, longed for him. "Is there someone else?" she whispered.

He put his head in his hands and she heard a groan as if he were in pain. "Not any more. Not any more." He sobbed and she realised he was crying.

"Oh Terry, I don't understand..." Penny could hardly bear the sight. He was so strong - what had brought him to this?

He looked at her, desperation and disbelief on his strong face. "I found her. The one woman in the world with whom I could have stood shoulder to shoulder and faced it all. The one who made me feel like a man. And you know what I did? I broke her heart. Just like all the others. What's the matter with me? Must I destroy everything I touch? I'm sorry. I broke your heart, too. It wasn't your fault. We should never have married. I'm so sorry."

Penny breathed deeply, too shocked even to cry. "What will you do? Go back to Australia?"

He shook his head. "There's only one thing in this world I have left. That's Henry. I won't leave him. I owe you both that. I've got an interview for a sort of consultant's job next week. In the City. It will mean a lot of travelling if I get it but I will see him when I can. I'll be there at Christmas, if you'll allow me. Just keep your fucking Dad off my back. I swear I'll hit the arrogant bastard if he says a fucking word. You tell him that from me. I don't owe him shit anymore."

She nodded. "Give me a call when you are coming round. I'll get your things together. Henry misses you. Don't leave it too long to see him. Please."

Gathering up her coat and bag, she walked to the door in a daze, hardly aware how she could put one leg before the other. At the door, she turned round. "It isn't your fault. No more than mine. I did love you. I still do. But we can only hurt each other. How can that be? Goodbye, Terry. I'm sorry, too."

The door swung closed over the thick carpet and he breathed a sigh of relief. The silence in the room was deafening. He curled up on the bed and wept.

Ian Havery read over the dossier before him. It was impressive. Terrence Thorne would be a singular catch - almost too good. Why would a man like Thorne leave the army at this point in his career? Havery had put out a few feelers but there was no scandal in his recent resignation, very much the opposite. A major decoration for bravery was being awarded to him in the New Year. Perhaps he wanted more money, less danger? Ulster was a filthy war.

He looked at the file picture. He recognised the type; rugged, charming, probably the ladies liked him. Calling for his secretary he asked that Captain Thorne be shown in. She led in the physical embodiment of the photograph - he was even more impressive in the flesh. Military bearing, moved quietly, soft spoken but with a keen intelligence evident in the way he appraised his interviewer. His answers to questions were impeccable but controlled; he gave away only what he wished to convey. Havery had the impression that it was Thorne who was interviewing him.

"Captain Thorne..."

"Mr. Thorne. I am no longer a soldier. In fact, call me Terry. I'm Australian. We don't stand on ceremony." Thorne spoke without much sign of informality, despite his words.

"Mr. Thorne. Why did you leave the army?"

Thorne appraised him carefully and there was a flicker of amusement on his face. "I wish to put my talents to a better use."

"That's rather a vague answer, Mr. Thorne." Havery pointed out.

"But it's the only one you're going to get, mate." Terry smiled.

Havery raised his eyebrows. "You know that we want you. Any Risk Company would. You need orientation and some training in psychological counselling. Then we will attach you to one of our more experienced operatives. A couple of months in tandem and you'll be more than able to hold your own. Welcome aboard, Terry. Luthan Risk is pleased to offer you a position on our K and R team..."