The Savage Day - Jack Higgins [11]
'Quiet tonight,' he said cheerfully when he got close.
The barman nodded nervously. 'What can I get you?'
The red-haired boy stood, hands on the bar, his friends ranged behind him. 'We're collecting for the new church hall at St Michael's. Everyone else in the district's chipping in and we knew you wouldn't like to be left out.' He glanced around the bar again. 'We were going to ask for fifty, but I can see things aren't so good so we'll make it twenty-five quid and leave it at that.'
One of his friends reached over the bar, helped himself to a pint pot and pumped out a beer.
The barman said slowly. 'They aren't building any church hall at St Mick's.'
The red-haired boy glanced at his friends enquiringly, then nodded gravely. 'Fair enough,' he said. 'The truth, then. We're from the IRA. We're collecting for the Organization. More guns to fight the bloody British Army with. We need every penny we can get.'
'God save us,' the barman said. 'But there isn't three quid in the till. I've never known trade as bad.'
The red-haired boy slapped him solidly across the face, sending him back against the shelves, three or four glasses bouncing to the floor.
'Twenty-five quid,' he said. 'Or we smash the place up. Take your choice.'
Binnie Gallagher brushed past me like a wraith. He moved in behind them without a word. He stood there waiting, shoulders hunched, the hands thrust deep into the pockets of the dark overcoat.
The red-haired boy saw him first and turned slowly. 'And who the hell might you be, little man?'
Binnie looked up and I saw him clearly in the mirror, dark eyes burning in that white face. The four of them eased round a little, ready to move in on him and I reached for the bottle of Jameson.
Norah Murphy put a hand on my arm. 'He doesn't need you,' she said quietly.
'My dear girl, I only wanted a drink,' I murmured and poured myself another.
'The IRA, is it?' Binnie said.
The red-haired boy glanced at his friends, for the first time slightly uncertain. 'What's it to you?'
'I'm a lieutenant in the North Tyrone Brigade myself,' Binnie said. 'Who are you lads?'
One of them made a break for the door on the instant and incredibly, a gun was in Binnie's left hand, a 9 mm Browning automatic that looked like British Army issue to me. With that gun in his hand, he became another person entirely. A man to frighten the devil himself. A natural born killer if ever I'd seen one.
The four of them cowered against the bar, utterly terrified. Binnie said coldly, 'Lads are out in the streets tonight spilling their blood for Ireland and bastards like you spit on their good name.'
'For Christ's sake,' the red-haired boy said. 'We didn't mean no harm.'
Binnie kicked him in the crutch, the boy sagged at the knees, turned and clutched at the bar with one hand to stop himself from falling. Binnie reversed his grip on the Browning, the butt rose and fell like a hammer on the back of that outstretched hand and I heard the bones crack. The boy gave a terrible groan and slipped to the floor, half-fainting, at the feet of his horrified companions.
Binnie's right foot swung back as if to finish him off with a kick in the side of the head and Norah Murphy called sharply, 'That's enough.'
He stepped back instantly like a well-trained dog and stood watching, the Browning flat against his left thigh. Norah Murphy moved past me and went to join them and I noticed that she was carrying in her right hand a square, flat case which she placed on the bar.
'Pick him up,' she said.
The injured boy's companions did as they were told, holding him between them while she examined the hand. I poured myself another Jameson and joined the group as she opened the case. The most interesting item on display was a stethoscope and she rummaged around and finally produced a large triangular sling which she tied about the boy's neck to support the injured hand.