A Prayer for the Dying. Jack Higgins

I call really being in the shit, Kristou.’

      Jack Meehan walked into the light, his brother Billy at his heels. They were both dressed exactly as they had been in the newspaper photo. It really was quite remarkable.

      Meehan picked up the clipping. ‘What in the hell did you want to show him that for? I sued the bastard who wrote that article and won.’

      ‘That’s right.’ Billy Meehan giggled. ‘The judge would have made it a farthing damages only there’s no such coin any more.’ His voice was high-pitched, repellent – nothing masculine about it at all.

      Meehan slapped him casually, back-handed across the mouth, and said to Kristou, his nose wrinkling in disgust, ‘Go and wipe your backside, for Christ’s sake. Then we talk.’

      When Kristou returned, Meehan was sitting at the table pouring whiskey into a clean paper cup, his brother standing behind him. He sampled a little, spat it out and made a face. ‘All right, I know the Irish still have one foot in the bog, but how can they drink this muck?’

      ‘I’m sorry, Mr Meehan,’ Kristou said.

      ‘You’ll be a bloody sight sorrier before I’m through with you. You cocked it up proper, didn’t you?’

      Kristou moistened dry lips and fingered his spectacles. ‘I didn’t think he’d react that way.’

      ‘What in the hell did you expect? He’s a nutcase, isn’t he? I mean, they all are over there, going round shooting women and blowing up kids. That’s civilised?’

      Kristou couldn’t think of a thing to say, but was saved by Billy who said carelessly, ‘He didn’t look much to me. Little half-pint runt. Without that shooter in his fist he’d be nothing.’

      Meehan sighed heavily. ‘You know there are days when I really despair of you, Billy. You’ve just seen hell on wheels and didn’t recognise it.’ He laughed harshly again. ‘You’ll never come closer, Kristou. He was mad at you, you old bastard. Mad enough to kill and yet that shooter didn’t even waver.’

      Kristou winced. ‘I know, Mr Meehan. I miscalculated. I shouldn’t have mentioned those kids.’

      ‘Then what are you going to do about it?’

      Kristou glanced at Billy, then back to his brother, frowning slightly. ‘You mean you still want him, Mr Meehan?’

      ‘Doesn’t everybody?’

      ‘That’s true enough.’

      He laughed nervously and Meehan stood up and patted him on the face. ‘You fix it, Kristou, like a good lad. You know where I’m staying. If I haven’t heard by midnight, I’ll send Fat Albert to see you and you wouldn’t like that, would you?’

      He walked into the darkness followed by his brother and Kristou stood there, terrified, listening to them go. The judas gate opened and Meehan’s voice called, ‘Kristou?’

      ‘Yes, Mr Meehan.’

      ‘Don’t forget to have a bath when you get home. You stink like my Aunt Mary’s midden.’

      The judas banged shut and Kristou sank down into the chair, fingers tapping nervously. God damn Fallon. It would serve him right if he turned him in.

      And then it hit him like a bolt from the blue. The perfect solution and so beautifully simple.

      He picked up the telephone, dialled Scotland Yard and asked to be put through to the Special Branch.

      It was raining quite heavily now and Jack Meehan paused to turn up his collar before crossing the street.

      Billy said, ‘I still don’t get it. Why is it so important you get Fallon?’

      ‘Number one, with a shooter in his hand he’s the best there is,’ Meehan said. ‘Number two, everybody wants him. The Special Branch, Military Intelligence – even his old mates in the IRA which means – number three – that he’s eminently disposable afterwards.’

      ‘What’s that mean?’ Billy said as they turned the corner of the alley and moved towards the car.

      ‘Why don’t you try reading a few books, for Christ’s sake?’ Meehan demanded. ‘All you ever seem to think of is birds.’

      They were at the front of the car by now, a Bentley Continental, and Meehan grabbed Billy by the arm and pulled him up quickly.

      ‘Here, what the hell’s going on? Where’s Fred?’

      ‘A slight concussion, Mr Meehan. Nothing much. He’s sleeping it off in the rear seat.’

      A match flared in a nearby doorway pulling Fallon’s face out of the darkness. There was a cigarette between his lips. He lit it, then flicked the match into the gutter.

      Meehan opened the door of the Bentley and switched on the lights. ‘What are you after?’ he said calmly.

      ‘I just wanted to see you in the flesh, so to speak, that’s all,’ Fallon said. ‘Good night to you.’

      He started to move away and Meehan grabbed his arm. ‘You know, I like you, Fallon. I think we’ve got a lot in common.’

      ‘I doubt that.’

      Meehan ignored him. ‘I’ve been reading this German philosopher lately. You wouldn’t know him. He says that for authentic living what is necessary is the resolute confrontation of death. Would you agree with that?’

      ‘Heidegger,’ Fallon said. ‘Interesting you should go for him. He was Himmler’s bible.’

      He turned away again and Meehan moved quickly in front of him. ‘Heidegger?’ he said. ‘You’ve read Heidegger?’ There was genuine astonishment in his voice. ‘I’ll double up on the original offer and find you regular work. Now I can’t say fairer than that, can I?’

      ‘Good night, Mr Meehan,’ Fallon said and melted into the darkness.

      ‘What a man,’ Meehan said. ‘What a hard-nosed bastard. Why, he’s beautiful, Billy, even if he is a fucking Mick.’ He turned. ‘Come on, let’s get back to the Savoy. You drive and if you put as much as a scratch on this motor I’ll have your balls.’

      Fallon had a room in a lodging-house in Hanger Street in Stepney just off the Commercial Road. A couple of miles, no more, so he walked, in spite of the rain. He hadn’t the slightest idea what would happen now. Kristou had been his one, his only hope. He was finished, it was as simple as that. He could run, but how far?

      As he neared his destination, he took out his wallet and checked the contents. Four pounds and a little silver and he was already two weeks behind with his rent. He went into a cheap wine shop for some cigarettes then crossed the road to Hanger Street.

      The newspaper man on the corner had deserted his usual pitch to shelter in a doorway from the driving rain. He was little more than a bundle of rags, an old London-Irishman, totally blind in one eye and only partially sighted in the other.

      Fallon dropped a coin in his hand and took a paper. ‘Good night to you, Michael,’ he said.

      The old man rolled one milky white eye towards him, his hand fumbling for change in the bag which hung about his neck.

      ‘Is it yourself, Mr Fallon?’

      ‘And who else? You can forget the change.’

      The old man grabbed his hand and counted out his change laboriously. ‘You had visitors at number thirteen about twenty minutes ago.’

      ‘The law?’ Fallon asked softly.

      ‘Nothing in uniform. They went in and didn’t come out again. Two cars waiting at the other end of the street – another across the road.’

      He counted a final penny into Fallon’s hand. Fallon turned and crossed to the