Now and in the Hour of Our Death by Patrick Taylor

Author:Patrick Taylor
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
ISBN: 9781466821439
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates

CHAPTER 26

TYRONE. SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 25, 1983

It was a lovely way to be spending a Sunday afternoon, Sammy thought, just bloody lovely. His headache refused to go away, and no wonder. It was heavy work in the outbuilding behind his cottage mixing ground-up ammonium nitrate fertilizer with Erin’s sugar, then adding aluminium powder to make the explosive ammonal.

He’d been using a plastic shovel. One spark—and a metal shovel could make such sparks—and Sammy McCandless knew that he would have joined the growing ranks of Provo bomb makers who had scored own goals. Poor bastards.

He shivered and felt his vest clammy against his back. Despite the sweat generated by his exertions, it was chilly here in the big shed that Cal used to store farm machinery, but the place was well hidden from the road, a private place where a man could work undisturbed.

More importantly, the roof was watertight, not, he thought bitterly, like the roof of his bloody cottage across the lane. Water in the explosive mixture would ruin it, and although Sammy hoped to hell he’d be long gone before Erin had a chance to use it, he saw no reason not to take pride in using his skills to do a job right. God knew there was little else for Sammy McCandless to take pride in these days.

He was using a barley crusher plugged into the power shaft of a combine harvester to grind the granular fertilizer to a fine powder, then adding the sugar and aluminium until the mixture was a light brown colour. The dust clogged his nose and made his eyes run.

The combine’s engine racketed on and on, its clattering worsening the pain behind his eyes. The couple of aspirin he’d taken as soon as he’d got home in Cal’s van hadn’t done a damn thing, and never mind keeping an eye to the job, he needed to be able to think.

He was fairly sure, even though he’d really sweated it out at the O’Byrne farm earlier today, that Cal and Erin hadn’t got round to suspecting him of informing, yet. But they might start putting two and two together. How long would that take? He knew he was responsible for Fiach’s death and would have to live with that, but—he blocked one nostril with his thumb and snorted down the other, dislodging a wad of dust and mucus—he’d rather live with the guilt for a long time than die very soon because of it.

He was sorry about Fiach, would miss the wee lad, but then he’d miss all the O’Byrnes. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, he’d miss being near Erin, even if he could never have her. The way her hands had kneaded his shoulders this afternoon …

Forget about that, he told himself. When he was in England, he would still have his memories of her, might meet a nice English girl, and by God he was going to get to England. He wondered if he had enough information yet to satisfy Spud.

Would telling him where

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