Pray for Us Sinners Read Online Free PDF Page A

in one rear door. They were not on the M1 motorway, the shortest route to Lisburn. He could see the gantries of Harland and Wolff’s shipyard, the great yellow bulk of the Goliath crane over the dry dock and the Cave Hill behind. This was the Bangor to Belfast road.
    The vehicle made a right turn and stopped. Marcus heard the driver speaking. The ambulance moved forward. They had passed two sentry posts flanking gates in a high fence of Dannert wire. There was only one army base on the Bangor to Belfast Road. Palace Barracks, outside Holywood. Now why the hell had the driver brought him here? Marcus did not know how fast Harry Swanson had moved to effect this transfer.
    The doors were opened and the orderly helped Marcus into the chair and pushed him toward the front door of a small, red-brick, semi-detached house, one of a row of identical semis that in times of peace had been married quarters.
    The orderly opened the door. Marcus had had enough of wheelchairs. He stood, ignoring the look of horror on the man’s face. “At ease, Corporal,” he said and stepped into a narrow hall. He ignored the NCO’s expostulations but followed his instructions to go upstairs. By the time Marcus had come into a bedroom he was happy enough to climb into the bed.
    He tried to ask why he was here, but the corporal brushed the question aside with a regulation “Sorry, sir, dunno,” tucked Marcus in, and left the room.
    The chintz curtains were drawn and the room was beginning to darken. It must be six or seven o’clock. He hadn’t realized how tired he was. The aftereffects of the blast, he supposed. He might as well have a zizz and wait until he awoke to wonder about what he was doing here.

 
    SIX
    WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 6
    Marcus was not pleased. No one had come near him since yesterday morning. And the corporal who’d brought Marcus here had told him he was not to leave the house. It was bloody well about time …
    Someone opened the front door. Marcus swiveled in his chair. A short man stood in the kitchen. His tweed suit could not disguise his military bearing, and his sallow cheeks and yellow sclera suggested that he had seen service in the tropics.
    The stranger’s voice was clipped, English public school. “Major Smith. Brigade HQ.” He did not offer to shake hands.
    â€œSir.” Marcus rose.
    The major moved to the table. “Feeling better?” The question sounded like an order.
    â€œYes, sir.” Marcus trotted out the Ordnance Corps’ one-liner—“Shaken but Not Stirred”—as he looked at the major’s eyes. A line from the song “Mr. Bojangles” came to mind—he had the eyes of age.
    â€œMO says you’ll need a few weeks to recover.”
    â€œYes, sir.” That was fine by Marcus.
    The major sat, steepled his fingers, and began tapping the tips rapidly together. “Sit down, boy.”
    Marcus sat.
    The major raised an eyebrow. “Mind if I ask you a few questions?”
    â€œNo, sir. Not if I can ask you why I’m here.”
    â€œLater, laddie. Now let’s see if I’ve got this right: born in Bangor; Protestant; father a professor of agriculture, presently on sabbatical at Texas A&M in America, mother with him; no brothers or sisters. You finished your B.Sc. on an army scholarship, Sandhurst, RAOC, blues for rugby and sailing, half blue for boxing, out of the country for the last five years”—he paused. “So far so good?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œHow do you think we’re doing in this nasty little war here?” The major’s eyes were hard as obsidian.
    Marcus pointed at the bruise on his left cheek. “Someone makes pretty effective bombs.”
    â€œTrue. That’s where you can help. We’d like to know who that ‘someone’ is.”
    This was moving too quickly. What was the major suggesting? The man’s eyes reminded Marcus of a python he