Pray for Us Sinners Read Online Free PDF Page B

shit. He’d been hot as hell when he’d gone to bed and for the last hour had shivered and sweated. He was getting the flu. His wife stirred beside him.
    â€œYou all right, Bertie?”
    â€œAye.” He’d not let some stupid infection get in the way of his plans for tomorrow.
    â€œYou’re burning up.”
    â€œI’m rightly.”
    â€œYou are not.” She switched on the light. “Look at you. Your face is red as a beetroot.”
    â€œI’m all right, woman.” He watched her get out of bed. “Where are you off to?”
    â€œI’m for getting you some Panadol, so I am.”
    Bertie coughed. “Would you get me a hanky while you’re at it?”
    â€œAye.”
    He watched her go, saw the light go on in the landing.
    *   *   *
    The man in the garage froze when the upstairs lights of the house shone in through his window. He had just finished fixing the magnets on the metal tin to the chassis of the Volkswagen. He switched off his torch and peered out. No lights on downstairs. Someone was probably taking a piss. He hoped that Mr. Bertie-fucking-Dunne’s prostate was acting up. Serve the Orange cunt right.
    Dunne was a tough bastard, usually moved about only in his own Loyalist neighbourhood, rarely traveled without several bodyguards, had a track record of reprisal killings of Catholics, and was a prime target on Brendan McGuinness’s list.
    The lights went out. Only the one in the back of the house—the man guessed it was probably the bedroom—stayed on. He relit his torch and examined the concrete floor. There were scuffs in the dust where he had slid under the car. He shone the beam around the walls, careful not to let it shine through the window. He found what he was looking for, lifted a broom, and with a few careless strokes covered the evidence of his movements.
    He replaced the broom, doused his light, and let himself out the side door. He glanced up. The upstairs window was still lit. Piss on you and your prostate, Dunne, he thought as he slipped into the shadows, heading for the car that was waiting for him at the end of the road.
    *   *   *
    Bertie Dunne pulled the bedclothes round him. The Panadol had better work. He had to meet tomorrow morning with two other senior Ulster Volunteer Force men. Their Protestant paramilitary group had big plans for a couple of Fenian bastards from Ardoyne. If the Security Forces couldn’t get the Republican shites off the streets, the UVF could. Permanently.
    â€œBetter now, dear?” his wife asked.
    â€œAye. Thanks. Put out the light.” He heard her sniff. There was no fooling Jeannie. She knew he was feeling lousy. The light went off.
    â€œWe’ll see how you are in the morning,” she said. “If you’re no better, you’re not going out.”
    â€œI am so.”
    â€œDon’t be stupid. You’ll kill yourself.”
    He was worse in the morning. She took his temperature, tutting as she read the thermometer. “A hundred and three. You’re for staying in bed.”
    â€œWhat time is it?”
    â€œAfter eight.”
    â€œLook. Call you Willie Mills. Tell him I’m sick.”
    â€œNever mind Willie. I’m calling the doctor.”
    â€œJesus, would you call them both?”
    â€œAll right.”
    His head felt like someone was using a rivet gun on it. He rolled over. Maybe Willie would see to the Fenians. He heard her in the hall below.
    â€œThank you, Doctor. I’ll nip round and pick up the prescription.” Jeannie Dunne hung up. The kitchen clock said nine. As she shrugged into her raincoat, she called upstairs. “I’m just going out for a wee minute.”
    She opened the garage doors. Normally she would have walked—it wasn’t far—but not in this downpour. She’d take the Volkswagen.
    To stop terrorists throwing petrol bombs from speeding cars, the Security