London Bridge is Falling Down

Chapter 1

Five men lay against the rise of a hill on the outskirts of Clones, barely a stone’s throw south of the border dividing Ireland. They were hidden beyond the tree line where thorn bushes grew out of rock and dead leaves. The men hunkered low, waiting for the night to begin.

The temperature dropped ten degrees in the last hour. It was near midnight and the half-moon had climbed high into a clouding sky, deepening the darkness and dissolving the black-clad raiders into the heavy shadows of the underbrush. The wind rustled the budding trees of late winter and when the breeze caught the new grass exactly right, the soft whistle of an old Gaelic lament could be heard in the distance.

One light remained in the Pierson cottage and occasionally, a shadow passed behind the curtained window. It was the girl. Once, she pulled the linen back to gaze out across the backyard. They froze though there was little chance she could have seen them. Jack the Ripper with his bloody knife might have been standing under the lone blackthorn tree at the garden’s edge and the night would not have given him up. The curtain reluctantly swung back into place.

In contrast, the mobile home thirty yards across the property to the east was lit up like Heuston Station in Dublin. There was no movement in the trailer but they knew the eldest Pierson boy was inside watching television. An announcer’s shrill voice periodically pierced the tin walls and canned laughter rattled the windows.

One of the team peeked through a side window earlier and saw cigarette smoke curling up from the boy’s fingers as he lounged on the couch. Robert Pierson wasn’t asleep though he might as well have been. A long ash dropped onto the thin carpet leaving yet another inch long black mark. The cigarette burns under his drooping arm oddly resembled the Chinese characters for approaching storm.

None of the men hiding in the woods spoke but they were all restless. The leader of this hand-picked local band of Provos, Kenneth Bunney, stared down the slope behind them. Where the hell was the IRA team from Belfast? When the Northman met with him the prior week, there was urgency in the discussion. The raid had to be done tonight.

He listened. Closing his eyes helped him focus his hearing back through the dense night. But he heard nothing except the soft lull of the wind that crept up under his jacket with a chilled hand. Bunney felt cold fingers walking up his spine.

“Kenneth, where are they?” whispered his brother. He replied with two quick shakes of his head and turned away, signaling the end of the conversation. He didn’t want his brother to see the concern in his face. Bunney felt anxious in the darkness. The Northman was almost an hour late. Another ten minutes and his team would be gone.

The wind faded and the air fell dead in the forest. A long way off, Bunney thought he heard something faintly sluice through the trees then quickly recede. Was it imagination? A dry leaf crunched, a winter twig snapped from rotten bark. No, he was sure. Someone was coming.

Within seconds the night lost its quiet to the low thumping of feet. How many men had the Northman brought? It sounded like a whole brigade, for the love of God. Why did he need our help? Bunney counted eight as the group split in two and settled on both sides of his volunteers.

No one said a word as the newcomers surveyed the houses.

“They’re inside then?” Someone finally asked. It was the man who approached him a week ago. Bunney nodded.

“The lad’s there,” he said, pointing to the mobile home. “And the rest of the lot are in the house.”

“Where’s the girl?”

“Upstairs,” Bunney said.

“The telephone line’s cut?”

“Yeah.”

“Then we’re settled.”

The Northman motioned to his associate. The man pulled a backpack from a shoulder and emptied it on the ground between the Provos. They stared at five handguns.

“Twomey, we agreed there’d be no shooting,” Bunney said.

“Relax,” Twomey replied. “What’s there to shoot at?” He watched Bunney uncertainly then added, “Take ‘em. They’re just for the muscle.”

“I told ya, I’m not having guns.”

“You’ve done time for robbing. What’s the big deal?”

“Yeah I done my share but I never stole nothing with a gun. Robbery is one thing and killing’s ‘nuther.”

“You fecking Brits know it all, don’t you?” Twomey sighed. “Look, I told you. We have solid proof the Piersons are Ulster sympathizers and they’re holding a cache of weapons for operations down south here. The same guns used in the Cooney bombing November last.”

Bunney remembered. He and his brother were staying with their cousins, the McGillens, though staying was a fairly vague term. They took refuge in Ireland whenever the British coppers applied too much grief about their latest crimes.

Two cars came across the border carrying half dozen men, slowing to a stop down from the McGillen house. Armed men surrounded the Cooneys, intending to burn their property. But something went wrong. The raiders stormed the house to find the Cooneys were throwing a party that night. Houseguests assumed it was part of the entertainment. No one took them seriously. Instead of following orders, the drunken partygoers continued to roll to their own tune, scattering like a jar of dropped marbles. After a frustrating thirty minutes, the intruders were able to herd most of the crowd into the yard.

In the chaos, one of the guests broke free, running to his car to retrieve a camera. Shots were fired after the fleeing man but he kept running. The UVF men panicked and fled before igniting the fire. Bunney heard the commotion and ran outside in time to see the last of the retreating cars.

“We’re only interested in the guns.” Twomey broke into Bunney’s thoughts. “We get ‘em, and we leave.”

The Provos hesitated until Bunney reluctantly grabbed a firearm. He considered it a long time before shoving it in a pocket. The others accepted their weapons and quickly secured them inside their coats.

The Northmen pulled Templar caps down over their faces. Only the whites of their eyes could be seen against the black night. The locals followed suit and the group moved up over the rise.

Twomey sent six of the Northmen to set up a perimeter along the property line facing the road. They crouched behind the brickwork fence and waited. He held up three fingers and chopped an arm toward Pierson’s mobile home. The rest of them headed toward the cottage.

One of the Provos planted a booted foot near the flimsy door handle, kicking so hard the thin metal buckled as it gave way. The noise brought Robert Pierson fully awake. The new cigarette fell from his hand as he struggled to rise. It was already too late. Three armed men stood in front of the twenty-four year old and he was driven back onto the couch. He tried to stand again as a shotgun butt flattened his nose.

Two gunmen pulled him off the couch by his hair and a handful of shirt. Pierson landed hard on his face and blood splattered across the threadbare carpet. A twenty gauge double barrel pinned the back of his neck while his hands were ripped from his face and tied behind his back. He struggled to breathe, twisting his head from side to side.

“Where are the guns?” shouted the Northman commanding the raiders.

“What guns? I don’t have any guns?” He blew his nose to clear it.

“We know you’re supplying Loyalist activities in this area and we want your arsenal.”

“Look around. Do you see any place to hide a store of guns? There isn’t room in this bloody hellhole for anything but me and my beer.”

“Take him up to the house before I smash the rest of his head,” ordered the Northman.

Pierson was yanked up by his bindings and slammed against the wall face first. He yelped in pain. His breath came quick but shallow. A forearm crushed the back of his head, giving his nose little relief.

“If you’re lying, I will find out.” The voice near his ear sprang from the devil himself and smelled of raw onions and sour sweat.

Pierson was forced through the door. He stumbled and landed hard on the packed clay at the trailer’s entrance. The earth spun. He thought he was going to vomit. One of his captors hauled him to his feet by an arm. He staggered, disoriented.

The collision with the ground dislocated a shoulder. His left arm was riding low on his neck. A fierce pain marbled down his arm. An unbearable spasm drove him to his knees but he was promptly jerked back to his feet. A pistol tap to the back of his head drove him toward the main cottage.

Twomey and the others waited for the small team at the cottage entrance. He rapped on the door with the butt of his pistol then again when an immediate answer didn’t come. A harsh, smoker’s cough echoed above indistinct noises coming from far back in the house. Twomey kicked the door.

“Who’s there?” A sleepy voice came from inside. Another coughing fit.

Twomey turned around and the man closest to Robert placed a gun at his temple.

“It’s Robert, dad.” His voice croaked.

“Son, are you hurt? I told ya those friends of yours were nothing but trouble.”

The old man spoke as the bolt released and the heavy barrier swung inward. The gunmen swarmed around the older Pierson. Twomey struck him on the head with a pistol and forced the old man to the floor. One of the raiders knelt on George Pierson’s back to tie his hands. Robert was shoved on the floor next to his father. The old man studied his son.

“Are you alright, lad?”

“My shoulder’s a bit dodgy. I think they broke something.”

“Here, what the devil’s going on?” The old man demanded, trying to make sense of this nightmare.

“Shut up, Pierson. Get his wife and the girl,” Twomey commanded with a jerk of his head toward the back of the house.

“How do you know me? What’s this about? We don’t have any money.”

Mrs. Pierson emerged from the hallway dressed in a long, flannel nightgown. She was still befuddled with sleep. One of the gunmen supported her by the upper arm. Her eyes slowly focused in the stark light. She flinched when she saw blood running down the side of her husband’s face.

“George!” She screamed, running to the old man. “What have they done to you?”

“The same as I’ll do to you in exactly one minute. Get. On. The. Floor. Now!” Twomey said through his teeth.

She didn’t recognize her son’s mangled body until he turned a cheek toward her.

“Robert, is this your doing?” She hissed under her breath.

“No, ma,” Robert pleaded, begging her to believe him. It hurt that she would even ask.

The old woman slowly knelt allowing her hands to be tied before being pushed face first to the floor. She squeezed closer to her husband until their arms touched. She didn’t struggle until she heard her daughter stomping down the stairs.

“Marjorie! Go back to your room and lock the door!” She cried though it was far too late.

“If you think I’m going to stand for this, you’re bloody well mistaken!” Marjorie said.

“Jesus, this is a talkative family! Will you all shut your traps? I’ll not ask again,” Twomey demanded.

He thought about shooting every last one of them. The knuckles on his gun hand whitened. A raider tugged a leather strap from a back pocket. He reached for Marjorie’s hand.

“What the bloody hell?” she cried.

“I’m just trying to tie ya, miss.”

“You’ll do no such thing.”

“Girlie, I’ll be giving the orders,” interrupted Twomey. He waved the barrel of his gun in front of her face. “Get it?”

His eyes dropped from Marjorie’s face to the chasm between her breasts. He followed the curves of her body to the exposed thighs beneath her mini-skirt where he lingered. When Twomey returned to her face, she was staring hell through him.

Her makeup was in place. Her lips were red. He loved a beautiful woman. She folded her arms across a blue silk blouse. Marjorie Pierson was ripe for the taking.

“All dressed up to kill. You have someplace to be?” His words were suggestive of something more.

“I’m expecting company and he’s going to have you all arrested when he sees this!”

She spoiled his mood.

“Shut up and stay there, will you? Before we gag the lot of you. You’re not to be hurt more than we have to.”

“What’s this about?” George insisted.

“Guns, dad,” Robert answered the question. “They think we have guns.”

“I have a shotgun there.”

“Not that. Where’s the cache?” Bunney’s voice was close to pleading.

“Cache? What…?” Pierson lifted his head toward his captors. “Please don’t hurt my family. We’re simple people.”

“Let’s search the place.” Bunney couldn’t understand why Twomey was dragging his feet. We came for the guns. Let’s get them and get out of here. “We know you’re supplying the Loyalists with weapons. It’ll go easier on ya if you just tell us where they are.”

“There are no guns. Search all ya want.”

“You think we won’t find them?”

“I think ya won’t find anythin’,” spat the old man.

Furniture scraped across the wooden floor. The men pulled up a blue hand-knotted Persian rug and piled it in a corner. They found nothing but wide, worn planks under their heavy boots. There was no trapdoor to a hidden location. No false floor where guns could be stored. Bunney stamped a foot. Solid surface, there was nothing below.

“Where’s the cellar?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He pulled books from shelves and assaulted the plaster, searching for hollow walls. Pictures came down and an ancient grandfather clock smashed to the hard wood of the parlor. Frustrated, Bunney threw a glass vase into the dying embers of the fireplace. He wasn’t sure if he was madder at himself or Twomey.

“Where. Is. The. Cellar?”

Bunney cocked the hammer on a pistol and knelt over George Pierson. He smashed the butt of the weapon between Pierson’s shoulder blades and jammed the barrel against the older man’s neck. He shifted position so that a knee pressed into the small of his victim’s back. Pierson grunted.

“I’ll not ask again,” he growled.

They were all surprised by the gunshot. Mrs. Pierson screamed. Marjorie struggled to rise. Robert turned to his father. The gun’s recoil was loud, but it came from outside.

Bunney ran to the door and flung it open.

“Who fired that shot?” he barked.

“For the love of Christ, man, keep your head down. There’s somebody shooting at us!”

The reply came from beyond the reach of the door’s light. Beyond the dark edge of the shadows. Twomey was beside Bunney in an instant.

“Keep your boys here,” he said and jumped off the porch, swallowed by the black night.

Bunney switched off the parlor light and watched a lone figure dart around the mobile home and vanish into the tree line. The eight Northmen were on his scent, trailing by less than fifty feet. The Provos crouched and nervously peered through the windows. Everyone was whispering at once. Several pulled their pistols.

“Heavenly Father, it’s time for us to forget the past, forget the mistakes we’ve made…”

The words drifted across the room. Bunney glanced back to see the Piersons praying. They huddled together, believing they were about to die. Bunny’s men sat in clear view, staring at him for direction. The Northmen were chasing God knows who through the woods. The situation was now officially out of control, he thought.

The man ran down through a gully and scrambled up the other side. Undergrowth tangled his legs. He tripped and fell twice but didn’t stop. Thorns and sharp branches ripped at his clothes, tearing flesh from muscle beneath the thin cloth. Blood streaked his face and hands. He kept running.

He ducked under a low branch and rebounded off a tree trunk as a bullet splintered bark, driving wood into his back. He stumbled. Fire lit the woods as slashing torch beams cut through the dense night but the man kept going. He had to get away. Who were these people? What did they want? He heard voices. They were farther back now. He was putting some distance between these psychos chasing him.

Suddenly, a jagged numbness exploded through his calf and he tumbled into a thicket. His leg wouldn’t respond. It was paralyzed. Hell, it felt like it wasn’t even there. Where was his leg? He crawled. He struggled up and fell on his face. Breathless, he rolled over.

When he looked up, he saw the dark sky pressing down and the hand of God reaching toward him. It took a few seconds to realize the fingers were five figures towering over his lifeless body. The race had ended.

“Who the hell are ye?” He licked his lips as he struggled to push the words out.

A torch was switched on, momentarily blinding the man. He raised a hand and saw a silver barreled pistol glinting in the sharp light. His breathing increased. He needed time to think.

“I didn’t see your faces. Let’s leave it at that. My name is Billy Fox,” he gasped. “I’m the senator from Monaghan. You don’t want to kill me.”

“Yes, I do,” corrected Twomey. “I’m killing you precisely because you are Billy Fox. You see, you’re the first on our list.”

He fired once into Fox’s chest and patiently watched blood pulse from the wound.

The senator from Monaghan lay on the cold ground wondering what the hell happened, as his blood seeped into the earth. He shivered. The paralysis in his leg traveled up his body. His arms turned to clay, his fingers to stone. His breath faded.

Twomey curiously watched the surprise in Fox’s eyes turn to recognition, or perhaps it was some kind of sadness. The dying man unsteadily gulped one last breath before settling into a quiet goodnight.

Twomey lowered his weapon and spat on the ground.