Chapters 39 & 40 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

39

If you want to make peace with your enemy,
you have to work with your enemy.
Then he becomes your partner.
Nelson Mandela


Mackie drove slowly into the car park, scanning left and right until he found the bottle bank, as arranged. He pulled up, got out of his car and tossed a couple of bottles in, the resultant smash sounding good to his ears. Then he checked all round and approached a dark green Range Rover, parked the other side of the bank, pulled open the door and climbed in the front passenger side. There were three men already in the Rover; two in the back (unknown entities but first impressions were not good) and a large tough looking man in the driver’s seat. (Patrick O'Riley –a very well-known entity.)

The man spoke as Mackie settled himself, the soft lilting tones simultaneously belying his nature whilst betraying his origins, "Well, well, well, I didn't believe it when Seamus told me and I still don't believe it when I see it with me own eyes."

"How have you been keeping, Pat?" asked Mackie.

"Well that depends, do you mean since I got out or how were the 12 years I spent inside …thanks to you."

"You got caught, Pat," stated Mackie, calmly, "there's nothing anyone could've done for you."

"You could've got me out," said Pat.

"And what message do you think that would've sent?"

"I don't give a shit," snarled Pat, nature and origins coinciding, "twelve fucking years inside that bog hole."

"You're alive, aren't you," said Mackie, "and I believe the service sorted you out."

"Sorted me out? You mean the money?"

"Of course," said Mackie.

"What fucking good is the money?" demanded Pat. "Look at me; I 'm fucking past it, what good is money to me now?"

Mackie ignored the outburst; he’d been expecting no less. He turned slightly and eyed the two men in the back, "Why the muscle, Pat?

"You’re MI6, how do I know this is on the level? For all I know you're wearing a wire and there are twenty rifles trained on me right now."

Mackie smiled, "We need ordnance."

"What's that to do with me?" demanded Pat.

"Untraceable," said Mackie, "and we need it now."

"Same question," said Pat, "what's it to me?"

"We know you have dumps that you haven't declared."

"I wouldn't know anything about that." His face furrowed in a way Mackie recognised; he was ready to dig in and deny everything.

"I didn't think you would," said Mackie, "but if you should know someone who does know something, there's half a million in it for them."

"Half a million? That’s fucking peanuts, what the fuck's that?"

"Think of it as a discounted price; for not busting you, or blowing your cover. There are a lot of people who would love to know certain things about you, Pat. Just pass on the message."

"I don't get it," said Pat, "why does MI6 need out-dated weapons from the IRA? You've got your own sources."

"Sounds like they want to know if we have any left, Mr O'Riley," one of the men interjected from the back. Mackie and Pat turned to face him and he withered under the combined glare of ice and fire.

"Time was they would never have dared speak," said Pat, sounding genuinely sad.

"I know what you mean, Pat," said Mackie, nodding slowly, "things aren't the same in the service anymore.”

Pat raised a questioning eyebrow.

Mackie smiled. "Just pass it on," he said, getting out of the car.

 

Chapter 40

The successful revolutionary is a statesman,
the unsuccessful one, a criminal
Erich Fromm

The Range Rover was partially concealed behind some bushes. Pat had got Declan to carry a deck chair up the hill and he sat reading the racing pages of his newspaper whilst Declan and Marvin dug up the grave.

He’d considered making them do it during the night, less likelihood of being spotted, but he’d had little faith they’d have been able to find it without him and he had no intention of being in a graveyard in the dark. Hence the daylight raid at 6 a.m.

"See the game last night?" Marvin was burly enough to talk and work but every time Declan answered it involved him downing tools.

"Yeah, fuckin' Arsenal," moaned Declan, pulling himself upright, shovel half in, half out of the hard-packed soil, "why do they always lose when it comes to the big games?"

"Fuck knows," said Marvin, "if only the ref had given that pen."

"It was as clear as day, so t'was," said Declan ramming his shovel into the clay, and preparing to lean, "how he missed it, I don't know."

"It's always the fuckin' same when we play in Europe," moaned Marvin, throwing soil over his shoulder without looking, “they always back Barcelona, so they do. Seems to me like they’re under instructions."

"You're not wrong, there," said Declan, his body weight now totally supported by his shovel.

"Alright, alright," said Pat, "nobody told you buggers to stop digging, did they?"

Cheers

Arun









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