Unknown.. Book (Working Title.. Draft 2)_
Five years ago.
A Sunday morning in a small Northern Ireland town.
A light breeze is blowing some discarded fast food wrappers along the pavements on the main street which is deserted, no traffic, no pedestrians. The churches are full and the public houses are not yet open but it is still unusual for there to be absolutely no one walking the streets of this usually busy little town.
During the so called “Troubles” in this part of Ireland it was usually taken as a warning that something untoward is about to take place and the word has gone out.
The deserted street is being scanned through a pair of high powered binoculars from a long distance away and a slightly elevated viewpoint…they continually move across the area.
A man with a broad Irish accent says brusquely “They’re here …get ready.”
The binoculars settle on a Garda Police car and a white transit van as they move into the area. Moving rapidly down the road they then swiftly move over to pull up in front of a grey granite faced building. The sign above the heavy oak doors which are at the top of a flight of five stone steps states this place to be a Garda/Police Station.
At the side of the Police Station is a narrow alley way and walking down to the main street is a woman in her thirties and a girl aged about eight. The little girl has a bright green envelope in her hand which she happily waves about as she skips alongside her mother who holds her other hand.
The large wooden doors to the Police Station swing open and two men wave for the drivers in the car and van to come inside. The car doors swing open and two men dressed in civilian clothes get out and they slide open the side door of the van. Three more men get out, The man in the middle has a grey blanket over his head.
Four men from the car form a small defensive ring around the captive as they begin to cross the wide flagged pavement to the stone stairs.
As they exit the alley way and the little girl spots the post box at the edge of the pavement, she lets go of her mothers hand and runs to it. When she reaches the post box she turns to her mother, waves the green envelope then stands on her tip toes as she stretches up to reach the slot.
The Irishman’s voice “Stand by…on my word…wait until they get to the door, get all the bastards at one go”.
The Police are now moving up the stairs, the little girl is still hanging on to the envelope and grinning at her mother who is urging her to drop the letter into the box. Both of them are unaware of the drama being carried out on the steps behind them.
Another mans voice “We can’t do it Vinny, the woman and the kid.”
“Now ..do it now.”
“No way..not kids.”
“Fuck em..give it to me.” Inside the small dimly lit rear bedroom in a terrace house looking over the main street a mans hand grabs a detonator and presses the red button on the top.
On the steps of the Police Station the police have almost reached the door with their reluctant guest and the little girl finally lets go of the green envelope when the small green delivery van which is parked on the opposite side of the street to the station erupts in a ball of high explosive from the two Claymore bombs which also ignite several canisters of petrol.
An enormous blast and fireball envelops the police and the mother and child.
The man looking through the binoculars waits for the smoke to settle and disperse, then , happy with what he sees “Got the fuckers, all of em, that traitorous bastard will be giving nowt away, now lets get out of here.”
The multiple killing takes less than five seconds.