Dillon opened the door and walked into musty silence. The dimly lit shop was crammed with a variety of items. Television sets, video recorders, clocks. There was even a gas cooker and a stuffed bear in one corner.

There was a mesh screen running along the counter and the man who sat on a stool behind it was working on a watch, a jeweler’s magnifying glass in one eye. He glanced up, a wasted-looking individual in his sixties, his face gray and pallid.

“And what can I do for you?”

Dillon said, “Nothing ever changes, Patrick. This place still smells exactly the same.”

Macey took the magnifying glass from his eye and frowned. “Do I know you?”

“And why wouldn’t you, Patrick? Remember that hot night in June of seventy-two when we set fire to that Orangeman, Stewart’s, warehouse and shot him and his two nephews as they ran out. Let me see, there were the three of us.” Dillon put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it carefully. “There was you and your half-brother, Tommy McGuire, and me.”

“Holy Mother of God, Sean Dillon, is that you?” Macey said.

“As ever was, Patrick.”

“Jesus, Sean, I never thought to see you in Belfast city again. I thought you were…”

He paused and Dillon said, “Thought I was where, Patrick?”

“London,” Patrick Macey said. “Somewhere like that,” he added lamely.

“And where would you have got that idea from?” Dillon went to the door, locking it and pulled down the blind.

“What are you doing?” Macey demanded in alarm.

“I just want a nice private talk, Patrick, me old son.”

“No, Sean, none of that. I’m not involved with the IRA, not anymore.”

“You know what they say, Patrick, once in, never out. How is Tommy these days, by the way?”

“Ah, Sean, I’d have thought you’d know. Poor Tommy’s been dead these five years. Shot by one of his own. A stupid row between the Provos and one of the splinter groups. INLA were suspected.”

“Is that a fact?” Dillon nodded. “Do you see any of the other old hands these days? Liam Devlin, for instance?”

And he had him there, for Macey was unable to keep the look of alarm from his face. “Liam? I haven’t seen him since the seventies.”

“Really?” Dillon lifted the flap at the end of the counter and walked round. “It’s a terrible liar you are.” He slapped him across the face. “Now get in there,” and pushed him through the curtain that led to the office at the rear.

Macey was terrified. “I don’t know a thing.”

“About what? I haven’t asked you anything yet, but I’m going to tell you a few things. Tommy McGuire isn’t dead. He’s living somewhere else in this fair city under another name and you’re going to tell me where. Secondly, Liam Devlin has been to see you. Now I’m right on both counts, aren’t I?” Macey was frozen with fear, terrified, and Dillon slapped him again. “Aren’t I?”

The other man broke then. “Please, Sean, please. It’s my heart. I could have an attack.”

“You will if you don’t speak up, I promise you.”

“All right. Devlin was here a little earlier this morning enquiring about Tommy.”

“And shall I tell you what he said?”

“Please, Sean.” Macey was shaking. “I’m ill.”

“He said that bad old Sean Dillon was on the loose in London town and that he wanted to help run him down and who could be a better source of information than Dillon’s old chum, Tommy McGuire. Am I right?”

Macey nodded. “Yes.”

“Good, now we’re getting somewhere.” Dillon lit another cigarette and nodded at the large, old-fashioned safe in the corner. “Is that where the guns are?”

“What guns, Sean?”

“Come on, don’t muck me about. You’ve been dealing in handguns for years. Get it open.”

Macey took a key from his desk drawer, went and opened the safe. Dillon pulled him to one side. There were several weapons in there. An old Webley, a couple of Smith amp; Wesson revolvers. The one that really caught his eyes was an American Army Colt.45 automatic. He hefted it in his hand and checked the magazine.

“Wonderful, Patrick. I knew I could depend on you.” He put the gun on the desk and sat down opposite Macey. “So what happened?”

Macey’s face was very strange in color now. “I don’t feel well.”

“You’ll feel better when you’ve told me. Get on with it.”

“Tommy lives on his own about half a mile from here in Canal Street. He’s done up the old warehouse at the end. Calls himself Kelly, George Kelly.”

“I know that area well, every stick and stone.”

“Devlin asked for Tommy’s phone number and called him there and then. He said it was essential to see him. That it was to do with you. Tommy agreed to see him at two o’clock.”

“Fine,” Dillon said. “See how easy it was? Now I can call on him myself before Devlin does and discuss old times, only I won’t bother to phone. I think I’ll surprise him. Much more fun.”

“You’ll never get in to see him,” Macey said. “You can only get in at the front, all the other doors are welded. He’s been paranoid for years. Terrified someone’s going to knock him off. You’d never get in the front door. It’s all TV security cameras and that kind of stuff.”

“There’s always a way,” Dillon said.

“There always was for you.” Macey tore at his shirt collar, choking. “Pills,” he moaned and got the drawer in front of him open. The bottle he took fell from his hands.

He lay back on the chair and Dillon got up and went round and picked up the bottle. “Trouble is, Patrick, the moment I go out of the door you’ll be on the phone to Tommy and that wouldn’t do, would it?”

He walked across to the fireplace and dropped the pill bottle into the gleaming coals. There was a crash behind him and he turned to find Macey had tumbled from the chair to the floor. Dillon stood over him for a moment. Macey’s face was very suffused with purple now and his legs were jerking. Suddenly, he gave a great gasp like air escaping, his head turned to one side and he went completely still.

Dillon put the Colt in his pocket, went through the shop and opened the door, locking it with the Yale, leaving the blind down. A moment later he turned the corner into the Falls Road and walked back toward the hotel as fast as he could.

He laid the contents of the case on the bed in the shabby hotel room, then he undressed. First of all he put on the jeans, the old runners and a heavy jumper. Then came the wig. He sat in front of the mirror at the small dressing table, combing the gray hair until it looked wild and unkempt. He tied the headscarf over it and studied himself. Then he pulled on the skirt that reached his ankles. The old raincoat that was far too large completed the outfit.

He stood in front of the wardrobe examining himself in the mirror. He closed his eyes, thinking the role, and when he opened them again it wasn’t Dillon anymore, it was a decrepit, broken, bag lady.

He hardly needed any makeup, just a foundation to give him the sallow look and the slash of scarlet lipstick for the mouth. All wrong, of course, but totally right for the character. He took a half bottle of whisky from a pouch in the briefcase and poured some into his cupped hands, rubbing it over his face, then he splashed some more over the front of the raincoat. He put the Colt, a couple of newspapers and the whisky bottle into a plastic bag and was ready to leave.

He glanced in the mirror at that strange, nightmarish old woman. “Showtime,” he whispered and let himself out.

All was quiet as he went down the backstairs and went out into the yard. He closed the door behind him carefully and crossed to the door which led to the alley. As he reached it, the hotel door opened behind him.

A voice called, “Here, what do you think you’re doing?”

Dillon turned and saw a kitchen porter in a soiled white apron putting a cardboard box in the dustbin.

“Go fuck yourself,” Dillon croaked.