Pray for Us Sinners by Patrick Taylor Page B

the beige-painted wall made a wheezing noise. It always did that just before the hour, and the noise irritated him. Five to eight. John wouldn’t be here for another two hours. Marcus hadn’t had anything to eat yet, and eating would help to pass the time. Until finals.
    He sat at the kitchen counter, spreading butter on the cut surface of a triangular piece of soda bread. A wee cup of tea in his hand and a bit of soda farl and butter. That’s what Mike would fancy. He’d like the soda bread fried with bacon and eggs. Mike was a grand man for the pan.
    Mike Roberts. Same initials, and Mike sounded like Marc, the diminutive used by his friends. Convenient that the real Mike Roberts from Bangor was on a rig somewhere away to hell and gone, north of a place called Fort McMurray, Alberta. Marc and Mike. Initials, birthplace, and familiarity with explosives. That was where any true similarities stopped.
    The rest of Roberts’s background was very different from Marcus’s. Roberts was a Catholic, but Marcus felt uncomfortable reciting the phrases of the Mass. Roberts’s tastes, according to the briefing notes, were coarse: fish and chips, which he probably chewed with his mouth open; beer; soccer; betting on the horses; dances at Caproni’s in Bangor on a Saturday night. He’d left school at sixteen.
    Roberts was not the sort of man a British army officer would meet socially. Which posed the question, How had the major known about him? Marcus had asked, a couple of weeks ago, but the major had deflected the question with a dismissive, “Don’t worry about it. You’ll just have to trust me.” The funny thing was, once he overcame his initial anger and a feeling of being used, Marcus had come to trust John Smith. He looked forward to their daily sessions and enjoyed the man’s company.
    Smith was straight as a die. Not one bit hesitant about giving a tongue-lashing if a task had not been completed to his satisfaction. Marcus thought of his father. He was a perfectionist, too. One thing about the major, though, he was generous with his praise for a job well done.
    John had said last night that if Mike passed this final test, he would be told the exact nature of his mission and, within a couple of days, would be in action. It was about time. He just hoped that all of this was going to be worth it.
    It certainly would be if John kept his promise, once this was over, to arrange for Marcus’s acceptance on a Special Air Service Regiment aptitude course. He knew how tough the SAS selection process was but was confident he could pass. He’d have to. If he didn’t, he’d be back in the bomb-disposal business, and he was quite sure now that he could live without that particular job.
    He knew even at the time he’d chosen bomb disposal that he’d been unsure of his reasons. Proving to himself that he could conquer his fears was all very well, but not at the price of having his head blown off. He’d been lucky he’d not been closer to the blue van with the bomb.
    *   *   *
    â€œMorning, Mike.”
    â€œMorning, John.” Marcus looked up from his reading as the major stood aside to let a stranger precede him into the living room. The man wore cavalry twill trousers, a striped shirt, and an old khaki battle-dress blouse. He was short, compact, and slouched. He needed a shave and his brown hair was cut in an unfashionable crew cut. His head was wet. He must not have been wearing a hat. Marcus tried to guess the man’s age. Forty? Forty-five?
    His thin lips were set at twenty past eight. The stranger folded his arms and examined Marcus, looking at him as a butcher might look at prime beef before deciding precisely where to cut.
    The major lit a cigarette. “Pity neither you nor the real Roberts smoke. It’s a handy way to meet people in pubs—cadge a fag, offer one.”
    Marcus smiled. “I tried one once. Bloody