Magee Island

By A. D. Graham

On the northeast coast of Northern Ireland is a peninsula once known as Magee Island where, so it’s rumoured, supernatural forces still exist. Amongst the sparse, rural population there are a few outsiders.

Jim Corcoran, a former special forces sniper who served in Afghanistan, also worked for the “Bureau”, a secretive UK government organisation that carries out covert operations across the world. Now “retired”, he lives on Magee Island – watched and supervised by a minder whose job it is to make sure Jim is not at risk and that he poses no risk to anyone else.

But Magee Island has a violent history, and perhaps there are forces still at work that may threaten not only the local population but also, ultimately, the whole world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Strict Publishing International
• Release date: Jun 19, 2018
• ISBN: 9780857794482

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Magee Island

by A.D. Graham

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2018 A. D. Graham

Published by Strict Publishing International

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

FOREWORD

This work uses the events that occurred in the Northern Ireland village and peninsula of Islandmagee in 1641, as a basis for a narrative and a modern day thriller, of sorts. The real events that occurred, not just on the small peninsula but across Ireland at the time, were more horrific than anything that can be portrayed in a work of fiction, no matter what the author’s intent and audience.

Of the atrocities that took place on both sides of a religious divide whose echoes are still felt to this day in Northern Ireland, this work does not seek to mock, glorify or dilute. It does, however, mix real history with fiction (as in my previous work: A Very Irish Curse) in the hope that (1) a historically referenced and thrilling narrative is created and (2) that the reader develops a further sense of curiosity with regard to the history of the area and Irish history as a whole, as setting it in context with the time and activities that were played out on a diverse world stage can prove fascinating to even the most disinterested reader.

The real events of 1641 were somewhat more complex than those that can be outlined in a thriller or horror novel; in fact, considering the real events of that time around Ireland and in the general crisis occurring in the British Isles, it is arguable that the reality is more horrific that any (however bloody) fiction.

Friction, reduced stability and doubts with regard to religious harmony had been growing in Charles the First’s fractious attempt to introduce the ‘Book of Common Prayer’ in Scotland in 1637, and event that would initially prove anathema to Scots and latterly provide the impetus for destabilisation and into civil war.

Without delving into all of the reasoning behind the war’s beginnings, which would end with regicide and the advent of Cromwell and the Protectorate, it is pertinent to state that the four kingdoms became embroiled in a conflict. In Ireland, in a bid to right perceived wrongs – a sentiment that underlines mist of the conflict in Irish history – Sir Phelim O’Neill seized upon perceived crown weakness in order to capture a number of towns and strongholds in the north, and thereby overthrow Charles’s father’s ambitious Scottish and English plantation of Ireland. With most seventeenth century endeavours, murder and atrocity is never far away, however, and persecution fell firstly on settlers and then through retaliation upon their attackers, or their kin. The rebellion/uprising began in October 1641, when England was at its weakest and its King and Parliament in readiness to be at each other’s throats.

It was at this time that English and Scottish settlers from Carrickfergus decided to take into their own hands the destiny of the Catholic population at Magee Island (now Islandmagee). Carrickfergus and Larne had seen to their own adequate defence against rumour and potential actions against them. Perhaps it is with this security in mind, and fear that gripped all men’s minds in time of war and/or perceived insurrection, that the settlers decided to make their move. Again, there is little solid evidence with regard to the number of deaths and the actions of that day – folk tradition upholds that the Catholic community of the island was driven over the cliffs at the Gobbins. There is scant evidence with regard to numbers killed, though it is thought to have been around fifty men, women and children. (There is more discussion with regard to the trial that followed in 1652, in Mary Hickson’s ‘Ireland in the Seventeenth Century’.)

The event is referred to within this work, though the actual events are bent and shaped to provide the harrowing core of the historical story of Elijah Barr (who I should add at this juncture is not only completely fictional but also very much a derivative of Robert E. Howard’s occult adventurer ‘Soloman Kane’). The events dramatized here, of course, bear little relation to the troubled realities of Irish history.

Professor Neil Latimer

Formerly a leading light in the history department at the Belfast University where he worked, Professor Latimer is officially ‘on leave’, struggling with internal problems after his last misadventure where his closest colleague Dr. Joseph Reilly was killed. Latimer remains in a dark place, a virtual recluse in his new home far to the north in Coleraine. He has spent time studying the nature of the supernatural that he found previously in Newtowncairn. His studies have left him disturbed (and he has had some further contact by letter with the witch Mary Hamilton). Reclusive and quiet, he hides from the world as he slowly descends deeper, finding himself obsessed with copying, cataloguing, binding and filing the knowledge that he finds.

Annie Devlin

Having unearthed the story of the year in Newtowncairn, Annie Devlin became something of a celebrity at the Belfast Herald. Her success was short lived, however, as protracted arguments with the editor and senior staff at the newspaper, regarding her position, forced her to go freelance. Annie struggled to find work and drifted from story to story, finding it difficult to live under the shadow of the events at Newtowncairn, and to deal with her own demons.

Jim Corcoran

Jim Corcoran, known to ex army buddies as ‘Corky’ is an operative of the shadowy government organisation known as the ‘Bureau’. Corcoran served in Afghanistan as a sniper before being transferred to the Bureau in the early 2000s. Since then he has travelled across the globe carrying out esoteric operations that no other department can handle. Each assassination tears away at his sanity a little more; his unsanctioned ‘kill book’ bears witness to the disparate and strange nature of the people and things that he has killed. When not on operation, Corcoran rides a racing bike around the place where he has retired to, the countryside around Magee Island.

Walter Greer

Walter is Corcoran’s minder. He is ex army, ex SAS, ex hard man, though the years have not been kind and old wounds plague him. He has been a member of the Bureau for more years than he cares to remember. His home on the island is a virtual fortress. The opposite of Corcoran in many ways due to his inactivity, where Corky is lithe and fit, Walter smokes, drinks, is overweight and overbearing, and can be easily outwitted by the local postmistress.

Reverend Carl Morwood

Carl Morwood is the local Church of Ireland Minister. His faith, however, has had little to do with the Christian church. He has used his position on the island to redesign the local church to suit the requirements of the dark powers that he serves, using devilish dreams and nightmare to convert the islanders. Only a few remain that can stand against him and the imminent rising of Dagoth in the lough formed by the island.

Beverly Greer

The postmistress of Brennan’s Island, Beverly Greer was once married to Walter. She distrusts Carl Morwood and the fanatical cult of church elders that he appears to have under his wing. She fears for Walter and still loves him deeply, though she will never admit it.

Elijah Barr

A Scottish planter in the 1640s and the author of the ‘Castlebarr Fragments’ relating the rise of dark beings in the lough nearly four hundred years earlier and the subsequent massacre of the residents on Magee Island – heralding the beginning of the 1641 rebellion. The resonance of his words echo down the centuries and shake Latimer from the stupor that befalls him…

His writings also give some clue to the origins of… the Bureau.

PROLOGUE

Castlebarr, County Antrim Coast, 1641

Elijah Barr surveyed the crowd. God’s grace had brought this gathering to him and he would not waste time with idle word of little import. He had his part to play, as did all of the villagers in what would follow, and words, not backed by intent, would do little on this night.

"Brothers and Sisters…" he began.

The throng continued to drone, almost unaware that the man clad in black clothing which flapped and snapped loudly in the wind had even spoken, the sound of their worried voices of concern drowning out even Barr’s dull monotone. He held onto his wide brimmed hat as the wind tried to pick at it.

"Brothers and Sisters!" he repeated, his bellowing voice resounding throughout the buildings of the small village of Castlebarr, which stood on top of the steep hill, the view from its partially completed walls and enclosures commanding the peninsula and the coastline below.

The crowd, some startled by the renewed urgency in the timbre of his voice, began to calm. Hushed conversations ceased and men and women looked up, at once conscious that he held the word of God and sought this night to bring peace to their troubles, no matter those amongst their number who had ferociously decried his methods in the past. Despite the perceived errors of the past, however, no one wanted to anger Elijah Barr on this night.

"We have come together here against the gathering darkness, so that I might speak to you… of the evil… the menace that exists on Magee Island, an evil so vile, so ancient that we will need all of God’s strength to guide us in the tasks that we must perform.

"Fear not, brothers and sisters," continued the holy man, sensing their fear, using his hands and arms spread wide as if physically attempting to allay their suspicions and fears with his words.

"It is God’s work that we must do on this night." His lips moved quirkily as if in the semblance of smile, as he repeated his words.

"God’s work."

Men nodded their heads as women, most of whom had been relegated off to the side of the throng by now by over protective husbands, tugged at their shawls or cradled their frightened children near them.

"Many of you have sensed the wrong on the island. Indeed, many of you have seen things that man was not meant to see. Many of you have sensed that those Irish who would call us unwelcome here, would call our Presbyterian religion uncouth and unwanted, have been hiding their true natures. Verily, brethren, I say unto you that the devil himself holds sway on Magee Island!"

Barr raised his hand and drew his long fingers into a shaking fist as he spoke, accentuating the fact that he had dared to mention the dark one. The crowd gasped, children screamed as if on cue, and women held their hands over their mouths in shame at his words, as if his simple syllables conjured up ill fortune and an evil that would taint their very existence and mark them as one with the evil one. Those men in the crowd who sought to lead by their brave example, or at least show a modicum of calm amidst the fear generated in the local populace immediately cried out, Kill them! Let us remove them from God’s sight!

Sensing the mood, Barr raised his arms in an attempt to calm the unruly crowd. He knew how malleable they were, yet also how impetuous they could become if left unchecked. He had a sense of his brethren that enabled his work so well. Though he would of necessity be cautious.

"Peace. Peace be with you on this night, brethren. We have all heard of the many foul murders and deeds carried out across the land in this uprising, this rebellion against our very religion and people. In better times, I would call upon you all to resist the call of Satan and avoid these foul acts, were it not for the fact that I believe we must expunge his spirit from Magee Island itself! The tenants have become tainted and infected with the ancient bile of the underworld. It is our duty as children of God to…" He paused, fully conscious now of how his words could dictate the crowd’s actions, write the words of future history in this broken land and spill more blood…

"It is our duty to end the tenure of the demons in our midst."

His head fell and he closed his eyes, praying for forgiveness, as the throng around him shouted their agreement and defiance.

Chapter 1: Magee Island, Present Day

Jim Corcoran pushed harder on the pedals of the racing bike. The resistance against the downward motion of his cycling shoes locked into the cleats of the pedals on the increasing gradient had an immediate impact on the motion of his leg muscles as he hit the base of the hill. It was a familiar feeling, a familiar tension against already tired muscles. He could hear the carbon soles of the shoes creak against the effort as the strain increased, clipped into the pedals as they were. The bike was carbon, light and stiff, designed for racing and climbing inclines, where the pressure of the pedal stroke was fully transmitted to the back wheel, with little energy lost to extraneous movement of the frame. The science related to the transmission of the power of his muscles faded in his mind as his heart rate began to rise with the increasing gradient, as he tried to preserve the rotation speed of the pedals – his cadence – against the maddening urge in his mind to stop, his breath coming in heavy yet controlled gasps. The digital readout on the monitor on his handlebars began to show a rise in heart rate beats per minute… 150… 160 as he began to grind his way up the climb.

Corcoran knew that the climb on the bike would hurt, despite the lightweight advantages of man and machine. He had trained himself to know the limits of his endurance and top end fitness, and the potential of his power at the right time of the year. It was mid season for racing. The local cycling club hated that. Corcoran was known locally as the ‘snake’ and with good reason. His physique was designed for cycling, lean muscle mass and a lithe athletic frame. His nickname was more keenly derived, however, from his ability to weave his way through the other competitors in the local races and take the line first, despite being twice the age of many of them – an unfortunate fact that led many of them to hate him even more. At forty-five, Corcoran defined the team veteran, but devoted his free time to training and racing. To him it was a science, a voyage of discovery, and his body was the scientific experiment under the microscope. He tested it at certain times of the year in local races, then followed with months of slow recovery and easier riding before building the sequence of over-reaching and rest periods to build stamina, endurance and, finally, speed. He excelled at climbs, closely monitoring his bodyweight and his food intake to the extent that it became obsessive. Corcoran loved the obsessive part.

He considered Magee Island a cycling paradise, especially if the cyclist in question was obsessed with training and liked painful, steep climbs. Described as an island in every Irish tourist guide, it was in fact a small peninsula; jutting out from the side of Northern Ireland like a fishhook. It was relatively small in the scheme of things, thirteen miles long by five miles wide at its widest point. It was, however, composed almost solely of hilly promontories, some jutting into the sky at awkward, almost unnatural slants and steep inclines, where men from history, presumably in possession of their faculties to some degree at least, had constructed roads at angles that modern planners would have never considered or contemplated. Corcoran’s mind was thankful for their lack of planning, even if, at times, his body was not. The island’s remoteness lent it an eerie aspect, yet also meant that it was uniquely situated with regard to the location of the power station for the north eastern part of the county. Corcoran was all too aware of why; if it went up due to accident or otherwise, collateral damage might be somewhat better contained; a fact that the locals knew all too well, even if they did not wish to admit it.

He placed his hands lightly on top of the handlebars, leaning forward as he begin to increase the cadence of his pedalling, spinning the gear faster, the gradient of the country road increasing steadily, muscles taut as they pushed against an ever increasing resistance. He could feel the familiar surge of adrenaline, the familiar looseness in the pedal strokes as his developed calves kicked in. Since retirement, he had always liked this time of year – this period of training, a little more free from the rigours and restrictions of structured intervals and closely watched heart rates and power outputs. What was more, the sun was shining and only a mild breeze was evident as the long grasses at the roadside swayed gently in soft accompaniment to his rapidly increasing breathing.

The last thing he expected to see was the helicopter…

* * * * *

It came in slowly, hugging the coastline, pinpointing his position perfectly as it was able to increase throttle and rise suddenly at the cliffs to his right. Heart pounding from the climb, Corcoran found it difficult to contain his astonishment, exhaling in a sharp gasp as familiar reactions and emotions that he had tried to stifle for so long, began to kick in. As he reacted, he began to notice details: an RAF Merlin, side doors open, armed troops inside. How had they found him, dammit? He instinctively glanced behind him, slowing now on the rugged climb. A car shadowed him, slowly, at two hundred yards back downhill. The wind and the effort had been enough to disguise the low growl of the engine. Now, it sped toward him.

He stopped, letting the bike cant to one side as he unclipped a foot from the racing pedals, the plastic cleat on the underside of the shoe clicking as he did so. The helicopter hovered now, thirty metres above the road, the downdraft blowing the light bike, as well as Corcoran, toward the ditch at the roadside. He unclipped a second foot, concentrating on the approaching car, which had slowed to a stop. Two large men in suits and dark glasses opened the rear doors and stepped out. For the first time, as Corcoran’s breathing slowed, the hell of the climb temporarily abated, he wanted to laugh. This was ridiculous, he thought.

Troops in multi-cam battledress now descended to the road via rope and began to secure the area around ditch and surrounding lanes, setting up a temporary check point. As the last soldier hit the road, the ropes dropped and the helicopter circled away. The suited men, who had simply been staring at both Corcoran and the preparations, had just stood at the car. Now they began to move toward the thin cyclist who watched in apparent amusement as a sergeant barked orders to men who moved with the assuredness of professionals. He watched their approach through the dark lenses of his sunglasses, holding the machine calmly in front of him.

We need you to come with us sir. You’re wanted in London, the larger of the two said gruffly. Still panting, Corcoran grunted in reply. All this for me? A smile was evident on his lips now. I mean, the helicopter, a squad of troops. Am I really that dangerous? As he spoke, he analysed the situation, automatic reactions watching for escape routes, weak points, movements of the men approaching him and their relative weaknesses and likely armament.

The second man was moving to one side of him. Corcoran gripped the top of the bike frame, his eye movements hidden by the dark glasses, watching silently as the figures moved toward him. He could sense little movement of the troops behind him, other than the shouts of a squad leader.

You’re to come with us, Mr Corcoran, the larger of the two repeated, advancing now. I’m retired, he replied, his heart rate dropping although he could still feel the adrenalin pumping. One man closed at his side while the other came straight forward. He sensed that the troops