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‘Brendan says you’ll be staying with us for a while.’
‘Aye, looks that way, as long as the work appears.’
‘It will. I’ll have the dinner ready in an hour. Why don’t you have a chat with the boys?’
‘You’re Maggie, right?’
‘That’s right. And you’re Dominic, from Ballymena. We don’t get many Antrim men down here.’
‘Maybe it’s the climate.’
‘Or the Brits.’ She laughed teasingly. She was disturbingly attractive, Early thought. He did not like that. He did not want any distractions.
‘You know, I haven’t bought this for ten years,’ he said lightly, holding up the paper. ‘I’ve been across the water, building and digging all the way from London to Glasgow.’
‘Ach, I thought maybe there was something in your accent.’
Early’s blood ran cold, but he smiled at her and said: ‘You pick these things up. Now I’m home I’ll get rid of it. It’s nice not to have some bastard calling you “Paddy” all the time. If there’s one thing gets up my nose, it’s that. Bloody English never stop to think we’ve names of our own.’
‘You’re right there – sure, they haven’t a clue. It’s a roast for tea, and spuds and cauliflower. That suit you?’
‘Depends on how it’s cooked.’
She laughed. ‘Ach, don’t you worry about that, Dominic. I’ll keep the flesh on you.’ Then she left, exiting via the door behind the bar.
Early wondered if he had been wise with his remarks about England. He didn’t want to lay it on too thick.
He leaned on the bar.
‘How about a pint there, Brendan? And sure, have one yourself. I have to keep me landlord sweet,’ he called.
The barman laughed but Finn and McLaughlin did not. They were appraising Early frankly. He buried his face in An Phoblacht. Two ‘volunteers’ had been killed on active service in Tyrone. The SAS were suspected. It was, the paper said, a typical SAS assassination. The men had been unarmed; the weapons they had been found with planted on them after death.
‘Bastards,’ Early said softly, shaking his head.
‘Aye, those fuckers get away with murder,’ said a voice at this elbow.
It was Finn, standing beside him.
Early remained sorrowful and angry. ‘It never stops, does it. Young boys dying in ditches. Will they ever leave us alone?’
Brendan Lavery set the brimming Guinness on the bar. ‘Ach, sure, we’re a good training ground for them. They don’t give a damn. We’re a nation of murderers to them.’
‘Ireland unfree shall never be at peace,’ Finn quoted, and drank from his own glass. Then he addressed Early again.
‘You and me’s going to be working together, Dominic.’
Early started. ‘What?’
‘Eoin – Brendan’s brother – he’s hit the big time, hasn’t he, Brendan? He’s taking on the world and his wife at the minute to build these bungalows they’ve contracted him for. Hiring all round him he is, like some Yank executive. Mind you’ – Finn laid a finger against his nose – ‘it’s all on the QT. Most of the men working for him will be doing the double.’ He meant that they were also on the dole. Finn and Lavery laughed together, and Early forced himself to smile.
‘If it comes to that, the taxman doesn’t know I exist, either.’
‘That’s the way it’s meant to be, Dominic. Take all you can off the bastards, and give nothing back. So how did a Ballymena man hear about a job in Cross?’
‘Ach, a man in the Crown in Belfast told me,’ Early said, quite truthfully.
Finn nodded. ‘A black hole, Ballymena. You’d not get a job up there, if you’re the wrong colour.’
‘Bloody right,’ Early agreed sincerely. North Antrim was a Unionist stronghold in the same way South Armagh was Republican. He sipped at his Guinness, realizing he was being cased again.
‘But it’s different down here. There’s always a welcome here for the right sort of man. Isn’t that right, Brendan?’
The barman’s reply was lost in the growing hubbub. The evening crowd was gathering and the TV was blaring at what seemed like full volume. Early would have liked to scan the crowd for familiar faces, as he had studied the mugshots of all the South Armagh players before travelling down. But he did not dare with Finn standing next to him.
Finn was a tall, slim man, grey-haired but fit-looking. He had a narrow, ruddy face with deep-set eyes that seldom smiled, even if the mouth did. He was responsible for a spate of sectarian murders in the late seventies, but all that had been pinned on him in court was possession of arms and IRA membership. He had once been quartermaster of the Armagh bunch, but had been promoted on his release from the Maze. An experienced man, he had many years’ practice in killing, extortion and gunrunning. He knew who the Border Fox was, without a doubt, but it was unlikely that the sniper was Finn himself. He had graduated into a leader, a planner. He was a survivor from the early days of the Troubles, and hence the object of much respect in the Republican community.
Early would have liked to take him out behind the pub and put a bullet in the back of his fucking head, but instead he offered him a drink.
‘Na, thanks, Dominic. I’ll take ye up on it some other time, but tonight I have to keep me wits about me.’
Was there an op on tonight? Early wondered.
Finn leaned close. ‘You’re new here. Let me give ye a wee bit of advice. Don’t let the bastards provoke you, or you’ll get hauled in the back of a pig. They’re pissed off at the minute because things have been a wee bit hot for them down here, but believe me, that’s just the beginning. Now just keep your cool.’ Finn looked at his watch, and then winked at Early.
The door of the pub burst open, startling those sitting next to it. A glass crashed to the floor in an explosion of beer. Men got to their feet cursing.
British soldiers were shouldering in through the door. They were in full combat uniform, with helmets and flak-jackets and cammed-up faces. An English voice shouted: ‘Don’t you fucking move!’
Eight soldiers, a full section, were in the pub now. Lights from vehicles outside were illuminating the front of the building. The crowd had gone silent.
‘Turn off that fucking TV!’ the English voice yelled, and Brendan pressed a button on the remote control, muting the volume.
‘What the fuck?’ Early said, genuinely surprised. Finn gripped his arms tightly. ‘Don’t move. The fuckers are just trying to annoy us.’
While four soldiers remained by the door, rifles in the shoulder, two pairs were walking through the pub, looking at faces. One of them kicked a chair over, receiving murderous looks, but no one said a word.
A soldier stopped in front of Finn and Early. He had a corporal’s stripes on his arm.
‘Hello, Eugene, me old mucker,’ he said brightly. ‘How’s things, then?’
Finn looked him in the eye. ‘I’m fine, thanks, Brit.’
The corporal grinned, his teeth bright in his darkly camouflaged face. ‘Who’s your friend? Any ID, mate?’
He was addressing Early. The SAS man tensed, then said clearly: ‘Fuck off, you Brit bastard. Why can’t you leave us alone?’
The soldier’s grin vanished.
‘That’s not very polite, Paddy.’
‘My name’s not Paddy.’
‘Give me some ID now, you fucking mick,’ the corporal snarled.
Early produced his fake ID, a driver’s licence issued in Coleraine. The corporal looked it over, then stared closely at him.
‘You’re a long way from home, Paddy.’
‘So I’ve been told.’
The soldier nodded at Finn. ‘I’d keep better company if I were you.’
‘I’ll keep the company I fucking well choose to. This is my country, not yours.’
‘Have it your own way, arsehole. Outside now – and you too, Eugene. We don’t want your friend getting lonely.’
Finn looked weary. ‘Why don’t you just drop it?’
The corporal gestured with the muzzle of his SA-80. ‘Fucking outside – now. You can get there on your own two feet or you can be carried out – it’s your choice.’
For once, Early was unsure what his reaction should be. He hesitated, but Finn gripped his arm again.
‘Let’s get it over with. Sure, all this wee shite wants it to put the boot in, and there’s no point in wrecking Brendan’s bar.’
‘Don’t you worry about my bar, Eugene,’ Brendan called out. ‘I’ll claim the fucking lot back in compensation.’
But Finn and Early trooped out unresisting into the night. Army vehicles were parked there, their headlights blindingly bright. A hand shoved Early in the small of his back.
‘In the fucking wagon, mick.’
Someone tripped him and his palms went down on the tarmac. A boot collided with his backside, sending him sprawling again. He felt the first stirrings of real anger. These pricks would certainly win no hearts and minds in this town.
He was pushed and shoved into the dark interior of an armoured Landrover. He heard Finn shouting, the sound of blows, and was dimly aware that people were pouring out of the pub into the square. There was a ragged surf of shouting, the beginnings of a mob. Then the metal door of the Landrover was clanged shut behind him.
A light flicked on. Sitting in the vehicle grinning at him was Cordwain.
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‘Well well, John,’ Cordwain said. ‘We meet again.’
They were not alone in the back of the Landrover. A third man sat there on one of the narrow seats in an SAS-pattern combat smock. He looked young, pink-cheeked, and he stared at Early with obvious fascination.
Cordwain, as always, was breezy and confident. He helped Early off the floor. Outside there was the sound of people screaming and yelling. Stones rebounded off the armoured sides of the vehicle and it swayed at bodies pushed against it. Cordwain tapped the partition that divided the driver’s section from the back, for all the world like a millionaire signalling to his chauffeur. The engine roared into life and the vehicle began reversing.
‘Sounds as though we’ve stirred up a bit of trouble,’ Cordwain said. ‘But that’s all for the best.’
‘Who are this lot?’ Early asked. ‘Greenjackets?’
‘Yes. They’ve been here for four months, and they’ve lost four men.’
‘Well, they’re fucking heavy-handed.’
‘They were meant to be. I’m trying to give you a bit of street cred in the Republican community. Also, we need to talk.’
Early looked at the third occupant of the Landrover. The vehicle was lurching, starting and stopping. The shouting outside continued.
‘Who is this, then?’
‘Lieutenant Charles Boyd, Ulster Troop,’ the young man said. He had a public-school accent and didn’t look old enough to grow a beard, but his eyes were cold and eager. They reminded Early of Eugene Finn’s. There was no humour in them.
‘So you’re my back-up,’ Early said. ‘Hooray.’
Boyd frowned but Cordwain cut short any riposte.
‘Charles here is one of the best young officers we’ve got,’ he said. ‘You may have heard of the incident in Tyrone a few days ago. Textbook stuff. Now you and he are going to do the same thing to the South Armagh Brigade.’
‘The Armagh lot is a different kettle of fish. Since that fiasco at Loughgall in ’87 they’re tighter-knit than ever.’
‘Oh, we know. But you seem to have started out on the right foot, becoming buddies with the biggest player in the area. My congratulations, John. You’ve been here less than a day and already you’re rubbing shoulders with the head honcho.’
‘Let’s cut the crap, James. I can’t sit in here in the middle of a riot all night. Give me the gen.’
‘All right. The situation is as follows. I have most of the Group in Bessbrook at the moment, and 14 Company’s people have covert OPs going in tonight. The riot is their cover. We’ll search a few houses, insert the teams in the confusion – the usual thing.’
‘How did you know I’d be in the bar?’ Early interrupted.
‘Hell, John, you should know better than that. You’ve been tailed ever since you got on the bus in Armagh.’
Early felt slightly annoyed with himself, for he had not noticed.
‘We’ll have the bar, Finn’s house and McLaughlin’s house all covered. Charles’s boys will be looking after you. We’ll use the old dead letterbox system for messages. Out beyond the centre beyond the town. You go out on the Castleblaney road, past the sports ground, and there will be an old milk churn in the ditch on the left-hand side. We site vehicle checkpoints there all the time. Leave your first comms there. We’ll get word to you where the second will be. You should be able to go for a walk now and again – it’s only a ten-minute stroll. In a place this small, we can’t have the stuff that works in Belfast. Do you want a panic button installed? We could get it in your room tonight.’
Early shook his head. ‘I want you to keep your distance as much as possible. These guys are nervous as cats already.’
‘Have it your way, then. We’ve fibre optics, laser microphones, the whole heap, but you’ve got bugger-all but your wits and that peashooter you carry.’
‘Suits me. Now I think it’s time I was on my way, don’t you?’
Cordwain listened to the commotion outside. It showed no signs of abating. ‘Yes. There is one more thing though: we have to make it all look convincing. Nothing personal, John.’
Early cursed. ‘Get on with it, then.’
Boyd punched him on the eye once, twice, three times. Early remained still, though the third punch produced a stifled groan from his lips.
‘Lie down on the floor,’ Boyd said in that plummy accent of his.
Early did so, and Boyd went to work on him with his boots. After a particularly savage kick in the ribs, Early vomited helplessly. Boyd grimaced. He was out of breath.
